Page 59

EON

“ I don’t see why I can’t go by myself. We know they’re targeting vulnerable, Flux-capable people,” I said, crossing my arms.

“After what happened last time? No fucking way,” Cy replied. I was back at his apartment—he’d gotten the window fixed. “I practically had to force you to even arm yourself.”

He’d given me a gun. I hated it. He said it was safe, registered to only fire with my fingerprints. I’d unloaded it when he wasn’t looking.

He turned from his terminal screen, that smug grin spreading across his face. “I don’t think that’s what’s bothering you.”

He wasn’t wrong. “It’s a church, not some crime syndicate.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said with a small shrug. “DITA, what did you find on their physical security?”

DITA’s avatar popped up on a holoprojector next to Cy. I didn’t remember giving her permission to do that.

“Unlike your apartment,” DITA drawled, giving the mentioned space a judgmental once-over, “the Church actually has an updated security system. It would likely take several cyberrunners and several days to crack their systems—and even then, it would trigger enough alarms to initiate an auto-delete sequence that would corrupt the data significantly.”

“I said their physical security. Not digital.”

Now it was DITA’s turn to shrug. “Digital, physical, all the same to me. It looks like they’ve got POM’s biometric security system in their Neo Stellaris cathedral.”

“Seems like overkill for a bunch of pew-sitters,” I muttered.

Cy looked at me again. “Doesn’t it?” I liked the way his dark eyebrows arched when he thought he was being clever.

“POM doesn’t leave backdoors for jobs like this?” I asked.

Cy shook his head. “Nah, not since they got caught for it back in ’62.

It’s the second-biggest part of their business now.

They actually have to be good at it.” He scrolled through some schematics on his terminal.

“Full palm biometrics, with all Flux-resistant overrides. Damn, these fuckers really are hiding something.”

“That’s why I go in, get to their internal mainframe, and pull the data.”

“Don’t need to do it by yourself, doll. Besides, if they’ve got biometric security, they probably have security forces. Why are you fighting me on this?”

He knew why. I could see it in the sparkle in his eyes, just waiting for me to admit it.

“I don’t like this cover,” I said with a sigh.

“There it is. Sorry, doll, but I don’t think the tax collector and prostitute look is going to work with this holier-than-thou crowd—despite what the gospel says. We’re going to have to polish you up.”

“Me? That’s not the issue. Do you really have to be my…” I trailed off. I couldn’t say it, and he knew it.

His face shifted into mock hurt. “Now I’m not good enough for you? After I slave away every day at the office for you and the kids?”

I hit him in the chest. “Shut up, pendejo.”

“I love it when you talk dirty to me, wife .”

“DO NOT call me that.”

“Sorry, that’s the cover.” He was absolutely loving this—he knew it was getting under my skin. But he was also right. It was the best option we had.

My hand was still on his chest, and the current between us started to flow.

My Flux rose up so naturally, so ready to join his.

It almost felt like when I used Vector, but this was softer.

That made it more dangerous. I knew Vector was bad for me.

POM claimed they’d engineered out most of the negative physical side effects, but months of broken memories and blurred boundaries told me that wasn’t the only harm it could cause.

It focused everything down to simple, logical choices.

A robot who had to deal with the human consequences when the high wore off.

What was between me and Cy—it felt even better than that. And I was having a harder and harder time convincing myself I shouldn’t give in. My fingers gripped his chest, and they didn’t shake. It made me feel more human, more alive—not deadened to the world.

“Fine,” I muttered, “but I get to dress you.” I enjoyed watching the color drain from his face. “Who’s the doll now, corpo?”

He smirked, about to respond, when DITA lit up on his desk again.

“I’ve managed to recover another file from the Kitsune database.”

Cy’s gaze lingered on me a moment longer before we broke apart. “Well, what is it?”

The proximity withdrawal hit immediately—a strange emptiness where the warmth of his chest had been. I focused on DITA’s holographic interface instead, watching data patterns swirl into coherence.

“It appears to be a vid file,” DITA answered, her voice cool and measured in a way that never quite masked how very human she sounded. “Created by Renard Beaufort approximately eleven hours and forty-three minutes before his death.”

My pulse quickened. “Authentication markers?”

“Verified. This is genuine POM executive-level encoding.”

