Clint doesn’t look away from me. “Honeybear says hi.”
“Tell Honeybear I say hi,” I say automatically, because apparently this is my life now: negotiating interstellar espionage while an Odex demands greetings over Bon Jovi.
Clint’s mouth twitches. “He heard you. He’s happy.”
There’s a wet retching sound somewhere in the background.
Clint’s eyes close for half a second like he’s praying for patience. “And Spewey says hi too.”
I blink. “Spewey?”
“Don’t ask,” Clint says flatly. “You’ve got evidence. Show me what you can safely transmit.”
“I’m sending a partial package,” I say. “Biometric mismatch logs, docking authorization overwrites, armor HUD glitch captures. I’m keeping the deepest financial trails and the full archive offline as insurance.”
Clint’s brows lift. “Smart.”
I transmit. Data streams through my maintenance relay like a tight, controlled artery. While the files transfer, Clint shifts, and I catch a glimpse of his forearm where a sleeve rides up—metallic seams under skin at the wrist, subtle. Cybernetics. Enhanced reflexes with a cost. His fingers tap once on the table, a soldier’s impatience.
His face tightens briefly, like pain pulses behind his eyes. Headache. He pushes through it anyway.
On his end, he’s already verifying—eyes flicking fast, scanning, cross-referencing. For someone who plays laid-back, he moves like precision.
“Okay,” he says after a long minute. “Yeah. These biometrics don’t track as Alliance-standard Vakutan units. They’re missing redundant organ signatures. And the encryption header—Jesus. That’s not military. That’s merc kit wearing a costume.”
Relief hits me so hard my knees threaten to go. I grab the edge of the rack to steady myself. Cold metal under my palm. Breath shaking.
“I knew it,” I whisper.
“You knew enough to not die,” Clint says. Then his expression sharpens again. “But listen—if I log this through standard IHC channels, intake will trigger containment.Automatically. No discretion. You’ll be treated like a contamination event.”
My stomach turns over. “I know.”
“No,” he says, voice hard. “Youremember.”
I go cold. The orphanage walls come back for half a second. The way doors lock without drama. The way adults sayit’s for your safetywhile they file you into a room that smells like bleach.
I force air into my lungs.
“So what do we do?” I ask.
Clint leans forward, lowering his voice even though he’s on his own ship—habit, paranoia, wisdom. “We do it sideways. I can get you in front of one person who might listen before the machine eats you.”
“Who?” I ask.
“General Dowron,” Clint says. “It’s not a guarantee, but it’s the best shot I’ve got without getting you bagged.”
My heart stutters. “Can you arrange that without me lighting up every IHC sensor on the route?”
“Yeah,” he says, and there’s a grim satisfaction in it like he enjoys beating bureaucracies at their own game. “There’s a medical resupply corridor that legally crosses jurisdictions. It’s boring. Which is why it works.”
“Espionage via antibiotics,” I mutter.
Clint’s mouth twitches. “Now you’re getting it.”
A new sound bleeds into the holo feed—Honeybear again, louder. “Clint! I found the peanut butter!”
Clint turns his head slightly and barks, “That’s not a win, that’s a disaster.”
