Page 7

Chapter 7

Neon Valkyrie

T he phantom taste of Cirdox’s kiss is a ridiculous distraction, even as my implants diligently catalog the lingering spike in my hormones. The recycled air in the maintenance tunnels is stale, faintly acrid, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of Cirdox’s touch that still ghosts my skin. My upgrades, ever the diligent analysts, register my elevated cortisol, the jump in norepinephrine—the biochemical echoes of intimacy tangled with stress. They quantify the physiological responses, neatly categorize them, but they can’t touch the knot of unease tightening in my gut.

Zara’s knowing smirk catches me off guard as I practically collide with her rounding the corner from Cirdox’s quarters. Her red fur bristles with amusement as she steadies me, those vulpexian eyes gleaming. “Need some space?” she asks, her tail swishing with barely contained mirth.

I feel heat flood my cheeks as I realize what I must look like: hair mussed, clothes rumpled, probably reeking of Cirdox’s distinctive scent to her senses. The fact that I’m sneaking away from his quarters like some guilty teenager isn’t helping my dignity.

“I was just . . .” I gesture vaguely, my usual sharp wit deserting me. “Engineering stuff. Very important.”

“Mhmm.” Her ears twitch forward. “Engineering. Is that what we’re calling it now?”

I resist the urge to check if my clothes are properly fastened. “Don’t you have a ship to run?”

“Don’t you have a captain to . . .” She pauses deliberately, “engineer?”

I make a strategic retreat before she can comment further, her soft chuckle following me down the corridor. Next time I’m taking the maintenance tunnels; at least the coolant lines don’t make innuendos.

This hidden alcove, tucked away in the Obsidian Haven’s maintenance arteries, should be a sanctuary—shadowed, shielded from prying eyes and surveillance feeds. But the rhythmic hiss of coolant pipes feels less like white noise and more like a frantic countdown. Every line of code I sift through, every vulnerability I uncover in the Black Eclipse’s digital shadow, is a gamble—time bought, maybe, but at what cost?

I’m crouched in a shadowed alcove of the maintenance tunnels, using salvaged parts from a broken console to build a makeshift signal jammer. The gentle hum of quantum circuitry beneath my fingers is almost soothing, a counterpoint to the chaos in my mind. After what happened with Cirdox, I need this: the familiar rhythm of creation, of turning broken things into weapons.

My enhancements pulse steadily as I work, their blue glow reflecting off the scattered components. Each piece I connect adds another layer of protection, another barrier between us and the Black Eclipse’s hunting algorithms. But as I splice neural interfaces into crystalline matrices, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m missing something obvious, something dangerous.

The data I stole isn’t just evidence of corruption; it’s a blueprint for systematic control. The Black Eclipse has woven themselves into the very fabric of the STI, using luminore shortages like puppet strings to manipulate entire systems. Each transmission log I decrypt reveals another layer of rot, another thread in their web of influence.

My fingers pause over a particular connection, something in the pattern triggering a warning deep in my enhanced consciousness. There’s an elegance to this code that feels hauntingly familiar, like a signature I should recognize but can’t quite place. It reminds me of . . .

No. Focus on the task. Build the jammer. Protect the ship. Don’t think about the past, about lost partners and broken trust, about the way some wounds never quite heal, just get buried under layers of code and caution.

But as I reach for the next component, my neural interface flashes a pattern recognition alert. The code structure, the way it flows—it’s not just similar to what I used to use; it’s evolved from it. Like someone took my old encryption algorithms and twisted them into something darker, more lethal.

Someone who knew exactly how I think, someone who’s been dead for three years.

My hands freeze over the half-finished jammer as impossible implications begin to crystallize.

[ACCESSING NEURAL ARCHIVE: DATE STAMP 2.47.3089]

Kai’s voice, bright with triumph, crackles through our shared neural space. “This is it, Neon! We’ve got them.” His digital presence, once so vibrant, now echoes like a phantom limb. Through our linked neural network, I feel his surge of adrenaline, the thrill of the chase, the intoxicating scent of victory just within reach. Corporate firewalls crumble before his digital assault, collapsing like sandcastles against a rising tide. The evidence we need to shatter the Black Eclipse’s web, to expose the rot . . . it’s right there.

