Chapter 8: Reactions
The aftermath of Lyra's miraculous rescue lay scattered in a tableau of dust and disbelieving faces. Shaft C's lamps trembled like reluctant witnesses, their pale beams dusted with floating motes of rock and earth. Garrick Voss stood at the edge of the cleared space, hammer slack in his gloved hand, eyes wide as he took in the empty air where Lyra had crouched just moments before.
"Hold position!" he roared, voice echoing off the ribbed walls. The command snapped the miners from their stunned silence. Pickaxes clattered to the ground and boots skidded to cautious stops as every team froze in place. Garrick's lamp swept across fractured struts and the rubble-strewn floor, finally resting on Carlo Maren, who lay curled on his side, chest heaving with ragged breaths.
Around them, the tunnel's usual clamor—drilling, hissing steam, shouted instructions—faded to a low, apprehensive murmur. Kerri fanned a hand before her mouth as Carlo struggled upright, staring at the heap of debris now harmlessly piled to one side. Del pressed his back against a support girder, eyes darting between Garrick and the spot where Lyra had been.
A trembling voice broke the hush. "Did… did you see that?" It was one of the younger miners, chestnut hair plastered with sweat. He pointed at the cleared area with a gloved finger. "She just… moved it."
Another shook his head, disbelief in his wide eyes. "Must've been a shift in the supports. A lucky rebound."
But even as they spoke, their voices quavered. Whispers fluttered through the group like disturbed moths: "Miracle…" "Witchcraft…" "Something inhuman…"
Garrick slammed his hammer against a strut, the metallic clang demanding attention. "Enough!" he barked. "Secure the site. No one touches that beam until we bring in structural assessments!" His gaze flicked to where Lyra had disappeared into the gloom. "And if anyone sees her, you bring her back here. Understood?"
A chorus of murmured acknowledgments rippled through the crew. Helmets bobbed; tools were collected. Carlo rose unsteadily, wincing as he flexed his arms. Garrick offered a steadying hand. "You all right, Carlo?"
Carlo nodded, voice hoarse. "Thanks to… her." He glanced toward the dark passage, as if expecting Lyra to step back into the circle. But she was gone.
Behind the foreman, a crackling radio burst to life. The static hissed through the earpiece clipped at Garrick's collar, drowning the tentative hum of the miners' voices. He thumbed the transmit button. "This is Voss on site. We've had structural failure, minor collapse—rescued one trapped miner, situation stable."
A clipped reply answered, urgency threading the words: "Copy that, Voss. Priority one directive: Inspector Krell is en route. All operations stand down until he arrives. Acknowledge."
Garrick let the radio fall silent, his jaw tightening. He turned to face the crew, helmet lamp illuminating their expectant faces. "You heard him. No more drilling, no more hauling. We wait for Krell's orders."
A tense pause followed, broken only by the scrape of metal as one miner stowed his drill. Overhead, the support beams creaked softly, as if sighing beneath the weight of unwelcome attention.
In the half–light beyond the consolidation zone, the shadows seemed to gather, hiding Lyra's footsteps and the faint, rapid glow of her pendant deep beneath her coveralls. The miners exchanged uneasy glances—some eyes flicking toward the darkness where "miracles" had just occurred, others toward the radio still crackling softly against Garrick's chest.
Garrick swept his lamp across the tunnel one last time, then turned and barked, "Move out—secure the perimeter." The crew filed past him, their murmurs trailing like echoes. When the last figure vanished around a bend, Garrick lowered his lamp, staring at the empty space where Lyra had vanished.
High above, the radio crackled again, the distant promise of Haldan Krell's arrival reverberating like an omen. Beneath that weighty word—Inspector—Lyra's secret power had already begun to reshape their world.
And somewhere in the gathering shadows, Lyra pressed a hand to her chest, the faint glow of her pendant matching the steady thrum in her heart: a solitary beacon in the dark, guiding her toward an uncertain destiny.
Chapter 9: Aftermath
The infirmary's white walls glowed under harsh overhead lights, antiseptic tang hanging heavy in the air. Lyra lay on a narrow biobed, her coveralls stained with dust and grit from the tunnel collapse. A thin blanket covered her legs, and the rhythmic hiss of the medpods beside her sounded like rain on metal. She blinked once, twice, disoriented—then the door slid open with a soft whoosh.
