Chapter 21
VALTRON
There’s a rumble in my bones I can’t shake.
Not the kind that comes from the arena, from fight prep or a bad bruise under scale. This one’s lower. Older. It rolls through me like predator tension before the pounce.
Rhea’s in the back room, pacing and fuming and barely holding it together under a cascade of falling sky. I can feel her through the walls. Feel the crackle of her temper like static in the air, the stifled panic she thinks she’s hiding.
I told her she still was safe.
But I might’ve lied.
I stalk down the hallway of Kaelor’s bunker like a creature too big for the space.
The low ceilings make me hunch. Pipes whine when I pass.
The old Alzhon tech keeps this place airtight, but it’s not built for me.
Not built for anyone expecting a war, and gods, it smells like one’s coming.
Copper and ozone and sweat-soaked electronics.
The scent of secrets simmering too long.
I flip on the scrambler wall and key in a direct subline. Top clearance. Dead channel.
The holo crackles. Picks up slow.
Then Vice Admiral Leena Dray blinks into existence. Half-shadowed. Hair braided like wire. One eye black-ink cyberware, the other sharp as ever. She doesn’t smile.
“Vakutan,” she says, voice low and dry. “I’d ask how you’re enjoying retirement, but the answer’s obvious.”
“Was never really retired,” I grunt.
Her mouth twitches. Not a smile. Something meaner. “You don’t call unless something’s burning.”
“It’s burning,” I say. “And this time it’s personal.”
I send her the ping log—unauthorized access attempt, Combine handshake pattern, target trace: Rhea Hart. A second later, I shoot her the holovid snapshot—the one that started this hell spiral. Me. Ripley. Sweet cubes. Smiles.
Leena whistles. “Shit.”
“Yeah.”
She leans forward. Her screen jitters. “Tell me exactly what you need.”
I take a breath that tastes like rust. “I need to know who’s still active. Combine-side. Arena-adjacent. Anyone flagged as sleeper or clean-up.”
Her fingers fly across her interface. “You do realize Gladiator Prime has twelve thousand staffers and over eighty shell companies laundering cred through it?”
“I’m not asking for a headcount,” I snap. “I’m asking for threats.”
“Everything’s a threat when you poke the Combine,” she mutters. “And you just handed them a family photo.”
“Not by choice.”
She pauses. “Rhea. The kid. They’re exposed now.”
“I know.”
Another silence.
Leena narrows her eyes. “You sure about this? You want me digging in that muck again, I’ll do it. But you know how the Combine reacts to ghosts.”
I let the silence answer.
Finally she leans back and breathes through her teeth. “Alright. I’ll ping old strings. But hear me, Valtron—your name’s not forgotten. And neither is hers. They remember what she leaked. What you broke. That girl’s not just a kid to them. She’s proof.”
My jaw clenches so hard my teeth groan.
“I appreciate it, Leena.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” she says. “You’re asking for heat you can’t outrun. Better brace.”
The screen dies.
I stand in the blue-dark glow of the scrambler field for a moment. Just breathing. Listening. I feel the muscles in my shoulders twitch like I’m about to fight something that isn’t here yet.
Then I hear Rhea’s voice from down the hall.
Sharp. Confused.
“Quinn?”
I turn.
She’s back in the comm room, face pale, hand trembling as she holds her compad like it’s radioactive. Her voice cracks again.
“Quinn, slow down. What are you saying?”
I stride in, crouching low enough not to clip the doorway. Her hand flies up, silencing me.
“Yes. I remember the box. You said it was junk. You said it wasn’t worth—wait. Are you serious?”
She turns to me, eyes wild.
“It’s his brother,” she mouths.
Then: “Where?”
She listens. Nods. Her other hand fists in her blouse.
“Okay. Send me the coords. No, don’t come here. Stay low. Burn your feeds.”
She hangs up.
“Talk,” I say, already moving to shut the door and throw up a new jammer.
Rhea turns, skin tight across her knuckles. “It’s Quinn’s brother. He’s been sorting his stuff since... since they buried him.”
“Quinn the segment producer?”
“The one who helped get Argus’s packet to me,” she says. “The one they said died in an engine malfunction last year.”
I remember. Thin guy. Sharp. Too sharp. Dead too young.
“What about him?”
Rhea lifts the compad, screen still flickering with transfer confirmation.
“There was a second data crystal. Hidden. Quinn never sent it. His brother found it behind a false panel in his compad case. It’s encrypted. But he cracked the shell. Val—”
Her voice breaks.
“It’s about Gladiator Prime.”
My blood goes cold.
“What about it?”
She swallows. “The Combine’s been using the arena.”
“For what?”
Her eyes burn. “For cover. Logistics. Prisoner transfer. Testing. Everything.”
My hands curl into fists before I can stop them. I want to punch the console, the wall, the sky. Instead I pace, each step a barely controlled quake.
“How much does the crystal show?”
“Enough. Drone footage. Transit logs. Live-chat from a handler. Names. Timetables. It’s all dated within the last three months.”
I stop pacing. Turn to her.
“You’re telling me the arena—my home—is a goddamn Combine shell op?”
She just nods.
