Earth.
Sector 6.
0911 hours.
June 11.
The Hexa-Glide dropped, slow, like a spider on silk.
It landed on the pad with a clean hiss. Pneumatics engaged. Steel talons locked its belly down. The canopy unsealed with a soft exhale.
Kline stepped out gingerly, his matte black coat flaring, boots hitting the deck like punctuation.
The canopy closed behind him with a slow swoosh. The craft vanished into the bowels of the pad. A contraption that was conveyor-fed, auto-gated and stored. Efficient. Mechanical. Like everything in the Imperium.
Above Sector 6, the Imperium sat like a crown of glass and chrome nestled in frostbitten rock. It appeared like the Olympus of old but with better lighting. Authority built this place to feel eternal. And it almost worked.
Below, crowds drifted through the concourse - garbed in a variety of ceremonious outfits. Robes, visors, neural caps. Color, motion, murmurs made the scene bustle.
A grand escalator hummed up toward the grand foyer flanked by white stone columns and retinal scanners.
A woman's voice buzzed from unseen speakers. Cool. Professional. Synth-clear. "Welcome to the Imperium. Senators, proceed to the main chamber. Guests to the grand gallery."
Two arches pulsed ahead, neon signs bleeding through haze: 'SENATORS' to the left, 'GUESTS' to the right. No confusion. No excuses.
Kline took the right. Always the right. It made him feel right - something symbolic, sacred like the sacraments.
Guests get the view, not the power.
A lift gantry waited, polished steel and silence. It whirred upward, carrying over a hundred bureaucrats and inter-galactic ambassadors in dusty uniforms and whispering masks.
Above, the Grand Gallery opened like a cathedral. Vaulted ceiling with sweeping architraves and luminous walls. Every inch bleeding data. The kind of place that made you feel watched even when no one was.
The chamber below sprawled wide, semi-circled rows of seats leading to a raised dais. Monitors covered the wall behind it, an endless array of feeds, code, dossiers, live projections. Nothing escaped those screens.
Somewhere, a soft tune played. Ancient. Obscure. Probably chosen to make you feel civilized while the system decided who lived and who disappeared.
Kline took a seat, east side, high vantage, good eyes on the floor. He flicked his halo-tab open. Transparent, palm-sized, wired to his neural thread.
He tapped it. Senator Madin's file blinked into view. COF: "Cardiac trauma." Fancy phrase for a knife to the heart.
No one bought the accident line. Least of all Kline.
Today's session would be charged. District scans of Planet Corr by exploration team. Budgets and....
Senator Madins murder.
But Kline knew better. In Imperium politics, silence meant someone was screaming behind a locked door.
His eyes didn't leave the chamber.
Something was coming. He could smell it in the circuitry.
The music suddenly turned low and sinister.
Piano keys plinked. Off-tempo.
It sounded like a funeral nobody wanted to attend. The sound was vintage. Timbre, mechanical like grief fed through an old machine.
Then the doors parted. It hissed smoothly like breath through clenched teeth.
The Grand Imperator entered. He was a towering, heavyset man, built
like war. His name, Dean Gripp. He spotted a beard which dragged behind him like a history book - gray, knotted, ruthless.
Two Senate elites flanked him, stiff as tombstones. Behind them, the automatons. Gleaming black chrome. Ocular sensors blinking in sterile rhythm. Trigger-ready.
They took their places.
The Imperator sat, stone-faced, on the central dais.
The music died.
Then the effeminate voice came. An emotionless and precise AI. Engineered to command.
"Citizens. The 341st session of the Imperium is now in motion."
It echoed through the speakers embedded in every atom of the room.
"Agenda: Item One - Exploration plans to Planet Corr. Item Two - Annual budget implementation by the High Table. Item Three..."
A pause.
Static hummed like a bad omen.
"Senator Kurt Madin, dead."
Silence cracked. Then chaos erupted. Gasps. Shouts. Digital chatter flooded the comm-tabs.
Kline didn't move. He folded his arms. Face sullen.
