“I suspected. That area’s been flagged in blacksite rumors for a decade.”
She leans forward, fingers flying across her pad, calling up overlays and secure reference pings. I wait while she works, nerves sizzling under my skin.
Then she looks up again.
“I can’t go through official channels, Kristi. You know that.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“What are you asking me?”
I hesitate.
“I need a secure whistleblower line. One that leads somewhere that can actually use this. Somewhere that still gives a damn.”
Her face darkens. She glances around her study, then speaks quieter.
“There’s a node buried in the Citadel grid. Not official. But real. It belongs to an old colleague of mine—former senator turned mole. She runs a whisper network. Pro-integration. Old guard. They still believe in diplomacy over war. But they don’t mind lighting fires if they have to.”
She types for a long moment. Then an address appears in my queue.
I recognize the domain. But only barely. It’s old. Civilian-sector archive, disguised as a religious records vault. No traffic in years.
“Once you upload this,” Margo says softly, “you’ll be marked. There’s no ‘go back to normal’ after this. Dennis won’t just lose his reputation. He’ll come for you. Personally.”
I nod. “I know.”
“You could run. Disappear. Let someone else handle it.”
I glance toward the couch. Kenron’s still asleep, but his arm’s twitching now. Probably dreaming about trenches again.
“No,” I say. “I can’t.”
Margo studies me for a long beat. Then her face softens.
“I’m proud of you,” she whispers. “You’re doing what historians are supposed to do. You’re preserving truth.”
I blink hard. That hits deeper than it should.
I turn back to the screen. Tap the file stack. My finger hovers over the upload key.
For a second—just a second—I freeze. Because once I do this, everything changes. I won’t be Kristi Montana, the archivist. I won’t be Dennis’s niece. I won’t even be human first anymore.
I’ll be a traitor. A target.
But I’ll also be free.
I presssend.
The screen flickers. The files vanish into the secure conduit. A progress bar ticks upward. One percent. Fifteen. Fifty-seven. Ninety-nine.
Upload complete.
There’s no confetti. No dramatic music. Just a line of text that reads:
Thank you for your truth.
I sit back. Exhale. The compad hums in my lap, warm from the transfer. My hands shake.
