"I read Zane's orders. Sigma-9." He movesinto the room, and I track him on the peripheral feeds even though I'm not looking directly. Old habit. Always know where the threat is. "I didn't know. That the operative might be connected."
"You weren't supposed to know." I finally look at him. "That's classified intelligence. Above your clearance until about—" I check my terminal. "—eight minutes ago when Zane updated your access."
"He moves fast."
"He has to. The station's vulnerable. The Vex know it. Everyone knows it." My fingers move across the keyboard, pulling up the file I've been building since the first whisper hit my network. "Malachar's disappearance left holes. We're still patching them."
Dexter moves closer. Stops at the edge of my desk. Professional distance, barely.
"Show me."
I should make him wait. Make him ask properly, make him remember that he's not in command here, that this is my territory and he's the one who needs to prove he can be trusted on it.
I pull up the file instead.
Because I'm professional. Because the mission matters more than my feelings.
Because I learned that lesson from him, didn't I?
The screen fills with data. Surveillance captures. Movement patterns. The ghost of someone operating on the edges of our sensors, someone who knows Torrence protocols too well.
"Three sightings in two weeks," I say. Clinical. The voice I use when I'm briefing threats instead of facing them. "Always near secondary systems. Communications. Navigation logs. Life supportbackups."
"Sabotage targets."
"Or intelligence gathering." I zoom in on the last capture. Blurry. Partial. Just enough to confirm someone was there. "They're good. Better than good. Military training. Possibly ours."
His marks pulse brighter. I don't need abilities to know what that means. Recognition. Suspicion. The tactical part of his brain spinning up.
"You think it's someone from the unit."
Not a question.
"I think it's someone who knew our protocols. Our schedules. Our weaknesses." I look at him. "Someone who sold us to an ambush six years ago and disappeared before anyone could ask why."
The air pressure changes. Subtle. The way it does when an Empri is feeling something strong enough that it leaks into the physical.
"Webb." His voice is flat. The affect he gets when he's calculating odds I don't want to know.
"Webb died six months after Sigma-9." I pull up the death certificate. "Training accident. Very convenient timing."
"Or very deliberate timing." He leans over the desk, studying the captures. Close enough now that I can see the scar on his scalp, the one that goes through his hairline in a darker blue-black streak. New since Sigma-9. New since he left me.
I wonder who gave it to him. I wonder if they meant to kill him. I wonder if I'm glad they failed or furious they didn't finish the job.
"You think he's alive."
"I think convenient deaths are rarely convenient." Iclose the file. "And I think whoever's operating on my station knows exactly what they're looking for."
"Which is?"
"The same thing everyone's looking for since your father vanished. The anomaly research. The jump gate data. Whatever Malachar found that made him disappear."
Dexter straightens. Steps back. The professional distance reasserting itself, except now I can smell him—antiseptic and violence and something underneath that's justhim, the scent that used to mean safety before it meant abandonment.
"Zane wants us working this together."
"I'm aware."
