POV: Lyra
Later Sebastian's neural pathways pulsed desperate gold—the frequency of someone who'd made a critical error and just realized it. His optical implants dilated with what Core Worlders called regret. Too late for that, void-brain [idiot].
"Lyra, please let me explain." He reached for my wrist, trying to initiate the neural handshake we'd severed six cycles ago.
"Don't—" I yanked my arm back, my opalescent skin flashing from silver to hostile red.
"Lyra," he tried again, his voice modulated with those manipulation harmonics they taught in Core World academics.
"Lyra, is there a malfunction?" Juan emerged from the refresher module, Hale two steps behind. Their pathways immediately shifted to combat protocols—spiraling orange-red that meant violence in 3.2 seconds if I gave the signal.
"Negative, Juan. Situation contained. Proceed to Memorial Hall. I'll follow shortly."
Juan's expression could have frozen helium. Hale's skin cycled through protective patterns—purple-black-crimson, the sequence that meant 'station-mate in danger.' They'd been there when I'd returned from finding Sebastian with another female, my psychic signature so scrambled I couldn't maintain solid form for three cycles.
"I'll maintain stable status, guaranteed. Neural-link me if intervention required."
They moved away slowly, probably calculating whether leaving me was acceptable risk. They'd witnessed match severance number five—when Sebastian's betrayal had scrambled my consciousness so badly I'd needed cycles of recalibration therapy.
Once they'd passed through the pressure doors, I faced Sebastian. "No explanation required. We severed our match bond."
His pathways dimmed with what looked like genuine pain. Probably practiced that in a mirror. "Biggest error in my existence was accepting that severance. Please, give me another probability. Let me provide for you."
Provide for me? Like I'm some helpless colony refugee? "Negative. I've been self-sufficient since before you knew mining colonies produced anything besides raw materials."
I moved to pass. He blocked me—a dominance display that probably worked on proper Core World females who hadn't survived explosive decompression at age five. Twice.
"Lyra, my neural state was compromised. Your observations weren't accurate data."
"I know." Hope flared in his pathways—soft yellow spreading like radiation. I terminated it with precision. "Accurate data: you defending your progenitor when I reported extremist attacks on Stations Seven through Twelve. Accurate data: you providing false information about Lyrokan supremacist cells. You said 'propaganda,' then I monitored you briefing Command about their confirmed existence—data withheld for multiple cycles while stations burned to void-dust [nothing]."
Each word hit like debris from a core breach. His pathways stuttered—yellow to gray to sick green. Good. Process that data.
"Accurate data: you claimed your progenitor required emergency briefing the night I found you horizontally interfacing with that Lyrokan female, your neural pathways still entangled like void-cursed [damned] quantum strings."
His voice cracked through multiple frequencies. "Lyra, I'd consumed synthetic ethanol and... and Sasha said revealing my location at the officers' recreation hub would generate unnecessary suspicion parameters. I didn't want you thinking—"
"Unnecessary suspicion parameters?" My pathways flared so bright the corridor's hazard sensors triggered—sharp harmonic frequencies meaning 'Kaelari approaching critical.' Even the station knows I'm defective. "Your sibling convinced you to provide false data before establishing neural connection with another female?"
"Lyra, please." His composure shattered, reaching for me again.
A massive form materialized between us faster than standard physics allowed. Orion's pathways pulsed in the attack pattern from historical archives—deep purple edged with ultraviolet, the frequency that preceded Lyrokan berserkers going nova in the Void Wars.
"Maintain minimum safe distance from her." His voice carried subharmonics that made the reinforced duraplast walls vibrate.
Through our bond—that impossible, shouldn't-exist, absolutely-not-real bond—his rage hit me like stellar radiation. Protective. Possessive. Actually furious someone had damaged me. He'll recalibrate. They always do. Statistical certainty.
Sebastian straightened, attempting authority retrieval. "Apologies, sir. Simply communicating with Commander Lyra."
Orion stepped forward, all seven feet of enhanced Lyrokan genetics dwarfing Sebastian's standard six. His psychic signature radiated threat. "Touch her again, and you'll test vacuum without an EVA suit."
