Coup Coup Coup Joob
They left the vault behind.
Simonee looked back once. The door yawned open behind them—too clean, too bright for what it had held. Just a tomb with the lid pried off. Simonee didn’t look at the bodies on the floor. She still couldn’t get the stink of blood out of her nose.
Keep moving.
Dalia walked like she’d forgotten how—stiff, step… step… step—staring at the metal sphere locked to her belly, arms caged around it. Its power pack hummed faintly. Something had gone out of her face.
Ragana and Mason glided ahead like they owned the corridor. Ragana’s gaze flicked down halls and around corners—bored, automatic. Mason checked angles with a smile, like he was browsing exhibits instead of walking out of a massacre.
Simonee stayed at Dalia’s side. She wove her arm around Dalia’s. Dalia shifted the pod and laced her fingers between Simonee’s—cold from the casing.
“I’m sorry,” Simonee said. “I wish I’d known…”
Dalia’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.
“I should’ve told you a long time ago,” she murmured, scraped raw. “All this time I’ve been calling you out for not trusting me.” Her eyes stayed on the pod. “And I’m walking around holding the biggest secret of my life.”
She swallowed. Her throat worked. Her jaw clenched and unclenched like she was trying to bite through a thought.
“I don’t think I believed it,” Dalia went on. “Not really. Not all the way. No matter what that doctor showed me. No matter what I… remembered.” Her breath hitched on the word. “I wanted that vault to be empty.”
The corridor lights slid over Dalia’s face as they walked—sterile, too-white—and each time they hit her eyes, a wet sheen gathered there.
“I’ve been angry at him for a thousand things,” Dalia said. “But holding this?” Her arms tightened around the sphere. “I’m not angry. I’m just… sad.” A rough exhale. “I just want to know why.”
She shifted the canister, letting go of Simonee’s hand.
“And they put something in me too,” she added, quieter. “A hormone pump. I could always feel it.” Her lips twitched—thin, bitter. “I guess we’re both part machine, aren’t we.”
Simonee’s stomach went tight. She slid her arm around Dalia’s waist, pulled her close, and rested her head against Dalia’s shoulder. Dalia didn’t lean away. She didn’t lean in, either—just kept moving, step after step.
They made it to the end of the hall, where Ragana and Mason waited.
Mason’s eyes flicked over them—her arm around Dalia, Dalia’s death-grip on the pod—and his mouth curled.
“How touching,” he said.
Simonee didn’t dignify it. Her implant marked his pulse, his heat—casual steadiness. He was excited—no fear, no remorse. Pleased.
Ragana didn’t bother looking at either of them. “We have to be quick,” she said. “The message you handed that cop will reach its destination soon.”
Simonee’s gaze slid to Dalia’s profile, searching for a hint—anything—of hesitation.
Dalia didn’t blink. “A trigger,” she said. The softness was gone. What replaced it was colder. Cleaner. Like Ragana. “To get my father’s attention.”
“We have a window,” Mason said, bright as a tour guide. “Let’s get hopping.”
The world lurched.
Two wormholes later, Simonee’s stomach felt peeled inside-out. Ragana and Mason moved like the jumps didn’t touch them. Dalia held herself upright, but Simonee caught the green at her cheeks.
The lift was almost easy—Mason smoothed the edges with the security AI, hid the obvious.
But the tram—
Open space. Human eyes. Bodies packed close.
People stared at the pod and its Ledas seal. They stared at Dalia. They stared at Simonee.
Because Simonee’s face was on every screen. A fresh alert—now Mariem and Tim beside her.
Most of the staring softened when they clocked Mason—then snapped away, sudden and obedient.
“Where are we going?” Simonee asked.
Ragana answered, “Storage, you remember the place.”
Simonee looked at her—away again when they locked eyes. “But... what if I had taken security there?”
Ragana shrugged. “Oh, I lease the entire level. They would have found an empty room with no authority to search anywhere else. They would have simply called you a liar.”
Simonee chanced Ragana’s eyes again, Ragana’s lip curled—one brow lifted. “Running the underground is a shell game, girl. You learn to move in balance with the tolerance of low-paid adversaries.”
Simonee turned to Dalia. Dalia was looking somewhere past the floor.
The Storage ring. Corridors of unmarked hatches, one after another. Then a corridor that ended in a single door. Crates were stacked on both sides like barricades.
The door opened.
Men and women filed out—rough, armed, eyes hard. Coil-guns and pistols and ugly confidence. They took positions behind the crates like they’d rehearsed it.
Simonee’s implant painted the weapons in clean threat-lines, the bodies behind them in heat-maps. A dozen ways to die flashed through her in the space of a blink.
Mason’s eyes tracked hers. Of course they did.
He grinned—all teeth. “Don’t mind them. They’re here in case Uncle Karalius tries a forceful extraction.”
Her hands went clammy. She looked to Dalia. She wanted to say this is insane. She wanted to shout stop. But Dalia’s face hadn’t changed—and Simonee’s voice got trapped behind the ache in her throat.
Mason tilted his head, eyes bright. “He wouldn’t dream of turning this into a gunfight with his daughter in harm’s way… would he?”
