Chapter 3: The Rust-Wren
Lyra ran, forcing her way through the mid-day crowds of The Rim. She kept to the merchant-ways, a dense tangle of stalls and noodle shops where the steam from vents and cookers provided ample cover. Everyone was a potential threat. The Hound in her alley hadn't moved, but she'd felt its gaze follow her until she'd rounded the corner. It was a shepherd, letting her run, knowing the other wolves were already at the gates.
The main docks were too open, too patrolled by the Rim's own militia—men who would turn her over to the Purifiers for a single-credit bribe. She needed the cargo ports.
She ducked into a grate marked 'Sub-Level 3 – Maintenance' and slid down a greasy ladder into the island's guts. Down here, the wind's scream was replaced by the groan of ancient machinery. The air was hot and thick with the smell of lubricant. This was her territory, the maze of tunnels and catwalks that fed the island's core systems. She moved with a silent, practiced speed, a ghost in the machine.
Ten minutes later, she emerged from a ventilation shaft onto the rusted-tin roof of a cargo depot. Below her lay the 'Scrapper's Berth,' a dozen docking pylons reserved for the independent haulers and long-distance scavengers.
And there, at the end of pylon 4, was the Rust-Wren.
She was an ugly ship. The Wren was a mismatch of parts from a half-dozen different models. Her fuselage was a patchwork of dented, unpainted metal. Her primary lift-crystal, housed in a reinforced cage on her dorsal side, was a murky, tea-colored specimen that probably complained in cold weather. But Lyra also noted the oversized, custom-built engines and the military-grade maneuvering fins. The ship was built for speed and a quick getaway, not for looks. Just like its captain.
She saw him before he saw her. He was kneeling on the ship's ramp, welding a new armor plate onto the landing strut.
Captain Kaelen didn't look like a captain. He wore oil-stained canvas trousers and a sleeveless shirt that showed off the intricate, faded tattoos covering his arms. He was a broad, solid man in his late thirties, with a scruffy beard and tired, cynical eyes. He hammered the glowing weld-joint, cursed when a spark landed on his glove, and looked up, his scowl deepening as he spotted her.
"Lyra." His voice was a low growl, like gravel in a gearbox. "Of course. Get away from my ship."
"Kaelen. I need passage. Now," Lyra said, dropping from the roof onto the pylon. She landed in a light crouch, her pack thudding softly.
He stood up slowly, flipping his welding mask back. He was a full head taller than her. "Get lost. I'm not interested, and I'm not stupid. Last time you were on my ship, I spent two days in a holding cell and a month cleaning up my rep with the Guard. You're poison, kid."
"I'm paying this time," she said, pulling a small, heavy pouch from her belt and tossing it at his feet. It landed with a dull clank of high-value coins. "That's five hundred credits. Enough to get me to Bazaar."
Kaelen looked at the pouch, then back at her, unimpressed. "Five hundred? For the kind of trouble you bring? You'd need another zero on that just for me to listen. Now, I'm telling you for the last time—"
A deep, resonating klaxon sounded across the port, cutting him off. It wasn't the usual docking alarm. This one was deeper, slower. A lockdown.
"Port control, this is Rust-Wren," Kaelen snapped, grabbing a comm-mic from his belt. "What's the lockdown? I'm pre-flighted for departure."
A panicked voice crackled back. "Negative, Wren! All pylons are sealed! The Purifiers are here. They've... Architect's blood, they've grounded the entire port!"
Kaelen's head snapped toward the port entrance. Lyra was already looking. Two massive, black-armored Purifier air-barges were descending, blocking the main exit to the open sky. And on the dock, moving with terrifying speed, were a dozen Hounds, their white energy rifles at the ready.
"They're not just here," Lyra said, her voice strained. "They're here for me."
Kaelen's eyes shot back to her. He connected the dots in an instant: the sudden arrival, her desperation, the lockdown. "What did you do?"
"What I'm carrying," she corrected him, her hand instinctively going to her pack. "I found something. An Architect's artifact. They want it."
"Give it to them!" he hissed. "This isn't my fight!"
"It is now!" Lyra shouted, pointing. Two of the Hounds had spotted them. They were running, leaping over cargo crates, their metallic feet ringing on the pylon. "They've locked the port! They're not going to ask questions, Kaelen! They'll 'cleanse' you just for talking to me! That ship is your only way out. It's our only way out."
Kaelen stared at the advancing Hounds, then at Lyra, his face a mask of fury and desperation. He saw the truth in her words. He was caught.
"This," he snarled, "is why I hate you."
He ripped the welding torch from the fuel line and slammed his hand on the ramp's control panel. "Get on! Now!"
Lyra didn't need to be told twice. She sprinted up the ramp into the Wren's dark cargo bay. Kaelen was right behind her, sealing the heavy door.
"Strap into the co-pilot's seat!" he yelled, running past her toward the cockpit. "And don't touch anything!"
The ship's engines roared to life, a deafening, vibrating scream that shook the whole pylon. Lyra scrambled into the cramped cockpit and threw herself into the co-pilot's chair, fumbling with the four-point harness.
"They're firing the magnetic clamps!" Kaelen shouted, his hands flying over the control console. "Hold on!"
Energy bolts began to pepper the ship's hull, the impacts sounding like giant hammers. A new alarm blared.
"They've got a forward pylon-clamp on the fuselage!" Kaelen roared, fighting the controls as the ship tried to lift, only to be held fast by the magnetic lock. "We're not going anywhere!"