The relay on Varros's third moon was a skeletal thing of rusted metal and dead lights, a forgotten sentinel orbiting a gas giant's swirling ochre face. Inside the Osprey, parked in its shadow, the air was tense and still.

Reia's fingers danced across the console, a silent, rapid-fire tap dance on glowing keys. Her face was a mask of concentration, illuminated by the stream of data reflected in her eyes.

"The packet is ready," she said, her voice flat. "Routing through the relay now. Boosting gain through our core. This will be… loud."

Lucian stood behind her, arms crossed. "Do it."

There was no grand speech, no dramatic countdown. Reia simply pressed a final key.

A status bar filled on the screen. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, deep in the Star-Jumper's belly, a low thrum vibrated through the deck plates. Through the viewport, a faint, coherent beam of energy, invisible to the naked eye, lanced out from the derelict relay and stabbed into the void.

The truth, compressed into a single, powerful burst, began its journey.

---

The reaction started slowly, like a ripple becoming a wave.

In a cramped apartment on Varros Prime, a dockworker was scrolling through news feeds on his battered datapad when a priority alert overrode everything. Raw sensor logs from Karys-7 flooded his screen. He saw the Omni-Stellar seismic charges, the deliberate destabilization of the planet's core, the frantic, cut-off distress calls from the science colony. He saw the corporate cover-up memos that followed. His mouth fell open. He called his wife over.

In a trendy cafe in the mid-level arcology, a group of students sharing one drink saw it pop up on the public terminal. They fell silent, huddling closer, their jokes dying in their throats as they read.

On a Helios Division freighter in a nearby dock, a junior comms officer saw the broadcast. Her eyes went wide. She didn't report it to her captain. She copied the data and sent it directly to her uncle, a division head in Helios Corporate Intelligence. A slow, vicious smile spread across her face. This was a gift.

The wave kept building.

It hit the public nets. News aggregators, social channels, underground data havens—it was everywhere at once, impossible to stop. Headlines bloomed like toxic flowers:

OMNI-STELLAR ACCUSED OF PLANETARY MANSLAUGHTER

KARYS-7: THE DATA THEY DIDN'T WANT YOU TO SEE

WHOSE LIVES ARE PROFITABLE?

The masses weren't a single entity. They were a million individual reactions coalescing into a roar. There was horror. There was rage. For the families of the Karys-7 researchers, whose deaths had been officially labeled a "geological tragedy," there was a painful, vindicating clarity. Protests began to form spontaneously outside Omni-Stellar offices on a dozen worlds. The air, once chilled with corporate control, was now heating up with something dangerous: public opinion.

---

In the Omni-Stellar conference room, the air was no longer chilled with sterile anxiety. It was frozen with pure panic.

Jax Vellor stared at the main viewscreen, now split into a dozen different news channels, all showing the same damning evidence. His face was a ghastly white. "How?" he whispered, his voice cracking. Then it rose to a scream. "HOW?!"

Lena Karr was frantically scrolling through her datapad, her sharp features twisted in fury. "It's a full-spectrum burst! We can't contain it! Our legal injunctions are useless—it's on independent servers, pirate relays, even the Guild's public bulletin board!"

Rourke, the calm one, just sat with his head in his hands. "It's over," he mumbled. "The sanctions… the stock… we're finished."

Vellor slammed his fist on the table. "We are not finished! Find the source! I want that ship! I want those people!"

"It's too late for that, Jax!" Karr snapped. "The data is the problem now, not the messengers! Helios Division is already issuing statements calling for an 'independent inquiry.' They're feasting on our carcass!"

The Omni-Stellar logo on the screen flickered, as if even it were ashamed to be seen.

---

In a sleek, chrome-plated office on the other side of the system, the atmosphere was jubilant.

A Helios Division executive watched the same feeds, a glass of expensive amber liquor in his hand. He took a slow, satisfied sip.

"Well," he said to his assistant. "It seems our friends at Omni-Stellar have had a rather catastrophic public relations failure." He couldn't keep the grin off his face. "Send a memo. Let's… aggressively re-evaluate our bids on all their contested mining contracts. And see if we can quietly hire that security team that bungled the girl's capture. They clearly have a talent for creating opportunities for us."

---

The response from the Galactic Guild was, as always, measured and bureaucratic.

A press conference was hastily arranged. A Guild spokesperson, a neutral-faced man with a perfectly modulated voice, stood before a galaxy emblem.

"The Guild is aware of the serious allegations and data recently made public regarding the Karys-7 incident," he began, his tone implying a mild disturbance in paperwork. "We will, of course, be opening a full and thorough investigation into these matters. We urge all parties to remain calm and to allow the proper procedures to run their course."

It was a masterpiece of saying nothing. They hadn't condemned Omni-Stellar. They hadn't applauded the whistleblowers. They had simply acknowledged the problem and kicked it down the road into the labyrinth of their committees. For Omni-Stellar, it was a temporary lifeline—a chance to lobby, to bribe, to delay. For everyone else, it was a confirmation that the authorities could not be relied upon.

---

Back in the common room of the Drifting Leaf inn, the crew watched the galaxy erupt on a small, portable holo-unit.

Silas let out a low whistle. "Whoa. It's everywhere."

Evelyn had a hand over her mouth, her eyes glistening. "They know. Everyone knows."

Midas held Lira close. The girl was silent, watching the proof of her parents' martyrdom flash across the screen. She wasn't crying. She looked… resolved.

Kaelis, perched on the back of a chair, observed the chaos with detached amusement. [And so the beast thrashes in its cage. How predictably messy.]

Lucian ignored him, his gaze fixed on the screen. "It's done."

Marc, leaning against the doorway leading out of the inn, nodded slowly. He wasn't watching the news. He was watching the street outside through a crack in the organic wall. He could feel the shift in the city's energy, a new current of agitation and fear running beneath the usual commerce.

"Yeah, it's done," Marc said, his voice a low rumble. "Now they know we're here. And they're gonna come for us." He turned away from the door, a grim but ready look in his eyes. "Let 'em come."

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