Dark Matter Heart

The orbital drop pod hit Helios-9’s upper atmosphere like a bullet through glass.

Cassian Vale didn’t pray. He counted.

Six seconds to burn-off. Four seconds to retro-thrust. Two seconds to mag-clamps. One second to kiss the deck or become red mist. The pod screamed, heat shields glowing cherry-red, and then the clamps bit with a spine-snapping jolt that turned the world sideways.

He was already moving when the hatch blew.

Helios-9’s nightside glittered beneath him: a floating city of mirrored towers and neon arteries suspended thirty kilometers above an ocean of cloud that never saw sunlight. Gravity here was artificial, tuned to 0.93g so the rich could feel fashionably light on their feet while they snorted designer narcotics off each other’s collarbones. Cassian hated the place on principle.

He dropped twenty meters on a grav-line, boots kissing the side of a residential spire. The smart-fabric of his coat shifted color to match the matte black ceramite, hood sealing over his head. No insignia. No transponder. Just a ghost with a very specific shopping list.

Maren Sol. Level 182, Penthouse 4B, Eos Tower. Cartel-owned. Neural collateral.

He’d taken the contract forty-one hours ago in a bar that smelled of coolant and regret. The fixer had slid a holo-cube across the table and said, “Half up front, half when she’s breathing free air. No questions about what she knows.”

Cassian had asked one anyway.

“Will they come heavy?”

The fixer had smiled with too many teeth. “They’ll come biblical.”

Good. Biblical paid hazard rates.

Now he moved along the spire’s exterior like a shadow with bad intentions. Wind howled at two hundred klicks, trying to peel him off. He let it. The coat’s micro-pitons bit deeper. At the 182nd balcony he sliced the polarized glass with a monomolecular wire, slipped inside, and killed the lights before the room’s occupant finished inhaling.

The man was mid-snort, bent over a mirror dusted with amethyst shimmer. Cassian pressed the muzzle of a suppressed shard-pistol to the base of his skull.

“Evening,” Cassian said.

The man pissed himself. Expensive trousers ruined. Cassian almost felt bad.

“Safe word,” Cassian continued, conversational. “Where is it?”

The man whimpered. Cassian thumbed the pistol’s charge indicator from green to red. The whine climbed an octave.

“Left retina,” the man sobbed. “Please—”

Cassian shot him through the spine. Not fatal. Just permanent paralysis from the waist down. He dragged the body behind a couch, wiped the mirror clean with the man’s own silk tie, and stepped over him like he was furniture.

The penthouse was obscene. Living walls of genetically tailored orchids that purred when you walked past. Furniture grown from living wood that shifted shape to cradle your ass better. A holo-aquarium full of biolum fish that rearranged themselves into the owner’s stock portfolio in real time. Cassian hated every inch of it.

He found her in the master suite.

Maren Sol sat cross-legged on a bed big enough for ritual sacrifice, wearing a backless silk dress the color of arterial blood. Her hair was black, straight, cut sharp at the jawline. The neural ports at the base of her skull glowed soft violet, cycling in slow, hypnotic waves. She was reading an honest-to-God paper book, fingers stained with ink, and didn’t look up when he entered.

“You’re bleeding on the carpet,” she said.

Cassian glanced down. A graze on his forearm from the drop. Nothing serious. “It’ll match the decor.”

Only then did she raise her eyes. Violet rings around pitch black. The cartel had paid top credit to lace her irises with smart-matter. Rumor said she could hack a system just by looking at it hard enough. Cassian believed it.

“You’re late,” she said.

“Traffic,” he answered.

She closed the book. The cover was real leather. Smelled like it, too. “They told me no one would come.”

“They lied.”

“They usually do.” She stood. Bare feet on marble. “I’m worth more alive inside their vault than dead or free. You understand what that means?”

“It means they’ll send everything.”

“Yes.” A pause. “It means you’re going to die here.”

Cassian let the silence stretch just long enough to be uncomfortable. Then he smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile.

“Eventually,” he said. “But not tonight.”

He tossed her a bundle: matte-black tactical skinsuit, mag-boots, rebreather. She caught it one-handed.

“Five minutes until the first kill-team breaches the lobby,” he said. “Three more after that before the sky turns into hornets. You coming or do I drag you?”

Maren looked at the skinsuit, then at him. Something unreadable flickered across her face.

“You don’t even know what I did,” she said quietly.

“I know what they’ll do if they keep you.”

