"Who killed that A-grade starbug?"
The question hung like a live wire. Baisha froze for a heartbeat, then leaned into innocence, her eyes widening, voice quivering just enough. "What? That was an A-grade?"
The boy's sharp gaze faltered, unamused. "…"
"We heard there was a B-grade corpse here," Baisha pressed, feigning a rattled edge. "Came to scavenge. Thank the stars you showed up—your response to my SOS was unreal."
"We didn't come for a merc's signal," the boy said, his earlier chill thawing to a flat calm, his voice crisp as breaking jade. "We're tracking missing soldiers. Did you see any Federation troops before us?"
Baisha shook her head fast, selling the act.
A soldier jogged up, saluting. "Lieutenant, we found dead B-grades in the upper tunnels, plus merc remains—shredded."
The pieces clicked. The army had pinged B-grade signals, sent a squad to clear them, then issued a merc cleanup order. But the squad vanished, and the mercs—well, most were pulp now. Starbugs loved human flesh for their young; tides were their breeding frenzies, gorging on blood.
"Run the life scanner again," the boy ordered, waving his men off.
Baisha's optic-link buzzed—an anonymous ping: [I bolted. Meet me at Hanbo's spaceport.]
She stifled a groan. Huoman, no doubt. Why'd he skitter like a thief at the army's shadow? Smuggler? Pirate? Her gut screamed trouble.
She glanced up, catching the boy inspecting the A-grade's corpse. The sniper wounds—Huoman's—smashed its shield, undeniable. Her laser shots, though, nailing two hearts clean? That precision raised flags.
"Who downed it?" he asked again, eyes narrowing.
"The guy you carted off," Baisha said, tossing Huoman under the shuttle. "Didn't mention it was A-grade. He blasted it with his rifle, ran dry, so I plugged it twice."
The boy's phoenix eyes glinted, cold as a still lake. "You fired?"
Transmigrator or not, Baisha wasn't used to faces like his—pure Han, carved too fine for reality. She blinked, caught off guard. "Uh, yeah. Me."
He paused, skeptical.
"I mean," she backpedaled, "he pointed the spots, told me to shoot."
She knew his real question: could her aptitude pinpoint an A-grade's weak spot? But she'd play dumb to the grave.
"Your aim's that good?" he asked, sizing her up.
Baisha flashed a grin, mimicking Yaning's cocky thumbs-up. "Point-and-click precision."
He tested her, pointing to a discolored stone on the wall. "Hit it."
She fired, laser splitting the rock clean. It dropped, proof solid.
But instead of pressing, he lost interest, treating her like air. Baisha exhaled, ready to slip away, when a soldier shouted, "Life signs detected—deeper in!"
The map showed tunnels to old mines. "Move," the boy said, leading. No orders about Baisha, so the squad dragged her along, slotting her mid-line as they plunged into darkness.
She stole a glance at the silver mech, abandoned. "Your boss isn't stowing that?"
A young soldier behind her snorted. "In these caves? Too tight. Besides, it's tons—no wings, no thief. It stays."
"Not worried someone'll jack it?"
"Who'd drive an S-grade mech—you? Me? Steal from the lieutenant, you're begging for a coffin."
Baisha bit her lip. Fair point.
The tunnel swallowed sound, breaths loud in the black. Three minutes in, her gut twisted—starbugs. A day on the field had burned their vibe into her: a prickle, a wrongness. These felt bad.
The boy signaled a halt. They'd hit an open chamber, air thick with dread. Even the grizzled soldiers stiffened.
Baisha peered ahead. A hundred meters off, cocoon-like orbs hovered, their edges soft, glowing blue—pulsing like hearts. Her mind buzzed, resonating oddly. Squinting, she saw shapes inside—human silhouettes. Some cocoons held wriggling fish-like shadows, gnawing.
"Fall back," the boy hissed, voice ice. "Report to command—S-grade starbug."
Then it hit—a soundless wave, half-stream, half-whale song, piercing eardrums. Baisha reeled, vision sparking green and black. She clutched her ears, fighting the pull to black out.
Drip. Drip.
Warm liquid hit her neck. She turned—the soldier behind her, armored, stood limp, eyes shut, veins bulging blue. Blood poured from his nose, his mouth.
She gasped. Ahead, a blue blast erupted—the boy's pulse cannon, compact but vicious. The cave roared with the bug's cry, its bioluminescence flaring, revealing it.
A beast coiled the chamber, segmented, fish-like, dozens of meters long. No tail, but chest fins and gill-like neck flaps, belly spiked with bone. Its skin shimmered, half-transparent, flickering blue—vanishing when the glow dimmed.
Camouflage.
"S-grade… ghost bug," a waking soldier rasped, eyes bloodshot. "Shouldn't be here… report it…"
Beyond the adult, a dozen eggs pulsed. If they hatched, Hanbo was doomed.
The soldier fumbled his dead optic-link—fried by the bug's strike. His eyes widened, then went dark.
A hum rose—the boy's cannon charging max. He fired, a lightning net bursting toward the bug's head. "Go! Back to the mech!"
Baisha stared at the bodies, frozen, until he shoved her. They sprinted through the tunnel, panting.
"What was that?" she gasped.
"Ghost bug's 'brain hum,'" he said, voice edged with death. "Below A-grade, it kills. They're S-grade mental freaks—stealth, stronger hums."
The bug's roar chased them, furious.
"My mech's a one-seater," he said, eerily calm. "I'll hold it. You take a flyer, get clear of its jam, and ping command. You can fly, right?"
"What's your odds against that thing?"
He didn't answer, vaulting into the cockpit.
