They like letting people like us do it.
Not tonight.
I patch into my logistics chief. “Freeze the Orpheline Route.”
There’s a pause. “That’s… that’s one of our biggest?—”
“Freeze it,” I say. “Lock the manifests. Pull the ships. If anything’s already in transit, reroute it into dead storage.”
“Lonari,” he says, voice uneasy, “that’s going to piss off?—”
“I’m counting on it,” I say.
A beat.
Then, quietly: “Understood.”
I hang up and turn to my lieutenant standing nearby—one of the few I trust to carry a message without decorating it.
“Spread the word,” I say. “No retaliation strikes tonight. No vendetta games. Anyone who goes rogue will be handled as a traitor.”
He nods once, serious.
I look back at the Nine’s scorched symbol on my slate.
“You want escalation,” I murmur. “Fine. You can escalate into starvation.”
Later—hours later, when the adrenaline settles into something colder—I sit with Senn again, the accountant still pale, still sweating.
He looks like a man who can’t decide whether he’s honored or doomed.
I slide a second slate across the desk. “One more thing.”
He blinks. “More liquidation schedules?”
“No,” I say. “Extraction.”
His eyes sharpen. “Who?”
I don’t say Morazin’s name right away. Saying it out loud feels like bringing a disease into the room.
But it’s the disease that started this spiral. The man who lit the match.
“Morazin Valeer,” I say finally.
Senn’s breath catches. “He’s… he’s in IHC orbit now, isn’t he? Or?—”
“He’s breathing,” I say. “That’s enough.”
Senn swallows. “You want him killed?”
I stare at him. “Did you just meet me today?”
He flushes. “No, I— I meant?—”
“I want him alive,” I say. “Because dead men don’t talk, and official authorities love dead men. They make everything tidy.”
Senn nods slowly, understanding dawning in his eyes like a bruise spreading. “So… covert.”
