Chapter 15
JORDAN
Consciousness comes back in pieces—sound first, then smell, then the slow, mean realization that I can’t move.
There’s a low mechanical hum under everything, the kind you feel in your teeth more than your ears, like the whole room is a vibrating tin can in transit.
The air tastes metallic and dry, with a faint antiseptic sting that rides the back of my throat.
Something oily clings to my tongue—cheap recycled oxygen that’s been filtered through too many ducts and not enough ethics.
My wrists ache.
That’s the next thing. Pain, dull and constant, wrapped around my bones like a reminder.
I open my eyes.
Ceiling. Gray. Close. Too close. A lattice of struts overhead with cable runs clipped into place, the kind of utilitarian engineering that doesn’t bother hiding its intentions.
A mobile holding rig. Not a cell, not a room—more like a piece of cargo equipment that someone decided could also store a person.
My hands are bound in front of me with polymer cuffs.
Tight. Not cutting off circulation, but snug enough that every pulse through my wrists feels like a taunt.
My ankles are strapped too, hooked to a floor plate that vibrates with the ship’s motion.
There’s a collar—lightweight composite—resting against my neck.
I can feel its pressure when I swallow, the subtle drag of it against skin that’s already irritated from panic sweat and rough handling.
I test the cuffs gently. No give.
I inhale slowly, forcing my heartbeat to stop galloping, and listen.
Footsteps, distant. Mechanical servos. The occasional muted clang that suggests cargo shifting in a corridor outside. No voices nearby.
Which means I’m either alone…
Or they’re confident.
I tilt my head, as much as the collar allows, and spot my compad resting on a small fold-out shelf near my right knee. Like a bone tossed to a dog.
It’s face-up. Screen dark.
A message, then: We know you’ll reach for it.
My mouth goes dry.
I slide my bound hands toward it anyway, because if you’re going to die, you might as well die doing something useful.
My fingertips brush the compad’s edge. Cold metal, familiar weight. I press the wake button.
Nothing.
I try again. Still nothing.
I keep my expression blank, even though nobody’s watching—habit from childhood, from the orphanage, from the IHC: never show frustration, because frustration is a handle people grab to steer you.
I flip the compad over with clumsy bound hands and feel for the heat seam along the casing.
Warm.
Barely. But warm.
It’s drawing power.
Sandboxed, not destroyed.
They want me to think I’m helpless. They want me to waste time pounding on a dead screen while they stage whatever theater they’ve planned.
I breathe out slowly through my nose. “Cute.”
A soft chime sounds overhead.
The rig’s forward panel flickers, and a holo blooms in the air in front of me, clean and bright—too clean for a cargo hold. Whoever’s projecting it has priority access. Secured channel.
The holo resolves into a face.
Morazin.
Very alive.
He’s seated somewhere comfortable. Warm lighting. A desk behind him. A cup of something steaming. He looks like a man about to deliver a quarterly earnings report, not the architect of a massacre. His hair is neat, his uniform crisp, his posture relaxed. He even has the audacity to look rested.
His eyes land on me with calm contempt, like I’m a mildly interesting inconvenience.
“Jordan James,” he says pleasantly. “You look… rumpled.”
I stare at him, letting my silence sharpen. “Morazin.”
He smiles slightly. “Still with the tone. Good. I was worried the boarding crew might have shaken the personality out of you.”
“Where am I?” I ask, voice hoarse from dry air.
Morazin’s smile widens like he’s amused I’m still trying to negotiate. “On a ship. In transit. In custody. Pick whichever phrasing helps you cope.”
My wrists throb. I ignore it. “Your credentials were falsified.”
“Obviously,” he says, sipping from his cup. “Do you think I’d use something traceable when I’m making an example?”
I stare at him. “So the corridor meeting was bait.”
Morazin tilts his head. “Bait is such an emotional word. I prefer signal management. You needed to feel like you’d reached safety. You needed to demonstrate your value to your little network of do-gooders.”
My stomach twists. “Clint—”
Morazin’s eyes brighten just a fraction. “Ah. Clint Rogers. Still saving strays. Still pretending he’s not a stray himself.”
My jaw tightens. “What did you do to him?”
Morazin shrugs. “I didn’t do anything to him. Yet. His channel went quiet because the corridor is mine when I need it to be. If he’s smart, he’s currently sitting very still, telling himself he can’t help you.”
I force my voice steady. “You’re enjoying this.”
Morazin’s smile is small and smug. “I’m enjoying the clarity.”
He leans forward slightly, elbows on his desk, like we’re sharing a secret.
