Chapter 21
JOLIE
The access corridor outside the IHC systems hub hums with a low, controlled vibration that travels through the soles of my boots and into my bones as I move through it, and the air carries a sterile chill that strips away the usual grit of the lower levels.
The overhead lights burn in steady, unblinking rows, casting hard illumination that flattens depth and leaves nowhere for shadows to settle, while the polished floor dulls the sound of my steps until each footfall feels swallowed before it can echo.
I keep my pace even, letting my shoulders stay loose and my breathing measured, because anything sharper than routine would stand out in a place designed to notice deviation.
The walls stretch smooth and seamless on either side of me, broken only by embedded access panels and sensor nodes that sit flush with the surface, and I feel the weight of those unseen systems tracking movement, logging presence, measuring every second I occupy this space.
“You don’t belong here,” I murmur under my breath, not as doubt but as acknowledgment, and I angle my body slightly as I reach the terminal so that my shoulder blocks the direct line of sight from the nearest sensor node.
My fingers press into the panel, feeling the faint current running beneath it, and I override the lock with adroit skill. The interface flickers once, then stabilizes into a cold glow that reflects back against my eyes, and I lean in just enough to shield the screen as my hands move.
“Let’s see what you’re hiding,” I say quietly.
The system responds immediately, faster than anything in the lower levels, and the speed alone tells me I have crossed into something deeper than I was meant to touch.
Files expand across the display in layered branches, clean and organized in a way that feels deliberate, and I begin pulling them apart before the system can decide I should not be there.
Movement logs stack over authorization codes, transport manifests thread through restricted access records, and I isolate one sequence that does not fit the visible structure.
My fingers move faster, dragging that fragment into focus, and the interface resists for a fraction of a second before giving way.
“There you are,” I murmur, narrowing my eyes as the data resolves.
The transport entries align with the breach patterns, not directly, but through timing that only makes sense when the layers are pulled together.
I overlay patrol rotations, then clearance overrides, and the structure tightens into something unmistakable.
My pulse picks up, not from panic, but from recognition.
“You’re moving them off-grid,” I say quietly, my voice tightening as I trace the route.
The destination field expands.
Deadlands perimeter.
The implication settles deeper than anything I have seen so far. The system does not label these as transfers or relocations, and it does not assign return routes or follow-up logs.
“You’re not transferring them,” I murmur, my fingers moving faster as I begin copying the data. “You’re erasing them.”
The interface flickers once, a subtle stutter that does not interrupt the transfer but tells me the system has noticed something it should not. I push harder anyway, rerouting the data through a compressed buffer, forcing it out before the system can close around me.
“Don’t stall now,” I mutter, my breath tightening as the progress bar inches forward.
The noise beneath the panel rises in pitch, and the screen stabilizes too cleanly, like it has corrected for something.
“They’re watching,” I say under my breath.
The transfer completes.
I shut the terminal down immediately, stepping back as the screen drops to black, and the silence that follows feels heavier, like the system has shifted from passive observation to active awareness.
I turn without hesitation, my body already moving as I head down the corridor with controlled speed, forcing myself not to rush even as every instinct pushes me to.
The air feels tighter now, and the lights seem brighter, harsher, as if the environment itself has sharpened around me.
“You pushed too far,” I mutter, adjusting my path toward the nearest exit route.
“Good,” I add, quieter, because there is no point in pulling back now.
The corridor opens ahead, and I adjust my pace, calculating distance, timing, the nearest blind angle—
“Lieutenant.”
The voice cuts clean through the space.
I stop.
Not abruptly.
Not enough to draw attention.
Just enough that the movement changes from forward motion into controlled stillness before I turn.
Driscoll stands at the far end of the corridor, his posture straight, his uniform immaculate, and his presence fills the space in a way that makes everything else feel smaller.
His expression remains composed, the same controlled neutrality I have seen every day since I came under his command, but his eyes hold something sharper now, something focused and deliberate.
“Sir,” I say, my voice steady as I face him.
He walks toward me, each step measured, the sound of his boots muted against the floor but still distinct enough to mark the distance closing between us. I hold my ground, resisting the instinct to shift or adjust, and let him approach.
“You’ve been moving outside your assigned sectors,” he says.
“Routine adjustments,” I reply.
“Is that what you would call unauthorized access to restricted systems?” he asks, stopping a few feet away.
The words land without force, but they do not need it.
I meet his gaze.
“I was following a lead,” I say.
“You were exceeding your clearance,” he replies.
“I was doing my job,” I counter, my voice tightening slightly.
His eyes narrow just enough to register the resistance.
“Your job does not include independent investigation into command-level operations,” he says.
“Maybe it should,” I reply.
