Chapter 85 · No alarms

The walk back to the hangar was all controlled breath and measured pace. No alarms. No shouts. No stormtroopers sprinting down the corridor. Just the steady hum of Klyssos at work, each department oblivious to the fact that a forged identity was about to expire somewhere behind them.

Eli could feel the tension like a cord running from the base of his skull down his spine. His uniform collar itched, his shoulder blades ached from the effort of not flinching every time a technician looked their way. Stent, by contrast, looked carved out of stillness. The white uniform helped—it acted like a barrier between him and anxiety, a structure for him to inhabit. But Eli knew better; beneath that perfect posture, Stent was listening to every shift in the air, calculating every variable.

They boarded the Lambda without incident. If anything, the deck crew looked relieved to see them leaving. Whatever ghost story had begun whispering through the station, no one seemed inclined to test it.

Once inside, the hatch sealed with a heavy clunk that sounded far too final.

Eli strapped into the crew seating, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. The pilot ran through the preflight sequence with sharp, competent movements. The fourth Rebel—a young human woman with an expression that had lost its humor days ago—checked the cabin pressure and external seals.

The nav officer lingered at his console, glancing repeatedly at the data display as though waiting for someone else to give him permission to breathe.

Stent sat across from Eli, hands folded neatly in his lap. The uniform made him look impossibly composed, almost regal, but there was a tension in his stillness—an awareness sharpened to a point.

The shuttle eased away from Klyssos’s hangar, engines humming steadily as the fortress fell behind them in shrinking geometric layers. Eli watched the shrinking silhouette through the viewport and forced himself to breathe normally. The worst was supposed to be over. They were out. No alarms, no shouts, no last-minute suspicion dragging them back.

Almost home.

He glanced toward the navigator, who hovered over his station like a man trying to make himself smaller. His hands were steady enough, but his shoulders were too tight, jaw clenched as if bracing for impact that hadn’t arrived.

Eli tried to offer something reassuring. “Relax. We’re clear. Just a few more minutes and we’re in hyperspace.”

The man gave a thin nod without looking up. “Yes, sir. Working on it.”

Eli frowned. Stress was normal. Stupidity wasn’t. And this man looked like someone waiting for the sky to fall.

Behind him, Stent sat perfectly still, but Eli could sense the awareness in his posture—eyes everywhere, mind cataloguing details.

The pilot called back, “Nav, ready when you are.”

A long pause.

“Almost,” the navigator murmured.

Eli blinked. “Almost? The coordinates were preloaded.”

“I—I know. I’m just making sure they’re stable.” The man swallowed, voice thin. “Don’t want a misjump.”

Eli exchanged a quiet look with Stent. Not suspicion. Just the mutual understanding of people who’d learned to recognize nerves in a confined space.

And yet— Something in the air had shifted. A little too still. A little too quiet.

“Keep me updated,” Eli said as casually as he could.

The navigator didn’t answer. His fingers hovered over the console, motionless.

The shuttle drifted farther from the fortress, Klyssos now a cold metal bloom in the distance. If anything, the emptiness outside only made the tension inside sharper.

The pilot tapped impatiently at his controls. “Nav—coordinates. We’re losing our window.”

“I know,” the navigator said, barely above a whisper. His eyes stayed fixed on his display, but nothing on it was changing. He hadn’t adjusted a single calculation in the last minute.

Eli pushed off his seat and stepped toward him. “Let me see.”

“Sir, please,” the man muttered, “I’m handling it.”

“That’s the problem,” Eli said.

He leaned over the console—just enough to see what the man didn’t want him to.

The coordinates weren’t being loaded. They weren’t “unstable.” They were sitting in a frozen buffer, untouched, like someone was waiting for permission they didn’t deserve to need.

Eli’s pulse tightened.

“You’re delaying.”

“No—no, I—” The man swallowed hard. “I’m just being cautious.”

Stent rose, quiet as a shadow. “Navigator.”

The man jumped at the sound of his voice. Too strong a reaction for simple nerves.

“Turn your console toward Lieutenant Vanto.”

The navigator’s hand twitched toward the edge of the screen— not toward a hidden transmitter, not even a weapon— just a reflexive grab of someone caught between fear and decision.

Eli’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t anxiety. It was guilt.