“I want you to keep people alive,” he counters, as if those are the same thing.
I lean forward slightly, scales shifting, the table’s surface cool beneath my forearms. “If I accept reinstatement under silence, what does that tell the dead?”
Saal’s expression hardens. “It tells them we avoided another war.”
“It tells them they were negotiable,” I say, voice low.
His eyes narrow. “You’re being dramatic.”
“No,” I say, and the word comes out like a growl. “I’m being accurate.”
Saal’s tone sharpens. “Varos, you know the strategic landscape. You know what the League will do if you stand up there and call their admirals murderers on a global broadcast.”
“I’m not calling them murderers,” I say. “I’m calling them accountable.”
“That’s a pretty synonym,” he snaps, “but it lands the same.”
The room smells like metal and tension now, like the air itself is bracing for impact.
Saal leans closer. “You could have your life back.”
I laugh once—short, humorless. “My life? I don’t even have my name back.”
“You could have command,” he says, insistent now. “You could be Fleet Commander again. You could do good.”
I stare at him, feeling the old reflex tug at my bones—yes, take it, take the leverage, take the power, fix what you can from inside.
It’s a seductive poison.
Then I see shuttle 447-A in my mind. The corridor arc turning inward. The civilian manifest. Names like stones.
And I see Selene—standing behind Drax, keeping her face neutral while they try to turn her grief into a weapon against her.
I exhale slowly. “Command under silence isn’t good. It's the maintenance of the lie.”
Saal’s jaw tightens. “The truth can burn down everything.”
“Then it needed burning,” I say.
He stares at me for a long moment, like he’s deciding whether I’m brave or stupid.
“Think,” he says, softer. “If you take reinstatement, you have influence. You can nudge. You can shape postwar policy. If you go civilian, you’re nothing.”
I feel the binders hum as my hands curl. “Nothing is what I’ve been for years.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is,” I say, and my voice is steadier than I feel. “I’ve been a convenient container. Put the guilt in Varos. Seal it. Stack it in the archive. Move on.”
Saal’s gaze flickers—just once. The closest thing to discomfort I’ve seen on him.
I keep going, because once the words start, they don’t stop easily.
“Reinstatement would be a pardon dressed as reward,” I say. “And it would come with a leash. I’m not putting that leash on and pretending it’s a collar of honor.”
Saal’s voice goes flat. “You’re refusing.”
“Yes.”
