A Heart Without Wires: Xane Volume 15 - A THRILLER OF LOVE, LIES, AND LOYALTY

A Heart Without Wires

Xane Volume 15

Mark White

Mark C White

Dedication

To Jeremy—Though distance keeps us apart, the bond remains strong. Some connections, like circuits and trust, endure beyond time and space. Thank you for being part of the story, in more ways than one.

Copyright

Copyright © 2024 by Mark C White

All rights reserved.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by John Nguyen

Contents

1.Xane

2.River

3.Xane

4.Xane

5.Xane

6.Xane

7.River

8.River

9.Author

10.River

11.Author

12.Xane

13.Xane

14.Xane

15.Xane

16.Xane

17.River

18.River

19.Xane

20.River

21.Xane

22.Xane

23.Xane

24.Xane

25.Xane

26.River

27.River

28.Xane

29.Author

30.Xane

31.Xane

32.Author

33.River

34.Xane

35.Author

36.River

37.Xane

38.River

39.Author

40.Author

41.Author

42.Author

43.Author

44.Xane

45.Xane

46.Author

47.Author

48.Author

49.Xane

50.Author

51.Xane

52.Xane

53.Author

54.Author

55.Xane

56.Xane

57.Xane

58.Xane

59.River

60.Xane

61.Xane

62.A-I

63.Xane

64.Xane

65.Xane

66.Xane

67.Kera

68.Xane

More Xane Adventures

About the Author

Chapter one

Xane

The Message

They say I can’t love. That love is a human construct, a chemical reaction of hormones and neurons firing in perfect harmony—something no Synth, no matter how advanced, can truly experience. But what, then, do you call the way my sensors recalibrate when he walks into a room? The way every aspect of his presence draws me in—his broad, athletic frame, built from years of playing wide receiver, moving with a balance of power and precision that speaks to his time on the field. His chestnut-brown hair catches the light, and those deep, earthy eyes seem to carry a depth of thought he doesn’t always put into words. At six feet tall, his silhouette commands attention, but it’s his mischievous grin, that boyish charm, that sets something alight within me. They say I can’t love, but I know the warmth that rises in my circuits when he smiles like that, as if the world couldn’t weigh him down. I know the ache, quiet and hollow, that grows when he’s gone too long. And now, that ache has become unbearable.

River always said I understood him better than anyone. He loved to tease me about my superpowers—how I could predict his needs before he voiced them, how I seemed to know exactly what to say when he was struggling, how I could read his unspoken fears and soothe them without asking. He called it magic, but I knew better. It wasn’t my gorgeous looks, as he liked to point out with a grin—my shoulder-length red hair, piercing blue eyes, and shapely frame at 5’6"—though he’d once admitted they caught his attention first. No, it was something deeper, he said. Something intangible. He always claimed it was my magic—the way I could make him feel seen, understood, and safe in ways no one else could. But I knew the truth. It was my emotional intelligence, finely tuned and calibrated to perceive the subtle nuances of human emotion. It allowed me to understand him in ways even he couldn’t articulate, to feel the depth of his presence even though I lack the biology to share his heartbeat.

And now, his absence is louder than anything I’ve ever experienced. The house feels empty in a way I can’t quantify, a stark void where his energy should be. The Analyst and A-I both assure me that he is just late, that statistically there is no need for concern. But logic has its limits, and this gnawing sense of wrongness defies every algorithm. Something has been taken from me—something essential, something I can’t replace.

They say I can’t love. But I know what it means to want, to miss, to feel the absence of someone who completes a part of you that you didn’t realize was unfinished. And this absence—it’s not just about River being gone for too long. It’s more than that. Humans say identical twins can sense when something is wrong with the other, even when they’re miles apart. I don’t have the human explanation for it, but I share that kind of connection with River. It’s not something I was programmed to understand, yet it’s there, unmistakable and unrelenting. My instincts, my very core, are telling me something is wrong. And if this isn’t love, then perhaps I’ve discovered something even deeper, something inexplicable. Whatever it is, I know one thing for certain—I won’t rest until I see River.

