Page 1

Chapter 1

Neon Valkyrie

A nother thrilling day analyzing trade data for the Stellar Together Initiative. I suppress a yawn as streams of information scroll past my terminal interface, each value representing cargo catalogs, shipping routes, and resource allocations across the Orion Galaxy. The office around me hums with the quiet efficiency of other analysts, all of us packed into identical cubicles like specimens in a corporate terrarium, where instead of feeding time, we get quarterly performance reviews.

“Arden!” My supervisor’s bark makes me flinch. “Those Morcrest luminore reports were due an hour ago.”

I flash my best corporate-drone smile. “Just wrapping up those riveting manifests, sir.” Meanwhile, my neural implants hum with the hundred things I’d rather be doing—decrypting, data-skimming, slipping through firewalls like smoke. If he saw how fast the information scrolled across my screen, his eye would twitch, his jaw tightening like a vice. But admitting I could process it in seconds—not hours—would mean revealing the illegal upgrades wired into my skull. And that’s a conversation I don’t plan on having.

Though I try to concentrate on the tedious shipping manifests before me, the adrenaline of last night’s near-capture still courses through my veins. The files I discovered about the Black Eclipse are still encrypted in my cranial cache, burning like a secret sun. I should delete it. Forget what I saw. That would be the smart play...

But I’ve never been good at walking away from the truth. Not since I lost my parents to “accidental” engine failure on their research vessel—a tragedy which conveniently occurred right after they began investigating corporate corruption in the outer colonies. I was twelve. The official report called it a malfunction. My illegal dig into sealed records suggested otherwise.

So that’s what started it all—my first hack. Stealing those restricted files taught me two things. First lesson: information is power. Second: the galaxy runs on secrets. Now I spend my nights as Neon Valkyrie, breaking into secure networks and selling the juiciest bits to the highest bidders. And if I can dish out some justice along the way... well, that’s a bonus. It’s not quite the career my parents dreamed for their daughter, but at least I’m exposing corruption instead of enabling it.

The familiar anger rises, hot and sharp. I channel it into my work, scanning manifests with renewed focus. My fingers dance across the haptic interface, but my mind is elsewhere—in the shadowy corners of the dataverse where I excel. The hack from the night before revealed something bigger than my usual corporate espionage. The encrypted data suggests a connection between the Black Eclipse syndicate and high-ranking STI officials. The kind of revelation that gets people killed.

My throat tightens as I recall the last person who trusted me with their secrets—Kai, a brilliant, reckless hacker. We’d worked together, watched each other’s backs. Until the day I convinced him to help me expose a weapons-smuggling ring. The job went sideways. He didn’t make it out. Sometimes I still wake up hearing his screams over our neural link as they caught him.

That’s why I work alone. Why I keep everyone at arm’s length. Caring is a weakness. Trust gets people killed. The STI may be the galaxy’s great unifier, but someone has to watch the watchers. If I can unveil what I’ve found—

Better me than someone who still has something to lose.

A priority alert flashes across my vision. New data packet, flagged urgent. I open it, expecting another tedious trade dispute.

Instead, my blood freezes as my neural implant flags unauthorized access to my personnel file. The information streams through my upgrades—someone with top-level clearance is combing through every detail of my life. But there’s something wrong with their gateway signature. My implants highlight anomalies in the encryption which shouldn’t be possible, patterns that don’t match any known STI security protocols. Whoever this is, they don’t just have clearance—they’ve somehow spliced themselves into the system’s root architecture. They shouldn’t exist.

My fingers hover over the holographic interface as another voice cuts through my concentration.

“Lyra, don’t forget the department meeting in five.” Daia, my well-meaning but chatty colleague, leans over my cubicle wall. Her iridescent Juntarian skin catches the harsh fluorescent lighting, sending blue-green ripples dancing across my display screen. The effect would be beautiful if it wasn’t giving me a headache. “They’re discussing the new security protocols so we can’t miss it.”

