I feel Kallus’s breath shift beside me — a quiet way of grounding himself, as if the gravity of seeing Frederick again might pull him off balance if not braced properly. Our eyes meet for a moment. No words — no necessity yet. We are predators in the reeds. Observation first.
Frederick’s voice is smooth — too smooth — as he leans into an exchange with two figures that scream danger on sight: a tall, whip-thin woman with chrome upgrades running down her arms like razor vines, and a hulking brute with ocular implants that glow orange.
“My terms remain,” Frederick says, hands raised — elegant, controlled. “You receive Earth’s Reaper-genome data, with exclusive rights to non-sanctioned applications. In return, weapons tech of equal value, and safe passage through this ring. No interference. No IHC entanglements.”
I feel something cold curl around my ribs — not fear, but fury. He’ssellingus.Sellingour blood. Our daughter’s same legacy that Ayla and I stood before Earth and the IHC to protect — twisted into a commodity.
The tall woman laughs — the sound a serrated blade on glass.
“Regent,” she says, voice like static, “your price is more than worth it. But don’t forget — data like this is power. Power we intend touse.”
Frederick smiles — all white teeth and unwounded arrogance — and nods.
“Yes,” he purrs, “but shared power is the new currency.”
Shared.
Power.
Currency.
Words that sickened me deeper than any blade ever could.
I taste copper in my mouth — bitter, warm, like warning alarms blaring inside my skull.
And then a hand settles on my elbow.
Kallus is still calm, but I feel the shift beneath his skin — a predator recognizing the wrong scent on the wind.
“They’re bartering our blood,” I whisper.
He doesn’t reply — just slides his gaze back to the exchange, honing in on Frederick’s posture, his smile, the ease with which he negotiates with criminals and arms dealers like he’s made a throne out of betrayal.
My stomach twists.
But we are not here to confront him yet.
No. Not yet.
We came for information first.
Observation.
Understanding the serpent before we strike.
A young mercenary in tactical gear and pulse-rifle harnessed across his back glances our way — eyes dark behind his visor. I can smell his sweat, cheap bourbon, and repressed aggression.
He nudges a shorter man with a nervous twitch, whispering loud enough for me to overhear:
“That’s the Regent of Purity. They say he’s got a shipment of modified genome arrays scheduled — direct from Earth off-records. Rumor is he’s selling to every rogue faction between Sol and the Outer Reach.”
Kallus doesn’t flinch. He just murmurs:
“Data like that in the wrong hands will be more dangerous than any plasma cannon.”
I nod — digesting his words like a blade sharpening on stone.
“Let’s stick to the perimeter,” I whisper back. “We watch. We listen. We learn.”