Marta Aelson stood framed in the doorway, her tawny hair pulled back in a tight knot. She looked every bit the gentle engineer-turned-mother, but now her eyes were sharp with worry. Behind her, Thom's broad shoulders filled the doorway; his jaw was set, lips pressed into a firm line beneath a bristling mustache. Neither spoke at first; their presence alone filled the small room.
"Marta… Father…" Lyra's voice fluttered, barely more than a breath. She propped herself on one elbow, the world tilting around her.
Marta rushed to the bedside, smoothing the blanket over Lyra's knees. "Oh, Lyra," she whispered, voice tight. "We heard… the collapse. They said you saved him."
Thom's boots thudded against the floor as he stepped forward. He placed a heavy hand on Lyra's shoulder. "We've been pulled in by Garrick—told he'd bring you straight here." His stern eyes searched hers. "What happened, girl? They said… something unnatural."
Lyra drew in a shuddering breath. The pendant beneath her shirt pulsed against her chest like a frantic heartbeat. She swallowed, tears gathering in her eyes. "I—I lost control," she confessed, voice cracking. "He… he was trapped, and I could feel it… I just—" She covered her face with shaking hands. "I warped the stone away. I moved it. I don't know how."
Marta's lips trembled. She reached to cradle Lyra's hand. "Oh, my sweet—"
Before more could be said, the infirmary door slid open again. Kerri slipped inside first, her olive-green respirator hanging loose around her neck, eyes wide. Del followed, rubbing dust from his forearms, boots kicking up a salt-white scuff on the floor.
"Lyra!" Kerri exclaimed, rushing to the bed and taking Lyra's other hand. "We heard—everyone's talking about it. They say it was a miracle."
Del planted himself at the foot of the bed, arms crossed. His dark eyes flicked to Lyra, then to Marta and Thom. "Miracle, witchcraft—call it what you want," he muttered. "You can't keep something like that hidden. Krell's coming. He'll want to study you, or worse."
Kerri's gaze snapped to Del. "You'd turn her in? After everything she's done?" Her voice rose with indignation. "She saved Carlo's life! You think the Bureaucrats will thank her? They'll lock her up or dissect her powers."
Del's jaw clenched. "And you think the colony will be safer if they know there's someone who can warp rock with her mind? You think Garrick will protect her from corporate science teams?" He shook his head, exasperated. "No. They'll come down hard. You see what they did when the drones malfunction—shut down the whole mine."
Marta's voice, soft but firm, cut through the tension. "Both of you, enough." She turned back to Lyra, eyes pleading. "We need to decide what comes next. Inspector Haldan Krell will be here any minute. He's not here to congratulate you."
Lyra exhaled slowly, tears tracing dirty lines down her cheeks. She looked to her parents, then to Kerri, whose expression was kind and fierce, and finally to Del, whose worry was practical but cold. "I—" She choked on the word. "I can't stay here. I can't face him… or them."
Thom's hand tightened on her shoulder. "What do you mean?"
She closed her eyes and let the truth tumble out. "I never wanted this. I never wanted to hurt anyone. But if I stay… they'll use me. Study me. Someone could get hurt—or I could lose control again." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I have to go."
A stunned silence fell. Kerri's lip quivered. Del looked away. Marta's eyes glistened. "You'd leave us?" she breathed.
Lyra's tears fell free now. "I'm sorry. I love you both." She reached for Marta's hand. "But if I stay, you'll suffer. And I couldn't bear that."
A distant chime signaled the infirmary's external comm: a terse announcement crackled, "Inspector Krell has docked at sector twenty-three. All relevant personnel report immediately." The overhead lights flickered—an urgent reminder that decisions could not wait.
Marta swallowed hard and nodded, her voice firm despite her tears. "Then we'll help you. Quietly." She touched Lyra's cheek. "Go, my starborn. Find your place among the worlds. Forgive us for letting you face this alone."
Lyra managed a small, grateful smile. Kerri squeezed her hand, eyes blazing with loyalty. Del hesitated, then offered a curt nod. "Be careful," he said, voice low. "And… come back if you can."
As Marta and Thom exchanged a final glance—hope and fear warring in their expressions—Lyra slipped her infirmary blanket aside. Every sense brimmed with urgency: the antiseptic scent, the hum of the medpods, the echo of Krell's arrival. She slid off the biobed and knelt before her parents.