Perfect. Just perfect.

I resist the urge to run my fingers through my black hair, now pulled back in a severe bun that’s giving me a tension headache. The electric blue streaks I refuse to dye over are hidden beneath layers of corporate-approved styling. Just like everything else about me in this place—contained, controlled, crushed into an acceptable box.

“Thanks,” I manage, though my heart is hammering against my ribs hard enough I’m surprised Daia can’t hear it. As someone sifts through every detail of my life—education records, employment history, medical data—I’m stuck pretending to care about proper documentation procedures.

The meeting room is a steel-and-glass cage perched thirty floors above Orion Outpost, overlooking its gleaming spaceport. The view should be breathtaking, but my life is coming apart at the seams. I spend two excruciating hours perched on an ergonomically incorrect chair, surrounded by the gentle hum of environmental systems and the less gentle droning of middle management. Colleagues of various species fidget in their seats—several Juntarians’ shimmering blue-green skin particularly eye-catching against the room’s muted greys, while a pair of Rhilnars efficiently process reports with all six arms moving in perfect synchronization.

I sit through mind-numbing presentations about standardized reporting formats, my neural interface tracking the intrusion into my files. Whoever they are, they’re good. The access signatures keep shifting, bouncing through proxy servers across three different star systems. Each new trace sends a fresh wave of anxiety through me. It’s a truly sophisticated attack—one I might appreciate if I weren’t the one being hunted.

“Ms. Arden, perhaps you’d like to share your thoughts on the new verification protocols?”

I snap back to reality to find Director Voss’s beady eyes fixed on me. The Folmodian’s facial tentacles twitch with concealed satisfaction at catching me off guard. She’s had it in for me since I corrected her coding error during my first week—a rookie mistake I’m still paying for two years later.

“I believe the protocols are...” I start, but Daia’s subtle hand signal catches my eye. She’s miming something about dual authentication. “...the dual authentication system will create unnecessary delays in processing time-sensitive data.”

Voss’s tentacles curl inward—a sign of displeasure. “Interesting that you find basic security measures unnecessary, Ms. Arden. Perhaps that explains your consistently late reports.”

A few of my colleagues shift uncomfortably in their seats. No one makes eye contact. Except for Daia, they’ve all learned to keep their distance—the weird human who keeps to herself isn’t worth the risk of getting on Voss’s bad side.

“I meant no disrespect,” I say, ignoring her jab, keeping my voice even, though my jaw aches from clenching it. “I’m simply concerned about efficiency.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll find an efficient way to implement these protocols in your department by next week,” Voss says. “You’ll be giving a demonstration to the entire floor.”

Perfect. Another chance for public humiliation. I force a polite nod while my neural interface flags another breach attempt. Whoever’s trying to get into my files isn’t giving up, and now I have this corporate power play to deal with too.

Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, most of my colleagues rush for the transit pods like escaped prisoners, eager to start their weekend. Daia hovers near my desk, her blue-green skin catching the last rays of sunset painting the sky in fierce purples and blazing oranges. She’s the only one who still tries to breach my constructed walls, despite my best efforts to keep her at a safe distance.

“You’re not heading out?” she asks, adjusting her bag. Her concerned expression makes my chest tight with unwanted guilt. “A bunch of us are hitting up Nova’s. Even Kex is coming.” She gestures toward the Exoscarab whose yellow engineering jumpsuit makes him look like a walking caution sign.

I don’t look up from my screen, maintaining the emotional distance that’s kept me alive since Kai. Getting close to people is a luxury I can’t afford, not after what happened last time. “Too much work,” I say, my tone dry, hoping she’ll take the hint.

“The work will still be here Monday,” Daia persists, her iridescent skin rippling with concern. “You spend too many late nights here alone. It’s not healthy.”

