A fractional shift in his posture. Not movement—awareness.
“You did,” he replies.
The certainty in his voice unsettles me more than denial would have.
“You did not mention that to Alliance security.”
“They did not ask.”
“You could have volunteered it.”
“Would it have altered their narrative.”
I don’t answer.
Instead, I magnify the waveform and overlay the Alliance detonator signature recovered from the blast site. The harmonic match is there—but too clean. Too neat. The amplitude curves lack the chaotic irregularities typical of organic Reaper output.
“You think the Alliance planted it,” I say.
“I think someone wanted immediate mobilization,” he answers. “Fleet engines ignited too quickly.”
I remember the flare of blue-white light outside the fractured viewport. The speed with which readiness percentages were called over open comm channels.
“You’re suggesting premeditation,” I say carefully.
“I am suggesting preparation.”
“And you were not prepared.”
“I was prepared for accusation.”
The statement lands like a dropped blade.
“Why,” I press.
“Because reform invites enemies,” he says. “Within and without.”
There it is—the first flicker of something deeper.
“You believe this was designed to justify extermination,” I say quietly.
“Yes.”
The word does not tremble.
My throat feels dry.
I deactivate the projection and let the room return to its colder, harsher lighting.
“You’re remarkably composed for someone facing execution,” I say.
He studies me in silence.
“You are not composed,” he replies.
My spine stiffens.
“I am entirely composed.”
