Page 17

NETWORK OF SECRETS

ISLA'S POV

Two weeks bleed together in a strange rhythm of negotiation and surrender, like the universe's most uncomfortable dance class where everyone's naked and the instructor has tentacles.

My existence narrows to twin imperatives: strategic revelation and biological adaptation.

Each morning, Neros and I engage in our delicate dance of information exchange—a process that has become its own form of intimate violation, perhaps more insidious than the physical claiming that punctuates our days.

The intelligence I provide is meticulously curated—abandoned safe houses whose usefulness has already expired, communication codes scheduled for rotation, extraction routes compromised by previous enforcement actions.

Each disclosure represents a strategic sacrifice, a calculated offering to maintain the fiction of cooperation while preserving the network's vital infrastructure.

It's like playing poker with someone who can smell your tells, but at least the stakes are only my dignity and the lives of everyone I've ever cared about.

Today's exchange takes place in what I've come to think of as the war room—a cavernous chamber carved from living rock, its walls embedded with bioluminescent organisms that cast everything in eerie blue-green light.

Massive holographic projections hover in the water between us, displaying coastal territories with precision that makes me wonder how much the resistance truly understands about kraken technological capabilities.

Probably about as much as I understood kraken anatomy before it became personally relevant.

"The village near Broken Point," I say, pointing to a small cluster of structures perched on cliffs overlooking the ocean. "They use lantern signals in the east-facing windows. Two lights stacked vertically means there's an omega who needs immediate extraction."

Neros circles the holographic display, his massive form moving through water with unsettling grace.

In this chamber, he maintains his humanoid upper body but allows multiple tentacles to emerge below, using them to manipulate different sections of the display simultaneously.

The efficiency is disturbing—and reluctantly impressive, like watching a very large, very dangerous octopus conduct an orchestra.

"These coastal settlements," he says, highlighting a string of villages along a rocky shoreline. "They all follow similar signal patterns?"

"No. Each has unique protocols." I choose my words carefully, revealing enough to seem cooperative while protecting critical information. "Consistency creates vulnerability. Every village develops its own system."

"Smart." The approval in his voice creates an unwanted flicker of pride that I immediately squash. Professional recognition from my captor shouldn't feel validating, but apparently my ego has decided to become a very enthusiastic collaborator.

His tentacles shift in patterns I'm beginning to recognize as expressions of strategic analysis.

The way he processes intelligence reveals a mind formed by centuries of territorial conquest and political maneuvering—like a very patient, very deadly chess master who's been planning his moves since before I was born.

"How have your smuggling operations survived so long?" he asks, golden eyes studying me with uncomfortable intensity. "Most human resistance cells collapse within months. Yours has lasted a decade."

The question borders on genuine curiosity rather than interrogation. I shrug, uncomfortable with the implication that he sees me as some kind of equal. "Survival isn't unique to krakens. It's written into human DNA just as deeply as submission is supposedly written into mine."

"Perhaps that's why you're worth claiming rather than simply eliminating," he says, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "Your defiance suggests stronger offspring."

I suppress a shudder at the casual reminder of my purpose here. "Lucky me."

The holographic display shifts to show deep ocean currents—hidden pathways beneath the waves that my vessels used to navigate undetected.

Seeing them mapped so precisely confirms suspicions that kraken tracking abilities far exceed what resistance intelligence believed possible, which is both impressive and deeply annoying.

"Your second-in-command—Toran," Neros says, bringing up tracking data that shows the escape pod's journey. "He's maintained effective stealth protocols. No enforcement vessels have detected your rescued omegas."

Relief floods through me at this confirmation. Six lives saved. Six omegas who won't experience what I have endured. Almost worth the price I continue to pay, though the accounting on that particular transaction gets more complicated every day.

"Does he know what happened to you?" Neros asks, studying my reaction with those unsettling predator eyes.

"He would assume I died in the separation," I answer honestly. "It was always the contingency plan. Captain goes down with the ship so others can escape."

Something like respect flickers across Neros' features. "Noble, if inefficient."

The luminescent patterns beneath my skin pulse in rhythm with my heartbeat, visible evidence of how deeply my physiology has transformed.

The black venom patterns that once marked me as the ghost smuggler have faded completely, replaced by these glowing lines that mirror the royal bloodline markings on Neros' skin.

My body has betrayed my identity in the most visible way possible, becoming a living map of my captivity and transformation.

I steer the conversation toward information I actually need. "Yesterday you mentioned unauthorized omega trafficking. How bad is it really?"

The water around us seems to drop several degrees as Neros' skin darkens with what I now recognize as anger. The bioluminescent patterns across his chest and arms pulse faster, more intensely, like a very pissed-off Christmas tree.

"Worse than the Council admits," he says, manipulating the display to show a new section of ocean territory. "At least three rival lords run their own breeding facilities outside our laws."

"What for?" I press, sensing this isn't just about territorial disputes.

Neros activates a new section of the holographic display, revealing underwater structures built into remote seamounts—facilities designed for containment rather than habitation.

The architecture is distinctly different from the organic curves and living spaces of his territory—all harsh angles and reinforced barriers that scream "secret medical facility" in the universal language of bad architectural decisions.

"They're experimenting on the omegas they capture," he says, voice dropping to a register that vibrates through the water with undisguised fury. "Trying to create modified hybrids. Tampering with genetics without understanding the consequences."

"And the omegas? What happens to them?" I ask, though I suspect I already know the answer.

"Most die," he says bluntly. "Eight out of ten within weeks. Their bodies reject the modifications."

Horror twists in my gut like a living thing with claws. "How many omegas are we talking about?"

"Dozens taken each month from the official breeding programs. More intercepted from smuggling vessels." His golden eyes fix on mine. "Including some from your network."

The implication hits me like a physical blow. "They're tracking smuggling operations. Using us as... as suppliers?"

"Yes." No satisfaction in his confirmation, only grim acknowledgment. "Your network has been better than most at avoiding interception. That's partly why I needed you specifically. I had to understand your methods to figure out which lords were compromising our security."

This revelation creates an unexpected alignment between our objectives that disturbs me more than outright opposition would.

Both of us want to stop unauthorized omega trafficking, though for entirely different reasons—I want to protect vulnerable omegas from exploitation, while Neros aims to eliminate political rivals and consolidate his power base.

It's like discovering you and your worst enemy both hate the same serial killer.

"So I'm not just a breeding vessel," I say, the words bitter on my tongue. "I'm political leverage against your enemies."

"You're both," he responds with unsettling honesty. "Like all claimed omegas of significant bloodlines. The difference is that most don't have strategic value beyond their wombs."

"Lucky me," I repeat, the phrase becoming a bitter refrain that should probably be embroidered on a pillow at this point.

His tentacles shift in what I've come to recognize as amusement. "It means you get better treatment than most captured omegas. I need your mind intact, not just your body."

A troubling thought forms as I study the display of unauthorized facilities. "These rival lords—they must have spies in your territory to intercept our vessels so consistently."

Neros' eyes narrow, vertical pupils contracting to thin slits. "Yes. Including in my enforcement squads."

The admission reveals vulnerability I didn't expect him to acknowledge.

This conversation has shifted from interrogation to something approaching genuine information exchange—each of us revealing strategic weaknesses in service of a greater objective, like the universe's most uncomfortable team-building exercise.

"I can help you identify the traitors," I offer, surprising myself with the sincerity behind the words. "We track which enforcement vessels behave strangely. Which ones can be bribed. Which ones follow patterns that make no sense unless they're working for someone else."

"You keep files on our enforcers?" Neros asks, something like respect coloring his tone.