Page 94 of Rescuing Ally: Part 2
I look up, meeting his eyes directly for the first time. “Building what he asked for.”
But that’s not entirely true. Hidden within legitimate code structures, I begin nesting subroutines that don’t belong. Recursive loops that appear functional but contain fatal flaws. Feedback triggers tied to external satellite arrays. The beginnings of a kill switch, buried so deep within the system’s foundation that it looks like essential architecture.
Each line of sabotage is an act of love. For Gabe, who taught me to think tactically. For Hank, who showed me that patience and precision can topple empires. For the future we’ll never have together.
My pulse hammers as I work, grief transforming into something colder and more focused. Sweat trickles down my spine despite the lab’s arctic chill. The guards stare at my back, but they see only a broken woman following orders.
They don’t see the weapon I’m becoming.
“Your hands are shaking.” Elkin observes quietly, positioning himself to block the security camera’s view of my screen.
“Grief.” The word tastes like ashes. “It has physical symptoms.”
But it’s not just grief making my hands tremble. It’s the adrenaline rush of rebellion, the terrifying thrill of building something that will destroy the man who destroyed everything I loved.
I type ‘Gabe’ instead of a variable name, catch myself, delete it, type the correct syntax. My subconscious keeps trying to memorialize them in code, to leave traces of their names in the digital architecture like flowers on a grave.
“He killed them to break me,” I say softly, not looking away from the screen. “But all he did was give me a reason to be dangerous.”
Elkin glances toward the guards, then back to me. Something shifts in his expression—recognition, perhaps, or respect for what I’m attempting.
“You’ll get us both killed,” he whispers.
“Maybe.” I continue typing, sabotage flowing seamlessly into legitimate code structures. “But he killed them anyway. At least this way, their deaths serve a purpose.”
Hours pass in a haze of keystrokes and carefully controlled breathing. Every few minutes, grief threatens to overwhelm me—a wave of loss so complete it steals my breath and blurs my vision. I force myself through these moments by focusing on the work, on the hidden poison I’m weaving into Malfor’s digital empire.
The compile sequence finally completes. No alerts. No errors. The program appears perfect—a quantum communication network ready for deployment. The interface glows green with approval, unaware of the cancer nestled within its core.
Behind legitimate lines of code lies my legacy to Gabe and Hank—a trigger that will blind Malfor’s network when activated, scramble his commands, open backdoors for whoever might come next.
If anyone comes.
“It’s done.” My voice emerges steadier than I feel.
Elkin reviews the final output, his eyes tracking through code that looks flawless to external examination. Only someone with intimate knowledge of quantum entanglement protocols would notice the subtle anomalies, the elegant traps waiting to spring.
“You built a Trojan horse,” he says quietly, something like admiration in his tone.
“I built a memorial.” The correction feels important. “For the men who died trying to save us.”
THIRTY-TWO
Three Miles
HANK
The underwater worldenvelops us in eerie silence. Moonlight penetrates the first few feet, casting everything in ghostly blue-green light. I activate my rebreather, the familiar resistance as it scrubs carbon dioxide from my breath. Beside me, Gabe does the same, his movements slower but still precise despite his injury.
Fins deployed, we begin moving east toward shore. Rigel and Blake sandwich the pilots between them, sharing their rebreathers. Walt keeps close to Gabe, monitoring his condition. Carter and Jeb take point, establishing our heading.
Underwater movement brings its own challenges. The cold attacks more aggressively without the insulating layer of air between skin and water. Pressure builds in sinuses and eardrums. Vision narrows to shadowy shapes and vague directions.
We maintain formation, eight operators and two pilots moving through darkness with a singular purpose. The ocean above us lights up occasionally as search beams penetrate the surface, seeking wreckage or bodies.
They won’t see us.
Ten minutes underwater feels like an eternity. Lungs begin to burn despite the rebreathers. Muscles protest the constant fight against water resistance. The cold seeps deeper, burrowing into bones.
