"This is Captain Ventari of the Imperial Navy vessel Aphelion Crown. To all vessels in this system: stand down immediately. Reduce your velocity to zero. Power down your weapons. Lower your shields."

  A pause. Then the voice continued.

  "Failure to comply will result in your immediate destruction. This is not a negotiation."

  I was already cutting thrust. Weapons powering down. My hands moved through the familiar sequence, the neural port feeding me confirmation as each system went dormant. But my finger hesitated over the shield controls.

  Twenty-three pirates still out there. Some of them are already forming up. If I drop shields now and they decide to take one last shot...

  "Shields staying up," I muttered. "At least until those pirates are dealt with."

  On the open comms, pirate chatter flooded my audio. Most of it was panic. But underneath, cutting through the chaos, I caught a different voice. Calm. Authoritative. Military-crisp.

  "All units, attack formation Delta. Concentrate fire on the lead cruiser. We break through or we die trying."

  That voice. That's not some desperate smuggler. That's command tone. Military command tone.

  I tried to triangulate. The signal bounced across multiple relays, source indeterminate. Whoever was giving orders knew how to hide.

  What the hell kind of pirates are these?

  "I should contact the navy," I said, already reaching for the comm. "Explain our situation."

  "Nicolas." Rosalia's voice was strained but firm. "Wait. Let me... handle this."

  "You can barely talk."

  "I can talk enough. The nanites are working. Trust me." She was already moving toward the comm controls, wincing with the effort. "Please."

  Something in her tone made me pause. Not just determination. Recognition. She knew something I didn't.

  "...Alright. It's your show."

  She opened the channel. When she spoke, her voice was transformed. No longer hesitant and labored, but steady, professional, carrying authority that belied her injuries.

  "Imperial vessel Aphelion Crown, this is the Mahkkra. I am Rosalia of House Rainmaker, attached diplomatic envoy of the Kingdom of the Blue Suns. Our vessel will maintain defensive shields until all hostile contacts are neutralized. As a diplomatic vessel, we retain this right under Article Seven of the Vassal Compact."

  Diplomatic envoy? Since when?

  Right. Royal family. Even in exile, that probably came with titles and privileges I didn't fully understand.

  The comm crackled. A different voice. This one was male, professional. It acknowledged receipt and requested she hold. Clearly escalating to command.

  Then a new voice came through. The first one, but sharper than before. Colder.

  "Diplomatic vessel Mahkkra, this is Captain Ventari. Permission granted to maintain shields until threat neutralization. Hold position. Do not interfere with naval operations."

  No greeting. No acknowledgment of Rosalia by name. Pure military protocol, delivered with the warmth of a glacier.

  Rosalia's expression flickered. Too quick for me to read.

  "That's... permission granted, I guess?"

  "It is." Her voice had gone flat.

  I took over the comm. "Captain Ventari, acknowledged. Captain Beaumont of the Mahkkra speaking. Be advised we have a seriously injured passenger aboard. Requesting medical assistance upon threat resolution."

  "Nicolas, I do not need..."

  "You're in worse shape than you think." I kept my voice gentle but firm. "A ship that size, designed for long deployments? They'll have medical facilities that make ours look like a first-aid kit. You need real treatment."

  A pause from the Imperial side. Then: "Acknowledged, Mahkkra. Medical team will be standing by. Dock in our primary hangar bay once hostiles are neutralized. Aphelion Crown out."

  The comm went silent. Outside, the Imperial fleet was moving into attack formation with military precision. Six ships. The Aphelion Crown was massive, accompanied by two other cruisers and three escort frigates, according to the computer. Serious firepower.

  The pirates didn't stand a chance. The fight would be over in minutes.

  I turned to Rosalia. "Okay. Spill. You knew that voice. You knew that name. Who is Captain Ventari to you?"

  She was quiet for a moment, her eyes on the tactical display where the Imperial formation was tightening into a killing pattern. When she spoke, her voice was careful. Measured.

  "We attended the same boarding school. An academy for children of noble houses, both Imperial and vassal kingdoms. We had classes together for several years."

  "So you're old school friends?"

  "No." The word came out clipped. "House Ventari is an old Imperial clan. Very old. They have served in the military for... I do not know how many generations. Centuries, certainly. It is their entire identity. Duty. Honor. Service to the Empire."

  She paused, her breathing still labored.

  "Seraphine was the perfect embodiment of that tradition. Always serious. Always correct. Always about duty and obligation."

