12-11-2355 | 07:00
HARBOR HQ — Director's Glass Briefing Room
—
The room is kept a degree colder than the corridors. It makes voices carry clean. One wall projects Port Helix like a patient under a scanner: gridlines, traffic lanes, power veins pulsing faintly. The opposite wall stacks K-6 telemetry: timestamps, heat maps, a clip of Bishop's hard-light cage arcing to life.
Dax stands in front of the table with his slate flat, posture squared despite the tug of Irie's heavy sealant under his jacket, a low throb reminding him of the close call with the final Rendling. Dr. Ilyas Morrel occupies the data wall the way a polite snake occupies a rock: hands folded, face gentle, eyes moving. Director Nova Han doesn't sit. Beside her stands Commander Seles, a woman in stark gray fatigues, her manner direct and uncompromising.
Han nods to Seles. "Commander, proceed."
"Ridgeline operation," Seles says, her voice a low file rub. "The subject was identified as Lina. Chronology of events, Lieutenant."
"We staged at Ridge E-9, set a lure, boxed the target, and stabilized," Dax answers. "Subject displayed advanced blood-drinking phenotype. Due to systemic corruption from consumed DNA, her structure resisted standard Blue Protocol. Mr. Kestra implemented a controlled rewrite of the corrupted code. Stable now. Med Nine, Irie lead."
Morrel adjusts his glasses, his gaze sharp. "A rewrite, Lieutenant? You mean it wasn't a standard corrupted code removal?"
"A recalibration. Irie's still running the analysis on the methodology," Dax says.
Seles dismisses the technicality. "Any civilian entanglement?"
"Minimal," Dax answers, adjusting his stance. "Several Enforcers took hits, non-critical. Kaito was exposed and needs a full scan; I benched him for tonight. He'll be back tomorrow. One skirmish wound, mine. Managed. Mr. Kestra secured the final secondary threat."
Seles's gaze is level and cold. "Let's review your log. Your prior slate was returned to Security with a dead board. Your log cites a market altercation three days ago near Forty-K Market. Why take an issued device to a market at zero five?"
"To look at the city I'm supposed to protect," Dax says, keeping his voice flat. "I walked a few blocks down the Market Line. I tried breaking up a scuffle and a pillar got friendly with my slate."
"The Market Line's a busy spot," Morrel interjects. "A territory where HARBOR doesn't even have active jurisdiction unless there's a full Rendling breach. Now, the final sequence at the Ridgeline. Your team was clear. You actively chose to engage the secondary Rendling alone, putting yourself in a position that required Mr. Kestra's specific intervention. Is that correct?"
Dax grips the edge of the table. "My team was clear. The asset needed securing. I ensured their safe extraction back to the Crescent."
"By risking the loss of your own primary field asset?" Seles presses. "HARBOR deploys Mr. Kestra to neutralize the powerful threats and ensure the safety of our field teams. Your decision forced him to divert from his protective role. Before you joined HARBOR, your psych profile flagged several instances of high-risk, self-sacrificial behavior in the face of non-essential threats. We need to know, Lieutenant: are you a liability in the field?"
Dax feels the fine line of scar tissue under his collar pull tight. He focuses on the cold glass of the table. "I am a shield for my team. Every time."
Han intervenes, rolling the wall. The footage of the manifest theft three days ago appears. "Moving past tactical choices. This individual neutralized two enforcers... Your read, Lieutenant?"
"Professional. No dramatics, no fouling the scene. The method, disabling the rifles with a magnetic lock, suggests they are fast and precise."
Morrel takes over. "We are dealing with an unknown subject, possessing full manipulative control over metallic compounds and magnetism. Highly organized. You will debrief K-6. You will not mention a second operator of that class."
"That's a bad call," Dax says. "Trust is oxygen for the team. You add an unknown like that to the board and hide it; it's just going to bite us later."
"Protocol," Han says. "Our agents operate under incomplete profiles daily."