I watch, my enhanced vision painting the data streams in vibrant, terrifying clarity. But something’s off—a dissonance in the code, a flicker in the flow, subtle anomalies, milliseconds out of sync, packets with signatures that whisper of deception.

“Kai,” I cut in, urgency sharpening my voice, even within our silent neural link. “Abort. Now. Something’s wrong with the data return—”

“Almost there, Neon, just a little longer.” His focus is laser-sharp, tunnel vision gripping him. He’s so close, can almost taste the win. Warning klaxons blare in my enhanced vision, digital red alerts screaming across my consciousness. Too late.

Then the scream—raw, visceral, tearing through our neural link like a physical blow. Sophisticated ice, unlike anything I’d ever encountered, ripping through his defenses, shredding his code, his mind. My implants, reacting instinctively, try to sever the connection, to quarantine the digital contamination, but I fight them, desperate to hold on, to understand, to help. His consciousness, that bright, vital spark, flickers, sputters, drowned in a rising tide of digital static.

“Neon . . . run . . .” His final transmission, choked, fragmented, a ghost of sound swallowed by the void. “Don’t let them . . .”

[END ARCHIVE]

I slam back into the present, lungs burning, hands clenched into fists that tremble against the cold metal of the console. The maintenance tunnel swims back into focus, the hiss of coolant lines grounding me in a reality I desperately want to escape. My upgrades, ever the pragmatists, flash their clinical analysis: adrenaline spiking, neural pathways misfiring, severe flashback episode confirmed. No shit, Sherlock.

A soft rap on the alcove door. “Neon?” Cirdox’s voice, rough with sleep, laced with a concern that sends a jolt of something unwelcome through me—warmth, tenderness, danger. “Are you alright?”

Of course, he noticed. The mate-bond thing, or whatever Kyvernian voodoo he wields, probably broadcasts my distress like a beacon. My implants dutifully analyze his vocal patterns, cataloging the subtle tremor in his tone, the heightened tension, always measuring, always quantifying, never letting me forget that even intimacy is just data points to be processed and analyzed.

Before I can form a coherent lie, the memory surges again, relentless, dragging me back into the undertow of the past. The alcove recedes, replaced by the sterile, echoing silence of the aftermath.

[ACCESSING NEURAL ARCHIVE: DATE STAMP 2.47.3089]

The final, chilling message, delivered through the dying embers of our neural link, echoes in the void: “You could have saved him, Neon. Remember that.”

Then, only static. The cold, emotionless pronouncement of my enhanced architecture: Neural link severed. Remote consciousness lost. Recommended action: Initiate emergency shutdown to prevent cascading system failure , as if a system failure could ever compare to the gaping hole Kai’s death tore through me.

[END ARCHIVE]

Silence crashes down, heavy, suffocating. My breath hitches, shallow, ragged. My implants register the rapid pulse, the clammy skin, the fine tremor that runs through me, always watching, always recording, never understanding the difference between data and despair.

“Neon?” Cirdox’s voice, closer now, laced with a deeper urgency. “I’m not waiting for an invitation.”

The door hisses open, and he’s there, wings half-unfurled, filling the narrow space, a stark contrast to the sterile metal. The tribal markings on his bronze skin pulse with a faint, feverish light. He’s still fighting the bond-sickness, still burning from within. My body instantly reacts to his presence, remembering the heat of his touch just hours ago, the way his wings created a shelter around us as we explored this fragile thing growing between us, but old habits die hard, and distrust, honed over years of hard lessons, coils tight in my gut.

I hate this war inside me: between the part that wants to fall into his arms again, to let him chase away the shadows like he did before, and the part that screams this is all temporary comfort that will end in blood and pain. He offered me understanding tonight, showed me his own vulnerabilities, but is that enough to risk everything, to risk him? The memory of his fevered skin under my fingers, the way he trembled at my touch but still let me set the pace, makes this even harder because now I know exactly what I stand to lose.

“I’m fine,” I say, the automatic lie tasting like ash. “Neural feedback. Routine maintenance. Nothing to be concerned about.” Even to my own ears, the words are thin, brittle, easily shattered.

He moves closer, slowly, deliberately, like approaching a cornered animal. Maybe he’s right; maybe that’s exactly what I am. “You’re trembling, little hacker.”

