Pela checked the lock. Rusk Tarin. Not just gone, but gone *into* the munitions cage. The casual, almost lazy swing of the heavy door on its magnet hinted at careful precision, not a frantic grab. This wasn't a panicked deserter; this was a calculated move.
“The cage,” Pela said, her voice a flat murmur, eyes still fixed on the door. “He didn’t just leave. He entered.”
Maris peered into the dark cage and nodded once, sharply. “Of course. The contraband runner needs a new trade. Weapons.” Her tone was laced with an ‘I told you so’ that didn’t quite land, given the fresh hole in their defenses.
Pela pushed past the lingering chill, her mind already sorting through possibilities. Rusk’s gear had been confiscated, but a runner’s stash rarely stayed empty. He’d kept something. What was it? Fuel cells, she remembered. He hadn’t given up the fuel cells. Why would he need weapons if he had fuel cells? Unless it was a trade, an exchange.
“He’s not after our guns for a firefight,” Pela stated, already moving. She snatched her tablet from the relay rack, its screen now displaying a structural blueprint of the cliffside redoubt. “He’s after *our* guns to give to *them*.”
“A new contract,” Maris supplied, falling into step behind Pela as they descended the metal stairs, leaving Joren still processing the cliff-side plummet. Maris’s hand instinctively went to the utility knife at her belt. “Where would he go?”
Pela didn’t answer immediately, her gaze sweeping the narrow corridor, not for Rusk himself, but for anomalies. A fresh boot mark smeared the steel plate. Raw tobacco leaf lingered in the draft. Every seal and threshold was mapped in her memory, and this draft carried grit from the lower decks. “He wouldn’t go to the perimeter,” she reasoned, her voice picking up speed. “Too exposed. He’d need a secure comms link, something with range. Somewhere central.”
Her eyes snapped to the layout: the primary comms array, nestled deep within the stone spine of the tower, shielded by meters of reinforced rock. A perfect blind spot, designed for emergency broadcasts, not clandestine negotiations.
“The comms relay,” Pela declared, quickening her pace, her airheaded cargo dispatcher persona completely shed. Every step was precise, calculated. “That’s where he’ll be. And he’ll be transmitting.”
Maris kept pace, her movements silent, efficient. “You think he’s trying to cut a deal? Offer them the armory for safe passage?” Maris's mouth twitched, savoring the venomous vindication.
“Perhaps more than the armory,” Pela muttered, bitter acid rising in her throat. The engine tampering. The stolen design files. Rusk was a fence who brokered secrets alongside salted beef. Could he have been the one to sell the marauders the full layout of the redoubt?
They moved through the winding passages, the distant whine of the secondary turbine a constant thrum. Pela led them through a maintenance crawlspace, a shortcut she’d designed into the initial container layout. The air grew colder, the scent of ozone growing stronger as they neared the comms station. Ahead, a faint, rhythmic *clack-clack-clack* echoed, the sound of a keyed transmission.
Pela held up a hand, stopping Maris. Her internal clock was already charting the rhythm of the signal, its unusual modulation. Not standard Oskolan frequency. Something cobbled together. Raider tech. She nodded to Maris, who drew her knife, a silent predator.
They burst into the comms chamber. Rusk Tarin was hunched over a jury-rigged comms unit, wires snaking from its battered casing into the Aegis’s main relay port. His fingers danced over the keys, a low, urgent murmur escaping his lips. He looked up, brow twitching fractionally, but there was no panic, only weary resignation.
“Well, well,” Rusk said, leaning back in his chair, not bothering to remove his hands from the console. His voice was calm, almost bored. “Didn’t think you two would track me so fast. Guess the airhead’s got some teeth after all.”
Maris stepped forward, knife glinting. “Drop the broadcast, Tarin. Now.”
Rusk chuckled, a dry, raspy sound. “And miss the exciting conclusion of my negotiation? Not a chance. Just explaining to our friends out there that I’ve delivered the ‘intel’ and now I’m due my cut of the escape route.”
“Intel?” Pela’s voice was dangerously quiet, her eyes locked onto the comms unit’s small display, a stream of encrypted text scrolling rapidly. “What intel, Rusk?”
“The layout, of course,” Rusk said, gesturing vaguely. “Your little fortress. They needed to know where the soft spots were, where to hit next. And you, dispatcher, provided a perfectly executed demonstration of how to drop a container-bomb on them.” He grinned, a flash of genuine amusement in his weary face. “Made my job much easier, actually. Proved my bona fides.”
Pela felt a surge of cold fury. “You sold us out. You crippled the thermal core.”
Rusk’s grin vanished. His eyes narrowed, suddenly devoid of humor. “Hold on, dispatcher. I deal contraband, not suicide. Killing the thermal core brings the whole damn house down. No more Aegis, no more negotiating chip. No more safe haven. That wasn’t part of my deal.” He jabbed a finger at the comms unit’s screen. “Check the logs. My first contact with the Ice-Crows was barely an hour ago. And they already had your technical drawings. *Detailed* drafts. Pinpoint locations for your core, your ventilation. Everything.”
Pela leaned closer, her eyes scanning the rapidly scrolling data. An incoming message from the marauder leader, timestamped *before* Rusk had even arrived at the Aegis Beacon, included a low-res scan of her meticulously guarded blueprints. It wasn’t just a simple map; it showed the internal wiring, the power conduit pathways, the very design of the emergency bypasses. The kind of detailed data only an insider with administrative keys could possess.
Her mind reeled. Rusk hadn't cut the fuel lines. He lacked the clearance codes, and he hadn't leaked the construction files. The informant wasn't the dockside fence. The rot ran through the inner circle—the partner who had tightened the bolts alongside her, the companion trusted with every life inside these walls.
The sweet, supportive voice of Joren Hest echoed through the horn speakers overhead, calm and clear, cutting through the humming machinery. “Attention all personnel. This is Joren Hest. The primary energy core has been secured. Effective immediately, I am assuming control of the Aegis Beacon. Please remain calm. Further instructions will follow.”
Pela froze, slate in hand. The strike had not come from the ice below; it came from the warm center of her own operations desk.