  "Sounds exhausting."

  "It was. For everyone around her." A ghost of something, maybe a smile, crossed Rosalia's face. "She had... opinions. About those of us whose families did not meet her standards of honor."

  "Let me guess. House Rainmaker didn't make the cut."

  "House Rainmaker's reputation preceded me." Her voice went flat. She tried to shrug, but pain stopped her mid-motion. A small sound escaped her. Half gasp, half whimper. She took several breaths to steady herself before continuing.

  "Political maneuvering. Shady dealings. Prioritizing family power over ethical or even efficient governance. All true, I am afraid. Seraphine made it clear, repeatedly, that she found my family's methods contemptible."

  "That's rough."

  "She was harsh." Rosalia paused, and something complicated moved behind her eyes. "But she was also... fair. She never participated in the petty cruelties some students inflicted. Never spread rumors or encouraged others to exclude me. She simply made her disapproval known. Directly. To my face. And then expected me to either defend my family's honor or denounce them."

  "And you did neither."

  "I could not. Not then. My position was... complicated." Another pause. "She saw that as cowardice. A lack of integrity."

  I watched her face as she spoke. There was old pain there, but also something else. Reluctant respect, maybe.

  "You don't hate her," I said.

  "No." She shook her head slightly, then winced at the movement. "I resented her judgment. But I could never hate her for it. She was principled. Consistent. She held herself to the same impossible standards she demanded of others. That is more than I can say for most of the nobility I have encountered."

  "So what are the odds? Running into her out here, in the middle of nowhere?"

  Rosalia considered this.

  "Less coincidental than you might think. Command of a patrol group is a prestigious assignment for a young officer. It offers combat experience, command responsibility, and public recognition. For someone of Seraphine's background, it would be a natural posting."

  She glanced at the tactical display, where the Aphelion Crown dominated the sensor returns.

  "I am surprised she has made captain so quickly. She is young for that rank. But then, she was always driven. And she has connections."

  "Connections she earned or connections she inherited?"

  "With Seraphine? Both. She would have earned the posting regardless. But the Ventari name would have ensured she received the opportunity to prove herself."

  A flash in my peripheral vision drew my attention back to the viewport. The first pirate to break formation had just ceased to exist, his ship transformed into an expanding cloud of superheated debris by what looked like a single shot.

  That's a category-ten laser. Maybe even eleven. It's overkill on those pirates.

  The Imperial fleet didn't rush. They spread into a classic envelopment pattern: two ships holding the center, four sweeping wide to cut off escape vectors. Textbook. Elegant. Overwhelming.

  But the pirates weren't running.

  They're fighting back. Actually coordinating. That's not pirate behavior. Pirates run when outgunned. These guys are fighting back.

  For what? They can't win.

  I watched, fascinated despite myself. The pirates were running a fighting retreat, covering each other's blind spots, laying down suppressive fire to slow the Imperial advance. Their tactics were sloppy but recognizable.

  Military training. Whoever's in charge of this operation recruited some veterans.

  The Aphelion Crown fired. I did a double take reading the sensors. WIKEs. Warp-Infused Kinetic Emitters. A devastating mix of railgun and warp travel technologies. Four of them, spinal-mounted, tracking separate targets. The slugs, accelerated to relativistic speeds tore, through pirate shields like they weren't there.

  Impressive. Devastating.

  And somehow... less than I expected.

  My WIKE hits harder than those. The Mahkkra is a small ship. Why would a battleship have weaker weapons?

  I shrugged. That's a mystery for future me.

  More than half the pirates were debris now. The survivors were fragmenting, discipline finally breaking. Two ships powered down, shields dropping, broadcasting on all channels.

  "Imperial vessels, we surrender! We surrender! Powering down weapons, lowering shields..."

  The transmission cut off. The ship's reactor signature spiked.

  The explosion was almost anticlimactic. Just a flash, then debris.

  Another ship tried the same thing. Same result.

  What the hell?

  "Nicolas." Rosalia's voice was barely a whisper. "Before each explosion... I detected data pulses. From two different ships in the fleet."

  "Kill codes?"

  "Most likely. Someone does not want them to surrender."

  Before I could respond, every remaining pirate ship went critical. Simultaneous reactor failures across the entire fleet. In seconds, nothing remained but expanding debris fields and cooling radiation.

  Then the asteroid belt lit up.

