The fence loomed, wire glinting in the floodlight's sweep. Greg's breath rasped shallow as he pressed into the dirt, every muscle locked, waiting for the beam to pass. When it slid on, he moved—low, fast, a shadow slipping under pipes slick with condensation. Each step dragged pain through his ribs, but he gritted down and kept crawling. The rigs glowed ahead, coolant cores humming like star dust.
He stopped beneath the balcony. Boots thudded above—two guards pacing, blaster rifles hanging loose but eyes sharp. He'd made his choice. The rigs were out. Pulling a core straight from them would cripple the refinery, and that wasn't just broken machinery. It meant production falter and Exnec Enforcers would come down in force. And when Enforcers came, miners disappeared. He wasn't about to trade lives for parts—not theirs. Not like that. Storage was his only shot.
He scanned for an entry. The main gate was suicide, too many eyes, too much light. Then he spotted it: a maintenance hatch tucked between two coolant stacks, half-hidden in shadow. Perfect. Except for the padlock gleaming under the floodlight's edge.
Greg cursed under his breath. A padlock meant time. Time meant noise. And noise meant death. He pressed back into the pipework, heart hammering, and watched the floodlight sweep again. If he was going to make it through that hatch, he'd need more than luck. He'd need a distraction.
No matter what he did the guards at the main door wouldn't even flinch, let alone leave, so it had to be the hatch.
Then he saw it: a panel hanging loose above the balcony.
He lifted the teaser-blade, aimed, and fired.
The shot cracked through the night. Sparks burst as the panel shrieked loose and crashed down on the guards. They shouted, buried under a screeching mass of steel.
Greg moved. He vaulted onto a coolant unit, ribs screaming as he dragged himself higher, then hurled his body up to the far side of the balcony. Pain tore through his chest. He bit down hard, stifling the cry, collapsing into a shadowed corner before the guards stirred.
Below, the men shoved the panel off with curses.
"Hask!" one spat, kicking at the heap. "They want us guarding this relic but never fix a thing."
"Yeah," the other grumbled, brushing dust off his visor. "Whole place is falling apart."
They trudged off to report the mess.
Greg slipped from the shadows and crouched at the control box. He yanked a screwdriver from his jacket, popped the cover, and jammed the teaser-blade in. Electricity shrieked. A flash, a hiss, and the floodlight above screamed before dying—half the yard drowned in a blackout.
Boots scraped. Voices barked. "Light's out! Check the box!"
Perfect.
Greg melted into the dark, ribs burning like a furnace with every step. He hugged the wall, breath tight, until the hatch loomed ahead. The padlock glared back at him. He wedged the blade into its seam and hammered it with his palm. Once. Twice. Sparks spat out. The lock popped with a dull crack. He snatched it before it hit the floor, teeth clenched against the sting in his hand.
Flashlights bobbed closer. Voices echoed through the dark.
Greg shoved the hatch open just wide enough to slip through, then pulled it shut behind him. Darkness swallowed him whole.
He pressed his forehead to the cold wall, chest heaving, sweat slicking his back. Outside, the guards barked and scoured the shadows. Inside, silence.
Greg drew a ragged breath. One step closer. Three cores between him and survival—and every step was going to hurt like hell.
He had to be fast. Backup feeders would kick in soon, erasing his advantage. He pulled out an illumination ball, flicked it on. Good thing he'd brought two; the other was still in the pit. The passage stretched low, a tunnel of sheet metal and hull plating feeding the refinery's heart.
The tunnel spat him into a long corridor. Greg smiled despite the ache. He knew this way—he'd worked for food and scraps here once, stranded on Galu. He ran through, ribs flaring, until he rounded a corner and reached the storage entrance.
The door was wide open. Rows of lockers and crates stretched into shadow. A single emergency lamp thrummed sickly yellow—Exnec never allowed total blackout.
Footsteps. Greg pressed between two stacks, shadows swallowing him. A miner shuffled past, reeking of tobacco and oil, mumbling into a wrist radio. He paused, peered toward Greg's corner, then moved on. Close. Too close.
Greg exhaled and mapped the room in his head: coolant cores, three aisles over, bulk locker ten. Most latches were biometric, some with pressure seals. He pictured the mechanisms—what to pry, what to avoid, where sparks would scream alarms.