"I love you," she whispered. Then, with Kerri's hand at her back and Del watching the door, Lyra Aelson crossed the bright threshold into shadows, where her destiny among the stars awaited.
Chapter 10: Eyes of Fear
A low hum of fearful whispers drifted through Baragon Colony's narrow corridors like drifting dust. At every junction, miners paused in their routine to exchange nervous glances and murmured theories: some claimed Lyra's rescue in Shaft C had been a miracle; others whispered of dark sorcery. In the communal mess hall, steel tables rattled under the weight of tense conversation. Steel-toed boots shuffled anxiously, and the air tasted of recycled coolant and dread.
By midday, the council chamber—an angular module of reinforced steel and frosted windows—was jammed with concerned colonists. Holographic projectors cast a cold blue light over worn bunk benches, and the eight council members sat behind a curved dais. In the center, Councilor Ivren tapped a clawed fingertip against her datapad. "Order!" she called, voice crisp and metallic, slicing through the chatter.
Outside the chamber doors, Jorin Ridley stood among a shrinking knot of supporters. He had spent the morning rallying Lyra's few allies—Kerri, Del, even Sera Merin, the veteran healer who knew more than she let on—but most workers kept their distance. Now, as the doors slid open, Jorin squared his shoulders and strode into the glow of the projector.
Inside, Councilor Ivren's pale eyes fixed on him. "Ridley," she said, "you requested to speak."
Jorin swallowed once, then nodded. He stepped forward, boots echoing on the metal floor. The colonists behind him fell silent, all eyes turning to the young tinkerer. He cleared his throat. "Lyra Aelson saved Carlo Maren's life. Without her, he'd be crushed under half a ton of debris. We owe her our thanks, not our fear."
A murmur rippled through the chamber. Councilor Rask, a barrel-chested miner turned elder, leaned forward. "Thanks are fine, boy, but what of the risk? Someone who can warp stone with her mind—what stops her from unleashing that on the rest of us?" His fingers drummed on the dais.
Jorin gestured toward the back. "She's a daughter of this colony—raised by Marta and Thom Aelson. She's saved lives before. You think she'd use her gift to harm us?" His voice rose with conviction. "She's one of us!"
A cluster of colonists nodded, but others shook their heads. Councilor Vree, her voice silky and sharp, interjected: "Gifts such as hers disrupt stability. If corporate authorities learn of her abilities, they'll strip-mine the planet for research— and detain her in a cage. We must decide: do we protect Lyra or hand her over?"
The chamber fell into a hush so deep Lyra could have heard a single breath. She stood pressed against the back wall, hidden beneath a rumpled work coat. Every heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her pendant throbbed against her chest, as if urging her to flee—or to stand and fight.
Jorin's gaze swung back to the council. "I say we shelter her," he declared. "We vote to keep her safe—no study, no exile, no corporate pawns!" His last words landed like stones in the silent air.
Councilor Ivren consulted her datapad, three votes lit in amber. "Three in favor of protection," she announced. "Three opposed." She lifted a slender hand. "Councilor Sera Merin?"
The elderly healer stood, robes whispering across the floor. Her gentle face was grave. "Lyra's gift is rare," she said. "But gifts can be honed for good. I vote to shield her from outside forces—and from our own fear."
A soft chorus of assent rippled through the chamber. The tally clicked: four to three. Councilor Ivren's voice was final. "By vote of the council, we will provide sanctuary for Lyra Aelson. Any citizen found to broker her removal will face colony exile."
A wave of relief washed through Jorin's supporters. Behind him, Kerri exhaled with a shaky laugh. Del cracked a grin. But as the chamber doors opened to usher them out, a new peril lurked: the stern lines of the hallway's security droids.
Lyra's blood ran cold. The sanctuary vote protected her from corporate hands and exile—yet these black-armored droids answered only to Imperial law… and to Inspector Haldan Krell, just arrived in orbit. If he issued a direct order, the colony would have to comply.
Jorin caught her eye, noticing her pale face in the flickering light. He took a half-step back toward her, brow furrowed. She managed a small, tight smile and shook her head almost imperceptibly: no, stay hidden.