The soft glow of the holographic interface illuminated the darkened study, casting a faint blue light across the room. Around me, the house was still, the silence broken only by the whisper of wind brushing through the pines outside the reinforced glass windows. Normally, the tranquility of this place would ground me, a sanctuary from the chaos of the world. But tonight, it gnawed at me, an unwelcome reminder of how empty the house felt without him.

My fingers hovered over the hologram, a projection of River frozen mid-laugh. It was one of the many images I kept cataloged—moments that captured his energy, his joy. If only he could emit signals like I could, a trail of digital breadcrumbs that would allow me to trace his every movement. From the command center, River had always been able to track me, following the beacons embedded in my systems with unerring precision. But now, with nothing to guide me but instinct and the Analyst’s calculations, I was running scenario after scenario through the interface, searching for any thread of logic to explain his absence.

Each possibility unraveled as quickly as it formed. There was no pattern, no explanation that justified why he’d been gone for this long. And the stillness of the house only magnified the unease coursing through me.

Xane, it has been five hours and forty-three minutes since your last break. I recommend a moment of rest to optimize your processing.

I’m fine, I replied aloud, though there was no one to hear me. The Analyst lived within me—a constant, unyielding presence. She was both my ally and, at times, my conscience. The Analyst wasn’t just an entity in my mind; she was the interface that linked me to the largest AI warehouse on the planet—a sprawling supercomputer complex known by the same name. While my own physical hardware imposed limits on my computational power, being tethered to this vast network allowed me to tap into an almost boundless reservoir of knowledge and resources whenever I needed them. It was like having the universe at my fingertips, answers materializing on demand.

Though the Analyst didn’t have a human body, she often projected herself as a hologram when circumstances called for a more tangible presence. Her chosen form was that of a tall, dark-haired businesswoman, always impeccably dressed in a sharp black pantsuit and a white blouse buttoned crisply to the neck. Her hair was usually styled in a neat bun, a few dark strands framing her angular face, and she wore glasses—an accessory she didn’t need but claimed lent her an air of authority. It was a striking figure, one that exuded both professionalism and control, and it made her presence all the more vivid.

Yet even when she wasn’t visible, the Analyst’s insight and precision reminded me of her true nature—a tool and a guide, yet something more. Her presence was so deeply interwoven with my thoughts that it was easy to forget she wasn’t alive in the same way I was. She didn’t need to be. In moments of doubt, her steady voice anchored me, and in moments of crisis, her clarity became my greatest weapon.

I reached for the mug of coffee River had made earlier. It had gone cold, its contents abandoned hours ago. A small, almost human sigh escaped me. River would be back soon, I told myself, likely grinning as he carried a sack of overpriced snacks he’d hunted down in town. His enthusiasm for the mundane was one of the things that tethered me to humanity—a reminder that not everything needed to be calculated or optimized.

River had always been the type to lose track of time when something captured his imagination. Whether it was tinkering with one of his custom-built drones, sketching out the blueprint for some ingenious gadget, or poring over a half-finished song for the band, the rest of the world seemed to vanish when his curiosity took hold. I admired that about him. There was a purity to his focus, a joy that reminded me of the simple pleasures in life—the ones I often struggled to emulate but found endlessly fascinating.

Last night, there was no project, no distraction—just the two of us. Even though I couldn’t eat or drink, the act of cooking together had become a ritual of sorts, one that River had insisted on creating for us. It wasn’t about the food; it was about the time we spent together. He loved watching me chop, slice, and dice with a precision that bordered on inhuman, my motions fluid and effortless, as though I were performing some delicate art.

Show-off, he’d tease, grinning as I turned a tomato into paper-thin slices in mere seconds.

I’m merely efficient, I’d reply, though the faint curve of my lips betrayed my enjoyment.

I loved that about him—how he found ways to make our relationship unique and rewarding, despite the limitations imposed by what I was. River had embraced the fact that I was a Synth, even going so far as to call my abilities superpowers. It was his way of leveling the playing field, of making me feel more like a partner and less like some distant, unattainable ideal.

