The plane ride back was uneventful. TAI had already debriefed us, logged the reports, and wrapped the op in a neat bureaucratic bow—my job now was to review it all in my capacity as Head of Security. Always surreal seeing our actions reduced to sterile nouns and classified verbs—objectified into assets, tagged as agents.

  Giselle and I played a few rounds of virtual table tennis. She kicked my ass.

  Mai and Yasoba kept to themselves. Nothing isolating about it, but the quiet intimacy painted a soft divide in the cabin. The kind you don’t cross unless invited.

  We landed quiet. No fanfare. No welcome party. Just soft wheels kissing mana-glass at Tulanto International and the gentle hum of the engines powering down.

  The doors hissed open. TAI’s voice pinged across our comms a second later:

  “Yasoba Shinya. Jane. Please proceed to the logistics transport on Pad 2. Lab team is standing by for bio-sequencing, neural integrity check, and long-term housing prep.”

  Yasoba gave me a slight nod, then moved.

  Jane stood without looking back. Her new chassis was waiting in the labs—she’d been talking about it non-stop, giddy as a teenager. Gabbing through our whole tournament-level run of virtual table tennis.

  “Don’t let her mouth get you in trouble,” I said.

  He didn’t even smile. Just walked down the ramp beside her, coat trailing like a shadow. Jane scratched absently at her forearms—the rash spreading along her one-week-rated temp body.

  Mai didn’t move.

  “You’re not going with them?” I asked.

  She shook her head, eyes still fixed out the window. “Jane doesn’t need me for that. She’s got TAI. And half the science division is practically salivating over her existence.”

  “And Yasoba?”

  She smiled—small, tired. “He’s getting his arm upgraded. I think he’s cyberpunking himself. Kept talking about all the ‘cool’ things he wanted to install. It was… cute.”

  “Cute. Yeah... You okay?”

  “I will be.” A beat. “Just not in the mood to watch Kelsey smirk her way through a hearing while pretending none of this matters.”

  Another pause. Then she turned to me. “I’ve got a meeting with AG about Yasoba’s status. He’s staying." She looked up at me "I want him to stay. We’ll need to figure out what that means.”

  “You stepping back?”

  “I’m repositioning,” she said. “That’s different. But Kay... he needs a sponsor. And I don’t know if just me is enough.”

  I nodded. “He’s got it. But what do you mean repositioning, Mai?”

  She touched my shoulder lightly as she passed.

  “Thank you,” she said, some of the tension easing from her face. "Just like I said, Kay: repositioning. I tried to be a partner to you—a field agent like I was in Japan—while also taking on a higher role inside Sir Mellon’s org when I could. I can’t do both. I need to anchor. When you’re out there doing all the globe-trotting Bond work. Someone’s gotta hold the fort back home."

  She paused. “I don’t think Deputy of Security is the right call for me--Frank, maybe. But Deputy of Intelligence? That... that feels right. We have TAI—but she’s more like an all-seeing eye. She gives us data. Not interpretation. Not context. That’s where I come in. I’m going to talk to Alistair about it. See where it lands. What do you think?”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You mean the King?”

  She smirked. “Yeah, him.”

  Of course she was comfortable like that. Of course it annoyed me.

  I knew Mai had been trying to adjust to security work, trying to fit in where she could. But truth was—she’d already been doing the intel job, just without the title. Sir Mellon even said as much.

  “Yeah,” I said. “You’re right. But... did Mellon play me? Long con too?”

  She laughed—really laughed—and then she was gone.

  Frank met me in the main corridor outside the tribunal wing. He looked tired—not the kind sleep fixes. The kind that settles in your bones after too many hours of footage, too many teams, too much national weight.

  “How you holding up, Frank?”

  “I’m okay. Been a busy couple days.” His voice was flat.

  “Congrats on the promotion, by the way.”

  He blinked, caught off guard. “Promotion?”

  “Yep.” I didn’t explain.

  I shifted gears. “She say anything useful?”

  He gave a dry laugh. “She said she liked the color of the interrogation room walls. Asked how we got our eye color readings so accurate.”

  “No cracks then?”

  “None. Calm as ever. She thinks she’s untouchable.”

  He handed me a tablet. “Everything we’ve got. Facial reads, blink rates, tension spikes. TAI’s team thinks she’s either trained to beat scans… or she genuinely believes she’s done nothing wrong. I’m betting the latter.”

  I skimmed the highlights.

  One, Kelsey Marva. First-gen Tulantian. Born on the island, raised just privileged enough to think the rules didn’t apply. You know the type—parents with just enough legacy to whisper about, not enough to cash in.

  Graduated top of her class, where all our kids are top one percent in the world. That tells you she was smart, but she also thought of herself as smart.

