“Then hold that thought.”
I tap my wrist comm. “Zip! Status on fortress network access?”
“CAPTAIN, I AM CURRENTLY INTEGRATED INTO APPROXIMATELY 847 SUBSYSTEMS, MOST OF WHICH WERE VERY POORLY SECURED. THE ZATERRANS ARE EXCELLENT AT HITTING THINGS BUT THEIR FIREWALLS COULD USE WORK.”
“Can you reach the Meridian tactical network?”
A pause. In AI terms, that pause is practically an eternity.
“THEIR SECURITY PROTOCOLS DROPPED WHEN THEY RECEIVED THE CONSORTIUM RECALL ORDER. POOR OPERATIONAL SECURITY. I AM DEEPLY DISAPPOINTED IN THEIR NETWORK ARCHITECTURE, CAPTAIN. IT’S FRANKLY INSULTING.”
“So that’s a yes?”
“THAT IS A YES DELIVERED WITH PROFESSIONAL CONTEMPT.”
Seventy-five seconds.
Suki’s voice crackles through the War Room channel, strained but steady: “Polly, I’m reading the ram trajectory. Even if we dump everything into forward shields—”
“I know. Working on it.”
“Working onwhat?”
Through the bond, I feel Rynn shift behind me. Feel his warmth at my back, his hand settling on my hip. Not restraining. Supporting. He’s letting me work—trusting me completely even as death bears down on us.
Stars, I love him.
Focus, Polly. Feelings later. Survival now.
“Zip, can you upload a virus to the Eclipse’s targeting computer? Something that would make it lock onto the wrong thing?”
“CAPTAIN, I CAN UPLOAD SEVENTEEN VIRUSES AND A RETROSPECTIVE CRITIQUE OF THEIR NETWORK ARCHITECTURE. WHAT WOULD YOU LIKE THE WRONG THING TO BE?”
The plan crystallizes in my mind, sharp and desperate and absolutely insane.
“Rynn.” I turn in his arms, looking up at those golden eyes. “Your bio-signature—Voros has been tracking it across three sectors. His systems are locked onto you specifically.”
“Yes.” His jaw tightens. “What are you—”
“Can you push it brighter? Become the biggest target in the system?”
Understanding dawns on his face. Then horror. “If I flare that brightly, every Meridian ship will target me. I’ll be defenseless.”
“No.” I grab his face the way he grabbed mine earlier, forcing him to meet my eyes. “You’ll have me. And Henrok. And Suki. And apparently—”
That’s when the comm channel explodes with new signals.
“Polly!” Suki’s voice pitches up in shock. “I’m getting IFF transponders—OOPS signatures! Multiple ships dropping out of hyperspace!”
My heart stops.
“OOPS doesn’t have a fleet,” I say stupidly. “We have couriers.”
“You have *eleven* couriers.” Suki’s laugh is somewhere between hysterical and amazed. “And Mother. And she soundspissed.”
The transmission cuts through the chaos like a knife through butter—familiar, exasperated, absolutely done with everything.
“OOPS-Actual to Pink Slip. Polly West, you have exactly thirty seconds to explain why my supposedly ‘routine diplomatic delivery’ has turned into a three-sector military incident before I reassign you to mail sorting for the rest of your natural life.”
