Page 5 of Claimed By the Condemned Alien

“Then the manifest is false.”

“Your task is not to interpret policy.”

“My task is to confirm death.”

“Your task is to sign.”

On the far wall, twenty-three names waited beneath the heading POST-ENGAGEMENT CASUALTIES. Every subject had been assigned a time of death three hours before the operation began. Kesta had discovered the discrepancy by accident. She had opened the archive to reconcile missing sedatives and found an entire battlefield’s dead scheduled in advance. The man on the gurney made a sound through cracked lips.

“Water,” the translator cuff whispered.

Kesta reached for a cup. Senn’s hand closed around her wrist. The pressure was not violent. It was worse. Calm. Administrative.

“Do not interfere with disposition.”

She looked at his fingers, then at his face.

“Take your hand off me.”

He did. Kesta gave the prisoner water a mouthful at a time. His eyes opened. They were gold and clouded with drugs.

“Where?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

His gaze shifted to the terminal.

“Kharon,” he breathed.

The word stirred something in the nearest beds. A horned female beneath a thermal sheet jerked against restraints. From another gurney came a low, panicked clicking that the ward translator could not parse. Senn struck the emergency panel. The ward doors sealed. Three additional custody officers entered from the side passage.

Kesta understood then that there had never been a choice. The forms, the waiting signature, the silent orderlies—none of it was meant to obtain consent. It was meant to document obedience. She slid her medical cuff beneath the terminal and initiated a routine records sync. The casualty file copied into protected memory.

At the same time, she pressed her thumb against the cuff’s cracked lower edge. A sliver of forensic memory crystal slid into her palm. The device was old enough that no one remembered the removable backup existed. Senn noticed the movement.

“What did you do?”

“Preserved the chart.”

One officer seized her shoulder. Another tore the cuff from her arm. Senn examined its screen. For the first time, his expression changed.

“You copied restricted material.”

“I copied medical records.”

“You have no authority to retain transfer codes.”

“Transfer codes?”

The mistake hung between them. Kesta looked at the supposed casualties. At the punctures. At the dates. At the word Kharon.

“They’re not dead,” she said. “You’re sending them somewhere.”

Senn recovered quickly. “You are under arrest for sabotage, falsification of casualty records, and unlawful possession of military intelligence.”

“I haven’t falsified anything.”

“You refused to certify the official record.”