Eris Venn produced a small datapad. The contract glowed in the dim light. "Read the fine print on page forty-seven," she advised. "Specifically the clause about 'unforeseen operational termination.'" Skyla took the datapad. Her hands did not shake—she was proud of that. She read page forty-seven. Then she read it again. It was exactly as horrible as they had described. She would be responsible for routing black-market medical supplies to plague-stricken outer colonies, which was technically illegal. She would also be responsible for routing luxury goods to corrupt governors, which was morally repugnant. And if she ever tried to leave, her neural implant—installed on day one of employment—would be remotely triggered to induce a "spontaneous cerebral event."
Skyla looked out the window at the cargo nexus—the glittering, orderly dance of containers. She had spent 1,247 days believing that her hard work, her intelligence, her dedication would earn her a better life. And now she understood: the promotion was not a reward. It was a cage with a nicer view. skyla novea - the promotion
"Then kill me now," Skyla said evenly. "Or listen." Eris Venn produced a small datapad
Skyla thought about the junior techs who looked up to her. She thought about the friend who had lent her the tunic, still waiting for its return. She thought about the neural implant in her skull, dormant and patient. Then she read it again