Placement memos.
Surveillance authorization orders for Novaria flagged as “non-civilian theater.”
Engineering notes about Reaper asset behavioral suppression and controlled bonding contingencies.
I bare my teeth.
“Oh, you absolute bastards.”
“Tur?” Kimberly says carefully.
“I’m about to get executed on sight in half the galaxy,” I tell her calmly, and hit ENTER.
The files dump into the public net.
Independent channels.
Whistleblower boards.
Encrypted activist relays.
Every journalist who ever lost a source to Alliance ‘accidents.’
The room seems to hold its breath.
Then my comm explodes.
“Tur!” Alliance command roars in my ear. “You have just committed an act of interstellar treason. Terminate broadcast immediately and withdraw from the AO. This is a direct?—”
I kill the channel.
The last upload bar hits 100%.
Done.
Outside the control room, something detonates.
The building shudders.
Kimberly sucks in a sharp breath.
“Novaria just lit up,” she says, staring at her wrist display. “Riots in District Seven. Nine banners coming down in District Four. Syndicate gunfights near the docks. Armed civilians storming a protection office.”
I stand up.
The flames are closer now.
The heat is unbearable.
The air tastes like burning plastic and revolution.
“Good,” I say quietly. “Let it burn.”
The control room door slams open.
A camera drone floats in first, red light blinking.
Then three surviving Nine leaders stagger in behind it, weapons raised, faces gray with shock and fury.
