“Then start flying,” I reply.
He grins slightly.
“Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”
CHAPTER 38
HRASK
The ship settles into long-haul rhythm slower than I expect.
The violence of the ascent lingers in the structure for a while, the metal still humming with residual strain, but eventually it evens out into something steadier, deeper, a sustained vibration that fades into the background if you let it. The air smells faintly of heated circuits and recycled filtration, cleaner than Myrza but not by much, and the low lighting in the main compartment casts everything in muted tones that make it easier to think.
I don’t sit right away.
Instead, I brace a hand against the bulkhead near the console and pull up the data we’ve been carrying like a live charge since we left the ground.
“Let’s see what you bought us,” I mutter, slotting my device into the system interface.
The screen flickers, then stabilizes, lines of information layering over each other as the files begin to sync.
Jolie leans against the opposite side of the console, arms crossed, her posture controlled but not relaxed, and her eyes track the data as it resolves.
“Tell me it’s not just fragments,” she says.
“It’s more than fragments,” I reply, scanning the first set of logs. “But it’s not complete.”
“Define ‘not complete,’” she presses.
I don’t answer immediately.
Because the pattern hits before the specifics do.
“Yeah,” I say. “This is worse than we thought.”
“That’s not helpful,” she says. “Explain.”
I pull up the cross-reference between her recording and my partial archive, aligning the timelines, letting the system map the overlaps.
“Look at this,” I say, angling the display toward her.
She steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine as she leans in.
“Those are breach logs,” she says.
“Not just logs,” I reply. “Scheduled breaches.”
Her expression sharpens.
“That’s not possible,” she says.
“It is if you’re the one controlling both sides,” I counter.
I pull up the next layer.
Patrol routes.
Adjusted.
