“There are interests who would go to extreme lengths to wrest control of the Orun Gate from you.” Zenith slowly stood up, cautiously, with no sudden movements.

“What sort of … extreme lengths?” Stacia watched him.

“O.E. needs resources to sustain itself. The wormhole is the gateway to untold resources. Even if a planet were deemed of no value, a creative entrepreneur could mine what was available and carve out quite a life for themselves.”

“And you want to Christopher Columbus the fuck out of the other side.”

“I wouldn’t put it so crassly.”

“History is full of such crassness.” Political discussions lost all meaning. This man could dissect their difference to whatever degree pleased him, but in the end, he only described the right, left, and center of the same diffident and devouring beast.

“History is full of stories. Tiny moments that come down to a choice someone has to face.” Turning from her, Zenith’s fingers twitched like he was long overdue to raise a cup of tea to his mouth. “Like Eve when she was tempted in the garden. She was presented with a simple choice.”

“You do realize in this little play, you’d be Satan?”

Zenith chuckled. “I suppose that’s true. The fruit, however, is a virus.”

“What?” All play left Stacia’s face.

He glanced over his shoulder to gauge her reaction. “Specifically, an artificially created nanovirus. Your people use this … funkentelechy. This near-spiritual application of spirit and technology. Not all of you. I imagine some of you, not as attuned, still manage to use it, though you may require greater assists to access this ability.”

Stacia rubbed her bracelet, digging her nails into her skin.

“This virus acts as a sort of carrier wave, attenuating to your funkentelechy and corrupting it. Simply put, we hack you. In this case, hypothetically your son, Bek, may have been infected.”

Stacia strained to maintain the façade of cool assessment. She set her glass down. With little more than a casual wave, she flipped the table from between them. The glasses flew through the air, shattering against the wall. Zenith barely had a moment to flinch before she reared and her fingers curled around his throat. He’d underestimated the genetic enhancements she’d had as a Muungano member. And the strength of her mother-fueled fury. She snatched him by the collar and held him against the doorframe.

“Immunity,” he choked out as best he could.

“We’re past that. Immunity is not a shield against an ongoing crime. Especially one against my family.” She squeezed his throat. “Life doesn’t work like that. Justice doesn’t work like that.”

“There’s … a … cure.” His eyes bulged, his skin flushed a deep shade of red.

“What?” It took several heartbeats for the words to register in her mind, but her grip loosened. A little.