The internal station still smelled of the old shift room.
Bram noticed that before he noticed the live indicator: stale tea, warm insulation, the soap kept in the narrow cupboard beside the sink. Somebody had left a cup upside down on a folded towel. The familiar arrangement made his hand reach toward the receiver with the confidence of a man whose place had never been taken away.
He stopped and looked at the guard beside him.
“You witness the request,” he said. “Panel reference, trapped workers, powered medical transfer. No core information.”
The guard frowned. “You’re calling your commander.”
“Former commander.”
He wrote the panel reference at the top of a sheet and laid it beside the receiver. Then he used the local security line. The connection reached through a separate internal circuit still operating between the stations. There was a click, a short delay, and a voice Bram had once obeyed before thinking about the words.
He gave his name.
