Chapter 13 #2
Dowron’s expression doesn’t change. “We will.”
“Publicly?” I ask, hope and dread tangling.
Dowron’s gaze hardens. “No.”
The word hits like a door slamming.
“What?” I snap, unable to stop it. “You have proof that this is a false flag. People were executed. A prison station was bombarded. You can stop a war.”
Dowron’s voice stays calm, which makes me want to scream. “Public admission triggers retaliations. Weakens Vakutan credibility. Gives hardliners exactly the excuse they want.”
“That’s—” My throat tightens. “That’s cowardice dressed up as strategy.”
Dowron’s eyes sharpen. “Watch your tone.”
Clint shifts slightly, like he’s bracing for impact. He looks sick, like he knew this was coming and hoped anyway.
Dowron leans forward, voice low and blunt. “Truth is not always stability.”
The phrase lands like a weight on my chest.
I stare at him, rage buzzing under my skin.
“So you bury it,” I whisper. “Because it’s inconvenient.”
Dowron doesn’t flinch. “Because it’s volatile.”
“People are dead!” I snap.
“And more will die if this detonates publicly,” Dowron replies, unblinking. “Your evidence is real. Your conclusions are plausible. That does not mean releasing it saves lives.”
My hands curl into fists. The orphanage returns in a flash—adults explaining why a child’s pain is “necessary.”
I force my voice steady. “Fine. If you won’t go public, then secure Morazin and freeze the money trail. That’s tactical. That’s quiet. That’s stability and truth working together.”
Dowron’s gaze flicks to Clint, then back to me.
“No,” he says.
I blink. “No?”
“Orders from above,” Dowron replies.
I laugh once, sharp and disbelieving. “Of course. The invisible ‘above.’ The part of the institution you never get to see but always has its hand on your throat.”
Clint’s face tightens. He looks away for half a second like he can’t stand the room anymore.
Dowron stands. The meeting feels over before it’s finished.
“You will not pursue this through official channels,” Dowron says. “You will not broadcast these claims without authorization. You will accept safe passage back through the corridor and you will remain available for further debrief.”
My jaw clenches so hard it aches. “You’re telling me to sit still.”
“I’m telling you not to start a war,” Dowron replies.
I meet his gaze and I feel something inside me go very quiet.
Institutions will not act voluntarily.
Not until they’re forced.
Not until the truth has teeth.
I inhale slowly, tasting sterile air and disinfectant.
“Fine,” I say. “I want one thing.”
Dowron pauses. “What.”
“Time,” I say. “And safe passage back.”
Dowron studies me like he’s trying to decide if I’m planning something stupid.
I am.
But he doesn’t need to know the shape of it.
“You get passage,” Dowron says. “Time is not mine to grant.”
“Then grant what you can,” I reply.
He nods once, minimal. “Clint will escort you to the corridor exit.”
Clint steps closer, eyes on me. When Dowron turns slightly to speak to his guards, Clint leans in and murmurs under his breath, “Jordan.”
I glance at him.
His voice is barely audible. “This corridor is compromised.”
Cold slides down my spine.
“What?” I whisper.
Clint’s eyes stay steady. “I don’t know how yet. But the timing’s off. Too many ‘routine’ checks. Too many quiet pings.”
My mouth goes dry. “So the meeting—”
“Was a signal flare,” Clint finishes, jaw tight. “Move. Now.”
We’re back in the medical routing passage within minutes, and the corridor suddenly feels less sterile and more like a throat closing around me.
I keep moving, but my brain is already building contingencies as my body walks.
Dead-drop triggers.
Civilian nodes.
Satellite piggyback options.
If I can’t get this evidence through official channels, I’ll lace it through the cracks like poison through water.
I open my compad and start seeding triggers into civilian distribution nodes—entertainment packet relays, public holo-board caches, dumb little meme channels that nobody with a badge takes seriously.
I hide encrypted proof inside mundane entertainment data—song overlays, holo filter packs, casino ad loops—because you can’t flag everything without admitting you’re censoring, and institutions hate being seen doing what they do.
Clint glances at my screen as we walk. “You’re dirtying the data stream.”
“I’m making it unkillable,” I whisper.
He huffs. “That’s my girl.”
The phrase hits me in the chest like warmth I don’t have time for.
We reach the outbound transit bay where my return transport waits—a small corridor-approved craft, bland as an envelope. The bay smells like antiseptic and fuel.
Clint stops me just before I board.
“Listen,” he says, eyes intense. “If anything feels off—”
“It will,” I say.
He grimaces. “If my channel drops—”
“It will,” I reply, because I can feel the universe lining up the shot.
Clint grabs my wrist suddenly, tight, not painful. He presses something into my palm.
A small token. Metal. Warm from his hand.