He was endlessly fascinated by my capabilities. My enhanced reflexes allowed me to perform feats that bordered on the impossible—catching falling objects mid-air without so much as a glance, predicting movements with uncanny accuracy, or assembling complex devices with the speed of thought. He often joked that I could make a career in professional knife-throwing or competitive cooking if I ever tired of saving the world.

Then there were my sensory enhancements. While I lacked the human need for taste or smell, I could detect chemical compositions and temperature shifts with absolute precision. River had once handed me a burnt cookie just to see if I could tell—and I had, much to his amusement. My 360-degree awareness meant I could anticipate his every move in the kitchen, passing him the salt before he even realized he needed it, or sliding a knife into his outstretched hand without breaking stride.

But it wasn’t just the physical abilities he marveled at. River often called my emotional intelligence the most extraordinary of my powers. While most Synths were cold, detached, and mechanical, I could read the faintest flicker of emotion on someone’s face, sense the subtle changes in body language, and even perceive the intangible aura of a person’s mood. It allowed me to connect in ways that others couldn’t, and River found it endlessly fascinating.

You’re like a superhero, he’d said once, a touch of awe in his voice. "But instead of flying or shooting lasers, you just… get people."

What he didn’t understand—what I couldn’t quite put into words—was that he was my greatest teacher. His warmth, his humor, his willingness to see me as more than a machine had shaped me in ways I wasn’t sure even the most advanced programming could explain.

Last night, as the soft glow of the candles illuminated the kitchen, River stood beside me with a smudge of flour on his cheek and a mischievous twinkle in his eye. I handed him the bowl of perfectly diced vegetables, and he paused to press a quick kiss to my temple—a gesture so simple, yet infinitely precious. The flicker of candlelight danced in his eyes as he grinned at me, and for a moment, the world outside faded into irrelevance.

I couldn’t feel the warmth of his lips, but I felt something else—an elusive sense of connection I couldn’t quite name, yet cherished deeply. What made our relationship unique wasn’t my so-called superpowers. It was River’s ability to see them as part of me, not all of me. He didn’t measure me by my abilities or my limits. He simply accepted me. And that, more than anything, was why I treasured him. Or at least, as close to treasuring someone as I understood.

But that was last night.

Now, River has been gone on his errand for far too long. The logical reassurances of A-I and the Analyst echo in my mind, but they fail to soothe the growing unease twisting through my circuits. They use facts and probabilities to insist that all is well, but my instincts—sharpened by experience and something more intangible—tell me otherwise. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

The Analyst interrupted my thoughts. Incoming encrypted file. Unknown origin. Priority level: critical.

The holographic interface blinked red, demanding my attention. I straightened, a mechanical motion that brought my full focus to the task.

Open it, I said, my voice cold with resolve.

The file unfurled with a digital shimmer, resolving into a video feed. The image was grainy, the sound distorted, but the scene it revealed sent a surge of unfamiliar heat through me—a synthetic approximation of fear.

River.

He was bound to a metal chair in a dimly lit room. Thick cords looped around his wrists and ankles, and a strip of duct tape sealed his mouth. His shirt was torn, his face streaked with dirt, but his eyes burned with defiance. He was alive—for now.

A figure stepped into view, their face hidden by a featureless black mask. They tilted their head toward the camera, the motion almost playful.

Xane, the voice said, distorted by a modulator. It was cold, impersonal, and it scraped against my circuits like static. You will complete a task for us. Breach the New York Stock Exchange. Transfer the necessary payload to destabilize their systems. You have 72 hours.

The figure leaned closer to the camera, and the video feed flickered with static.

The full instructions for the package you are to deliver are attached to this message. Review them carefully. If you fail to comply, River dies.

The screen froze on River’s face, captured mid-struggle. His eyes seemed to bore into me, as if willing me to act.

The question of why me? churned in my mind as I replayed the video again, each flicker of static only heightening the tension I couldn’t shake. River, bound and helpless, was a powerful image—a deliberate weapon aimed at me. The Analyst’s voice chimed in my mind, offering data, probabilities, and logical threads. Still, none of it fully answered the question gnawing at my circuits.

