Chapter 20 Lonari
LONARI
The Nun’s Tooth smells like new steel and old violence.
It’s not my home the way the Defrocked Nun is—no velvet rot, no perfume over blood, no casino music trying to seduce you into thinking you’re safe.
This ship is honest. It reeks of coolant and engine heat and gun oil.
It vibrates with purpose. Every bulkhead feels like it was built to take a punch and keep moving.
I like it.
I don’t have time to enjoy it.
I stride out of the medbay corridor and the ship meets me with noise: comm pings, footsteps, orders barked low and fast. My crews are moving like a machine that’s been kicked into higher gear. Down the hall, I hear Morazin screaming again—muffled through containment bay doors, raw and furious.
Good.
Let him waste air.
Renn falls into step beside me, compad in hand, eyes sharp. “Boss. Gur’s holding.”
“Because Fyr’s scared enough to be useful,” I reply.
Renn’s mouth tightens. “He’s doing more than holding. He’s enforcing. Arrests, not executions. Civilians are noticing.”
That matters.
Legitimacy is a fragile thing. It’s built out of small choices that look boring until they aren’t.
I keep walking toward the bridge. “Any civilian collateral reports?”
Renn shakes his head. “Minimal. Your penalties are working.”
“Good,” I say. “Fear makes idiots. Penalties make structure.”
We pass two guards outside containment bay three. Their hands are on their weapons, eyes hard, posture rigid. Inside, Morazin’s voice punches the air like he thinks volume equals authority.
“—YOU THINK YOU CAN HOLD ME—!”
I don’t stop. I don’t give him the satisfaction. But I do glance at the door panel, watching the biometric locks scroll green status.
Renn murmurs, “He offered bribes.”
“Of course,” I say. “He thinks money is a skeleton key.”
“He also keeps saying he’ll be martyred,” Renn adds.
I snort. “Martyrs don’t usually beg to be alive.”
We hit the bridge.
The forward viewport is a slab of black scattered with stars. Terranus V is behind us now, shrinking into a bruise in the distance. The ship’s interior lights are dimmed—combat posture still. Tactical overlays float above stations like ghosts.
Jessa is at boarding control, helmet off, hair damp with sweat, eyes bright. Mira’s fingers are still moving, refining signal intercepts. A procurement runner is arguing quietly with a logistics chief about resupply vectors. It smells like adrenaline and hot metal.
I step into the center of it, and the room tightens into attention.
“Status,” I snap.
Mira answers first. “Jordan’s stream is still propagating. Civilian nodes are replicating proof packages faster than corporate scrubbers can catch. Markets are in emergency halt cycles. Alliance and IHC emergency sessions are active.”
“Good,” I say.
Jessa lifts her chin. “Terranus V teams are all aboard. Minor injuries. No deaths.”
“Good,” I repeat.
Renn steps closer. “External comms are pinging us. Alliance wants custody. IHC wants custody. Both are using polite words.”
“Polite words mean they’re scared,” I reply.
A captain on comms—off-screen—pipes in, nervous. “Boss, if we don’t hand him over, we’re going to have both institutions labeling us an armed criminal fleet—”
“We already are an armed criminal fleet,” I cut in. “The difference is now we’re an armed criminal fleet holding a monster on record.”
Renn watches me, cautious. “We can’t keep him forever.”
“No,” I agree. “We keep him long enough to force terms.”
Mira’s eyes flick up. “Terms?”
I turn, letting the bridge see my face. “Chain-of-custody and public visibility. He doesn’t disappear into a back room. He doesn’t die in transit. He doesn’t get ‘lost’ in a jurisdictional argument.”
Renn nods. “So what’s the play?”
I let the answer land clean.
“We give him to both,” I say.
Jessa blinks. “That’s not—”
“It is,” I say. “We stage the handoff in a shared jurisdiction corridor. We lock the camera feeds open. We make Alliance and IHC sign a joint custody acknowledgement on record, with civilian nodes watching.”
Renn’s mouth curves. “You’re making them hold the same knife so neither can pretend they didn’t.”
“Exactly,” I say.
A low murmur ripples through the bridge—respect, tension, the understanding that this is the kind of move criminals excel at. Institutions hate shared responsibility because it limits their ability to lie.
“Boss,” a comm tech says, hesitant, “there’s another issue.”
I look at him. “Talk.”
He swallows. “Baragon-aligned private security crews are mobilizing. Not official fleets, but… contracted muscle. They’ll want Morazin silenced.”
I nod. “Let them come.”
The tech’s face pales. “Boss, we’re one cruiser—”
“—with hardened comms, jamming resistance, and boarding capability,” I finish. “And criminals on board.”
Jessa grins. “He’s right.”
Renn rubs his jaw. “We also have Jordan.”
The name tightens something in my chest. I keep my face neutral.
“How is she?” I ask, voice flat like it’s just another data point.
