Chapter 8
Days after the attack blended like a paint blur. The first two days, I didn’t leave Sarah’s side in the med bay. The med techs rotated, Devon never left the diagnostics, and I learned the rhythm of the room: the soft click of pumps, the hiss of regulators, the way the monitors breathed. Because she slept most of the time, the neural connection gave me only thin threads—small pulses of warmth, the echo of a dream, a tightening of muscle—rather than the full, sharp signals we’d shared before.
At the end of the second day after the attack, I was at the med bay doing my Sarah watching, when I received a message informing me that I had to resume station duty in earnest; repairs didn’t wait. Because Sarah spent most of her time asleep recovering, the neural link rarely sang—only small, private pulses when she woke.
In that last evening of vigil, before I had to resume work, Devon came to give us his updated diagnosis, delivered in the med bay between calibrations and quiet beeps, was blunt and hopeful: with her physiology and conditioning she would likely be ambulatory in a week, an astonishingly short recovery for someone with her injuries, but some bioports would have to be turned off indefinitely to prevent feedback and long term instability.
“Which ones?” I asked because the list mattered.
Devon tapped a holo and pointed. “We can isolate the motor and sensory ports and keep them functional. The emotional modulation ports—the ones that dampen empathy and sharpen aggression—are risky. They’re the ones that make Ardani warriors more machine than person. If she’s willing, we can turn those off permanently.”
Sarah’s hand tightened around the edge of the bed. Through the link I felt the weight of the choice—doctrine, identity, survival. For a second the old training flickered across her face: the posture, the taught jaw, the reflex to obey. Then she let it go.
“I want them off,” she said, voice small but steady. “If I’m going to be me, I’ll accept the cost.”
Devon nodded, respect and clinical relief in his face. “It’s a significant change, but medically sound. We’ll document it as a therapeutic adjustment. You understand the implications?”
She did. She understood the risk of being targeted for having altered her augment profile, and she understood the freedom it might buy her. Devon’s fingers hovered over the console, then he looked at both of us. “And the neural link? Still consensual? Any adverse effects?”
“We’re okay,” I said. Sarah’s eyes met mine and she sent a small, private pulse—steady, consenting. “We’ll monitor it.”
Devon’s expression softened. “Good. I’ll keep the adjustments discreet. You have my professional discretion.”
He meant it. He’d worked on cross species augment diagnostics for some years before; he’d seen what secrecy could save and what exposure could ruin. His promise felt like a seal.
I left the med bay with a promise to return twice a day and a list of repairs that would keep the hull from complaining. The bond stayed low and patient while she recovered, a quiet hum under everything I did.
Back in the Fray
The third day after the attack, per Graham’s request, I got back to work with deepened rumors —what had once been scattered oddities now fit a worrying pattern: soldiers who stopped answering questions, convoys arriving with blank manifests, stations reporting synchronized failures, and a handful of technicians moving with a mechanical, delayed cadence. Incidents that before the attack had seemed unrelated now looked like threads in the same web.
Maybe it was the way the corridors smelled—more oil, less human sweat—or maybe it was the way my sleep had thinned into a series of short, alert naps. Small weirdness continued to pile up at the edges of my day: a technician who smiled a fraction too long at nothing, a supply clerk who answered questions with a delay like a corrupted buffer, a security drone that paused for a beat too long at a junction before moving on. People I’d known for years moved with a slight mechanical cadence, as if someone had tightened a screw inside their timing.
At first I blamed fatigue. Stations wear on you; the hum gets under your skin. But the wrongness accumulated like dust in a vent. Conversations that should have been quick and practical took on an odd, rehearsed quality. A laugh would arrive a beat late; a hand would linger on a railing with a stiffness that read like a program trying to remember a gesture. Once, while rewiring a panel, I heard my name called from the corridor and turned to wave—only to find no one there, just the echo of footsteps and a maintenance cart rolling itself along on a slight incline.
