Page 61 of Alien Guardian's Vow
I turned to Varek, who materialized at my side like a shadow given form. His golden lifelines pulsed with anticipation, matching the rhythm of my silver markings.
"Shield section down! Zara's intel was perfect! Go! Go!" The words tumbled out in an urgent whisper, our bond carrying my meaning more clearly than speech ever could.
We sprinted toward the perimeter, following the route Zara had mapped out for us. Twenty meters of exposed ground, then the blind spot in the sensor grid where we could slip through undetected. Guards shouted in the distance, but they were running toward the failed shield section, not toward us.
Thank you, Zara. Hope you're okay.
The thought flashed through my mind as we reached the perimeter fence. No turning back now. Hammond's compound lay open before us, and somewhere inside, Claire waited – the key to stopping the catastrophe that threatened to destroy everything.
My markings thrummed with energy, responding to the chaos we'd created and the proximity of Varek's lifelines. Whatever happened next, we'd committed ourselves fully to this path. The bond between us carried equal measures of determination and dread as we breached the perimeter and slipped into Hammond's compound.
VAREK
Islipped through the corridor like a shadow, every sense heightened. This place bore Hammond's mark—a crude fusion of human military pragmatism and scavenged necessity, forced upon the bones of ancient ruins. The air tasted stale, recycled, thick with the lingering scent of ozone from strained power conduits and the faint, metallic tang of lubricants.
Unlike the flowing, integrated structures of the Nyxari settlement, Hammond's compound was a jarring assembly of mismatched parts. Walls formed from salvaged hull plating—some scorched black from the crash, others bearing the faded insignia ofThe Seraphyne—were crudely bolted together, leaving uneven seams. Exposed conduits, thick as my arm and bearing markings from different ship systems, snaked along the ceiling and walls, secured by makeshift clamps. Some pulsed erratically with light; others spat faint blue sparks or dripped condensation onto the grated metal floor panels that echoed hollowly with each step.
Emergency lights salvaged from the wreck flickered overhead, casting long, unreliable shadows and bathing sections of the corridor in harsh, intermittent red or yellow light before plunging them back into gloom. The constant hum of stressed machinery vibrated through the floor plates—a discordant baseline punctuated by the hiss of pneumatics and the distant clang of metal on metal from some unseen workshop.
This wasn't a settlement built in harmony with Arenix; it was a fortress carved from wreckage, driven by paranoia and necessity. Security checkpoints appeared at irregular intervals—force fields humming unevenly between repurposed bulkhead sections, sensor grids jury-rigged from salvaged scanners mounted crudely on support beams clearly scavenged from the ship's cargo bay. Everything spoke of function over form, of desperation overriding finesse.
"Third junction ahead," I whispered to Rivera, keeping my voice low enough that only she could hear, the sound swallowed quickly by the corridor's poor acoustics. "Zara's map indicates we turn left."
I ignored the burning protest from my shoulder. The wound had partially healed, but each sudden movement sent fire through my muscles. No matter. Pain could be managed, compartmentalized. I'd trained for decades to push through worse.
Rivera stayed close behind me, her breathing controlled and steady. The back of my neck tingled with awareness of her presence, the faint silver glow of her markings visible in my peripheral vision whenever I glanced back—a startling contrast to the harsh, utilitarian gloom of Hammond's makeshift domain.
"Wait," she murmured, touching my arm lightly. "I'm picking up something."
I froze mid-step, trusting her senses. Her markings brightened slightly, the silver patterns pulsing with a rhythm that matched neither her heartbeat nor mine.
"Claire," she confirmed. "I can feel her signature. It's... wrong. Distorted somehow."
A cold anger settled in my chest. Whatever Hammond had done to the captured woman violated something fundamental. I'd seen enough corruption of ancient technology to recognize the pattern—power extracted without understanding, forced beyond natural limits. This entire compound felt like a violation—a scar tissue fortress built on stolen power and fear.
"Which direction?"
Rivera pointed ahead and slightly to the right. "That matches Zara's intel. The central lab should be two levels down from here."
I nodded and continued forward, each step calculated. The corridor branched ahead, and I paused at the junction, scanning for threats. Clear for the moment, but Zara had warned of automated defenses in this section.
"The ceiling," Rivera whispered. "Three meters ahead. Turret housing."
I spotted it immediately—a small protrusion from the otherwise mismatched ceiling panels, almost invisible unless you knew to look for it. Hammond's security system, ready to cut down anyone who triggered its sensors.
"Can you disable it?"
"Not without alerting the system. We need to stay in its blind spot."
I assessed the corridor, mapping the likely coverage area. "Hug the left wall. Stay in my footsteps exactly."
We pressed ourselves against the cold metal wall plating, inching forward beneath the turret's likely scanning arc. The back of my neck prickled with the awareness of how exposed we were. One misstep, one sensor triggered, and we'd face more than we could handle in these narrow corridors.
Footsteps approached from an adjacent passage—at least three guards, moving quickly. I pulled Rivera into a recessed doorway, shielding her body with mine. My hand went instinctively to my blade, ready.
The footsteps grew louder, then passed our position without slowing. A patrol responding to the perimeter breach we'd created, no doubt.
"Clear," I breathed against her ear.
