He sighs faintly, and clasps his hands behind his head. "Maybe I can accept the ambush," he says. "Subject to confirmation, of course. That fits with the heavy-duty cover-up. But your personnel jacket?" He shakes his head again. "I can see somebody posting it there initially. But why hasn’t the Star deleted it by now? And why haven’t they found some way to bring you in? No," he goes on thoughtfully, "maybe Lone Star didn’t put you beyond salvage initially—maybe that was Telestrian or whoever. But they certainly haven’t done anything to reverse it, to repair the situation, have they?" He doesn’t wait for an answer—not that he has to, he can probably see it on my face. "The only way I read it is that your superiors have decided it might be better all around to color you dead as well."