“Let me spare you the hero narrative,” he says softly. “There is no brave civilian exposing the truth and saving the galaxy. There is only a system correcting itself, and there are always… casualties.”
I taste bile. “Casualties. Like the tech crew you executed.”
Morazin’s expression doesn’t change. “Like the inefficiencies we removed.”
My fingers curl against the cuffs. “You murdered people.”
He lifts a hand gently, as if calming a child. “No, Jordan. I recalibrated an economic imbalance.”
The words hit with such obscene casualness my vision flashes hot for a second.
“An economic correction,” I repeat, voice low.
Morazin nods. “War cycles keep markets moving. They keep fleets funded. They keep resources flowing. Peace is stagnation. Stagnation is collapse.” He spreads his hands slightly, almost apologetic. “You IHC types love to chant about stability while strangling the very mechanisms that maintain it.”
My laugh comes out sharp and ugly. “So you’re a philanthropist now. A savior.”
Morazin’s eyes cool. “I’m a realist.”
“You’re a predator,” I spit.
He smiles. “Predators are honest about hunger. That’s why they win.”
The ship hum deepens for a moment, like we bank in transit. My restraints tug slightly with the shift in inertia.
Morazin watches me watch the environment and his smile grows, subtle and pleased, like he enjoys that I’m trying to orient.
“You’re thinking,” he says. “Good. Thinking makes this more interesting.”
I lift my chin, meeting his gaze. “If you’re such a genius, why was Yatori so sloppy?”
Morazin’s eyes narrow a fraction. “Sloppy.”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning into it. “Field-drop theatrics. Alliance-marked cruiser with overwritten logs in real time like you’re daring someone to notice.
Armor HUD glitches. The comm-jam signature wasn’t even that elegant—selective suppression with masking, sure, but it still left jitter fingerprints.
” I smile, sweet and vicious. “Amateur hour.”
For the first time, something cracks in his expression—irritation, quick and bright.
“You think you could do better?” he asks.
I shrug as much as restraints allow. “I know I could.”
Morazin’s mouth tightens. “You’re very confident for someone in cuffs.”
“I’m confident because you’re talking to me,” I say smoothly. “If you were truly competent, I’d be dead already.”
That lands.
He doesn’t like it. I can see it in the micro-tension around his eyes, the way his posture stiffens slightly. He’s the kind of man who believes intelligence is his birthright.
So I keep pressing on the bruise.
“Honestly,” I add, voice casual, “if Baragon’s funding you, they should ask for a refund.”
Morazin’s gaze snaps sharper. “Careful.”
“Oh?” I tilt my head. “Now you’re emotional. That’s sloppy too.”
Silence stretches. The ship hum fills it.
Then Morazin exhales and smiles again, but now the smile is thinner.
“You’re baiting me,” he says.
“Maybe,” I reply lightly. “Or maybe I’m just bored.”
Morazin’s eyes flick downward, then back up, like he’s deciding which version of himself to wear.
Then he leans in and gives me what I want—not everything, but enough.
“Fine,” he says. “If you need details to feel like you still have agency, I’ll indulge you.”
My pulse kicks. I keep my face bored.
“The merc gear,” Morazin continues, “was funded through layered shells—Baragon-linked intermediaries, of course. Do you think serious people leave direct fingerprints? The access keys for the corridor? Approved through a corporate maintenance authority that predates your little work-study tricks.” He smiles, smug again.
“I didn’t need to hack the corridor. I own the paperwork that tells it who to trust.”
I let the words settle. He’s proud. He’s boasting. He’s handing me threads.
“Who approved it?” I ask, keeping my tone lazy.
Morazin chuckles. “Approval is a quaint concept. Baragon doesn’t approve. Baragon assigns.”
“And you just… follow?” I needle.
He stiffens slightly. “I execute.”
“Sure,” I murmur. “And you execute civilians too.”
Morazin’s eyes harden. “Civilians weaponizing truth are more dangerous than soldiers. Soldiers fight inside declared rules. Civilians spread instability through story.”
My skin prickles.
Because that line—weaponizing truth—tells me exactly what he’s building toward.
Morazin sits back, satisfied now that he’s reasserted his superior position.
“You’ll understand soon,” he says.
The holo shifts slightly, and a second window appears: a countdown timer. Clean digits, bright and clinical.
00:19:44
Nineteen minutes.
My throat tightens. “What’s that.”
Morazin smiles. “Your broadcast window.”
I stare at the timer. My brain wants to race. I force it into cold focus.
“You’re going to—” My voice catches. “You’re going to execute me on camera.”
Morazin nods as if I’ve correctly answered a quiz. “Publicly, yes. As an example.”
My mouth goes dry. “For who.”