The countdown timer on the bulkhead didn't just display numbers; it pulsed a rhythmic, visceral red that seemed to beat in time with Elias's panicked heart. 00:54. 00:53.
"Elias!" Lyra's voice cracked through his paralysis. She had collapsed to the floor the moment the restraints snapped, her legs cramped from days of confinement.
Elias stared at the terminal. Authorization: Thorne-Alpha-6. That was his personal biometric signature, a code known only to him and the High Chancellor back at the Citadel. To the rest of the galaxy, it would look like Elias Thorne had chosen to commit a murder-suicide, taking the rebel commander to the grave to protect Aethelgard's secrets.
"I didn't do this," Elias whispered, his voice sounding thin against the roar of venting atmosphere.
"I know you didn't, you idiot! But the dead don't get to file appeals!" Lyra scrambled to her feet, swaying dangerously. She grabbed the collar of his flight suit, forcing him to look at her. "The escape pods are slaved to the main computer. If the self-destruct is active, they won't launch. We have to get to the hangar. The short-range jumpers have manual overrides."
Elias snapped back to reality. The ship groaned—a deep, metallic scream of a spine snapping. The Vanguard was being pulled apart by the Dreadnought's tractor beam while simultaneously tearing itself open from the inside.
"The hangar is three decks down," Elias said, his training finally overriding his shock. He grabbed his sidearm and a spare oxygen canister, thrusting it into Lyra's hands. "If you try to run, I'll put a bullet in your spine before the explosion does."
"Save the heroics for someone who cares, Captain," she spat, though she gripped the canister like a lifeline.
They sprinted into the corridor. The ship was a gauntlet of fire. Secondary explosions were popping like landmines behind the wall panels. They rounded a corner only to find a bulkhead door slamming shut. Elias dived through, rolling onto the cold deck, but Lyra was a second too slow. The heavy blast door pinned her ankle.
She let out a strangled cry, her face turning ashen.
Elias scrambled back to the door. "Don't move!"
"Oh, right, I'll just go for a stroll!" she hissed through gritted teeth, beads of sweat standing out on her forehead.
Elias jammed his combat knife into the door's hydraulic sensor, sparking a nest of wires. He heaved at the manual release lever, his muscles screaming. For a long, agonizing heartbeat, the door didn't budge. He looked down at Lyra. In the flickering emergency light, the silver of her eyes looked less like a weapon and more like a plea.
With a roar of effort, Elias threw his entire weight into the lever. The door groaned upward just a few inches—enough for Lyra to wrench her leg free. She collapsed against him, her scent—salt and scorched metal—filling his lungs. For a fraction of a second, the heat between them wasn't from the fires.
"Can you walk?" he demanded, pulling her up.
"I can crawl faster than you can run," she retorted, though she leaned heavily on his shoulder.
They reached the hangar just as the Vanguard's gravity stabilizers failed. Suddenly, they were weightless, floating in a chaotic soup of debris, tools, and cooling fluid. At the far end of the bay sat the Sparrow, a two-person scout ship.
"There!" Elias pointed.
They kicked off the walls, swimming through the air. Behind them, the reactor core reached critical mass. A blinding white light began to eat the ship from the stern forward. They scrambled into the Sparrow's cockpit, Elias slamming the hatch shut just as the atmosphere vanished from the hangar.
"Punch it!" Lyra screamed, buckling into the co-pilot's seat with trembling fingers.
Elias didn't wait for the diagnostic. He ripped the manual ignition. The small engines roared to life, kicking them back into their seats with a brutal four Gs of force. The Sparrow shot out of the hangar like a stone from a sling.
Seconds later, the Vanguard vanished.
The shockwave hit them, sending the small craft into a violent, sickening spin. Elias fought the controls, his knuckles white, until the stabilizers finally bit into the vacuum. Silence followed—a heavy, suffocating silence broken only by their ragged breathing.
Outside the viewport, the massive High Command Dreadnought loomed. It was a jagged obsidian spear against the violet rift.
"They're turning," Lyra whispered, watching the Dreadnought's massive turrets swivel toward their tiny, drifting speck of a ship. "They're going to finish the job."
Elias looked at his sensors. His fuel was at ten percent. His oxygen was leaking. And his own people were charging their main cannons to erase him from existence. He looked at Lyra, the woman he had spent three years wanting to kill. She was looking at him, a strange, tragic smile touching her lips.
"Well, Captain," she said softly. "It looks like we're officially on the same side. The side of the dead."
The Dreadnought's cannon flared with a blinding, golden light.
To be continued.....