Baisha scrambled up a crane's cable, swinging toward the flyers. Logic screamed to bolt—her fake ID, Huoman's dodge, the ghost bug's anomaly would spark a manhunt. The boy's S-grade mech could stall it. She should vanish.
But behind, steel sang—the mech clashed with the bug. Its massive form danced, half-invisible, yet the boy's blade never missed, carving flesh. The bug's tail and jaws hit like asteroids, its hums stalling the mech's moves, forcing pauses.
He was losing ground.
Baisha hesitated, then dove into a flyer, rummaging. Not fleeing—she tore out parts, grabbing another flyer's guts, hammering them into a rig. The boy, choking blood, saw her board and relaxed, pushing his aptitude harder. His mech surged, sparks flying from joints.
He drew a second blade, merging them into a spear, thrusting now, not just slashing. No backup, no hope—he'd kill it or die.
Then Baisha popped out, arms full of scrap. "Why aren't you gone?" he yelled, dodging the bug's lunge.
She ignored him, cobbling a cannon from a flyer's thruster. "Bugs hate fire, right? Roast it!"
He hauled her rig onto the mech's shoulder, dodging a tail swipe, and fired. Flames erupted, scorching the bug's flank. It screamed, lunging; the mech leapt, but a hidden tail smashed it into the wall, sparks exploding.
Baisha watched—the mech wasn't broken, energy intact, yet it faltered, glitching. She had a hunch. "That rig's a bomb too! Toss it when you get a shot—I'll detonate!"
The mech paused, then charged, stabbing deep. The bug flung it skyward; he triggered flight mode, hurling the rig. Baisha aimed, her senses sharpening, something stirring in her blood—a cry, like a bird's, ringing in her ears.
Bang.
Her shot hit. Fire and heat roared, but she stood untouched, as if shielded. The bird's call faded—hallucination?
The blast shook the fort, walls cracking, stone raining. The bug thrashed, fully visible, burning. In its death throes, it lunged, snaring the mech, jaws closing.
The mech crumpled, cockpit exposed. Baisha fired again—not at the bug, but the floating metal moon. Her laser struck, shattering its field. It plummeted, crushing the bug's spine.
Silence fell, broken by coughs. Baisha shoved rubble aside, staggering to the mech's wreck. She pried open the cockpit, dragging the bloodied boy out. Checking his pulse—alive, barely—she found a gash across his waist, bone-deep, bug venom's work. No time to waste.
She doused it with her flask's liquor, wincing at his flinch, and bound it with her bandages. Done, she caught his eyes—open, watching her, quiet as a ghost.
"You awake?" she snapped, startled. "Say something!"
His lashes dipped, no reply.
"When's your army coming?" she asked. "Cave's half-collapsed, but they'll dig through, right?"
"Front's stretched thin," he rasped. "No S-grade alert, no rush."
"Ghost bugs hide their signals," he added. "Slipped our nets to breed. Hanbo's facing a lockdown."
He saw through her—fake ID, fake face. Yet they'd killed together; she'd earned his trust. "Go now," he said.
Baisha sighed, dusting off. "And leave you to die?"
She patted his cheek, wiping blood. "Tough talk for a guy who can't move."
Cleaned up, his face was her type—sharp, pale, unreal. She grinned, then frowned. "The eggs—forgot those."
She grabbed her dagger, trekking to the eggs' lair. The tunnel held; she slashed each sac, slime and human scraps spilling. Half-formed bugs wailed, silenced by her blade. The stench clung, gagging her.
Back at the boy's side, he was out again, lips trembling, soaked in sweat. Waiting was death—for both of them.
She scavenged a flyer's crate, donning an exosuit—its design familiar from schematics. Strength boosted, she hoisted him, grabbing spare parts for a mini-bomb, just in case.
Hanbo Star, 1 a.m.
A day in, and sleep was a stranger. Huoman slumped at a portside corner, guzzling liquor, guilt gnawing. He'd bailed too fast, dodging the army. Hours later, no Baisha, no reply—something was wrong.
Snow fell, the sky gray. He stood, ready to hunt her down, when a figure stumbled close—Baisha, unmasked, silver hair a mess, dragging a bloodied boy.
"Teach…" she gasped, near collapse. "Help."
Huoman grabbed the boy, frowning. "Who's this?"
"Found him out there," she said, waving it off. "We gotta go—ghost bug hit Hanbo. Lockdown's coming."
"S-grade?" Huoman's face tightened. "Port'd be shut by now if they knew."
"I haven't told them," Baisha said, deadpan.
Huoman gaped.
"Home, now," she urged. "I rigged their comms—message goes out in two hours. We need a ship, but him—" she nodded at the boy—"can he board like that?"
"Why not a hospital?"
"He's a lieutenant. They'll ID him, then me."
Huoman's jaw dropped. "What?"
His optic-link rang—Liao, voice thunderous. "Huoman, you bastard! Taking my kid to war? She's a genius mechanic—she doesn't need your insane tests! The front? You—"
"Teacher!" Baisha cut in, grinning. "I'm fine!"
Liao's rage flipped to relief. "Where are you?"
"Hanbo," she said.
He choked, ready to roar, but she pivoted. "Port's a mess—my cover's blown. Can't board."
Liao exhaled hard. "I've got a friend there. His private ship'll get you. I'm calling him."
Relief hit. Huoman and Baisha traded looks, tension easing.
Lanslow Star
Huoman took the boy for treatment; Baisha limped to the orphanage. Afternoon sun blazed, kids chasing each other in the yard. Spotting her, they ran over, eager—then froze, noses wrinkling.
"Baisha-jie, where'd you go?" a tiny voice asked. "You smell bad."
She sniffed her arm, face blank. "Seafood market," she said, deadpan. "Killed some fish. Life's tough—you'll get it when you're older."