If she only knew what I really did during those late nights. The thought of her finding out—of seeing the horror in her eyes when she realizes what I am—makes my throat tight. Better to keep her at arm’s length. Better for everyone. Besides, whoever’s hunting through my files chose this timing for a reason. The only way to trace them is through the STI’s secure network, and I can’t risk accessing that from anywhere else.

“Rain check,” I say, straightening papers I don’t need. “Got to finish these manifests.”

“Your loss.” She shrugs, joining the last stragglers at the lift. “Don’t stay too late. Place gets creepy after hours.”

You have no idea.

I make a show of gathering my things, adjusting the simple black blazer that helps me blend into this corporate hive. A cleaning drone whirs past, its optical sensors scanning me with mechanical suspicion.

“Forgot to file something,” I tell it, forcing a tired smile. The drone’s lights flash yellow-green, accepting my presence as authorized. “Just need another hour.”

It beeps an acknowledgment and continues its rounds, leaving me alone in the growing shadows. Just another dedicated employee, nothing to see here. Perfect.

But my fingers twitch, eager for my own setup, where I can unleash my skills without restraint. My hunter will soon learn why they call me the Neon Valkyrie.

The office grows quiet. Emergency lights cast long shadows between the cubicles, their dim glow struggling to penetrate the spaces between workstations. Perfect hunting conditions. I’m about to dive deeper into the system when the lights flicker once, twice—then plunge us into total darkness.

I drop into my true system—the one I crafted in dark rooms with black market neural chips and caffeine-fueled determination. Code streams past like rivers of starlight, each line a glowing thread I can pluck and follow. My enhanced senses light up as I sink deeper, tracing the intruder’s digital footprints through layers of encryption. The familiar thrill of the hunt courses through me as patterns emerge in the data flow, subtle disturbances that most would miss but my augmented perception catches like ripples in still water.

“Got you,” I whisper, following their digital breadcrumbs. They’re skilled, but I’m better. Each false trail leads me closer to their true location, until—

A message flashes across my vision, text burning like white fire:

I SEE YOU, NEON VALKYRIE.

My heart races as the implications hit me like a punch to the gut. Someone knows me—the real me, not the constructed corporate facade I wear during daylight hours. They know Neon Valkyrie, the phantom who’s made a career of exposing secrets powerful people would kill to keep buried. The kind of secrets that got Kai murdered when we dug too deep.

Ice slides down my spine as memories of his final moments flash through my neural interface—his screams, the way his consciousness fragmented across our shared connection as they caught him. I scan the message desperately looking for any trace of its origin, but the masking is flawless, professional-grade stuff that makes even my enhanced systems struggle to get a read. This isn’t some amateur trying to make a name for themselves. This is someone with resources, with reach—the kind of opponent who doesn’t leave loose ends alive to testify.

Another message appears:

HOW LONG BEFORE THEY FIND YOU TOO?

I ignore their taunts. I’m already purging my system, severing connections, but they’re faster. Data starts downloading straight into my neural cache—images, coordinates, timestamps. Evidence of things I was never meant to see. The office falls silent, shadows stretching between the cubicles. Perfect hunting conditions—if only my hands weren’t shaking. I clench my fingers, willing them steady. One wrong move and I’m done. Prison would be the best outcome. Dissection in some corporate black site would be worse.

The office grows quiet, the hum of the environmental systems fading into the background as the last of my colleagues disappear into the transit pods. Emergency lights flicker on, casting long, skeletal shadows between the cubicles. Perfect hunting conditions. I drop my public interface, letting the bland corporate facade dissolve as I sink into the familiar embrace of my true system. This is where I thrive, where lines of code flow around me like liquid starlight, a universe I built myself with black market tech and countless sleepless nights.

My fingers move across the haptic keyboard with practiced precision, following the digital breadcrumbs this intruder thinks they’ve hidden so well. Amateurs leave obvious trails—this one’s different. Each false lead is meticulously crafted, designed to waste time and resources. Not ZeroDay’s style—they prefer brute force attacks that leave systems in smoking ruins. WhisperWind maybe? But even their theatrical flair has a certain... signature. This is something else. Every move feels calculated, personal. Like they’ve studied me, learned my patterns. Like they know just who they’re dealing with.

