TAC 26.06.3595 — H-1430 | [CS Columbia, Terra]

  Knight, hand in hand with his wife, trotted through the sprawling lobby. Unlike his native Fort Ecstasis in Overgate City, Terra's Rebus Terminal had been built primarily for luxury over practicality. A massive raindrop chandelier hung over the central foyer, showcasing small globules of translucent, shifting spheres within a hollowed-out interior. s blared through Viewers nestled in carved-out wall segments. Holograms periodically even leapt out to swallow passerbys.

  The carpets, chair rails and desk marble were all top quality. Eliza, of course, noticed none of it, instead tracking the pair of children chasing each other across the floor.

  "Nostalgic?" he asked as they stepped through the exit.

  She paused before replying, "Time moves too fast."

  Knight fixed her with an upturned brow. "Your focal makes that statement incredibly troubling."

  "Damien." She rolled her eyes. "You heard Ward. He's actually up for promotion. The sweetheart didn't want to rain on Draven's parade, but that's unbelievable. How he achieved that on Correus, of all places, I will never know."

  "Remind me, what were you doing at twenty-seven?"

  Eliza again rolled her eyes. "Stop that. You know I'm right. And we haven't even mentioned Shanelle's progress. Who leads a team at twenty-two?"

  "Our daughter." Knight slowed as a dark, wide SUV parked in front of them. "She's just as anomalous, dear. Draven is far from our only freakish prodigy."

  "It's still jarring." She examined him. "Stop pretending indifference. I know what your brother used to say, but it has been a few decades. A little late for me to run."

  Knight smirked. "Oh, you could. I'd just kill through litigation. Drag the divorce out over multiple tours, and by the time you settle, we're back to square one."

  She crossed her arms. "That's predatory."

  "Preemptive," he corrected. "Slight difference."

  "I'm older?"

  He leaned to kiss her cheek, then whispered, "Stronger."

  Eliza barked with laughter. "Completely useless against your brainwashing."

  "Excellent! You're finally catching on. Now I just have to convince the kids I'm actually retired."

  Eliza patted his chest and tilted up to peck his lips. "Inactive, dear. Never retired. I'll text you when we're done."

  Knight watched her turn for the car's now open back door. "Keep the drinking to a minimum, please. Let's leave Draven's scarring to Masters."

  "There isn't enough alcohol on this planet to get me drunk," snorted his wife. "Tell the imp I say hello."

  Knight paled. "Absolutely not."

  Eliza frowned playfully and tsked, "Two masters? I deserve better."

  The general then watched his wife pull out of the parking lot and roll off to wherever it was she intended to go. Shaking his head, he waited another thirty seconds for his ride to arrive, then squeezed into the back of the limo. Opposite him resided a stranger. Even, cropped hair, dark eyes and a chiselled, square chin over an immaculate Secret Service uniform.

  The soldier saluted. "Master Sergeant Gabriel O'Neal, sir. Prime Barorn sends her regards."

  "I cordially accept. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

  O'Neal reached for the bag at his feet. "We're glad to see you back home, general."

  "Annika sent SS to relay a textable message? Wow. You guys must've really missed me."

  O'Neal cringed. "You're current on the Moon Child Op?"

  "I am a general of the Scion Corps."

  "Right. Well, guess who else?"

  "Ah." Knight groaned as their vehicle kicked forward. "You're my primer?"

  O'Neal nodded.

  "Let me guess. She's pinned," wagered Knight.

  "Right again," confirmed O'Neal, rifling through his briefcase.

  Knight rolled his eyes. "How convenient."

  O'Neal produced a tablet Glass, which he handed over. "Hat-trick?"

  Knight tapped it awake and flicked through the lock screen. "I've done enough of your job."

  The sergeant snorted. "The briefing's in MC-4. She just needs him grounded. Let him vent and stomp, then pour on the platitudes."

  Knight opened the appropriate file and skimmed through. Five minutes later, he pinched the bridge of his nose and remarked, "This is hogwash."

  "It's diplomacy."

  Knight shot O'Neal a withering look, which the sergeant met with an even shrug. "Her words, verbatim."

  "It is hogwash. He is not going to swallow any of it."

  "Why do you think you're here?" O'Neal gestured to the tablet. "We need a firm hand and straight spine to sell this."

  "You're quite informed for a master sergeant, Master Sergeant."

  "I do a good job."

  "Ha. Good one." Knight shook his head as he reached the end of the document and handed it back. "Appreciate the heads up."

  "Again, job. Do yours and everyone goes home happy."

  "You'd think that, wouldn't you?" Knight turned to watch the window. "If only."

  O'Neal arched a brow. "Uh-huh, okay. Well, we arrive in ten. Thirsty?"

  "Parched," snorted Knight, facing the sergeant anew. "Got anything Kellaoan?"

  O'Neal scowled. "Absolutely not."