The silence stretches between us, not empty, but controlled, like he is measuring the exact point where this conversation shifts from correction to action.
“You’ve been asking questions,” he says.
“Yes.”
“You’ve been accessing restricted data.”
“Yes.”
“You’ve been operating outside protocol.”
“Yes.”
Each admission lands deliberately, and I do not look away.
“And you do not see a problem with that,” he says.
“I see a problem,” I reply. “I just don’t think it’s me.”
His gaze holds mine, steady and unblinking, and something colder settles into the space between us.
“You are becoming a liability,” he says.
“Then maybe the system is broken,” I shoot back.
“That’s enough,” he says, the words sharper now, edged with command.
I do not step back.
I do not lower my gaze.
“Lieutenant Jolie,” he continues, his tone flattening. “You are being reassigned effective immediately.”
“Reassigned to what?” I ask.
“Transport,” he says.
The word sits wrong the second it leaves his mouth, and I feel it in the way my chest tightens and my shoulders square without conscious thought.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I reply.
“It doesn’t have to,” he says.
“You’re removing me,” I say.
“I’m containing a problem,” he corrects.
The phrasing settles heavy, deliberate, final.
“This isn’t over,” I say.
“For you,” he replies, “it is.”
He steps past me, the shift in air subtle but unmistakable, and I feel the weight of his authority move with him.
“Report to the transport bay,” he says over his shoulder. “Immediately.”
I do not respond, because the order does not require acknowledgment to carry weight.
The transport bay greets me with heat and noise the second I step inside, the air thick with the sharp tang of fuel and the constant vibration of engines cycling through pre-flight checks.
Machinery hums and clanks in layered rhythms, and the flickering overhead lights cast long, uneven shadows across the deck that stretch and retract with every shift in illumination.
The shuttle waits at the far end, its hull scarred from repeated use, its surface reflecting the bay lights in dull, uneven patches.
“You’re late,” a crew member says without looking up.
“I wasn’t aware this was optional,” I reply as I move past him.
He gestures toward the open hatch.
“Get in.”
I climb the ramp without hesitation, the metal vibrating under my boots as I step into the interior. The air inside feels warmer, thicker, carrying the scent of oil and worn materials, and the low throb of the engines pulses through the structure.
I take a seat near the rear, securing the restraint across my chest as the hatch seals behind me with a heavy, final sound.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Out,” the pilot replies.
“Out where?”
He does not answer, and I do not expect him to.
The engines surge, the vibration intensifying as the shuttle lifts, pressing me back into the seat as we clear the bay and move into open air.
The Deadlands stretch beneath us within minutes, a vast expanse of scorched terrain and shifting dust, the horizon blurred by heat distortion that warps distance and depth.
The vibration changes. Not turbulence. Not external.
Internal.
“What was that?” I ask, my voice tightening as the console lights flicker.
“System glitch,” the pilot says, his tone sharp.
The controls stutter.
The lights dim, then surge.
The shuttle jerks sideways, the motion sudden and violent, and the restraints bite into my shoulders as the hull groans under the strain.
“That’s not a glitch,” I say.
“Sit tight,” he snaps.
The alarms spike, sharp and piercing, and sparks jump from the control panel as the system struggles to stabilize.
“Stabilize it,” someone shouts.
“I’m trying—”
The shuttle lurches again, harder, the structure shuddering as something gives.
Metal tears.
The sound rips through the cabin, high and violent, and the rear section ruptures in a burst of pressure that sucks the air from the space in an instant.
Wind slams into me, tearing at my clothes, ripping the breath from my lungs as everything loose in the cabin hurtles toward the opening.
My hands grip the seat instinctively, but the force is stronger.
“Hold on!” someone shouts.
The words vanish into the roar.
The restraint strains.
Then snaps.
The world drops out from under me as I am pulled backward, the shuttle vanishing above me in a blur of motion as gravity takes hold.
The sky spins.
The ground rushes up.
The wind tears at my face, my body twisting as I try to orient, trying to find any control in the chaos.
The impact hits like a shockwave, slamming through me with crushing force as the ground rises to meet me, and the pain explodes outward, white-hot and overwhelming.
Air leaves my lungs in a violent rush.
Sound disappears.
Then returns all at once in a rush of heat and wind and distant noise that barely registers.
The desert presses against me, the sand hot and abrasive against my skin, the air dry and harsh as it scrapes into my lungs with every shallow breath.
I lie there, unmoving, not because I choose to, but because my body refuses anything else, and the world narrows to sensation as pain pulses through every part of me.
My fingers twitch against the sand.
My chest rises, then falls, uneven and strained.
And somewhere through the haze—
I realize I survived.