“It’s arguable,” she replies calmly.
“Arguable is how wars start.”
She doesn’t disagree. “If you object, object now.”
I open my mouth, but what I have is doubt, not proof. Evidence overlap. Timing anomalies. A harmonic curve that feels too tidy. That’s not enough to counter a signed military order.
“Finalize your notes,” she repeats, then leaves.
I stand there for several seconds before shutting down the projections and heading toward containment.
The corridor outside is louder now—boots striking metal, comm chatter overlapping in clipped bursts.
“…transfer authorization confirmed…”
“…dock seven…”
“…military escort inbound…”
Dock seven is Alliance-controlled.
I turn the corner toward the holding sector as two officers step away from the security console.
“Transfer initiating,” one says.
“Under whose authority?” I ask.
They stiffen. “Admiral Valen.”
“And League authorization?”
“Reclassified as combatant under emergency statute.”
I move to the observation panel. Inside, Kael stands restrained between two armored guards, posture straight despite the containment cuffs glowing faint blue around his wrists. Varek stands beside him, tension radiating visibly through his frame.
Kael lifts his head.
Even through reinforced glass, the recognition hits with disorienting force. My breath falters, pulse surging violently. It feels like the echo of the explosion—internal, destabilizing, immediate.
If they move him to military jurisdiction, arbitration weakens. If arbitration weakens, execution becomes procedure.
“Pause transfer,” I say.
The officers exchange a look. “You don’t have that authority.”
“I’m invoking it.”
“On what grounds.”
“Procedural irregularity pending forensic validation.”
“There is no irregularity.”
“There is,” I say evenly, stepping toward the console.
I input my credentials. League intelligence clearance. Level Two.
The system prompts for justification.