Aside from gathering all the strange occurrences, I fell into a rhythm. Every morning I brought chocolate croissants to the med bay and every evening I brought a vegetarian pizza—no olives, extra cheese. We ate together when she could, sharing the small, domestic ritual like contraband. I told her what I’d done on the station that day: patched a coolant loop, rerouted a sensor array, argued with a vendor about replacement seals. She kept mostly quiet, even in the link, but she always made sure we renewed the connection first thing in the morning—our first act of the day, a private handshake privy only to us.
I also reported on all the stranger things happening around the station that were too much to ignore at this point. Sarah just listened and stayed quiet, both mouth and mind.
Even when she was closed off through the link, I could feel conflicted emotions moving through her—tension braided with relief, duty braided with curiosity. They weren’t clear enough to name; they arrived as textures rather than words: a tightness behind the sternum, a small, reluctant warmth, a shadow of guilt. I couldn’t describe them, only hold them with the steadiness I could offer.
When I was outside the med bay the connection came as sensation, awareness. A prickle at the base of my skull when she clicked into focus. Warmth pooling in my palms when her breath slowed to patience; a bright, clean flare—amusement, steel catching light—when something cracked her mask. We didn’t talk about it. We didn’t even look at each other when it hit. Ardani doctrine would turn it into rules; human fear would turn it into a problem. We kept it quiet. Useful. Terrifying. Ours.
There was a rule to the interface, one I’d learned to respect: the link could share impressions and embedded procedural memory when both parties consented and the channel deepened—sensory truth without words, the how of a thing rather than a tidy sentence.
I started keeping a list in my head: odd pauses, delayed reactions, people who avoided eye contact in a way that felt rehearsed rather than shy. I kept the list like a tool—small, practical, something to hand to Morgan or tuck into a diagnostic routine. The station’s ordinary noises—ventilation, distant engines, the soft clack of boots—kept going, indifferent. But under them, like a second, lower hum, something else was moving.
In the morning of my second day back in the fray, Graham summoned me to talk about important stuff according to his assitant. “You’re distracted,” Graham said at my impromptu performance review, only days after the attack. “Productivity is down twelve percent.”
“Still processing the whole almost died thing,” I said, keeping my voice flat. The station’s hum kept time behind my words.
“The Ardani warrior. You’re still in contact with her.”
“The cultural exchange program is ongoing, but she is recovering in the med bay right now.”
He studied me like a misbehaving subsystem—suspicion sharp, concern folded into professional lines. “There have been reports. The two of you seem… close. Also, there are more oddities on the decks—drones pausing, supply manifests blanking, maintenance crews reporting delayed responses. Security flagged it this morning.”
I let the list land. “We’re seeing the same. Power harmonics out of phase in three nodes; a couple of security bots with corrupted motion buffers; a supply manifest that returned as null across two decks. It’s not random.”
Graham didn’t show any reaction to my assessment, jut said “Be careful, Bartowski. Intercultural entanglements rarely end well.” He let it hang, then added, softer, “Engineers hide damage under output metrics. Just concentrate in the work. Improve your productivity; your semi-hero status doesn’t matter if the station isn’t working properly.”
Under the table, my fingers tapped once, twice. I pressed in myself calm and felt it through the bond—coffee warmth, lamplight, the slow inhale of a quiet night—letting it settle under her ribs. The easing came back as a small, steadying pulse: breath catching, then smoothing. I kept my face neutral, nodded once, and left, feeling the bond quiet to a low hum as the door closed.
Sandwich intermission
Morgan found me in the break alcove, clutching two synth sandwiches like trophies. One had lettuce trying to be brave; the other was “mystery protein” and optimism.
“Emergency lunch,” he said. “Pick your poison.”
A damp chill brushed the bond—her reaction to the leaf, amused and faintly offended. A second sensation settled low in my ribs: readiness, fuel matched to movement. Protein. I reached for the mystery option without comment; Morgan handed it over like a medal. “Bold choice,” he said. “You look like you need it.”
