Chapter 2 #2
I'm going to see her again. In a professional setting, surrounded by witnesses, where she can't pull a knife without consequences.
She's going to hate that.
I'm looking forward to it.
Conference room seven is smaller than I expected. Tactical displays on three walls. A table that seats eight, currently occupied by five. Astra's at the head. She doesn't look up when I enter.
I take the seat at the opposite end. Maximum distance. Her emotional frequency hits me anyway—copper and ice and something underneath that tastes like old grief.
Six years of grief. I did that.
The others present are mid-level security personnel. Faces I don't know, names I'll memorize later. They're watching me with the careful neutrality of people who know I'm important but aren't sure what kind of important. Threat or ally. My brother's weapon or his weakness.
Fair question.
Astra starts the briefing without preamble. Professional. Clipped. Every word chosen for maximum efficiency and minimum feeling.
The Vex attack. Three breach points. Coordinated timing. Inside knowledge required. She's identified twelve potential sources. Surveillance is ongoing. Interrogations scheduled.
She's good. Better than good. The analysis is flawless, the tactical assessment sound. Six years ago, she was competent. Now she's exceptional.
I made her that way. Not because I left. Because of what happened after.
"Questions?" Her green eyes scan the room. Pause on me. "Torrence?"
Using my family name. Not my first name. Never my first name, probably.
"The breach points," I say. "You're assuming inside knowledge. Could be external surveillance."
"Already checked. The shield rotations were changed four hours before the attack. The only way to know the new pattern was internal access."
"Who has that access?"
"Seventeen people. I've cleared twelve."
"And the other five?"
Her jaw tightens. Just slightly. Barely visible unless you're watching for tells.
"Under investigation."
I let my abilities reach toward her. Just far enough to sense the surface emotions. The copper-ice hatred is expected. The grief underneath is familiar.
But there's something new. A flicker of something that tastes like fear.
She's afraid one of her own people sold them out. Afraid she missed it. Afraid she's not as un-fucking-breakable as she's spent six years trying to prove.
I should let it go. Should leave her to her investigation, her methods, her control.
I reach deeper instead. Just testing the edges of her emotional walls. Feeling for—
"Don't."
The word cracks through the room like a gunshot. Everyone goes still.
Astra's eyes are locked on mine. Her walls have slammed up so hard I actually feel the pressure. Like hitting a force field at full speed.
"Conference room protocols," she says, voice flat. "No active sensing without consent. That applies to everyone." Her eyes haven't left mine. "Including Torrences."
She felt me reaching. Shut me down. Made it a public censure.
I should be angry. Should be offended. She just called me out in front of her team, established dominance, made clear she won't tolerate my abilities in her space.
I'm fascinated instead.
"Understood," I say.
She holds my gaze another three seconds. Making sure the lesson lands. Then she continues the briefing like nothing happened.
But I can taste her satisfaction. Just a ghost of it, leaking through despite her walls. She won that exchange. She knows it. She's pleased.
I'm still watching her mouth when she dismisses the meeting.
The others file out. I stay seated. She knows I'm staying. Her shoulders tighten fractionally.
When the door seals behind the last officer, I speak.
"You've gotten better. At the walls."
"I had six years of practice."
"Motivated practice."
"Yes." She starts gathering her displays, shutting them down one by one. Still not looking at me. "Turns out being left to die is excellent motivation for learning how to protect yourself."
There it is. The knife I've been waiting for.
"Astra—"
"Don't." Her hands stop moving. She finally looks at me. Green eyes, sharp enough to draw blood. "Don't use my name like you have the right. Don't apologize. Don't explain. We're working together because the station requires it. That's all this is."
I should agree. Should take the out she's offering. Keep it professional, keep it cold, finish the mission and never mention Sigma-9 again.
"I thought about you," I say instead. "Every day for six years. That doesn't change what I did. But I need you to know."
Her walls crack. Just for a second. I feel it. The surge of something hot and wounded and furious underneath all that ice.
Then the walls slam back into place, harder than before.
"I don't care what you thought about," she says. "I care what you did. And what you'd do again."
"I'd do it again."
The words are out before I can stop them. Honest. Brutal. The worst thing I could say.
Her laugh is sharp enough to cut. "I know. That's the problem."
She gathers the last of her equipment. Crosses to the door. I'm running out of time to say whatever I came here to say. Except I don't know what that is. Apologies are useless. Explanations are worse. All I have is the truth, and the truth is the thing she hates most.
