- 1 -
The light in the throne room flickered, withdrew for an instant, and returned weaker, no longer reaching the upper cornices. The shadows of the columns crept a hand’s breadth forward across the polished floor and froze. None of the courtiers raised their eyes to the chandeliers; no one looked at their neighbor. The ability not to notice was the oldest skill in the Court of Xylar—eight generations had polished it to perfection.
But Emperor Xylor’kan noticed.
Beyond the tall windows, the crystal towers of Es’vaal shone as flawlessly as ever. Below them, along the arc of the orbital quay, the few remaining ships of the fleet hung on their magnetic clamps—clustered too close together. For the second time that month, the palace’s energy grid dimmed, rerouting power to compensate for a blacked-out sector. That meant only one thing: somewhere far out in The Belt, another core had vanished.
“Your Majesty.”
Ar’silan knelt three paces from the throne, head bowed, his face apologetic before he had uttered a word. The court officer clutched a thin crystal drive, and his fingers trembled.
“Stand up, and don’t tell me how heavy it is.” Xylor’kan extended a hand. “I can see it.”
The officer rose and handed over the crystal. His fingers were ice-cold—a detail that irritated the emperor more than the news itself. The courtiers feared Xylor’kan out of habit and protocol, but Ar’silan was afraid because of what he carried. That was precisely why the ruler trusted him more than the entire Council combined.
“Another site, Your Majesty. The third. Il’maren—a mining colony in The Second Belt, with more than four hundred registered personnel.” Ar’silan swallowed and lowered his voice. “The Core Socket, the hermetic chamber for the core, is open. And according to technical protocol, Your Majesty... it was opened with the appropriate decryption tool, exactly as our teams do it. It’s empty.”
Xylor’kan squeezed the crystal until its sharp edge cut into his palm. The measured pain clarified his thoughts. The courtiers regarded the core as a machine—expensive and complex, and that was enough for them. He had known the truth since the day of his coronation, when they led him into the catacombs beneath the palace, before the first reactor: inside, reduced to the volume of a fist and held in a magnetic trap by technology the Xylarians had never understood, pulsed a miniature star. The star did not degrade or go out on its own. An empty socket meant only one thing—someone had taken it.
“Kaes’marin.”
The admiral stepped forward from the line of military officers. He was tall and wiry, with silvered temples, slightly stooped from a lifetime habit of standing above everyone else.
“Tell me what you think. Briefly, and without hedging.”
“It’s an attack, Your Majesty. The Earthlings are behind it.” Kaes’marin did not flinch. “Give me twelve ships, and I’ll bring back the cores along with the heads of those who touched them.”
“Twelve ships. And how many do we actually have, Admiral?”
The admiral fell silent. His shoulders remained motionless, but the tension in his stance thickened.
“Say it aloud,” the emperor insisted. “Not for me—for them. Half the people in this hall still live under the illusion that we can set conditions.”
“Nine.” Kaes’marin clenched his fist. “Nine combat-ready units, Your Majesty. The rest are in dock, and half of those are missing reserve modules.”
The hall drew in a breath in unison and immediately grew embarrassed by its own reaction.
That’s why I keep you. You’re the only one here for whom it is easier to bear the pain than to lie to me.
“My fleet is scattered, Admiral Mor’kan remains a hostage of the Earthlings under a Blood Oath, and the peace I accepted was not of my choosing.” Xylor’kan spoke slowly so that every word could echo. “But weigh the facts, Admiral. The socket was unlocked with a specialized key, and the Containment Casing was removed intact and propped against the pedestal. How many living beings in this galaxy know which exact substation on Il’maren holds the real core and not a buffer node?”
Kaes’marin started to answer, but froze.
“Few, Your Majesty.”
“Few... And how many of them are Earthlings?”
No one dared break the silence. From the docks beneath the floor came a heavy resonance—some ship was releasing its clamps.
“Not one,” the emperor finished. “The core registry is mine personally. It is kept in a single place, transmitted through an isolated channel, and that channel originates in this hall. This is not external sabotage, Kaes’marin. Someone is reading my list.”
The admiral bowed his head. He had lost an argument he believed he was right about, but he showed the discipline of an old soldier and spared the excuses.
On the right side of the hall, a gray figure stirred. The Ritualist Ul’naskir, keeper of the ancient canons, did not bow—his caste predated the crown by four dynasties and bowed to no one.
