She almost laughed, but it came out as a sigh. “Fine. I’ll make the call. You’ll be deposed, but you’ll have protection. Your man will be in the clear. For now.”
I stood. “Thank you.”
She offered her hand again, and this time the shake was firmer, an agreement hammered out in a heartbeat.
As I walked out, I caught a glimpse of her on the phone, voice low, urgent, the world already reshaping itself to the new data.
In the hallway, I paused, let the adrenaline wash out of my system. My legs trembled, but only a little.
I made my way to the elevator, not looking at the photographs, not looking back.
For the first time in days, I felt like something had shifted. Maybe not enough to fix anything, but enough to buy a little time.
In science, that’s all you can ever ask for.
***
The sun was setting as I walked into the lab for the second time that day. The parking lot was an empty void, lit by a handful of sodium arcs and the blue pulse of the perimeter alarm. I scanned the badge, stepped inside, and was greeted by the usual: the security camera eye over the door, the faint echo of my own footsteps, the absence of any other living soul.
The Adaptive Systems corridor felt even colder at night. The overheads had been dimmed to half-strength, and the glow from the server rack was the only light worth a damn. I made my way to my carrel, unlocked it, and sat. The chair creaked under me, sharp and sudden in the silence.
I opened my notebook. Stared at the equations on the screen until the symbols swam, then split and recombined into a fractal I couldn’t follow. I looked up, caught my own reflection in the black of the monitor. The face there was cracked, split by lines of fatigue and the shadow of what I’d almost lost.
I waited.
At 7:43 p.m., my phone rang.
I let it buzz once, twice, then picked up. My hand was shaking. It always did, now.
“This is Dr. Dalton,” I said.
The voice on the other end was a stranger’s, professional, uninflected. “Dr. Dalton, this is Deputy U.S. Attorney Miller. We’re calling to inform you that the charges against Seager Culberson are under review, in light of new evidence. There will be a formal hearing, but for now, there is no action required from you. You may be called as a witness.”
I managed to sound normal. “Thank you.”
He hung up without another word.
I set the phone down. Stared at the equations again, saw them for what they were: just numbers, just another language for thesame old problem. I pressed my palms to my eyes, hard enough to see stars.
When I could see again, I laughed. It was a stupid sound, sharp and too loud in the vacuum of the lab.
I didn’t call Nitro. I didn’t even write his name. But for the first time since the ranger station, I let myself believe that things might not end exactly the way the world wanted them to.
I gathered my things, zipped my bag, and paused at the threshold. The security camera in the corner was still aimed at my desk. I straightened my shoulders, made sure the mask was in place, and walked out with my head up.
The parking lot was empty, but I scanned the shadows anyway. Not because I was scared, but because it’s what you do, after.
The air was cold and sharp, the sky so clear it hurt to look at. I got in my car, turned the key, and let the engine catch.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn’t waiting for disaster. I was just waiting to see what came next.
It felt like progress.
19
Seraphina
The podium was made for men three times my size. The lectern edge bit into my pelvis no matter how I positioned myself. Fluorescent lights bore down in tiers, throwing my shadow in triplicate against the cinderblock wall. If I stared directly into the front row, the world became a grid of lenses and sweating faces, all packed shoulder to shoulder and exuding the tang of dollar-store deodorant and the fainter, more persistent chemical whine of institutional carpet. A banner with the Los Alamos logo—atomic swirl, ominous blue—hung behind me, limp as an expired flag.