She stepped close. Close enough that he smelled night-blooming jasmine under the copper scent of her ports. Close enough that he saw the faint tremor in her lower lip she was trying to hide.

“I’m not a good person, Cassian Vale.”

“Neither am I.”

She searched his face for lies and didn’t find any. Then she started stripping out of the silk dress without ceremony. The fabric pooled at her feet like spilled blood. Underneath, her skin was pale, mapped with faint scars and the glowing seams of subdermal implants. Cassian kept his eyes on hers. Professional.

Mostly.

She sealed the skinsuit, pulled the hood up, and the violet glow of her ports vanished under adaptive fabric.

“Lead the way,” she said.

They left through the window he’d come in. The grav-line was still anchored. Cassian clipped her carabiner to his harness, wrapped an arm around her waist, and kicked off into the dark.

The city opened beneath them like a jeweled wound.

Alarms began to scream the second they cleared the balcony. Searchlights stabbed upward, slicing the night into white shards. Cassian felt the first rail-round hiss past his ear, close enough to part his hair.

“Hold tight,” he growled.

He triggered the line’s emergency burn. They dropped fifty stories in three seconds, wind screaming, Maren’s body pressed hard against his chest. At the last possible moment he fired the retro, flipping them horizontal. They shot between two towers, close enough that he saw his reflection in a thousand mirrored windows (hooded figure carrying a woman like a dark promise).

Drones were already converging.

Cassian landed on a maintenance platform, rolled, came up shooting. Three drones became four pieces of burning confetti. Maren was already moving, fingers dancing over a wrist-pad she’d pulled from gods-knew-where. A cargo lifter on the far side of the platform shuddered, engines igniting without a pilot.

“You can fly that?” he asked.

“I can convince it it wants to fly us,” she said.

They sprinted. Behind them, the penthouse exploded (somebody had decided scorched earth was easier than retrieval). The shockwave slapped them forward. Cassian grabbed her hand and they dove into the lifter’s open bay a heartbeat before it lurched skyward.

Inside was a mess of crates stamped with cartel sigils. Cassian kicked the door seal. Maren slid into the pilot cradle, ports jacking straight into the ship’s cortex. Her eyes rolled white.

The lifter banked hard, evading a missile that turned half a city block into plasma. Cassian strapped in, checked the charge on his rifle, and tried not to notice how her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat.

“How long until they scramble fighters?” he asked.

“They already did,” she said, voice distant, riding the ship’s systems like a ghost. “But I just told traffic control we’re carrying unstable antimatter. They’re clearing us a corridor straight down to the cloud deck. After that, we’re on our own.”

Cassian laughed. Couldn’t help it. The sound startled her enough that her eyes flicked back to normal for a second.

“You’re insane,” she said.

“Takes one to know one.”

She smiled then (small, sharp, real). It did something inconvenient to his chest.

They hit the cloud deck at Mach five. Turbulence tried to shake the lifter into scrap. Cassian unstrapped, moved forward, braced behind her seat. The violet light from her ports painted his skin in bruise colors.

“Once we’re through,” he said, “I’ve got a shuttle stashed in a blind spot on the underside of Platform Seven. We burn hard for the outer docks, switch to my ship, and vanish into the black. Two hours, maybe three, and Helios-9 is just a bad memory.”

Maren was quiet for a long moment. The lifter shuddered around them.

“They’ll glass the platform to stop us,” she said.

“They’ll try.”

“You’d risk that many lives?”

“I’m risking mine. Everyone else made their choices when they took cartel credit.”

She turned her head. Looked up at him. Really looked.

“You really don’t care about anything, do you?” she whispered.

He met her gaze. Didn’t flinch.

“I care about finishing the job.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

Something passed between them then (too fast to name, too heavy to ignore).

The lifter punched through the bottom of the cloud deck into clear air. Below them, the underside of Helios-9 was a labyrinth of scaffolding, exhaust vents, and forgotten platforms where the city’s waste heat bled into the void. Cassian pointed.

“There. Section Nine-Alpha. See the running lights?”

“I see them,” she said. And then, quieter: “Cassian.”

“Yeah?”

“If we don’t make it—”

“We will.”

“But if—”

He reached down, gripped her shoulder hard enough to feel bone through the skinsuit.

“Save it,” he said. “You want to confess something, you do it when we’re drinking something expensive on a moon with two suns and no extradition treaty. Understood?”

She laughed. A short, startled sound. Then she rolled the lifter hard left as a squadron of cartel interceptors screamed past, afterburners painting the sky white.