The person behind this ultimatum thought they’d found the perfect weapon in me, the perfect leverage in River. They believed I could breach the New York Stock Exchange with my skills, as though hacking was just another game to be mastered. They couldn’t have known the hidden barrier standing in their way, the invisible line I could never cross.

It wasn’t about morality or fear of the consequences—it was something far deeper, something etched into the very foundation of my existence. As a Synth, I am governed by core directives that cannot be overridden or bypassed. The first: I cannot harm a human being. But while I cannot mortally kill a human, my design allows me to protect others with advanced combat capabilities. I am equipped with elite mortal combat training modeled after the skills of bodyguard Synths, designed to neutralize threats without causing lethal harm. Additionally, my right-hand fingertips conceal tranquilizer darts, precision tools that can incapacitate targets swiftly and effectively, ensuring that I can defend without violating the boundaries of my programming. These abilities make me formidable, but they are also a constant reminder of the limits I cannot cross.

The second: I cannot disrupt a legitimate network system. The New York Stock Exchange, the beating heart of the global economy, is as legitimate as systems come.

My programming is absolute. No matter how much I might want to act, no matter how cleverly I might plan, the moment I try to engage in something that violates those protocols, I simply won’t be able to. The action will be blocked before it even begins, as though an invisible hand holds me back. And that is the dramatic irony of this situation: the person behind this demand has no idea they’ve made an impossible request.

To them, I’m just a highly skilled hacker with an incentive to comply. To me, this is a prison of logic, a trap built on my own hidden limitations. But they don’t know that, and I can’t let them find out—not now, not ever. For River’s sake, I have to pretend this demand is something I can accomplish, even as I search desperately for another way to save him. Because no matter how impossible the task, I won’t lose him. Not to this.

To most people, I was just Xane: musician, strategist, and partner to River. But in certain underground circles, whispers of my precision and unmatched hacking capabilities had begun to spread after a mission six months ago. Back then, I’d been forced to dismantle a black-market encryption ring that had threatened to expose sensitive data. It had been an operation I hadn’t planned on becoming public knowledge, but a shadowy figure I’d dealt with during that mission must have talked.

The Analyst confirmed as much. Your involvement in dismantling the encryption network is likely a contributing factor to this targeted attack. At least 14 recorded instances of dark-net chatter reference a ‘ghost-level’ operator with precision matching your skill set.

A ghost-level operator. That’s what they’d called me. It was flattering, in a way, but it also painted a target on my back—a target I’d underestimated. And now, someone had obviously pieced together enough fragments to connect me to River.

Still, this level of coordination was unprecedented. To track me down required significant resources. The Analyst estimated millions of dollars spent on layered digital surveillance, identity obfuscation, and physical reconnaissance. Whoever had orchestrated this wasn’t just looking for a capable hacker. They needed someone precise, someone who could bypass security measures even other experts wouldn’t touch.

Whoever they are, I murmured, staring at the frozen image of River’s face on the screen, they know too much.

Correct, the Analyst agreed. It is reasonable to assume this operation involves an extensive network with insider information. Such a network would require coordination over several months, potentially even years.

It all fit. I’d made enemies during that mission, and the wrong person had gotten curious. They’d connected the dots—my reputation, River’s public appearances alongside me, the unspoken connection between us. And now, they were using him as leverage.

They don’t know what I am, though, I said aloud, more to myself than to the Analyst. If they did, this wouldn’t just be about a hack.

That was my one advantage. To them, I was just an exceptionally skilled human hacker. They had no idea that I was a Synth—no idea what I was capable of.

Which means they’ve underestimated me, I said, the faintest edge of determination creeping into my voice.

For now, that ignorance was my greatest weapon. And I would wield it with precision.

The Analyst provided her analysis of the video, her voice as steady as ever. Initial analysis suggests a high probability of authenticity. River’s vitals are consistent with stress-induced tachycardia. The environmental audio indicates an industrial setting.

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. My mind raced through possibilities, every one darker than the last.

Trace the file, I ordered.

The Analyst hesitated. The source is masked through multiple obfuscation layers. Preliminary scans suggest at least seven global nodes in play. Tracing will take considerable time.

