Clint stares at the data, then nods slowly. I can almost see his mind recalibrate from dread to action.
“That’s… good,” he says. “That’s very good.”
“I’m not done,” I say, because adrenaline is now a river. “Frame him as a cross-jurisdiction financial sabotage operator. Not a political prisoner. Not a war criminal. A cyberterrorist with active links into Alliance and IHC infrastructure. That forces a joint intelligence custody hold.”
Clint’s lips part. “We can cite the interstellar counter-sabotage statutes.”
“Exactly,” I say, and the word tastes like a win I don’t trust yet. “Make it so if either side tries to quietly erase him, it looks like they’re destroying evidence.”
Clint exhales hard. “Okay. Draft it. Now. I need language I can paste into the order.”
“On it,” I say.
I cut the call and start typing like my life depends on syntax.
Because it does.
My compad projects a document window in front of my face. The cursor blinks like it’s impatient with me. I can almost hear Morazin laughing somewhere, thin and brittle, convinced he’s untouchable.
I write:
SUBJECT: MORAZIN VALEER — SYSTEMS-LEVEL CYBERTERRORISM / CROSS-JURISDICTION FINANCIAL SABOTAGE
BASIS: Unauthorized access and exploitation of Alliance-controlled relay infrastructure; biometric identity forgery at military-grade encryption; coordinated suppression of emergency transponders; instigation of intergovernmental armed conflict via staged communications; execution of market destabilization through contingent asset triggers tied to Nine-affiliated shells.
My fingers fly.
I cite the relay headers. The payment chains. The Nine-coded encryption fragments. I frame him as a living breach point—an active threat actor whose knowledge is necessary to patch the vulnerability.
A live intelligence asset.
A witness.
A human-shaped key nobody can smash without breaking the lock in public.
I finish and send it to Clint.
The message goes with a soft chime.
And then, for one second, everything in me trembles—like my body just remembered what it means to be scared.
I press two fingers to my pulse point at my throat and force myself to breathe.
Then I glance at the evidence vault window.
Time to test the dead-drop.
Because if I’m about to start playing games with governments and syndicates and the Nine, I need to know my insurance policy is real.
Not comforting fiction.
I open the vault protocol and step through the layers of encryption like descending stairs into a bunker. The interface asks for biometrics—retina flicker, pulse signature, micro-sweat pattern. The Kaijen tech is paranoid and elegant. I respect it.
I trigger the test mode.
A countdown appears.
SIMULATED BIOMETRIC FAILURE — INITIATE PUBLIC RELEASE?
