Because I don’t trust the world to let this last—and I don’t know if I trust myself to hope that it will.
CHAPTER 7
VALTRON
The ice moon is a bastard. There’s no sugarcoating it.
Even through insulated armor, the cold gnaws at my bones like a starving animal. The wind doesn’t whistle here—it howls, rips, tears. Every gust feels like it’s trying to peel the skin off your soul. My visor fogs with each breath, the edge of the display frosting at the corners no matter how many system diagnostics I run. And still, I push forward, eyes locked on the half-submerged comms tower blinking weakly through the snow squall.
Rhea is behind me, wrapped in thermal cloth and stubbornness. I glance back more than I need to, watching the way her steps lag, the way her jaw clenches with each gust. She’s freezing, but she won’t say a word. She won’t give this place the satisfaction. She doesn’t complain. That’s one of the things I’ve always respected about her. Even when she’s pissed, scared, or exhausted, she faces it with fire in her veins.
When we reach the hatch, I punch in the override code I memorized six years ago. The door groans open like it resents being disturbed. Inside, warmth hits us in a slow crawl—barely above freezing, but better than the arctic hell outside. Rhea exhales a sharp breath, her face pink with cold and frustration.
Vice Admiral Leena Dray stands waiting. Half her face is flesh, the other half a lattice of cybernetic plate and sensory mesh that hums faintly in the still air. She’s older than the last time I saw her—greyer around the temples, but no less dangerous.
“You brought the package?” she asks.
I nod, tapping the pouch on my side. “Data crystal’s intact.”
She narrows her eyes at Rhea. “Who’s she?”
“The reason you’re about to blow the lid off this conspiracy,” I say.
Leena snorts. “Charming. Let’s get to it.”
She leads us down a narrow corridor into a low-lit control chamber, its walls pulsing with blue light from ancient data conduits. It smells like cold metal and dust. Leena plugs the crystal into an encrypted port and initiates the download.
Data floods the screen.
Schematics. Command logs. Genetic models. Video footage.
Some of it I’ve seen. Most of it I wish I hadn’t.
Leena’s jaw tightens. “Genome manipulation… obedience implants… neural dampeners… this isn’t just experimentation. This is weaponized control.”
“They’re splicing recruits,” I say, voice low. “Installing compliance protocols on a molecular level. Some are flagged as having ‘dissension risk factors’—and those are the ones who keep dying in training mishaps.”
Leena taps through more logs. “High-ranking clearance codes… Admiral Belos. General Tarren. Sector marshals. This goes high. Real high.”
“And Dowron?” I ask.
She hesitates. “Still alive. But politically neutered. He’s been reassigned to a fringe zone with zero intel traffic. They’ve boxed him out.”
“Which means he’s not compromised,” I say. “He’s the only one we can trust.”
“Assuming we can reach him,” Leena mutters. “All live comms are monitored. You send even a ping in his direction, and it’s gonna set off alarms across five sectors.”
“We need a ghost relay,” I say.
Leena tilts her head. “There’s one. Out beyond the Jandari Veil. A busted relay outpost still running off legacy protocols. You hardwire a transmission into its emergency beacon loop, it’ll ride the old network straight to Dowron’s signal cluster. Quiet. Clean. Dangerous as hell.”
“How dangerous?”
She lifts one brow. “Blockade. No shields. Pirates. Half a dozen mines left from the last border scuffle.”
Rhea mutters, “So basically the fun kind of suicide.”
I glance at her. “We’ll make it.”
