The elevator dinged softly, and the doors slid open.
"Showtime," Lark murmured.
Colonel Graham Lorre's office was exactly the same—sterile, efficient, designed to intimidate. Awards and commendations lined the walls, along with photos of Lorre shaking hands with various military and political figures. His desk was positioned to catch the afternoon light, casting him in sharp relief as he stood to greet them.
"Strattan," he said, his voice carrying that familiar note of barely controlled irritation. "About damn time. I thought I was going to have to send a few MPs and have you arrested. Now, have a seat."
Through the open door behind them, Lark caught a glimpse of two MPs moving into position in the hallway. Jesus, that was overkill.
Lorre closed the door with a soft click that sounded unnaturally loud in the quiet office.
Lark remained standing. "You ordered me back.”
“You left me with no choice,” Lorre gestured to the chairs facing his desk. "Sit down. We have a lot to discuss."
Lark and Specs took the offered seats. Specs set up her laptop, fingers moving with practiced efficiency as she powered up the system and connected to the base's network.
“What are you doing?” Lorre asked. “What is she doing?”
“Accessing mission notes,” Specs said.
“Does this mean you finally have your after-action report?” Lorre asked, settling behind his desk. "I've been waiting for it for days."
"The mission parameters changed multiple times in the field," Lark said carefully, hyperaware that Specs' fingers flewacross the keyboard. "We wanted to ensure our report was comprehensive and accurate—considering lives were lost as well as the AI tech.”
"The mission was a complete disaster," Lorre said bluntly. "Three dead, two missing from our side, and one from Senatrix, and our prototype technology is in the wind. I need to know exactly what went wrong, so I can figure out how the fuck to fix it.”
Specs looked up from her laptop. "Sir, I'm accessing our encrypted mission files now. Some irregularities in the communication logs might explain what happened."
"What kind of irregularities?" Lorre's attention shifted to her.
"Someone was monitoring our frequencies," Specs said, her fingers continuing to work while she spoke. "Not just listening—actively interfering with our communications. It's why we lost contact with parts of the team."
Lark watched Lorre's face carefully. No surprise, no confusion. Just a slight tightening around his eyes that told her he already knew what Specs was talking about.
"That's... concerning," he said finally. "Do you have any idea who might have had that capability?"
“I’ve been working on it day and night, sir,” Specs replied. "The good news is, I've managed to establish a secure link to our backup systems. I should be able to trace the interference back to its source."
What she was really doing, Lark knew, was creating a communication bridge that would allow Kawan and the others to monitor everything happening in this office. But Lorre didn't need to know that.
"Sir," Lark said, "I have to ask—why did the location change at the last minute? That deviation from the original plan put my team in an exposed position."
"The location change came from the asset inside Senatrix," Lorre said. "We had no choice but to adapt."
"But why wasn't I informed until the last possible moment?" Lark asked.
"Because we weren't sure the communication was legitimate," Lorre replied smoothly. "For all we knew, it could have been a trap."
"It was," Lark said quietly. "Just not the kind we expected."
Something flickered in Lorre's expression. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means someone knew exactly where we'd be and when we'd be there," Specs said without looking up from her screen. "Someone with access to our mission parameters and communication protocols."
"Are you suggesting?—"
"I'm stating facts," Specs interrupted. "The interference pattern matches military-grade equipment. This wasn't some cartel operation or foreign intelligence service. This was someone with access to our own technology."
