Page 14 of Salvaged By the Alien Pirate
My neural implants flash an alert—anomalous biometric synchronization detected. My pulse is mirroring his. The realization sends a cold spike through me, but my body doesn’t seem to care. Every time his voice rumbles through the bridge, my breath stutters in response, my muscles tightening like I’m bracing for something inevitable.
I force a slow inhale, willing my nervous system to comply, to reset. It doesn’t help. No. It’s just adrenaline. Just heightened stress levels from the fight. Just—
Just another excuse.
We work together, a seamless blend of skill and instinct, dodging their attacks and returning fire with calculated precision. The ship groans under the strain, but we hold our own. I catch Cirdox’s gaze again, the burning depths of his eyes making my stomach flip with an intensity that has nothing to do with combat maneuvers.
Sweat beads on my forehead as I bypass the last firewall, my heart pounding fiercely against my chest. The thrill of the hack mixes with a gnawing fear of what happens if I fail. Each command I send feels like a decisive move in a deadly game of chess. “Come on, come on,” I urge under my breath, holding my breath as I wait for the system to respond.
The ship lurches violently from another hit, causing Zara to cling to the doorway, her eyes wide with a mix of hope and despair. “Did it work?” she asks, her voice shaky.
I don’t look up from the console. “Almost there—I just need to stabilize the input levels.” My hands fly over the holographic interface, adjusting parameters with precise, practiced movements. The ship stabilizes, and a collective exhale of tension sweeps through the bridge. Zara’s hand squeezes my shoulder—a quick, firm pressure that feels surprisingly grounding in the chaos. It’s a small gesture, but in this moment, surrounded by aliens and flashing lights and the very real possibility of being blown out of the sky, it’s enough to make my throat tighten. I shove the emotion down, hard. Sentiment is a luxury I can’t afford, not now, not ever. Focus, Neon. One crisis at a time.
“Their attack pattern,” I say, my voice tight as I point to the tactical display. “It’s too precise, too focused on disabling our comms. They’re not trying to destroy the ship. They want something.” My mind races, piecing together the clues. The encrypted files, the relentless pursuit, the way they’ve managed to track me across multiple systems. “They’re after me. And the data I stole.”
Cirdox’s eyes narrow. “What data?”
My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the cabin. A message suddenly sears across my vision, the crimson text burning like fire:
WELL PLAYED, VALKYRIE. BUT YOU’RE STILL MOVING EXACTLY WHERE I WANT YOU.
My throat goes dry. This isn’t just someone tracking me.
They’re controlling the board.
I freeze, my fingers hovering over the console. The attached coordinates make my stomach drop—Vulpexia. Our destination. My enhanced vision automatically starts calculating distance and arrival time, but my mind is stuck on one terrifying fact: they knew where we were going before I did. Which means either the ship’s been compromised, or...
Or they’ve been three steps ahead this whole time.
The realization hits me like a physical blow. I’m not just being hunted—I’m being herded. Every move I’ve made, every decision I thought was my own, has been leading us exactly where they want us to go. And now I’ve dragged Cirdox and his entire crew into what’s clearly a trap.
“Neon?” Cirdox’s voice cuts through my spiral of panic, rougher than before. I glance at him, expecting only cold calculation—but there’s something else. His hands grip the armrests, tension coiling through his muscles, knuckles white against dark bronze. His wings, usually held in perfect control, twitch involuntarily, the tips flexing like they want to stretch toward me, as if instinct demands he reach for me despite himself. Even his breathing is off—too shallow, too uneven, as if speaking costs him something.
It’s not just in his head. Whatever this mate-bond is doing to him, it’s physical. And it’s getting worse.
My mouth goes dry. How do I tell him that I’ve basically painted a target on his ship? That my presence is probably going to get everyone killed? The weight of it settles in my chest like cold lead. These people didn’t ask to be part of my mess. They don’t deserve to die because I was stupid enough to think I could outrun whatever’s hunting me.
“Change course,” I manage, my voice barely a whisper. The words feel inadequate against the magnitude of what we’re facing. “We need to get out of here. Now.”
Cirdox’s gaze intensifies, searching mine with those burning crimson eyes. “What’s happening, Neon?”
I look at him, this dangerous alien who claims I’m his mate, and for the first time, I see not a captor, but a protector. The realization terrifies me more than any threat waiting at Vulpexia. I’ve spent so long running, so long trusting no one, that the mere thought of having someone to rely on feels like a vulnerability I can’t afford. And I hate myself for the flicker of relief that washes through me anyway.
“It’s a trap,” I say, the words heavy with guilt. “They’re waiting for us at Vulpexia.”
And then, as if the universe is done playing fair, the ship’s lights flicker once—twice—then die, swallowing us in absolute darkness. My implants glitch, a sharp burst of static crackling in my neural interface before everything crashes.
No visuals. No diagnostics. No way to see what’s coming.
The air grows heavy, thick with something deeper than silence. My tactical overlay is dead, my enhanced vision nothing but a void of useless code. There’s no system warning, no reboot command, just the cold, jarring absence of data.
A cold realization grips my spine.
This isn’t just an attack.
This is a forced shutdown. Someone—something—just killed the Void Reaver’s power at a level even I can’t override. Not a simple EMP, not a random power failure. This is deliberate. A targeted blackout, designed to strip everything away in an instant.
The ship lurches, inertia shifting in a way that makes my gut churn. For a breathless moment, I can’t tell if we’re still moving or drifting powerless through the void.