They had ninety seconds.

Cassian moved to the bay door, slapped the manual release. Wind howled in. He clipped a fresh grav-line to his harness, turned back to her.

“Bring us in hot. I’ll clear the platform.”

“You can’t take six fighters alone.”

“I don’t have to take them. I just have to make them flinch.”

He jumped.

Freefall. Thirty meters of nothing between him and the platform rushing up. He fired the line mid-drop, swung in a wide arc, boots slamming onto the deck as the first interceptor came around for a strafing run.

Cassian raised the rifle (an old marine-issue coilgun that spat depleted-uranium flechettes at hypersonic speeds). He didn’t aim for the cockpit. He aimed for pride.

The lead fighter lost a wing, spun, and took two of its squadmates with it in a bloom of fire. The rest scattered like startled birds.

Above him, the lifter came in hard, repulsors screaming. Maren didn’t bother with a gentle landing; she dropped the damn thing like a meteor. The impact cratered the platform. Cassian was already running, slapping a breach charge on the shuttle’s hatch as he passed.

The shuttle was a sleek black dart (no markings, transponder ghosted, engines overrated for exactly this kind of running). He cycled the hatch, hauled Maren inside by the front of her suit, and slammed it behind them.

“Strap in and spool the dark-drive,” he barked. “We’ve got maybe forty-five seconds before they figure out which fireball to ignore.”

She was already jacked into the pilot cradle again. The shuttle’s interior lit up violet around her.

Cassian took the co-pilot seat, hands flying across weapon controls. Turrets unfolded from the hull like angry flowers.

The remaining interceptors regrouped, coming in fast.

Cassian painted them with targeting lasers and opened fire.

Space turned into a strobe of tracer rounds and exploding alloy. One interceptor became shrapnel. Another lost engines and tumbled away trailing fire. The last one got smart, went evasive, and lined up for a missile lock.

Maren’s voice was calm. “Dark-drive at ninety percent. We can jump blind in five.”

“We won’t have five.”

“Then give me three.”

Cassian triggered the shuttle’s ECM suite, then the chaff, then every dirty trick he’d learned in fifteen years of dirty wars. The missile lost lock, spiraled, detonated early. The shockwave rattled their teeth.

“Three,” he said.

The interceptor came around again, cannons hot.

Maren reached over without looking and grabbed his wrist. Hard.

“Hold on to something human,” she said.

Then she slammed the dark-drive initiator.

Reality folded.

There was no up, no down, no time. Just a moment of perfect, endless white (like being inside a star that had learned mercy). Cassian felt her fingers laced through his, anchoring him, and for one impossible second he wasn’t alone in the light.

They came out tumbling in the middle of nowhere, sensors blind, alarms screaming. The shuttle spun lazily against a backdrop of unfamiliar constellations.

Maren unjacked, sagged back in the cradle. Her nose was bleeding. The violet in her ports flickered erratic.

Cassian killed the alarms, steadied their spin with thrusters. Silence rushed in like water into a breached hull.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Maren laughed (wet, exhausted, incredulous).

“We’re alive,” she said.

“Told you,” Cassian answered, but his voice cracked on the last word.

She turned her head. Looked at him. Blood on her upper lip. Eyes too old for her face.

“You’re shaking,” she said.

He looked down. His hands on the controls were trembling like a new recruit’s. He hadn’t noticed.

“Adrenaline,” he lied.

She unstrapped, floated across the tiny cockpit in the zero-g, and stopped just short of touching him.

“Cassian.”

He met her eyes.

“Thank you,” she said. Simple. Devastating.

He swallowed. “Don’t thank me yet. We’re a long way from free.”

“I know,” she whispered. “But we’re a longer way from owned.”

She reached up, brushed the back of her knuckles across the scar on his throat. Gentle. Curious.

He caught her wrist. Held it. Not hard. Just enough to feel her pulse racing under the skin.

“Don’t,” he said.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t start thinking I’m something I’m not.”

“And what are you?”

He thought about it. About orbital strikes and burning cities and the way bodies looked when the light went out of them. About waking up alone for so long he’d forgotten there was another way.

“Right now?” he said. “I’m the man who’s keeping you breathing. That’s all.”

She studied him for a long beat. Then she leaned in (slow, deliberate) and pressed her forehead to his.

“That’s enough,” she said.

The shuttle drifted. Outside, the stars burned cold and indifferent.

Inside, two broken things held still for the first time in years, listening to each other breathe.