Reaper energy sings. It does not hum in tidy, uniform arcs.
“That is not our resonance,” Varek says.
“It matches,” the officer snaps.
“It imitates,” Varek corrects.
“Silence,” the captain growls.
Two Vakutan soldiers step forward.
“Hands behind your back.”
I do not resist.
Energy cuffs slide over my forearms with a cold hiss. The containment field hums, calibrating against my density. A faint pressure pushes inward, suppressing regenerative response.
Jhor stiffens as his restraints snap closed. Varek’s jaw tightens but he remains still.
“You are formally detained under accusation of terrorism,” the captain declares.
“Terrorism,” Jhor repeats, incredulous.
“You bombed a diplomatic summit.”
“We lost one of our own,” Varek snaps.
“That proves nothing.”
“It proves we were present.”
“Enough.”
We are forced upright and herded toward a secured corridor away from the shattered chamber.
Behind us, the air fills with urgent voices.
“Fleet readiness at eighty percent.”
“Admiral Valen notified.”
“Prepare public broadcast.”
Public broadcast.
Already.
Inside the corridor, the air smells cleaner—filtered heavily. The lighting shifts to cold white. The hum of station systems replaces the roar of chaos.
The captain walks beside me now.
“You will answer to Alliance tribunal.”
“Under whose authority?” I ask.
“The Trident Alliance.”
“This was neutral space.”
