A holographic projection flickered to life in the centre of the bridge, casting a cold, blue glow over the crew's grim faces.
The screen displayed an ancient-looking Torank with deep, weathered ridges across his brow and eyes that seemed to hold the weight of centuries. His expression was one of stagnant, calcified fury—a face Hye had never seen before in all his dealings with the race.
"This is Gregotal," Olana whispered, her voice tight. "The leader of the Toranks' Elder Council. The true power behind their throne."
The projection began to speak. Gregotal's voice was like grinding stones, heavy with a rehearsed authority.
He spent the first several minutes of the broadcast steeped in propaganda, reciting the long, bloody history of the Toranks, the supposed "purity" of their martial lineage, and the endless list of achievements they had purportedly scored for the stability of the universe. It was the speech of a race that believed its own myths.
