Chapter 6
HRASK
Information doesn’t come from the people who are supposed to have it.
It never has.
It comes from the ones who live around it, the ones who move through the cracks where official channels don’t bother looking. The ones who hear things they’re not meant to hear because nobody thinks they matter enough to keep quiet around.
That’s where I go.
The lower sectors of Coalition territory don’t get the same attention as the command corridors or the border line.
The lighting is worse, the air thicker, carrying the smell of old machinery and too many bodies packed into too little space.
Conversations overlap here, voices blending into a constant murmur that makes it easier to disappear if you know how to move through it.
I do.
I step into one of the side corridors that branches off from the main maintenance route, my pace slowing just enough to signal I’m not in a hurry. The walls are scuffed, the metal dulled from years of use, and the hum of the systems running beneath them is deeper here, more uneven.
A group of techs stand clustered near an open panel, their voices low but not quiet enough.
“—telling you, it wasn’t in the log—”
“It doesn’t have to be in the log if it came from above—”
“Then why move it through here?”
“Because nobody checks here.”
I don’t look at them directly as I pass, but I listen.
Always.
The corridor opens into a wider junction where the air becomes cooler, less stagnant. That’s where I find the one I’m looking for.
Paarson.
He’s leaned back against a crate, one foot braced against the wall, like he’s got nothing better to do than exist in this exact spot. His eyes flick up when I approach, recognition settling in immediately.
“Didn’t expect to see you down here,” he says, pushing off the crate. His voice carries that same easy edge it always has, but there’s caution under it.
“Didn’t expect to be here,” I reply.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
“Usually is.”
He studies me for a moment, then glances past me down the corridor, checking who might be within earshot.
“You’re not here for a chat,” he says.
“No,” I admit.
“What do you want?”
I step closer, lowering my voice just enough that it doesn’t carry.
“You hear anything about a reassignment recently?” I ask. “Name’s Tury.”
Paarson’s expression doesn’t change immediately, but I see it in his posture, the way his shoulders shift just slightly before he settles them again.
“That’s specific,” he says.
“Yeah.”
“Why do you care?”
“I replaced him.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
He exhales slowly, running a hand along the back of his neck as he looks away for a second.
“That name’s been floating around,” he says finally.
“Floating how?”
“Quiet,” he replies. “Too quiet.”
I watch him closely.
“Explain.”
Paarson hesitates, then leans in slightly, lowering his voice further.
“He got flagged,” he says.
“For what?”
“Unauthorized contact activity.”
The words land heavier than I expect.
“Contact with who?” I ask.
Paarson’s eyes flick back to mine.
“You’re asking questions you don’t want answers to,” he says.
“Try me.”
He shakes his head once.
“Doesn’t say,” he replies. “Just that it was outside protocol. Enough to get attention.”
“And then what?” I press.
“And then he disappears from the rotation logs,” Paarson says. “No transfer record. No reassignment notice. Just… gone.”
“That doesn’t happen,” I say.
“It does if someone higher up decides it should.”
I let that settle, the pieces shifting into place in a way I don’t like.
“Where was he flagged?” I ask.
Paarson’s gaze shifts again, slower this time.
“Near the border,” he says.
Of course it was.
“Figures,” I mutter.
“You didn’t hear that from me,” he adds quickly.
“I didn’t hear anything,” I reply.
He studies me for another moment, then steps back.
“Careful, Vardo,” he says. “This isn’t the kind of thing you poke at unless you’re ready for it to poke back.”
I grin slightly.
“Too late.”
“That’s what I was afraid of.”
I leave him there, the conversation settling into my head as I move back through the corridors.
Unauthorized contact.
Near the border.
No record of transfer.
And now restricted sectors and patrols acting like parts of the map don’t exist.
That’s not coincidence.
That’s a cover.
The deeper I move back toward the surface routes, the more it shows.
Patrol units shift their paths just slightly when they approach certain corridors, their routes bending around areas that should be standard checkpoints. The adjustments are subtle enough that they could pass as routine variation, but they happen too consistently, too cleanly.
Avoidance.
Intentional.
I slow near one of the intersections, watching as a patrol unit approaches from the opposite direction. They move with purpose until they hit a certain point, then their formation shifts, angling away from a corridor that sits dark and quiet to the side.
