Page 159 of GlitchBorn Heart

I draw a circle split into four quadrants. One for me. One for her. One for Jett. One for the vessel that will hold what’s left of her when it’s done.

“Think of it like a bridge that will run through both our magics. Your EchoWeaving will locate the frequency of your consciousness inside the grid. I’ll build the actual bridge with my CoreCasting on top of the code I’ve already written to transfer you from the system. Jett’s SoulReaving will anchor your essence, your literal soul, to the new cybernetic body. Once that happens, the system, or LINK, could try to delete what it thinks is a duplicate of you. It won’t allow a copy of a copy. That’s what I’m trying to resolve now.”

“LINK,” she mutters to herself.

I nod. “She’ll probably think you’re a virus or an anomaly, trying to escape. The only thing keeping her from tearing the bridge apart will be us. Our powers. In sync.”

The weight of my words hit her hard. It’s not just a plan. It’s a bond. A merging. If we’re out of sync, she could disappear into the system forever, and I could destroy everything I’ve spent my entire life building.

I continue my explanation. “Your extraction will happen during the Eclipse Night celebration, since it’s an engineered blackout across the grid, every system will be down. Everything asleep for twelve hours, and Vikktor will be distracted; that’s when we make our move.”

“Distracted? How can we be sure he or the CIC won’t know?” Her eyes are wandering, filled with worry.

“Vikktor has a big gala every year on Eclipse Night, some corporate ridiculousness that celebrates himself as the savior of the city.

Champagne, suits making speeches, everyone pretending they’re not terrified of the man signing their paychecks.”

I squeeze her fingers, a faint smile tugging at my mouth. “The entire city will go dark for the celebration and for twenty-four hours after: DreamNet, GameNet, surveillance, all of it. He’ll be too busy shaking hands and basking in his god complex to notice anything going on in the lab.”

She squirms uncomfortably.

“I’ll keep the systems online, do some cowboy coding, keep it on the down low.”

“Cowboy coding?” Her brows wrinkle, questioning my plan.

“Yes. A term for acting without following standard procedures, like running untested code directly in a production environment.” My fingers trace her jaw tenderly. “Think outlaws good...sheriff bad.” I laugh.

Her eyes widen. “So, while the city is dark...”

“While the city is dark,” I finish, “we reset the light.”

61

NewAnomaly

Playlist: Godlike – KMFDM

Lyra

The lab is a busy cacophony of work being done on an impossible time constraint. Kael stands hunched over the center console, fingers hovering over the screen displaying the 3D image of the cybernetic vessel that will hold my soul.

Ember is in the corner with the other cybernetics, prepping them for their last test sessions before being released to Vikktor for whatever bastardizing he will do with them. Just looking at them fills me with contempt. They have to be the most toxic predictor of humanity losing its autonomy. I don’t want to even think about how many lives they’ll take in the name of “law enforcement.”

I’m pacing frantically, my holo-form flickering faintly against the storm of my emotions. I’m pretty much glitching every piece of tech around me with nervous energy.

“Lyra...please.” Kael’s voice is rough, worn down by exhaustion. He doesn’t even look up at me; his wayward strands of dark hair fall across his eyes, a shield between him and the feelings he’s trying to repress. The glow from the console paints his skin in cold blue, tracing the sharp lines of his jaw, the veins threading pale neon orange just beneath. He’s using his power to lace together the last pieces of this puzzle before we run out of time.

For once, the city outside is silent, like it’s holding its breath in anticipation of what moronic thing humanity will do next. Outside the glass wall, the skyscrapers continue to pulse with advertisements and motion, all consumed with images of the coming eclipse and the festivities surrounding it.

I pace behind him, unable to keep still, my bare feet tapping on the sterile lab floor. Another sigh erupts.

“Lyra.” His voice cuts this time, a warning.

I turn fast, pacing too close to him, and before I can step away, his hand shoots out, reflexive, precise, as usual. His fingers catch my arm just above the elbow. Not hard. Just enough to still me.

His touch paralyzes me. His palm is warm and grounding. My pulse stumbles under his grip, heat threading up my skin where his thumb presses. His eyes finally lift to me, black, molten, and unreadable.

“You can’t keep pacing like that,” he says quietly. “It’s distracting.”