Page 21 of Broken Sentinel

How long can we keep orbiting each other before gravity pulls us together?

And what happens then, to Sentinels who break the most fundamental rule of their training?

I don't have answers, but as I drift toward sleep, my mind replays the feeling of Trent's arm around my waist, his breath on my neck, his heart beating in time with mine.

Whatever my body is becoming, whatever changes are happening to me, that memory feels more real than anything Unity has ever told me about who and what I am.

CHAPTER 6

Five daysinto our undercover operation, and I've decided that whoever designed maintenance worker jumpsuits had a personal vendetta against the concept of flattering clothing. The fabric itches in places I didn't know could itch, and the dull gray color makes everyone look like they're recovering from a terminal illness.

Of course, Trent somehow still manages to look good in his. Physics-defying bastard.

"Manifold pressure dropping in section sixteen," he announces, eyes on the monitoring panel as we work our assigned maintenance shift in Recycling Junction 7. His fingers move with practiced efficiency across the controls, making adjustments that look completely authentic.

I have to admit, he's good at this. If I didn't know better, I'd think he'd been a maintenance technician his whole life instead of Unity's most decorated Sentinel.

"Compensating with increased flow from thirteen," I respond, playing my part in this elaborate charade. We've fallen into a convincing routine: wake at 0430, report for shift at 0500, spend nine hours maintaining the arcology'srecycling systems, then strategically position ourselves to observe the suspected sympathizer network.

So far, we've identified twelve maintenance workers involved in what appears to be an organized resource diversion operation. Small amounts of medical supplies, nutrition supplements, and water purification tablets disappear from inventory, transferred through a sequence of carriers so sophisticated it would be impressive if it weren't treasonous.

What we haven't discovered is why.

Or who's coordinating it all.

"Break cycle in ten minutes," Trent says, his voice pitched for nearby workers to overhear. "Want to grab nutrition at the central hub?"

Translation: he's spotted something.

"Sure," I respond casually. "Better than the processed protein bars at the sector station."

We continue our work in companionable silence, the background hum of recycling machinery providing cover for any surveillance. When the break signal sounds, we join the stream of maintenance workers heading for the central hub—a larger junction where several sectors connect, creating a natural gathering place.

"Third maintenance shaft," Trent murmurs as we walk, not looking at me. "Observed package transfer between Kaplan and unknown recipient. Followed recipient to abandoned processing unit in Sector 21."

My steps don't falter despite my surprise. Kaplan—our grumpy supervisor—is involved? "Timing?"

"Transfer occurred approximately 0200 last night during my monitoring shift. Couldn't follow without breaking cover."

While I slept, Trent had been conducting surveillance. He'd insisted I take the sleeping platform each night since our first evening, himself making do with the uncomfortablefloor. The chivalrous idiot was probably running on three hours of sleep.

"Sector 21 is officially decommissioned," I note quietly. "Environmental damage from the purification system failure last year."

"Precisely why it's perfect for clandestine gatherings." Trent glances at me, his gray eyes conveying more than his words. "I think we found their meeting place."

My pulse quickens. After days of watching peripheral activities, we might finally see the core of the operation.

"Tonight?"

He nods slightly. "2300 hours. Observed multiple subjects adjusting schedule requests for late shift or early relief."

The central hub teems with maintenance workers on break, the noise providing perfect cover for our conversation. We collect our nutrition rations—a bland protein composite that Unity insists contains "all essential nutrients for optimal function"—and find seats at one of the crowded tables.

To maintain our cover as a bonded couple, Trent's leg presses against mine beneath the table, his arm occasionally brushing mine as we eat. These casual points of contact have become both torture and necessity over the past five days. Each touch sends electricity through my system while remaining completely innocent to outside observers.

I wonder if he feels it too, this constant awareness, or if he's better at compartmentalizing than I am. Since our night huddled together on the sleeping platform, he's been rigidly professional, never mentioning what almost happened, what he almost said.

"Davis!" Kaplan's voice cuts through the hub noise as he approaches our table. "Environmental fluctuation in your sector. Need you back early."

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