We ate against the wall where the corridor’s hum felt like breath. He tried for his usual grin and landed closer to determination. “Quick status check,” he said. “On you. On her. On us.”
“Alive,” I answered. “All three.”
He nodded, absorbing it like data. “I keep replaying the attack. If it happens again, what do we miss? Where do we look first?”
I sent steadying tempo through the bond—sleep soft, quiet, hands wrapped around a mug—feeling her pulse slow to match. The sensation came back as a focused, cool clarity: check the power nodes near life support; watch for unlogged rotation changes; note anyone who knows the station’s blind spots. I translated that into practicals for Morgan. “Patterns. Power anomalies near life support. Security rotations changing without logged reasons. New faces who seem to know the station too well, too fast.”
Morgan’s good hand tightened around the sandwich. “I’ll talk to supply crews. See who’s new and who’s nervous. And… I’ll avoid heroics. I’m still stitched together like a bad blanket.”
“Good plan,” I said. “No solo runs. If something smells wrong, call it in.”
He exhaled, part relief, part frustration. “I hate feeling useless.”
“You weren’t,” I said. “You got people moving. Pulled two out of a jam, then got yourself out. That’s not nothing.”
A flicker of warmth brushed the bond—her agreement: acknowledgment without flattery, the sensation of a blade tipped slightly in respect. I kept my expression flat for anyone watching.
“I don’t need details,” Morgan said. “But if you ever… feel something before it happens—gut, instinct—tell me. I’ll listen. I won’t ask how you knew.”
“Deal.” I said.
He squared his shoulders. “Okay. We stay aware. We log weird. We assume quiet is a trap and loud is already late. And we meet once a day. Five minutes. No drama. Just notes.”
“Five minutes,” I agreed.
He glanced at his sling, grimaced, then lifted his chin. “I’m scared, Chuck. Still am. But I’m not sitting this out. If this place is going to breathe, we keep its lungs clear.”
The bond tightened—approval, tempered like metal cooled right. I tucked it away.
“We keep it breathing,” I said. “Together.”
“Together,” he echoed, then tried for a joke and almost made it. He tore his “brave lettuce” in half and pressed it into my hand with ceremonial solemnity. Dry amusement pulsed through the bond—hers, cool as polished ceramic—and I pushed back a little sunrise of humor. My mouth softened despite myself.
“Don’t get used to it,” Morgan said, wincing as he adjusted his sling. “Brave lettuce is a one-time event.”
“History will remember,” I said.
“It better not,” he muttered, but the resolve looked good on him. He headed off to make lists; I finished the sandwich and pretended the lettuce was courage.
Later that same day I was back in Graham’s office. The viewport blinds were half shut and the lights were low—his “second serious talk of the day” setting.
“You’re not sleeping, we need 100% on the job” he said.
“I sleep enough to keep the station breathing,” I offered.
“Not a metric I accept,” he said. He steepled his fingers, voice even. “I’ve seen attachments become leashes. Leashes become collars. Collars become conflicts.” He didn’t look away. “If you are entangled, ensure you’re choosing. Not being chosen. Also, personnel flagged the same oddities you mentioned. Drones pausing, manifests blanking, a few techs reporting delayed responses. We need to be ready for internal threats.”
A brief weight settled behind my sternum—firm, steady—her answer to the question he hadn’t asked. I slid warm steadiness back—night quiet, soft lamp, Morgan’s ridiculous optimism—until the edge I felt from her rounded off. I kept my eyes on the desk’s bevel.
“I’m choosing,” I said.
He let that sit. Then, almost gently: “You keep this place alive, Bartowski. If you need help, you ask before you fix a collapsing hull with a wrench and optimism.”
“That was one time.”
“It was three. I have the forms.” His mouth twitched—the closest he allowed to humor. “Be careful. With her. With yourself. With anything you don’t put on a work order.”