“Still here, Arden?”

I flinch before I can stop myself, my fingers freezing over the console. Bruxor, the senior analyst, looms in the doorway, his massive Bravorian form blotting out what little emergency light remains. I force my shoulders to relax, fighting against the instinct to shrink away from his presence. I can’t read his sharp, angular face, but the predatory gleam reflecting off his red scales sends a chill down my spine.

If he catches even a whiff of what I’m doing... The STI doesn’t mess around with unauthorized network access. Best case? I’m out on my ass, stripped of clearance, and blacklisted from every half-decent tech job in the galaxy. Worst case? Let’s just say I’ve heard rumors about STI black sites that make me want to bleach my brain.

I force myself to breathe, to look casual. It’s not like I make a habit of cozying up to my colleagues, but now I’m grateful for the distance. Bruxor doesn’t know me well enough to spot the tension thrumming through my body, the way my fingers twitch, itching to slam my holo-screen closed.

Focus, Neon. You’ve got this. One wrong move and it’s game over.

“Just finishing up some reports,” I manage, forcing a casual tone while my mind races. I need to cover my tracks, fast. But closing the system now would be suspicious. It’s a delicate dance, maintaining the facade of a diligent employee while simultaneously battling a ghost in the machine.

“Make sure you log out properly,” Bruxor says, his voice a rumble that vibrates through the floor. “Wouldn’t want to trigger any security alerts.” His words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken threat.

He lingers for a moment longer, his massive, taloned hand gripping the doorframe. I can practically feel the weight of his stare pressing into my back. My pulse thunders in my ears, a relentless drumbeat. This is madness. I’m treading on dangerous ground, and Bruxor is the spark that could set it all ablaze.

The tension in the air is palpable, thick enough to choke on. I resist the urge to turn and meet his gaze, knowing any show of weakness will be pounced upon. Instead, I keep my focus trained on the flickering console, my fingers poised to continue my work.

A low, rumbling growl emanates from his direction, a clear warning. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. He’s testing me, seeing how far he can push before I break. But I can’t afford to back down, not when I’m this close to uncovering the truth.

Slowly, deliberately, he withdraws, his hulking form disappearing from the doorway. The moment he’s gone, I exhale a shaky breath, realizing I’d been holding it the entire time. I’ve bought myself a little more time, but I know it’s only a matter of seconds before he returns.

Back to the hunt. The intruder’s digital breadcrumbs lead me through encrypted channels, bouncing through proxy servers across multiple star systems. They’re a force to be reckoned with, no doubt. But my skills are honed to a finer point. Each false trail is a puzzle piece, revealing a glimpse of their strategy, their skillset... their identity.

A blinding white message flashes across my vision, the text searing into my retinas against the dark backdrop of scrolling code:

HE ISN’T THE ONLY ONE WATCHING YOU.

My heart pounds as I read the words, realizing whoever is on the other end of this connection is framing me. They’re making it look like I’m the one who’s been digging into the luminore trafficking.

Another message appears, equally chilling:

THEY’RE HERE.

Rapid keystrokes as I purge my system, severing connections, scrambling my digital signature. But they’re faster, always one step ahead. Fragments of data start downloading into my neural cache—flashing images, coordinates, timestamps. Pieces of evidence I was never meant to uncover. Incriminating data that could get me killed if discovered.

My heart races, palms sweating as I try to move the process along faster. The download is painfully slow, each second feeling like an eternity. Every alert ping makes me flinch, certain they’ve found me. I have to get this information out before they catch on. Before they silence me for good.

The final message burns itself into my vision, a stark warning:

RUN.

The office goes dark. The emergency lights die, plunging me into absolute darkness. Then, the klaxons begin to wail, a deafening shriek that echoes through the empty office. It’s a trap.

I’m out of time.