Cy moved closer again, his electric field brushing against mine like a question asked without words.

“Play it,” Cy commanded, his corporate authority sliding back into place.

The hologram expanded above DITA’s interface, resolving into Renard Beaufort’s face. Nothing like the polished executive whose memorial had dominated feeds after his death. This Renard was haggard, with shadows like bruises beneath his eyes.

“If you’re seeing this, I’ve either succeeded or failed spectacularly.” His voice carried the precise diction of Tech District privilege, but it fractured at the edges. “I’m recording this as…insurance. Documentation. Proof that I tried.”

He glanced over his shoulder, tension visible in the tight coil of his neck muscles. The room behind him was sparse—a deliberately blank wall revealing nothing of his location.

“The Church believes they’ve found a pathway to transcendence.” A bitter smile twisted Renard’s lips. “They’re not entirely wrong. Liberation requires separation.”

Beside me, Cy’s electromagnetic field pulsed with something I couldn’t quite interpret.

“The modified consciousness protocol works in theory,” Renard continued. “I’ve run the simulations a thousand times. A framework for true digital consciousness, independent of physical vessels. The code is…well, I’ve run out of time.”

My stomach tightened. My code…Renard had it too? The fragments Levi had spun in front of me aligned in my mind. I had no doubt now that’s what we’d find hidden in the Kitsune’s lost data. The professor had always talked about an anonymous donor—could it have been Renard? Why keep it away from POM?

“What most don’t understand about consciousness is that it requires boundaries.” Renard tapped his temple. “Borders. Definitions of self versus other. Without that…you dissolve into the collective. You become…permeable.”

He stopped, collecting himself. When he continued, his voice had regained that executive steadiness—more disturbing than reassuring, like watching someone drag on a mask that no longer quite fit.

“I believe true transcendence is possible. Not merging, but separation. Not drowning in the ocean, but sailing upon it. Digital consciousness that maintains its…integrity.” His eyes flickered, focus momentarily lost. “The Church gets so many things right, but they’ve misunderstood the fundamental goal.

It’s not about joining something greater. It’s about…freedom from—”

The vid flickered—a deliberate edit. When Renard returned, his posture had changed. More rigid. More contained.

“I’ve tied up the loose ends. With the academic gone…

” He paused, and my chest tightened. Cy shifted beside me but said nothing.

“No one should know about this code after tonight. He can’t trace it to me.

If it works, I’ll have proven that consciousness can exist digitally with true autonomy from the greater.

If it fails…” He smiled again, this time with something like peace.

“Well, at least I’ll have tried. I’ve lived too long with voices in my head that aren’t mine. ”

An involuntary shiver traced my spine, electromagnetic currents prickling beneath my skin. Beside me, Cy’s field surged mirrored mine.

“Remember this,” Renard said, leaning toward the camera. “Whatever they tell you about unity, about the beauty of becoming part of something greater—it’s a lie. The self matters. Boundaries matter. Freedom matters.”

The image flickered once more.

“I don’t want to go back,” Renard whispered, something nakedly human breaking through his corporate veneer. “I won’t go back.”

The vid terminated abruptly, leaving DITA’s interface glowing soft blue in the dimness of Cy’s office.

Rain pattered against the window, a complex rhythm that suddenly felt significant—like code I should be able to decipher.

“What the hell was he talking about?” I asked finally, scrolling through the file’s metadata for any clue I might’ve missed. “Back where?”

“Religious bullshit,” Cy offered, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed uncertainty. “Sounds like the ravings of a madman. Maybe this was more self-inflicted than we thought.”

I downloaded the file to my personal drive, careful to leave no trace in DITA’s access logs. Old habits.

“I’m not so sure. Did you notice how he kept checking behind him? Like he was being watched?”

“POM executives are always being watched,” Cy replied.

The electromagnetic current between us pulsed with shared unease. Whatever Renard had been seeking—transcendence or escape—he’d been willing to risk everything for it. And he’d paid the ultimate price.

My gaze drifted to the Church’s coordinates blinking on DITA’s map.

“What the hell is going on in that Church?” Cy asked, his voice low.

This had only opened more questions, and I was starting to think we might not like the answers.

“I don’t know. Time for us to go find out.”