  Two massive explosions bloomed in the outer ring. The detonations were huge, visible across the star system. Secondary explosions followed, smaller, scattered throughout the belt. Half a dozen at least.

  "The bases," Rosalia breathed. "They are destroying their own infrastructure."

  She was right. Two large stations and at least six smaller outposts. All going critical simultaneously. Whatever this operation had been, someone was erasing every trace of it.

  That's not covering tracks. That's scorched earth. Whoever was backing them would rather lose everything than let the Empire find out what they were doing here.

  — o0o —

  The docking clamps engaged with a solid thunk. We were in.

  "Stay here," I said, already unbuckling my harness. "You're hurt. I'll handle the welcome committee."

  "No."

  Rosalia was already moving. Slowly. Carefully. Each motion deliberate, like she was afraid something might break if she moved too fast.

  Something probably would.

  "Rosalia..."

  "I am a diplomatic representative." Her voice was tight with pain she was trying to hide. Badly. "I will not be absent when Imperial officers board my transport. It sends the wrong message."

  She gripped the armrest and pulled herself upright. Her face went grey. Sweat beaded on her forehead. For a moment, I thought she might collapse.

  She didn't.

  Stubborn. So incredibly stubborn.

  "You can barely stand."

  "I can stand enough." She took a breath. Then another. "We need to discuss our approach before they arrive."

  "What's our play here?" I asked, watching her slowly make her way toward the corridor.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "Cooperation. We comply with Imperial authority as much as possible. We are grateful survivors of a pirate attack, requesting assistance. Nothing more." She paused to lean against the bulkhead. Just for a moment. "If we are fortunate, they may offer an escort to Varkesh Prime. It would be good public relations for them to rescue a diplomatic vessel from pirates."

  "And if they start asking difficult questions?"

  "That is where it becomes complicated. We will need to be... cautious. Seraphine is not an easy person to mislead. She is Eluan. They have a reputation for being perceptive."

  "Eluan," I repeated. Something clicked. "Oh, right. The space elves. I saw something about them in a documentary once."

  Rosalia stopped walking. Actually stopped, despite the pain. She turned to look at me, with a very serious expression.

  "Eluan," she said, her voice precise and cold. "Not elf. Never elf. Do not ever call her that."

  "Okay, okay." I held up my hands. "Sorry. I didn't know. What's the story?"

  She resumed walking, but her voice had taken on a lecturing tone.

  "During the Age of the First Empires, there was one called the Itami Gene-Court. Their rulers were... eccentric. They used genetic engineering to create what we now call meta-humanity. Stable human sub-species designed for specific purposes."

  She paused at the corridor junction, catching her breath.

  "The Eluan were engineered for aesthetics. Beauty. Grace. Entertainment for the elite. The Draugr, whom you might call 'dwarves', were created for heavy labor. The Kitans, the fox-folks, and many others. Each species created for a role. As servants. As slaves."

  "That's... horrific."

  "It was. The Itami Empire eventually fell."

  "What happened to the meta-humans?"

  "Most survived. Built their own communities. Today, they are valued citizens of the Empire. The Eluan in particular have contributed greatly to Imperial culture, arts, and military service. But their population is small. They are quite rare."

  "And 'elf' is..."

  "A term from the Itami era. A designation for a product, a slave." Her eyes met mine. "The only places you hear that word now are in illegal slave markets on the frontier."

  "And if I call her an elf..."

  "You treat her, and any Eluan who hears, as nothing more than an object. Whether you intend offense or not, you will give it." Her voice softened slightly. "I know you meant no harm. But this is important. Remember it."

  "Eluan," I said firmly. "Got it. Won't forget."

  Great. Add 'don't accidentally reference a species' slave history' to the list of ways this meeting could go wrong.

  "Nicolas." Her voice sharpened despite the pain. "Listen to me carefully. You cannot. Under any circumstances. Tell them your full story."

  "I wasn't planning to."

  "I am serious. Not the truth about where you came from. Not the truth about the Mahkkra's technology. Not the truth about how we met. If they ask questions you cannot answer safely, invoke diplomatic immunity. Refuse to respond. I will support you."

  "What about the ship itself? They're going to notice things."

  "The Mahkkra is classified as a diplomatic transport by virtue of carrying me. Under Imperial law, that grants it significant protection. They may scan from outside. They may observe the exterior. But they cannot enter without permission. They cannot search. They cannot access the ship's database. They cannot conduct internal scans."

  "That's... actually useful."

  "It is our strongest card. Do not give it away carelessly."

