Page 51 of Fated to the Dragon Alien

But something was changing.

Tonight—during sleep cycle—they were leaving.

Her new EP suit fit snug against her. This wasn’t the type issued to miners; those were generic and always too loose in the joints. This suit bore no Axis tag. The helmet sat on the bed. It magnetized to the neck of the suit and was fitted to her size. Stavian had retrieved it all from long-term storage inventoryand burned the requisition code afterward himself. The suit was necessary. All EP suits, including hers and the miners’, had built-in gravity stabilizers that were helpful for anyone planning to stay connected to the floor whilst on a starship. It was planning for details like this that made her think they could pull this off.

She flexed her hand inside the glove. Her sigh came out steadier than she expected it to be.

The room still smelled like him—like clean metal, salt, and something else underneath, like tilled soil after a rain. She glanced at the bed and remembered that sleep cycle together, where he’d pulled her close and said, “I keep waking up just to see if you’re still here.”

When he wasn’t on duty, she and Stavian had planned for all possibilities they could think of, and carved out precious time to love each other. They slept tangled together, hands exploring, mouths and bodies and hearts locked deep into the sleep cycle.

Everyone at the mining compound assumed the obvious—that the infamous prisoner 630-I had become the controller’s personal companion. “Pet” was the demeaning term the Axis officials used for her. They figured she brought him food and warmed his bed and was rewarded with soft sheets and relief from shift duty. No one questioned it—it wasn’t entirely inaccurate—and Stavian didn’t deny it. It kept scrutiny off them. If the controller was a little distracted, or not present in his office as much, well, he needed to unwind a little. It was the privilege of upper command to use prisoners as they saw fit, after all. Stavian told her that Darven made smirky, offhand comments about “new tastes” and “keeping the joints oiled,” and that his lieutenant had stopped questioning his decisions. Cerani was the easy excuse for Stavian’s frequent absences from the mine.

Cerani found enormous relief in letting them all think what they wanted. She even played the part when someone watched.She nodded when medics passed her in the corridor and smiled just enough to make it believable. She even did her hair and wore the lightweight tunics and pants that Stavian had sent in for her. Her new role was easy to play. No one suspected she was part of a plan that would upend the workings of the DeLink Mine.

No one would guess that this was the cycle in which she’d lead all forty-eight prisoners onto a hijacked Axis ship. No one except the forty-eight miners, that is. She’d gotten the plan to Jorr and Sema privately, during a trip to the med lab in which Stavian had taken her for a post-treatment scan. She hoped tofekthat they had done what she’d asked and spread the word. The last thing she needed was for a bunch of surprised, disoriented miners to bombard her with questions when she arrived at the barracks.

A ping sounded on her wrist.

Her breath caught. She looked down.

—confirmed: commence barracks extraction

Cerani’s fists clenched. She stared at the message once more, making sure it hadn’t changed.

—confirmed: commence barracks extraction

That was it. No flourishes. No “good luck.” Just go.

She crossed the room in three fast strides and grabbed her helmet from the bed. It locked onto the neck of her suit with a soft click. Her pack sat next to the exit—a small black case with extra filters, gloves, med patches, and a sealed pouch of nutrient squares. She’d reviewed the packing list five times already. Nothing inside would slow her down.

She glanced around the room one last time. The bed had been made. The sheet, smooth. The corners, tucked sharp. This would be the last Axis facility she lived in. She clutched the case and opened the door.

The hallway outside was empty, as expected. No surprise sweep. No guards. Not at this time. Miners were supposed to be asleep. The admin quarters were dead quiet.

Waiting near the lift, the mech Stavian had reassigned stood at alert. A black model with a blank faceplate and twin emitter pods mounted at its shoulders, turned toward her. Its optical light blinked once. “Escort confirmed,” it said in a quiet, mechanical voice.

Cerani nodded. “Let’s go.”

They exited onto the surface platform without a word. The transition air lock hissed open and blew warm pressurized air into the lift chamber. When the outer door opened, the cold of FK-22R’s surface conditions slapped hard.

She followed the mech down the paved pathway. Dust swept sideways across the red ground in long ribbons. The wind screamed above them, but the suit buffered most of it. She reached up and checked her helmet seal, which she needed for the weather conditions. Solid.

They moved quickly across the surface.

From here, she could see the full sprawl of the DeLink 22K barracks. Five hundred meters ahead, the rectangular metal building crouched behind a windscreen wall. Its dull gray cladding was chipped and stained. The lights above the only door pulsed red—standby mode for sleep cycle. Just like every other night.

No one was outside. She saw no motion near the roof or the mech station. Good signs. Everything looked routine.

The reprogrammed mech moved in front of her when they reached the door scanner. A small burst of light flicked from the mech’s visual scanner and the barracks door unlocked with a muted chime. The heavy steel surface slid back.

Cerani adjusted her grip on the pack and followed close behind.

Inside, the air was thick with recycled heat, stale and heavy. The lights were dim. Lines of low bunks stacked three-high lined the room. Inmate tags were stenciled on metal plates at the foot of the bunks. Most of the miners were in their assigned bunks in the dark, but she wondered how many were actually sleeping. The Axis mech assigned to the barracks stood in its usual position—front-left wall, posture locked, sensor light tracking slow lines across the interior, checking for inmate movement. It was in passive observation mode, but alert.

Cerani breathed in once and stepped forward, hands at her sides.

The mech with her made almost no sound on the reinforced floor. Its frame was sleeker by comparison, built for more than monitoring and basic perimeter checks. Stavian had pulled records on it three cycles ago, said it had once served in an off-platform tactical unit before being repurposed for surface mines. He’d spent two cycles rewriting its protocol stream. Now, it belonged to them.

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