Chapter 32
KALLUS
The alert pings like a blade sliding from its sheath — quick, sharp, demanding attention.
I’m in the tactical bay polishing the edge of an old training blade, the metal warm and humming against my gloves.
I feel the vibration in my fingertips long before the alert shows on the holoscreen: a deep-space encryption signature I recognize instantly.
It’s Earth-made.
Not Reaper tech, not hybrid, not some bastardized human outsider program — Earth.
Someone patched through a blind channel. The signal is buried beneath layers of code and obfuscation, but my systems peel it back like skin.
And then the name blares across the decryption stream:
FREDERICK — ACTIVE.
A cold spike shoots through me.
“Terminate?” I growl, voice low in the silent bay.
The AI chirps calm. “Unknown. Identity matches partial Earth First genetic profiles but encrypted beyond standard classification. Signal traced to exo-tech coordinates on the Helios Spur.”
I taste ash and iron.
Ayla is beside me in an instant — fluid, keen, the scent of starroot incense trailing her like a promise. She leans in to the feed as it finishes decoding.
“Encrypted Earth-signature,” she murmurs. “But not official channels. This was relayed through private arms brokers.”
“Arms brokers?” I repeat, jaw tightening.
Ayla nods, eyes narrow. “Tech dealers specializing in radical war hardware. Exo-tech factions that operate outside of sanctioned markets. They aren’t IHC, but they move Earth-grade weapons.”
The color drains from me.
“I thought he was dead,” I rasp, heartbeat hammering like war drums.
“He’s not,” Ayla says softly.
I see something flicker in her eyes — not fear, but steel. “He’s alive?”
“Yes.”
“Then he isn’t just hiding — he’s arming.”
Across the silent bay, the holoscreen shifts — subtle, encrypted frames rearranging math into meaning: Frederick’s voice, old and familiar and repulsive in its casual malice.
“Payment delivered,” he says, clipped, almost bored. “Prepare the Mark III exo-displacers. I want them calibrated for bone-plasma resonance. And hurry.”
That voice — that tone — it should make my blood boil, but right now my muscles are ice and fire fused together. The world narrows until it’s voice and memory and threat.
“Earth still hasn’t responded publicly,” Ayla says.
“But unofficially?” I ask.
A tense breath. “Silence at the senate level. Private channels — there’s been chatter. They want him gone. They just don’t want to be the ones to pull the trigger.”
I blink.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
Ayla smiles, slow, amused, and all-knowing. “We scratch their back, they scratch ours.”
My brain locks on scratch their back.
My mouth opens.
“What? You want war?” I blurt, tone rising. “You want us to launch a full-on strike on Earth?”
She blinks at me, clearly not expecting my interpretation.
“No,” she says, patient and soft, “I meant — once we eliminate the reagents of threat to peace — like Frederick — Earth may be willing to lift sanctions, consider diplomatic relations, maybe even trade treaties.”
I stare at her.
“You thought scratch their back literally?” she laughs, eyes bright.
I flush. “Isn’t that what it sounds like?”
She shakes her head, amused, then serious again.
“It’s metaphor. It means mutual aid. We help them deal with a rogue threat, and in turn they loosen restrictions, open channels for peace and trade. A formal alliance. Protection for hybrids. Sanctuary for the Clanless.”
I let that sink in.
Then the memory of Frederick’s grin — cruel, narrow, triumphant — clenches like a fist around my guts.
“I brought the bastard into this war,” I say, the words almost a growl. “I’ll end him.”
Ayla doesn’t flinch. She just nods, contemplative.
I take a deep breath and step away from the holoscreen, boots echoing against the metal deck. The scent of ionized air and star coolant clings to me. My mind spins through strategy, honor, retribution, responsibility — all the threads tangled together in this moment.
“Kallus,” Ayla says, following me, voice gentle — but urgent. “We don’t go in blind. Frederick’s not the man we remember. He’s allied with tech barons who deal in weapons so advanced they make old plasma rifles look like sticks.”
“I know,” I say, turning to face her. My breath hitches — not from doubt, but resolve. “That makes him dangerous.”
She nods, eyes steady.
“Diplomacy doesn’t mean we’re soft,” she says. “It means we build strength with allies. If Frederick wants war, he’ll face every system we’ve touched. Every human, hybrid, and Reaper who believes in peace.”
I let her words settle over me like fire tempered by wind.
“Then we do this right,” I say.
My voice is a promise.
A vow.
A storm breaking.
Ayla smiles — the flicker of dawn in her eyes.
“Then let’s draft the response,” she says. “With counsel. With clarity. And with certainty.”
I nod, heart pounding like a battle drum.
“First,” I say, “we go after him.”
And I can feel the truth of it like cold steel in my veins.
We make our preparations. My refurbished cruiser is upgraded with even more plasma weaponry. I don’t think anything of Ayla wanting to come along, because I assume she will stay with the ship.
She joins me on the bridge. The corridors hum underfoot — a low, liquid vibration that feels like the heartbeat of the Ghost Talon itself.
This ship was born from steel ambitions and midnight whispers, a sleek shadow forged in secret after the broadcast storm settled.
Its hull isn’t bone-forged like Tyrannus craft, but layered with dark alloys that drink light and reflect nothing back. I like it for that.
