Page 9

Lower Arcology stinks.

Not figuratively but literally. The air down here carries the unmistakable tang of industrial lubricants, recycled water, and too many bodies packed into too little space.

"Homey," I mutter as we're led through the narrow corridors of Maintenance Housing Block D. Our guide—a perpetually scowling supervisor named Kaplan—hasn't spoken more than ten words since collecting us at the transit hub.

"All transfers complain at first," he finally says without looking back. "You'll get used to it. Or request another transfer. Don't care either way."

Charming, too.

Beside me, Trent walks with the slightly hunched posture we practiced, dampening his natural Sentinel bearing. His maintenance uniform is identical to mine—dull gray jumpsuit with sector identification patches—but somehow he makes the shapeless garment look good. It's cosmically unfair.

"How many transfers do you get?" Trent asks, his voice pitched differently than his normal commanding tone. We've both been trained in deep cover operations, though this is our first extended deployment together .

"Too many," Kaplan responds. "Eastern Arcology keeps sending us their problems. Heard they had an atmospheric regulator failure in Sector 7 last month. That your sector?"

"Sector 9," I answer smoothly with our prepared cover. "Hydroponics support systems."

Kaplan grunts, apparently satisfied with our backstory. "You'll be on recycling systems here. Morning shift, 0500 to 1400. Orientation starts tomorrow."

He stops abruptly before a nondescript door in a hallway of identical doors, pressing his palm against the recognition panel. "Unit 19-D-47. Standard bonded quarters."

The door slides open to reveal what might generously be called "efficiency housing.

" A single room, perhaps four meters square, containing the bare necessities for human habitation: a small food preparation surface, a sanitization cubicle barely large enough to turn around in, and a sleeping platform that would be tight for one person, let alone two.

"Home sweet home," I mutter, stepping inside.

"Environmental controls there," Kaplan points to a basic panel near the door. "Nutrition station stocks automatically on third rest day. Maintenance schedules posted to your assigned tablets."

He pauses, giving us a suspicious once-over. "Bonded status verified?"

Trent slides an arm around my waist, pulling me against his side in a gesture that appears casual but sends electricity shooting through my nerves. "Three years," he says, looking down at me with convincing affection. "Best decision I ever made."

I force myself to relax into his embrace, smiling up at him with what I hope passes for genuine love rather than the startled arousal currently short-circuiting my brain. "Despite his snoring."

Kaplan looks unimpressed. "Keep domestic disputes quiet. Walls are thin. Neighbor on left works night shift, so keep it down during day cycles."

With that heartwarming welcome, he departs, the door sliding shut behind him and leaving Trent and me alone in our new "home."

Trent's arm remains around my waist for three additional seconds—I count them in my suddenly thundering heartbeat—before he steps away to check the quarters for surveillance devices. Standard procedure, but the sudden absence of his warmth leaves me momentarily off-balance.

"Clear," he announces after a thorough sweep. "Basic environmental monitoring only. No audio or visual feeds."

I release the breath I've been holding. "Small mercies."

I inspect our living space more carefully now that we have privacy.

The quarters are worn but functional, clearly designed for workers who spend most of their time on shift rather than at home.

The walls bear the faded outline of previous occupants' personal effects, since removed, a reminder that nothing here is permanent.

"Cozy," Trent comments, examining the sleeping platform with what might be concealed alarm.

"That's one word for it." I open the small storage compartment beneath the food prep surface, finding basic cooking implements. "How exactly is this going to work for two weeks?"

"Like any other mission," he answers, but there's a tightness in his voice that betrays his awareness of our situation. "We maintain cover, establish routines, identify targets, gather intelligence."

"I meant the sleeping arrangements," I clarify, gesturing to the narrow platform. "That thing barely qualifies as a single."

Trent's eyes flick to the bed and back to me so quickly I might have missed it without enhanced perception. "I'll take the floor."

"Don't be ridiculous. We're supposed to be a bonded couple." The words come out rushed. "Besides, that floor looks like it hasn't been properly sanitized since the climate collapse."

"We'll manage," he says, turning away to inspect the sanitization cubicle, effectively ending the conversation.

