Alliance relays are not supposed to be accessible to some half-Vakutan operations foreman on a private prison moon. Those networks require military-grade credentials, or at minimum a political handshake so formal it probably comes with a ritual chant.
I pivot the map, isolate the path.
Yatori → Corporate satellite grid → Ghost hop → Alliance relay node cluster (Vakutan sector) → Dead-end proxy that vanishes into encrypted darkness.
I stare at the relay cluster name until my eyes sting.
The scent of ozone from the repaired node still clings to my fingers, mixing with the room’s false citrus.
This isn’t just proof Morazin had help.
This is proof someoneinsideAlliance infrastructure either let him in or got hacked in a way that should terrify them.
And if that’s true, then Morazin is not just a criminal.
He’s a key.
A key everyone wants to control.
A key everyone wants tosilenceonce it’s served its purpose.
A cold thought slides under my ribs.
Morazin’s “arrest” won’t hold.
Not because he’s clever. Not because he’s strong.
Because both sides have incentive to make him disappear quietly and call it justice.
The IHC gets to bury institutional complicity.
The Alliance gets to avoid admitting their infrastructure was touched.
And if anyone asks questions?
They’ll point at me.
The unstable contractor.
The “threat actor.”
The girl who broadcasted sensitive data across the holonet like a bomb.
I breathe in slow, trying to steady my pulse.
The air tastes faintly of metallic dust from Gur’s industrial sky.
My compad buzzes.
A secure ping.
Clint.
My stomach tightens before I even open it.
I accept the call and his face appears in a holo projection, grainy but clear enough to read the tension in his eyes.
He looks older than the last time. Like sleep lost a war.
