Two hours before the summit.
I overlay it with the harmonic trace embedded in the bombing file.
The match is obscene.
Not just clan-level resonance. Not just species harmonic structure.
His.
Personal modulation dips align almost perfectly. Micro-variance in amplitude. Frequency shifts consistent with his recorded stress markers during docking.
“They copied you,” I whisper.
Kael doesn’t move.
“They copied your docking scan,” I say more firmly now, the words coming faster as the implications sharpen. “They didn’t fabricate a generic Reaper signature. They lifted your personal baseline and embedded it.”
The projection hovers between us, twin waveforms pulsing in cold blue light like exposed nerves.
“This wasn’t broad framing,” I say, staring at it. “This wasn’t about species-level escalation.”
“No,” Kael answers quietly.
My throat tightens.
“This was a targeted kill.”
“Yes.”
I swallow hard and scroll further through the forensic packet. Routing data flashes across the screen in thin, clinical lines. The detonation core file passed through Alliance Forensic Command — standard. Then it detoured.
A private node.
Restricted.
I highlight the server ID and run it through registry lookup.
It takes longer than it should.
The cruiser hum seems louder suddenly, like it’s vibrating in my ears.
Finally, the registry resolves.
I feel my stomach drop.
“That server,” I say slowly, “is linked to Valen’s office.”
Neither Kael nor Varek interrupts me this time.
I zoom in on the routing log. The harmonic trace was processed through that private node before being released to public forensic channels.
Not standard procedure.
Not random.
Deliberate.
“This was curated,” I breathe. “The evidence didn’t just exist. It was shaped.”