“Physical,” he mutters. “If you get grabbed, if everything goes dark—this gets you back to me if you can breathe long enough to use it.”
I curl my fingers around it. “Clint—”
He shakes his head. “Don’t.”
His eyes flick over my face like he’s memorizing it, like he already knows he might not see me again soon.
“Go,” he says.
I swallow hard and step into the transport.
The hatch seals with a soft hiss.
The engines hum low.
I strap in, hands steady, heart not.
The craft undocks.
I clear the corridor junction.
And immediately, my console pings.
A “routine” navigation inquiry.
Soft. Polite.
Wrong.
Then another ping.
Then a signal handshake request from a private security node I don’t recognize.
My skin prickles.
I kill broadcast functions reflexively, trying to drift cold again—but the corridor’s traffic systems don’t like silent ships. A warning flashes:
FAILURE TO MAINTAIN TRAFFIC COMPLIANCE WILL TRIGGER INTERCEPT
Of course.
There’s always a rule that makes survival illegal.
I adjust—minimal compliance, minimal signal, just enough to avoid an automatic lock.
A craft slides into my path ahead—sleek, black, unmarked. Another flanks to my left.
My throat tightens.
Then the comm channel opens without my permission.
A man’s voice fills the cabin, smooth, bored, carrying authority like it’s a casual accessory.
“Routine inspection,” he says. “Power down and prepare to be boarded.”
My fingers hover over the controls.
“Credentials,” I say, forcing my voice steady.
A packet pings onto my console—security credentials, stamped, formatted correctly… and yet the formatting has that subtle wrongness I’ve learned to feel, like counterfeit paper that looks fine until you rub your thumb against it.
Falsified.
I open a secure channel to Clint—tight, quick.
“Clint,” I whisper. “I’m being intercepted. Private security. Credentials look fake.”
Static crackles.
Then Clint’s voice, clipped, urgent. “Don’t comply. Stall. I’m pushing—”
His channel cuts out mid-sentence.
Gone.
Silence.
My stomach drops.
The comm in my cabin clicks on again, and this time the voice is different.
Calmer.
Familiar in the way a bad memory is familiar.
Contempt dressed as professionalism.
“Jordan James,” the voice says.
My blood turns to ice.
“No,” I whisper.
The voice chuckles softly, like I’m entertaining.
“You always did overestimate your invisibility,” he says, and I can hear the sneer in his tone, even without seeing his face.
Morazin.
Alive.
Laughing.
I grip the harness strap so hard my knuckles ache. “How—”
“Did you think you could walk into a corridor and not light a beacon?” Morazin asks, voice mild. “You IHC people love your procedures. Your little safe rooms. Your jammer fields. It’s adorable.”
My lungs feel too small.
“You set this up,” I hiss.
“I arranged this,” he corrects, as if precision matters when people are dying. “You provided the signal. You met with the General. You confirmed you’re real and carrying exactly what I want.”
My heart pounds so hard it’s painful.
“What do you want?” I demand, even though I already know.
Morazin sighs like he’s tired of my questions. “Order, Jordan. Narrative. Control. You know—your institution’s favorite toys.”
My throat burns. “You killed people.”
A pause.
Then, softer, sharper: “I removed variables.”
Rage flares, hot and useless.
“You’re a coward,” I spit.
Morazin laughs quietly. “Cowardice is thinking truth will save you.”
The transport shudders.
A dull thunk hits the hull—magnetic clamps.
My console flashes:
BOARDING ATTACHMENT DETECTED
My pulse spikes into my throat.
I reach for my bag instinctively, fingers brushing the hidden heat strips and the sealed drives. My dead-man timer ticks like a heartbeat in my head.
Morazin’s voice returns, calm as a lullaby.
“Power down,” he says. “If you make this difficult, I’ll have them break your hands. And I’d hate to damage such useful hands.”
I swallow, tasting bile.
I glance at the emergency beacon Lonari can decode—still in my pocket, still silent.
If I ping it now, do I save myself…
Or do I drag him into my capture?
My hands shake, and I force them still.
The hatch alarm chirps.
Pressure equalizing.
Locks disengaging.
Bootsteps thud against the outer hull, then echo through the docking collar as they breach.
The cabin door begins to open.
Morazin’s voice is the last thing in my ear before the physical world rushes in.
“This isn’t personal,” he says, almost kindly. “It’s just cleaner when witnesses become assets.”
The door slides open.
Armored figures fill the frame—private security, faces hidden, rifles held like punctuation.
I lift my chin anyway, because even if they take my body, they don’t get my spine for free.
And as the first hand reaches for me, I make a decision so cold it steadies my shaking breath:
If institutions won’t act…
Then I’ll make the truth act for me.