Morrel smiles. "Then lead them, Lieutenant. Keep them breathing. Keep rumors off comms."
Han flicks the file again. The city map slides west; a transfer route lights up along the service magway and underbridge network, highlighted in pale blue. "Mission focus tonight is transfer. QuietCare is moving a cohort of stabilized post-exposure individuals to an off-city facility. You and Mr. Kestra will pre-walk the route, then shadow two lengths back. Discretion over deterrence."
"Which individuals?" Dax asks.
"Non-violent subjects with manageable traits," Morrel says. "No cages. Behavioral."
"People," Han says, cutting him clean. "They are people. Move them fast and quiet."
Dax logs the map and the schedule on his slate. "We'll need Kaito to blank grid eyes along the magway and spoof city sweep intervals. Underbridge Twelve has a stutter in the mesh. If someone wanted to stage, that's where they'd do it. I want a second corridor mapped."
"Approved," Han says.
"And Lieutenant," Commander Seles adds, her voice flat. "Log your deviations in writing. You'll also accept a caution for failure to preserve issued equipment."
"Copy," Dax says.
Morrell's tone stays pleasant. "One last practical note. If you encounter any off-book communities during the pre-walk, Security wants a ping."
"If I encounter anything that endangers this city, you'll get more than a ping," Dax says. He doesn't blink.
Han closes the brief. "Move. Wheels at twenty-one ten. Keep it quiet. Keep it clean."
"Understood," Dax says, and gets out of the cold room before it can freeze the rest of his temper solid.
12-11-2355 | 07:23
HARBOR HQ — Ops Mezzanine, Main Spine
—
The main spine hums with early-shift traffic. Dax cuts a path through the flow, intending to keep moving. He spots Noa Morrell leaning on the mezz rail, engrossed in a comm call, his grin already loaded. Dax aims to bypass him.
Noa ends the call with a quick, silent gesture and catches Dax's arm as he passes.
"Hey. Lieutenant Mercer." Noa says, hand out. "Noa Morrell. Human espresso shot. Amateur DJ. I heard you had my boy's back at the Ridgeline. You and Ryn didn't drop-kick each other before breakfast, so that's already a win. No offense, right?"
"We've met," Dax says, shaking. "No offense taken.'"
"You will be," Noa says cheerfully. "Ryn's allergic to orders he didn't write. You bark, he'll test the fence. Then he does the job and pretends it was his idea. It's an art form."
"Helpful to know," Dax says. He keeps it flat, but he actively files the cadence in his mind, cataloging the sincerity behind the sarcasm.
Noa's eyes flick to the sealant bloom under Dax's collar. "Irie will stab you if you bleed on her floors," he adds, camp bright over a steel edge. "Also, two pieces of unsolicited advice. One: don't try to win him with a leash. He's had those. They look like help until they don't. Two: pay attention to where he actually goes, not where the schedule says he should be. Saves lives."
"You his friend?" Dax asks.
"I'm whatever keeps him alive that day," Noa says, then turns seriousness into a joke so fast it might give you whiplash. "Depends on the hour whether that's a playlist, a lie, or a blunt object."
"Your dad hear that tone at home?" Dax asks.
"My dad hears what fits the report," Noa says, no grin now. It's honest for a heartbeat. Then the grin reboots. "Enjoy escort duty. They're either boring or on fire. No middle ground."
"Comforting," Dax says.
"Always," Noa calls, sliding off toward the Ops stairs with that light-footed lope of someone who hears more than he says. Dax watches him go and turns over the two sentences that matter: leash isn't care; notice where he goes. Friend or handler? The math doesn't settle.
He checks the time, pings Kaito: mesh gap at U-12 is a liability. He gets a thumbs-up with three fast fixes incoming.
12-11-2355 | 07:35
HARBOR HQ — Kestra Quarters, Level C
—
The Level C corridor is quieter than the main spine, lit by maintenance strips that dim when no one is walking them. A vending unit chirps CALORIES ARE YOUR FRIEND in a voice that should be illegal.