  They arrived at the White House nine and a half minutes later. Due to centuries of wear and many, many attacks, the building had been rebuilt numerous times. While it remained visually indistinguishable from its original, pre-expansion appearance, the security infrastructure had only grown. Though Knight couldn't see them, he knew the subterranean motion-sensing, metal-detecting, heat-tracking monitors had already locked onto their signatures. The instant they proved hostile, a six-acre shock tarp buried beneath the lawn would discharge sufficient voltage to bring down a herd of elephants. And that was without taking the cannons, drones or energy shields into account.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Of course, as neither gentleman posed a threat, their stroll through the portico was uneventful. Knight nodded his way through dozens of salutes, greetings and casual waves before finally reaching the Oval Office. O'Neal saluted, bade him good luck and fled.

  With a weary sigh, Knight rest commanded the two A-ranks standing sentry at the entrance. As a courtesy to Terra, the SC permanently transferred powerful, willing Scions to relevant departments to help protect important political figures. The Prime, as the most important figure in their Republic, was spared no expense.

  The doors parted for Knight to step through. Behind the desk sat Prime Annika Barorn herself. A shock bob of blonde hair spilled over the flat pauldrons of a dark power suit. The frilly purple shirt peeking out beneath it fluffed up the sides of her neck, framing her angular jaw in a bouquet of fabric. A pair of S-ranks, bearing respective designations of Halvin and Sarus, stood near the windows.

  On his left, however, Knight spotted the man of the hour. Head Consul Nassol Syl-Van Ruror stood ramrod straight, examining the general with a deceptively even expression; a Xenoli trademark. The few times Ruror emoted, it was so calculated; he cycled back to being robotic. Along with his tone, the dark metal composing the Consul's face rarely shifted, making snap judgments of his reaction to anything nearly impossible. His assistant Fadra, a woman whose alloy glinted soft, minty grey, stood on his right with similarly militant posture, hands folded demurely over a dark pencil skirt, palming an inactive tablet.

  Knight saluted the Prime, drawing a thin smile. "General Knight. Nice to see you back home. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

  She wasn't supposed to invite me. Wonderful.

  "Come on, Ann. I'm never in the capital! I make it a point to see old friends," lied Knight, gesturing to his surrounding company. "Draven's finally getting his psych, but it's in a few hours, and I'm not so wrinkled to forget friends."

  Barorn's fake smile marginally widened. "You're wrinkled enough."

  "Head Consul, you have my apologies," greeted Knight, inclining respectfully. "Seems I'm intruding."

  Ruror shook his head with a flat, polite smile. "On the contrary. It's good to see you, General. The young Carver must be beside himself."

  "Don't get me started." Knight rubbed his forehead with genuine exasperation. "He's been addicted to this stuff since birth. I cannot imagine what kind of menace he'll become with an actual Core."

  "We look forward to his exploits," promised Ruror, pursing his lips. "I only wish we could share in your nephew's good fortune."

  Knight feigned concern. "Oh. I'm sorry to hear that." He glanced over at Barorn. "Everything alright?"

  "Not exactly. Remember Synaka?"

  "Of course. They're investigating as we speak. Hell, I've personally contacted the PT responsible for first response and set up an intel drip to keep current." He glanced back at Ruror, then simulated recollection with a showy snap. "The kid, that's right."

  "The operation is literally named after her, General. Surely she didn't escape your attention."

  "Of course not," promised Knight. "I've just had a bit of a hectic week, mostly thanks to Draven. But I can assure you, Consul, we're doing—"

  "I'm sure you are," interjected Ruror. "Allow me a question."

  Knight, as if the request was anything but rhetorical, replied, "Shoot."

  "What makes her important?"

  "Reproduction." Knight regarded the Consul evenly. "Without corrugite, you've stagnated, and through stagnation, will die out. Her existence uncovers an avenue of reversal."

  "Not just 'reversal'," corrected Ruror. "Evolution. Nature, at an elementary level, is generational. Everything exists for what proceeds. We have nothing coming. The threat of extinction has even barred us from existing outside this Terran bubble."

  "I am aware."

  "I don't think you are. The Hingte Accords. Do you recall their purpose?"

  "Security for technology."

  "Security for technology," repeated Ruror. "I was there. My memory, be it a curse or blessing, is perfect." He stepped forward. "We are not safe, General. We are dying. It's slow, quiet and relatively boring, so no one notices. But we are all dying. Every day, hundreds of thousands of us court death. A thousand of us die per year. That doesn't matter to you now, but it will in a few centuries. The next great war would end catastrophically. Once your stockpile depletes, humanity will quickly join us in oblivion."

  "I understand, Consul. We are doing what we can."

  "Perhaps. But you will do more. Not because I ask, but because we cannot afford for you not to, which means you cannot afford not to. We are intrinsically linked. Neither can persist alone. Decimation would be indisputably shared. So when you get back in the field and search for Io, you will do it not because we depend on it," Ruror spread his hands, "but because we depend on it."

