KIRA’S POV“Patient seven is lucid,” Maya reports from the monitoring station. “Neural activity normalized, collective interface severed cleanly.”I adjust the IV drip for the woman strapped to the medical cot. Third-degree burns cover her arms where the integration hardware was surgically removed, but her eyes track my movements with human intelligence.“How do you feel?” I ask.“Like myself again.” Her voice carries profound relief. “Thank you. They had me for six days, and I could feel my thoughts… changing. Blending with others until I couldn’t remember who I was before.”I make notes on her chart. Successful extraction, minimal psychological trauma, full recovery likely.“Patient eight is different,” Devon calls from across the makeshift ward.Different doesn’t begin to describe it.The man in bed eight sits perfectly still, his fractal eyes pulsing with slow rhythms that make the monitoring equipment hum. When he speaks, his voice carries harmonic undertones that resonate in my

EZREN’S POVThe underground chamber tastes like finality and borrowed time.“Three options,” Maya announces, displaying tactical overlays on every available screen. “All dangerous. All necessary. All probably insufficient.”Ninety-four hours until orbital convergence. Eighteen hours until fragment transport reaches the watchtower. Six hours until Blackthorn’s shuttle completes fueling procedures at their primary launch facility.Time enough for one coordinated attempt to prevent species-wide forced integration.Maybe.“Option One: Diplomatic contact,” Maya continues. “Ezren interfaces with the collective through the fragment’s network signature attempts to negotiate extension of voluntary integration timeline.”“Risks?” Kira asks.“Collective override of individual consciousness,” I answer, though my voice carries more confidence than I feel. “If they decide I’m more valuable as a fully integrated asset than as a human negotiator… I might not return from the contact with my individual

EZREN’S POVThe safehouse smells of unwashed bodies, overheated processors, and the metallic tang of fear-sweat. Monitors flicker across makeshift workstations where Devon hunches over relay feeds, his shoulders rigid as a drawn bowstring. Empty coffee cups ring the tables like offerings to whatever gods watch over resistance movements.“Seventeen cities in active protest,” Maya reports, scrolling through feeds that make her face glow blue-white in the dim room. “Berlin, Tokyo, São Paulo, Lagos… The footage from Moscow—Jesus, Ezren. They’re carrying your picture.”On screen: crowds surging through Red Square, holding banners with my fractured face blown up to billboard size. Some call me a savior. Others write “TRAITOR” in red paint across my orbital broadcast image.“Bounty updates?” I ask, though my stomach already knows the answer.“Tripled overnight. Private military contractors, corporate security firms, three separate government agencies.” Devon doesn’t look up from his screens

EZREN’S POVWe’ve rigged speakers through Devon’s audio equipment, creating a sound system that can handle frequencies human ears weren’t designed to process. Tissue boxes sit scattered across the makeshift table next to cups of tea that went cold hours ago while we prepared for whatever we’re about to hear.“Audio containment is active,” Devon reports, though his voice carries an edge that wasn’t there this morning. “If this recording contains collective harmonics that trigger involuntary integration responses, the dampening field should prevent external transmission.”“Should?” Kira asks.“Will. Probably. We’re operating with thirty-year-old equipment and theories about consciousness transmission that may or may not apply to hybrid neural architecture.”“Comforting,” I mutter, settling into the chair closest to the primary speakers. “What’s the worst-case scenario?”“The recording triggers an integration cascade in your hybrid consciousness, broadcasting collective harmonics throug

ZARA’S POVThe hotel room overlooks government districts where emergency sessions run through the night, windows glowing like neurons firing in a massive brain trying to solve impossible equations. I take a drag from the cigar that costs more than most people earn in a week—Cuban, pre-embargo, saved for conversations that might determine species survival.“Sit,” I tell the team, gesturing toward chairs arranged in a circle that allows everyone to watch everyone else. “What I’m about to share doesn’t leave this room.”Ezren settles into the chair closest to the window, his hybrid eyes reflecting city lights in patterns that look almost like star maps. Kira positions herself where she can monitor his vital signs without being obvious about it. Devon and Maya flank the door—old habits from underground resistance work that serve us well in diplomatic warfare.“Seventeen nations have initiated private integration negotiations,” I begin, letting smoke spiral toward ceiling vents that may or