The judge clears their throat. “Call your first witness.”
The prosecutor stands. Vakutan woman, silver-scaled, eyes sharp as glass. “The Alliance calls Sable Jackson.”
That’s me.
My name echoes through the chamber like a challenge.
I straighten my spine.
“Ms. Jackson,” the judge says, voice neutral, measured. “You are testifying under oath. Any falsehoods will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of Alliance law. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake. I’m proud of that. “I do.”
“Proceed.”
The prosecutor turns toward the shield. “Ms. Jackson, please state for the court where you were on the night of?—”
I answer.
I keep answering.
I talk about Glindora. About the boutique. About the alley. About the sound a micro fusion block makes when it ends someone’s life. I don’t embellish. I don’t dramatize. I don’t soften it either.
I describe the smell.
That’s what gets people.
The way the room stills when I say it smelled like burned copper and finality. Like something that should never be undone, already gone.
Otto shifts.
Good.
The prosecutor walks me through the timeline, methodically, letting the facts stack up like bricks. The screen in front of me flickers with evidence—transaction logs, comm transcripts, surveillance stills. Saul’s plea agreement. Financial trails that wind back to Otto’s shell corporations like a noose.
Then the defense gets their turn.
Otto stands.
He doesn’t approach the shield. He doesn’t need to. He smiles like this is all a misunderstanding and he’s about to clear it up.
“Ms. Jackson,” he says smoothly. “You run a salon, correct?”
“Yes.”
“A hair stylist.”
“Yes.”
“Not law enforcement.”
“No.”
“Not military.”
“No.”
“So you expect this court to believe thatyou—a civilian—correctly identified a micro fusion block from a brief glimpse in a dark alley?”
