“You violated it.”
“Prove that.”
His jaw tightens.
Another officer approaches, compad glowing faintly. “Public feeds are attributing responsibility to Reaper leadership.”
“Of course they are,” Varek mutters.
I turn slightly toward the captain.
“If you execute us without League arbitration,” I say calmly, “you validate every accusation your enemies hold.”
“Is that a threat?”
“It is consequence.”
He stops walking.
The soldiers behind us shift.
“You presume much.”
“I presume treaties matter.”
“This was an act of war.”
“Accusation is not verdict.”
The containment cuffs hum softly against my skin.
“Transfer them to military custody,” the captain orders.
“No,” I say.
His head snaps toward me.
“No?” he repeats.
“I arrived under League arbitration,” I say louder now, so every officer in the corridor hears. “Neutral charter. Neutral authority.”
“This is terrorism.”
“This is an accusation.”
“You stand amid the evidence.”
“I stand amid convenient evidence.”
Silence.
“Fleet readiness at ninety-two percent,” someone says behind him.
There it is.
The speed.
The preparation.
