Jinx gave her room one last visual sweep for stray socks and lingerie. Nothing but beige-on-beige décor. Nothing she wouldn't happily leave in her rear view. Curling her lip, she hitched her bag of belongings over one shoulder and headed out the door.
She half expected an escort off the premises. Maybe a quick frisk for stolen hotel soap. But the corridor was empty. No stone-faced Crewman Cruse or any of his teammates.
No sign of Kaplan.
His pithy dismissal flashed to mind.
She bared her teeth. The man had been true to his word. She was now free to live—or die—as she pleased. No armed babysitter. No more interference.
And the fact that pissed her off a little just confirmed she'd been right to turn down the void hound's offer of transport—and the rest.
She stepped into the corridor and wrenched the door shut behind her, mouthed an oath. She'd screwed herself over. No question. A ride to Tirus would have saved her a few logistical headaches. The high-warp sex she might have killed time with on the trip would've worked for her as well, she had no doubt. That kiss... Full-sensory recall had her blowing out a long breath. Yeah, she just had to ruin things by overthinking them—by giving a shit.
Fuck it. She slapped the check-out option on the room's interface, ending her last link with the void hound and his investigation. Time to hunt down more straightforward business.
She yanked up the zip of her synth-leather jacket, a new purchase, like the distressed black, fibre-form jeans she wore on full auto-fit. The look didn't mesh with Sky Landing's pristine environs. Nor did the fluro green bra she wore, but teamed with a slouchy grey singlet that sagged in interesting places, it would facilitate negotiations when she hit the docks to find work and a ride off planet.
But first, she had to meet with the survivors arriving at Dock 130.
The thought brought unexpected nausea.
She pressed a hand against the door to steady herself. Whatever awaited her on the docks, it was going to suck to some degree. Out of all those names Kaplan had handed her, she'd only found one of the specific ones she'd been searching for. Dem's.
She didn't know his exact status, just that he was listed as wounded.
Soh and Lenton were still unaccounted for.
Recall of recent news footage lit her mind: the port's plaz-scarred walls, blood spatter, and bagged bodies.
Clenching her fist, she shoved the images away and headed for the nearby elevator. If Dem had made it clear of the top deck, others must have. He'd know something. So would other survivors. She'd ask around and—
The world slid sideways.
She grabbed the wall beside her, gritting out a curse. Oh ... brilliant. Fainting would just cap off her day. Damn it, her lack of sleep had to be catching up with her. And she'd missed lunch thanks to a certain psycho high councillor. With the state of her brain, she'd been stupid to not watch her blood sugar lev—
A whisper of ice.
A phantom breath in humid darkness—something behind her.
She jerked around, pulse booming.
Nothing. She scanned the hallway end to end. Just a cleaner bot sucking dust out of the carpet near the stairwell, and the low rumble of the elevator rising through the five accommodation floors below.
Another memory from the barge bloomed: skittering sounds; the feeling of being stalked.
She pushed it back, even as fine hairs lifted at her nape. She wasn't doing this. Thinking about Tirus 7 had just triggered—
Her pulse jolted then raced. Her gut clutched. Fear. Sudden. Irrational.
Nothing that belonged in the brightly lit hallway.
Her breath died. Clenching her bag's strap hard enough to hurt, she fought to anchor herself. Was this recall? A memory of panic from the barge? Or was this a delusion? Paranoia, like what her father had felt.
Demons out to get her.
Pain darted behind her eyes.
Claws scraping at her brain.
The image jolted her—then brought a snarl to her lips.
She wasn't her father. She wasn't giving in to that shit.
She forced herself to walk—not run—toward the elevator. But it felt like the walls were closing in, some inevitable darkness with them.
She quickened her steps. She just needed air—to be outside.
Two metres from the elevator's doors, she changed direction and shoved into the stairwell instead. If she locked herself in a metal box, she'd frigging lose it.
Breath coming in too quick, too short, she stumbled down the stairs. The pain behind her eyes became a full-blown headache. Increasing pressure at her temples.
In a repeating litany, she told herself to get a goddamn grip. This wasn't real. It was bad brain chemistry. Nothing was out to get her—crush her, tear into her.
As a calming mantra, those words didn't work. At the third-floor landing, she stopped, almost hyperventilating. Dread continued to clutch her throat. Her head throbbed in time with her ragged pulse.
She waited for the inevitable, for the screams to start in her head.
Silence. Just the boom of her heart and a faint ringing in her ears.
Then a clank above her. A door closing a few levels up.
Footfalls—heavy. A plodding cadence.
Dizziness washed over her. The pressure at her temples turned to stabbing pain.
She didn't fight the urge to run. She took the remaining stairs three at a time.