Saal does not insult me by pretending not to understand the question. “Public honor. Continuity. Domestic stability. There are sectors where your name still carries weight, and High Command would prefer not to look as though it abandoned one of its own under foreign pressure.”
Pellorin barks a humorless laugh. “There it is. The truth, briefly glimpsed.”
Saal ignores him. “You would retain ceremonial standing. You could appear in public functions if desired. The title would preserve your service legacy.”
Legacy.
The word tastes rotten.
I set the tablet down on the partition shelf and look at Saal through the glass.
“You want to embalm me standing up.”
His jaw tightens. “That is not what this is.”
“It is exactly what this is.” My voice stays low, even. “A hollow title so the Coalition can save face without returning me to the machinery. You want the symbol, not the man.”
Saal’s expression hardens. “Symbols matter.”
“Yes,” I say. “That is why I’m refusing to become one.”
He goes very still.
Pellorin says softly, “Oh, this is going well.”
Saal shifts his attention to me again. “Think carefully.”
“I already have.”
“This title costs you nothing.”
“That is where you’re wrong.”
I rise then, because I am tired of discussing my own reduction from a seated position. The binders hum softly as I straighten. A few nearby guards tense on instinct, then realize I am not lunging at anyone, merely reclaiming my full height.
The room notices. Of course it does.
Everything notices size when it wishes it did not matter.
“It costs clarity,” I say. “It costs honesty. It tells the public I was restored in some meaningful way when the entire point of this verdict is that I will not return to command under a managed lie.”
Saal keeps his face controlled. “No one is asking you to lie.”
I let the silence answer that for a second.
Then I say, “A ceremonial reinstatement after acquittal and permanent command stripping is a lie with good tailoring.”
Pellorin actually smiles at that, quick and vicious.
Saal exhales slowly. “Then what do you want.”
The question is too honest to be accidental. It catches him a little off balance as soon as it leaves his mouth.
I hear the chamber around us. The whir of a drone lowering outside the partition. The dull click of hard-copy packets being sorted on a side table. The faint, tinny spill of commentary from somebody’s unsecured feed farther up the aisle.
What do I want?
Not command. Not honor arranged by committee. Not a restored title that lets institutions point to me and saysee, all accounted for.