As colonists filtered out, eager to disperse the unsettling news, Lyra melted into the shadows. The pendant's glow faded to a steady pulse—a heartbeat of hope and fear entwined. Behind her, the council chamber doors closed with a metallic hiss, sealing the fragile sanctuary within.
Ahead lay corridors bathed in sterile light and the soft whirr of security scanners. Somewhere beyond those walls, Krell's ship loafed in silent orbit, ready to deliver orders that could shatter this temporary reprieve. Lyra pressed her back to the cold bulkhead, breathing shallow, every nerve alight.
Sanctuary was granted—but darkness gathered at the edges of the colony. And in the hush of the twisting corridors, Lyra Aelson realized that this vote had only bought her a moment. The real trial was yet to come.
Chapter 11: Rumors and Rumbling
Lyra slipped into Shaft C before dawn, the hush of early morning deepening every echo. The tunnel mouth yawned like an open wound in Baragon's scarred flank, steel doors groaning as workers filed inside. Whispers drifted through the air—rumors spun like motes of dust in the weak glow of overhead lamps.
"Did you hear about last night?" One miner leaned against a support strut, arms folded across his soot-streaked coveralls. His voice, low and urgent, carried easily in the close quarters.
Another spat into the gravel. "Council may have voted to protect her, but CreedCorp won't abide. I heard their ships circling above have orders to scoop up anyone with anomalous abilities."
A third shook his head. "That's just scare talk. Lyra saved Carlo's life—she's a saint, not a threat."
They clustered beside a gaping breach in the reinforced wall where the collapse had nearly claimed Carlo. Jagged steel beams jutted from shattered rock, and corporate repair bots—sleek, four-legged machines—hovered nearby, their hydraulic legs tucking and extending as welders and rivet guns clicked into action. The bots' polished surfaces gleamed unnaturally against the tunnel's grimy walls.
Lyra joined the group, hood drawn low. She paused a dozen paces away, heart hammering as she listened. The miners eyed her warily—some with relief, others with suspicion—while a line of workers handed steel plates to the bots. Sparks showered as the welders fixed new girders in place, and a sharp tang of hot metal stung her nostrils.
"Thanks for fixing this," said Garrick Voss, striding over with his usual curt authority. His lamp cast harsh shadows across his lined face. "But don't expect everything to go back to normal. Corporate wants this mine running at full tilt." He spat on the floor. "And they'll use whatever leverage they can find."
Lyra swallowed, mouth dry. She felt the pendant at her throat grow warm, as if resonating with the chatter. "I… I understand," she managed, voice barely above a whisper.
A sharp clang echoed down the corridor as a repair bot misaligned a girder. Sparks flew sideways, and one of the welders yelped as molten metal spat toward his gauntlet. Instantly, Lyra's senses snapped to alert—before anyone could react, she thrust out a silent command. A ripple of force deflected the spraying sparks into a harmless arc against the opposite wall. The welder jumped back, blinking at the molten trail that scorched the rock.
Behind her, the miners froze, eyes widening. Garrick's hand snapped to his holstered lamp. "What—?"
Lyra dropped her hand, stepping back so quickly she stumbled over a stray cable. Her chest tightened; the pendant throbbed like a second heartbeat. When her boots skidded to a halt, the tunnel had already erupted into disbelieving murmurs.
"Did you see that?" Kerri breathed, hands pressed to her mouth.
Del shook his head, knuckles whitening on the girder's edge. "She's done it again."
Garrick's face went ashen. He barked into his radio, "All units—secure the area. No one moves until I get a direct order from Krell."
Lyra's stomach flipped. If corporate command learned she could redirect molten metal with her mind, they'd move from warrants to weapons-grade research. She had to disappear—again.
Blare of static crackled through the miners' comm channels. Lyra pressed herself against the rough wall, trying to vanish in plain sight. The static coalesced into a clipped, authoritative voice:
"—attention all Baragon personnel: by direct order of CreedCorp High Command and under Imperial charter, any individual exhibiting anomalous abilities is to be detained immediately. Use lethal force if necessary. Report sightings to Sector Coordinator Haldan Krell."
A pall fell over the group. Even the repair bots paused, their servos whining in confused loops. The miners exchanged panicked glances; Garrick's jaw clenched as he stared at the fallen sparks at his boots.
