Civility

CIVILITY

Eva Caye

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9780463751404

Copyright 2018 Eva Caye

Discover other titles by Eva Caye at

https://www.smashwords.com/books/byseries/501

DIGNITY

MAJESTY

FEALTY

ROYALTY

DYNASTY

LOYALTY

Evan’s Ladies

NOBILITY

MORALITY

FIDELITY

ABILITY

INTEGRITY

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover art photos from Deposit Photos by the following contributors: Andrew Ostrovsky; Gromovataya; lyashik.

Edited by: Tracy Seybold

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes, copied, or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied for reviews.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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Dedication: to my friend Janice,

who never stopped believing

Books in the To Be Sinclair series:

Book One: Dignity, in which a wallflower becomes Empress of the Sinclair Demesnes

Book Two: Majesty, in which the Empress becomes the most important person in the galaxy

Book Three: Fealty, in which the Prince Second defines the real meanings of love and brotherhood

Book Four: Royalty, in which the Crown Prince learns to build lasting romantic and interplanetary relationships

Book Five: Dynasty, in which three Princes discover what it means to carry legacies into the future

Book Six: Loyalty, in which three Imperial siblings analyze the sacrifices made by others and themselves to keep the Empire afloat

Book Seven: Evan’s Ladies, in which the youngest Imperial Son struggles with the deadly caprice of fate

Book Eight: Nobility, in which the Heir to Sinclair deals with his vastly expanded duties as he inspires the Galaxy

Book Nine: Morality, in which a Princess becomes the power behind the Imperial Throne

Book Ten: Fidelity, in which an angry young Prince chooses between his Emperor and his principles

Book Eleven: Ability, in which a Princess masters her unusual innate talents while combating a mysterious threat

Book Twelve: Integrity, in which three Imperial scions unexpectedly brandish their hidden brilliance for their cousin the Emperor

Book Thirteen: Civility, in which two Imperial Princesses risk life and limb to bring attention to a critical development threatening the galaxy.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

On the SDG Royal Hellcat, 634 S. E.

Barefoot, wearing ship knits and a tank top, 7th Pilot Officer Lieutenant Princess Alea Sinclair tucked her legs a little closer to her chest and tried to pretend she was part of the wall. All she needed was seven seconds to climb up to the emergency access panel for the chute between Bay C’s stock room and the infirmary’s maintenance closet, and she’d be able to make it back to her bunk in twelve minutes.

To her utmost aggravation, the idiot corporal chatted with every single Serviceman who came through the airlock about how their leave went on Janson IV. She wanted to be safe and snug in her bunk when whoever was working Maintenance hit her most recent booby-trap.

Corporal Grigoriev finally grumbled, C’mon, Duchenne, I gotta get that shuttle done before I can go back to my bunk, dammit.

Biting back a laugh, in her mind’s eye, she could see 4th pilot officer Lieutenant Commander Duchenne taking his leisurely time buffing the fingerprints off the console before exiting the heavy personnel shuttle, the Kickfighter. Glancing around in the dim light coming from the maintenance bay, she tried to determine how she could un-ass before Grigoriev had to take a crap.

If she climbed up on the sink and shimmied along one of the pipes overhead through the door, she could hit the chute’s hatch over the supplies cached for the tiny kitchenette used by Maintenance when they had to skip meals to get the shuttles or patrol boats serviced.

Alea wondered how much abuse those pipes could take. Maybe if she spread her mass between two of them, it wouldn’t be too bad…. Almost the moment she’d thought of it, she slipped to the top of the sink and reached for the pipes, about half a meter apart.

She realized she had grossly underestimated how difficult it would be to shimmy along two very cold pipes. She could only move one knee or hand at a time if she wanted to minimize the stress on them, and the width was completely awkward. Plus, she had only trained with ropes and logs in boot camp. Although there was enough room for her hands, her feet and what little grip she could get with her knees felt wholly inadequate. But all she really had to do was get past the wide-open door to the maintenance bay.