  Don't volunteer information. Don't call her an elf. Don't explain the ship. Don't mention being from another universe.

  Simple. What could possibly go wrong?

  — o0o —

  The Aphelion Crown hangar bay could have held a dozen ships like the Mahkkra. Maybe two dozen. The ceiling arched overhead like a cathedral, support struts catching the harsh industrial lighting. Maintenance drones buzzed past, ignoring us entirely.

  Our ship looked almost embarrassingly small in the center of all that space.

  Don't let them see you as small. Walk in like you belong.

  Rosalia had made it down the access ramp. She was standing. Technically. Her hand gripped the frame hard enough that I could see her knuckles whitening.

  "You sure about this?" I murmured.

  "I am a diplomatic representative," she repeated, like a mantra. "I will not be carried off my own ship."

  I stayed close enough to catch her if she fell.

  Captain Ventari stood at the center of the welcome party. Tall. Rigid military posture. Uniform immaculate.

  And she was beautiful.

  Now I understood why the word "elf" had probably stuck for so long in certain circles. The silver-white hair seemed to capture light from sources I couldn't identify, shimmering with subtle iridescence. Her skin had a faint luminescence. Not glowing exactly, but somehow lit from within. High cheekbones. Slightly pointed ears, barely visible beneath that cascade of starlight hair. Eyes the color of arctic ice, sharp and assessing.

  Eluan. Definitely Eluan. Not elf. Never elf. She looks like a queen from every fantasy I've ever had, but I am absolutely not going to think the E-word.

  My brain, which had been functioning reasonably well despite exhaustion and combat stress, decided this was an excellent moment to take a vacation.

  "Nicolas." Rosalia's whisper was barely audible. "You are staring. Stop drooling at the Eluan."

  "I'm not drooling."

  "You are mentally drooling. I can tell. Get ahold of yourself."

  Right. Right. Professional. I can be professional. She's just a person. A very beautiful person who could have me executed. Focus.

  She stepped onto the ramp like she was inspecting a crime scene. Her eyes swept the corridor, cataloging everything. The scorch marks on the bulkhead from our evasive maneuvers, a panel shaken loose during a hard G-turn, the general disorder of a ship that had just survived impossible odds.

  When her gaze settled on Rosalia, something shifted. Her expression didn't change exactly, but it hardened. Like watching ice form on water.

  They really don't like each other.

  "Captain Seraphine Ventari, Imperial Navy." Her voice was the same as on comms. Precise. Authoritative. Absolutely no warmth. "This is Doctor Harlan Chen, ship's chief medical officer. Major Bill Okafor, marine detachment commander."

  She didn't introduce the marines flanking the officers. She didn't need to. They were marines.

  "Where is the injured passenger?" Doctor Chen was already pulling out a scanner.

  I pointed at Rosalia.

  She glared at me. I ignored her.

  Seraphine's attention had fixed on me now, and I felt the weight of those ice-colored eyes like physical pressure.

  "I have questions about your vessel." Her tone made it clear this wasn't optional. "Your registration claims this is a diplomatic transport attached to the Kingdom of the Blue Suns. Yet your ship carries a Quillon drive. A technology restricted to Imperial military vessels."

  How does she know about the drive? External scans shouldn't be able to...

  "My family has served the Imperial military since the foundation of the Empire. The Ventari name carries weight in every admiralty, every research facility, every shipyard that matters." She stepped closer. "I know what a Quillon drive signature looks like. I know they are issued only to specialized military vessels. Never to a vassal state, only in the Empire, and even then, rarely. Your ship is not military. It is not supposed to exist."

  "With respect, Captain, specific questions about this vessel's systems fall under diplomatic protection. I'm not in a position to discuss technical details."

  Seraphine's eyes narrowed. "Diplomatic protection."

  "The Mahkkra falls under the category of diplomatic transport. Under Article Twelve of the Vassal Compact, detailed inquiries about..."

  "I am aware of the Compact." Her voice could have frozen plasma. "I am also aware that diplomatic protection can be revoked under certain circumstances. Possession of embargoed military technology, for instance."

  "You can tell me voluntarily, or you can tell me after I've filed for an emergency revocation of your diplomatic status." She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. "Your choice."

  Shit. She's not bluffing. And she's not just any captain. Her family has connections everywhere.

  "Sorry, Captain." Doctor Chen's voice cut through the tension. "Whatever you're planning, she's not coming with you."

