CHAPTER NINE.
812 Words
09-11-2355 | 13:30
HARBOR HQ — Quarters, D-Block.
—
The door accepts his palmprint and slides aside with a polite hiss. Inside, a housing tech is waiting with a smile that looks laminated.
"Lieutenant Mercer? Fen Aro, Unit Services," they say, crisp and eager. "Welcome to D-Block. Let me give you the tour."
"I can—" Dax starts, already tired.
"It's two minutes, promise." Fen gestures with a narrow tablet. "Stormglass window with environmental tint, adjustable privacy. The bed modulates firmness. Closet prints hangers to spec. We can schedule a fit-out, boots, civvies, a jacket that isn't... that."
"It's fine."
"Is it? It looks like it lost a fight with rain." Fen pauses, clearly uncomfortable with the ensuing silence.
Dax stares at them until the small joke dies. "I'll do the rest of the tour myself."
Awkwardness settles. Fen nods, backing toward the door. "Key's on the console. If you need anything, tap Services. We, uh, like it when you make it homey. It helps."
"I'll manage."
"Of course. Welcome to HARBOR." Fen's voice goes thin at the edges. They're gone a second later.
Silence settles the way a cat tests a new couch. Dax sets the slate on the desk, drops his bag by the bed, and stands at the window. The city throws itself at him: stackable gardens, a tram ghosting its loop. He rests his hands on the cold glass until the tension in his shoulders eases, then heads for the shower pod.
The pod lights when it sees him. He strips, tosses the worn jacket at the couch, and steps inside. "Cascade," he says. Steam drops in a skin, then the sonic starts, a low hum that shakes the dirt free without the slap of water. The glass fogs in a quick, even bloom.
He doesn't look away from his reflection. Scars climb his torso in a catalog other people don't get to read. The pale ladder across the right ribs where Southline kissed him with a slab; the newest seam still healing, stubborn and pink. He palms water off his face even though there isn't any. Habit.
"Rinse," he says. Sonic drops to a murmur. The pod sends a brief, cold mist that feels like a dare. He takes it and steps out.
He pulls on a dry underlayer and sits on the bed with the slate. The squadron file blinks a blue icon, patient as a dog. He ignores it and opens the case feed. The processing-bay footage unspools on the stormglass like a memory he can rotate.
He tracks the exact angle where the grav field hands the mass a gift, muttering, "Bleed it to ground." He rolls forward to the water sheath. The skin rises clear and tight.
He watches Ryn's palm against the water, the code turning toward the ring like a cat that recognizes its name. He makes himself watch Ryn's breath stutter when the low note slides under the ribs. He makes himself watch Ryn push anyway.
He tracks Sera's birds vanishing from usefulness, hears Kaito's voice in the recording: the building's blind and thinks it's napping. The runner in the net, a decoy with opinions. It wanted to see their hands.
He pushes the feed to the desk, stands, and goes back to the window. He tells the plan out loud, writing the new rules in the still air. No baton returns. No mirrors. Ryn pulls only off-cadence at angles that feel wrong to the hand.
The slate chirps. A message from Irie pops in the corner: Don't brood. Hydrate. Pulse check at 07:30.
"You messed that up big time." A voice, a familiar voice, speaks behind him. The air temperature in the room drops instantly.
Dax doesn't turn, not yet. His heart pounds a frantic rhythm against his ribs. "Not this again." He turns, and there she stands: Tamsin, burnt uniform, patchy, zombie-pale skin.
"Hey, this is your subconscious." Tamsin grins, a terrible, forced expression, and Dax grits his teeth so hard his jaw aches. "You keep forgetting this isn't your fault."
"I could've done what you did. I would've—"
"What?" She cuts him off, frowning. "Took the glory? Seems like you got a lot of that in the tabloids."
"That wasn't me." Dax shakes his head violently, a wave of nausea hitting him.
"Is this the part where I remind you this is all in your head?" she says, and Dax bristles, tears welling hot in his eyes.
"Leave me alone!" He shouts, his voice raw, and turns, hands clamped over his ears, desperate to shut out the sound. "Leave me alone, leave me alone." He says, the words breaking as he lowers to his knees, his forehead pressing against the cold stormglass.
"You're not a failure, yet, Dax," Tamsin says, her voice slightly ghostly, fading. "But if you fail him, it will break you."
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