That was the professional choice.
The right choice.
“Eight.”
Flinx’s voice cut through my thoughts.
“Seven.”
“Six.”
“Five.”
“Four.”
“Three.”
“Two.”
I looked down at him. His synthetic black form. His glowing red eyes. The data-ports along his spine already active. Accessing systems. Preparing to act.
He’d been with me for six years. Watched over me. Kept me safe. Never failed me once.
“One.”
The lights went out.
BREVAN
The lights died.
Total darkness. The kind that came from a local system override, not a building-wide failure. Every light in the office died simultaneously. The desk’s displays. The emergency backups.
Three seconds of absolute, silent black.
Then red emergency lighting kicked in. Dim. Intermittent. Casting the office in bloody shadows.
I burst from the maintenance shaft.
The panel clattered to the floor. I was already moving. The guards turned toward the sound but their eyes hadn’t adjusted. They were blind.
I hit the first guard low. Drove my shoulder into his midsection and used his momentum against him. He went down hard. His blaster skidded across the floor.
The second guard fumbled with his blaster, his face confused as he pulled a useless trigger.
