I shrug, feigning casualness while my pulse hammers. “I read.”
His eyes narrow. “You are reckless.”
I lean forward slightly. “No, Admiral. I’m inconvenient.”
Vol studies me for a long moment, as if deciding whether to admire or crush. “You have suffered loss,” he says quietly. “And you are pregnant. Your body is vulnerable. Your career is vulnerable. If you insist on dragging this case into systemic inquiry, you will be destroyed.”
“By you,” I say.
“By consequences,” he corrects, and the distinction is a lie so smooth it almost passes.
I let out a slow breath, then speak with deliberate calm. “Let’s make this simple. You moved a weapons convoy through a shield perimeter at 14:01, and civilians were rerouted to clear your halo. My parents died in that reroute. Forty-seven thousand people died. And now you’re sitting here offering me a promotion to stop me from proving it.”
Vol’s jaw tightens by a fraction. “Your interpretation is emotional.”
“My interpretation is math,” I snap, then rein it in, forcing my voice steadier. “And your doctrine file uses the word acceptable.”
Vol’s eyes hold mine. “Acceptable to prevent greater casualty accrual over another century of war.”
I feel something inside me go very still, the way it does when you realize the person in front of you truly believes their own righteousness.
“So that’s it,” I say softly. “You’re not even sorry.”
Vol’s gaze doesn’t flinch. “Sorry is irrelevant. Effective is relevant.”
The words should not shock me, and yet they do, because they are so naked.
I sit back, letting the chair’s softness support me for a second while my mind sharpens into decision.
“You want me to keep quiet,” I say, voice calm now, cold. “You want me to let the tribunal hang Varos, conclude neatly, and move on, while you keep your statues and your Senate blocs and your ‘unity.’”
Vol inclines his head. “I want you to survive.”
I laugh once, sharp. “No, you want me tobehave.”
Vol’s eyes harden. “Selene.”
The way he says my name is a warning.
I meet his gaze and feel my pulse steady, as if my body has finally chosen fight over nausea. “I refuse.”
For a moment, the room is perfectly quiet. Even the ventilation seems to hush.
Vol’s expression remains composed, but something colder moves beneath it. “Think carefully.”
“I am,” I reply, and I let my hand rest lightly against my abdomen under the table, a private, protective touch that makes my throat tighten. “You think the pregnancy makes me easier to buy. It makes me harder. I’m not letting my kid grow up in a world where people like you decide which civilians are acceptable losses and then call it stability.”
Vol’s gaze drops, just briefly, to the movement of my hand, then lifts again. “You are making an emotional choice.”
“I’m making a human one,” I say. “You should try it sometime.”
Vol’s smile returns, thin as paper. “You are not as protected as you think.”
“I know,” I reply. “That’s why your offer is so tempting. That’s why it’s so disgusting.”
He leans forward slightly, voice quieter, more intimate, as if confiding. “You can do a great deal of good within the system, Selene. You can shape archives. You can influence what gets unsealed. You can protect future civilians by working from inside rather than burning everything down in public.”
“And you’d let me,” I say, voice low, “as long as I never touch your name.”