No hesitation.
No acknowledgment.
Just a clean redirect like it was always part of the plan.
I glance down that corridor, noting the lack of traffic, the stillness that feels wrong compared to the rest of the sector.
Nobody goes that way.
Not by accident.
By the time I step back out onto the border line, the heat feels sharper, the air drier, like the surface is trying to burn away everything I just learned.
She’s already there.
Of course she is.
Jolie stands at her post, her attention scanning the line, but I can tell she’s not fully present in it. There’s a tension in her shoulders that wasn’t there before, a focus turned inward, like she’s still walking through something she saw earlier.
Good.
That means I’m not the only one.
I take my position across from her.
“You were right,” I say, my voice low.
Her gaze snaps to mine immediately.
“That’s twice now,” she says. “Careful, you’re building a pattern.”
I huff a quiet breath.
“Don’t get used to it,” I reply. “I found something.”
Her posture stiffens, just slightly.
“Talk,” she says.
I glance down the line, making sure no one is close enough to catch more than fragments.
“He got flagged,” I say.
Her expression sharpens.
“For what?”
“Unauthorized contact,” I reply.
Her eyes narrow.
“With who?”
“Didn’t say,” I answer. “But it was enough to pull him off rotation without a record.”
“That doesn’t happen,” she says.
“It does now.”
She exhales slowly, her gaze drifting for a second before snapping back to me.
“That lines up,” she mutters.
“With what?” I ask.
She hesitates again.
I don’t push it this time.
“Patrols are avoiding certain sectors,” I add instead. “Not random. Consistent. Like they’ve been told not to look.”
Her attention locks back in.
“Where?” she asks.
I give her the general area, watching the way she processes it, the way her stance lists slightly as she maps it against what she already knows.
“That overlaps with the blind spots,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Thought you’d say that.”
Silence settles between us, heavier now.
“You think he found something,” she says.
“I think he got too close to something,” I reply.
“And now they’re burying it.”
“Looks that way.”
She runs a hand along the edge of the fence, her fingers brushing the metal without touching it directly.
“This isn’t just Coalition,” she says. “We’ve got restricted zones too.”
“I figured.”
Her gaze lifts to mine again.
“You didn’t tell me everything earlier,” she says.
“Neither did you,” I reply.
This time, neither of us pretends otherwise.
“You still holding back?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say. “You?”
“Yeah.”
That almost makes me laugh.
“Good,” I say. “Wouldn’t trust you if you weren’t.”
Her lips press together, but there’s something else there now, something that wasn’t there before.
Not trust.
But not rejection either.
“We need to move past surface-level,” I say. “This isn’t going to break open from the fence.”
Her eyes narrow slightly.
“You’re suggesting what?” she asks.
“I’m suggesting we stop pretending this is just observation,” I reply. “We dig.”
“That’s crossing a line,” she says.
“You crossed it already.”
“So did you.”
“Exactly.”
She exhales slowly, eyes hard as steel.
“You’re asking me to work with you,” she says.
“I’m telling you we already are,” I reply.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I admit. “It’s not.”
She studies me for a long moment, weighing it.
“This goes bad, it doesn’t just come back on us,” she says. “It escalates.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still pushing it.”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
I tilt my head slightly.
“Because something’s wrong,” I say. “And I don’t like being lied to.”
She watches me, searching for something behind the words.
“And if this is bigger than we think?” she asks.
“Then we find out how big,” I reply.
“And if we’re not supposed to?”
I grin slightly.
“Since when has that stopped you?”
That earns a faint reaction, something close to acknowledgment.
“You’re insufferable,” she says.
“I get that a lot.”
She exhales again, slower this time.
“This stays controlled,” she says. “We don’t act without verifying.”
“Agreed.”
“We don’t trust each other.”
“Obviously.”
“We don’t get sloppy.”
“Never do.”
She holds my gaze for another moment, then nods once.
“Fine,” she says.
That’s not a refusal.
That’s enough.
I shift my stance slightly.
“Then we start digging,” I say.
Her expression hardens into something focused, deliberate.
“Yeah,” she says quietly.
And this time, when the tension settles between us, it doesn’t feel like opposition.
It feels like alignment.
That’s going to complicate things.
I don’t mind.