Two confirmed fatalities.
Transport shuttle 447-A.
Redirected to corridor extension C-23.
The air in the chamber feels heavier, though nothing has changed. She lost two in the segment that shifted.
The door opens again, and Pellorin steps inside without ceremony, his gaze immediately drawn to the projection.
“You are already reviewing,” he says quietly.
“Yes.”
He studies the screen. “They streamlined the timeline.”
“They excised twelve minutes.”
His mouth tightens. “They framed the charge around your initial order.”
“The recalibration was external.”
He lowers his voice further. “We agreed, at the end of the war, that without proof we would not accuse.”
“We agreed to prevent immediate retaliation.”
“And it worked,” he insists. “The ceasefire held.”
“At the cost of accuracy.”
His shoulders sag slightly. “Rhyx, we were bleeding ships in three sectors. The fleets were on the edge of total escalation. If you had publicly alleged League interference without proof, the Coalition would have mobilized.”
“Yes.”
“And millions more would have died.”
“Yes.”
He spreads his hands helplessly. “You chose the lesser catastrophe.”
“I chose silence.”
His eyes flash. “You chose peace.”
“I chose to let them believe I miscalculated.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice even further. “And if you had not, what then? You would have accused a League admiralwithout documentation? They would have denied it. We would have escalated. The ceasefire talks would have collapsed.”
“Perhaps.”
“Not perhaps,” he snaps softly. “Certainly.”
The word lands between us, heavy.
I turn the projection slightly so he can see the audit log more clearly. “She flagged the recalibration.”
He squints at the name. “Ardent.”
“She lost two civilians in the redirected corridor.”
