Lexa did not want to hear that David had listened to Mara’s recording.
The news made her colder, not softer.
“He should have heard it two years ago,” she said.
Olsen stood beside her medical bed, hands folded behind his back.
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t because someone buried it.”
“Yes.”
“And then he helped them bury me.”
Olsen did not answer immediately.
Lexa looked at him. “You want me to feel sorry for him.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“I want you alive long enough to testify.”
That answer suited her better.
David’s collapse did not erase the kick. It did not erase the seconds falling through open air. It did not erase the sight of rifles pointed down at her while she fought to keep herself above the water with a planted grenade in her hand. He had been used, but he had also chosen. He chose to believe the worst of her. He chose to stalk her on the deck. He chose to say this is the price you pay. He chose to make his grief physical.
Lexa understood grief.
She did not excuse cruelty dressed as mourning.
Olsen told her about Evan Rill, the planted device, the wafer, and the old routing override from Harbor Sable. When he said Captain Roland Mace’s name, Lexa’s expression changed.
“I know him.”
Olsen waited.
“He chaired the second review.”
“Yes.”
“He told me my appeal lacked new evidence.”
“Yes.”
“He knew.”
“It appears so.”
Lexa looked away.
For two years, she had imagined a faceless system swallowing her appeals. Now the system had a face. Captain Roland Mace. A decorated officer. Retired. Honored. Invited to panels. Quoted in reports about crisis response. The kind of man institutions protect because his reputation makes their past decisions look sound.
“Where is he?” Lexa asked.
“Being located.”
“That means not in custody.”
“Not yet.”
She turned back sharply. “Sir, if Rill got a message out—”
“He didn’t.”
“All of it?”
Olsen paused.
Lexa saw the answer.
“Some got out.”
“A partial burst.”
“To who?”
“We are working on that.”
Lexa looked toward the closed medical bay door.
The ship suddenly felt too small.
If Rill’s message reached Mace or whoever still protected him, they would know three things: David failed, Lexa survived, and Olsen had the Harbor Sable thread. That meant the old network would not wait for hearings. It would move.
“Sir,” Lexa said, forcing herself upright through pain, “Mara’s full recording may not be the only copy.”
Olsen’s eyes narrowed.
“What do you mean?”
“The person who sent it to me said one line before the file cut off.”
“What line?”
Lexa swallowed.
“She said, ‘If I disappear, find the tide log.’”
Olsen stared at her.
Because tide logs were not communications records.
They were ship movement records.
And Harbor Sable had not been the only operation hiding in the water.