  He'd completed his scan of Rosalia while Seraphine and I had been going back and forth. Now he was staring at his medical scanner with a serious look that made me worry.

  He turned to one of the marines. "Get an antigrav stretcher. Now."

  Then he rounded on Rosalia.

  "You walked from the cockpit to here?"

  "I am capable of..."

  "You have a concussion. A small brain hemorrhage. Three broken ribs. One of which has pierced a lung." His voice was professionally furious. "The only reason you're not dead is that the bone is still embedded, preventing critical bleeding. For now. Moving around could dislodge it. You could drown in your own blood in minutes. Also, you have injected nanites. Did you even program them for healing?" He did not even wait for her to respond. "No. Pain reduction only. Brilliant."

  Seraphine's expression shifted. Just slightly. Surprise, maybe. Concern she was trying to hide.

  My reaction was less subtle.

  My hands started shaking. I couldn't breathe.

  Pierced lung. Brain hemorrhage. She could die. She walked down here and she could have died. I let her walk down here. I didn't know. I should have known. I should have...

  The marine returned with a hovering stretcher, and Doctor Chen was helping Rosalia onto it. She protested, but weakly. The diagnosis had shaken her too. Floating diagnostic equipment activated around her, displays flickering with data I couldn't read.

  "I'm taking her to surgery immediately," Chen said. "The lung needs to be repaired before the situation destabilizes."

  Then she was gone, whisked toward surgery, leaving me alone with Captain Ventari.

  I braced myself for some more questions when her holoband chimed. She glanced at it. Read. Her expression went from cold to frozen.

  "Your ship's weapon signatures have been analyzed." Her voice was dangerously quiet. "You deployed a trans-dimensional rift beam during combat. A riftlance."

  "That's... correct."

  "Where did you get it?"

  I said nothing.

  Seraphine's eyes narrowed. "I have seen the theoretical papers. My family has funded research into such weapons for decades. To my knowledge, no working prototype has ever been successfully constructed. The physics remain unsolved. The power requirements are prohibitive." She stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the individual silver strands in her hair. "It should not work."

  She met my eyes.

  "And yet your ship carries one. A functional one. So I will ask again: where did you get a weapon that should not exist?"

  I tried to keep my expression neutral. Tried to channel whatever diplomatic composure Rosalia would have managed in this situation.

  "I can't tell you that."

  "Can't or won't?"

  "Both."

  My voice wasn't quite steady. I could hear it. She could definitely hear it. I'd never been good at this—at hiding things, at lying with a straight face. My jaw was tight. My hands wanted to fidget. I shoved them in my pockets.

  Don't react. Don't give anything away.

  Seraphine studied me for a long moment. Reading me. Cataloging every microexpression, every nervous tell I was failing to suppress.

  "Captain Beaumont." Her use of my self-proclaimed title was deliberate. Possibly mocking. "You are aboard an Imperial Navy vessel, in possession of technology that violates multiple export restrictions and at least three weapons development treaties. Your diplomatic protection extends to your ship—not to you personally."

  She folded her arms.

  "I can have you confined to the brig until you decide cooperation is preferable to a cell. And while you sit there contemplating your choices, you will have no access to information about Lady Rosalia's condition. No updates. No visitation. Nothing."

  Something hot flared in my chest.

  "Are you serious?" My voice came out harder than I intended. Angrier. "She's in surgery—she might be dying—and you're threatening to cut me off from her unless I answer your questions? Is that what this is? Are you using her as a bargaining chip?"

  My hands were shaking. I couldn't tell if it was fear or fury.

  Seraphine went very still.

  When she spoke, her voice was cold—but not the calculated cold of an interrogator. Something else. Something almost offended.

  "I would never use a patient's life as leverage." Each word was precise. Clipped. "Doctor Chen is one of the finest surgeons in the Imperial Navy. He is doing everything in his power to save Lady Rosalia regardless of what you tell me. Her survival is not conditional on your cooperation. Nor is the quality of her care."

  She held my gaze.

  "I stated a fact about detention protocols, not a threat regarding her treatment. Those are separate matters entirely. The suggestion that I would conflate them is... insulting."

  The anger drained out of me as quickly as it had come.

  She's not wrong. She stated consequences. I'm the one who made it about Rosalia.

  And I just accused an Imperial Navy captain of something she clearly finds contemptible.

  I took a breath. Then another.