Lyra's blood ran cold. She tasted iron on her tongue and felt a hard knot tighten in her chest. The tunnel, once a sanctuary of routine, now felt like a trap closing in.
Without a word, she turned and dashed past Garrick's outstretched arm, boots pounding the concrete as she fled toward the side passage. The howling of alarms and the shouts of miners chasing her echoed in her ears. Sparks danced across the newly welded struts, casting flitting shadows on her retreating back.
Behind her, Garrick shouted, "Lyra—wait!"
But she heard only the urgent broadcast in her mind, the cold demand for her capture, and the insistent drumbeat of her own heart: run, hide, escape.
As the tunnel swallowed her silhouette, the pendant's glow pulsed beneath her shirt, guiding her toward the darkness—and into the unknown that lay beyond Baragon's iron walls.
Chapter 12: The Heirloom's Glow
Lyra slipped through the narrow service hatch into the coolant vent, heart pounding in the hush of midnight. The tunnel beyond was dark and silent—no drilling, no clamor of boots—only the soft hiss of reclaimers somewhere deep in the colony's core. She pressed a hand to the vent's grooved wall and climbed up into the small maintenance crawlspace above the barracks, careful not to disturb the rack of sleeping technicians below.
At the far end of the crawlspace, a narrow grating admitted a slice of moonlight onto her boots. She lowered herself onto the metal grid, the air cool against her skin. Below, the barracks lay quiet; above, the sky glittered with impossible clarity, unfiltered by streetlights or refinery glow. Lyra pushed aside a loose panel and eased herself onto the rooftop ledge, the pendant's chain whispering against her collarbone.
The night wind tugged at her hair, carrying the faint scent of dust and ozone. She seated herself on the cold concrete lip, legs dangling over the edge, and drew the pendant from beneath her shirt. Its star–shaped metal was cool under her fingers, edges worn smooth by childhood fidgeting. She held it up to the sky, its surface dull—yet Lyra felt its familiar thrum of power, an unspoken invitation.
She closed her eyes and placed both hands around the pendant, channeling every ounce of will into the tiny relic. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the pendant flared—a bright, pure light that banished the darkness around her. Lyra gasped and pulled back, but the glow only intensified, bathing her face in silver radiance.
Through the brilliance, she saw lines appear across the pendant's face: delicate grooves tracing the shapes of distant stars. Tiny pinpoints of light winked into existence along those lines, forming constellations she had never studied in the colony's cursory star charts. Each star pulsed in silent rhythm, as though alive.
Lyra's breath caught. The pendant was not merely jewelry—it was a map. She tilted it, and the constellations rotated, aligning themselves with the real sky above her. Nebulae she recognized from abstract schematics now shone on the pendant's surface with vivid clarity. A cluster of five points formed a pentagon that matched the runaway suns she had memorized. Another array formed a zigzag that corresponded to the mine's home planet—Baragon's sun a lone point in the corner.
Her pulse thundered as the hidden purpose of her heirloom became clear. It was a guide—an encoded star chart pointing the way through the galaxy's uncharted sectors. Fingers trembling, Lyra traced one particular pattern, and the light brightened around it, isolating a single star system beyond her knowledge. She felt a shiver of destiny drift through her veins.
The sky above swirled with starlight, and the pendant's glow wove into it, as if tethering her hope to those distant worlds. The map hovered before her eyes—paths etched in light that led away from Baragon's iron grip.
A distant clang from the barracks below reminded her of time's passage. The pendant's glow dimmed, the star patterns fading but still visible in the pale moonlight. Lyra tucked the relic back beneath her shirt, its warmth settling against her heart.
She exhaled steadily, the truth of her journey crystallizing in her mind. Somewhere out there lay the answers to her origin—and the fate that awaited her. With the star map now revealed, she could no longer linger in hiding.
Below, a solitary light flickered in the barracks window, and Lyra caught sight of Jorin's silhouette moving past. He must be checking the perimeter for patrols before dawn. She pressed a finger to her lips and slipped back through the hatch, every nerve alight with the promise of what was to come.
As the cooling vents swallowed her footsteps, Lyra Aelson carried the secret of the pendant's glow—and a newly charted path among the stars—into the dark corridor. Dawn would bring decisions. But tonight, the galaxy had spoken, and she had found her first clue.
