The surge of cold rage that hits me when I recognize the intent is productive in a way that surprises me. I use it. Channel it into a counterattack that doesn't just block the lateral probe but dismantles the vector entirely, stripping Marsh's code down to its framework and leaving the access point cauterized.
Tommy's voice on the comm. Steady. Present. Alive.
"Integration complete. Primary core is online and synced. The absorption buffer is active. When you hit the node, the retaliation goes through the primary core, not the backup."
"And you?"
"I'll be clear of the hardware before the surge hits."
"Tommy."
"I'll be clear."
"That's not a promise you can make. If the surge timing is faster than Marsh's other deployments..."
"Then I'll move faster. Hit the node, Dar."
My fingers hover over the keystroke that will trigger the offensive. The control node is exposed.
Marsh's last line of defense is a kill switch designed to destroy whatever system attempts to shut him down, and the only thing standing between that retaliatory surge and the obliteration of our operational capability is a reconnected server core and the assumption that Tommy can disconnect from the hardware before the electricity follows the path of least resistance through the cables he just connected.
The assumption. The variable I can't control. The one piece of data I can't collect, analyze, predict, or engineer.
Trust.
"Dar." Sarah's voice from behind me. "Do it."
I hit the key.
The offensive launches. My code tears through Marsh's control node with the accumulated momentum of every vulnerability I mapped, every behavioral pattern I predicted, every piece of institutional knowledge I carried out of GCHQ and refined through years of solitary warfare against the Committee's infrastructure.
The node cracks. The weapon's central command structure collapses in a cascade that mirrors the one Marsh launched against us, his own engineering turned back on itself.
For a beautiful, terrible fraction of a second, the backup server's screen fills with the weapon dying. Lines of code decompiling. Attack vectors folding. Adaptive protocols shutting down in sequence like lights going out in a building.
Then the kill switch triggers.
The retaliatory surge hits the primary server core with a force that I can hear through the comm channel.
A vibration that travels through the stone floor of the mountain, through the backup server's frame, through the desk, through my hands flat on the keyboard.
The servers in the primary room absorb the impact with the patient brutality of hardware doing what hardware does. Taking the hit. Holding.
Tommy's comm channel fills with noise. Static and vibration and the high-frequency whine of systems under extreme load, and underneath all of it, silence where his voice should be.
"Tommy." I'm standing. I don't remember standing. "Tommy."
Static.
"Tommy, respond."
The static stretches. One second. Two. Three.
In those three seconds, my body does things my mind doesn't authorize. My fingers go dead still. My breathing stops.My vision narrows to the comm speaker as if proximity to the hardware will make his voice come through it faster.
The stillness in my hands is the tell I've never been able to control, the one that means I am holding something so enormous that if I move, if I tap, if I let my fingers translate what's happening inside me into any kind of output, I will come apart.
Callum's comm went silent too. Different frequency, different system, different war. The silence sounded the same.
