Chapter 20
KENRON
The netsplosion is great, but I’m a hands-on kind of individual. I know just the people who can help us blow this whole thing wide open…if I survive the encounter.
First, though, I have to ferret out their latest hidey hole…and these are the kinds of people who don’t like to be found easily. It takes me a few hours of pounding the pavement to get the info I need, my destination is an unmarked alley in the worst part of town.
Swell.
The back alley stinks of old oil, ozone, and wet stone.
Real stone, the kind you don’t find in new cities anymore.
It's chipped and blackened from plasma scars, flanked by towers stitched together from old Novarian concrete and newer Vakutan alloys—ugly, but sturdy. Like the people I’m here to meet.
They picked the place on purpose. Out of the way, barely within the legal perimeter of Novaria Prime. No patrols. No scans. Just a flickering floodlight above the service entrance and the knowledge that if someone follows you in here, they better have the balls to finish the job.
I step through the rusted gate, slow and deliberate, my coat heavy around me and my hands in plain sight. The knives stay sheathed. Doesn’t matter that they know me—doesn’t mean they trust me. Not yet.
“Kenron,” a voice calls from the shadows. “Still dragging that meat suit around, huh?”
I smirk. “Still hiding behind crates and smartassery, Duran?”
He steps into the light.
Vakutan, taller than me by a head, cobalt skin lined with war-ink and cybernetic burns. He’s got a shock of silver hair tied back in a combat braid and a grin full of teeth like chipped glass.
We clasp forearms, his grip bone-deep.
“Thought you were dead,” he says.
“Thought you were in prison.”
“Different kind of dead.”
Behind him, two more shapes emerge. Vekt and Sahmi. She’s got a new eye and a fresh limp, and he’s wrapped in that ever-present pressure rig to keep his lungs from caving. War didn’t treat any of us kindly. But we’re still here.
Barely.
“I didn’t come to reminisce,” I say. “I need gear.”
Duran laughs. “Oh, do you now? Just rollin’ up here like we owe you?”
“You do.”
He sobers. Doesn’t argue.
“Maskers. Encryptions. Shortwave interference grids. And a backdoor into the Sunrise Festival’s upper tier.” I meet his eyes. “I’m not asking for charity. I’ll trade what I have.”
He crosses his arms. “And what’s that?”
I reach into my satchel and pull out the bundle.
My blades.
Wrapped in a cloth stitched with my grandmother’s sigil. He recognizes it. They all do.
Sahmi steps forward. “Are those what I think they are?”
I nod. “Handforged steel from Earth’s last traditional forge. Balanced with hematite from Vakut Prime. Custom core handles. I used them to cook for the Reconciliation Summit.”
Vekt lets out a low whistle.
“That’s not just payment,” Duran mutters. “That’s sacrilege.”
I meet his gaze. “I know what I’m asking.”
There’s silence.
Then he jerks his chin toward the old freight lift. “Come on. We’ll talk inside.”
He leads. I follow, wary for ambush even if I don’t really expect one.
The warehouse smells like hot metal and powdered minerals.
Wires snake across the floor like living things.
In one corner, a disassembled council beacon lies gutted, its core blinking like a dying heartbeat.
In another, crates labeled as agricultural supplies leak ghostlight from their cracked seals.
Duran tosses a padded case onto a table. “Got three units of Ophiux jammers. One’s busted, but the rest’ll fry most standard bio-scanners if you don’t stand still too long.”
He taps another crate. “Encryption kits. Not top tier, but solid. Enough to get you into festival tier-two access ports, maybe even bluff a central node.”
I nod, absorbing it all.
“What’s the target?” Vekt asks from the side. “Council convoy? Supply raid?”
“Bioweapon drop,” I say.
They all freeze.
I pull up the file on my pad. Let them see it for themselves.
The virus specs. The Festival blueprints. The dispersal vectors.
When I speak, my voice is iron. “They’re planning to cleanse the crowd during sunrise. Kill any non-human presence. Quiet. Precise. Then blame it on food poisoning or tech sabotage. You know the game.”
“Dennis Montana,” Sahmi says slowly. “The human senator?”
I nod once.
“You sure?”
“Dead sure.”
