The cold mountain rain intensified, turning the packed-dirt pathways of the vanguard camp into a slick, churning mire of black mud.
Georgia marched Corin through the gold-lit corridors of the camp, her hand firmly gripping his collar. Every step was an exercise in pure willpower; the unpowered gears of her heavy leg guards ground together with a dull, exhausting friction, and the phantom cold of the dead soldier’s armor seemed to seep straight into her bones. But she kept her chin high, her silver visor locked forward, projecting the absolute, chilling discipline of a Western sentinel.
"Georgia," Corin muttered under his breath, his head bowed to keep the rain from blinding him. "The flagship... they’re preparing the thrusters. I can hear the pressure vents clearing from here."
"I know," she whispered back, her metallic voice barely audible over the roaring wind. "Keep your pace steady. We are almost to the edge of the perimeter."
Before they could reach the relative safety of the dark interrogation tents, a sharp, deafening blast of a steam siren shattered the night.
The clinical synchronicity of the camp instantly fractured. Soldiers halted in their tracks, turning their silver masks toward the central pavilion. High in the watchtowers, the gold searchlights pivoted, casting broad, sweeping cones of light across the muddy grounds.
"All cohorts, halt and form ranks!" a loud, amplified voice boomed from the brass speaker-horns mounted on the perimeter pylons. "Immediate camp-wide inspection. Stand for biometric scan."
Georgia’s blood ran cold inside her steel suit.
"Oh, no," Corin gasped, his body going rigid. "The biometric scan... they're checking the armor signatures."
"Quiet," Georgia commanded. "If we run, we’re dead. Step into the line."
Two squads of vanguard soldiers were already forming a rigid, double-breasted queue along the central timber pathway. Georgia had no choice. She dragged Corin to the edge of the line, forcing him to kneel in the mud beside her boots, and stepped into the gap between two towering, silent sentinels.
She stood at absolute attention, her halberd held perfectly vertical, her eyes staring straight ahead through the narrow slits of her visor.
At the head of the line, the white-robed Inquisitor appeared, flanked by Centurion Malakor and a tech-priest carrying a heavy, glowing brass lantern. The lantern didn't project light; instead, it emitted a thin, sweeping fan of violet mist that clung to the white-and-gold plates of the soldiers as they passed, hums of confirmation chiming from the soldiers' chest-plates as their active heartbeats synced with the camp's central ledger.
The inspection was moving fast. Ten soldiers. Five.
Georgia’s hand, hidden inside her heavy gauntlet, trembled slightly. She had bypassed the physical locking pins of the armor, but the internal battery was entirely depleted. When that violet mist touched her breastplate, the tech-priest’s ledger would show a dead signal. A ghost in the ranks.
"You there," Centurion Malakor’s voice suddenly barked.
Georgia's focus snapped back. Malakor had stopped three paces away, his hard, flint-like eyes staring not at her face, but at the deep, jagged scars scoring the chest and shoulders of her armor. Under the harsh glare of the gold-fire braziers, the dark, dried blood of the dead vanguard soldier was starkly visible against the white enamel.
"Your unit, soldier," Malakor demanded, stepping closer. The heavy broadsword at his hip clattered against his leg guards. "I told you to see to your repairs. Why is your chest-plate still caked in rebel filth?"
Georgia felt the weight of every eye in the corridor shifting to her. Beside her boot, she could hear Corin’s shallow, terrified breathing.
"Apologies, Centurion," Georgia said, her metallic voice dropping into the flat, clinical drone of a disciplined zealot. "I prioritized the security of the asset over personal maintenance. The prisoner has valuable coordinates; I deemed his immediate containment more critical than my uniform."
Malakor sneered, his lip curling in disgust. He stepped closer, his face mere inches from her silver visor. She could smell the sour ale and old leather on his breath.
"A soldier who ignores the ledger is no better than a scavenger," Malakor growled. He raised his hand, his heavy leather glove reaching out to brush the collar of her breastplate—right where the glowing blue biometric seam had been bypassed and left inert.
If he touched the seam, he would feel the cold, unpowered lack of vibration.
"Centurion!" the Inquisitor’s voice suddenly cut through the tension. He was standing further down the line, his pale fingers tapping impatiently against his silver saint medallion. "We do not have time to lecture the lower cohorts on their hygiene. The flagship’s boilers are reaching critical pressure. Scan her and let us proceed."
Malakor paused, his hand hovering in the freezing air. He let out a low, irritated grunt, dropping his hand back to his side.
"Scan her," he ordered the tech-priest.
The priest stepped forward, raising the heavy brass lantern. The fan of violet mist swept over Georgia’s armor, clinging to the gold-trimmed borders of her pauldrons.
Georgia held her breath, her fingers tightening on her halberd.
For a fraction of a second, the tech-priest’s ledger remained dark. Then, with a sudden, sputtering hiss, the lantern’s glass lens cracked. A small plume of black steam leaked from the brass casing, and the violet light flickered out entirely.
The tech-priest tapped the side of the device, cursing under his breath. "The mountain dampness, Centurion. The oil-wells in the lantern are freezing over. But the signal... it's verified. The cohort is clean."
"Useless scrap," Malakor muttered, turning away. "Dismiss the line. Get the prisoners to the tents. Now!"
The siren wailed once more, a low, descending note that signaled the end of the inspection. The rigid lines of soldiers immediately broke, returning to their rhythmic, mechanical march through the camp.
Georgia didn't wait for a second command. She grabbed Corin by his cloak, dragging him out of the light of the braziers and into the deep, welcoming shadows of the interrogation tents.
As the heavy canvas flap of the tent fell shut behind them, sealing them in the damp, cold dark, Georgia slumped against a wooden supply crate, her chest heaving as she let out a ragged, trembling breath.
"That was too close," Corin whispered, his face completely pale as he collapsed onto the dirt floor. "Georgia... we are running out of luck."
"Luck is for the weak, Corin," Georgia murmured, her hand reaching up to slowly unbuckle her throat guard. "We have our path. Now, we take the ship."