Right. Manage. Because sharing a bed with Trent Vanguard is absolutely something I can manage without losing my mind.

We spend the next hour establishing our cover, unpacking the sparse belongings provided for our identities—Mira and Elias Davis, newish transfers from Eastern Arcology with unremarkable service records and equally unremarkable personal histories.

The names send a strange chill through me; they're too similar to what I know about my parents to be coincidence. Another of Marlow's little tests?

When the assigned maintenance tablets activate, we review tomorrow's work assignments. We've been placed on connected systems—Trent on primary filtration, me on chemical balancing—giving us access to multiple sectors while maintaining a logical work partnership.

"The suspected sympathizer network operates primarily through Recycling Junction 7," Trent notes, studying the schematics. "Our assigned sections give us legitimate access to observation points here, here, and here."

I nod, forcing myself to focus on the mission rather than the way his brow furrows in concentration or how his fingers trace the digital pathways with precise movements that make my stomach tighten inexplicably.

"The supply diversion pattern suggests they're gathering resources for multiple external contacts," I observe. "Possibly preparing for more infiltrations."

"Or supporting individuals already inside," Trent adds. "The timing correlates with?—"

He stops suddenly, and I know what he's thinking: the timing correlates with my enhancement irregularities and the reports of spontaneous genetic anomalies in the maintenance population.

"Do you think there's a connection?" I ask quietly.

Trent sets down the tablet, his expression carefully neutral. "Between the sympathizer activity and what's happening to you? I don't know. How could there be?"

"But you suspect something." I sit on the edge of the sleeping platform, suddenly tired. "You've been tracking my 'irregularities' longer than I've been aware of them."

He's silent for a long moment, weighing his words with typical Sentinel precision. "I've observed patterns that suggest your condition isn't simply an enhancement reaction."

"What kind of patterns?"

"Adaptive responses that exceed standard parameters. Cellular regeneration rates that fluctuate based on environmental conditions. Neural pathways that reconfigure themselves after each enhancement treatment." He pauses. "None of which should be possible under Unity's genetic stability protocols."

The implications hang in the air between us. What he's describing sounds uncomfortably close to what Unity propaganda describes as Splinter traits, genetic modifications designed to adapt to changing conditions.

"You think I'm...what? Contaminated somehow?" The word tastes bitter.

"I think," he says carefully, "that there's more to your situation than Medical is acknowledging."

Before I can respond, a harsh buzz emanates from the environmental control panel, followed by a sudden drop in temperature. The lights flicker, then stabilize at half their previous brightness.

"What the?—"

"Environmental cycling," Trent explains, checking the control panel. "Looks like Lower Arcology runs partial power conservation during mid-shift. "

I wrap my arms around myself as the temperature continues to fall. "They could warn people first."

"It's probably standard procedure for the maintenance levels," Trent says, his breath now visible in the chilling air. "Conserving resources for the upper levels."

Of course. Even Unity's much-vaunted egalitarianism has its limits. Those who maintain the systems that keep the arcology functioning are, ironically, the last to benefit from them.

The environmental panel buzzes again, then displays a scrolling message: TEMPORARY SYSTEM ADJUSTMENT. REGULATION RESUMES IN EIGHT HOURS.

"Eight hours at this temperature?" I check the reading. "It's dropping below standard habitability minimums."

Trent frowns. "Defective unit, or deliberate resource allocation?"

"Either way, we're going to freeze." I rub my arms, already feeling the cold seeping through the thin maintenance uniform. Unlike our Sentinel gear, these clothes aren't designed with thermal regulation in mind.

Trent studies the environmental controls for another moment before making a decision. "Standard survival protocols. We'll need to preserve body heat."

My heart does a little stutter-step. "Meaning?"

"Shared body heat is the most efficient method of temperature maintenance in limited resource situations." His voice is all business, but I don't miss the subtle tension in his jaw. "The sleeping platform has basic thermal retention capabilities if we activate the conservation setting."

Right. Huddle for warmth. The oldest trope in the book, and yet here we are.

"Very logical, Sentinel Vanguard," I say, trying to mask my sudden nervousness with sarcasm. "Good thing we're both trained professionals who can handle a little close proximity."