Heart in her throat, she realized she couldn’t do this as silently as she had hoped. Once she got to the kitchenette, she lowered her frozen feet to the table, hands cramping with the effort. A step to the chair, listening for Grigoriev, another to the floor, and then she catfooted over to the storage racks.

She had climbed from them up to the panel and was almost entirely in the chute when her foot tipped the rack a bit, and something fell off. She closed and fastened that panel immediately and began the arduous task of returning to her bunk.

It took her two seconds to round the corner to the rarely-used tube; next was pulling her sixty kilos up the forty-four handholds for two decks, then fifty yards to port, then another two decks…. Only when she had reached the cross-tunnel between Decks Five and Four did she turn on her hand light, sticking it down her bra to point up. She ran on tiptoes to the next tube for another forty-four handholds, with the hand light casting shadows off her chin.

By the time Alea arrived at the gap between the O2 bladder and her bunkroom, she was panting and sweating. She removed her hand light and spent a few minutes calming down, back propped against the bladder, staring at the enormous water tanks that made up the core of a space ship.

Grateful that Uncle Evan had slipped her a copy of the ship’s plans when she was assigned to the Hellcat, she didn’t start pranking people until she had completed her second tour in Maintenance and was reassigned to Supply. It had taken every ounce of her will not to complain to her Service counselor back in the Demesne, although he knew she had always wanted to specialize in Weapons.

After observing so much incompetence among the enlisted personnel and still seething that she hadn’t been assigned a Weapons detail yet, she had started setting up the tricks out of frustration. Navigation wasn’t too bad, but she figured her next stint would probably be Administration or Communications, where she would do paperwork or key in channels or sort messages until she mustered out. No dangerous weapons or messy engineering or sick bays for the Imperial; the brass must have decided to keep her safe and ignore her as best they could until she quit out of sheer boredom.

She contemplated the pipes running from Deck Four, where the power modules split the water to provide hydrogen for the ship’s engines and oxygen to the bladders over the bunkrooms for the EVA suits. Setting up a prank here would be too dangerous, and who would come up here on an everyday basis? Unless she had to blow up the ship for some dreaded reason….

She put her hand light in her mouth and wormed her way under the bladder directly over her bunk. Moving the access panel aside, she took her hand light out of her mouth and turned it off, then peered into the dimness to find the latch beside the ledge holding her EVA suit. She listened for any sound from her bunkmate before quietly unlatching the suit niche’s panel.

Slipping down to her bunk, she reached up to close the secret access panel with the barest snick, and then she rolled her EVA suit back out, secured by its straps, to hang over the niche’s smoky glass panel. Finally closing that one, Alea reclined on her bunk and heaved a great sigh of relief. A glance at her sleeping panel showed no change; she could only see the dim, diffused light from the clock over their doorway.

Glancing at her timer showed she had only spent about forty minutes for her caper. Alea suppressed all sounds of humor as she composed herself for sleep. Smiling, she wondered how the crew would react to the most recent antics of the Prankster.

◊ ◊ ◊

Alea woke at her usual alarm, surprised that she hadn’t woken up when Javier had gotten ready for his watch four hours earlier. She showered, donned her uniform, tucked the newest headset available to navigators in the Service into her pocket, and headed to the Captain’s Wardroom for breakfast.

As the senior officers settled in, she took her place with them at the end of Captain Commodore Ray Bristol’s table, the only junior officer allowed. Captain Bristol had asked her to dine with him when she was first assigned to the Hellcat, obviously because she was Imperial. She’d soon discovered she was expected to sit there all the time instead of at the secondary tables for the junior officers.

The captain must have eaten earlier; Commander Scott Yarnell, the executive officer of the Hellcat, had moved to take the table’s central position. Good morning, Lieutenant. He added a polite nod down her way; he or Captain Bristol always greeted her personally.

