“You’re saying you didn’t order the reroute.”
“I am saying,” he replies, his voice steady but carrying something beneath it—something like restrained fury, “that the reroute does not match the path I authorized.”
The lab hum seems louder suddenly.
I study his face, searching for the flicker of deception I’ve been trained to detect in witness examinations. His gaze doesn’t waver.
“Why didn’t you contest it publicly at the time?” I ask.
His jaw tightens slightly. “Because the ceasefire negotiations were underway. An accusation without proof would have ignited the Coalition.”
“So you let them think you miscalculated.”
“I let them think I was responsible,” he says.
There is no self-pity in his voice. No martyrdom. Just fact.
I swallow.
“That’s convenient,” I say, because skepticism is the only thing standing between me and foolishness.
“For whom?” he asks quietly.
“For you,” I reply. “You get to be noble after the fact.”
His eyes narrow slightly, not in anger but in something closer to pain. “There is nothing noble about forty-seven thousand dead.”
The number lands between us like a third presence.
I inhale slowly, forcing myself back into procedure.
“I’m not drawing conclusions yet,” I say. “I’m verifying independently through civilian telemetry. Fleet logs can be manipulated. Shuttle telemetry is harder to fake.”
A faint flicker of approval passes across his expression. “Good.”
“Don’t look relieved,” I snap. “This doesn’t absolve you.”
“I did not request absolution,” he replies.
“What did you request?” I ask.
“A complete record.”
We stand there, the projection hovering between us, the twelve-minute seam glowing faintly in pale blue light.
“I will verify the override chain through civilian relay backups,” I say. “If the League signature holds under independent authentication, then the recalibration was not Coalition-issued.”
“And if it fails?” he asks.
“Then it was spoofed,” I answer. “Or corrupted. Or you’re lying.”
His gaze remains steady. “Then test it.”
I nod once.
“This doesn’t leave this lab without verification,” I say firmly. “Not to Thane. Not to the Senate. Not to the media circus.”
“I would not ask you to rush,” he replies.