  She ran logistics for Aquila. Officially. Unofficially, she was a leak. Not a faucet—just a valve that looked the other way while the real water got through.

  The file said she was calm. Read “low spike activity,” “suppressed stress patterns.” I read it as practiced. This wasn’t her first time being caught--all small offenses. Typical coast guard fines. This was just the first time it mattered.

  Vids from interrogation showed her looking bored. Hands folded neatly. Eyes straight ahead. Like she was waiting for a delayed flight, not the collapse of her life.

  Her quotes were smug. “Nice wall color.” “Do you do custom eye tint?”

  No panic. No pleading. Like none of this would stick.

  Yet for all her smarts, she wasn't a tactician--she didn't know many global players. Not the type that the auction garnered.

  Her known contacts list read like a demo Rolodex -- a kid playing grown up:

  Mateo Falieri—dead in a secret lab in his own home, after getting too close to his own product. Italian intelligence, or ex-intelligence—though is anyone ever really ex? Smart enough to build routes, paranoid enough to ghost his own friends. He gave Kelsey reach. Not global, but wider than she’d ever managed alone. A lieutenant with ambition. Just not the vision.

  Timmy Johnson—too young to be in her orbit. Too clever for his own good. Hormones and testosterone planned his decisions, and she took advantage of that—used him. I’d wonder if she seduced him, but the way she commandeered Audrey from under him? I’d say she was more pissed than possessive Penance, with a side of serving self. That fit her better.

  Mercenaries and Japanese-made enforcer units? No way was that her doing.

  It didn’t add up. There was a player missing.

  I flipped through shipment logs, warehouse registries, coded comm bursts. Everything danced just outside direct implication. That was her real skill. Distance.

  One degree off from guilt. Every time.

  They said she might believe she did nothing wrong. I wasn’t sure if that made her more dangerous... or just pathetic.

  But AG saw something. Enough to pull charter override and sit judgment himself.

  That’s not something he does lightly.

  So I kept reading. Because if Alistair Gannon was sharpening the knife, I wanted to know exactly what he planned to cut.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  It made me itch.

  “She still in holding?”

  “Yeah. But AG pulled charter override. Tribunal rights.”

  I looked up. “Yep, I heard.”

  Her strength was that she knew the Tulanto legal system and played it like a fine guitar. But, no one ever thinks the king will get involved as he rarely does. But when he does the game is vastly different. This time she was in for a surprise.

  Frank nodded. “And you’re gonna want to be there when he does.”

  We walked into the tribunal wing—a quiet stretch of Tulanto’s central admin block, where offices and courtrooms lived behind layered mana glass and reinforced civility.

  Most people entered through the public wing, but we weren’t most people. We took the back corridors. Familiar ones. The front desk agent spotted us and gave a wave.

  I tipped my hat in return—much to Frank’s annoyance.

  Small pleasures.

  We cleared security without a word. The guards, all human from the courts department, didn’t even blink. Frank had his badge. I had my face. That was enough.

  Tulanto kept its legal system human on purpose. AIs could testify, report, and process—but not judge. Not here. Not ever. It was a line they’d drawn decades ago, and unlike most lines in politics, this one held.

  Legal security, courtroom enforcement, final rulings—they were all flesh and blood. Because no matter how advanced we got, people still wanted to be judged by people.

  The tribunal chamber wasn’t grand. It wasn’t meant to be. Wood-paneled walls. Soft mana lighting. A curved bench, three chairs. No holograms. No high ceilings. It felt less like a courtroom and more like a confession box.

  It wasn’t built for drama.

  It was built for finality.

  Kelsey Marva was already inside.

  She sat alone at the center table—no cuffs, no restraints. Just a sleek black blazer, tidy hair, and the posture of someone auditioning for a high-paying consulting gig.

  Not a traitor. Not a smuggler. Not a liability.

  A citizen. Showing up for a misunderstanding.

  Her eyes followed us in. No flinch. No smile. Calm, practiced. Like this was all just part of the process.

  She didn’t bring counsel. That could mean confidence… or arrogance. Probably both.

  We took our seats in the rear—just off centerline. Frank handed a tablet with the formal charges to the clerk as a formality. Custom was alive in Tulanto courts. The clerk would read them aloud in a moment.

  Everyone in the room knew what they said.

  What mattered now wasn’t evidence. It was presence.

  Who would speak.

  Who wouldn’t.

  The center chair of the tribunal bench—the one for the Supreme Tribune—remained turned away, facing the far wall. Standard Tulanto custom. “Justice is blind” made literal. The presiding judge didn’t face the room until the trial reached its pivotal moment.

  To Kelsey, it looked normal.

  But something was already off.

