Chapter 19
JAELA
The lab pings.
A soft, anticlimactic chirp that sounds almost cheerful—like it doesn’t know the weight of the world’s about to shift.
I stare at the screen. My fingers hover over the cracked display, pulse racing like it’s trying to outrun the truth. The DNA profile blinks steady: two glowing helix spirals locked together, twisting around each other in perfect sync. A double match. Full alignment.
Kyldak’s genetic markers. Y-chromosome configuration. Stemline density.
Perfect. A bullseye.
A father.
I sit back, all the air wheezing out of me like someone just slammed a med compressor to my chest. My hand flies to my mouth, and I feel something hot and stupid sting behind my eyes. Relief? Guilt? Maybe both. Maybe everything.
He’s the match. Kel’s only shot at staying alive past age five. His only chance to survive the chromosomal failure crawling through his blood like a shadow with teeth.
And he doesn’t even know Kel exists.
I laugh. It’s ugly and sharp and tastes like copper.
“Gods,” I whisper. “I did it.”
The makeshift lab around me whirs and buzzes—old fans, scavenged stimulators, recycled data ports. It’s barely holding together, same as me.
But it worked.
The part that didn’t work? Everything else.
I reach under the panel and yank open the medkit.
The one I risked smuggling across half a solar system.
I tear through the contents—passive collectors, gene sponges, blood tags, saliva cradles.
But no live stem harvesters. The ones that would’ve pulled fresh marrow, real-time sequence isolators—they were too big to hide. Too risky to bring.
I slam the lid shut and curse.
Without the live extraction, the match is worthless.
And the one man who can save Kel is sleeping ten meters away, wrapped in sand-dusted sheets and old scars, and I can’t tell him why I need his blood. Not here. Not in this fucking war circus full of men who’d slit my throat for looking soft.
Not while I’m still lying to him every time I open my mouth.
Later that night, I find him near the south wall, half-lit by flame and shadow. He’s alone, tinkering with a plasma coil like it’s therapy. The wind's whipping his hair back, and the red glow from his cybernetic eye reflects off the polished edge of his axe blade.
He doesn’t look up when I sit beside him. Just passes me a canteen without a word.
It’s warm. Bitter. Probably fermented pisswater or some kind of engine cleaner. I drink it anyway.
“I was thinking,” I start, tone casual, like this isn’t the most important conversation I’ve ever had, “about immune resistances.”
He grunts. “That right.”
“Yeah. There’s been a pattern in hybrid biology—human-Vakutan cross specimens. You ever heard about spontaneous compatibility drift?”
He turns to me, slow. “You wanna try that again in Standard?”
I clear my throat. “Some hybrids—like, if someone’s got Vakutan ancestry mixed with a human genome—they show resilience. Especially if the Y-chromosome carries certain markers. It's... medically significant.”
His brow furrows. “What kind of significance?”
“Regenerative potential. Cell repair. Maybe even immune reprogramming if the stemline’s dense enough.”
“Stemline.”
I nod. “The part that governs adaptive regeneration. You’ve got it. I can see it in your data profile. Hypothetically.”
He sets the coil down.
Stares at me.
“You’ve been studying me.”
I flinch. “Not like that.”
He tilts his head. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I swallow. My mouth feels like chalk and regret.
“It’s for a study,” I say, too fast.
His nostrils flare. “Bullshit.”
“I’m serious—”
“You’re lying.” His voice is low, tight. “You’re too smart to fumble this bad.”
I try to laugh it off, but it comes out jagged.
He leans closer, eye glowing. “You need something from me. Say it.”
“I said it’s a study.”
“And I said bullshit.”
His voice doesn’t rise. It drops. Quiet. Deadly. Like the calm before a quake. Like the man who once ripped another warlord’s throat out because he looked at me too long.
My heart punches my ribs.
I look away.
“I can’t,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
A long silence.
At last, he stands.
“Then don’t come to me with half-truths and science words you think I won’t question.”
“Kyldak—”
He doesn’t look at me.
Just walks away, spine stiff, jaw clenched like he’s holding something back with both fists.
