Page 92 of Nansar
A few precise taps, and the room's display system hummed to life behind her.
The holographic projection materialized between us, wavering for a heartbeat before stabilizing into sharp focus. The first image punched the air from my lungs. The Oval Office. That distinctive curved wall, the presidential seal woven into the carpet, the view I'd seen with my own eyes when I'd stood in that exact spot, when I visited President Bradford and Rickon.
"These were captured during Hewes's infiltration," the Prime said, each word edged with barely restrained revulsion. "While he wore Bradford's face like a stolen coat."
The images advanced in a grotesque parade. World leaders leaning forward in earnest conversation, completelyunaware they were confiding in a monster. The Pope, his weathered hands clasped in discussion with as male who lived a lie. Advisors presenting classified briefings to a facsimile. Classified documents spread across the Resolute Desk, captured from Hewes's stolen vantage point.
My skin crawled watching the slideshow of deception.
Then the scene shifted abruptly, the transition jarring enough to make me blink.
The hologram now displayed what could only be living quarters—elegant, flowing, unmistakably alien in their graceful architecture. The camera perspective glided through a spacious apartment with flowing architectural lines.
A female Vaktaire entered the frame, her pelt rippling in warm tones of tan and cream. She was mid-laugh, caught in an unguarded moment of genuine joy, her beauty almost painful in its authenticity.
The view panned, revealing a male figure whose presence commanded attention. His mane cascaded over his shoulders in waves of molten gold, framing distinctly leonine features that radiated power and nobility in equal measure.
"Jala and Praxxan's quarters," Ako said, his voice tight as he leaned forward. A frown carved itself across his features. "At the Ardeese Valout space station."
More images flickered past in rapid succession. A tall Vaktaire male standing beside a human woman whose red curls tumbled past her shoulders. Another leonine male with a female I would swear looked just like pop star Isabella Rayne.
I watched the images cycle through, something gnawing at the edges of my awareness. The way the perspective moved. The rhythm of it. Years of reviewing surveillance footage had trained my eye to recognize patterns, and this one sang a familiar song. That subtle vertical bob as the viewpointadvanced. The smooth arc of a pan that followed the natural pivot of a head.
"Stop," I said, cutting through whatever the Prime had been about to say. "Can you replay those last images? The apartment footage?"
The Prime gestured, and the hologram rewound obediently, replaying the scenes from Jala and Praxxan's living quarters.
I studied the movement with the focus I'd once reserved for analyzing crime scene videos. There—the gentle bounce of footsteps, the unconscious tilt when something lower caught the viewer's attention, the fluid horizontal sweep of eyes tracking movement across a room.
"Meta glasses," I said with absolute certainty.
Every head swiveled toward me. Confusion painted itself across every face except one.
"Meta glasses?" the Prime asked, her head tilting slightly.
"Smart glasses. Recording eyewear." I gestured toward the frozen hologram. "The movement signature is distinctive. You can see the natural gait pattern, the organic head movements. This isn't handheld camera work or fixed surveillance. This is first-person perspective from wearable tech."
Understanding bloomed across my father's face. "She's right. The biomechanics are all there—the walking pattern, the head tracking. Definitely wearable recording technology."
"Wait—you don't have spy glasses in space?" I looked between Nansar, Ako, and the Prime, genuinely surprised.
Ako shook his head firmly. "No. Intelligence operatives receive ocular implants. Far more discreet. No external hardware to be detected or confiscated."
"On Earth, Meta glasses are standard issue for surveillance operations," I explained, unable to suppress agrimace at the memory of wearing the bulky things. "Thick black frames, usually. They pass for regular eyewear but pack cameras and recording equipment inside."
The Prime's entire demeanor transformed in a single breath. Her eyes widened, pupils contracting to pinpoints. She drew in air like someone surfacing from deep water.
"Thick black frames," she echoed, her voice dropping to barely more than a whisper. Her gaze snapped to Ako, and something electric passed between them—recognition, confirmation, fury.
"You know who it is," my father said. Not a question. A statement of fact.
The Prime's jaw set like stone, her carefully maintained composure fracturing to reveal the molten rage beneath. "Yes," she said, each syllable falling with the weight of a death sentence. "I know exactly who has been betraying us."
Epilogue
Ahrick
I pressed myself against the corroded metal wall of the alley, watching the entrance to Persico's compound three blocks down. The underbelly of Fange City never slept—a constant pulse of illicit deals, desperate souls, and the kind of darkness that fed on Palaydium's forgotten corners like a living thing. I'd been tracking Declan Hewes for weeks now, close enough to smell the bastard's fear mixing with the stale air, but never close enough to strike.