Chapter 13: Decision at Dawn
The sky above Baragon Colony was barely more than a bruise of violet when Lyra slipped from her narrow bunk. The faint glow of dawn crept along the horizon, painting the corrugated metal roofs in muted rose. In the small, dimly lit room she shared with her parents, every surface was still asleep: Marta's overalls hung on the hook by the door, Thom's helmet rested on the bedside table, and the single lantern in the corner flickered low, as though reluctant to wake.
Lyra moved quietly. Her chest tightened with each soft footfall across the creaking floorboards. On the low table beside the window lay a modest pack already unzipped: a change of clothes, rations wrapped in waxed cloth, a waterskin, and the data-slate Jorin had given her for emergencies. Carefully, she added the pendant—her mother's heirloom—nestling it amid the provisions. The metal was cool in her palm, its edges worn smooth by years of hidden fidgeting.
Beneath the pack, she tucked in a thin blanket—enough to keep her warm in the cargo hold—and a small toolkit of her own design: a prybar, a coil of wire, and a flick-light. She paused, running a finger over the zipper's teeth, as if to seal her resolve. Outside, a distant clang rang out—Thom turning the day's first valve in the refinery. Time was running short.
Footsteps approached in the corridor. Lyra's heart fluttered and she ducked behind the doorframe just as Jorin stepped inside, his dark eyes wide in the lantern glow. He carried two metal mugs—stew from the mess hall, still steaming—and froze when he saw her pack.
"Lyra?" His voice was soft, urgent. She straightened, swallowing hard.
"I—I have to go," she whispered, the words catching in her throat.
He set the mugs down on her bedside table, sending a small clang through the quiet room. "I know," he replied, voice trembling with emotion. He sank onto the edge of her cot, gaze fixed not on her pack but on her face. "They'll come for you, or they'll keep you locked away. You have to leave now."
Lyra pressed her hands to her chest, hiding the pendant beneath her shirt. "I'm sorry," she said, tears slipping unbidden. "I never wanted this—for any of us."
Jorin stood and crossed to her. He placed his hand atop hers, stilling the pack's zipper. "You saved Carlo. You saved us all. I'll never look at you as a threat." His eyes glistened. "Promise me you'll come back—promise me you'll find a way home."
She nodded, voice a whisper: "I promise." Lyra pressed a kiss to his forehead, tasting the tang of stew on his lips. His arms closed around her, just for a heartbeat, and in that moment the world beyond her parents' door—her life in Baragon—caught fire in her mind.
Pulling gently away, she cast one look at the lantern's fading flame. "I have to do this alone," she said.
Jorin lifted her chin, eyes fierce with love and fear. "You won't be alone," he said. "My heart goes with you."
She slipped from his embrace and fastened the pack across her shoulders. It felt heavier than when she'd first filled it—laden with hope and heartbreak.
At the doorway, her father's silhouette filled the frame. Thom's arms were crossed, his broad shoulders stooped with the weight of unspoken words. Lyra took a steady breath and approached him.
"Dad…" she began.
He pulled her into a single, fierce hug—strong arms that had once sheltered her from childhood nightmares. "Be safe, starborn," he whispered, voice cracking. "Bring our girl home."
Lyra nodded, tears pooling in her eyes. She rose onto her tiptoes, brushing a kiss against his calloused cheek.
Then she slipped past them both into the corridor. The lantern's light faded behind her even as the dawn brightened before her. She hurried through silent hallways, skirting the hushed rows of sleeping quarters, until she reached the service elevator—a battered metal box that rattled as it descended.
Her pack thumped against her back as she stepped off at the docking bay level. The huge hangar doors yawned before her, open to the pale morning light. Beyond them, the freighter Aurora's Grace loomed, its curved hull gleaming copper in the dawn. Workers milled about, preparing for departure—an opportunity Lyra could not afford to miss.
She pressed herself against a stack of cargo crates as the crew hustled past. Each heart-pounding step brought her closer to the hold's grated hatch. A single misstep might mean discovery. Yet with every breath, the promise she had whispered into the night's stars steadied her resolve.
Lyra slid a hand around the grating's latch and eased it open. Cool, recycled air whooshed out, inviting her in. She took one last glance at the rising sun—a sliver of hope against the promise of a vast, uncharted sky—and slipped through the grate into the darkness of the cargo hold.