I lean forward, bracing my hands on either side of her, my breath coming rough.
“I thought we were done with this war,” she whispers, voice gone small.
I stare at the floor. It’s cracked tile. Dirty. Real.
Then I say it, low and feral:
“We were.”
I look up.
“But the war’s not done with us.”
They say war turns you into something else.
I never turned into something else.
I just let it all out.
And now here I am again, boarding a transport with two people I’d carve the stars for, pretending this is just another ride.
The smell of recycled air and burnt coolant chokes the cabin.
The seats are cracked, the bulkheads buzz with poor wiring, and the other passengers are the kind of quiet that comes with paranoia.
Traders, smugglers, low-tier civvies, maybe one or two ex-spooks trying to ghost out of the system unnoticed.
We fit right in.
Rhea’s beside me. Her hood is up, face turned away. She’s got Ripley pressed against her side like she’s trying to weld the kid to her ribs.
Ripley, for her part, is being strong. Too strong.
Her eyes dart across the seats. Watching. Processing. She's not fidgeting, not whining, not asking where we’re going—just silent, wrapped in the oversized coat I gave her, cap pulled low to hide her hair.
I hate this.
I hate that she’s learning fear.
That she’s memorizing escape routes instead of song lyrics.
That she saw her first stun baton before her first tooth fell out.
I shift in my seat, scanning the cabin again. A guy two rows back is watching us too long. Pale skin, mirrored lenses, jittery fingers tapping against a thigh. Could be nothing. Could be everything.
I log his face anyway.
Rhea whispers, “You’re vibrating.”
I glance down. My left leg’s bouncing.
I stop.
“Too quiet,” I mutter.
She doesn’t reply.
But her hand tightens around Ripley’s.
The mining moon—Zebeth Station-3—comes into view an hour later. It’s ugly. Bleached bone rock, drilling towers like broken teeth, haze in the upper atmosphere that clogs the sun into a dull smear. The whole place stinks of methane and metal and the ghosts of buried fire.
Perfect for a dead drop.
The docking ramp groans as we disembark. I step out first, scanning the crowd, the towers, the shadows. Rhea follows close. Ripley clings to her side like a little shadow, steps precise, too careful.
We’re supposed to look like a tired family. Regular. Forgettable.
But everything about us screams wrong.
I feel the stares. Or maybe I imagine them. Doesn’t matter.
I make us take the long way around the cargo hold and cut through an ore lot guarded by an old Grolgath who’s too busy scratching his third armpit to notice us. Rhea shoots me a look.
I shrug. “Less cameras this way.”
We make it to the coordinates Quinn’s brother sent.
It’s a shipping container. Beat to shit. Sandblasted and half-sunk into the dirt like an ancient relic. But the scan shows it’s still powered.
Rhea kneels, fingers trembling as she enters the code. Ripley stands behind her, clutching the hem of her coat.
I stand watch, one hand on the grip of my backup stunner.
The crate hisses open.
Inside: a single steel case.
No markings. No labels. No ambient signal.
Smart.
Rhea lifts it gently. Sets it on a nearby crate. The code panel lights up with a flicker.
“It’s buried,” she murmurs, squinting. “Multiple layers. Like someone intentionally wrapped it in anti-surveillance rotors.”
“Can you break it?”
“I can try.”
She’s already plugging in a decrypt stick when Ripley tugs her sleeve.
“Mommy, someone’s coming.”
I spin.
Three of them.
Fast. Moving like they’ve trained for this.
No uniforms. Just dark clothes, masks, and stun batons humming low and lethal.
Rhea pulls Ripley back fast, tucking her behind the crate.
I step in front of them, stance wide.
“You wanna do this the hard way?” I growl.
They don’t answer.
One lunges.
I move first.
My elbow crashes into his face, snaps the mask clean in half. I follow with a knee to the gut and a brutal hook to the temple. He drops like scrap metal.
The second swings wide—his baton crackling as it arcs toward my ribs.
I catch it.
Rip it from his hands and slam it into his kneecap.
He screams.
Good.
The third is smarter—tries to flank, goes low, aims for Rhea.
Big mistake.
I drive my heel into his spine before he reaches her. He folds like paper, but not before his baton hits the ground and discharges.
The hum makes Ripley scream.
I whirl, expecting blood—
But she’s just standing there.
Frozen.
Eyes wide. Trembling.
Rhea grabs her, arms tight, whispering nonsense against her hair.
I feel everything in me coil.
Not from the fight.
From the look on my daughter’s face.
She’s never seen me fight like that. Not outside holovids. Not up close.
And now she’s shaking.
Rhea meets my eyes. Her voice breaks when she says it.
“We can’t keep doing this.”
I start to speak.
She cuts me off.
“We can’t keep dragging her through this, Valtron. Through run-ins and stunners and surveillance drones. Through blood and secrets and... and whatever the hell this is.” She’s crying now, holding Ripley like the girl’s about to be stolen.
“We have to end it.”
And I don’t have a goddamn argument.
Because she’s right.
Because this war came back for us.
And it’s staring me in the face wearing a child’s terror like a brand.
I nod once.
Just once.
And I say, “Then we burn them all down.”