11. Zyrus

11

ZYRUS

The door closed with an echoing clang, plunging the whole area into complete darkness. The smell was overwhelming, enough to make me gag and nearly vomit up whatever I'd eaten for lunch. But after only a few moments, it began to dissipate as my body adjusted to the stench.

I couldn't die down here.

There was a constant, low-frequency hum permeating the air, accompanied by the unsettling sensation of food waste shifting and churning around me, gradually getting closer. The agitator was in full swing, its mechanical arms methodically separating the salvageable waste from the rest. The former would be compacted and repurposed, while the latter was destined for the fiery maw of the incinerator.

Time was running out. I needed to move, or I'd be crushed into oblivion along with the rest of the discarded matter. But the darkness rendered me blind, unable to navigate or formulate an escape plan. There were emergency lights installed somewhere in this disgusting chamber, but I had no way to engage them while submerged in the sea of muck. My fingers, slick with who-knows-what, groped uselessly in the darkness.

Even though there was no one to hear me, I yelled for help, my voice echoing off the unseen walls of the chamber. My burgeoning emotions screamed at me to find a way out, but logic told me to conserve energy. But I couldn't help but shout again, desperation creeping into my tone. Every system on Nebula Outpost had redundant safety features, I reminded myself. People weren't supposed to end up in these things, but accidents happened. That's why there were fail-safes.

The compactor kept churning relentlessly, the low hum growing louder, and the area around me remained stubbornly dark. I could feel the vibrations through the sludge surrounding me, a constant reminder that time was running out.

I had to find a way out, and fast.

I wasn't panicking. My heart rate was elevated from the fight, but not by much. Even with my emotions coming back to me, they weren't strong enough to overcome my training.

And that training was simple. Assess. Adapt. Execute.

I needed to get out of this compactor and back to Astrid before my attacker could get to her. I had no doubt she'd be the next target. It made sense. Take out the guard first and then grab the true target when there was little resistance. The thought of Astrid in danger sent a fresh wave of determination through me, pushing back against the oppressive stench of refuse.

A spike of pain lanced my chest, sharp and unexpected. I looked down instinctively, even though I could see nothing in the blackness. Instead, I reached and felt for something, anything that might explain the sudden discomfort. My fingers probed through the sludge, but there was nothing there. No wound, no foreign object.

Ah. Yes. This was panic. The realization hit me with a jolt. This unfamiliar sensation, this tightness in my chest, the quickening of my breath—it was fear. Not for myself, trapped in this mechanical maw, but for Astrid. The emotion, forgotten and unwelcome, threatened to overwhelm me. But I couldn't let it. I needed to stay focused, to find a way out. Astrid was counting on me, whether she knew it or not.

Astrid was my only thought and my only weakness. If I let her consume my mind, I'd never get out of the compactor.

I had to push her aside, just for now. And it hurt. But I was no good to her if I was crushed into a square of meat and blood and recycled back into the station's food processors.

I needed light.

If I could see, I might spot my escape. But I had no way to trigger the emergency light from where I stood. The current was getting stronger, and my time was running out.

But I was wearing my work uniform and that had small lights embedded in the collar so I could work in dark spaces and keep my hands free.

I reached up and pinched each light, ignoring the squelch of wet fabric and trying to suppress the urge to gag as a fresh wave of odor assaulted my nostrils. The stench was so potent I could taste it, and I had to breathe through my mouth to avoid retching.

This place was a nightmare of filth and decay. As I stood there, knee-deep in the muck, a disturbing thought crossed my mind. Did so much of this really get recycled into our food? I worked in the janitorial department and had seen my fair share of messes, but this was on another level entirely. It was better not to dwell on how some things on the station were made, especially not when I was literally swimming in the raw materials.

Twin beams of light pierced the darkness, illuminating the space immediately in front of me. It wasn't much, barely enough to see a meter ahead, but it proved my eyes were functional. The dim glow revealed swirling patterns of sludge and debris, bits of unidentifiable matter floating past. I squinted, trying to make out any details that might help me escape this death trap.

Assess.

The inside of the compactor was full of waste and bits of debris from whatever had been thrown in before me. But there was a panel on the far wall, above the muck and just out of reach if I stood under it.

If there was any kind of control in that panel, any kind of safety override, I might just get out of there and get back to my mate.

But moving through the muck and the current was harder than anticipated. The watery sludge sucked at my feet and pushed me back with more force than I expected, and every few steps I crashed into something too big to kick aside and nearly went plunging into the muck.

It felt like there was something living beneath my feet, a giant beast hell bent on keeping me in place until it could decide exactly what I was and what it wanted to do with me.

It was just machinery, just an old system that kept the station running, but in the dim with only myself to rely on, I couldn't banish the thought.

Adapt.

I changed my pattern, turning from the panel and moving with the swirling current. If I couldn't fight it, I would ride it. The beams of my lights illuminated the bumpy surface of the watery mix, and I tried not to imagine what I was mixed in with.

The edge of the current turned and lead me to the far end of the compactor, close enough to the wall that my fingers nearly brushed it.

A moment later, they did brush it, but I hadn't moved.

The walls were still pushing in slowly, the ever-decreasing space making the current stronger as debris and waste were separated.

I had to fight the current once more, unwilling to let myself be carried in another circle. It was too much of a risk. I'd been in there too long already.

Execute.

I spotted the panel once more, and it was just as far out of reach as I'd predicted. But there was a pile of something in the muck, and I climbed, not letting myself worry about whether or not it would hold my weight.

My fingers brushed the edge of the panel, and I pressed down, hoping for a pressure release door.

The door sprang open, and there was only one large button inside. The emergency stop.

I pressed it and winced as a giant screeching assaulted my ears followed by the unmistakable blaring of an emergency alarm. Someone would be here to check on me in no time; they'd get me out.

And then they'd ask questions, they'd detain me and demand to know how I'd ended up in the compactor and what mischief I'd been up to.

Astrid would still be in danger.

I couldn't wait for a rescue.

But I couldn't see a way out.