21. Kalev
KALEV
Iwake to the chime of high-clearance transmission slicing through the room’s silence like a scalpel.
The overheads are still dimmed, dawn cycle not due for another hour, but the console glows bright and insistent from the corner of the bunk room—its cold, pale light throwing shadows across the floor like fractured bone.
The air smells like static and ozone, that sharp copper edge that always precedes classified directives.
I sit up slowly, the muscle across my lower back pulling tight as I reach for the console.
A security prompt flashes. Retinal. Voice.
“Kalev. Clearance R-9-7-Tau.”
The file unfolds with clinical efficiency. Black-level. Kill order. Strategic objective flagged for immediate termination.
Subject: Talvek, Orin. Status: High-ranking League Strategist.
Known activities: Negotiating covert mutual defense pacts with Ataxian Coalition proxies.
Directive: Neutralize target.
I scroll. Briefing packets. Aerials. Internal chatter. Movement projections. The whole thing stinks of rush—scrubbed headers, soft timestamping, thin source validation. No behavioral recon. No lifestyle patterning. No usual coldwalk preambles.
And something’s off in the way the report is written—like someone built it to be read fast, skimmed for justification, not dissected for truth.
I cross-reference the packet metadata. At least two sigchain tags are missing, and a third redacted beyond protocol. No tactical backup assets listed. No second-tier analysis.
This isn’t standard.
I open a secure channel, audio-only, tightbeam routed through three bouncing relays to a ghost node in the outer shelf.
“Command, this is Operative Kalev. Confirming receipt of Talvek directive. I’m requesting clarification on validation—sigchains are incomplete, and the intelligence sourcing lacks standard cross-check parameters.”
There’s a pause. Then static. Then a voice, female, crisp and flat.
“Directive stands. Do not delay. Strategic implications require immediate resolution. You are cleared for action.”
And just like that, the line goes dead.
I stare at the console a long moment, fists curling slow in my lap.
They’re pushing this. Hard. And they don’t want questions.
Not unusual. Not for black work.
But it’s been a long time since I got one this messy.
I log the file, encrypt it twice, and sit in the dark.
This isn’t just about intel anymore.
This is about who benefits.
And who’s expendable.
By the time I find Leah, morning’s cracked open like a fault line across the sky.
She’s tucked into the alcove beside the uplink terminal, legs folded, half-asleep in the low light of a flickering overhead, datapad cradled in her palm like a lifeline.
Her hair’s pulled into a knot that’s barely holding together.
There’s a smudge of grease along her jaw, probably from a conduit patch job.
I stand there for a second, watching the rise and fall of her breathing.
Then I clear my throat.
“You got the update?”
She blinks awake, tension rising fast through her shoulders. “What update?”
The notification pings as I say it, vibrating against the concrete with the quiet insistence of something irreversible.
I see her thumb flick across the screen.
Her face goes still.
Then: “You’re leading?”
I nod.
“And they want me on mission support.”
Another nod.
Leah laughs once, low and bitter. “Of course they do. Standard procedure: use the familiar asset to leverage compliance.”
Her eyes flick to mine, sharp and unreadable.
“Did you push back?”
“I tried. They shut it down.”
“Figures.” She pushes to her feet, pacing once. “What’s the target?”
“League high-strategist. Talvek.”
“The Talvek?”
I nod.
Her voice drops. “They’ve been after him for cycles.”
“Exactly. And now they’re rushing it.”
She tilts her head. “Feels like a setup.”
“Or a purge,” I mutter. “Political housecleaning in a war they say is winding down.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Are we actually going to do this?”
I look at her—really look at her. The circles under her eyes. The tension in her jaw. The way her hand hovers too long near her midsection before she catches herself.
There’s something off.
But I don’t press it.
Not now.
Instead, I say: “I think if we don’t, they’ll find someone who will. And they’ll send you anyway, without me to run the math.”
Her lips tighten.
And that’s it.
That’s the truth.
Later, in the corridor leading back to command staging, she stops.
“You’re really going to do it,” she says, soft.
I nod.
“Even though it stinks.”
“Especially because it stinks.”
She looks away, jaw working like she wants to spit something sharp and dangerous and true. But instead, she just says, “Watch your six, Kalev.”
I reach for her hand. Grip it once. Hard.
“I always do.”