“And,” I add, watching him carefully, “I need you to state, on record if necessary, that you were never informed civilian traffic would be displaced.”
His jaw tightens. “I’ll state it.”
I nod once. “Good.”
He swallows, then hesitates. “You… you look like hell, Liaison.”
A spike of panic flares in my chest, sharp and immediate, because my body is suddenly a secret with teeth, and I refuse to let it become leverage.
“I’m tired,” I say curtly.
Hale watches me for a beat too long, then nods, accepting the answer because he has bigger fears than my pallor.
I keep my face neutral, my voice procedural. “Transfer your packet to my encrypted reconstruction drive.”
He complies, sliding his compad toward the table interface, fingers moving quickly as if speed might absolve him. The filetransfer begins, progress bars climbing slowly, each percent a small act of betrayal against whatever comfortable lie the tribunal wanted to preserve.
When the transfer completes, I lock the packet under my clearance and cite evidence reconstruction authority again, because bureaucracy is a language you speak fluently or it eats you alive.
Hale sits back, shoulders slumping slightly, exhaustion and adrenaline leaving him hollowed.
“What happens now?” he asks quietly.
I look at the projection one more time—Vol’s clearance marker glowing faintly, like a brand pressed into the data.
“Now,” I say, voice low, “we prove it in a way they can’t ‘corrupt’ overnight.”
Hale gives a short, humorless laugh. “And if they try?”
I meet his gaze. “Then we make the attempt visible.”
He nods slowly, then stands, posture stiffening again as he remembers where he is. “They’re going to ask me why I’m here.”
“They reassigned you,” I say. “Let them own that.”
Hale’s mouth tightens. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”
“I didn’t start it,” I reply. “I’m just refusing to lose quietly.”
When he leaves, escorted back into tribunal corridors, the room feels emptier but no less charged. I remain seated for a moment, staring at my console, at the file packet now locked under my clearance, at Vol’s preauthorization layer burning like a silent confession.
My stomach rolls again—soft, insistent—and I breathe through it, hands steady on the table, refusing to let the pregnancy become anything but background noise for now. No one needs to know. Not Hale. Not Drax. Not Thane. Not Varos.
Not yet.
I stand, gather my devices, and exit the conference room with my shoulders squared, because whatever is happening insidemy body does not change what happened above Kirell, and if Admiral Caedrin Vol preauthorized a shield halo for weapons at the exact minute civilians were rerouted into danger, then the tribunal’s neat negligence story is already dead.
All that remains is whether the truth gets to breathe before they try to suffocate it again.
CHAPTER 14
RHYX
The stand is a polished slab of alloy framed by light, positioned so the cameras can catch your face from every angle while you speak, and so the gallery can see your hands, your throat, your binders—anything that might tremble. The tribunal calls it testimony. The Holonet calls it entertainment. My body calls it a cage with better lighting.
When I step into it, the partition field hums faintly around me, and the sound threads through my ribs the way old ship vibration used to thread through the bridge, except this is not the vibration of engines. This is the vibration of attention. A billion eyes, hungry for a story that will let them sleep at night.
The chamber smells of cold stone warmed by bodies, of powdered antiseptic from security sweeps, and the sharp metallic tang of projection hardware heating in the overhead rigs. Somewhere above, broadcast drones whisper as they adjust their gimbals, and the tiny changes in their pitch make my skin prickle. I keep my face still anyway, because the moment you give them a flinch, they will replay it in slow motion and call it guilt.