  "I'm sorry." The words came out rough. "That was... I shouldn't have said that. I'm—" I ran a hand through my hair. "She's hurt. She might be dying. And I can't do anything about it. I'm not handling it well."

  "No. You are not."

  But some of the ice had thawed. Just slightly.

  "I understand you are under considerable stress," Seraphine said. "I will overlook the accusation. This time." Her expression hardened again. "But I still need answers. The riftlance did not materialize from nothing. Neither did your Quillon drive, your anchorfield thrusters, or any of the other technologies my analysts are flagging as impossible. Someone built that ship. Someone gave it to you. I need to know who."

  I was quiet for a moment, thinking. Complete stonewalling wasn't going to work—she'd made that clear. But I couldn't give her everything either. Rosalia's warnings echoed in my head. Don't volunteer information. Don't explain the ship. Don't mention being from another universe.

  Compromise. Give her something real without giving her everything.

  "I can't explain where the ship came from," I said slowly. "I genuinely can't. But I can offer you something else. Something useful."

  "I'm listening."

  "Full flight recordings. From my engagements with the pirates." I met her eyes. "Every sensor reading, every firing solution, every system output. Unedited."

  Seraphine's expression shifted. Interest, carefully controlled.

  "Flight recordings."

  "Everything. Internal and external sensors. Combat telemetry. Power curves. The works."

  She was quiet for a moment, considering. I could practically see her weighing the offer, calculating what such data would actually be worth.

  It's a good deal. Better than she probably realizes.

  I thought about what those recordings actually contained. The riftlance data alone would be invaluable—beam characteristics, power draw curves, radiation signatures, effective range, rate of fire. Her analysts would see exactly how the weapon performed against shields, armor, different target profiles. Practical combat data that their theoretical researchers had never had access to.

  Beyond that, she'd get a complete performance profile of the Mahkkra. The Quillon drive under combat stress. The anchorfield thrusters handling rapid vector changes—response times, power consumption, the way they created those impossible lateral maneuvers. Acceleration curves, weight distribution, the full maneuverability envelope. Her engineers could spend months analyzing how all those systems worked together.

  And then there were the pirates themselves. Ship profiles, weapons signatures, shield configurations. The recordings would show exactly how they flew, how they coordinated, how they responded to threats. If she was investigating who had backed this operation, my combat footage might give her analysts insight into their training doctrine, their equipment sources, maybe even their origin.

  That's not nothing. That's actually a lot.

  "All of it, and unedited?"

  "Yes. I'll do it right now. You know I didn't have time to edit it."

  She was quiet for another long moment.

  "It is insufficient," she said. "You understand that. Flight recordings do not explain the technology's origin, its manufacturing process, or how you came to possess it."

  "I know."

  "But it is a start." Her jaw tightened slightly—frustration held in check by discipline. "The riftlance combat data alone would be worth considerable analysis time. And the intelligence on the pirates may prove useful to our ongoing investigation into this operation."

  She nodded once. Sharply.

  "Very well. I will accept your offer. For now. My technical staff will analyze the data." Her eyes met mine. "After that, we will discuss what comes next. This is not over, Captain Beaumont. I will have answers eventually. One way or another."

  "I believe you."

  I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. The tension in my shoulders eased slightly. I activated my holobracer and sent the data. Everything the Mahkkra had scanned, registered. Every internal log. I made a huge data packet and sent it to her.

  Her holoband chimed, she glanced at it and, for a moment, I saw the hint of a smile, before the mask went back on.

  "You will be escorted to a guest suite while your companion is in surgery," Seraphine continued. "You will remain there until I send for you. This is not a cell—but you will not leave without escort, and you will not attempt to access restricted areas of my ship. Is that understood?"

  "Understood."

  "Good."

  She made a small gesture with her hand. The marines shifted, positioning themselves on either side of me. Not threatening, exactly. But definitely an escort formation.

  I didn't argue. I'd expected as much.

  Instead, I turned back to look at the Mahkkra, sitting small and alone in the vast hangar bay. Her secrets intact, for now. The flight recordings would give Seraphine data on what everything could do, but not how any of it worked. Not where it came from. Not the truth about any of it.

  Rosalia might actually approve of that compromise. Maybe.

  If she wakes up.

  I felt my jaw tighten. Forced myself to take a breath.

  No. She will survive.

  I let out a long sigh. The exhaustion of the last few hours was catching up with me. My body ached in places I hadn't known could ache.

  I turned away from the Mahkkra and started walking, the marines falling into step beside me.