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Torma found a message waiting for him in his quarters when he returned from lunch in the officer’s mess two days later. A ground car would pick him up in front of the senior officers’ quarters at fourteen-hundred-hours. He should wear an impeccable service uniform with ribbons and devices. No mention of the Archimandrite or Ardrix, but he figured the instructions came from Bolack and he would see both at that time. Although they’d been apart for less than forty-eight hours, after months sharing a suite aboard a starship, Torma felt strangely bereft of her presence.
Shortly before the appointed time, he took the stairs down to the apartment block's lobby, empty at this time of day. As ordered, Torma did his best to look like a recruiting poster model in his sharp, well-fitted, silver-trimmed black uniform, with the silver crossed swords and triple diamonds of his rank on each shoulder strap. Four rows of colorful ribbons filled the space above his tunic’s left breast pocket, while an enameled metal shield with the insignia of the Commission’s Wyvern Group was pinned above his right breast pocket. Black trousers with silver piping on the outside seams were tucked into shiny boots that reached almost to his knees. An equally black beret, with the State Security Commission’s silver phoenix, sword, and scales of justice insignia, sat at the correct angle on his head. The Regent might find fault with his very existence, but she would find no fault with his appearance.
Though he’d spent his entire adult life as a Commission officer after graduating from the Academy and becoming one of the Ruling Council’s relentless enforcers, Torma felt unaccustomedly nervous at the thought of facing the Hegemony’s ruler and commander-in-chief. One word from her could mean the end of his career, if not his life.
He was guilty of triggering the largest instance of mass disobedience to the Council’s orders about travel beyond the Hegemony’s sphere. That Bolack, Benes, and the Network would throw him and Ardrix into the maw of death should they consider it necessary was beyond doubt. If only he’d ignored the reports concerning one Jan Keter’s contraband all those months ago...
The Order’s ground car, a dark gray, utilitarian, rectangular box hovering on an antigrav bed, appeared around a bend at almost precisely the appointed time. Built for cargo rather than passengers, let alone an august personage such as the Archimandrite, it seemed an incongruous means of conveying him to the Palace. But then, a sleek, aerodynamic staff car like those enjoyed by the service chiefs and other notables would strike a false chord.
The Void Reborn’s leader took the same vows as his Brethren and was entitled to no more amenities than those necessary for his duties. A regular abbey van with passenger seats in the aft compartment would do just fine. Torma saw nothing behind the polarized windows but knew Bolack and Ardrix, as well as the conveyance’s pilot, saw him.
It stopped in front of the lobby just as Torma stepped out. The side door opened, and Bolack’s deep, resonant voice invited him to climb aboard. Inside, he found the Archimandrite and Ardrix wearing the Order’s formal black robes with Phoenix Orbs pinned to their breasts. Torma was slightly surprised Bolack wore nothing that distinguished him from the Friar at the controls but brushed the thought aside as he settled onto the bench seat facing aft, across from where both Brethren sat.
“A fine morning to you, Colonel.”
Torma nodded formally.
“And you, sir. How are you, Ardrix?”
“I am well. It will please you to know the Lyonesse Brethren are settling in at Grenfell and studying the Void Reborn in its natural habitat with keen interest. Our people there say they feel like experimental subjects in a life-sized maze.”
Torma chuckled at her choice of words. He only realized later that her little joke took some of the edge off his apprehension at meeting the Regent under the current circumstances.
“And the Grenfell people are studying them in return,” Bolack said. “Though I’ve not heard any complaints. Now, when we’re in Grand Admiral Mandus’ presence, I will do the talking. Unless either she or I ask you a direct question, you shall stay silent.”
“Understood.”
“I will bend the truth just a bit to protect the innocent, so do not show surprise and definitely don’t contradict me. Ardrix tells me you’ve developed a remarkable level of self-control under her guidance, Colonel. You will need every microgram of it in the next few hours.”
“Yes, sir.”
As they left Joint Forces Base New Draconis, the conversation devolved into small talk clearly designed as a tonic against nervousness. Torma gazed idly through the windows at the passing scenery as they drove along the capital’s broad, tree-lined avenues. In contrast to the old imperial capital, New Draconis had been planned and laid out from the start as a functional rather than an inviting replacement for the city that vanished in a kinetic strike from orbit long ago.
But Torma thought the few square kilometers at its core lacked charm. Somehow, the perfect grid of thoroughfares lined by endless rows of forbidding government and corporate buildings clad in pinkish-gray granite, relieved only here and there by statuary, tiny parks, and clumps of vegetation struck him as a shade too brutal. The lack of pedestrians that might add color on a day rendered gloomy by thick, dark clouds didn’t help. Only cars moved about, mostly expensive, as befitted those who toiled in the Government Precinct.