The endearment, usually laced with playful arrogance, is soft now, edged with something akin to tenderness—a flicker of warmth, unwelcome, dangerous, sparks in my chest. I look down at my hands, watching the tremor in the blue glow of my enhancements. Kai’s hands, shaking just like this in those final moments . . . No. Push it down; control, always control. “Just . . . a data glitch. Memory loop. My neural cache sometimes replays archived events without authorization.” Clinical, detached, easier to dissect the breakdown than acknowledge the raw, gaping wound beneath the surface.

“Tell me.” He settles beside me, not touching, but close enough that his heat radiates against my skin. His wings, folded now, still create a subtle shield, a pocket of privacy in the sterile tunnels. “Tell me more about Kai.”

I flinch. “Why?”

“You called out to him in your sleep.” His voice is low, almost hesitant, but the crimson gaze is unwavering. “When the bond-sickness keeps me awake, I hear you, whispering his name, begging him to run.”

The admission disarms me—not just that he’s been listening to my nightmares, but that he’s been carrying his own pain while sensing mine. My enhanced vision flicks to his wings, noting the almost imperceptible tremor, the heightened pulse of his tribal markings that betray his worsening condition.

“I keep seeing him,” I confess, the words barely a whisper, “not just in nightmares anymore, in the data streams, like his consciousness fragmented instead of dying completely, scattered pieces of code that haunt the networks.” I laugh, the sound bordering on hysteria. “My upgrades say it’s impossible, just trauma manifesting in my neural interface, but sometimes . . . sometimes I swear I feel him watching.”

“The guilt doesn’t fade,” Cirdox observes, his gaze sharp with understanding, “it just changes shape.”

“Yeah.” The admission catches in my throat. “I keep thinking if I’d noticed the patterns sooner, if I’d forced him to abort the hack . . . but that’s what really haunts me. I saw myself in his recklessness, his need to expose the truth no matter the cost, and now here I am, doing the exact same thing, putting everyone around me in danger.”

His wings shift, the subtle rustle of feathers a counterpoint to the hum of the station. His scent, that heady mix of metal and smoke and something fiercely alien, sharpens my senses, grounding me even as the past threatens to consume me. “What were you digging for?”

“The same thing we’re chasing now.” I gesture to the console, to the shimmering web of data I’ve been unraveling. “Proof, evidence, that the Black Eclipse wasn’t just a rumor, a boogeyman, that they were real and they were everywhere.” My voice drops, bitter. “We thought we could expose them, save lives—na?ve, arrogant fools.”

“They were waiting for you.” Not a question, but a statement of grim certainty.

I nod, the weight of it settling heavier still. “Military-grade ice, defenses that shouldn’t have existed outside secure military networks. They tore through Kai like . . . like he was nothing.” My voice cracks. “I felt it through the link, felt them shred his mind, piece by piece.”

Cirdox’s wings shift again, not constricting, but enveloping, creating a warm, sheltering cocoon. For the first time in years, the instinct to flinch, to pull away, is muted by something . . . else, something that feels dangerously like trust.

“You couldn’t have saved him, Neon,” his voice, rough with empathy, resonates deep in my chest.

“Don’t tell me that.” The words are sharper than I intend, laced with years of guilt and self-recrimination.

“I’m not.” He catches my chin, forcing me to meet his gaze. The crimson eyes are dark with understanding, with a pain that mirrors my own. “I’m telling you you’re not alone in carrying this weight.” A pause, a breath drawn deep. “Because I carry my own ghosts, little hacker.”

The confession hangs in the air, heavy, unexpected. I stare at him, really see him, beyond the pirate captain facade, beyond the alien mystique, and for the first time, I glimpse the raw vulnerability beneath.

“My brother,” he says, the words strained, as if dragged from some deep, hidden place. “During the Orion Wars, we were . . . close, commanding a squadron together, ambushed, a Black Eclipse trap.” His wings shift, a restless tremor betraying the depth of his pain. “Quantum disruptors tore through our shields . . . through him.” His voice drops to a whisper. “I heard him scream, Neon, through our comms, and I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t reach him in time.”

The air stills between us, thick with unspoken grief, with shared loss. Understanding dawns, sharp and painful, but also . . . strangely comforting.

“That’s why . . .” I begin, the question hanging unspoken between us.