  The two auxiliary judges flanking the chair—one older, one younger—sat stiffly. Both women. Both pale. Not out of fear. Out of awareness.

  They knew who was watching.

  A soft mana glow pulsed at the base of the Supreme Tribune’s seat—an indication, to those who knew, that the chair was occupied.

  He was here.

  Listening.

  Waiting.

  The bailiff stepped to the center of the room, boots quiet on the mana-treated floor.

  “All rise for the honorable judges,” he said. No names. No titles. Just protocol.

  Another Tulanto oddity—intentional anonymity in matters involving national security. Justice wasn’t about personalities here. It was about precedent.

  “Due to the severity of the charges, this session has been elevated to a chartered tribunal involving classified state secrets. If you are not cleared for Platinum-level security access, please exit the room now.”

  A few murmurs. A few gasps. Some court reporters and minor bureaucrats gathered their things in a quiet shuffle of fabric and muttered curses. The back door clicked a few times as bodies filed out.

  Kelsey didn’t so much as blink.

  Good poker face. Or just no fear.

  The bailiff returned to his post. The clerk stepped forward, tablet in hand.

  “Frank Parker,” he intoned, “you bring charges against Citizen Kelsey Marva, including—summary count—illegal smuggling, unauthorized export of national technologies, and acts of coercion against both foreign and domestic agents. Are you prepared to proceed with formal indictment?”

  Frank rose. “I am, Your Honors.”

  He sat. Calm. Measured. No embellishment.

  The clerk tapped his tablet. His brows lifted slightly as he scanned the first page.

  Then he began to read the full list.

  It took a while.

  The room stayed quiet. Not reverent. Just… bracing.

  And still, Kelsey didn’t move.

  Not an inch.

  Kelsey stood when prompted. Back straight. Hands relaxed at her sides.

  “How do you plead to the charges presented?” the judge on the right asked.

  “Not guilty,” she said, clear and smooth. No hesitation. Not defiant either—just… confident.

  She sat back down like she hadn’t just invited the storm to come.

  The judges peppered Frank—who, in his capacity as the arresting security officer was acting as prosecution. Another Tulanto quirk—here, the investigators often acted as prosecutors. Being androids and all we had the required skillsets built in. For the few human officers we were bringing on, we allowed them to proxy through an on-scene android. It streamlined justice and left biases out of the mix due to ai dis-attachment.

  They questioned evidence chains, raid justifications, financial trails. Frank answered each with calm professionalism, occasionally referencing the footage, surveillance reports, or seized manifests from the German warehouse raids—more importantly, he pointed out gaps in his own case, the kind no human prosecutor would ever willingly admit.

  It was long. It was dry. It was the kind of thing that would put half a jury to sleep.

  But Kelsey stayed alert the whole time.

  She didn’t interrupt. Didn’t fidget. Just waited for her chance to respond.

  And when it came?

  She denied where she had to. Deflected when she could. Asserted her right to silence without arrogance, without fear.

  It was graceful. Controlled. Impressive.

  If she’d chosen another life, she could’ve taught trial law to first-years.

  Hell—she probably still could.

  The room settled after Kelsey’s last answer.

  Both judges turned slightly in their seats—not to face the room, but each other. Leaning inward, close enough to confer but still angled toward the central chair.

  They weren’t debating law. Not anymore.

  They looked like people who’d just tasted something foul and were trying to decide whether to spit it out or swallow it.

  Then the center chair—the one facing away the whole time—shifted.

  It turned.

  All three chairs clicked softly into place. Unified. Final.

  Kelsey’s head tilted—just enough to catch it.

  And for the first time, she reacted.

  A hitch in her throat. A blink that took half a second too long. A shift in posture—tiny, but unmistakable.

  Because seated in the main chair—calm, still, and quietly devastating—was Alistair Gannon.

  The Founder.

  The King.

  The man whose signature still adorned half the island’s founding documents.

  Tulanto was a monarchy—not that most thought about it. The royals didn’t parade. The lords didn’t lord. But when they chose to act?

  It was absolute.

  Having the King here—the whole time—watching, listening, weighing…

  It rattled her. Hard.

  No one moved. Even the two judges looked straight ahead, eyes fixed, as if they weren’t sure where this was about to go.

  He didn’t raise his voice.

  Didn’t gesture.

  Just spoke. Calm. Measured. Like a storm gathering over still water.

  “Ms. Marva,” he said. “It was announced that this tribunal had been converted to a chartered trial. Correct?”

  Kelsey straightened. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “And do you understand the difference between a chartered tribunal and a constitutional one? Or a regular criminal proceeding?”

  She hesitated.

  Not long. But just long enough.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” she said firmly, too firmly.

