She's isolated a new component, something neither of us has seen before, highlighted in red because her analysis flagged it as critical.
"This is the framing module." Dar's voice is flat, clinical, stripped of everything except the information. "The weapon isn't just designed to attack your systems. It's designed to replicate your coding signature while it does it."
The words take a moment to resolve. I lean closer to her screen, close enough to see the code she's isolated, and the code is familiar in a way that makes my stomach drop because I recognize elements of it.
Variable naming patterns. Structural choices. The way I nest conditional logic and the spacing I use between function blocks. The code reads like mine.
It isn't mine, but it reads like mine with a fidelity that suggests someone spent considerable time studying my actual output.
"A frame job."
"A sophisticated one. When this weapon deploys, the evidence trail leads back to your station. Your encryption keys. Your access credentials. The logs will show that your systems initiated the breach, and the coding style in the attack payload will match yours closely enough that forensic analysis would take weeks to distinguish it from authentic output."
"Someone studied my code."
"Someone studied your code the way I studied your code." Dar looks at me, and the parallel she's drawing is deliberate anduncomfortable. "Structurally. Over time. With enough patience and technical fluency to replicate your signature at a granular level. The fabrication is good, Tommy."
I push my glasses up, the gesture automatic, a reflexive reach for the barrier, and my fingers find the frames and adjust them and the seconds I spend looking away from the screen while I pretend to clean the lenses stretch longer than they should.
Someone studied me. Mapped my patterns. Learned the way I think through the code I write.
The violation is intimate in a way that physical surveillance wouldn't be, because my code is how I process the world. My variable names, my structural choices, my debugging comments that occasionally devolve into conversations with myself at three in the morning.
Someone read all of it, learned it well enough to fake it, and designed a weapon that would use my own fingerprints to destroy the thing I built.
Last month, Stryker took fire in a corridor outside Minsk with three seconds of comms lag between my system and his earpiece. Three seconds where he couldn't hear me calling the exit left, not right. He made it because the lag cleared and my voice reached him before the next round did. The weapon Dar just showed me wouldn't create a lag. It would create silence.
My hands are flat on the desk surface, pressing down, and the pressure is deliberate because without it my fingers would be shaking. The screen displays my coding patterns reproduced in hostile context, and looking at it produces a sensation I can only compare to hearing your own voice played back from a recording you didn't know existed. Every quirk amplified. Every habit stripped of its context and reassembled into something predatory.
Dar is watching me. I can feel her attention without looking, and the quality of it is different from her usual analytical regard.The difference between her reading my mind and the Committee reading my mind is the difference between being seen and being surveilled, and both terrify me, and only one makes me want to open the door wider.
"Briefing." My voice sounds distant, functional but distant, operating on autopilot while the rest of me processes the nausea of being known without consent. "Kane needs to see this. Now."
The briefing room fills quickly. Kane at the head. Victoria standing, her expression sharpening as Dar presents the framing component and the retaliatory picture gains another dimension. Sarah, already processing the implications for her signals operation with Micah standing close to her. Dylan, whose presence adds gravitational weight to any room he enters. Mercer and Stryker, flanking the tactical side of the table. Roman, still and watchful against the far wall with the coiled readiness that defines everything about the way he occupies space.
Dar presents with the clinical detachment of a woman delivering a threat assessment, and the detachment is so perfectly maintained that only someone who has seen her in the middle of the night with her guard down would recognize it as a mask stretched over something that hurts.
"The framing component activates simultaneously with the primary attack." Her voice is level, her fingers still at her sides. "When the weapon deploys, Echo Base's systems will fail, and the forensic evidence will point to Tommy as the source of the breach. The coding signature embedded in the attack payload has been constructed to match his output closely enough to fool automated forensic tools and most human analysts."
"Can you distinguish it from the real thing?" Kane asks.
"Yes. Because I've spent weeks inside Tommy's actual code, and the fabrication, while impressive, has tells. The spacing is slightly too uniform. The variable naming lackshis characteristic deviation from standard conventions. The conditional nesting is competent but doesn't carry the rhythm of someone who learned to code by building real-world systems under pressure."
"How quickly can you prove the distinction?"
"I can build a forensic comparison tool that will flag the differences automatically. But that requires the weapon to deploy, which means the damage is done before the proof exists."
"Then we build it before deployment." Kane's voice is the bedrock, the thing that doesn't move when everything else is shifting. "Prevention over remediation. Tommy, what do you need?"
Everyone in the room is looking at me, and the collective weight of their attention is a physical thing, a force that presses against the humor I would normally deploy and finds it insufficient.
Dylan's jaw is set with the controlled tension of a man whose fury has a target but no clear line of fire. Sarah's concern is visible in the set of her mouth. Stryker, who has never shown interest in the technical side of operations, is watching me with the focused attention of a man who understands threat response even when the threat is digital.
Roman hasn't moved from the far wall, but the quality of his stillness has shifted. During standard briefings, his stillness is surveillance, the predator scanning for external threats. Right now it's aimed inward, directed at the display showing my stolen signature, and the focus carries the particular intensity Roman reserves for assessing damage to things he considers his to protect.
Mercer's arms are crossed, his body angled toward me with the unconscious geometry of positioning himself between a teammate and a threat he can't physically intercept.
Kane is watching Dar present, and whatever he reads in her delivery produces the faint narrowing at the corners of his eyes that means he's storing information for a conversation he'll have later, privately, when the tactical requirements are met.