From the east wing, a man stood. Matte-brown suit, sharp cut, tail swaying like arrogance in cloth.
Auto-speakers kicked in, amplifying every word with bureaucratic polish.
"Good morning, Senators. Eli Black. Mars, Sector Twelve."
His voice had the smooth grit of a courtroom hustler.
"For two years after the war, attempts have been made at making exploration plans to Planet Corr. The aim? TO know morebiuy the very substance which led the Arcane wars. But with several disagreements among my distinguished colleagues, there has been several delays to exploration efforts to Planet Corr since the signing of the Martian treaty. I hope this session would find a lasting resolution to this matter."
Another senator, Uzi Grier, garbed in a shimmering embroidered gown, blond hair tied in an elegant bun spoke. "The Corr matter is one we should approach with caution. The persons that should make up the team should be made up of proven integrity and sterling qualities. One that cannot be corrupted. We do want another Dark Emperor causing another bloody war."
Cyrus Blokes, a lithe, diminutive Senator from Neptune voiced out from the rear of the auditorium. "While we fear the past. Does that mean we would not do something about the future? We seem to be undecided. But my people need answers. Six planets do. When does exploration begin?"
The word cracked the air like a whip.
Murmurs spread. Low and oily. The kind that bubbles when vultures smell meat.
Kline didn't flinch. Fingers danced on the halo-tab: "The tussle begins."
From the center aisle, another figure hauled himself up. He was round and glossy. Toga gleaming like power dressed in history and voice soft, like silk sliding over a blade.
"Senator Drille Ball. Uranus - Sector Three."
He paused and expressed a tight smile.
"I would suggest we get back to our constituencies to nominate proven members who would form that team."
Another pause, weighty now.
Gripp again said. Voice, sharp. "While I wish to go with your recommendation. I feel we should set up a committee that should put together experts in space exploration, geology, engineering, radiography and lots more. We could carry out available intel on them and with the right kind of training, they would be ready to go."
The room shifted. Political air thickened.
Kline leaned back, watching.
The Republic didn't debate. It fed.
Gripp didn't flinch. He remarked in a voice, cold and clipped. "Any more suggestions or do we put it to vote?"
The noise in the chamber suggested the obvious. The vote was on:
Option A: Exploration team from the various planets.
Option B: Specialized team put together by the Imperium?
The murmurs continued as Dean set his face down, examining the log on the console.
Behind the massive monitor materialised showing the axes for the representation of bars for the votes.
Some senators were on their feet. Lobbying.
The notes started.
Kline watched. Guests at the gallery watched with bated breath
A bot, stationery at one end uttered. "Kindly reach for your halo-tab and cast your votes."
The votes came in. Fast.
The screen showed the graphs. Option A, increasing. Option B, gradually gaining traction.
Soon A stalled and option B soon increased.
They were now shoulder to shoulder. Then B rose. Far above Option A.
The bot purred. "Following votes cast. Option A have it. In a fortnight, the Imperium would establish a specialized team of experts to explore Planet Corr.'
There was a momentary applause. A vast majority beamed smiles at the outcome. Others unhappy and disconcerted.
Silence followed.
Gripp didn't wait long before adding."Agenda Two. Budget review by the High Table. Shelved. We address the death of Senator Madin." His tone, ominous. Like nails on synthglass.
Front row, an ice-blonde woman stood up clad in a gossamer gown that shimmered like whisper. Hair slicked tight. Fringe clasped in chrome ribbon. Her voice, pure velvet.
"Senator Wilhelmina Shire. Earth, Sector Nine. Madin's death? A shock. We thought blood stopped spilling on home turf. Who kills a peace broker? A man who closed the Arcane Wars like a chapter in an old ledger?"
She tilted her chin. "No need for flowers or fanfare. Just, truth. Captain Dorren should brief this house. Fast."
Kline's halo-tab lit up."The Arcane War …again." Like the knife - the murder weapon.
Gripp nodded. Barely. "Spoken well. We await Dorren's report in a fortnight."
Kline could feel something brewing. The shift from murder to Planet Corr was suspicious. Too suspicious.