Leo stared at the progress bar on his antique terminal. The theoretical limit of the old copper lines. No one had pushed data this fast in twenty years, not since the Quiet War fried the orbital relays and sent civilization back to the stone age of dial-up.

He sat back down, exhausted. "You can kill me. You can burn this place. But the seed is planted."

A shadow passed the only window—a dust-caked pane of reinforced glass. Leo didn't look. It was just the wind playing tricks. Or the raiders. They'd been hunting him for a week, tracking the faint heat signature of his rig.

Leo smiled. "You're too late."

"Sixty-eight percent."