Page 71 of Destined For Her Alien Daddy

Anita’s fingers tighten around the handle. “Probably. Maybe. I’m not sure I should.”

Brakk gives her an incredulous look. “You are holding a glowing murder beacon hunted by religious assassins, and your professional opinion is maybe let it keep vibing?”

“My professional opinion is that if the fragments are resonating with the lower archive systems, we may be close to the source,” Anita says, glancing toward him. “Also, never say vibing near an artifact again.”

“Fine. Pulsing ominously. Is that academic enough?”

“It is closer.”

Sira lowers herself to one knee and studies the floor markings near the descent. “The symbols repeat the inheritance phrasing, but the sequence now includes directionality. This is not a simple passage. It is a sorting structure.”

Anita kneels beside her despite the wince she tries to hide. “Sorting by what?”

“Resonance, perhaps. Identity. Contamination. I do not yet know.”

“That’s comforting,” Brakk says.

“It was not meant to be.”

I step to the edge of the descent and assess the route with the part of my mind that war sharpened until it could cut through panic. The main ramp spirals downward along the inner wall of a cylindrical shaft at least two hundred meters wide. Smaller side passages open at irregular intervals. Bridge spans cross the central void, some intact, others fractured into hanging pieces. The floor beneath us shows no dust, which means either the space cleans itself or something passes through often enough to disturb the accumulation. Both possibilities are bad.

Above and behind us, a faint click echoes through the corridor we used.

I raise my hand.

Everyone stops moving.

The sound comes again, too regular to be settling stone.

Brakk lowers his voice. “That better be the ruins doing tap-dance practice.”

I listen harder. Through the strange acoustics of the lower passage, I separate the layered noise into components: boot pressure, mechanical brace articulation, muted equipment pings, and the faint scrape of stabilizer spikes on black stone. The Choir has entered the lower network with gear designed for unstable terrain.

“They found our route,” I say.

Anita’s face goes cold. “The relay?”

“Likely.”

Brakk holds up the gutted signal tap he has been carrying. “I killed the little bastard.”

“They may not need it anymore,” Sira says, turning toward the corridor. “The archive signal may have shown them enough.”

Another sound rolls through the passage above us, a low metallic thump followed by a controlled burst of static. I know breaching equipment when I hear it. They are forcing a blocked path open without rushing, because their training is stronger than their fear.

I point toward the descending ramp. “We go down now.”

Anita immediately looks toward the side wall where fresh script glimmers beneath the stone. “There are inscriptions here.”

“Read while walking.”

“I need stable projection alignment.”

“You have thirty seconds while Brakk rigs the first choke point.”

Brakk glances at me. “I do?”

“You do.”