I’m in the Nun’s command spine—one level below the casino, one level above the vault, where the air smells like hot circuitry and antiseptic and the faint perfume they pump through vents to keep gamblers stupid. Screens cover the walls. Maps pulse. Channels flicker. My people move in controlled patterns, headsets in, weapons hidden, eyes open.
Jordan’s feed architecture is already live: multi-system redundancy layered like armor. Civilian cloud mirrors. Kaijen servers. Black-market relay nodes. Even a couple of “accidentally” compromised public news nodes that will happily stream anything as long as it spikes engagement.
It’s ugly.
It’s brilliant.
It’s nearly impossible to fully jam.
“Stream status?” I ask.
Sable answers without looking up. “Primary live. Two backup relays active. Four tertiary mirrors online. Latency minimal.”
“Attempts?” I ask.
Rook’s voice cuts in from a surface node. “We’re seeing probe hits on the edges. Nothing major yet.”
Jordan’s voice comes through my private channel, crisp, focused. “They’re testing. Let them.”
I can hear her breathing—controlled, too fast for someone who’s “fine.” I think of her in Corridor B, serving tray in her hands like a shield, eyes bright with fury. I think of the assassin in staff uniform. The Nine is inside our walls now. That means the rules are gone.
“Morazin?” I ask.
Senn responds, “Witness is seated. Vitals stable. Bio-trigger armed. If he flatlines, data dumps.”
Good.
Morazin sits in a reinforced booth built into the Nun’s lower levels—hard cover, bullet-resistant panels, line-of-sight controlled, and every inch of it on camera. We wanted transparency? We got transparency. Anyone watching can see his restraints, his monitors, his sweat.
And they can see that he’s alive.
Which makes him valuable.
Which makes him a target.
The hearing goes live.
A countdown hits zero.
The world opens its eyes.
On screen, a neutral moderator appears—some Coalition legal face with practiced concern. Their voice is smooth enough to sell poison as cough syrup.
“—welcome to this emergency public hearing. Due to heightened security risks, this session is being broadcast across multiple independent channels?—”
Jordan mutters in my ear, “Say it like it’s a feature, not a panic response.”
I keep my gaze on the map.
The first ten minutes are procedural theater. Jurisdiction disclaimers. “We do not condone—” “This forum is—” “Please remain calm?—”
Gur doesn’t do calm.
The Nine definitely doesn’t.
The first strike hits as the moderator begins introducing Morazin.
Not a bullet.
