I looked up at the vent.

A thin wire, no thicker than a human hair, was dangling through the gaps in the grate.

It was tipped with a small, black node.

“They’re monitoring the local ambient noise,” I said.

I pointed my stylus at the wire.

“It’s an acoustic pickup,” I said. “They’re listening to us.”

Hayes took two silent steps forward, his boots making no sound on the floor.

He reached up, his large hand hovering just below the wire.

“Don’t touch it,” I said. “It’s likely grounded to the frame. If the resistance changes, it triggers an erase sequence.”

“How long until the coordinate transfer finishes?” Hayes asked.

“Two minutes,” I said.

I looked at Turner.

He was staring at his own reflection in one of the dark glass panels of the server rack.

“Captain,” I said. “The override on Tuesday. Who authorized the physical bypass on the junction box?”

“It was a routine maintenance ticket,” Turner said, his voice flat.

“A ticket that required your digital signature,” I said.

“I sign fifty forms a day, Dr. Mitchell,” Turner said, crossing his arms.