Yet even here, in a ship built for silence and speed, my mind is noisy.
Ayla stands beside me at the nav console, eyes sharp and steady. She’s folded her arms, one brow arched — not angry, not impatient, just unshakably certain. There’s a glow about her, the kind that means she’s thought her way into truth and refuses to back down.
“We need to go together,” she says — again. Her tone is calm, controlled, but unyielding, like a blade forged at too-hot fire and tempered in ice.
I rub my thumb over her knuckles, trying to ease the edge of tension that keeps snaking through my ribs. “Ayla — this isn’t a diplomatic envoy. This is a strike. A recon. A hit if need be.”
She doesn’t flinch. “And I am a strategist,” she replies, eyes fixed on the route plotted through the Ghost Talon’s holomap.
Black Dagger asteroid ring — cold rock and lethal belts where outlaw arms dealers trade without license or conscience.
“You’ll need more than muscle. You’ll need perspective, angles — and I can offer that. ”
“I’ll need ferocity,” I counter with a half grin, trying to lighten the weight of it all. “And caution. And not logic turning into poetry at the wrong moment.”
Her smile is slow, teasing, but she doesn’t back down. “Ferocity and logic. Not mutually exclusive.”
I look away, out toward the viewport where stars stretch into infinity — little white sparks smeared across the velvet black. And for a moment I’m lost there.
That’s when I hear her.
“Momma’s brains.”
Chelsea stands just inside the cockpit archway, arms crossed over her chest, booted feet wide — the stance of someone born to confidence, not trained into it.
I blink.
Ayla blinks.
Then we both laugh.
Chelsea’s eyes are shining — bright enough to light this whole ship. Her crimson gaze is steady, expectant, as though she knew this conversation was coming and she had exactly the right words ready.
“You’ll need Mama’s brains,” she repeats, matter-of-fact, as if she’s announcing lunch.
Ayla’s arms fold around her, scooping her up with that easy, warm grace of a mother who has fought and bled for every calm moment she’s ever gotten.
“She’s right,” Ayla says, voice gentle but firm, eyes catching mine with an expression that melts all resistance. “I belong with you in this. Not behind in Brom’s keep. With you.”
I swallow — dry, heavy, but honest. “I argued logic,” I say, trying to sound bravado when really I’m just trying to say fear. “But she’s right. You do have perspective I lack.”
Chelsea giggles, tucked against her mother, like this is all a great game and not a threat to every nerve in my body.
Ayla kisses Chelsea’s forehead. “We go — together,” she whispers to me. “No question.”
My chest tightens — not with fear, but with something that feels like pride and love and dread all mixed into one sharp coil. I step closer and take both their hands — the tiny one of Chelsea, the warm one of Ayla — and I draw them into my space.
“We do this as one,” I state, slow and grounded, voice like iron tempered through flame. “We face whatever hell he’s gathered. And we end him — one way or another.”
Chelsea’s grin does this little spark thing she does — like she’s picturing herself hair whipping in warp speed, blade at her side, roaring laughter trailing behind like fire. “Next time,” she says, “I fly.”
My chest cracks open a little bit at that. Fierce and unapologetic — exactly like who she is.
“We’ll train for that,” I promise.
She nods gravely, like a commander signing for her first starfighter.
The Ghost Talon doesn’t launch quietly. Its engines slide awake with a soft, erotic purr — like a predatory cat stretching before the hunt.
The scent of ionized metal fills the cockpit, sharp and thrilling.
Ayla and I sit side by side, consoles glowing with incoming harmonics from the asteroid ring, tactical feeds, encrypted channels, and ghost echoes of Frederick-tagged signals.
I key in our departure — the hum deepens, the stars draw lines of light, and the ship slides out of orbit like water slipping off obsidian.
Ayla leans over the comm board, fingers dancing across options and readouts. Her voice is soft, calm, but every syllable is a plan, a strategy, a tether back to the world we are defending.
“We’ll need a projection of his last known vectors,” she mutters, eyes sweeping holodata. “And check every arms dealer flashpoint within the Helios Spur quadrant. He can’t be acting alone.”
“She’s right,” I say — not reluctantly, but with genuine affirmation. “Frederick doesn’t make moves without a network. If he’s alive and dealing in outlaw tech, he’s got proxies. Supply chains. Codes.”
Chelsea peeks over the console edge, like a little owl perched on a moonstone ledge. “Can I see too?” she asks.
Ayla crouches beside her, murmuring in low tones. “Not yet, little flame. We have to analyze first.”
Chelsea pouts — adorable and ferocious all at once — but she doesn’t protest further.
I inhale — the scent of warm circuitry and star dust, and something deeper: resolve.
I place a hand over Ayla’s — her touch like a compass guiding fire through dark places.
“We do this right,” I say. “Not just for us. For her. For every hybrid and exile who chooses peace over fear.”
Ayla nods, gaze steady.
“As one,” she echoes.
The Ghost Talon slips deeper into the vortex of star currents, the universe passing in silver streaks against the shadowed glass.
I close my eyes for a fraction of a breath.
Not out of doubt.
Not out of fear.
But to center every nerve, every bloodline, every breath — on what comes next.
And when I open them again, it’s with fire.