He nods, a curt, almost painful movement. “Why I fight them, why I risk everything to smuggle luminore, why I can’t stand to see innocents suffer under their thumb.” He tightens his grip, his gaze intense, unwavering. “So yes, little hacker, I understand guilt, I understand the weight of survival, but we can’t let it break us, we can’t let their deaths be for nothing.”

Something shifts, cracks, deep within the icy fortress I’ve built around my heart. My enhanced vision blurs, threat assessment protocols overridden by a surge of . . . something else—empathy, connection, something terrifyingly close to hope.

“I see him too, sometimes,” I whisper, the confession raw, vulnerable, “in the data streams, flickers, echoes, like . . . like his consciousness fragmented instead of dying, lost pieces of code haunting the networks.” A hollow laugh escapes me. “My implants call it trauma-induced hallucination, neural misfire, but sometimes . . . sometimes I swear I can feel him, watching.”

Cirdox pulls me closer until I’m cradled against his chest, wings enveloping me in a cocoon of shadow and warmth. “Then we face them together,” he murmurs, his voice rough against my hair, “all of them, your ghosts, mine.”

I should pull away, run, protect myself, protect him, but for the first time in years, the instinct feels . . . muted, conflicted, as if a part of me, a buried, long-dormant part, is starting to crave something more than just survival.

“I can’t . . . I can’t watch someone else die because of me,” I whisper, the words thick with unshed tears, “especially not . . .” The name catches in my throat— you .

“Especially not your mate?” His voice drops, a low, resonant rumble that vibrates through me—possessive, tender, terrifyingly tempting.

“Not . . . not yet,” I stammer, surprised by the near-admission—not denial, not anymore. “Maybe . . . maybe someday,” a fragile hope, whispered into the darkness.

He presses a kiss to my temple, a feather-light touch that sends unexpected warmth through me. “Someday is enough for now, Neon.”

We stay like that, wrapped in the fragile peace of shared grief, shared vulnerability, while my enhanced senses catalog every detail—the steady rhythm of his heart, the faint tremor in his wings, the way his breath warms my skin—data points that are no longer just data, but anchors, tethers, connections.

The old fear still whispers, coiled tight, a cold serpent in my gut, but tonight, another voice answers back, faint, hesitant, but undeniably there, a whisper of . . . courage.

The fragile quiet shatters as a message blazes across my neural interface, searing itself into my enhanced vision, the text burning like ice:

YOU CAN’T PROTECT HIM, VALKYRIE. JUST LIKE YOU COULDN’T PROTECT ME.

The words burn across my neural interface, stark and merciless, but it’s the signature beneath them that makes my blood turn to ice:

IonSpecter.

My pulse pounds in my ears, my enhanced vision glitching as I stare at the signature, my upgrades struggle to process what feels impossible. IonSpecter was Kai’s hacker handle—his digital ghost, his presence in the networks before the Black Eclipse tore him apart, but this isn’t Kai, it can’t be, unless . . .

The data flickers, shifting, and I see it—fractured echoes of old patterns, subtle mutations in the code that shouldn’t exist, that wouldn’t exist unless someone had access to his framework, his techniques, his mind.

Realization crashes into me with the force of a collapsing star. No. No.

It’s not Kai, it’s her—Kira.

She took his name, his identity, twisted it into something new, something wrong.

She’s not just hunting me; she’s wearing his ghost like a second skin.

Ice floods my veins, freezing the nascent warmth, extinguishing the fragile hope. Kira, alive? Impossible, I felt her consciousness shatter, witnessed her neural link flatline, unless . . .

Cirdox shifts, his crimson eyes snapping open, sharp, alert. “Neon? What is it, what’s wrong?” He sees the sudden shift in my posture, the rigid tension that has replaced the fragile vulnerability.

I pull back, the protective walls slamming back into place, stronger, higher than ever. The warmth recedes, replaced by a bone-deep chill. “Everything,” I say, my voice cold, detached, all emotion banished, “everything is wrong.”

Because the pieces click into place, aligning with terrifying precision: the hunter, the ghost in the machine, the one who turned my own code against me, who anticipated every move, who knew me . . . better than anyone.

It wasn’t a stranger, it wasn’t a ghost; it was something far more insidious, far more dangerous. It was a betrayal I never saw coming.

Kira is alive.

She’s hunting me, and she’s coming for revenge.