“Name,” I say.
He stares at me, jaw set.
One of my guards shifts behind me. “He hasn’t spoken since extraction.”
I reach forward and lift one of the severed armor plates from the floor. The interior serial stamp is partially scorched but legible.
“This batch was issued under Admiral Valen’s procurement cycle,” I say quietly, holding it where he can see it. “Three years ago.”
His lip twitches.
“You’re not pirate,” I continue. “You’re not independent. You’re not Dath. So tell me—who do you believe you serve?”
He finally speaks, voice rough. “Order.”
“Whose order?” I ask.
His eyes flash.
“Stability,” he says.
The word lands with a sick familiarity.
“Valen is dead,” I say evenly.
“Is he?” the man replies, blood pooling at the corner of his mouth when he smiles.
Behind me, Rethan inhales sharply.
“You exposed him,” the prisoner continues, voice low but steady. “You didn’t dismantle what he built.”
I study him for a long moment, watching the way his shoulders hold—not defiant in the reckless way of a zealot, but composed in the way of someone convinced of structural inevitability.
“Transport him to interrogation,” I say without breaking eye contact. “No sedation.”
“Yes, Captain.”
As the containment field powers down and the guards haul him upright, an alert chimes across the docking ring.
“Captain,” the tactical officer calls from the control console, “simultaneous disruptions across three trade corridors.”
The projection grid ignites mid-air, casting cold blue light across the breach-scarred wall.
Three separate routes flash red in rapid succession. Civilian vessels halted. Escort craft repositioning.
“Detail,” I say.
“Micro-drone detonation patterns along inner arc,” the officer replies, fingers moving rapidly across his console. “Propulsion interference along secondary spur. External navigation spoofing along outer buffer.”
Rethan steps closer to the projection.
“That’s coordinated,” he says.
“Yes,” I reply.
“Alliance signature?” he asks.
“Negative,” the officer says. “Masking consistent with the outpost craft.”