“If you intend to check the list line by line with your people, you’ll need a herald,” the old man said. “Someone from our order authorized to speak the coordinates aloud before foreign ears. And we do not provide heralds merely because someone has asked for one. I state this before witnesses so there will be no needless arguments afterward.”
“I know what you’re refusing, Ul’naskir.” The corner of the emperor’s mouth twitched in a restrained half smile. “I missed you, old man.”
“I was here the whole time, Your Majesty. You were elsewhere.”
Xylor’kan stepped down from the throne, and the courtiers instinctively bowed their heads. He stood before the panoramic window, where the capital spread below like a field of vertical crystal blades—each one glowing with borrowed light.
“Ar’silan. You’ve been carrying the Earthlings’ answer since morning, just waiting for a convenient moment to report.”
The officer stepped forward with a second crystal. This time he did not kneel—he had learned the lesson, and the emperor noted it silently.
“They agree to negotiations, Your Majesty. For one core, in nine days. They insist the meeting take place on their ground.”
Below in the square, a column from the Ritual Academy was passing—children walking in pairs in identical gray cloaks. One of the children tilted their head up, staring at the towers, and the instructor did not even scold them.
I have held this throne for twenty-two years, and now I will beg to borrow a star from creatures whose names I did not even know three years ago. And I will do it without hesitation, because the alternative is for those children to remain in darkness. The only thing I will not allow myself is to get used to it.
“Accept the terms,” Xylor’kan ordered. “And convey my gratitude for their quick response.”
Ar’silan blinked in confusion.
“Gratitude, Your Majesty?”
“Courtesy is the cheapest currency in the galaxy, and they still have no idea what the thing they hold is worth.” The emperor turned from the window and walked toward the exit. “And I will not be the one to open their eyes.”
They brought Ve'sandir in after sunset through the small door in the north wall—the one used by those whose arrival was entered in no ledger.
The workroom proved narrow and low-ceilinged. Crystals and coordinate maps of the Belt lay piled on the table, and one of the two lamps flickered unevenly. Through the only window, the end of the quay was visible, along with the running lights of shuttles slowly rising into orbit.
Ve'sandir stepped inside—of medium height, in a worn jacket from the Outer Service, his face blank. He stopped at precisely the right distance and did not kneel. His family had struck him from the genealogical rolls, and the cast-out had no rite by which to bend the knee. Ve'sandir knew that better than anyone else in the palace.
“Ve'sandir.”
“Your Majesty.”
“Do you know why you’re here?”
“No.”
“Good.” Xylor'kan sat on the edge of the table—a gesture he had not allowed himself before witnesses in years. “Then I’ll be frank, though you won’t like the truth. I didn’t choose you because you’re the best. Upstairs in the reception hall, three men more capable than you are waiting. I chose you because you’re the only one no one can buy out from under me. You have no caste, no clan, your family disowned you, and your brother is dead—with a blot in his file saying he let a mutiny happen on his own flagship. I won’t let you clear his name. No one can buy you, because no one has anything to offer you.”
Ve'sandir did not move—he lacked even that barely perceptible flicker in his gaze with which others gauged what mask to put on.
“That’s the most honest confession anyone has made to me in years.”
The emperor studied him carefully for the first time since the man had crossed the threshold.
“Facilities are going dark in the Belt. Three so far, but the number will grow. They’re going dark because someone is ripping out their Energy Cores, and I have nothing to replace them with—the production modules are no longer under my control. Whoever is dismantling them knows exactly where to strike. I want you to find out who’s behind it. And I want you to do it before my Court catches on.”
“Will I get written orders?”
“There will be no written orders. No document, no seal, nothing you can point to if they pressure you. If they stop you and ask on whose orders you’re acting, you’ll say you’re acting on your own. If you mention my name, within the hour I’ll denounce you as an impostor. And I’ll be convincing.”
“I understand.”
“And you’ll take the assignment anyway. Why?”
Ve'sandir drew a deep breath; something caught in his chest for a moment before he could exhale.
“Because when I finish the job, you’ll put me back on the rolls. That’s all I want. Nothing else.”
He did not add “please,” nor “if it pleases you,” nor any of the learned formulas with which courtiers masked their ambitions so it would not show that they had any at all. Xylor'kan took note of it and added it to the running tally.
“Inbound Four and a pilot who doesn’t ask questions are waiting for you—she has personal reasons enough for her silence. Do not contact me. Nothing you discover may remain recorded.”
