Chapter 9 Rynn
RYNN
My comm chirps just after midday, sharp and clinical.
I see the name before the tone finishes sounding.
Instructor Delma - Little Sprockets Early Academy.
My stomach drops.
No one's supposed to call during clinic hours unless it's urgent. Nessa knows how to behave. She knows. I drilled it into her — no screaming, no climbing too high, no running when you’re upset.
The comm screen buzzes again. A soft, insistent pulse. I answer.
“Dr. Sorala,” Delma says, voice as tight as her iron-stiff braids. “There’s been an incident.”
Fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in a too-small chair, knees practically at my chest, in the back office of the preschool wing. The pastel walls mock me with their cheerful murals of cartoon animals. A giant smiling asteroid gives me a thumbs-up from the corner.
Delma’s face is stony. She taps her compad, and the playback begins.
Nessa sits on the floor in a circle of other toddlers, holding her favorite purple-glow raptor. Her scales shimmer faintly under the indoor lights — subtle enough to pass, at least when she’s calm.
The moment unfolds slowly.
A human boy—Julen, I think his name is—reaches for the raptor, yanks it out of her hands.
Nessa’s mouth opens. She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t cry.
She roars.
It’s not a sound a child her age should make. Low, guttural, from the chest like something ancient.
She grabs the climbing tunnel beside her — one of those synthetic-wood play structures bolted to the floor.
And she throws it.
Not tips it. Not knocks it over.
Throws it.
It crashes against the wall with a metallic shriek, cracks along one panel, splits another clean down the center.
Children scatter. Some cry. Others gape.
Nessa stands there, chest heaving, golden irises glowing faintly as she clutches the raptor close to her chest again.
Then she starts crying.
The footage ends.
I say nothing.
I can’t breathe.
“She calmed down after a few minutes,” Delma says. “No one was hurt, thankfully, but… Dr. Sorala, this isn’t the first episode.”
“I know,” I say, my voice rasping. “She’s been having night terrors. Sleep’s been inconsistent. There’s stress in the household.”
Delma raises one sculpted brow. “And the strength?”
I fake a laugh. It sounds like static. “Adrenaline spikes. She’s small, but wiry. We don’t always know what kids are capable of under pressure. I’ve seen toddlers lift medcarts when cornered.”
Delma doesn’t smile. “We’ll need to report this to the behavioral registry. The play structure’s damaged. And some of the children are shaken.”
I nod, numbly. “Of course. I’ll make arrangements to pay for the damage.”
She leans back. “Maybe take her home early. Let her decompress.”
Nessa’s quiet on the walk back.
She clutches my hand with that same white-knuckle grip she uses when she’s about to fall asleep.
But she’s not sleepy now.
She’s thinking.
I can see it in her brow. The way she squints up at the pink-tinted clouds above the shield dome.
Her golden eyes reflect the filtered light.
We’re almost to our building when she finally speaks.
“Am I bad?”
My chest cracks in half.
I kneel in front of her, brush a hair from her cheek. “No, sweetpea. You’re just strong. And sometimes, when we’re strong and scared at the same time, things get a little messy.”
“But I broke the school.”
“No,” I say firmly. “You protected yourself. We just have to learn when to use that strength, okay? Like a superhero. They don’t always punch.”
She nods solemnly. “I can try not to roar.”
I hug her so tightly she squeaks.
“Mom,” she giggles. “You’re squishing my brain.”
That night, after she falls asleep — finally, mercifully — I sit beside her bed in the dim light of the night orb.
Her little chest rises and falls in soft, rhythmic waves. She’s tucked the raptor under one arm, its ragged eye peeking out from the covers.
My gaze lingers on her hands.
Small. Delicate.
But earlier, those hands broke reinforced composite.
Vakutan strength.
It’s not coming.
It’s here.
The human in her might dampen it, slow it — but it’s building. Coiling under her skin like it’s waiting for a moment to surge.
And she’s not ready.
I’m not ready.
My daughter is a classified secret. An illegal hybrid. A miracle.
If the Alliance finds out, they won’t care that she’s sweet. Or funny. Or loves picture books about star-whales.
They’ll see what she did today — and they’ll make her disappear.
I can’t let that happen.
I won’t.
Even if it means lying again.
Even if it means running.
___________________________________________________________________________
The burner hisses low, the synthetic oil bubbling just shy of a simmer. My hands work on autopilot—chopping rehydrated leeks, scooping noodles into the pot.
Nessa hums behind me, seated at the table with a crayon clenched tight in her fist. She’s scribbling across her third piece of scrap paper—spaceships again.
All claws and teeth and fire. The hum changes pitch when she’s focused.
Not a tune, not exactly. More like a sound her body makes when it’s trying to regulate.
Like she’s keeping something in.
I’m just about to stir in the nutrient cubes when my comm buzzes on the counter.
I glance. Freeze.
