He lifts a brow. “And you believed that fell within your reconstruction mandate.”
“I know it does,” I say, and I keep my voice calm because if I snap, he’ll smile. “The convoy vector intersects the corridor shift window. The correlation is direct.”
Thane gestures, and an aide activates a projection showing my access log in crisp detail, every layer I touched, every timestamp, every authorization I cited.
“You are aware,” Thane says, voice smooth, “that overreach can constitute breach of tribunal protocol.”
“I’m also aware,” I reply, “that calling relevant data ‘overreach’ is a convenient way to keep the negligence narrative clean.”
His eyes narrow by a fraction. “Watch your tone.”
“Watch your scope,” I shoot back before I can stop myself.
The air in the room tightens.
The aide’s gaze flicks between us like a spectator at a duel.
Thane leans forward slightly, hands resting on his desk with controlled pressure. “The tribunal is under extraordinary scrutiny. Every action you take is visible. You have already been publicly framed as compromised. Do you understand what it looks like when you start pulling convoy classifications?”
“It looks like I’m doing my job,” I say.
“It looks like you are fishing,” he corrects.
“It looks like you are afraid of what I’ll catch,” I answer, and the words come out colder than I intended, because fury makes my voice sharp even when my mind is trying to stay procedural.
Thane’s mouth tightens. “Provide the full access log. Now.”
I gesture to the projection. “You already have it.”
“I want your written attestation,” he says. “On record. That you accessed convoy layers under reconstruction authority and not for personal motives.”
My hands curl into fists at my sides, then I relax them deliberately. “You want me to sign a loyalty oath.”
“I want you to sign accountability,” he replies.
I stare at him, feeling my pulse thud once, hard, like a door being kicked.
“I will sign an attestation of methodology,” I say. “I will not sign a statement about motives. Motives are irrelevant to whether the data correlates.”
Thane’s eyes harden. “Motives are relevant to whether your access constitutes abuse.”
I step closer, and I can feel the tribunal security officers at the doorway stiffen slightly, ready to intervene if my movement becomes “aggression.”
“My motives,” I say evenly, “are to reconstruct the corridor truthfully. If you want to argue about motives, argue with the math.”
Thane holds my gaze for a long beat, then gestures sharply. The aide hands me a stylus and a projection pad.
I sign the attestation as narrowly as possible, writing in clean, precise language that leaves no room for interpretive traps. My handwriting is steady, though my wrist aches with tension.
When I finish, I slide the pad back.
Thane’s expression remains unreadable. “Return to your station. Do not access convoy classification layers again without direct supervisory approval.”
I feel heat flare behind my eyes, but I keep my voice controlled. “If the convoy layer is the key variable?—”
“It is not your job to decide key variables,” Thane cuts in. “It is your job to follow tribunal scope.”
“Tribunal scope,” I repeat softly, tasting the words like something spoiled.
