The airlock hissed, cold air and fine crystalline dust frosting the edges of the metal. Elara didn't look at Rhys Malakor, focusing instead on the panel, inputting the archaic, forgotten sequence to override the Celestial Cartographer's lock-down protocol.
"You're surprisingly efficient at breaking regulations, Vess," Rhys murmured from behind her.
"I learned from the best," she retorted, the jab landing exactly where she intended—on the memory of the two of them, years ago, scrambling through Federation maintenance tunnels as a happy young couple, driven by the thrill of breaking rules, guided by the memory of the heartbreak he later inflicted.
The memory was a lie. He was a lie.
"I didn't break your rules, Elara. I just changed mine," he said, his voice dropping to that familiar, dangerous register that used to make her knees weak. "And you're about to do the same."
The panel turned green. The airlock door slid open, revealing the inky expanse of space, currently shielded by the Cartographer's massive gravity well.
"Where is your ship?" Elara demanded.
"Docked on the underside hull, using the defunct magnetic mooring station," he replied, pushing off the wall. He moved with a predatory grace that spoke of countless battles and zero remorse—a predator wearing the uniform of a galactic saviour.
He secured a magnetic cable to the airlock frame. "My ship, the Seraph, is small, fast, and completely invisible to their main sensors. It's what you and Kael would have called 'low-profile trash,' but it's paid for with Concord credits, which means it's reliable."
He dared to compare his mercenary gear to the life she and Kael built?
Elara felt the familiar surge of white-hot sadness and protective anger. "Kael and I called our ship home. This is just a vessel for your criminal enterprises."
"Right now, this 'criminal enterprise' is the only thing standing between the Concord and universal dominion," he countered, holding up a second magnetic cable for her. "Clip in. We're moving outside the hull."
The Astromancer's Grip
Elara clipped the cable to her waist harness. The transition from the warm, low-G interior to the raw, freezing vacuum of space was a shock. The only light was the cold, distant scatter of the universe and the faint glow of the Cartographer's distant engine array.
Rhys moved first, securing his own line and gliding toward the underbelly of the ship with practiced ease. Elara pushed off, following his magnetic footsteps down the hull plating.
He needs me to navigate the Silent Zone. He needs my magic.
She focused on that single truth, letting it shield her from the overwhelming proximity of the man who had abandoned his brother and her to join the ranks of the enemy.
Suddenly, a red warning indicator flashed across the hull plating near the main data core.
"Intruder Alert. Section Alpha-5. Deploying Security Drones."
A piercing alarm began to pulse through the silent hull, vibrating through their boots.
"Damn it!" Rhys hissed, instantly spinning around, his face set in a look of grim efficiency. "Phryne didn't waste any time. The Federation may be useless, but their security drones are programmed to vaporize."
"How many?" Elara asked, her training kicking in despite her terror.
"Three. Standard model. They'll be on us in fifteen seconds." He unclipped a small, sleek blaster pistol from his thigh holster. "I can take two, maybe. The third will catch the exit."
Elara's mind raced. They were hundreds of meters from his hidden spaceship, pinned against the massive, unyielding flank of the Federation Archive.
The violet light. The sigil.
A frantic, desperate impulse took over. She closed her eyes, remembering the arcane geometry that had momentarily taken over the console screen—the pure, crystalline magic of the Astromancer's craft, the secret power Kael had always theorized existed behind the cold mathematics of cartography.
She pressed the black igneous rock—Kael's last gift—hard against the palm of her glove.
If this is real, show me.
A searing, internal cold washed through her. She didn't see the violet light this time; she felt it, radiating from her core, tracing lines along the outer hull of the Cartographer. It wasn't a destructive power—it was an unbinding power.
"Rhys, eject the main data-core conduit! Now!" she shouted into her comm.
Rhys hesitated, his finger poised on his weapon. "That's a five-million credit property damage violation, Vess! And it will create a massive energy backwash!"
"It's a bomb!" she yelled. "Trust my map, not your gun!"
The Leap of Faith
Rhys's eyes narrowed, searching her face for a trace of the old Elara, the one he had loved, the one who believed in impossible things. The decision was agonizingly fast, a measure of how high the stakes truly were.
He re-holstered the blaster and slammed his fist into a manual release lever on the massive hull plate. The data core conduit—a pipe wider than Elara—detached with a pressurized WHOOSH of energy and plasma.
The three security drones rounded the corner of the hull, their primary weapons charging. They locked onto Rhys.
Elara didn't wait. As the conduit separated, she channeled all the nascent magic—the cold, beautiful energy—into the space between the conduit and the hull. The powerful, sudden expulsion of the Archive's pressurized atmosphere caught the conduit, turning it into a massive, uncontrolled projectile hurtling into space.
Elara and Rhys, clipped to the hull, were safe, but the three drones were caught dead-center in the blast wave. The drones were not designed for unexpected kinetic force. They spun wildly, short-circuiting against the careening metal. Two were instantly crushed; the third was thrown violently into the distant black.
"What in the hell was that?" Rhys breathed, his comm unit crackling with static.
Elara didn't answer. Her face was pale, and the stone in her hand felt impossibly hot. The sheer force of channeling the magic had left her momentarily depleted.
"Your spaceship. Now," she gasped, her mission back in sharp focus.
Rhys wasted no more time. He began pulling their magnetic cables back toward the ship's underbelly.
A minute later, they were dropping into the narrow, dark cockpit of the Seraph. It was sparse, utilitarian, and smelled faintly of burnt wires and Rhys's own cold-weather cologne—a scent she hadn't forgotten in three years.
As he sealed the hatch and slammed his hand onto the main thrusters, the Seraph screamed away from the Cartographer in a chaotic, barely controlled burst of speed.
"Next time you decide to play with Federation assets, give me a warning," Rhys said, flipping switches with practiced efficiency. He spared her a fleeting, intense glance. "That was reckless, Vess. But effective. You just broke a very expensive law."
"I told you," Elara said, unclipping her harness and meeting his gaze, the sad and resentful fire of her memory burning strong. "I learned from the best."
The proximity was already agonizing. The flight to the Silent Zone was going to be an emotional war.