A technician two stations down glances at me, frowning faintly.
I don’t look back.
I pull up the core routing architecture.
There it is.
The skeleton.
The heart of the broadcast system that feeds information out to every connected colony—news bursts, emergency signals, cultural streams, political addresses.
A throat.
Waiting.
My pulse picks up.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Because this interface still thinks I belong here.
“You okay?” Tatek asks softly.
“I’m standing inside my own handwriting,” I say.
He exhales through the channel. “Talk me through what you’re doing.”
“I’m mapping the legacy protocol lattice. They never fully deprecated the architect overrides. Too messy to rebuild. Too arrogant to think someone would use them.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning I can open a privileged channel without tripping intrusion flags,” I say, fingers flying now, precise, deliberate. “Not transmit yet. Just… position myself.”
A nearby analyst leans over. “Administrator, do you require assistance?”
“No,” I reply without looking at him. “But thank you for volunteering.”
He blinks. “For what, ma’am?”
“For the audit if this goes sideways.”
He swallows and retreats.
In my ear, Tatek mutters, “You’re terrifying.”
“Good.”
I route myself deeper.
Not to the broadcast feed.
Not yet.
Just to the control threshold.
The place where messages are prepared.
