Page 122 of The Sterling Acquisition
The facility had been closed for decades, a remnant of the pre-Adjustment IDOT system that once connected this region. The faded blue and white signage still bore the ancient state seal, partially obscured by rust stains and graffiti from the early days of theUnraveling. Corporate powers had never bothered to rebrand the remote stations once they were designated to the Static Zone, leaving them as decaying monuments to a forgotten governmental past. But the basic infrastructure remained: cracked concrete, skeletal remains of fuel pumps, and most importantly, a building that still contained something resembling functional toilets. After a full day of walking through territory that offered minimal privacy, it felt like luxury.
“How are you holding up?” Orion asked, settling onto the roof of the rest stop with a wince.
“Perfectly fine,” Dante lied, stretching muscles that felt like they’d been replaced with rusty cable. His neck wound pulsed with dull pain as he tilted his head back. “Just enjoying the scenic route.”
The view from the roof was admittedly spectacular. Without the light pollution of corporate territories, the night sky opened up in a way that made the stars seem close enough to touch. The air carried the scent of pine and something wilder—real earth, not the sanitized approximation of nature that corporate territories manufactured. Crickets provided a constant background chorus, punctuated by distant animal calls that Dante’s corporate education had never bothered to identify.
“I’ve always liked being sent into rural territories,” he said, settling back against the roof’s slight incline. “The accommodations are usually terrible and the local cuisine tends toward ‘questionable,’ but you can see the stars out here. Look at the detail on the moon.”
Orion followed his gaze upward, and Dante caught the subtle shift in his expression—wonder, maybe, or something approaching peace. “I never appreciated how nice it looked from inside that deadly bread van. Growing up in SVI territory, I rarely had a chance to be outside after dark. Too dangerous for someone in my situation.”
“They kept you indoors?” Dante asked, trying to imagine Orion confined anywhere without leaving destruction in his wake.
“Not officially. But an unclaimed Omega out after curfew? Might as well paint a target on your back.” Orion’s voice was casual, but Dante could feel sadness beneath the words, like he was mourning something he lost but had never had in the first place. “Learned that lesson early. Three broken ribs and a dislocated shoulder from some Alpha who thought unchaperoned meant an easy target.”
“Gensyn was different,” Dante said. “Scheduled recreation periods in monitored environments. Every movement tracked, but physical safety was guaranteed. They considered damaged assets inefficient.”
Orion snorted. “Sounds like prison with better branding.”
“It was.” Dante shifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his neck wound. “But no one ever came home with broken ribs.”
They fell silent, shoulders almost touching as they watched the stars. The quiet moment felt dangerous in its own way—more intimate than their physical encounters, revealing vulnerabilities neither man was accustomed to sharing.
“Well,” Orion said, shifting to lean his head on Dante’s shoulder, “now you can stargaze to your heart’s content. No corporate schedules, no productivity metrics, no—”
The drone appeared so suddenly that for a moment, Dante thought it might be a large bird. But birds didn’t move with that kind of mechanical precision, and they definitely didn’t have mismatched parts welded to their chassis like some kind of flying junkyard experiment.
“Shit,” he said, grabbing Orion’s arm. “We need to move. Now.”
The drone was crude but effective—a patchwork of salvaged components held together with what looked like fusion welding and liberal application of neon spray paint. The underside housed what appeared to be some kind of sensor array, though nothing that matchedcorporate surveillance designs Dante had encountered before. This was Neutral Zone tech—unpredictable, improvised, and outside his training parameters.
“Neutral Zone construction,” Dante said, already calculating their options. “Someone hired freelancers to extend their search range.”
That’s when they noticed the others.
More drones, different shapes and sizes, spreading across the sky in what was clearly a coordinated search pattern. Some looked like standard surveillance units, others appeared to be custom builds designed for extended flight time. All of them moving with the methodical precision of a grid search, their running lights forming artificial constellations against the night sky.
“Jesus,” Orion breathed. “How many corporations does it take to catch two fugitives?”
The answer became clear as they watched the search pattern develop. This wasn’t the work of a single corporate security department operating within budget constraints. This was the kind of coordinated effort that meant multiple organizations pooling resources and intelligence.
“Both of them,” Dante said, the implications twisting his stomach into a knot. “SVI and Gensyn are working together.”
It made perfect sense from a corporate perspective. Neither organization wanted to admit they’d been outmaneuvered by their own assets, but both had significant investments in recovering what they’d lost. SVI wanted their stolen research back, and Gensyn wanted their rogue operative and the “test subject” he’d absconded with. Natural allies in mutual embarrassment.
“I’ve never seen corporations work with Neutral Zone techs,” Dante added, watching the systematic flight patterns with growingunease. “The search pattern suggests corporate coordination, but the technology is outside standard protocols. They’re getting desperate.”
“How long do we have?” Orion asked, already shouldering his pack.
Dante calculated flight patterns, search speeds, and the methodical nature of grid coverage. “Maybe ten minutes before they reach this sector. No way to know what kind of detection capabilities those things have.”
They climbed down from the roof with considerably more speed than they’d ascended, abandoning their brief moment of peace for the familiar rhythm of tactical movement. The rest stop that had seemed like a sanctuary now felt like a trap—too open, too obvious, too much like the kind of place exhausted fugitives would choose to rest.
The neck wound throbbed as Dante adjusted his pack, a sharp reminder of this morning’s operation. The surgical sites felt hot to the touch, likely developing the mild infection he’d been monitoring since mile fifteen. Not critical yet, but one more variable in an equation that already had too many unknowns.
“Which direction?” Orion asked, scanning the horizon for cover that wouldn’t be visible from the air.
“Northeast,” Dante said, consulting the map Lilac had provided. “There’s a creek bed about two miles out. Running water will mask our heat signatures, and the tree cover should provide concealment from visual surveillance. That will get us close enough to where we were supposed to meet Lilac for pick up.”