Dalia’s jaw tightened. Something came back into her eyes—hot and hard. “He won’t,” she said, low and vicious. “If not for my sake, then for the trouble he went through to hide this.” She lifted the pod an inch. “He won’t risk a firefight.”
Mason’s smile widened. “See? Deterrence.” He spread his hands. “What could possibly go wrong?”
Inside—past an antechamber that smelled like old dust and newer disinfectant—Ragana produced a cart. Dalia lowered the cryopod onto it with a tenderness that made Simonee’s chest hurt.
Ragana set a yellow case beside it.
INCENDIARIES was stamped across the plastic.
Simonee stared at the word.
Ragana opened the case. Silver canisters gleamed in neat rows—thermite charges.
Dalia stepped back, but her hands trailed her as if clutching the ghost of the pod.
Ragana handled one charge with steady hands—no tremor, no wasted motion—and slid a firing unit into place. A soft, final click.
Simonee’s voice came out sharper than she meant it to. “What are you doing?”
“Bait,” Mason said.
Ragana set the thermite on top of the pod.
It adhered magnetically with a gentle click.
Simonee’s skin went cold. “You’re going to destroy it?”
Dalia’s eyes flashed. “No. It’s... a threat—just a threat.”
Simonee’s breath stalled. Live charges were threats that wanted to burn.
Then Dalia sat in an aluminum chair beside the cart, and Mason pulled out zip-ties.
And it hit Simonee in the ribs like a punch.
She surged forward. “What... Why... Dalia?”
He already had Dalia’s wrists cinched to the chair arms. Tight. Professional.
Over his shoulder: “Bait part two.”
Dalia’s face didn’t break. Her eyes went glossy, but her mouth didn’t move. She stared at Simonee like—I’m sorry. But nothing came.
Mason turned, grin intact.
“And now for you,” he said, eyes tracing her down then up. “Is our terrorist ready to play her next role?”
Simonee blinked. The word hit in slow motion. “Terrorist?”
Ragana drifted closer, syrup-sweet. “Oh, dear. We’ve been so busy we forgot to tell you about the best part.” She held out a tablet. “We need you to read this. Wrap up the narrative. Set the stage.”
Simonee took the tablet.
A block of text filled the screen—clean, declarative, vicious in its calm. Her name. Dalia’s name. Demands. Deadlines. A script that would paint her as the face of something she didn’t even understand, let alone belong to.
Her jaw tightened until it hurt.
She lifted the tablet toward Dalia.
Dalia looked back—jaw tight, eyes round—and when Simonee held her gaze, Dalia’s eyes dropped.
The guns. The barricade. The thermite. The chair.
This wasn’t a confrontation.
This was a coup.
Simonee’s throat burned. “So much for clearing my name,” she muttered, low enough that only Dalia could hear. Then, louder: “I don’t understand.”
Dalia’s eyes flicked up. “What?”
“All of this,” Simonee said. “You have proof of what he did.” A small, helpless gesture toward the cryopod. “Why the theater? Why do we need another lie?”
Dalia’s breath shook. “Because…” Her voice cracked, and she forced it steady. “Because I need to know.”
Simonee stared at her.
“I need to know what’s important to him,” Dalia said, and the words came faster now—desperate under the polish. “He told me he’d give his own life for that pod, Simonee. He said it like it was noble.” Her eyes flashed, wet with fury. “I need to know he’ll choose me instead.”
Her stomach twisted. “Another test?”
Dalia flushed, and jerked her head away. “I don’t know any other way,” she whispered. “It’s bred into me.”
She turned back, eyes shining. “And you—no test.” She swallowed. “Will you do this for me? One last thing. I’ll never ask anything of you again.” Her voice softened at the edges, exhausted. “When this is done… I’ll finally be free of this place. We can do whatever we want. I can be whoever I choose.”
Simonee wanted to say no.
Her whole body wanted to say no—hands, stomach—remembering cages and scripts and being forced into someone else’s story.
But then she looked at Dalia—really looked—and saw something under the princess, under the anger. A girl. A hunger for after.
Simonee shook her head once.
And still said, “I’ll do it.”
Her voice came out low, rough. “I’ll do it for you, Dalia. If this is the game you want to play—” She swallowed hard. “—I’ll play it with you. Even if I don’t understand it.”
Dalia’s breath caught sharp. Her eyes reddened. She looked away. “Thank you, Simonee.”
Simonee turned before she changed her mind. She faced the camera rig already waiting and lifted the tablet.
“Let’s just get this over with,” she said.
“It’s always nice to have a team player,” Mason replied. He lifted his hand, fingers splayed—smug enough to make Simonee want to bite.
“Now,” he said, “smile for the camera.”
Simonee frowned at the screen, she put all her disappointment into that look—she hated everyone behind that lens who put her here. She caught her own face in the glass—a sheen of violet scarring the reflection.
Mason began the countdown, voice bright, mouth shaping silent numbers—savoring it.
“Here we go. In five. Four…”
He mouthed the last three.
Then pointed at the star of their show.
Simonee drew in one steadying breath, tasted antiseptic and metal and fear, and began.
