“I am certified to recognize my own resonance.”
Silence stretches.
The second officer shifts slightly, less certain now.
“The transfer order is finalized,” the first officer says abruptly, deactivating the projection. “You will be moved to military custody within the hour.”
Within the hour.
The timeline narrows to a blade’s edge.
They exit without further exchange. The door seals behind them with the same hydraulic compression that followed her departure, but this time the sound feels heavier.
Varek turns toward me slowly.
“Within the hour,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
“League cannot act that quickly.”
“Unless they are forced to.”
“And if they are not.”
“Then I do not reach arbitration.”
The containment cuffs hum softly as I test their resistance, not straining—measuring. The suppression field is calibrated precisely to my documented mass and regenerative potential. Efficient. Clinical.
“You believe they intend immediate execution,” Varek says.
“If military jurisdiction takes precedence, arbitration becomes advisory.”
“And advisory can be ignored.”
“Yes.”
The weight of that settles between us like a physical object.
“This is not species blame,” Varek says after a long moment. “This is targeted.”
“Yes.”
“They did not frame Reapers.”
“No.”
“They framed you.”
“Yes.”
The personal nature of it clarifies everything. My docking scan accessed. My baseline embedded in the waveform. Fleet mobilization immediate. Military transfer expedited.
This was not a broad strike.
It was surgical.
“If you fall,” Varek says quietly, “our clan fractures.”