Notice of Review — Subject: Nessa Sorala
Sender: Corven-7 Ed-Center Administrative Board
I tap it open with a trembling finger.
The message is short. Polite.
Clinical.
“Dr. Sorala, we are required to inform you that your child, Nessa Sorala, has demonstrated a pattern of escalating aggressive tendencies in supervised environments. While we appreciate the complexities of early childhood development, we ask for your immediate cooperation in addressing these behavioral discrepancies. Repeated incidents may result in reclassification or reassignment.”
I stare at the words. My heart isn’t pounding. It’s dropping.
Reclassification.
That’s code.
It means testing. Evaluations. Genetic screening. Once that door opens, it doesn’t close again.
“Mom?”
I look up. Nessa’s standing on the chair now, tiny fists planted on her hips.
“Is something bad?”
I force a smile. “No, baby. Just work stuff.”
“Is someone sick?”
“Not that kind of work.”
She frowns. “You look like when the trash bot ran over our plant.”
I let out a weak laugh. “That’s because I really liked that plant.”
Nessa squints, unconvinced, but sits back down.
I stir the pot, hand moving in circles, brain spinning faster.
I don’t have time. Not to argue. Not to play this straight.
I need to fix this. Now.
Two hours later, I’m in the back closet of our apartment with a bootleg biosuite kit and a nervous tic in my left eye.
The lights are dimmed. Nessa’s asleep on the couch, raptor tucked under her chin.
I’ve got her favorite jacket laid out on the crate I use as a sewing table.
My fingers fly over the smartfabric as I embed the dampening mesh—woven strands of boron-coated filaments that emit a mild suppressive pulse tuned to low-grade bio-electric surges.
Not enough to hurt her. Just enough to muddy the signals.
It’ll work. It has to.
I test the seam with trembling fingers, then power up the tiny core node tucked in the collar lining. The status light glows amber.
Amber is good. Yellow means stable.
If it turns red, we’re in trouble.
I zip the jacket up and sit back, exhaling so hard I feel lightheaded.
One problem solved.
Now for the other.
I tap into the education center’s archival system through a proxy layer and slip into the incident log.
There’s still footage.
Even after I asked Delma to hold it.
She filed it anyway.
I swear under my breath and pull up the security node hash. A few keystrokes later, I isolate the clip. The one from earlier. The tunnel. The roar.
I delete it. Every copy. Every node ping. Gone.
It won’t buy me much. Not long. But maybe long enough to prepare. Or run. Again.
I scrub the file manifest and log out, setting the tracer self-erasure to a three-minute delay.
I’ve done this before.
Too many times.
My hands shake the entire time.
Because this isn’t just survival anymore.
It’s her.
The next morning hits like a gut punch.
I’ve barely dropped Nessa at school when my comm flashes again. This time it’s internal: Performance Evaluation – Lead Cyberneticist: Dr. Rynn Sorala. Attn: Commander Tarek.
Perfect.
The conference room smells like antiseptic and steel. Too clean. Like they’re trying to cover something up.
Tarek sits at the head of the table, posture too relaxed. Like a wolf playing nice.
His fingers steeple over a thin dossier. Nothing on the table but that and a mug of synth-caf he hasn’t touched.
I sit across from him and fold my hands.
“Doctor,” he says smoothly, like he hasn’t been shadowing me for weeks. “Thanks for coming in on short notice.”
I nod. “Of course.”
He slides the dossier toward me but doesn’t let go. “We’ve been reviewing your department’s compliance metrics. Stellar, as usual. Cybernetic rejection rates have dropped 13%. Neural mapping efficiency is up.”
“Thank you.”
He taps the folder with one finger. “That said, a few minor irregularities came up. Nothing major. Timing inconsistencies. Security log gaps. Nothing... alarming.”
My pulse flickers. “That’s expected. Most field staff still use legacy implants. They lag behind in timestamp pings.”
“Sure,” he says, like he buys it. “We also noted some unusual traffic patterns in your home’s data access node.”
My smile is tight. “I do a lot of after-hours work. You know how it is.”
“Work.” He echoes it, rolls the word around like he’s tasting it.
I don’t blink.
He leans forward, eyes like polished glass. “Tell me something, Dr. Sorala. You’ve been stationed here a long time. Corven-7’s not exactly glamorous. Why stay?”
“I like quiet,” I lie.
“Quiet?” He chuckles, low and dry. “With a war hero on your slab and a half-dozen Alliance scouts poking around? Funny idea of peace.”
I shift. “What’s your point, Commander?”
He finally leans back, hands folding. “Just making conversation.”
Bullshit.
He knows.
Or he suspects.
And that’s worse.
“Can I go now?” I ask, voice neutral.
He gestures toward the door with a smile. “Of course, Doctor. Just remember—any secrets buried long enough tend to sprout.”
I stand. My legs don’t shake. Not until I’m outside the door.
Borrowed time.
I’m on borrowed time.
And the clock just started ticking louder.