Protocol Helix: Convergence.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

09-11-2355 | 21:59

Forty-K Fringe — Old Borax Forge, Service Yard

—

The forge is a dead cube of rusted gantries and busted conveyors, a forgotten corner where miners used to strip ore and feed smelters. A cracked sign still blinks BORAX in a sick loop. Ryn drops in first, barefoot and quick, the rescued guy floating beside him inside a tight skin of water that moves like glass. Dax lands behind, taller by a head, jacket up, pulse pistol low.

"I'm calling it in," Dax says, his voice flat and final. "The show's over. We're done freelancing. Irie, a cage team, the works."

"No you're not," Ryn counters, turning quickly to face him. "You call, and he gets bagged and sliced up for a month. You know the protocol."

"He tried to paste my skull ten minutes ago! We need a clean team for extraction." Dax takes a step, closing the distance.

"He didn't," Ryn snaps back, matching his gaze. "The thing wearing him did. He's a person. He needs heat, not a lab table."

Dax's slate is already half out, thumb hovering over the screen. Ryn's hand flashes out and slaps Dax's wrist, hard enough to sting. Dax pulls back, eyes wide with sudden fury, and shoves the slate back in his pocket. He doesn't touch Ryn back, but he locks his gaze, breathing hard.

Bootsteps hit the gravel outside the chain fence. Two Harbor Enforcers pop into the gap between cargo stacks, jackets cut to look casual, shoulder mics blinking. They scan the yard like it owes them a fine.

Ryn moves without a word. He drags the kid toward a slag hopper and ducks behind the big rusted belly. The water skin turns mirror-bright and throws back broken neon. Ryn pushes a pressure hush over them—sound flattens, breath sits close.

Dax stays visible. He slides the pistol deeper under his jacket and straightens, the change in his posture from enraged Lieutenant to casual civilian immediate and complete.

"Evening," the first enforcer says. "Got a report: structural damage, weird lights. You work here?"

Dax flashes his chip fast like a tap. "Lieutenant Mercer. HARBOR Tactical. Off duty. Just walking."

"Behind a closed industrial site?" the second asks, stepping closer, skepticism sharp in his voice.

"Market path cuts through," Dax says, leaning on his authority. "Unless you're writing me up for loitering, you should try the stalls. You'll get more tips than in a dead yard."

The first tries to look around him. Dax doesn't give an inch, subtly using his height to screen the area behind him. He swallows the truth and commits to the lie, committing fully to being the asshole who covers a mess.

"Everything okay, Lieutenant?" the first asks. "You look spun up."

"Had a long day," Dax says, keeping his hands casual. "You got a complaint, go chase it. This is nothing."

They hold the stare three beats longer than comfort. The enforcers decide they don't love the paperwork it would take to push him. "We'll loop back," the first says, suspicious as hell. They leave.

Ryn lets the hush go. He and the kid resolve out of reflection.

"Thanks," he says, his relief visible only in the way his shoulders drop. "They'll circle back. They always do."

"Yeah," Dax says, walking straight toward the slag hopper. He stops a foot away from Ryn, his frustration radiating heat. "Which is why we make this clean, right now." He gestures to the shivering kid. "We say we chased B-4 to the docks, lost it in fog. We don't mention this yard. We file structural damage as collateral from Dockway Nine. If anyone asks about pulse discharge, I log off-duty training shots at the range. You keep your head down and stay put until I can negotiate with Han."

"No," Ryn says, voice hardening, shaking his head once. "No fake story. I'm not letting you bargain my life into another policy meeting."

"That is not what I'm doing, damn it. I'm giving us cover."

"It is exactly what you're doing." Ryn pushes a fingertip against Dax's chest plate. "You're trying to manage the consequences so you don't get a mark. You're not doing this for him."

The rescued guy's lashes flutter. His lips c***k. He makes a sound like a word forgot how to be one. Ryn shifts his palm, warms the water, lowers his voice, breaking eye contact with Dax for the first time.

"Hey. You're okay. You're safe. Can you hear me?"

"Where... is this?" The guy's voice is raw. He looks twenty-two, give or take. Handsome under the shock.

"Out of the way," Ryn says. "You're not in a cage. You're not alone."

Dax takes that opening and finally yanks his slate again. "Enough. I'm not leaving a civilian in a scrapyard because you have some crazy philosophy."

Ryn's hand flicks. The water skin around the guy holds steady; a second ribbon snaps out, whips Dax's slate from his palm before he can dial, and smashes it off a pillar. It hits with a crunch of metal and glass. It shatters in a spray of dead glass and hot components.

"The hell, Ryn!" Dax shouts, truly enraged now. He takes a step forward, towering over Ryn. "That slate is issued! That's a career killer!"

"So is your gun," Ryn says, steady, pushing back against Dax's chest again. "You don't get to call a lab to take him because you're scared of a report. You broke the rules getting here, now live with it."

The kid flinches at the volume and curls in the water as much as the film will let him. "What... happened to me?"

Ryn doesn't look away from Dax, maintaining the standoff. "You got coded. I pulled it. You're okay."

"Am I... am I a monster?" the kid asks.

"No," Ryn says, eyes still locked on Dax. "You're a person. Breathe."

"I'm done," Dax says, turning abruptly toward the gap in the fence. He takes two deliberate steps, his boots grinding gravel. "I'm walking to the street and calling it in. On my own comm."

"Then you're done leading me," Ryn says, the words a clean, cold shot that hits Dax in the back. "And you're done leading anyone Downline ever again."

Dax freezes, his shoulders tight with tension. He knows the weight of that threat.

A tall shadow peels off the old forge doorway like it was painted there. The man smiles too bright for an alley. He steps close, quick, and taps two fingers behind Dax's ear. Dax's world pops white and drops out before he can make a sound.

Ryn catches him by the jacket before he hits the concrete. "You could have warned me, Veil."

The newcomer's voice lands with a lazy southern drawl and a too-cheerful lilt. "Darlin', I figured if I didn't warn you, I'd get less backtalk. Besides, if I'd let him stand there, he was gonna argue himself into a HARBOR holding cell." Veil is tall, cut lean, hands steady. Hair cropped tight on the sides, messy on top. Pupils narrow in the low light. Pretty in a way that is annoying on purpose. A thin tracer line runs from collarbone to ear like a quiet brand.

"You didn't have to drop him that hard," Ryn says, adjusting Dax's weight to prevent a concussion.

"Just a little nap button," Veil says, completely unconcerned. "Saved you a broken jaw from having to explain yourself. You two look like you needed a time-out." He nods at the kid floating in the water skin. Then he looks Dax over and grins. "Ooh, this one is solid. You want me to carry the Lieutenant or are you planning on having an awkward kiss-and-make-up moment when he wakes up?"

"Just carry him," Ryn says, flatly.

"Mmh. Bossy." Veil stoops, lifts Dax one-armed like it's nothing, and slings him over a shoulder. He winks at the kid. "Howdy, sugar. You're safe now. Try not to worry, and please, don't decorate my nice boots."

The boy blinks, confused but calmer because Ryn is calm. Ryn skims a palm over the water skin, seals it, and gestures toward a roll-up door painted shut. He taps a pattern on a half-buried control plate with his ring. Gears think about it and try to cooperate. The door coughs up a handspan, then more. Cold air breathes out: old river, machine oil, clean ozone.

"Let's go," Ryn says.

Veil slides through first with Dax. Ryn brings the kid and the water.