Chapter 24 Naull
NAULL
In the lab corridor I feel it first: a vibration in the air, a tingle behind my scalp where the Meld once thrummed.
The scent of Garma rises through the intake vents—baby powder and ozone, faint bronze warmth layered over innocence.
I stop and inhale it deeply. My boots click on metal grating.
I don’t move until the moment passes. I don’t allow the thought: that could be mine.
It’s Garma. The child is indeed mine.
But Aria… She never confirms what Garma can do.
My patience—longer than my will, sturdier than steel—is beginning to crack.
Later, in the Simulation chamber--white walls, cables like vines dropping from the ceiling, stink of ozone and neural gel--that’s where she and I sit strapped. Portable node experiment they call it. Me and her. We exchange a glance; her eyes caution-bright. I nod. We begin.
Through the visor feed we fall into another world—acid plains and violet skies of Rhavadaz, winds that slice through metal like knives. The simulated creature lumbers. We move. Meld active. Her mind in mine. Mine in hers.
I feel her tremor.
“Aria—stay with me,” I call through the interface.
Her voice wobbles, “I’m here… but not safe.”
Static crackles in the neural stream. The lights flicker.
Something teeth-hard screams inside me.
The beast strikes. My motion slow. The simulation falters. Panels glitch. The world vaporizes into feedback.
I rip the helmet off. I gasp air—real air, sterile and cold. My heart pounds. My heads woolly.
She yanks off her visor, hair plastered to her forehead, face pale as a shield.
“Naull?” she whispers.
“I saw—”
Her eyes blaze.
“Jesus, Naull, you saw what? My override? Our failure?”
Something cracks in the core of my mind. The door of the chamber bursts open. Techs rush in, alarms peel. I stagger out onto the deck.
“Tell me what’s going on,” I hiss. Rain of sweat beads across my brow.
She watches me. Not loud. Not broken. Just pale, tight-lipped.
“Tell me the truth,” I say, voice raw.
She doesn’t speak.
And in the silence, the echo of Spectra’s face flashes in my vision: gaunt, laughing, “The child… the future… the broken bond.”
God help me, I reel.
I storm the corridor. Rain lashes at the rooftop above. Cold wind floods the open airlock. I punch the wall towel-rack. Foam ribbon tears off. I shout into the hollow metal: “You owe me honesty!”
My voice thunders. Students and staff freeze behind glass.
She catches up. Quiet. Cold rain on her coat, droplets glinting. She folds arms. “Give me one minute,” she says.
I don’t wait.
“You think I won’t see it?” I snap. “You think I don’t feel it when I watch him—Garma—walk into a room and the air shifts?”
Her eyes flutter. “He is a part of you.”
“More than that,” I breathe. “His strength—his spark. His laugh. When he kicks the ball in the yard and his eyes flash gold like that first lightning strike on Rhavadaz—”
“He’s a child,” she interrupts quietly.
“So what? So what if he is?” I retort, voice low.
“But you can’t—”
“I can,” I say cold. “If you tell me the truth.”
She looks away. The street lights glint on the cobbles, rain shimmering, reflections dancing. She traces the rim of her mug. Coffee cold.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks. “Why now?”
My breath hitches. I step closer. The smell of her—tea, damp leather, conviction—fills me.
“Because I lost you once. I lost us. I made us lose us. But I didn’t lose him. Not yet.”
She flinches.
“I’m not trying to scare you,” I say softer. “I’m trying to include myself. In him. In you. I can guide him.”
Tears slip over her lashes. I don’t move. I wait.
She shakes her head. “I don’t know if I can.”
“Then tell me.” I urge.
She shivers. The wind roars outside, rain staccato on roof. She inhales, voice small.
“He’s… incredibly strong.”
I blink.
“He is.”
And I reach out, brush a strand of hair back from his forehead as he giggles in Aria’s lap—watching us. Seeing everything, knowing more than I like.
My chest floods with heat. Fear. Hope. Rage. Love. They swirl like storm clouds.
“I’m here,” I whisper. “Right now. I will guide him the same way my father did. His strength is not a problem, it's a power.”
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to.
We stand there, soaked in rain, soaked in everything unspoken, and I finally allow myself to hope.
But the Meld is broken again.
And I know we’ll have to fight its return. Together. With him. Because everything else I’ve done has been half-alive.
He is fully alive.
And I will not lose him.
In the morning, I walk back. The same steps. My stomach twists when I see her boots stepping over the flowers. She didn’t crumble them. She didn’t toss them away. She just stepped around them. Quiet like a phantom.
The message is clear.
I hate messages that arrive in silence.
Inside the hanger bay I strap into the sim-flight module.
The one based on Whiplash’s neural layout—in theory ready, in practice full of shards.
The cockpit smells of burnt insulation and recycled air.
The g-force harness bites into my chest. Systems wind up.
I look at her face on the monitor—Aria, eyes shadow-heavy, sitting in the control room.
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t wave. She just watches.
“Ready,” I say through comm.
She’s quiet.
“Let’s go,” she finally says.
The sim begins. I fly. The wind inside the tank is fake—sound of turbines, acrylic shell humming. I maneuver. I feel the old surge. Meld wires flicker in my mind. I reach for her. Reach for the child. Reach for the bond.
And then it breaks.
The world tilts. Cohesion fractures. The feedback stings behind my eyes. The meld link dies. I’m alone in the cockpit again—with the roar of fake engines and the smell of burnt servos.
I clutch my chest. I gasp—not for pain, but for absence. Something vital ripped out of me. I shudder.
“Naull! System failure!” Aria yells in my ear.
I stumble out of the cockpit. I breathe ragged. I taste the metal smell of air in a hanger. My hands shake. I feel the scarf of cold rain on my neck.
“I’m fine,” I say, but I’m lying.
The techs gather. She comes to me. Her eyes are wide.
“What happened?” she asks.
I close my eyes.
“I lost you.”
My voice cracks.
She reaches out. But I turn away.
Later, down the corridor, the baby monitor cracks.
Garma’s cry echoes. It filters through my mind—not through my ears—but through that old bond I thought was only ours.
His cry is a signal. A summons. I stop. I press my palm to the wall.
I hear the whimper in my skull. I turn and run toward the nursery.
She meets me at the door. No words. Just fear in her eyes.
I hold the door open. He’s there—half asleep, blankets tangled, cheeks flushed. His eyes flash gold when he sees me.
“Naull,” Aria says, voice quiet.
“Hey, buddy,” I say. I hold him and feel his heartbeat against mine.
He giggles.
I smile despite myself.
I glance at Aria.
“I think… we need to talk,” I say.
She nods. The silence is thick and full of storms.
I carry Garma out into the dawn light. Rain still falls. The world is wet and obedient. I walk and the boy tugs gently at my finger. His eyes shining. I walk and I know: this isn’t just about machines or melding anymore. It’s about family.
And the bond that nearly died inside me needs resuscitation.