The hatch closed behind her with a soft click, sealing her fate. As the freighter's engines rumbled to life above, Lyra Aelson pressed her back against the crates and let the shadows welcome her into the next leg of her journey.
Chapter 14: Stowaway
Lyra pressed her back against the cold bulkhead as the Aurora's Grace settled into motion. The massive cargo bay doors rolled shut with a groan, sealing her inside the cavernous hold. Overhead, industrial lamps flickered to life, bathing rows of stacked crates in harsh white light. The metallic scent of lubricants and recycled air stung her nose as the ship shuddered on its maiden voyage from Baragon.
She paused in the shadows, heart pounding like a sparking conduit. The hold was a cathedral of industry: towering pallets of ore distillers, coils of reinforced pipeline, and unmarked containers wrapped in heavy tarps. The chassis floor rippled with the hum of active hydraulics, and distant thumps of shifting cargo echoed through steel beams.
Lyra allowed her eyes to adjust. Cool rivulets of condensation traced patterns on the bulkhead, and stray cables snaked along the floor—some live wires with their insulation frayed, occasional sparks dancing where copper lay exposed. One such cable sparked brighter, sending a brief cascade of orange light across a nearby crate. Lyra flinched and flattened herself against the metal wall.
A soft hiss said the hold's ventilation had kicked in. The air pulsed with the distant rhythm of engines, each beat reverberating through her bones. She could almost taste the weight of the starless void beyond the hull. She swallowed, then edged forward until she stood between two crates labeled "Hazard: High-Pressure Reactor Cores." Their warning glyphs—a circle split by a lightning bolt—glowed faintly in the lamp's glare.
Lyra crouched low and slid her pack from her shoulders. Her fingers trembled as she unlaced the straps, loosening the blanket and toolkit inside. She pulled out a short prybar and flick-light, tucking them into her belt. Then, with the careful grace of a dancer, she climbed a small hoist ladder bolted to the wall, hauling herself atop a stack of weathered containers.
From her vantage point, she surveyed the bay. No crew moved in the rows of cargo—only the mechanical steady-clank of the loading gantries that had departed moments ago. Dust motes floated lazily in the beams of light, and a distant rumble hinted at the ship's burgeoning speed as it cleared the docking tethers.
Lyra exhaled a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. She slid from the top crate into a narrow gap between two stacks, the metal groaning softly under her weight. There, she crouched behind a tarp-covered pallet, the coarse fabric brushing her shoulder. She peered through a slit: a maintenance lift rumbled past, its doors hissing open and closed as it descended to the lower decks. No one aboard had any inkling she hid between their sterile loads.
A sudden flare of sparks lit the darkness ahead. One of the frayed cables above the pallet arced violently, molten droplets spattering across the grating. Lyra recoiled, heart hammering, as a thin wisp of smoke snaked upward. Without thinking, she raised a hand and willed the sparks aside—an almost involuntary flick of power that rippled through the air. The arcs of electricity curved away from her hiding spot, jumping harmlessly to a nearby conduit.
Just like that, the danger passed. The cable's glow faded, and the ventilation fans whirred louder, dispersing the smoke. Lyra's chest heaved with relief—and with stunned disbelief at what she had just done in her panic. But there was no time for reflection. Above her, footsteps tapped on metal—two boots, then three.
She pressed flat against the crate's side, trying to make herself smaller. The flick-light in her belt hissed softly as she fumbled to turn it off. The boots stopped within inches of her hiding place, paused, then moved on. Lyra felt the mattress of her respirator strap digging into her shoulder but kept her breath silent.
Once the footsteps receded, she climbed lower, using the prybar to ease open a narrow service panel at the base of the nearest container. The panel revealed a crawlspace beyond, just wide enough for her to slip through. She tucked the prybar away and wriggled inside, pulling the panel closed behind her. Immediately, the ambient noise dimmed; the hold's glare was replaced by dim red glow of emergency lighting.
Lyra paused in the cramped darkness, listening to the distant rumble of the starship's engines. She felt the faint vibrations through her fingertips pressed against the bulkhead. Somewhere above, the cargo bay doors had locked into place with a final clang, and the faint click of safety latches assured her they would not reopen until the next port.
