What Thunder left behind by DT Martin 7 Convergence The ether
lab on sub level 2 of the data centre remains quiet, but it is
aware. A low harmonic hum vibrates
through the polymer floor, barely audible but steady as a
heartbeat. The central test bed responds to
my touch, warming beneath my palms as I recalibrate the
lattice sink, though the readings already sit within
tolerance. Shelves of crystalline wafers
and early batch fractal cores line the southern wall, each
catalogued by failure type and timestamp, while the latest
models show no faults at all. Above the back console, gold
etched wiring glows faintly through the composite surface.
The resonance reads cleanly across all bands.
I cycle it again regardless. Precision steadies the noise.
Jeff shot his mouth off again last night, and Lily Ross
made-up her mind, only gave me a quick glance, judgement clear,
then pounced, firing off her comment before I could even
speak. She doesn't know me, or how I
operate, or what I'm capable of, or how fast I handle people like
that. She lacked the right to judge
me, even if I'd earned it before.
That kind of assumption might pass outside these walls, but
here, where facts matter, you need solid ground before adding
it to the mix. The buffer console pings once,
then clears. I swap tools and settle into the
next line. Lily didn't hesitate.
Her voice carried authority, drawn from somewhere deep.
She didn't pause to gauge social permission.
She didn't look back at me, didn't check whether I deserved
what she threw. I haven't forgiven her, not yet.
But I've never respected someone faster.
That part still burns. I was ready to shut Jeff down.
She beat me to it. Now she believes I agreed with
him. She doesn't understand how much
I hate being misread, how much I expect accuracy not only in
work, but in people. And still, when she was in
class, standing in front of a shet's test board, eyes locked
on a matrix most of the room hadn't finished copying, her
gaze moved straight to the coefficient her shet had
swapped, his trap buried deep in the third series.
She flagged it with clean language and proved her solution
while half the room still searched for the prompt.
I hadn't spotted the switch, neither had Jeff.
She walked through a firestorm and still tracked the floor
faster than anyone I've seen. Her hands shook when she wrote.
The grip on the marker gave that away.
But everything else, her stance, her tone, her focus, aligned
completely. Still, what really unsettles me
is her reaction. She judged too hard and too
fast, without any facts. But her work and her test never
faltered, never drifted. And she's there's something
elemental in the way she enters a room.
She doesn't compete for presents, doesn't perform.
She carries herself as someone prepared to endure the
consequences of attracting attention rather than seeking
it. Footsteps crossed the threshold,
deliberate and even has shed. He doesn't greet or slow his
pace. He only stops beside me with his
usual efficiency. His attention falls on the
display, not the person behind it.
The offset protocol. He asks.
Final models in your secure folder.
A reply labeled and validated. Redundancy came in at 4 layers
clean. He gives a quiet nod, fingers
clasped in front of him. Your chromatic threading
benchmark RAM 10.2% above target.
We'll use it to calibrate the incoming tier.
It'll hold through cycle three. I say, standing straighter.
Heat tolerance stayed below the margin.
Another pause. His expression doesn't change,
but the rhythm of his voice adjusts.
I'm reconsidering the Ross girl. I wait, reading his tone before
I respond. Based on reports from last night
at a party. Hachette folds his hands behind
his back, his eyes fixed not on me, but on the centre of the
test bed. Correct.
Her public confrontation suggests behavioural volatility.
Team friction introduces risk in advanced labs regardless of
talent. I glanced toward the lattice
core, fingers brushing over the corner bracket as I weigh my
next words. She responded to a provocation
most people ignored. I say evenly.
That's not volatility, that's a correction.
He tilts his head slightly, almost imperceptible.
She responded without weighing the cost.
He counters. Judgement matters.
I lift the tray of finished modules and rested on the upper
rail, voice calm but grounded. She made one somewhat openly.
Hachette shifts his stance, stepping once to the side, eyes
scanning the silent system as though it might offer a verdict.
Cognitive precision doesn't offset interpersonal failure.
He replies. You understand the cost of
imbalance in Group dynamics. I hold his gaze, letting a beat
stretch before responding. She doesn't create an imbalance.
She forces recalibration. He finally turns his full
attention to me, shoulders angled in that way he reserves
for statements he intends to anchor.
She disrupted cohesion. He says.
Publicly. I press the pad of my thumb to
the side of the display and watch the diagnostic flicker
across the screen. I remind you that she repaired
the equation faster than anyone in the room.
Publicly, he studies me, silent but active, the kind of quiet
that always precedes a pivot in direction.
I've known him long enough to recognise the shift beneath his
stillness. Carter requested her.