Duran folds his arms. “So what, you’re gonna stop it with a salad fork?”
“I’m gonna stop it with precision,” I say. “With timing. And with allies who remember what war really cost.”
Sahmi squints. “Why now? You’ve been out of the game for years. Why dive back in?”
I hesitate.
Then I say her name.
“Kristi.”
There’s a beat.
Then Duran laughs. Harsh and low.
“The niece? Of all the people—”
“She leaked the files,” I cut in. “She burned her own bridge. She knew what it’d cost.”
Vekt scoffs. “And you believed her?”
I don’t answer.
I don’t need to.
Because the truth’s already in my face.
In the way my jaw sets. In the quiet fury behind my eyes. In the way I place the blades on the table like an offering.
Sahmi sees it. She nods.
“She’s real, then.”
“She is.”
Duran exhales. “Alright. You’ve got your gear. But you’re not walking in alone.”
He tosses me a comm chip. “Old frequency. Black-band. We’ll run interference. Give you an edge.”
I pocket it. “I owe you.”
He grins. “Damn right you do.”
I walk out of that warehouse lighter than I should be.
But sharper, too.
I’ve got what we need now.
And for the first time in years, I don’t feel like just a chef.
I feel like a weapon.
When I get back to the safehouse, my blood chill in my veins.
The door’s open.
Not busted, not pried. Just... ajar. Swinging slightly on a crooked hinge like it’s forgotten how to close without her hand guiding it. My pulse spikes. Every instinct I ever buried under chef whites and spice dust screams trap, wrong, too quiet.
I’m inside before I realize I’ve drawn my knife. The good one. The one with the handle worn smooth by years of dicing roots and slashing throats. The safehouse smells like cold air and burnt caf. But not blood. No blood.
That’s something.
Still, my eyes flick across the room, counting. The mess on the counter’s undisturbed. The datapads are gone. The backup drive? Missing. Good. She took the important stuff.
My boot scuffs something.
A note.
No—my pad. Flipped face-up on the floor, blinking with a single message.
“Relocated. I’m safe. But they’re moving faster.”
I read it twice. A third time. Like if I stare hard enough I’ll conjure her breath on my neck, the way her voice curls around my ribs when she’s close. But all I get is static. Cold silence.
The air tastes wrong.
She’s gone.
And I wasn’t here.
I sink down hard on the edge of the table, my body heavy like it's just remembered how old the war made me. My hand curls around the hilt of the blade until my knuckles ache.
She’s smart. Smarter than I ever was. If she says she’s safe, she means it.
But safe’s a temporary thing in this city.
Especially when you’re carrying the kind of truth that gets folks disappeared.
I scrub a hand down my face, the stubble catching on my fingers. I hate this. This sitting. This waiting. I’ve lived through fire, through siege. I’ve seen cities collapse under orbital barrage. But nothing shakes me like not knowing where Kristi is.
Because I’ve had enough loss to last a lifetime.
And I sure as hell ain’t burying her.
I stand.
The drawer creaks as I open it. Inside, my kit—culinary and otherwise.
I run my fingers over the blades. Some stained, some shining.
I pull out the twin crescent knives, the ones forged with folded steel and embedded microfilament.
My hands move with muscle memory, checking their balance, testing the edges.
Then I roll them in their cloth, tuck them against my back, and grab the whetstone.
She thinks I’m just a chef. Hell, most days I want to believe that too.
But a chef knows what makes people tick. What flavors open doors. What memories a single spice can evoke.
And what pressure makes something break.
Food teaches you patience. Teaches you how to wait for just the right moment before flipping the whole thing on its head.
But war?
War taught me how to finish what I start.
I sit at the table. Lay out my tools. One line for cooking. One line for combat. No difference anymore. Same hands. Same precision. Same purpose.
The whetstone hisses as I drag the first blade across it.
Shhhk.
A pause. A breath.
Shhhk.
I used to believe food could change hearts. That the right dish, the right story shared over a steaming plate, could bridge gaps carved by centuries of hate.
Now?
Now I know the truth.
Sometimes, survival isn’t about hearts. It’s about steel. About grit. About knowing when to set down the spoon and pick up the blade.
I sharpen both.