Locker 10 waited at the far end like a black promise. Its panel held a keypad, a rusted biometric reader, and an Exnec seal. Greg leaned in, eyeing the seams. Thick, but not impossible. He could jimmy, fry, or hot-wire. Hot-wiring was cleaner—if he found the right bus.
He found one—a maintenance conduit tucked under a service grate a meter away. It hissed faintly; coolant dripped in a slow, steady rhythm. He wedged the teaser-blade into the grate and worked, the metal shrieking under pressure. Sparks spat, and his hand flinched, teeth grinding.
A soft clank sounded above—a crate shifted. Greg froze, breath stuttering. He bit the inside of his cheek and moved slower, every action measured. He popped the grate and reached for the exposed wiring with gloved fingers, probing for the right feed. The wiring was ancient, labeled in a language his training recognized: feed A, auxiliary B, emergency loop. He clamped a torn strip of cable between two prongs of the blade and prayed the strip would emulate a service override.
The panel pulsed once. A red LED went out. Then the latch clicked. He exhaled so hard his ribs flared. The locker sighed open.
Inside: two coolant cores the size of his fist nested like sleeping machines, their casings humming with a faint, steady warmth. They were a little heavy, engineered to pack energy into small spaces. Greg had handled cores before but he'd never needed three at once. He jabbed a strap under one and heaved. His muscles screamed. The first core slid into his arms, vibrating faintly against his chest. It hummed against the conduit on his back, a duet of heartbeat and hum. The second into his pocket. He needed one more.
He almost smiled—then a loud beep echoed through the refinery. Lights blazed to life. Greg froze. Time was gone.
He bolted for the door. And there—a miner. Young, soot-streaked, sweat plastering his hair, a cart in his hands. He froze at the sight of Greg. His eyes flicked to the core and widened—not with greed, but with recognition.
"You—" the kid started.
Greg's mouth went dry. He had no forged ID, no excuse. He could dump cores and run, but the conduit would scald him and slow him down.
The kid's hand twitched toward his radio. Greg's heart hammered. San Wu whispered: wait, flow, not force. For once, he listened.
"Don't call it in." His voice cracked, raw. "I don't want trouble. Just help me push these to bay seven. I'll… I'll pay you. Two hundred Tapil. Forget you ever saw me."
He had barely a hundred. But it was the first thing that left his mouth.
The kid's eyes narrowed. Greg reached into his pocket, pulled three ration cards, held them out like a lifeline. The boy's hunger answered for him. He snatched them and nodded.
Greg eased the conduit and cores into the cart. His ribs screamed with the motion, but the weight came off his arms. The boy tugged a ragged scarf over Greg's shoulders, hiding the pilot's jacket. Smart kid. Maybe smarter than Greg.
They hurried through the corridor together. Every echo felt like pursuit. Every turn a trap. Then—footsteps ahead.
They slowed. A middle-aged woman emerged from the shadows, a tray balanced on her head. Greg's eyes flicked up and nearly faltered. On the tray sat a battered coolant core casing—and a fran sphere, dull but intact.
Fortune smiled. Or maybe it mocked. Either way, he needed them.
Greg let the boy drift a step forward. As they passed, he stumbled, shoulder brushing hers. His arm shot up quick as a blink, fingers curling. The tray rattled. For a breath, the woman's eyes locked on his. Suspicion. Then she muttered something about clumsy brats and kept walking.
Greg straightened, heart in his throat. The fran sphere and casing were in his hand, tucked into the folds of the scarf before she turned. A crooked skill, but still sharp.
Soon they reached the exit hatch. Greg stopped. He lifted the cores from the cart, slipping the strap tight. The boy blinked at him, expectant. Waiting for the promised money.
Greg's jaw clenched. "Sorry, kid." His ribs flared as he forced himself through the hatch, dragging the conduit and cores with him. He didn't look back.
A crackle of radio followed him down the tunnel. Maybe the boy ratted. Maybe he didn't. He'd never know.
Greg ran. Body aching, sweat stinging his eyes. The end of the tunnel burst open. Alarms howled behind.
The fence loomed. Floodlights swept like blades. He pressed flat against a pipe, timing the swing. One breath. Two. Then he hurled himself at the fence, metal teeth tearing his palms. His arms trembled, body screaming, but he climbed anyway.
He dropped hard on the other side, his lungs wheezing. Then he ran, conduit dragging, cores heavy against his chest. He vanished into the trees and shadows. The alarms chased after him.
But he didn't look back.