He says. I straighten a bit, drawing in a
breath through my nose. She doesn't belong in structural
systems, I reply. Her work is harmonic convergence
system intelligence. What Carter needs is scaffolding
and load theory. She'll stagnate in his lab.
She may still fold under pressure.
I turn and look at him, hands resting on either side of the
interface, then put her under it with the rest of them.
Let's find out. Hachette inclines his head
slightly, a gesture of agreement more than approval.
Four day stress program begins Wednesday.
Logic recursion, bandwidth saturation, interpersonal
disruption, and controlled isolation.
You'll coordinate the logic recursion and isolation loop
yourself, and Carter will administer the bandwidth
interpersonal testing. I want full exposure to
environmental attrition. I nod once.
Jaw said she'll manage. If she doesn't.
I lift the tray again, clicking it into the secure rack.
Then you'll cycle in one of your alternates.
I say. But if she holds, she'll
outperform every name on your list.
Hachette pauses as he reaches the biometric door, his hand
resting flat against the scanner.
That reminds me. He says without turning.
One of the alternates has withdrawn and I'm bringing Jeff
Willison into the program. He adds it without emphasis, but
the warning is clear. I nod, knowing it might disrupt
the balance between him and Ross.
He says nothing for a while longer, then turns and walks
toward the secure partition. The door clicks and admits him
to the server. Vault Lab resets to its
quietness. The test bed completes its cycle
and dims to low power. I set the new core into its tray
and leave my hand against the glass until the warmth fades.
She judged me without context. I haven't forgiven that, but if
there's a better candidate on this campus, I haven't seen
them. The lab recedes behind me in
phases, climbing the stairs and out of the building before the
chill crossed my face. Finality of the memory of her
voice, still too sharp to fully file away.
Hachette's words echo down the corridor with every step I take
toward my dorm. If she folds, she's out.
I reach my room. The hall outside has dimmed for
the night. My door recognises my key card
opens without resistance, and seals behind me with a soft pull
of air. Tammy is already waiting beneath
the blanket. The glow from the desk lamp
spills across her bare shoulders.
Her hair is damp, pulled into a loose knot, and steam from her
shower still lingers in the air. She doesn't speak as I strip off
my shirt and cross to the bed, and I don't explain why I'm
later than usual. We meet easily, without
pretence. Her hands find me first, the
palms, warm fingers trailing up my chest, her mouth pressing
into mine before I fully settled beside her.
The kiss deepens naturally. Her legs slip around my waist
and I shift against her, tracking her rhythm the way I've
learnt to. Wordlessly, her breath catches
when I press into her again and she draws me down without a
sound. We don't speak.
Her skin is fire against mine. The blanket slides lower as she
arches, eyes meeting mine through the dim.
She doesn't look away. She never has.
Afterward, her breathing slows beneath my arm.
I rest my head near hers, hand curled at her waist.
The fan above cuts through the quiet in low, rhythmic turns.
You're holding back tonight. Tammy murmurs, voice brushing my
collarbone more than the air. I'm not, I say, though even
hearing it, the answer feels untrue.
She threads her fingers into my hair, slow and searching.
You were going to say something, but she got there first.
She didn't see that, I reply, exhaling slowly.
Not everyone waits for backup. Tammy says softly, her lips
grazing my jaw. She could have waited.
Tammy shifts closer. Some people don't learn to wait,
not when waiting means more damage.
She assumed what she heard, judged without pause.
That's what sticks with me. What you showed her last week
didn't go unnoticed. Tammy replies.
You said it to James. It might have been a joke, but
it landed differently. I handled that with James.
She pauses, fingers going still. Did you with her?
I don't answer. There's a lot you keep tucked
away, Stephen. She only sees the part you let
her and honestly it's enough to make her flinch when Jeff starts
in. Tammy pulls the blanket up over
her chest, her palm still resting lightly against my ribs.
She didn't wait because her body doesn't trust situations like
that. I turned to face her.
What do you mean? I saw her back.
She says, barely above a whisper.
When we were in the dressing room before the rooftop party,
it's burned, scarred, deep. Old, I think.
I couldn't stop staring. The silence lingers longer than
it should. You've seen the way she
flinches. Tammy adds.
I think that story she told, it was real.
Maybe, I murmur, But she still misread me.
Yeah, she did. But denying what's underneath?
That's lying, and we both know it.
I push a hand through my hair and rest it across my forehead.
The room feels smaller than when I walked in.
She's talented. Tammy says.
Brilliant, actually. Don't forget Hachette's watching
her. He's watching all of them.
She'll get eaten alive in there unless someone's got her back.
I'm not saying you need to be her knight or anything, just
don't let her get steam rolled OK?