In the hush she allowed herself a small, triumphant smile. She had made it aboard unseen, hidden among the freight that would carry her far from Baragon's iron grasp. Yet even as relief washed over her, the tight corridor ahead held a new unknown. The red glow revealed narrow beams and conduits weaving through the hold's underbelly—pathways that might lead her deeper into the freighter's guts, closer to whatever truth awaited in the stars beyond.
With a final glance back toward the heavy containers and the faint glow of sparks that had betrayed her just moments before, Lyra slipped forward into the shadowed crawlspace. The grating panel sealed behind her with a whisper, and the Aurora's Grace sailed on into the night, bearing its secret stowaway toward the uncharted galaxy.
Chapter 15: Hold of the Cargo
Lyra's eyelids fluttered closed as the hatch sealed with a pneumatic hiss behind her. Inky blackness enveloped her, broken only by the distant pulse of the ship's life-support hum. She inched forward, fingertips grazing the corrugated metal of a stacked container. The hold smelled of machine oil, recycled air, and the faint tang of off-gassed plastics. Every breath tasted cold and metallic.
She dropped to her knees in a narrow passage between crates labeled "Non-Perishable Goods" and "Hazard: Bio-Reagents." The floor's grated surface rattled softly beneath her palms, sending tiny pebbles of debris skittering into shadow. Even in the gloom, she could feel the freight's immense weight pressing down—years of gear and cargo bound for distant ports, now carrying a stowaway among its anonymous loads.
Lyra leaned against a cold crate, hunching her shoulders to make herself small. Her heart thundered so loudly she feared it might betray her. She drew a slow, measured breath, recalling the meditative exercises Marta had taught her—focusing on the rise and fall of her chest, the pulse at her throat, the faint warmth of the pendant beneath her shirt. Inhale… exhale… Inhale… exhale…
Her senses sharpened. The distant hiss of ventilation fans; the faint creak of hull plating settling under the night sky's pressure; the soft susurrus of the hold's hydraulic stabilizers adjusting as the Aurora's Grace readied for departure. Each sound became a thread, weaving a tapestry of life aboard the freighter—life she did not yet belong to.
Above her, metal stairs clanked: deliberate, measured footsteps echoing through the cargo bay's labyrinth. Lyra froze mid-breath, every muscle coiling. The boots belonged to a crewman making a routine check—an unwelcome predator in the darkness. She flattened herself against the crate's shadowed edge, tilting her head to follow the echoes. The boots paused, just feet away, the wearer's lamp beam dancing across the metal wall beyond her hiding spot.
A bead of sweat trickled down Lyra's temple. Her breath caught in her throat. She pressed a trembling hand against her chest, but did not dare to clear her throat. The boots clicked again—forward, backward, then onward down the corridor. Each step carried them farther from her. The echo faded as the crewman's searchlight beam sliced across a row of sealed containers, oblivious to the small figure crouched in darkness.
Lyra waited until the last fading click dissolved into the hold's ambient drone. She exhaled so slowly it felt as though she released years of fear in a single sigh. Her limbs uncurled like springs unwinding, and she pressed her hand once more to the pendant at her throat, finding solace in its faint thrum of warmth.
A low, vibrating tone drifted from above, followed by a soft rumble that vibrated through the steel floor. The Aurora's Grace was powering up. The hold's lamps flickered as auxiliary generators spun to life. Lyra's pulse quickened—tomorrow she would step into a new world, but tonight she remained hidden between the crates, a silent witness to the ship's awakening.
She drew her pack close and eased deeper into the shadows, planting her back against the container's cool surface. The air felt charged, as if the engines' power had seeped into every rivet and panel. Lyra closed her eyes for a moment, tasting the electric promise of departure, and committed the hold's silent corridors to memory.
Somewhere beyond the containers, the loading gantries retracted with a final hiss, and the engines' roar softened into a steady hum. Lyra opened her eyes. The hold was alive with possibility: the promise of stars beyond Baragon, of freedom laced with danger, of a destiny mapped by the mysterious glow of her pendant.
With one last steadying breath, she pressed her palm to the crate beside her and rose to her feet. The hold's shadows stretched long under the flickering lights, guiding her toward the unseen paths that awaited in the freighter's heart—and beyond, into the uncharted expanse of the galaxy.