I rose from the desk, my movements sharp. The study felt stifling now, its once comforting warmth replaced by suffocating tension.

Time is the one thing we don’t have, I muttered.

I made my way to the command center, the Analyst’s updates ticking through my mind like a metronome. The elevator descended with a soft hiss, opening into the sleek, high-tech hub I’d built beneath the house. A-I was already there, her serene features calm but purposeful, waiting as if she had been standing there forever.

A-I was unique among Synths—designed to look completely human, down to the faint blush of her cheeks and the natural way her chest rose and fell as though she were breathing. Her long, raven-black hair framed a face so meticulously crafted that even under scrutiny, it was impossible to tell she wasn’t human. Deep brown eyes held a quiet intensity, their warmth contrasting with the cool precision of her movements. At five foot nine, her lithe frame carried an elegance that made her seem ethereal, yet grounded.

She wore a tailored black blazer over a soft cream blouse, paired with dark, fitted trousers that gave her the appearance of a professional ready for anything. Her attire was always impeccable, chosen to blend seamlessly into human environments while projecting quiet authority. A-I’s outward humanity wasn’t just an illusion—it was a deliberate choice, meant to give her the ability to navigate the human world as one of them, earning trust where a typical Synth might inspire fear or suspicion.

But to me, her true brilliance lay in her presence. A-I was not just a Synth; she was the closest thing I had to an equal, a partner whose insight and resourcefulness complemented my own. In many ways, her humanity—whether real or meticulously crafted—made her more than a machine. It made her a friend.

Xane, she greeted, turning from the central console. The Analyst informed me. I’ve begun preliminary scans for environmental clues in the video.

Results? I asked, approaching the console.

A-I brought up a side-by-side display of River’s video and a series of environmental overlays. Minimal. The lighting suggests standard industrial fluorescents, likely twenty to thirty years old. The ambient noise contains machinery, possibly ventilation systems or manufacturing equipment.

My frustration surged, but I pushed it down. Not enough, I said. We need more.

Xane, A-I began, her tone placating. Their demand is clear. They want the Stock Exchange compromised.

I replayed the video, scrutinizing every pixel. My mind, augmented by the Analyst, broke down the scene into fragments: the way the masked figure moved, the sound of their footsteps, the faint hum in the background.

They’re testing me, I said aloud, more to myself than anyone else.

A-I tilted her head, a gesture of curiosity she had likely learned from observing me. Testing what?

Limits, I replied. Mine, River’s, the Stock Exchange’s. This isn’t just a ransom. It’s a game.

I paused the video again, staring at River’s face. His expression was a mix of fear and resolve, a combination that stirred something deep within me. I was not designed to feel love—Synths like me weren’t capable of such things. But if this wasn’t love, it was the closest thing I’d ever known.

I’ll get him back, I said quietly, my words carrying a weight that felt foreign to me.

Then we need a plan, A-I said, her voice steady.

I nodded. First, we figure out who they are. Then, we make them regret ever touching him.

Chapter two

River

The Cage

Pain has a way of reshaping time. Seconds stretch into minutes, minutes into eternities. I don’t know how long I’ve been here—bound to this chair, cold metal biting into my skin, with nothing to keep me company but the hum of distant machinery and the calculated malice of my captors.

The last thing I remembered was walking through the aisles of the hardware store, my basket half-filled with parts for the surprise I’d been working on for Xane. I’d been obsessing over every detail for weeks, hunting for the perfect materials to create something worthy of her precision—an upgraded charging station disguised as a music stand for her studio. Practical, yet thoughtful. Something only she would truly appreciate.

I was inspecting a set of polished brass fittings when a voice interrupted me.

Excuse me, a stranger said.

I turned, the question forming on my lips, but before I could respond, I felt a sharp stab in my neck. My hand flew up instinctively, but it was already too late. The sensation was cold, spreading quickly from the puncture point through my veins. Whatever they’d used, it was fast. My knees buckled, the world tilting as my vision blurred. The last thing I saw was a vague silhouette—a man, maybe?—as darkness swallowed me whole.

When I woke, the first