  Knight exhaled. "I will do what I can, Consul. However, you understand our predicament. With Analok officially unaffiliated to the greater Empire, we can't send our troops blazing in. They'll bark, and the others will hear. We have to exhaust diplomacy."

  "You cannot be that dense." Ruror's face hadn't changed outside of a slight narrowing in the eyes, but Knight felt the fury. "He sent them."

  "Probably. But until there's hard proof, it doesn't matter. The Treaty is in place for a reason, and violations put us in hot water. We will push, absolutely, but within reason. The Systems survive off trust, which we arbitrate. What kind of referee doesn't follow his own rules?"

  "'Rules', General Knight, have never stopped you before. In fact, I struggle to recall a time you were slowed. I would not presume technical advice. I am well aware of your accolades. Militarily, I defer. But it is because of those accolades that I expect results. Her well-being will determine the future of our races' partnership. Tread carefully, Damien."

  The Consul proceeded to spin and sweep out of the room with a dramatic flourish. Though the Xenoli often wore plain, form-fitting outfits, Ruror's formal garb included a long red cape. It swooshed as he left the room, with Fadra plodding along in tow.

  The instant the doors clicked shut, Barorn whirled on Knight and snarled, "Be straight. How screwed are we?"

  "I don't know," admitted the general. He wearily lowered himself into one of the chairs opposite her desk and explained, "In such situations, it's best to operate under orders of certainty. What do we know? Io is a Xenoli child. From where and how, nobody knows. We know Analok planned meticulously. They hit her exact location and were out before we knew what was what. We don't know the extent of Bulgan's interference. He could've ordered it, or he could know less than us."

  "You actually believe that?" sneered Barorn.

  "No. But we don't know, so it's my job to consider it. Secondly, we don't know the actual objective. Revenge? Ransom? If this is a political statement, she's dead already. A negotiation tactic? We've got room to manoeuvre. They could believe she's their key to getting something important, which, based on Nassol's tantrum, is absolutely true."

  Barorn nodded. "So, what, we stall?"

  "Extensively. Buy our people time to work and hopefully find out how this happened in the first place." He paused, then failed to smother a wince.

  Barorn groaned. "What else?"

  Instead of responding, Knight reclined cryptically. He paused to regard one of the rare, non-digital paintings hung beside a bookshelf while thoughtfully stroking his chin. After almost a minute of silence, he faced the Prime anew.

  "They had a Scion."

  "What?" exclaimed Barorn, aghast. "A True Heir?"

  "Worse."

  "What the hell is worse than an Heir?"

  He pursed his lips. "A Yorgan."

  Barorn blinked, and then her jaw dropped. Halvin and Sarus processed Knight's words simultaneously and fixed him with expressions of bafflement.

  "How?" croaked Barorn.

  "We don't know. Autopsy's ongoing. I'll know more when I get home."

  "I don't understand. I thought that was impossible."

  "It is, at least traditionally. The Yorgan-egg incompatibility wall is strong enough to make any attempt at articulated research immediately obsolete."

  Barorn nodded. "So they used a workaround."

  Knight shrugged. "I don't know."

  "How can you not know?" demanded the Prime. "What do you even do?!?"

  "Find out." Knight sat forward. "Assumptions assume. They don't verify. And when you harbour them, falsities fill in the blanks, and those falsities grow to swallow the truth. So I don't assume. We will find out how the Yorgans, and more importantly, a terrorist managed successful Installation, then we'll adapt. For now, we need to focus on recovering Io and getting Nassol off our backs."

  "Right, right." Barorn took a breath, pinching the bridge of her nose. "How do we do that?"

  "By continuing to work, Ann. Preacher will handle our Synakan intelligence pipeline. A department is working software intel sent from the border team, which should give us material on who printed Analok's passes. Hell, an A-rank Fire Team is already mission-ready; they just need a target."

  Barorn, in turn, leaned towards Knight. "I am trusting you. We are all trusting you. I have never seen Nassol move so fast. And we both know he's dead serious. We cannot afford botches."

  "I'm aware," Knight countered evenly. "Badgering won't change that."

  "Careful," warned Barorn.

  "I am. Always. That's why I have this job. So let me do it and stop backseat driving."

  Barorn rolled her jaw. "Fine. Keep me updated."

  "Affirmative." Knight rose and executed a lazy salute. "Closing criticisms?"

  "Yes. Don't be like me."

  The general cocked his head. "Meaning?" He studied her expression. "Ah. Right. I'm not that bad. I came all the way here for one of them."

  "I wish that was enough. I mean, look at Freddy."

  "I'd peg that more as a divorce than parenting thing."

  "There's a difference? News to me." She joined him in standing. "Enjoy the rest of your stay, Damien. Greet Eliza and congratulate Draven for me."

  Knight shook her outstretched hand. "I will. Try and sleep. You look like you need it."

  Barorn scowled. "Does she know you speak to women like that?"

  Knight chuckled as he turned for the door. "Have you met my wife? She expects it."