I breathe through it.
I enter the vault access string.
A list of lot numbers populates. Most are medical jargon. Some are mislabeled intentionally—it’s a common obfuscation technique.
But one stands out, highlighted in blood-red metadata.
Bio-Suppression Model 6 — Species-Specific Inhibition — Activation: See Directive Echelon Alpha Protocol.
Below it, one line of text isn’t fully encrypted.
Nanite activation vector—non-human host protocol validated.
My stomach lurches.
"This isn’t suppression," I whisper. "This is genocide."
A plague.
A targeted, civilian-triggered goddamnweapon.
I scroll further. My pulse thrashes through my veins like it’s trying to break free of my skin.
There’s an internal memo attached. It’s buried under layers of encryption, protected by two legacy access protocols that shouldn’t be here — protocols old enough to predate my uncle’s first Senate term.
Someone wanted this buried so deep no one could unearth it.
I try the oldest code I know.
My father’s.
For a moment, the screen stalls.
Then a single block of decrypted text appears.
"Activation is limited to non-human phenotypes with no cross-species bridge functionality. Distribution method unspecified. Recommendation: Surge deployment via environmental integration. Ensure plausible political cover following exposure."
The words feel like they’ve been carved into my nerves.
I grip the edge of the workstation. Hard. I taste copper in the back of my throat.
I need records. I need proof. I need to get this out before they wipe the logs or—I don’t finish the thought.
I start printing.
Anything that’ll move.
Redacted memos. Funding requests. A half-completed research abstract. The memo I just uncovered. Two spreadsheet logs showing numbers that don’t make any ethical sense.
A summary of affected zones.
My blood freezes when I see the district codes.
I know those numbers.
They're all alien zones.
Every one.
