Chapter 32
NOVA
"These numbers don’t make sense."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, low and clipped.
I’m hunched over Stark’s console, the data flickering across the glass like it’s mocking me.
My brows furrow tighter the deeper I go.
There’s this sick, crawling sensation threading through my ribs, a creeping certainty I really don’t want to admit yet.
Because I’m not wrong.
I know what I’m looking at.
Three back-to-back wormhole trials. Each tagged successful. And yet the numbers—they don’t just stretch probability, they snap it in half.
“This one reports a 97.3% containment stability,” I mutter, squinting, “but the emitter calibration was off by nearly two percent.
That shouldn't even register above ninety. And this one—” I flick my fingers to scroll, fast, irritated “—this one shows phase resonance echoing out of sync but still marked green.”
A chill trails down my spine. Not from the room—Stark’s office is warm, almost too warm—but from the numbers.
They’re too clean.
Too perfect.
“Problem?”
I don’t jump. I’ve been expecting him.
Stark leans against the doorway like he’s just wandered in from a power lunch instead of slinking in unannounced after hours. His white coat is spotless. His expression, unreadable save for the smile that's just a shade too wide.
I turn, slowly, thumb still hovering over the data.
“These containment logs,” I say, cool. “They don’t track with the physical limits you briefed me on last quarter.”
He steps further in, uninvited. Casual. Like he owns the oxygen.
“I’m always improving the models. That’s the whole point of innovation,” he says, voice smooth as synth-silk. “What you’re looking at is bleeding edge. I wouldn’t expect everyone to grasp it immediately.”
Everyone.
He means me.
“I grasp math just fine,” I say. My tone doesn’t rise. Doesn’t need to. “And I know when it’s been massaged.”
That gets him. His smile twitches at the corners. Not enough to disappear—Stark would rather choke on his own teeth—but enough to give him away.
“You’re suggesting the logs are falsified?” he asks, like it’s a game. Like he’s waiting for me to flinch.
“I’m suggesting they don’t add up,” I reply.
He walks over like this is nothing. Like we’re going to work it out over lattes and goodwill. “Nova,” he says, all friendly concern, “I know you’ve had a lot on your plate. Dar, the relocation, adjusting back to ops. Maybe your read is just a little... strained right now.”
There it is.
Minimize. Deflect. Personalize.
I don’t take the bait.
Instead, I swivel the display toward him and tap three separate data logs in rapid succession.
“Three trials. Three inconsistent emitter calibrations. Same success rate to within two-tenths of a percent. That’s not innovation, that’s a statistical impossibility.”
He doesn’t look at the screen.
He doesn’t need to.
That’s the part that makes my stomach turn.
His eyes stay locked on mine, patient. Measured. A little too still.
“Nova, you’re too valuable to this program to be wasting time on old logs,” he says finally, voice dropping into something almost kind. “This technology is moving faster than the metrics can track. We’re writing new rules as we go.”
“And who’s signing off on those new rules?” I ask.
He tilts his head. “You don’t trust me?”
I want to laugh. Or throw something. Instead, I lean back in the chair, force my body to stay loose.
“I trust physics.”
He chuckles, just once. Then steps back, smoothing his coat. “Look,” he says. “Why don’t we continue this discussion later? I was just on my way to a... strategic meeting.” The pause is deliberate. “Private. Small group. Just a handful of us pushing through some mission-critical timelines.”
Right.
Strategic meeting, my ass.
He smiles again, wider now, as if this is all perfectly normal. “You should join us. I’d value your perspective.”
He’s too close to the console.
Too close to my compad.
Too close to seeing how much I’ve already flagged.
“No, thanks,” I say, voice clipped.
His smile doesn’t drop.
But his eyes sharpen.
“Shame,” he says, stepping back. “You’re very important to this program, Nova.”
I nod. Not agreeing. Just... acknowledging.
Then I turn off the console, close my compad with a soft snap, and walk out without another word.
Later that night, in my quarters, I double-lock the door. I engage both physical and digital protocols—local encryption, hidden biometric overrides, and a firewall loop I lifted off a decommissioned Navy stealth drone. I’m not messing around.
Dar’s already asleep. He stirred when I came in, blinked once at me, and mumbled something about dinosaurs before rolling over. I tucked him in and stood over him longer than I needed to.
I sit now at the small console by the kitchen, staring at the drive as it lights up under my palm. The data is secure. For now.
I plug in the compad. The screen floods with numbers.
I copy everything.
Every line.
Every lie.
No commentary or edits. Just the raw, ugly truth.
Because I don’t know how deep this goes yet. But I do know this: something is very wrong with Stark’s wormhole data.
And I’m going to find out how far the rot runs.