“Yes, Arbiter,” I answer, rising.
“You will serve as archival reconstruction lead for the Kirell corridor sequence. Your published civilian evacuation modeling analysis was cited in Senate deliberations.”
A flicker of attention sweeps toward me—quick assessments, curiosity sharpened by context.
“You will isolate primary command logs,” she says. “No reliance on summary briefs. No interpretive overlays. Raw data only.”
“Yes, Arbiter.”
“The tribunal proceedings will be globally broadcast. Political factions have already begun framing this case as symbolic accountability. We are not here to provide symbolism. We are here to demonstrate procedural discipline.”
A senior legal architect leans forward, fingers steepled. “Do we anticipate Coalition objection to jurisdiction?”
Drax’s expression does not alter. “Commander Varos has surrendered voluntarily.”
A murmur ripples outward, restrained but unmistakable.
“He surrendered?”
“Why would he?—”
She lifts a single hand and the chamber stills again.
“You will maintain neutrality,” she says, her gaze sweeping across the tiers before settling briefly—deliberately—on me. “You will follow the record wherever it leads.”
The dismissal is subtle but final.
Chairs scrape against stone. Voices rise in tight clusters, speculation weaving itself before evidence has time to breathe. I move before anyone can intercept me, descending toward the secured lift that leads to the archival vaults.
The ride downward hums softly, magnetic rails carrying the platform beneath layers of polished architecture into the building’s skeletal understructure. The lighting shifts cooler with each level, the air thinning of ambient sound until the only constant is the subdued vibration of stored data re-indexing itself under the new reform directive.
The vault corridor stretches long and cylindrical, its walls embedded with transparent storage nodes in which faint currents of light pulse like distant neural activity. At the far end waits the central access door, circular and segmented, its alloy plates interlocked in a pattern reminiscent of vertebrae.
Above it, a status panel scrolls:
UNSEALING PROTOCOL ACTIVE.
I press my clearance badge against the reader. The surface warms beneath my palm before a deep mechanical resonance rolls through the door’s spine. Segments retract incrementally, each disengagement producing a low, measured grind as seals fracture open for the first time in years. A seam of white light splits the center and widens, bathing the corridor in sterile brightness.
Cold air spills outward.
Inside, the vault chamber stretches wider than the corridor suggested—rows of projection tables arranged with surgical symmetry, suspended storage columns emitting a constant low-frequency hum as terabytes of suppressed history are decrypted and reclassified. The lighting here is not warm enough to flatter; it exists solely to illuminate.
I cross to the nearest console and place my compad against the interface.
“Archive request,” I say quietly. “Kirell evacuation corridor. Full raw command logs. Casualty projection files. Remove summary filters.”
The system responds with a soft, almost polite chime.
Data blooms upward in layered holographic columns, timestamps stacking in vertical lattices, shuttle registries interlocking with fleet movement grids. The sheer volume presses against the edges of my vision, luminous and indifferent.
I scroll.
Names rise in columns—thousands of them—species identifiers, shuttle assignments, orbital coordinates tagged in meticulous alignment.
Redirected corridor segment: Vector C-17 through C-29.
The column refreshes.
