I think of Selene walking out without her badge.
I think of Kirell.
I think of what it would mean to live somewhere not built on strategic necessity.
“I want civilian residency status,” I say.
Saal blinks. “Where.”
“Neutral territory.”
Pellorin turns his head and studies me, this time with no attempt to hide it.
Saal says, “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
He stares at me for a long beat. “You would leave Coalition jurisdiction.”
“I would leave military jurisdiction.”
“That is not a small distinction.”
“It matters to me.”
His eyes narrow. “Do you understand what that signals politically?”
“Yes.”
“That you reject not merely reinstatement, but strategic reclamation.”
“Yes.”
Pellorin murmurs, “God help me, he’s become principled in a way that is very inconvenient for everyone.”
Saal gives him a sharp look, then taps the slate again. A new form surfaces. Application request language. Residency petition pathways. Neutral zones listed in cold legal columns: trade stations, demilitarized enclaves, independent civic sectors licensed under interstellar neutrality compacts.
He must have anticipated this. Or anticipated something like it.
“High Command can process an expedited application,” he says. “If this is formal.”
“It is.”
He searches my face for the crack in it. The bluff. The moment I reconsider.
He does not find one.
“Then sign,” he says.
One of the guards hands me a stylus. The thing looks absurdly small in my hand, fragile as a pinned insect. I sign anyway.
Rhyx Varos.
Civilian residency applicant. Neutral territory requested pending processing.
The slate confirms receipt with a soft chime.
Saal watches the seal appear and something old and tired passes behind his eyes. “You are making yourself very hard to use.”
