Chapter 38
HRASK
The ship settles into long-haul rhythm slower than I expect.
The violence of the ascent lingers in the structure for a while, the metal still humming with residual strain, but eventually it evens out into something steadier, deeper, a sustained vibration that fades into the background if you let it.
The air smells faintly of heated circuits and recycled filtration, cleaner than Myrza but not by much, and the low lighting in the main compartment casts everything in muted tones that make it easier to think.
I don’t sit right away.
Instead, I brace a hand against the bulkhead near the console and pull up the data we’ve been carrying like a live charge since we left the ground.
“Let’s see what you bought us,” I mutter, slotting my device into the system interface.
The screen flickers, then stabilizes, lines of information layering over each other as the files begin to sync.
Jolie leans against the opposite side of the console, arms crossed, her posture controlled but not relaxed, and her eyes track the data as it resolves.
“Tell me it’s not just fragments,” she says.
“It’s more than fragments,” I reply, scanning the first set of logs. “But it’s not complete.”
“Define ‘not complete,’” she presses.
I don’t answer immediately.
Because the pattern hits before the specifics do.
“Yeah,” I say. “This is worse than we thought.”
“That’s not helpful,” she says. “Explain.”
I pull up the cross-reference between her recording and my partial archive, aligning the timelines, letting the system map the overlaps.
“Look at this,” I say, angling the display toward her.
She steps closer, her shoulder brushing mine as she leans in.
“Those are breach logs,” she says.
“Not just logs,” I reply. “Scheduled breaches.”
Her expression sharpens.
“That’s not possible,” she says.
“It is if you’re the one controlling both sides,” I counter.
I pull up the next layer.
Patrol routes.
Adjusted.
Shifted.
Cleared at specific intervals.
“Those aren’t defensive patterns,” she says.
“No,” I agree. “They’re staging patterns.”
The realization settles between us, heavy and immediate.
“They weren’t reacting to conflict,” she says slowly. “They were creating it.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Controlled escalation.”
She exhales, something sharper cutting through her expression.
“That’s not just corruption,” she mutters. “That’s—”
“War engineering,” I finish.
The words sit there.
Ugly.
Accurate.
I scroll further, digging into the command overrides embedded in the data.
“Here,” I say, highlighting a sequence. “This is where it gets worse.”
She leans in closer.
“Those are cross-system authorizations,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “Not just IHC.”
Her gaze flicks to mine.
“Coalition too,” she says.
“Or at least someone inside it,” I correct.
She shakes her head slightly, disbelief cutting through her tone.
“That’s not a border conflict,” she says. “That’s a coordinated operation.”
“False flag,” I say.
The words land hard.
Her posture changes, tension tightening through her shoulders.
“You’re saying Driscoll was manufacturing incidents to justify escalation,” she says.
“I’m saying he was building a war,” I reply.
Silence stretches between us, not empty, but loaded.
“And Tury saw it,” she says.
“Yeah,” I nod. “And that made him a problem.”
“And Dadams—”
“Was managing the fallout,” I finish.
She exhales slowly, her gaze dropping back to the screen.
“This goes way beyond one commander,” she says.
“Yeah,” I reply. “It has to.”
I scroll again, pulling up the last set of data I managed to extract before they shut me down.
“It’s not all here,” I say. “But it’s enough to prove the structure.”
“And once this gets out,” she says, her voice tightening slightly, “there’s no putting it back.”
“No,” I agree. “There isn’t.”
She leans back slightly, the movement careful, controlled.
“Good,” she says quietly.
I glance at her.
“You don’t sound surprised,” I say.
“I’m not,” she replies. “I’m just… past it.”
“Past what?” I ask.
“Past thinking this was smaller,” she says.
I nod once.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Same.”
The ship hums around us, steady, constant, and for the first time since we left the ground, there’s space to actually think about what comes next.
“We can’t just drop this into a public feed,” she says after a moment.
“No,” I reply. “It’ll get buried or discredited before it spreads.”
“So what?” she asks. “We hand it to someone?”
“We find someone who can’t ignore it,” I say.
“That’s a short list,” she mutters.
“Yeah,” I agree.
She studies the data again, her expression tightening slightly.
“This is going to blow everything open,” she says.
“That’s the point,” I reply.
“And you’re okay with that?” she asks, glancing at me.
I hesitate.
Not because I don’t know the answer.
Because I do.
“Doesn’t matter if I’m okay with it,” I say finally. “It’s already in motion.”
“That’s not what I asked,” she presses.
I meet her gaze.
“No,” I say. “I’m not okay with it.”
She doesn’t look surprised.
“Yeah,” she murmurs. “Didn’t think you would be.”
I lean back against the console slightly, the cool metal pressing through my shirt.
“There’s no version of this where things go back to normal,” I add.
“Normal wasn’t real,” she replies.
“Maybe not,” I say. “But it was something.”
She studies me for a second, something softer flickering through her expression.
“You can’t go back,” she says.
“No,” I reply.
“To your side,” she adds.
“No,” I repeat.
The word settles heavier this time.
“That bother you?” she asks.
I exhale slowly, the air catching slightly before I let it out.
“Yeah,” I admit. “More than I expected.”
She nods slightly.
“Same,” she says.
I glance at her.
“You had something to go back to?” I ask.
She huffs a breath, something almost like a dry laugh slipping through.
“I had a version of it,” she says. “Turns out it wasn’t real either.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “That seems to be a theme.”
The silence that follows isn’t tense.
It’s… different.
Less about conflict.
More about understanding.
“So what now?” she asks.
“We get this somewhere it can’t be erased,” I reply.
“And then?” she presses.
I glance back at the data.
“And then we deal with whatever comes next,” I say.
“That’s not a plan,” she says.
“It’s the only one we’ve got,” I reply.
She considers that, her gaze steady.
“Alright,” she says finally.
“Alright?” I repeat.
“Yeah,” she nods. “We finish it.”
I watch her for a second, something settling into place that wasn’t there before.
“Together,” I say.
“Together,” she agrees.
The word lands solid.
Not reactive.
Not temporary.
Something chosen.
I nod once, turning back to the console.
“Then we prep this for transfer,” I say. “Make sure it’s clean, make sure it’s impossible to twist.”
“And make sure it hits hard,” she adds.
“Yeah,” I agree. “That too.”
The ship hums steadily around us, carrying us farther from Myrza with every second, and for the first time since this started—
We’re not reacting anymore.
We’re deciding what happens next.