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 weretoo bigto 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.”
