The custody officer returns with a tablet and the thin, brittle smile of someone attempting professionalism while bleeding internally.
“Varos,” she says, carefully avoiding every title now. “Your custodial status is being converted pending transfer review.”
Pellorin turns on her before I can respond. “Converted to what.”
She hands him the tablet. “Acquittal release under diplomatic hold for processing of command-status adjudication.”
Pellorin scans the text, nostrils flaring. “This is written by cowards.”
“Counsel—”
“It says he is free but supervised, exonerated but restricted, released but subject to ceremonial protocol. Pick a damn noun.”
I hold out my hand for the tablet. She hesitates, then gives it to me.
The text is exactly as absurd as Pellorin promised. Clean legal phrasing wrapping itself around contradiction like vines around a ruined wall.
Before I can finish reading, the chamber side doors open again.
Coalition delegation.
Not Merrow this time. A different set of uniforms. Darker trim. Higher rank. The lead representative is Commander Saal, because the galaxy is not above irony.
He approaches the partition with the expression of a man who has swallowed three conflicting directives and intends to pretend they taste fine.
Pellorin mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Saal stops just beyond the partition threshold. “Varos. Counsel.”
“Commander,” Pellorin says, all frosted politeness.
Saal’s gaze cuts briefly to him. “I need a private word.”
“You are having one in front of me.”
Saal looks at me instead. “That acceptable?”
“It is,” I say.
Pellorin folds his arms. “I’m delighted to remain where I’m least wanted.”
Saal produces another slate. Another document. Another attempt by power to make itself sound gracious when it is merely strategic.
“High Command has reviewed the tribunal finding,” he says. “In light of your acquittal and prior service record, the Coalition is prepared to extend a ceremonial reinstatement title.”
Pellorin makes a choking sound. “Of course you are.”
Saal continues as if he has not spoken. “Honorary Fleet Commander status. No operational authority. No command structure. Public recognition only.”
I stare at him.
The chamber around us is still loud in patches—clerks moving, feeds updating, someone shouting down a corridor two doors away—but his words arrive with perfect, awful clarity.
A title.
A polished shell of what I was, offered so the Coalition can pretend it has preserved my dignity while the actual thing has been cut away.
“Why,” I ask.