Good morning, Commander. Alea drew her napkin onto her lap as the steward began setting up the meal. She was served first, of course, and usually began eating immediately so no one would have to wait for her to start.

Being the only Imperial as well as the only woman on the ship meant they all felt like they had to cater to her, which she had grown to resent. Since her cousin Brielle had spectacularly defended herself against four ensigns intending to haze her on the Python this past August, the entire crew of the Hellcat had treated Alea with kid gloves instead of as a valued Serviceman.

She listened to the gossip as usual, unsurprised that no one had mentioned her most recent prank. It could take days before anyone tripped it; there were seven still undiscovered on board.

One of the commanders asked, Where’s the captain?

Ah. He got a lead on the Prankster. Yarnell grinned at all the senior officers, whose rabid attention now focused upon him. He’s tracing his last route with an infrared scanner this very minute.

Alea blinked. The corporal must have heard that sound and known who might have been sneaking around in his stockroom. Either that, or….

How did they find him? one captain asked.

One of the maintenance techs hit the trick. Yarnell’s eyes glistened as he tried to hide his smile. An ass covered with neon green paint, this time.

As the hoots of laughter rang loud, the XO described how medics said the green paint from the bubble bomb would wash right out with medical-grade alcohol, but the neon wouldn’t, leaving an eerie, luminescent splash for a few days. Not that it’ll help. I’m sure he’ll get a few rounds of the ‘Glow Worm’ song every time he walks by for the rest of his life. More snickers filled the table.

Alea glanced toward the secondary tables, filled with ensigns and all the lieutenants but her. She looked back when the XO asked, What kind of punishment do you think should be meted out, Sinclair?

Heart in her throat, Alea blinked in surprise. Why are you asking me?

Yarnell pursed his lips. Well, considering we all basically work for your family, I wonder what the Emperor thinks about the Prankster.

Probably that he’s doing everyone a service.

The rest of the table immediately quieted down. What kind of service? a lieutenant commander asked.

She shrugged and assumed an air of indifference. I’ve always thought he was pointing out the weaknesses of the ship. You have to admit, the men he’s tricked have probably become more diligent at their duties.

Given that she rarely spoke and almost never gave her opinion on anything, the senior officers all nodded in agreement and began discussing the issue. I’m just glad he’s never booby-trapped MedCom, the lieutenant commander in charge of Regen declared. Probably because we’re almost completely independent of the rest of the ship.

How many does this make? asked a captain, the Communications officer for second watch.

Nineteen. As the commander of Ops, Commodore Lord Kieran Renois would know. I have to admit, his pranks are basically harmless. And they have, indeed, pointed out weaknesses in ship routine or design. He gave a brusque nod toward Alea.

The conversation became more general until breakfast was over. Nevertheless, Alea ditched her dishes at the conveyor and headed for the bridge with a distinct sense of relief.

She hustled to Navigation, relieved the sixth pilot officer of his duties, and greeted Commander Lord Michael Norris, her C.O. for the last five months and now her uncle by marriage. Sir.

Lieutenant. He let her settle in and check for emergent data before he asked, How far did you get in your module on Operational Psychology?

I finished reading it; I just haven’t started the paper, yet. She set up the Training database to begin logging in pre-emps, pre-emergency procedure scenarios based on the emergent data and the steps she would take to mitigate them.

She had been on her watch for two hours when the XO called to her. Lieutenant Sinclair.

Alea swiveled her chair around. Sir?

The XO flashed his palm pad at her. Captain’s ready room.

Oh, no. Aye, sir. She turned to sign out of her console. She would surely only get a non-judicial punishment detail….

Commander Norris wondered, Why would Captain Bristol need to see you?

Alea shrugged. I just hope it isn’t bad news from home.

With a briskness driven by her apprehension, she strode toward the open door of the ready room. Entering, she noticed how focused Captain Bristol was on his computer. Shall I seal the door, sir?