Dax stops outside KESTRA, R. He lifts a hand to knock, thinks better, turns to go.
The door slides. Ryn steps out, hair damp, bare feet, soft shirt clinging to a chest still running warm from a shower. At his heel sits a large, graying dog with thick, dense fur and intelligent, yellow eyes: Pylon, Ryn's newest companion, a former Rendling recently recoded under Blue Protocol. Pylon lifts his head and gives a low, friendly whuff, then surges up, placing his massive paws on Dax's chest in an effort to lick his jaw. Dax freezes, muscles locking up, the reflex to shove the dog away warring with the need to remain professional. He catches the dog's warm, dense weight before gently shifting him aside. Dax and animals are not friends, especially not those with a lethal history.
Ryn watches the entire interaction with an unreadable expression before stepping over Pylon. "You lost?"
"Briefing," Dax says, quickly regaining his composure. "We're shadowing a QuietCare transfer. Route goes West Magway to Underbridges Ten through Fourteen. Pre-walk now. Wheels at twenty-one ten. We sit two lengths back. Discrete only. No heroics unless it goes sideways."
Ryn leans a shoulder to the doorframe, arms loose. "Who's riding the skiff?"
"Driver, two QuietCare techs, one Security escort to make the form happy," Dax says. He keeps his voice even. "You and me in a maintenance cruiser Kaito ghosts off the grid."
Ryn's mouth goes flat. "They're not 'loads' or 'assets.' They're people, Lieutenant."
"I know," Dax says without missing a beat. He means it. "They're ours tonight. We bring them home safe."
Some tension unhooks behind Ryn's eyes. He doesn't show relief; he just stops bracing for an argument. "Gear?"
"Civilian profile," Dax says. "No armor plates. Field gloves. Low-profile comms. You carry what you can hide under a jacket. No blades longer than a hand unless you grow them on-scene. If the skiff gets boxed, we peel it at the axle and shove it to the shoulder. If anyone throws a drone net, you cut. I don't want to light up the sky unless we have to."
"I can make quiet work," Ryn says. He glances at the bandage. "You sure you're okay to run a pre-walk?"
"Pain strip makes decisions now," Dax says. "I just drive."
Ryn taps his ring against the jamb once. "You expect trouble, or you just like planning for it?"
"Both," Dax says. "Underbridge Twelve has a mesh stutter on the city feed. If I were staging a retrieval or an ambush, that's where I'd sit. I want eyes ahead, a map of escape seams, and two alternate exits that don't make us interesting."
"Copy," Ryn says. He pushes off the frame. "Give me ten minutes to grab field gloves and a jacket."
"You get five," Dax says, then softens it a hair. "Meet me in Bay Five."
Ryn nods. He doesn't step back in yet. "You're not the first strike lead who talked to me like a job."
"I'm aware," Dax says.
"You don't," Ryn says, studying him. "Not today, anyway." The air thickens between them.
"I need you to come home with the rest of them," Dax says, voice stripped bare. He's looking only at Ryn now. Ryn's eyes lock onto his, and a charged silence settles, heavy and complex, a promise passing between them. Ryn gives a single, slow nod, a rare moment of unguarded acknowledgment. "Bay Five."
The door closes. Dax exhales, checks the route again, and lines up the pre-walk in his head. He moves. By the time he hits the bay, Kaito's fixes are live on his slate.
Ryn arrives in a gray jacket, field gloves now, hair still damp and unbothered. He slides into the passenger seat. Dax fires the cruiser.
"One more thing," Dax says as he glides them into the service corridor. "No improvising solo. You need a lane, call it. I'm not hauling you out of a hole because you got bored."
"Wasn't bored last night," Ryn says, dry. Then he adds, "Copy."
The cruiser lifts on a hum and glides onto the magway. Dax keeps them two lengths back of nothing, holding the exact distance he intends to hold when the skiff rolls.
—