The Surrogate’s Blade のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 121 - チャプター 130

The power stack route arrives as a headache.Leo does not send it to the wrist unit.He sends it through the ghost model he burned into me, and for one second the maintenance throat vanishes under blue lines. Stairs. Valves. Service ladders. Heat plumes. Door states. The whole city reassembled behind my eyes with a red path running down through its spine.I grab the wall. Sarah catches my elbow.“Talk.”“Power stack.”“Now?”“He sent coordinates.”Damian’s speaker snaps with static.“Do not follow them yet.”Leo’s text appears on Sarah’s wrist unit at the same time.FOLLOW NOW.Renn looks from the wall to the wrist.“Family meeting?”Mara says, “Worst one I have ever attended.”The route in my head pulses.It wants speed.Leo always was impatient when he thought the

We cannot take Nell with us.The next dirty fact lands.No one argues with it.Hale wraps the blue blanket tighter around the child and carries her toward the laundry route with Orrin and Jo pressed close behind. Finn appears long enough to point them into a service lift that smells of bleach and old steam.No speeches. No thank-you.The doors close on Nell’s pale face and Hale’s shaking hands.Sarah watches until the lift drops.“She needs fluids.”“Can you get them?”“Not from here.”It is all we have time for.Need without access, written in the tremor of Sarah’s jaw and the empty pouch where her saline should have been. Another entry on the list no one has time to read aloud.The corridor behind us shifts from amber to red. Finished line has found the jammed gate. Trust has found the fetal signal again. Somewhere far above or below, Damian has

The door does not open when Sarah shoots the panel.It does not even spark.The harvest floor has better manners than that. It absorbs the bullet, logs the attempt, and projects a small warning on the white wall.VIOLENCE RECORDED.Renn limps toward Vora’s frame.“Can we cut her loose?”Sarah is already there, scanning the tubing.“If I pull the spinal line wrong, she bleeds into the rig.”Vora’s cracked mouth moves.“Do it.”“No.”“Do it.”Sarah does not look at her.“I said no.”Renn grabs the frame edge.“She asked.”Sarah turns on her.“She is hypovolemic, chemically sedated, and in pain. She can ask for the moon. I still have to remove the tube without killing her in the first six seconds.”Renn’s face twists.For once, she has no shar

Twelve of them wait. Unstable stock.That is what the screen calls the people behind the glass, because calling them people would make the math less comfortable. Two children, not as small as Nell. Three old enough to have the stillness of the tame ones. Seven adults in grey, wrists bound in front, ankles linked by a soft white restraint that probably has a kinder name in Trust’s files.One of them sees Mara. Her face changes.Mara’s does not.The flinch tells me the woman matters.Renn sees it too.“Who?”Mara’s throat moves.“Lysa’s brother.”The man behind the glass lifts two bound hands.He is not begging. He is showing her the restraint, turning his wrists so she can see the seam where it bites when he flexes.Mara takes one step toward the window.The knife tray tracks the movement, sliding with me as if it expects me to need the blade in reach wh

Silver blood does not drip. It threads.The cut opens across my palm and the blood lifts before gravity can take it, thin bright lines crawling over the knife handle, over my fingers, toward the silver plate like the lock has called it by name.Pain comes second. Heat comes first.The child folds tight inside me.The child is not calmer. It is braced.Across the screen, Damian presses his palm to the black plate.Nothing happens.The Director says, “Skin contact is not enough.”Of course.The black plate blooms with tiny needles.They rise under Damian’s hand like metal grass.Sarah says, “No.” Damian does not move. The needles punch into his palm. His jaw locks.Blood, red and ordinary and human, runs into the black plate channels.Then the mark in his hand lights silver-purple.The room shudders, and then the shudder travels wider, too deep for the harves