Finally, the van turned onto the optimistically named, though relatively short, Avenue of the Stars connecting the Chancellery and the Wyvern Palace. Large monuments to the Hegemony’s founders and, ironically, the Oath of Reunification they swore, filled the broad grassy strip between the avenue’s two double lanes.
The design on which both the Chancellery and the Palace were based was deliberately austere and functional, with little that distinguished them from the rest of the government buildings, in stark contrast to their vast, overwrought, almost gaudy imperial predecessors. And yet, those who occupied the Wyvern Palace wielded the same autocratic power as the Ruggero Dynasty did, with as little consideration for ordinary people and as much viciousness for dissenters.
Then again, Torma figured the admirals who founded the Hegemony knew no other system than autocracy, and thought it would be best they kept the empire’s core from collapsing like every other human star system by using an iron fist. For the good of the people, naturally, but mainly for the good of the rulers.
Their arrival at the Palace’s main entrance broke through his reverie, and he stared out at the perimeter fence. Two-and-a-half meters tall, made to look like simple wrought iron, it was merely the most visible part of the security arrangements. Torma knew there were other, less visible elements, sensors, remote weapon stations capable of reaching high-altitude aircraft as well as deal with ground targets, and much more which ordinary visitors couldn’t spot.
The van stopped at the security station, where a pair of smartly attired troopers from the Wyvern Regiment, the Regent’s personal security force, checked their credentials, compared their biometrics with those on file, and cleared them with the duty officer. As they entered the visitor’s parking lot behind the Palace, a Navy captain wearing the gold knotted cord of an aide-de-camp over his right shoulder, denoting he served the Regent, emerged from the back door, and waited until the van came to a halt.
Bolack climbed out first, as befitted his lofty rank in the Hegemony’s hierarchy, and the captain saluted with parade-ground precision.
“Welcome back to the Wyvern Palace, sir. It’s always a pleasure.”
“Thank you, Captain. I trust you’re well?”
“Yes, sir.” He glanced at Torma and Ardrix as they joined the Archimandrite.
“Good morning to you, Colonel, Sister.”
Torma gave him a polite nod.
“Captain.”
“If you’ll follow me. The Regent is expecting you.”
Torma had never been inside the Wyvern Palace and was happy to discover its interior was as utilitarian and sober as its exterior, or at least the corridors they took seemed so. The floors were of polished stone, the white walls decorated with portraits of past rulers and images of the Hegemony’s naval and military might, and what little furniture he saw was of similar quality to that found in any officers’ mess.
They arrived at an unmarked door, its appearance no different from the others he’d seen, and the aide rapped his knuckles against the panel three times. Seconds later, a strong woman’s voice on the other side bade them enter. The door slid aside silently, and the aide stepped forward.
“Archimandrite Bolack, Colonel Crevan Torma, and Sister Ardrix, sir.” Then he took one pace to the right and ushered them in.
Torma had seen Grand Admiral Vigdis Mandus, Regent of the Wyvern Hegemony before, but not this close and not in her private office, a large, airy space with plenty of light streaming through tall windows. Somehow, he was relieved that the furniture and decorations were in keeping with what he’d seen so far. No ostentation, let alone the sybaritic luxury of an imperial ruler.
Mandus, as per tradition, wore a simple, high-collared black Guards Corps uniform, without the rank insignia or the gold braid of a flag officer. The only difference between hers and that of an ordinary spacer were the undress ribbons above the left breast pocket and a commanding officer’s wreathed star above the right.
Elected by a Conclave of three and four-star flag officers and their civilian counterparts from the Chancellery and serving for a single nine-year term, Mandus was in her seventies. However, her delicately sculpted face, surrounded by short platinum hair, could have been that of someone twenty years younger.
Pale blue eyes devoid of emotion studied her visitors as she stood to greet them in front of her desk, and Torma realized the commander-in-chief of the Hegemony’s armed forces, as well as its absolute ruler, was his height, though more slender.
She shook hands with Bolack, bowed her head at Ardrix in greeting, and returned Torma’s stiff salute with a formal nod before waving them to a settee grouping around a low table.
“Please sit. I confess I’m a tad bemused at seeing a colonel from the State Security Commission in your company, Archimandrite. Did you fall into dangerous company, or is the Order considering an expansion of its work supporting police investigations?”
A chuckling Bolack settled on the sofa to the right of Mandus’ chair while Torma and Ardrix took the one across from him.
“The colonel and Ardrix work together at the Commission and are subject matter experts on the issue at hand, Regent. But if the Commission wants more help from us, I’m always ready for new challenges.”
“I see. Can I offer you coffee, tea, or something else?” When all three shook their heads, she glanced at the aide and nodded once. He vanished through another door, leaving them to continue in private. “Now, what is this urgent matter?”