Page 4 of Big Bad Red Protector

The missing official, the cleaned container, the false floor.

Whatever has been moving through Orpheus Station's lower bays, it is not simple smuggling. The scale is wrong. The care is wrong. And someone with enough authority to erase three cargo records from the system is hoping I won't notice the difference.

I notice everything.

That is the only thought I allow myself as I seal the evidence and begin building a case no one aboard this station is going to enjoy.

CHAPTER 3

NINA

The docking records for Envoy Sareth's transport don't look wrong at first.

That's the problem.

They look exactly right—departure logged, customs clearance stamped, routing confirmed through bay twelve at 0340 station time, four days ago. Clean. Orderly. The kind of record that gets processed in three seconds and filed without a second look. I've processed forty like it this morning alone.

But the departure authorization code is off by a single character prefix.

It's the kind of detail that only matters if you know what you're looking at. Coalition diplomatic transports use a five-digit routing prefix beginning with CT. Sareth's departure record shows a CT prefix on the initial log entry, and a CX prefix on the docking clearance confirmation. One letter. The kind of discrepancy that happens in data transfer errors, equipment glitches, tired officers making tired mistakes.

Except the rest of the record is too clean. There are no other errors. Not one.

I pull Sareth's full movement history and cross-reference the departure timestamp against the bay twelve docking schedulefor that night. Bay twelve was under maintenance lockdown from 0200 to 0600. The departure logged at 0340 is physically impossible.

I am still staring at the timestamp when the file begins to close itself.

Not a glitch. Not a system timeout. The record is collapsing from the authorization end—someone with remote access is pulling it apart in real time, field by field, watching the same file I am watching and trying to make it disappear before I finish reading it.

I copy everything I can reach to my personal data chip and kill my terminal connection forty seconds before the record vanishes completely.

My hands are not shaking. I make a specific note of this.

Supervisor Dennek looks like a veteran of three unstable station postings: kind, competent, and trained to know exactly when not to ask questions. He is entirely unmoved by my report.

"Torres." He sets down his processing stylus with the patience of someone practicing restraint. "You've been on this station for thirty-six hours."

"The departure record is falsified. Someone deleted it while I was actively?—"

"What you observed could be a data sync error. Coalition records frequently transfer improperly through Alliance-flagged terminals." He folds his hands. "Envoy Sareth's departure was confirmed by Coalition liaison staff. The case is closed."

"Coalition liaison staff confirmed a departure that is physically impossible based on the bay schedule?—"

"Nina." The use of my first name is not warm. It is a door closing. "The envoy serves on the Bridge neutrality committee. Any suggestion of irregularity in his departure becomes a political incident involving both governments. Do you understand what a political incident costs this station?"

I understand perfectly. It costs less than admitting something is wrong.

I leave with the copied records sealed in my pocket and say nothing else.

The customs terminal is crowded when I leave Dennek's office—second shift arriving, first shift too tired to move quickly, the constant background noise of docking alerts and multilingual announcements. I am three steps into the main floor before I feel the weight of being watched.

Kheltor is standing at the far edge of the terminal near the junction corridor, arms crossed, in the dark body armor that makes him look like a structural feature of the station itself. He is not looking at the terminal displays. He is looking at me.

I close the distance before I can talk myself out of it.

"I'm not in a restricted area," I say.

"No." He doesn't move. "You filed a data integrity report on Sareth's departure records."