She’s already bound into her cryotube, jacketed and manacled, wearing a mesh mask: but when her mic clicks loudly on everybody jumps. Achene might be smiling.
“You can tuck your criminals away in space,” she murmurs, and it echoes through the hall. “You can exile us to Binary Five and pretend we never happened, and soon enough you’ll see it: Hobbes, Locke, Schmitt. Your foundation is murder. You’ll crumble without us. Welcome to nasty, brutish and short.”
Silence. They start to wheel her away; her tiniest gesture turns them back.
“Sorry,” she says dryly, “was I supposed to just recite ‘Invictus?'”