Page 78 of Phoenix's Last Heist
There’s a pause, then Ada continues.
Lyra used to adjust our course when she was anxious. Tiny deviations. Never enough to matter. Just...something to touch. Something to do.
I look away from the console, throat tightening.
“She still thinks you’re gone.”
She does.
There’s a silence between us that feels bigger than the space outside. I know she’s not real, that she’s a computer program without soul or feeling, but Ada carries fragments of Lyra in every line of her code. It’s in the way she talks, the way she pretends not to worry while calculating the probability of failure down to decimal points. I know Lyra programmed her like that. I know it’s all intentional.
And still, it feels like a ghost riding with me.
A ping lights up on the console—it’s Vega’s encrypted channel. I answer it with a grunt and bring his image up on the hologram projector.
“Void Stalkers found the fake idol,” Vega says without preamble. “So, that’s the first bit of good news. The second bit of good news is that their initial scans triggered the surveillance net, and it looks like it's working—feeding a slow-drip of data into our back channels. We’ve already gotten pingbacks from two relay stations in Brill’s old Haelor corridor.”
Annoyance makes my head ache when I have to ask him to spell it out for me like I’m an idiot.
“Which means?” I ask with a grumble.
“Which means,” Vega says, tapping something offscreen, “if Brill moves to secure the idol personally, we’ll have a straight line to his comm hierarchy. It’s like setting a fire in his data vault. He won’t even smell the smoke until it’s too late. This is great news, Orion—it means the Feds are already listening to the evil little whispers behind Brill’s doors.”
I nod—it is good news. I know it is. But I can’t help but feel sick with worry that we’re still not doing enough. We’re not moving fast enough.
“Good,” I acknowledge.
Vega’s voice softens, just a little. “We’ll get her out. Before he makes a move.”
But I know the window is narrow. Based on what Lyra’s told me about Brill, he isn’t the kind of bastard to let something simmer. He’s a scorched-earth tactician. If Lyra doesn’t give him information about the idol’s whereabouts—or worse, if he starts to suspect she’s played him—he’ll make an example out of her. And there won’t be much left for us to save.
I rub my temples and lean back, letting the silence wrap around me again. Too quiet. It’s too quiet on this damn ship.
Several hours pass, broken only by engine checks and Ada’s occasional course updates. I try to sleep. I fail. I pace the cruiser like a caged thing. All I can think about is the way Lyra looked the last time I saw her—half-defiant, half-exhausted, resigned, and already pulling away.
Suddenly, another ping violates the silence of the cockpit.
I’m on it before the second blink.
“Okay, so remember all that good news we had?” Vega says by way of greeting. “Keep that at the forefront of your mind. Let’s just focus on the good news before I tell you the bad news that just dropped in,” Vega says, and I already hate the tone in his voice. Bile climbs its way up my throat as I wait, dread making me sweaty and sick.
“One of my sources flagged something not-so-great. There’s talk of a black market auction going live tomorrow from Ooneryx. Private invites only. Headliner item?” He pauses, then spits out. “A Velusian hybrid. Female. Untagged.”
My fist hits the console hard enough to crack a panel.
Ada patches in.
Damage registered. Should I reroute oxygen flow from lower cargo to compensate?
“Don’t joke, Ada,” I grit out.
I’m not. But you should breathe.
I don’t—I can’t.
“Vega,” I growl, “you get into that auction. I don’t care how. Burn every alias you’ve got left. You hear me?”
“Already working it,” he says. “But Orion—if it’s her, and Brill’s the one offering her up, then this game just changed. We miss that window, she could disappear into some privateer’s pleasure fleet, and we’ll never see her again.
