“Nothing I can’t handle.”
But I see the fatigue. The strain in his stance. The way his armor belt dips a little lower.
I pull a stool. I touch the crystal. “Let’s dig in.”
He sits opposite me. The holo-screen glows. I load the fragment we traced from Bishop’s last jump. Audio, video, footage of covert drops, civilian files flagged “TERMINATED.” I watch the flicker in Valtron’s jaw as each line appears.
“This,” I say, voice steady but trembling, “is more than we thought. Bishop had orders to activate citizen-subject programming. Not just soldiers. Civilians. Refugees. The Combine used humanitarian nets to seed the chip prototypes.”
A clang from the door jolts us. Valtron reaches to his weapon. My heart hits the floorboards.
“One moment,” he whispers. He steps outside. I hear the door close. My pulse thumps in my ears. Progress flickers on the holo-screen. I breathe. I keep watching.
Inside again, he returns. “Looks clear.” He sits. “What else?”
I swallow. “The contract list is signed by one name—Admiral Belos. Under him: divisions labeled ‘Civil Compliance.’”
He blinks. I know he glimpsed the same thing I did. The names that should never have been. The rationale that should never have existed.
“For Bishop,” he mutters, “this is high-treason.”
“For us,” I say, “this is we either expose it or we vanish.”
Silence.
Then I stand. I look at Valtron. His armor catches the light. His face half-shadowed. “After this,” I say. “After we finish—what happens to us?”
He stands. Moves toward me. He doesn’t speak. He just brushes my hair back again, thumb grazing my cheek. “You’re lightning,” he says. “And maybe I’m just thunder. But if the universe is big enough…” He pauses. “If it’s big enough, we’ll find our place.”
I lean into his touch. The warmth cracks through the cold. “Okay,” I whisper. “Then don’t let me down.”
He smiles—quiet, fierce. “Never again.”
We sleep briefly. Not much. The safe-house doesn’t feel safe. The walls sigh, the lights flicker. I hear the distant howl of traffic outside. I lie on the cot, listening to Valtron’s breathing. Steady. Weighted. Familiar. I keep the crystal under my pillow. It hums faintly. I rub the scar beneath my collarbone while I wait.
In the darkness, I dream of Quinn. His grin, hopeful eyes. I wake with a gasp. Valtron is there. He pulls me close. I don’t fight it. I close my eyes.
Tomorrow: Glimner’s underbelly. Bishop. The chip. The truth.
I’m ready.
CHAPTER 10
VALTRON
Glimner grabs you by the throat and doesn't bother to be subtle about it.
The air outside the docking spindle is thick and hot, like walking into a sauna someone forgot to turn off. Light splashes everywhere—neon sliced by holo-ads, laser ribbons advertising pleasures guaranteed to rot the soul, and the kind of private signage that winks in languages only the rich or desperate understand. The smell is a sick, intoxicating mix: fried algae, singed synthmeat, perfume that smells like money, and the undercurrent of ozone from too many power converters. It makes my scales itch.
Rhea walks beside me and, for once, she’s the one wearing armor. Silk and cut that would embarrass a senator. She moves like a woman who knows three things: how to be seen, how to fade, and how to make men forget to breathe while they try. Her gown hugs the right lines, the holo-lace throws patterns across her clavicle, and the jewel at her throat catches purple light and throws it onto her skin like lipstick. People glance. Eyes linger. I feel the attention the way a dog feels the wind before a storm.
“Valtron,” she murmurs, just loud enough for me. “Act bored.”
I look down at her and snort. “I was not programmed for boredom.”
“You might practice,” she says, and there’s a smile in her voice that bites me sweet. She slides her hand into the crook of my arm. It’s an absurd gesture—me with my armor, my height, my teeth. But it works. The attendants at the club tilt their heads like we belong. We pass through an arch of living crystal that coughs out perfume smoke and a chorus of laughter that sounds edible.
The place is a fever dream. Every surface throws a reflection, every reflection throwing another lie about what’s real. Holo-dancers spin on platforms like planets, their costumes rippling into fractal illusions that taste like vertigo. A trio in silk are arguing over the ethics of blood-bot racing two tables down; a child—too small for this place—sells counterfeit prayers to a patron who keeps his hand in a velvet glove.