I left without a smile, without a tell. In the corridor, a quiet warmth spread through me—approval, tempered and metallic. I sent back a spark—coffee steam, and croissants, light lifting behind the eyes—and felt the faintest echo of her mouth tipping at the corner somewhere far away.
Late cycle, the valve finally seated with that particular satisfaction engineers live for. Pride followed—hers—arriving as balance in my palm, heat across my shoulders, the relief of a clean finish. I answered with small joys: the first sip of decent coffee, the soft ache of laughter, the weight of a blanket. The connection pulsed low, friction resolving into shared tempo. Then the station’s noise filled in, as it always did, and the rest of the world stayed oblivious.
In the med bay she stood with two Ardani envoys near her bed, all sharp lines and doctrine, and a cold edge hit me—pressure, expectation, scrutiny. I sent a quick pulse of mischief: fizzy amusement, the memory of Morgan naming lettuce “brave.” The edge melted. Somewhere on a different deck, a mouth that wasn’t allowed to smile did, barely. The other Ardani looked at her the way people look at an instrument that has produced a note no one taught it. She did not explain. Neither did I.
We hid it because we had to. The Ardani couldn’t know; they’d strip it to rules. The humans wouldn’t understand; they’d strip it to fear. So we resumed the intention to keep our faces set, our rhythms steady, and our sensations quiet. It was enough. For now.
Discharged Reconnection
When the week ended and Devon cleared her for discharge, as predicted, I wanted the moment to be quiet and careful and full of small, human things. I prepared a special dinner in our quarters: soft light, a simple meal—her favorite vegetarian pizza, no olives, extra cheese—and a warm bath with a few drops of a calming solution Devon had approved. The room smelled of citrus and steam; the lights were dimmed to a forgiving amber.
I gave her a bracelet I’d cobbled from spare parts: a strip of paneling rivet, a sliver of conduit, a tiny gear pried from a drone we’d used to bait the Kreegan. It wasn’t pretty like traditional jewelry, but it was honest, a thing made from the guts of the station and the memory of a fight. I fastened it around her wrist with hands that trembled more than I liked to admit.
She looked at the bracelet like it was a relic, then like it was a joke. The corner of her mouth twitched. Through the link, I felt something like approval—sharp, metallic, then softer, like a blade sheathing. “You make terrible jewelry,” she said, and I felt the amusement as if someone had turned on a small, private light.
She moved slowly, still favoring her left side, but there was a steadiness to her that hadn’t been there before. I told her about the bath and that Devon approved to help her heal, I felt through the link the tension leave her shoulders like steam. The neural link was a low, steady presence between us; she renewed it as she always did in the morning, and now again in the quiet of the evening.
I let a thought slip into our connection—small, unguarded, the kind of thing you don’t always say aloud. You’re so beautiful, I unintentionally sent, the sensation warm and clumsy.
She blinked, then looked at me. “You think that?” she asked, voice careful.
I smiled and answered with words this time. “I do. I think you’re beautiful, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. I also think you’re dangerous, and I think you’re the most wonderfully complicated person I’ve ever met.”
She studied me for a long beat, then reached out and took my hand. “I understand,” she said. “But I am not prepared for more. Ardani training does not allow intimacy. It teaches distance. I like the handholding. I like the embraces. I sleep better when you hold my hand. That is what I can give.”
We embraced then, careful and honest. No promises beyond the moment, only the warmth of two people who had been through too much, finding a small harbor. She rested her head against my shoulder, and through the link I felt the slow, even rhythm of her breath. It was enough for the night.
We were back together: living and reconnecting in ways that neither one of us ever considered possible. Outside of our quarters, we had a doctor who would keep a secret, a technician who would listen for disharmonics, and something else stirring that needed to be investigated by a warrior who had chosen to be more than what she’d been built to be, and an engineer with the tendency to put both of his legs inside his mouth. We also had each other, and for now, that was way more than enough.