“My name is Simonee Saran…”
Mariem’s stomach curled in on itself as the video played on, “…my voice is the voice of the resistance. Governor Karalius Ledas, I have your daughter, and the legacy of the Ledas family. Meet me at the location attached to this message to surrender command of this station to its rightful heir, Ragana Ledas, who will work hand in hand with its workers where power truly belongs. You have one hour, at which time your legacy, and your daughter’s life, will be forfeit.”
The recording ended. A station map filled the display, a blinking red dot on the Storage ring. A timer ticked down in the corner.
“How do you suggest I proceed, admiral?” Karalius growled.
Carlos shook his head. Shrugged.
“Fried! I thought we had guards on the vault!” Karalius barked.
“They’re not respondin’ to pings. I’ve sent a status team.” Fried said. His face had gone tight—jaw working, hands fisted at his sides. Whatever that man was made of, something had cracked through it.
“Mason’s packing a pisty, sir,” Tim piped up. “He can pop up anywhere he wants. They didn’t have a chance.”
Fried shook his head. “I should’ve had exotic matter detectors down there soon as I heard about the PSTI device.”
“At ease, commander. What do we know about this so-called, resistance then?” Karalius said.
Fried shrugged. “Ther’ve been reports of sabotage, graffiti on the lower decks, and the Ice Freighter’s Union sent word of a manifesto going around about wage equality, but they dismissed it as a prank. If Ragana’s behind it, sir, then this sounds like the front for a coup.”
Mariem’s chest squeezed. She pushed forward. “There’s no way Simonee is leading a political movement. They forced her to make that message.”
“So you say,” Karalius’s lip curled. “Ms. Saran hardly appeared under duress”
Mariem’s skin went hot.
No. That didn’t make sense.
“They were already there when Simonee arrived,” she hissed at Carlos, low. “Dalia must have been in on it.”
Carlos’s hands went behind his back. “Governor, I suspect a trap,” he said carefully. “And… your daughter didn’t seem under duress either.”
Fried nodded. “I have to agree with th’admiral. You’ve... expressed concerns.”
“In confidence,” Karalius snapped.
Fried tensed. “With all due respect, sir. The time for confidence has passed. I say we go in wit’ force, surround them and extract your daughter. We can gas the storage bay, no one need be harmed. Maybe we’ll get Ragana for good this time.”
“They’ll expect that.” Karalius growled.
Carlos nodded at the screen. “If you don’t mind me asking, what is in that pod?”
Karalius looked around the room. Then he sank—shoulders dropping, head into his hands. “Dalia’s ovaries. I had them removed when she was a girl.”
Mariem breath caught. “Does she know?”
His head shook in his hands. “I was going to tell her when she came of age. She was so young.” Something broke in his voice. “And then I never could bring myself to—”
“You coward!” Mariem barked.
Karalius snapped up, face hard—then crumpled again.
Carlos muttered sideways at Mariem, “Not helping.”
But she stood her full height and glared down at him.
“You’re right.” He looked up at her, eyes locked to hers. “I assure you, the procedure was medically necessary. My secrecy was not.” A beat. “Dalia is the only person alive who could open that vault, so she knows the facts. And now Ragana owns the story.”
Mariem’s jaw clenched. “And Simonee’s going to take the blame.”
Karalius stood, straightening his jacket. “Fried,” he barked, “gather your squad—but only as my guard. I’m going in there alone. Come what may, this ends today. If anyone walks out of that room alive—it will be Dalia.”
Fried bristled but snapped to attention. He gathered his troops, and they were the first out the door.
Karalius turned to Carlos, Mariem, and Tim. He rested a hand on Carlos’s shoulder.
“Thank you, admiral. Consider your slip fees waived.” He turned to Tim. “As for you—I don’t know how you got involved, but thank you. Escort the admiral to his ship and log your hours. Your overtime will be approved.”
“Gracias, Señor Ledas,” Carlos said.
She opened her mouth. Carlos pressed a finger to his lips. She clamped her jaw shut and glared as Karalius marched out after his troops.
The door shut.
She exhaled like it hurt. “We need to get down there. Those maniacs are going to end up shooting everybody and I—we—need to get Simonee out.”
“Sí, calmése,” Carlos said, voice low. “We will. But they won’t let civilians hang around while they run an op.” He glanced at the screen again—dot blinking. “We need a way in and out before the shit hits the fan.”
Tim stepped forward, hand up. “I can get us in there without the goon squad noticing.”
Mariem’s brow cinched. “You don’t have to—”
“No.” Tim rushed it out. “There’s no way you’re getting Simonee out without my help. Besides breaking my nose, almost getting me arrested and fired or killed—I…” His mouth did something strange—went soft at the edges. “I like you guys. And I promised to deliver her safe. That isn’t finished.”
Mariem crossed her arms. “You have been useful.”
Tim lit up. “Why thank you, Mariem—that’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me all day.”
“Spit it out,” she grumbled. “What do we do?”
Tim cleared his throat. “There’s a back door. But we need your ship.” He looked at Carlos. “You don’t happen to have a C-814z docking adapter, do you? With manual clamps?”