Chapter 7: The Gutter
Kaelen's knuckles were white on the yoke. "It's not a station," he'd said. "It's a hole."
He was right.
The Rust-Wren limped out of the Miasma-cloud, its engines sputtering from the wastewater-dump and the close call with the Purifier. The debris field of "The Siphon" was all around them—a terrifying graveyard of twisted, ancient metal, all slowly spiraling toward a central, unseen vortex.
"There," Kaelen growled, pointing.
It wasn't a station. It was a wreck. A colossal, pre-Fall cargo freighter, miles long, had crashed here centuries ago, its hull cracked open like an egg. A chaotic, vertical city of rust, neon, and desperation had grown inside it, shielded from the Miasma by the freighter's thick, irradiated plating.
"The Gutter," Lyra whispered, her face pale in the cockpit's glow.
"Right," Kaelen said, all business. He was in his element now: flying and hiding. "Rules of the house. You're mute cargo. You don't talk. You don't make eye contact. And that Lodestone," he jabbed a finger toward her pack, "does not exist. You feel me?"
"I feel you," Lyra said, pulling her hood low.
Kaelen expertly navigated the Wren through the debris, following a series of hidden, painted symbols on the wreckage that Lyra never would have seen. He guided the ship into a dark, gaping hole in the freighter's side—a cargo bay that now served as a chaotic, multi-levelled dock.
The Wren settled with a metallic groan onto a narrow, precarious-looking platform. The bay was dark, lit only by flickering, uncovered bulbs. Rough-looking men and women in patched-together armor moved in the shadows, their faces obscured by filters.
As they stepped off the ramp, a large, hulking man with a cybernetic arm and a "flame-thrower" strapped to his back stepped forward, his hand out. "Docking... tax," he grunted.
Kaelen, looking bored, tossed him a small handful of salvaged micro-chips. The man inspected them, his one good eye squinting, then nodded. "Clean ship. What's your business?"
"Repairs and fuel," Kaelen said, his voice taking on a rougher, Sump-scrapper's accent. "Got a bad Miasma-burn on my hull. Need to see Twitch."
"Twitch is... busy," the man grunted. "And you got... loud... company. My 'ear' says you're screaming Purifier signals."
Kaelen and Lyra froze.
"Don't know what you're talking about," Kaelen said, his hand moving slowly toward his sidearm.
"Don't lie to me, pilot," the man sneered. He tapped a glowing, yellow implant at his temple. "Old Architect-tech. I 'hear' things. And your cargo," he nodded at Lyra, "is... loud. Screaming. Like a star. Now... who's really paying for your repairs?"
The man's cybernetic arm whirred, and a massive pincer snapped shut. "The Scrap-King... he... hates... Purifiers. But he... loves... their... tech."