"The investigation," I say. "I can help."
She pauses. Hand on the door controls. Doesn't turn around.
"Why would I let you help?"
"Because I'm good at finding traitors. I've been one."
The silence stretches. I can feel her processing, calculating.
The hatred is still there, copper-bright and familiar.
But underneath, something else. Curiosity, maybe.
Or the tactical assessment of someone who knows useful when she sees it, even when useful comes wrapped in the shape of her worst mistake.
"Fine," she says finally. "But understand this. You reach for my emotions again, try to read me without permission, use your abilities on anyone on my team—"
"You'll put another knife to my throat."
"No." She turns. Looks at me with those green eyes that miss nothing. "I'll let you bleed out while I watch. And I won't feel a single thing about it."
She would. I can taste the certainty in her emotional signature. She's not bluffing. She's not performing. She means every word.
It's the most honest threat I've heard in years.
"Understood," I say.
She leaves.
I sit in the empty conference room, breathing in the ghost of gun oil and antiseptic, feeling the place on my throat where her blade broke skin this morning.
Six years. I've thought about her every day. Calculated and recalculated. Looked for an answer that didn't end with her capture and my choice. Never found one.
The math hasn't changed.
But sitting here, tasting her hatred like blood in my mouth, I'm starting to wonder if there are some equations that matter more than survival.
My console chimes. Message incoming. Priority level indicates intelligence, not administration.
I open it.
A face fills the screen. Human. Male. Mid-forties. Unremarkable features that I recognize immediately because I've spent six years trying to forget them.
Lieutenant Commander Marcus Webb. Our unit's intelligence officer. The man who had access to every mission parameter, every extraction plan, every tactical position.
The man who sold us to the enemy.
The man who's been dead for five years, according to official records.
The man who's very much alive in this surveillance photo, taken three days ago on a Vex-controlled station two jumps from here.
My marks flare bright enough to hurt. Rage. Recognition. The terrible clarity of finally having a name for the ghost that's been haunting me.
Webb sold us. Webb got half our unit killed. Webb is the reason Astra was taken, the reason I had to make that choice, the reason six years of my life taste like ash and mathematics.
And he's alive.
Working for the Vex.
Close enough to reach.
I'm on my feet before I make the conscious decision to move. The file transfers to my personal device. I'm halfway to the door when I stop.
Astra needs to see this. She has the same right to Webb's face, Webb's location, Webb's throat that I do.
She also has a team. Resources. The authority to mobilize a hunting party.
I could tell her. We could work together. Coordinate. Do this smart.
Or I could go alone. Fast. Finish it before she has time to make it complicated with questions about due process and interrogation protocols.
Six years ago, I chose the mission over her life.
This time, I choose to walk back down the corridor. Find her office. Let her be part of this.
Not because the math says to.
Because she's earned it.
And because, for once, the calculation that matters isn't the one about survival.
It's the one about what kind of man I want to be when she's watching.
Her office door is closed. I don't knock. Just override the lock with my command codes and walk in.
She's on her feet instantly. Hand on her sidearm. The barrel's pointed at my chest before I finish crossing the threshold.
"Easy," I say.
"Get out."
"I have something you need to see."
"I don't need anything from you."
I hold up my display. Let her see Webb's face on the screen.
Her gun doesn't waver. But her eyes shift. Just for a second. To the image.
Recognition hits her like a physical blow. I feel it through her walls. The spike of shock, the flood of rage, the bitter satisfaction of finally, finally having a target.
"Where?" Her voice has gone dead flat. The tone that means she's given up on something. Or decided to kill it.
"Vex station. Two jumps."
"When was this taken?"
"Three days ago."
Her gun lowers. Slowly. She crosses to me. Takes the display from my hand. Studies Webb's face with an expression I can't quite read.
"He's supposed to be dead," she says.
"He's not."
"He should be."
"Yes."
She looks up at me. The hatred is still there. But there's something else now. Something that tastes like purpose. Like hunt. Like the thing that kept her alive through six years of becoming someone who doesn't need rescue.
"We're going after him," she says. Not a question.
"We are."
"Together."
The word hangs between us. Together. Like we used to be, before Sigma-9, before the choice, before everything broke.
"Together," I confirm.
Her smile is cold. Sharp. The smile of someone who's spent years sharpening herself on grief.
"Good," she says. "Because when I kill him, I want you to watch."