Her use of my name without title is deliberate, stripping the myth down to a person.
“I want you to reconstruct the timestamp chain from civilian relay backups,” I answer, and the request is simple because it has to be. “Civilian telemetry archives are distributed. They are redundant. They are not all under League control. If the override originated externally, if it passed through League relays, the chain will show it. If it was Coalition-issued, the chain will show that too.”
Selene’s mouth tightens. “And you want me to do that because you think I’m not owned.”
“Yes.”
“And because I’m angry,” she adds, blunt.
“Yes.”
She studies me for a long moment, her expression shifting through skepticism, calculation, and something quieter that I cannot name. Then she nods once, sharply.
“I’ll do it,” she says. “But listen to me.”
I wait.
Her voice turns hard as stone. “I’m not manipulating findings for your benefit. I’m not smoothing data because you look sad in binders. I’m not your damn redemption project.”
A faint pressure eases in my chest, not because her words are kind, but because they are honest.
“I expect nothing less,” I reply.
She narrows her eyes. “That’s not a compliment.”
“It is not meant to be,” I answer, and my voice softens slightly despite myself. “It is relief.”
Selene’s jaw tightens again, but there is a flicker in her eyes—something like reluctant recognition—that she quickly buries beneath procedure. She gestures toward the projection. “I’m going to pull civilian relay backups from municipal emergency archives and private shuttle telemetry caches. It’ll take time, and the tribunal’s going to try to rush sentencing.”
“I know.”
“And if I find the chain points to League command,” she says, voice quieter now, “they’ll come for me. Hard.”
“Yes.”
“And if it points back to you,” she adds, “you don’t get to act surprised. You don’t get to twist it. You don’t get to blame someone else to save your skin.”
I meet her gaze steadily. “If it points to me, I will accept it.”
Selene’s shoulders lift slightly on an inhale, then settle. “Okay.”
The officer near the door shifts, checking his compad, reminding us of time limits. Selene notices, then looks back at me with that same steel-edged composure.
“One more thing,” she says, and her voice drops into something more personal despite the surveillance. “When you say the corridor aligned with safe-zone projections, you’re not… you’re not just saying that because it sounds good, right?”
The question is quieter than the rest, and that quietness makes it more dangerous, because it contains the possibility that she wants to believe him and hates herself for it.
I answer without hesitation. “It aligned. I watched the safe arc render on my bridge display. I watched the satellites confirm coverage. I issued the order because it was the best path I had. If I had seen the corridor shift, I would have tried to correct it. If I could have corrected it, I would have.”
Selene’s throat moves as she swallows. She nods once, almost imperceptibly.
“Alright,” she murmurs. “I’ll verify it.”
She straightens, returns to official tone. “Session complete, then. I have what I need.”
The tribunal officer steps forward. “Commander Varos will be returned to custody.”
The binders hum louder as I rise, and the sterile air feels thinner as the door opens, letting in the faint echo of the tribunal complex beyond. Before I step through, I look back at Selene, not because I expect comfort, but because I want her to understand something that no formal petition can convey.
