9. Kalev
KALEV
It’s the kind of place even ghosts avoid—where the walls sweat rust and the air tastes like melted circuitry.
My boots click on the grated floor with an uneven rhythm, one step off from human cadence, but perfect for keeping me alert.
Above, coolant lines hiss in bursts that mimic breath.
Below, there’s only dark and old secrets.
I’m not fond of moving operations this deep, but the intel leaves no room for debate.
Ataxian presence confirmed. Buried under Spuel like a rotting tooth. Alliance wants extraction-ready data. They want names, logistics paths, entry protocols. They want it fast. And they want it clean.
It won’t be clean.
I scrub the windows of the ops node twice before Leah shows. Not for clarity. Just for something to do that doesn’t involve staring at the blinking command updates or rereading the risk assessments I’ve already memorized.
She steps through the hatch like she’s done it every day of her life—shoulders loose, spine tall, chin up like she owns the air she breathes. But her eyes catch on the scorch marks along the ceiling. The melted insulation. The emergency lighting that flickers just enough to drive someone mad.
“This looks cozy,” she says. “Do we get robes and matching slippers, or is that extra?”
I toss her a datapad. “New intel. Read it.”
She skims fast. Faster than most. Her brow knits tighter with every swipe.
“Under us?” she mutters. “Here? We’re sitting on it?”
“Ataxian node. Command-grade signature buried in waste routing paths. My guess? Hidden relay point or pre-invasion holdout.”
She lowers the pad. “Which means if they’re active... they’re not just listening.”
“They’re preparing.”
She sets the pad down slowly, like it might explode.
I watch her, quiet.
“I assume this isn’t a brainstorming session about snacks and escape tunnels,” she says finally.
“No. This is where it stops being prep. We shift to full op status. Controlled surveillance, heat-map overlaying, recon with sensor ping isolation. And we go dark.”
She processes that. “And I assume you’ve got Command breathing lava down your neck.”
“Practically licking my scales.”
She exhales and crosses her arms, bracing herself. “You’re going to tell me I’m benched.”
I don’t answer.
“Don’t,” she says sharply.
“This isn’t street-level rerouting anymore, Leah. This is embedded tech, encrypted comms, double-backdoor kill switches.”
“I’m aware.”
“If anything goes wrong?—”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“You’re not trained for this level.”
She steps toward me. One foot, then the next, slow and deliberate. Her eyes narrow, but not in anger. Focus.
“No one trained me to survive a League massacre either,” she says. “Or to hide under a corpse pile for six hours waiting for the screaming to stop. Or to run a logistics spider-web so tight not even predatory contractors could poke a hole. But I did it. And I’m still standing.”
“You’re standing because you’re smart,” I say. “Because you’re not reckless.”
“So don’t make me reckless now by treating me like I’m fragile. I’ve done every single thing you’ve asked. And more.”
“You think I don’t know that?”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because I care whether you make it out.”
The silence hits like gravity shifting.
She blinks. Once. Then again.
“You don’t get to do that,” she says, voice tight. “You don’t get to drop that line like it’s just another tactical update.”
“I’m not trying to manipulate you.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Giving you the chance to walk.”
“Do you want me to?”
“No.”
“Then stop pretending you do.”
I exhale. Loudly. My claws twitch, itching against my palms.
“I re-flagged your access,” I tell her. “Field liaison. You’ll have full clearance and autonomous routing authority.”
She stares. “You already did it?”
“An hour ago.”
“I could’ve been pissed.”
“You are pissed.”
That earns the ghost of a smirk. “Well, yeah.”
I lean against the ops console. The panel lights flicker over my scales, painting gold in neon-blue stripes. “We’re in this now. No margin for error. You follow my lead.”
“Fine.”
“And if it goes hot?—”
“I stick to the plan.”
“And if we need to split?—”
“I take the data and burn the rest.”
My brow lifts. “You memorized the fallback?”
“Twice.”
Damn. “Okay then.”
She crosses her arms again, watching me like I’m a puzzle that might explode if solved too fast. “You’re scared.”
“I’m cautious.”
“No. You’re scared. Not for the mission. For me.”
“You want a medal for insight?”
She grins—wicked and sudden. “I want a drink.”
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me. If I’m risking my ass for intergalactic stability, you’re buying.”
“I’m the Alliance operative. You’re the one with a forged name and a burner comm. You’re supposed to pay me.”
“Too late. You already promoted me. I’m practically your coworker now.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“You like that about me.”
I don’t argue.
The air between us shifts again. Not tension. Not ease either. Just awareness. Her gaze slips over my shoulder, then down—pauses on my chest, my arms, back up to my face. Not subtle. But not coy either.
I step back first.
“Get some rest,” I tell her. “We deploy in twelve.”
“Same hideous hour?”
“Of course.”
She rolls her eyes. “You Vakutan boys really know how to treat a girl.”
And then she’s gone.
I sit down in the silence she leaves behind and pretend I’m not already rerunning every word she just said. Pretend I’m not mapping escape routes that only work if I make sure she gets out first. Pretend I’m not already compromised.
Command wants results.
They’ll get them.
But I’m not sacrificing her to do it.
This op runs through me.
And if it burns?—
I burn first.