  "Good. Please, indulge the court with your understanding of the differences Ms. Marva."

  “…It’s an older clause,” she said carefully. “Rarely invoked. I assumed it meant elevated clearance. Special conditions.”

  AG tilted his head. “No. It means you’re no longer being judged by your peers, Ms. Marva. You’re being judged by the Charter itself. By the authority that predates all of this. By the founding will of this island. My will, latter written into law—my will, which is law, Ms. Marva.”

  Kelsey sat straighter. Not out of pride—out of instinct.

  AG took a breath and paused for a moment with a look of pain that he had to chastise one of his island's children.

  "We have sat, and heard this trial. We have heard the evidence, and we have heard your defense. And what a defense it was, just enough deniability to make my two judges here to be forced to concede your innocence."

  She let a breath out relaxing as this statement.

  "However, it is not up to their interpretation of the law but my interpretation of your actions and how they have already undermined the security and hard earned sovereignty of this nation."

  Her face turned pale.

  "You’ve wasted our time. Wasted our resources. And exhausted the empathy we reserve for wayward children.”

  “Know this Kelsey Marva of the first generation Marva family, Anil Marva father; Lakshmi Marva; Priya Marva sister. You are not clever. You are not a patriot. You are a liability... with delusions of legacy.”

  “It pains me to give this order. But sometimes a gardener must prune his garden for the weeds that would choke his prized flowers to death. You are one such weed. Your citizenship is hereby revoked. You are exiled. Your assets, holdings, and corporate affiliations are forfeit.”

  She blinked. Once. But the silence said everything. A small smile forced on her face to communicate this was no big deal. The pain could be seen around her eyes.

  He wasn’t done.

  “Because you have hidden your partners so well we will do what we can to prevent this growth wherever possible Kelsey. As rot often does not grow in a vacuum I am extending the revocation to your family up to the third branch. "

  Her face cracked, her mouth opening a small no as she gasped out "No!"

  Taking a breath AG continued. "Parents. Siblings. In-laws. They will pay your price as well. They will no longer profit from this institution. Unless you have something to share with us Kelsey. Do you?”

  Kelsey went to speak and found herself voiceless. Her mouth was moving but the shock of it all was starting to process through her genius brain.

  She didn’t move.

  The silence didn’t belong to her anymore.

  "Ok, in that case ..."

  “Wait!” she squeaked.

  “I have names. Mateo Falieri. He came to me when I told him I had spare androids. Said he could off-shore them. That if I didn’t work with him, he’d kill me.”

  I stood. “Your Majesty. Mateo Falieri was found dead in his apartment in Venice. Lab accident.”

  “I see,” AG said, already knowing.

  Her breath hitched—barely. But I caught it.

  She’d suspected. That Mateo might be gone. Might be a casualty of this whole unraveling. But hearing it aloud—definitive, final—landed like a punch to the ribs.

  And worse—it meant she’d played a dead man’s name too early. No leverage. No mercy. Just ashes.

  “Seems not much of value, Ms. Marva,” AG said, voice flat.

  She took a breath. Eyes flicked to him. Thinking. Calculating.

  “Uh… I…” Her voice faltered.

  “I can give you the person who made the illegal androids. All the orders. Fulfillments. Every transaction. Everything.”

  She looked pained. Like saying it out loud cost her.

  “Ah. Yes. Young Timmy Johnson,” AG said. “You would sacrifice this savant for your own purposes… again?”

  Her face paled. Caught. Red-handed. Still digging.

  “At this point, you make it apparent you are shielding your true partner. Offering cannon fodder. Sacrificing pawns.”

  He didn’t even raise his voice.

  “Our inclination is to proceed with your original judgment.”

  “Wait, no—please. I can give you him. The real one.”

  She swallowed. Finally understanding what this was.

  What it always had been.

  A negotiation with teeth.

  “I need assurances,” she said. “If I give you his name, that my family—”

  “No,” AG interrupted. “You have no say in your judgment. But we will be merciful to your family. Cooperate, and only you will bear the consequences.”

  A beat.

  “Fine,” she whispered. “I only know him as Vincent. But I can forward you the contact protocols. He’s the one who brought Mateo in. The one who set up the auction logistics. After that, I just made sure Timmy got what he needed.”

  She exhaled.

  Vincent. Or Vinny. It all clicked then.

  And Kelsey Marva had nothing else left to bargain with.

  will behind the throne.

  feel heavier than any gunfight. Because that’s what real power looks like—it speaks softly and still ends you.

  Kelsey Marva to better reflect her heritage as a first-gen Tulantian of Indian descent. That name shift also echoes the theme of legacy vs. entitlement—a surname that ties her back to the island she took for granted.