Page 17

"I've been accessing restricted archives," he admits. "Information about the early arcology development period. Specifically, research programs involving adaptive genetics."

"The same research Eden mentioned—the kind that might explain what's happening to me."

He nods. "The historical records have been heavily redacted, but I've found references to a research outpost called Haven that was destroyed during the early purification campaigns."

"Haven," I repeat, the word triggering something—a half-formed memory, maybe? "Was there anything about children? Or modifications designed to activate later?"

"Nothing specific, but there were references to 'long-term viability studies' and 'delayed expression sequences.'" Trent's voice drops lower. "Zara, I think Haven might have been developing exactly the kind of modifications you're experiencing now."

The implications are staggering. If true, it means my condition isn't random or accidental—it's the deliberate result of research Unity tried to erase from history.

"Why would Unity hide this?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

"Because it contradicts their fundamental doctrine," Trent says, confirming my thoughts. "Haven's research suggested genetic modification wasn't a deviation from humanity but its natural evolution, that adapting to changing conditions is what humans have always done."

"And Unity built its entire system on the opposite premise, that true humanity can only be preserved by preventing adaptation and change." I laugh without humor. "Their perfect, stable society depends on convincing everyone that change equals contamination."

"Precisely," Trent agrees. "Which is why they can justify their own enhancements while condemning genetic modifications. One preserves their definition of humanity; the other challenges it."

"Even though the end result is the same—humans adapted to survive."

Trent's expression softens slightly. "The difference is control. Unity's enhancements keep power centralized and they can be regulated, monitored, even revoked. Genetic adaptations like yours? Those can't be taken away or controlled once they're activated."

It makes perfect sense in a twisted way. Unity's obsession with purity was never about actual purity.

It was about maintaining control, about ensuring that adaptation happened only in ways the leadership could monitor and direct.

Just like dictators throughout history, they dressed up their power grab in the language of protection and preservation. Keep people afraid of outside threats, convince them that safety requires sacrifice, then gradually strip away freedoms until conformity becomes the highest virtue.

A maintenance worker rounds the corner suddenly, forcing us to step apart and resume our cover identities. The moment of connection breaks, but the understanding remains—a shared recognition of the lies at Unity's foundation.

"Environmental check required in Sector 16," Trent says loudly for the benefit of our unexpected company. "Fluctuations reported in the eastern quadrant."

"I'll handle the secondary systems," I respond with equal professionalism, falling back into our maintenance worker personas with practiced ease.

The worker passes without interest, but the interruption serves as a reminder of our precarious position. If Intelligence is already closing in on the sympathizer network and specifically targeting me for extraction tonight, our window for escape is rapidly closing .

We continue toward our assigned sector, maintaining careful professional distance now that we're back in more heavily monitored areas.

The mask of Mira Davis, maintenance technician, settles back over me with disturbing ease.

I've spent years learning to be what Unity expects: the perfect Sentinel, the loyal enforcer.

Now I'm using those same skills to undermine the very system that taught them to me.

"Our shift ends in four hours," Trent notes as we approach the main recycling junction. "The sympathizer transport is scheduled for three hours after that."

"Too long," I say quietly. "If Intelligence is planning to extract me tonight, we need a different approach."

Trent considers this, his tactical mind already formulating alternatives. "There's a secondary access point near Purification Chamber Twelve. The sympathizers use it for emergency extractions when primary routes are compromised."

Where they've been keeping Eden. Smart. Hiding their escape route next to their most valuable secret.

"Can you make contact?" I ask, careful to keep my voice casual as we enter the more populated work area.

"When I check the environmental regulators in section seven," Trent confirms. "Approximately forty minutes from now."

We separate to our assigned stations, maintaining the elaborate fiction of our cover identities. I focus on the chemical balancing systems, my hands moving through the now familiar routines while my mind races with plans and contingencies.

The suppression injection is definitely wearing off now.

My hearing continues to sharpen, picking up conversations from across the recycling junction that should be inaudible over the machinery noise.

My vision occasionally shifts too, momentary flashes of enhanced perception that reveal the heat signatures of workers and the electromagnetic currents running through the equipment .

I need to keep these symptoms controlled for just a few more hours. If anyone notices the changes—especially the physical manifestations like my eyes shifting color—the extraction Reyes hinted at will happen immediately.

An hour into our shift, I feel the weight of observation. Glancing up from my workstation, I spot surveillance drones positioned near the ceiling, nonstandard models with enhanced scanning capabilities. Intelligence must have deployed them after questioning me.

Trent notices too. He catches my eye briefly from across the junction, a subtle warning in his expression. Be careful. They're watching.

Just fucking great.

I return to my work, keeping my movements deliberate and routine. The surveillance only confirms what we already suspected, that our timeline has been compressed, our margin for error eliminated.

When the shift break signal sounds, I head toward the nutrition station with other workers, careful to maintain the casual social interactions expected of my cover identity. Trent arrives moments later, timing his approach to appear coincidental.

"Environmental fluctuations in section seven confirmed," he announces to the shift supervisor within earshot of several workers. "Requesting authorization for manual recalibration."

"Granted," the supervisor responds without interest. "Take Davis with you. The chemical balance readings are showing similar irregularities."

Perfect. A legitimate reason for both of us to access the area near Purification Chamber Twelve. If Intelligence is monitoring our movements, they'll see only maintenance workers responding to a system issue.

We collect our equipment and head toward section seven, maintaining professional distance until we're in the less monitored maintenance corridors .

"Surveillance drones," I say once we're relatively alone. "Nonstandard models."

"Noticed," Trent confirms. "Deployed approximately twenty minutes after your debriefing concluded. They're accelerating their timeline."

"Can we still reach the sympathizer contact?"

"Yes. The environmental fluctuation is real, I created it to give us cover for accessing the purification sector."

Of course he did. Trent's always ten steps ahead, always planning contingencies I haven't even considered.

"How much of this did you anticipate?" I ask, curious despite our pressing circumstances.

Trent glances at me, something complicated in his expression. "Not the specifics. But the general pattern was predictable once I identified the nature of your changes. Unity's response to perceived contamination follows established protocols."

"You make it sound so clinical. Like I'm a security breach rather than a person."

"To them, you are." His voice softens slightly. "To me, you're...something else entirely."

The admission hangs between us, not quite a declaration but more than we usually allow ourselves.

For a moment, I forget about surveillance and extraction plans and genetic modifications.

I just see Trent, the man rather than the Sentinel, looking at me with an expression that makes my heart beat faster.

"Trent—" I begin, not sure what I'm going to say but feeling the urgent need to say something.

A sudden spike in my hearing interrupts the moment. Voices approaching from around the corner, not maintenance workers but security personnel, moving with the deliberate efficiency of a sweep operation.

"Security team," I whisper urgently. "Twenty seconds from intersection. "

Trent processes this without questioning how I could possibly hear them at this distance. "Too late to avoid. We need a diversion."

Before I can suggest anything, he moves with sudden decisive action, backing me against the corridor wall. For a confused second I think he's trying to hide me, then his intentions become clear as his hands frame my face and his lips meet mine.

And my world explodes.

The kiss is for show—a distraction, a cover story, a plausible reason for two maintenance workers to be lingering in an isolated corridor. That's what I tell myself as his mouth claims mine with convincing passion.

Except it doesn't feel like pretending. Not when his lips press against mine with a hunger that steals my breath, not when his hands frame my face with a gentleness that contradicts the urgency of the moment.

His fingers thread through my hair, cradling the back of my head as though I'm something precious rather than a tactical necessity.