The containment lighting casts hard angles across the walls, flattening shadow into sharp geometry. I replay the interrogation not for what she said but for what she did not. The fractional delay when I described calibration. The way her gaze sharpened—not in triumph, but in calculation. The subtle tightening in her jaw when fleet mobilization timing surfaced.
She did not arrive seeking confession.
She arrived seeking fracture.
The corridor beyond the chamber vibrates faintly as distant engines adjust position outside the station. Even through layers of reinforced alloy, I feel the shift in frequency—Alliance cruisers altering formation around Virex. The sound is low and sustained, like thunder trapped inside metal bones.
“They were ready,” Varek says quietly.
“Yes.”
“Too ready.”
“Yes.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice though no one stands within the room. “You think they orchestrated the summit attack.”
I turn my head slightly, studying the seam of the chamber door where thin light leaks through in a pale line.
“I think they orchestrated the aftermath,” I say.
He absorbs that.
“That is worse,” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
Silence settles again, not empty but heavy, thick with implications neither of us needs to voice. The blast itself was efficient, surgical. The public accusation immediate. The fleet ignition seamless. Those elements do not emerge from chaos. They emerge from preparation.
From design.
Bootsteps echo faintly in the corridor beyond. Muffled voices follow, distorted through the reinforced barrier but clear enough in fragments.
“…military jurisdiction…”
“…authorization from Valen’s office…”
“…cannot leave him under League oversight…”
Valen.
The name surfaces like something rising through deep water.
I have studied his military treatises. Stabilization through pressure. Strategic conflict as economic anchor. He believes in sustained tension. He believes in necessary enemies.
The containment field hum shifts slightly as I adjust my stance. The cuffs pulse faintly in response.
“They are discussing transfer,” I say.
Varek stiffens. “Transfer where.”
“Military custody.”
His spurs scrape softly against the floor as he shifts closer. “Under military jurisdiction, arbitration dissolves.”
“Yes.”
“And if arbitration dissolves…”