"Respectfully, Emperor, that violates Coalition Military Code, Section—"
Void-stupid [incredibly stupid] move, Sebastian. My voice cut through: "Interesting how you recall regulations about termination but delete those regarding your progenitor's resource misallocation and your sibling's intoxicated navigation incidents."
Sebastian's carefully maintained Core World protocols collapsed. His opalescent dermis shifted to desperate amber. "Lyra, please..."
Orion moved at beyond-optimal speed, slamming Sebastian against the bulkhead. His neural pathways approached going nova—the kind that fried nearby consciousness permanently.
He's going to terminate him. For me. No—not for me. For the insult to his command authority. Obviously.
I reached for Orion's free hand, initiating the psychic interface that shouldn't exist between incompatible species. His consciousness crashed into mine like a solar eruption—violent, beautiful, overwhelming. Through the connection, I transmitted calm while my own pathways sparked chaotically.
Release. Ceremony requires your presence. Disengage.
His Lyrokan consciousness wrapped around mine—protective, possessive, absolutely certain I belonged to him. Delete that data. It's corrupted. His pathways cooled from ultraviolet to purple to deep blue. He released Sebastian, then drove his fist into the male's abdominal cavity with enough force to drop any enhanced humanoid.
"That was for harassing my match," Orion stated with flat finality.
My skin cycled through shocked white before I forced it to neutral silver.
Sebastian's optical implants maximized. "Your what?"
The word hung in the recycled atmosphere—'match.' Scientifically impossible between species. Genetically prohibited. Yet Orion had declared it like stating the void is black [obvious fact].
I pulled him away before violence resumed, though I severed hand contact before entering Memorial Hall. Can't let them observe. Can't let them know the colony female has contaminated their perfect Admiral.
Every consciousness in the hall tracked our movement. Whispers propagated through neural-link—shock at seeing mining trash beside their Supreme Admiral. My skin wanted to shift to humiliated orange, but I maintained professional silver through pure will.
Orion's hand settled on my waist as we took position, the contact sending cascading neural sparks through my pathways. Stop responding. He's making a political statement. Using you to destabilize the Cummings station hierarchy.
The Master of Ceremonies began the memorial for those terminated in extremist attacks, but Orion's attention remained locked on me. Through the bond, his concern felt like warm plasma.
"What's generating distress?" he murmured, his pathways shifting to worried amber.
Everything. You. This impossible match bond. Being match number six and still star-struck [hopelessly hopeful] enough to believe. "We delayed the ceremony."
He lifted my hand and pressed his lips to it—an ancient Terra gesture that sent involuntary neural cascades through my entire network. The bond resonated with satisfaction through harmonic frequencies only we could hear. "Fault belongs elsewhere. This barely registers as disruption. Don't carry unnecessary guilt protocols."
"Acknowledged," I managed, trying to focus while his consciousness kept brushing mine through our connected hands. Juan and Hale flanked me, their familiar psychic signatures my only stability anchor. They know what I am. Mining refuse attempting Commander rank. They pretend not to care. For now.
Sebastian entered, moving with damaged servo patterns. His pathways reached across the hall, but my barriers remained at maximum. Lesson learned.
Minister Cummings took the podium, his speech flatter than dead space [empty void]. Vague references to "defensive responses" without naming which stations had gone dark. Thanking his deputy for "protecting citizens" when everyone knew neither had left climate-controlled Core sectors during actual conflicts.
No data on extremist numbers. Origins. Targets. He knows void-all [nothing] because we're acceptable losses. Outer stations are just resource extraction points.
I bit my lip to prevent disgust from broadcasting through my pathways. But Orion noticed—through the bond, he felt everything. His thumb stroked comfort patterns on my hand.
"All systems nominal?" His concern felt genuine through the bond. Which means the bond transmits false data. Has to.
Before I could respond, my mining-colony-enhanced senses detected it—a flicker in the security grid. Perimeter breach. From Orion's pathways shifting to combat-violet, he'd detected it too.
Through the bond, his single thought reached me crystal clear: Protect her.
Of course. Because a normal ceremony would exceed my luck parameters. And I don't get stellar-lucky [extremely fortunate]. Ever. Statistical fact.