Renn’s eyes flicker—he knows me too well. “Sore. Awake. Mean. Med team says she’ll live.”
“Good,” I say, and it comes out rougher than I intend.
Mira clears her throat. “She asked to handshake Clint.”
Renn adds quickly, “We’re setting it up. Tight channel. Physical token protocols.”
I nod once. “Do it.”
A captain hesitates. “Boss… we’re still in hot space. If Jordan broadcasts—”
“She won’t,” I cut in, and the certainty in my voice surprises even me. “She knows when to speak and when to hide.”
Jessa snorts. “She also knows how to make a system cry.”
“That too,” I admit.
I glance at the nav display. Gur’s vector is plotted. A secondary route to a shared corridor is plotted too—one that can stage the handoff publicly if we need to. My brain is juggling two wars at once: the street war back home and the narrative war out here.
Renn steps closer, lowering his voice. “Fyr’s asking for confirmation. He wants to know if he’s authorized to execute captains who defect.”
I exhale slowly. “No.”
Renn blinks. “Boss—”
“No executions unless immediate threat,” I repeat. “Arrests. Strategy over spectacle.”
Renn nods, grim. “He won’t like it.”
“I don’t care what he likes,” I say. “I care what works.”
A beat.
Then Jessa says, “Boss. You wanna see Morazin?”
I look toward containment bay three on the internal map.
Yes.
No.
Yes.
I answer with my feet.
When I arrive, containment bay three is cold on purpose.
Cold air makes people uncomfortable. It makes them less confident. It makes them feel like they’re being stored, not hosted.
Morazin is strapped into a restraint chair bolted to the deck, wrists locked, ankles locked, collar locked.
A containment hood sits behind him—transparent enough for cameras, rigid enough to prevent headbutts.
Two guards stand inside the bay with shock batons and calm expressions. Four more outside.
Morazin looks up when I enter like he’s been waiting for applause.
“Kaijen,” he says, voice smooth despite the restraints. “Did you enjoy your little hero moment?”
I stop a few feet away, letting the distance speak.
“Hero?” I repeat, amused. “No. I enjoyed taking your legs out.”
Morazin smiles. “You think you’ve won. You think markets halting means Baragon loses.”
“It means you can’t pay your dogs,” I say.
His eyes flash. “Dogs are loyal.”
“Dogs bite the hand when they stop getting fed,” I reply.
Morazin leans forward as much as restraints allow. “Kill me, Lonari. Do it. You know you want to.”
My mouth curves. “You really want to die.”
“I want you to prove you’re exactly what they’ll call you,” he hisses. “A criminal warlord. A thug. A propaganda machine.”
I tilt my head. “And if I don’t?”
Morazin’s smile turns sharp. “Then you keep me alive and watch institutions bury you anyway. They’ll take credit for your work. They’ll take your prisoner. They’ll erase your name. They’ll call Jordan’s proof ‘unverified.’ They’ll say you fabricated it.”
I stare at him, letting him talk because men like him always reveal their strategy when they think they’re performing.
“You’re scared,” I say calmly.
Morazin’s eyes narrow. “Of what.”
“Of irrelevance,” I answer. “Of being exposed as a middle manager with blood under his nails.”
His jaw tightens.
I step closer, voice low enough that only he hears. “You’re not a savior. You’re not even a villain with style. You’re a clerk who learned to enjoy killing.”
Morazin’s nostrils flare. “Say whatever helps you sleep.”
“I don’t sleep,” I murmur. “It’s bad for business.”
He laughs once, sharp. “You’re protecting her. That’s your weakness.”
My eyes flicker. “Careful.”
Morazin’s smile widens. “Ah. There it is. The monster. You can pretend you’re strategic, but you’re emotional. You’ll burn Gur to save one woman.”
I lean in until my breath fogs faintly against the containment hood.
“Listen,” I say softly. “If you say her name again like she’s leverage, I’m going to remove your tongue. Not kill you. Just… take your favorite tool.”
Morazin goes still.
For the first time since I met him, I see real caution.
Good.
I straighten and turn to Renn. “Prep the public custody handoff protocol. I want a corridor with shared jurisdiction and open feeds.”
Renn nods. “Copy.”
Morazin’s voice rises behind me. “You think you can manage narrative with cameras? The Nine will—Baragon will—”
I glance back, bored. “Scream into your cuffs. It’s all you’ve got left.”
Morazin bares his teeth. “You’re not the hero of this story.”
I pause, letting the words sit.
Then I answer without looking at him. “I’m not trying to be.”
And I leave him in the cold.
Back in the corridor outside the medbay, I hear Jordan’s voice before I see her.
It’s raspy, pain-softened, but sharp with attitude.
“—No, Clint, I’m not dead. I’m just… aggressively annoyed.”
Clint’s voice comes through a small speaker module—grainy, low, shipboard. “You sound like hell.”
Jordan: “I look like hell too. You should see your face right now, though. Ten out of ten guilt.”