The man nodded and turned toward the exit.
“Ve'sandir.” The emperor waited for him to stop at the threshold. “Your brother was a capable officer. I lost him foolishly.”
Ve'sandir stood motionless with his back to him just long enough to master his breathing, then stepped outside without a word.
The flickering lamp went out completely, without a pop or a spark, and Xylor'kan did not call anyone to replace it. He set the crystal on the table and played the recording from Il'maren's last transmission. Some cargo ship had picked it up in passing—no one was obliged to monitor the colony.
The dockmaster read the name of the site in an even voice, as if he had been dictating the same thing for years. On the second line, the light behind him dimmed; on the fourth, the pumps stopped. Somewhere in the distance, rapid footsteps echoed on metal, and then, very close to the receiver, a woman's voice shouted a name twice.
No one answered.
“The site requests instructions,” the dockmaster continued, faster now. “The site has reserves for eleven days. The site requests to be told when.”
The recording cut off—Il'maren's transmitter was powered by the same core.
Xylor'kan put the crystal in his pocket. He didn't want anyone else listening to it tomorrow.
He sat on the edge of the table and arranged his moves, as he had every evening for twenty-two years: the conversation with the Earthlings, which he would conduct in the role of a supplicant; the herald, whom he would not obtain through an official request but would secure another way; Kaes'marin and his empty hands. Everything fell into place. He was good at this—in the hardest years, this order had sustained him.
Finally, his thoughts reached the list. Since the leak came through only one channel, the thief was one of his own. What remained was to go over those through whose hands the information passed—his inner circle, the secret chain by which his orders reached the agents. He knew them by name and had checked them more than once.
He listed them in his mind, one after another.
The first.
The second.
The third.
At the fourth, his thoughts stopped. Without stumbling and without meeting resistance—exactly as a road ends at the very edge of a map, beyond which the page is blank.
Xylor'kan waited and started over—all his life, that had worked for him.
The first, the second, the third... and in place of the fourth name—a blank.
It's the fatigue. I'm old and tired, nothing more.
He stood and walked toward the exit. At the threshold he stopped—it occurred to him that he had not gone down beneath the palace to the first core in a long time. And only then did he realize that he did not remember when he had last gone down.
And he had been sure he went there every year.
- 2 -
The hoist on the second shaft was still running, but it paused longer than usual between the two cages, and the hopper beneath it had overflowed days ago. Ve'sandir walked along the main street of Il'maren in the shadow of the overhead gantry and watched the light—it didn't flicker, but it didn't reach the corners either. Above the roofs, the mother planet filled a third of the sky and bathed the colony in a gentle, coppery glow. The air was breathable without a mask, as long as a man didn't hurry, but it left a metallic taste on the tongue. The helmets hung outside the changing room, each on its own hook. The dust lay undisturbed on them—no one had touched them in days.
The comm unit on his collar crackled.
"I touched down on the south pad, Commander." The voice of Ru'malis, the pilot of his ship, came through thin but perfectly calm. "Fuel's enough for two takeoffs in economy mode, or one if you decide to treat me to afterburners. Only there are three cargo vessels on the pad with the Mining Company logos on their tails, and there's hardly any dust on their hulls."
"So they landed today."
"A little before me. And they're loading without waiting for permission from anyone."
A report from a frontier colony took weeks to reach the capital, and then it sat on desks. The Imperial authorities wouldn't set foot here for at least a month and a half, but the Company that held the shafts was already moving.
"Don't shut down the engines."
"I won't. I don't like sitting on solid ground, and if I have to pull you out of there, I don't want to be waiting on the starter."
Isa-Ro was waiting for him at the foot of the embankment—crouched, wearing two shirts, with a third wrapped around his neck. The Tarni read Residue—the trace that every living being or working machine left behind, invisible to others. And this Tarni was the best Ve'san knew.
"They've been to the same place three times. They were loaded on the way back." The Tarni straightened. "These ones aren't running, Commander. Where I come from, they say that a man who eats without a care in another man's house is either kin or knows the owner won't be coming back."
Ve'san headed up the street, but off to the side of the pad. In every colony there was one room on which everything else depended. It was easy to find—the thick cables led straight to it.
The energy hall was cut into the rock, and its door stood ajar. Heat wafted from inside. Conduit channels as thick as a wrist snaked along the walls, and all of them converged on a low pedestal of black stone. On it lay the Core Socket...