I feel my own pulse shift, slow but undeniable, and the binders at my wrists hum faintly as I tighten my hands against them.
Selene’s voice remains controlled, but there is a subtle change in its texture, as though something sharp has moved behind the words. “At approximately 14:01, the corridor vector?—”
Thane interrupts, his voice louder, carrying over hers in the way men trained in public performance learn to carry. “The tribunal does not require speculative detail at this stage. Proceed with the corridor overlay as utilized.”
Selene’s gaze lifts, sharp as a snapped wire, and for an instant I think she might push back, that she might insist on the integrity of the sequence despite the interruption. Instead she swallows the moment with a discipline that reads, to anyone inattentive, as compliance, though to me it looks like restraint so tight it could break teeth.
“Yes, Senior Architect,” she says, and the words are formal enough to be polite while still tasting faintly of contempt.
The projection shifts. The corridor line brightens where the prosecution wants it bright, and the hazard arcs flare, and thecasualty numbers hover at the chamber’s edge like a second sun that will not dim. Selene continues, her hands moving with measured economy as she layers the map into digestible simplicity, yet the part of the timeline she almost named remains there as a ghosted segment, present, waiting, refusing to vanish entirely.
Thane turns to the bench as if he has rescued the tribunal from inconvenience. “As you see, High Arbiter, the utilized corridor aligns with the defendant’s order as executed under bombardment conditions. The civilian losses derive from a negligent vector choice, not from any external factor.”
External factor. The phrase is a lid slammed on a box they do not want opened.
Drax’s gaze remains on the projection, her expression unreadable, but I have watched enough officers at enough command tables to recognize calculation when I see it. She is not persuaded so much as she is weighing which truth she is allowed to acknowledge in public.
Selene’s voice continues, steady again now that she has retreated behind procedure. “The corridor collapse occurs at 14:09 local orbital. Civilian shuttle telemetry indicates sustained artillery exposure across Corridor C-23 in the final minutes preceding impact.”
The prosecutor beside Thane activates the casualty manifest again, and the chamber fills with the scrolling names, too many to read, too many to grieve properly. Somewhere in the gallery a sob is stifled into silence, and I cannot tell whether it is real grief or performative response to the broadcast, but it strikes through me regardless, because it sounds like the bridge alarms that day—sharp, helpless, and too late.
Drax lifts her hand. “That will suffice for preliminary overlay.”
Selene steps back from the console, posture rigid, chin lifted. The light from the projection washes her face pale for a moment, and I see how hard she is holding herself together, how she has made a fortress of composure and is praying the walls do not crack on camera.
Thane seizes the closing cadence, voice smooth as polished stone. “The prosecution rests its opening narrative and requests that the tribunal proceed to evidentiary scheduling.”
Drax looks toward me again. “Fleet Commander Varos. You have requested full reconstruction. Your request is entered. Do you have further procedural motions at this time?”
Pellorin shifts beside me, and I can feel him wanting to speak, wanting to temper my next words with diplomacy, but I have already decided that diplomacy is the luxury of those whose dead were not used as rhetorical devices.
“I have a motion,” I say.
Thane’s mouth tightens imperceptibly, anticipating disruption.
“I request a private archival clarification session with Liaison Ardent,” I continue, “for review of the full timestamp sequence and corridor variance within the recalibration window.”
A murmur rolls through the chamber, and this time it is less contained, because the words recalibration window imply missing time, and missing time implies missing truth. I see several observers lean forward in their seats. I see Drax’s eyes sharpen. I see Selene’s posture stiffen at the side of the dais, as if she has been struck by the fact that I have named the thing Thane tried to silence.
Thane steps forward quickly. “High Arbiter, this is inappropriate. The defendant cannot dictate archival personnel allocation or demand private sessions with tribunal staff. This is a stalling tactic, and it risks compromising neutrality.”
Compromising neutrality. The same cudgel they used against Selene, now swung again, polished with righteous concern.
Drax’s voice remains measured. “Commander Varos, clarify the necessity.”
“The prosecution presented a simplified narrative,” I say, and I can hear the faint grit in my own voice now, the edge of anger I refuse to smooth away because smoothing is how lies become palatable. “Their exhibits compress the timeline into a form that eliminates critical intervals. Liaison Ardent has access to raw logs. I request that we review the full sequence under controlled conditions so that the tribunal may proceed with procedural accuracy rather than broadcast convenience.”
Pellorin murmurs from the side of my mouth, “Careful,” but his caution is for optics, and optics are the enemy.
Thane’s voice warms again, feigning patience. “The tribunal will have ample opportunity for evidentiary review. Private clarification sessions create the appearance of undue influence.”
I turn my head slightly, meeting his gaze through the partition field. “If your narrative can withstand the full record, you should welcome clarification.”
A quiet sound escapes someone in the gallery—half laugh, half gasp—quickly smothered.
Thane’s polite mask holds, but his eyes are hard. “We do not litigate appearances. We litigate facts.”
“Then show them,” I say.
