John’s quarters aboard the Hemingway smelled of old wood, lunar oil, and a dry breath of recycled air. It wasn’t rge, not like a real commander’s suite on a pnetary base, but it held weight. The polished floor beneath John’s boots—dark, recycled oak from an old library—had a gravity all its own. A soft and ambient light glowed beneath the edge of a single bonsai tree in the corner. Its tiny leaves twitched slightly from the room’s subtle air currents. Outside the narrow viewport, stars wheeled in slow orbits, their light interrupted by the passing of gargantuan formations of Dependency armadas.

  John Drayton leaned against the desk. One palm rested atop the casing of a data pad. He’d half-written a letter to his agent about casting. His other hand was bandaged from Sneem and still ached, but the worst pain remained in his thigh where the Elysian bde had carved a crescent into his flesh and left behind a dull and humming throb. That was all after the visit to Medical Officer Orin-Va. He hadn’t slept in thirty-two hours. His jaw ached from clenching. Physically, he was well, it was just the awful lingering pain he needed to squash.

  “Sasha, bring him in.”

  Dr. Halven Derat walked in beside Medical Officer Orin-Va. Halven handed Orin the vial of Serum 9-12x and Orin carefully loaded the vial and injected the serum into his shoulder. It gave John a painful pinch.

  “All finished,” Orin said.

  “You should feel the effects soon,” Halven said.

  They left the room.

  A tingling sensation spread across his shoulder, arm, neck, and chest. It felt warm. He forgot about the pain in his thigh. Actually, it was completely gone. Oh, thank God.

  “Seal the room,” he said softly.

  The walls responded with a hushed tone. The privacy ttice activated. The light dimmed. Then he heard it: a sharp intake of artificial breath followed by a ripple through the air like tension snapping taut.

  Sasha chimed. “Incoming communication from Gactic Councilor Lord-Ka Varnok Tal.”

  Still in his boxers, John slipped into a fresh pair of pants and an officer’s jacket.

  “Okay, patch him through.”

  The holographic presence of Lord-Ka Varnok Tal stepped through the breach of reality. Even in projection form, he towered over John. Lord-Ka was swathed in ceremonial bronze armor that gleamed from the sunlight back on Abbeyra. Scars riddled his face, fresh from battle. Each one was an engraving of a history and a price paid. His war-crested helm bore the Eye of Conquest. His arms, thick as tree trunks, remained folded behind his back like the general he was.

  “Arbiter,” Varnok said. His voice didn’t echo, but hung in the room. “You called te. Why?”

  John didn’t move right away. He adjusted his footing and stood straight, pressing through the pain with a slow exhale. “Because I buried two soldiers this morning.”

  Varnok’s golden eyes narrowed slightly. “Speak pinly. Battle rages.”

  “Thariel is breeding soldiers on our own soil. Hidden cells. Decades old. There were instructions sealed beneath the ice of Sneem. They were timestamped, thirty years old.”

  He let the silence stretch as if daring the Malkrathi to interrupt. He did not.

  “They’re grown,” John continued. “Born in tanks, trained in a vacuum underground, released when they’re ready. The whole crash site was a trap. It wasn’t a good one. It wasn’t an accident.”

  A heavy pause followed. Varnok’s eyes glinted.

  “Are you certain this intelligence is accurate? You didn’t misinterpret?”

  “I know the council granted me the title of Arbiter, but does that mean you’re going to question my every interpretation and decision? You either trust me or you don’t.”

  A fsh of a smile crossed Varnok’s face. “We voted you in for a reason.” He let the silence linger. “The war escates. Elysian cells…it’s cunning and desperate.”

  “We must act.”

  Varnok waved his hand as if to an invisible audience. “With what army? Most of our fleet is in the system with you engaging the Elysian encroachment into the Dependency.”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “Arbiter, you must be patient. War takes time. Especially one of this scale. We don’t have the resources to solve every problem. You have to make them believe we are stronger than we are while we pn how to deal with the Elysian fleets and their ruthless invasion forces. Not to mention the Hyperions.”

  “I’m an Arbiter. Not a prophet. I convince people with the end of a barrel.”

  “I know you humans. Try the flick of your tongue instead of the swing of your sword.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I know that you’ve been sent the invitations. There’s a ga aboard Graushorn. A private summit hidden behind spice, drink, and velvet curtains. Nobles. Industrialists. Military-string-pullers. If Thariel’s agents are embedded in Dependency soil, we must learn more.” Varnok looked off toward something, nodded, then focused back on the Arbiter. “Intelligence suggests that one of Thariel’s hosts was spotted inside Graushorn, currying favor with the elite.”

  “Show me.”

  “It’s word of mouth. Sources and methods.”

  John shook his head annoyed. Sometimes the intelligence community really bothered him, the ck of transparency—even among close allies—slowed everything down. He acted on legitimate actionable intelligence. He couldn’t leap into a den of wealthy vipers without real proof of the whereabouts of Thariel’s Elysian host. “You’re not giving me much.”

  “You’re not just a soldier, you’re an actor. I thought this was your style? Red carpets, luxurious cocktails, and passive aggressive conversation. You’re perfect for this assignment.”

  “What does my past as an actor have to do with this?”

  “The Graushorn isn’t just for military leaders and diplomats—intergactic movie directors sign deals there. Several movies have been shot inside Graushorn. I would think a man as cultured as you would enjoy it.”

  “Enjoy it? This is war.”

  “Honorable soldiers always feel reluctant to enjoy these moments of war. Generals realize this kind of assignment is a necessity. Not every battle is fought on some God-forsaken pnet. Some battles are fought alongside gsses of champagne.”

  “I’m not here to go on vacation or sign a movie deal. I’m here to stop Thariel and end this war.”

  “Why not do both?”

  John nodded slowly. “That’s not how diplomacy works.”

  Varnok shrugged. “Diplomacy is only a means to achieving your goals.” He said more quietly. “When my people first watched yours through hidden scopes, we saw fire. Not the fire of chaos. The fire of rebirth. I argued for your ascension. For Earth’s inclusion into the Dependency. The others believed your species would fracture, as the Humans of Eden almost did. But I said no. They bleed well.”

  John exhaled through his nose. “Bleeding resonates with my style of diplomacy.”

  “There is honor in that.”

  They shared more silence. Then, Varnok did something unexpected. He bowed. It wasn’t deep, nor submissive, but low enough to mark respect.

  “I will monitor Graushorn through shadow-channels. If you call for blood, Arbiter, it’s yours to take. You will not be harassed by Dependency officers but you may experience tension with Lockleed security forces. Go with purpose and investigate Thariel’s whereabouts. The Gactic Council will not abandon those who kill with purpose. The gaxy needs you, Arbiter Drayton.”

  The room tightened at that.

  John nodded once, the tension loosened from his jaw. “I’ll speak with you soon, Lord-Ka.”

  Varnok nodded. “Arbiter.”

  With that, his form vanished. A hum of silence was all that remained. John stood alone again. He sat slowly. He reached for his belt and sidearm, but stopped himself. Instead, he opened the door to his closet and grabbed a sleek formal bck jacket and a pair of oxfords.

  Buttoning his shirt and sleeking his hair back, John left his quarters with a desire to find more information on Thariel and work on a pn to infiltrate Graushorn.