8. Kheltor
KHELTOR
The access trail takes me eleven minutes to trace, which means whoever ran it intended to be found only after it no longer mattered.
The entry point is a command-tier authorization node—the same clearance architecture used to wipe Dast's corridor logs—routed through three internal relay points to mask the origin.
The target is the backup partition on Nina's customs terminal where she stored secondary copies of the docking records she pulled from sublevel seven.
Whoever entered the system did not simply read the files.
They mapped them. Cross-referenced them against sealed Bridge research archives and then exited cleanly, leaving behind the digital equivalent of a signed receipt.
They know what she has. They know what she is.
I am already moving when the customs control alert hits my comm.
The sector alarm reaches me before I reach the corridor.
By the time I clear the junction to customs control, the scene has already compressed into something violent and fast: two figures in unmarked station gear moving through panicked personnel toward the back processing area where Nina runs her terminal.
The first attacker is disciplined and quick. I drop him before he turns to meet me, because hesitation here has permanent consequences.
The second has Nina cornered against the records wall, weapon leveled, calculating the angle. What he did not calculate is Nina.
She does not run. She hits the emergency barrier release on the wall panel beside her—a cargo partition designed to separate processing areas during contamination alerts—and the barrier drops between them with enough force and speed to knock the weapon wide.
The shot burns through the ceiling instead of through her.
She is already moving, shoving through the gap to my side of the barrier before he can reset.
I clear the gap in two seconds and put him down.
The processing area goes from chaos to the particular silence that follows violence too fast for most people to categorize.
Personnel are pressed against walls, behind desks, into any geometry that puts distance between them and the event.
Nina is breathing hard against the records wall, both hands flat on the surface behind her.
She is not injured. She assessed that herself before I could ask.
"Don't," she says, when I open my mouth. "Don't ask if I'm fine."
I recover both weapons instead.
The manufacture codes take thirty seconds to run through my scanner, because I already know what I am going to find and knowing does not make it less damaging.
The first weapon is the Coalition security issue, active service cycle.
The second is Alliance tactical division, current generation.
Two different governments. One coordinated operation.
Whatever faction is operating inside Orpheus Station, it is not loyal to either side. It is using both as cover.
Nina does not argue about leaving customs control. She argues about the destination.
"Vakutan security quarters," she says, in the corridor outside, while I move her fast enough to discourage dissent. "You're putting me in Vakutan security quarters."
"I'm putting you somewhere no one with command-level clearance can access without my direct authorization."
"You can't simply relocate me like a piece of evidence."
"The piece of evidence stays in a secured location until it is no longer a target," I say. "You stay there for the same reason."
She stops walking. The officers behind us adjust their positions without being told to.
"I am a member of this investigation," she says. "If you pull me out of my quarters and station access, I lose the ability to work the customs records, the Bridge archive connection, and?—"
"All of which can be transferred to a secured terminal inside Vakutan security territory.
" I don't stop moving. After a moment, she falls back into step with controlled irritation after evaluating her options and finding them limited.
"You will have access to everything you need.
You will also have walls between you and anyone carrying station-issued weapons with orders to use them. "
She says nothing else until we reach the reinforced corridor marking the edge of Vakutan security jurisdiction, where the walls change from standard station plating to heavier construction and the officers at the entry nod without requiring confirmation.
The quarters are functional and larger than her previous assignment. She takes in the space the way she takes in everything—quickly, cataloguing exits before furniture.
"Your people are going to treat me like a problem you've dragged home," she says.
"My people will treat you as I direct them to."
I should leave. The attack produced evidence that needs processing, an access trail that needs following, and two bodies that need to disappear from customs control before they become a political incident.
There is no tactical reason to remain in a secured room with a woman who has just survived an assassination attempt and is currently standing in my territory wearing borrowed calm over clear adrenaline.
I stay long enough to confirm the terminal access is functioning and the perimeter is sealed.
When I finally move toward the door, Nina says, quietly: "Thank you."
The words land somewhere I refuse to examine.
I leave before I have to decide what to do with the fact that the assassins had a window of forty minutes between when she was logged at her terminal and when I reached her—and I covered the entire distance to customs control with less tactical efficiency than the specific, unacceptable thought of arriving too late.
That is not duty.
I do not name what it is.