They’d never moved before. A sudden desperate surge of hope flared inside her. Something must have damaged the locking mechanism in the explosion. She threw her weight against them, feeling the door shift slightly.
Come on. Come on.
Another blast rocked the ship, this one so close that the impact threw her backward. Metal shrieked as the corridor wall buckled, and when she looked up, the bars of her cell door were bent outward, the lock completely destroyed.
Freedom.
She didn’t stop to question why or who was attacking or what waited for her outside the cell. She crawled through the twisted opening, ignoring the scrape of metal against her skin, and stumbled into the corridor.
She ran. She had no idea where she was going, no plan beyond away, but away was better than that metal box where she’d been waiting to be sold.
Smoke billowed from a junction ahead. She veered right, following a corridor that sloped downward, deeper into the ship’s belly. The sounds of combat grew muffled here, more distant. She passed what looked like a storage bay, its contents scattered across the floor.
Her lungs burned. Her feet ached from the cold metal. The thin slave gown offered no protection against anything, and she was acutely aware of how vulnerable she was—no weapon, no shoes, no idea where she was or how to get off this ship.
One problem at a time.
She ducked through a doorway and found herself in a narrow maintenance corridor, pipes and conduits running along the walls like exposed veins. The air was warmer here, thick with the smell of machine oil and something else—something organic and slightly sweet.
Another explosion rocked the ship, and she grabbed one of the pipes to keep from falling. The metal was hot against her palm, almost burning, but she held on until the shaking stopped. Then she kept moving, following the maintenance corridor as it wound deeper into the ship’s infrastructure.
The corridor dead-ended at a heavy door, its surface scarred and pitted with age, with a manual release lever that looked like it hadn’t been used in years. She grabbed it with both hands and pulled.
The lever didn’t budge.
She braced her feet and tried again, putting her whole weight into it. Her arms screamed in protest. The metal bit into her palms. She grunted with effort, feeling sweat bead on her forehead despite the chill?—
The lever gave way with a shriek of protesting metal.
The door slid open a foot and stopped, its tracks too corroded to allow more. But a foot was enough. She turned sideways and squeezed through the gap, the rough edges catching on her gown and scraping her bare shoulder.
There was no emergency lighting on the other side of the door and for a moment she stood frozen, one hand still pressed against the door frame, listening to her own ragged breathing and the distant sound of weapons.
Don’t panic.
She stepped forward, her hands outstretched, feeling her way through the black. Her fingers brushed something smooth and curved, and she traced its surface, trying to build a mental picture of her surroundings. The floor here was different. Softer, somehow, with a faint give beneath her feet that made her think of rubber matting. The air smelled cleaner, with an undertone of something antiseptic, but that faint sweetness lingered.
Her hip bumped against something solid, and lights flickered to life. Her heart lurched into her throat, but no alarm sounded and no guards came rushing in. She blinked until her vision adjusted.
She was in a small chamber, not much bigger than a walk-in wardrobe. The walls were curved and seamless, made of some pale material that seemed to glow faintly from within. Banks of equipment lined one side—readouts and monitors displaying information in scripts she couldn’t read.
On a raised platform on the other side of the room sat a pod roughly the size of a crib, its surface transparent and gleaming in the ambient light. Mist swirled inside it, obscuring whateverlay within. She approached slowly, her bare feet silent on the soft floor, her breath catching in her throat.
The mist cleared as she drew closer, responding to her presence or perhaps some automated sensor, revealing the contents.
A baby. A baby alien. The infant couldn’t have been more than a few months old, tiny and perfect, with delicate features and skin that shimmered like liquid silver in the soft light. Her eyes were closed, her small chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of sleep, or perhaps some kind of stasis. But the baby looked peaceful. Healthy. Alive.
What is she doing here?
The question circled through her mind, tangling with a dozen others. How long had this child been hidden away in this forgotten corner of the ship? Who had put her here? Why?
The ship shuddered again, and she heard heavy footsteps approaching from somewhere nearby, moving in formation. She looked around frantically for a way to turn off the lights and found a small control panel next to the doorframe. When she slammed her hand down over it the room went dark again, and she pressed herself against the wall beside the door, her heart pounding.
Harsh voices came from the corridor outside the door. The language beneath the words was different to that of the guards, but she understood them as well.
“—confirmed the ship’s manifest. The Key isn’t on it.”
“Of course not. Even the Ithyians aren’t that stupid. But High Priest Tramog says the Silver Key is here.”