I don't respond. Tammy shifts again, curling
around me without tension. Her eyes close, but her presence
stays alert beside me. I stare up at the ceiling,
listening to the quiet between her breaths, thinking about the
girl who's getting under my skin after midnight.
The upper alcove holds it's silence, thrumming with unseen
static. Below us, the curve of the
Charles reflects A fractured band of city lights.
Glass and steel ripple across the surface, a frequency in
drift. Carter sits angled at the far
table, a mechanical pencil loose between his fingers.
His sketch pad is open to a cross braced arc system, fine
lines anchoring abstract support models in a complex spiral
pattern that feels more emotional than structural.
He doesn't look up when I enter, but his foot stops bouncing.
You're late. He mutters, eyes still on the
draft. I don't see you crying.
A reply, settling into the chair across from him.
He grins, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
If this is your process, I'm impressed you finish anything at
all. I lean back, studying the page.
His designs always hide more than they reveal.
Tonight, though, his sketches are a little ragged at the
edges, lines pressed too hard, graphite smudged in a way he'd
usually hate. Carter never lets a drawing out
of his sight until it's right, but this one looks restless,
unfinished. I'm submitting for Ross, I say.
He meets my gaze, then glances down at the page, thumb rubbing
the corner. So have I.
He says, voice a little rougher than before.
You ever feel like like you're making the same pitch every
semester but nobody's listening? He shakes his head then.
Ross deserves a real team, you know it.
Your system isn't a match for her, I say, keeping my tone
even. You never know, she might end up
surprising you. He says, meeting my gaze at last
quiet conviction behind the words at the party.
Jeff's head was almost taken off by her.
You know, it could have been you.
He murmurs, folding his arms to hold back the memory.
My shoulders tense. She assumed too much.
Yeah, I heard, and I get why she reacted the way she did.
Social cues aren't her strength, I say, fingers drumming once on
the table top. She wasn't wrong.
She's, well, She's probably the smartest person I've ever met.
I bristle, leaning forward. I won't rebut that.
You know, Stephen, I don't think you're competing with me for her
mind. He trails off, then meets my
eyes. It's the other thing, isn't it?
He laughs once, but it sounds thin.
Never thought I'd care who got the credit, but here we are.
You think that's what I'm after? He tilts his head.
You're not exactly subtle. I narrowed my eyes.
I don't want her in my bed. Maybe you do, maybe you don't.
Carter replies, unbothered. I've seen the way you look at
her. You're not the only one in that
lab with working eyes. Brilliance is hard to ignore, I
say. So is beauty.
That word lands hard between us. My jaw tightens.
The word burns in my throat. She's not a prize, I snap.
She's not for the winning. Then stop treating her like 1.
He says flatly. Don't make assumptions without
proper observations. I answer shifting my weight
forward. You're drawn to her.
That's none of my business. Don't turn it into hers.
Carter says, his voice low. Even she's unpredictable.
She's not unpredictable, just intricate.
Give it time. The pattern always shows itself.
He replies. My hands fold together, elbows
on the table. You're being overprotective.
His fingers tighten on the sketch pad, the knuckles
whitening. Call it what you want, I just
see things. Or maybe I only see what I want.
His hand stays on the pad a beat longer, unwilling to let go,
betraying something restless in him.
He lets go of the sketch pad slowly, the gestures steeped in
something heavier than it should be.
I think you believe she'll fold in the deeper levels of Aegis in
the classified simulations. She might, but I'm willing to
let her try. He says, locking his gaze with
mine. I pause.
The tension stretches long enough to feel structural.
The hum of the generators rises faintly through the concrete
under our feet. We don't get to pick our teams,
but I will use all my influence to get her on mine, I say.
Finally, I say. We let it ride until then.
Not much of a gambler. Carter murmurs.
But I'll play along. I nod performance metrics.
Whoever Hachette assigns her to, the other concedes he leans in
slightly. And the loser?
Solo test cycles, 10 of them midnight SIM blocks.
No support crew, I assert. He exhales, then nods once.
That's brutal. I.
Glance at the sketch pad, now abandoned.
So's ambition. Carter's hand hovers over the
table before he offers it. A flicker of fatigue passes
through his eyes, a look that doesn't reach his voice.
He shakes his head, nearly smiling.
Doesn't matter who's right does it, but don't lose your nerve
when she sees through. You don't fall in love with
someone you'll never outrun, I reply.
Recognition settles in, silent, precise, unflinching.
I rise, retrieving my coat from the back of the chair at the
door. I pause, the fluorescent light
behind me outlining the edge of my silhouette against the floor.
It won't come down to charm. It won't come down to grace.
Only patterns. Only convergence.