Back in the tent, I sit alone. The medkit at my feet. The sample case clutched in my lap like a secret about to explode.
The man who could save our son hates being lied to.
And I’m still lying.
But how do I tell the truth?
Hey, by the way, you’ve got a kid and he’s dying and you’re his only hope but I didn’t tell you because I was afraid you’d rage out and murder the next ten people you saw in response.
Yeah. Real smooth.
I watch the little blinking light on the sample case.
Kyldak’s cells.
A cure.
And a countdown.
The moment the tent flap closes behind me, I run.
Not a full sprint—just fast enough to not feel anything. Fast enough to outpace the hot sting in my chest and the memory of Kyldak’s eyes narrowing like he saw straight through me. Again.
I duck into the crawler bay, the stink of rust and coolant hitting me like a wall. It’s abandoned this time of night. Just broken machinery, old grease stains, and hollow echoes that don’t judge.
Perfect.
I kick a loose coil across the floor.
Then another.
Then I slam my fist into a half-open toolbox, and metal wrenches clatter out like bones. Pain spikes up my arm, sharp and satisfying. It feels real. Finally. Something that makes sense.
I press my forehead to the cold metal casing of the crawler’s engine shell. My breath comes out ragged, wet, like I’m choking on smoke that isn't even there.
And then it happens.
I cry.
Not the quiet, graceful kind. No, this is ugly. Loud. My shoulders shake, my knees hit the floor, and I curl into myself like I can make the world stop spinning if I just get small enough.
Kel. Gods, Kel.
I can’t fail him.
“You look like someone who lost more than she expected to find.”
I freeze.
The voice is low, rough with desert dust, but unmistakably feminine.
I whip around fast, eyes swollen, heart in my throat.
There’s a woman standing in the shadows near the doorframe, leaning against the crawler’s busted wheelbase. Her face is smeared with soot, a welding visor hanging from her belt. Scar running across one cheek, eyes like polished stone.
I blink. “Didn’t think there were any other women in this madhouse.”
She shrugs. “There’s five. Most don’t last long. You? You’re different.”
I wipe my face on my sleeve. “Yeah, well. Don’t feel it.”
She walks over, drops a worn oil rag in my lap. I take it. Sniffle. Wipe harder.
She squats beside me, not touching, just close. “You got that look.”
“What look.”
“The one people wear when they’ve already made the choice but don’t know how to live with it.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
“I might lose even more if I don’t act fast,” I murmur.
“Then don’t wait.”
And just like that, she stands and walks out.
No name. No lecture. Just truth.
Back in the lab, I move like I’ve been shot out of a rail cannon.
Fast. Precise. Shaking inside, but keeping my hands steady. Focused.
The stim injectors aren’t made for this. They’re calibrated for battlefield adrenaline boosts, not delicate marrow draws. But the housing tech is flexible enough. I strip one, expose the microcapillary chamber, and start modifying the regulator ports with a solder spike and micro-welder.
My hands move on muscle memory alone—academy training, years of field improvisation, back-alley med jobs. This is what I’m good at. This, not warzones or lying to people I used to love.
I pause, wipe sweat from my neck.
The converted injector pulses green.
If I’m right, if I time it perfectly, if the pressure valve doesn’t blow—this will pull enough stemline-rich blood to begin synth isolation. I just need Kyldak to sit still for sixty seconds.
I set it down in the case. Seal it. Label it with a shaky hand: "Alpha Source - Gen Extractor."
Then I just… stare at it.
That’s all it is. A tool. A device.
But to me, it’s a countdown clock.
And I don’t know if I can press “start.”
Out the viewport slit, the camp glows in flickering red.
Kyldak’s out there.
Alone.
Training again. Probably working out rage with fists and weapons. Typical.
He’s shirtless. Of course he is. Even in the dark, I can see the sweat tracing down the golden scales on his back, the scar crossing his side from that prison riot he told me about last night.
His fists are wrapped in bloodied cloth, striking a battered metal target over and over again like it insulted his ancestors.
And something inside me just… cracks.
I can't do it. Not tonight.
I close the case. Slide it into the corner where even I won’t trip on it.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper to no one.