Yes, Lieutenant. He kept his gaze on the screen, not looking at her.

She hit the large button that closed and sealed the door from the bridge. Approaching his desk, she saluted.

Captain Bristol finally backed away from the computer and swiveled to rest his arms on his desk, hands clasped. Have a seat.

Alea sat attentively on the edge of the chair, hands on her thighs. She wondered why the captain looked… apoplectic. Dread? Anger? Simply stunned?

He finally spoke. "We’ve had a lead on the Prankster. I was called immediately and personally followed his heat signature through some of the most remote access tunnels the ship can offer. The trail eventually ended, but a heavier heat signature showed in one spot as if he had spent a lot of time there before moving away.

Unfortunately, that position was almost directly over your bunk…. Bristol stopped to regard her reaction.

Alea hoped she hadn’t given one at all, but she saw the captain’s eyes widen and mouth open as the realization came upon him. Eyes shining bright, he snorted softly for several seconds. I, ah, hm.

She bit her lips together and tried to look innocent.

To Alea’s everlasting wonder, the rigid, respectful, humorless, hardened Captain Commodore Ray Bristol hid his face in his hands and giggled like a little boy for a full minute. He stopped to look at her again once he had gained a modicum of control. Um. May I ask, did your uncles give you more complete ship plans than they did anyone else?

She sighed. Yes, sir. Although he had asked that question circumspectly and without giving anything away, she figured her time was up and she’d better come clean.

She opened her mouth, but he held his hand up. I don’t want to know. I have, however, told Commodore Renois about this incident, and I’m duty-bound to tell Commander Yarnell as my executive officer.

Yes, sir. As they regarded each other a moment longer, Alea offered, This morning at breakfast, the XO asked me what kind of punishment I thought should be meted out, and I replied—

That he was pointing out the weaknesses of the ship and personnel, yes. Commodore Renois told me, but when I told him about that heat signature, he expressed anger at the thought of anyone spying on you, especially after that incident last fall with your cousin.

Alea could only nod. What punishment did he suggest?

Court-martial.

She couldn’t help but flinch. Surely a non-judicial punishment would be more appropriate.

Inhaling deeply, Captain Bristol finally assumed his typical gruff demeanor. Very well. I sentence… the Prankster to keep pointing out the shortcomings of the ship and crew for… the duration of the tour. Any questions?

No, sir. Alea stood and saluted.

I do have one question, the captain added thoughtfully. Why do you isolate yourself so much from the crew?

She bit her lower lip. How much should she say? I don’t; I just make sure to fly under their radar.

But, why?

You know how pilots log pre-emps? Well, I keep notes on my shipmates.

Eyebrows high, Bristol gaped for a moment. Now, that I’d like to see.

She winced. Is that a command, sir?

He eyed her keenly. How about you download them to a data card or book-disk?

Fingering her bangs into spikes before smoothing them to the side, she tried to estimate the sizes of the files. Yeah, they should all fit on one data card.

Noticing him gaping once again, Alea assumed parade rest. Anything else, sir?

No. Dismissed. He acknowledged her salute with a sneaky smile.

As Alea shut the door behind her, she heard him giggling behind his hands again. She hoped it was quiet enough that no one on the bridge could have heard it.

Eyebrows drawn together, Commander Norris watched her settle into her seat. What did the captain want?

Damn; she had made him suspicious. Information about a conduct incident I witnessed. She blithely stared at him while hoping her quiet voice didn’t carry to anyone else on the bridge.

Unconcerned, he turned back to his console. Set up the jump to Cora’s Star.

Aye, sir. Alea signed in to her console, turned off the Training database, inserted her navigation headset into the newish navigator implants behind her ears, and called up the emergent data once more.

Chapter One

Once the Galactic Representatives of Panslovakia and Mythos IV had left her inner office, Princess Elizabeth Sinclair heaved a sigh of relief. Since her brother Zhaiden’s death some twelve years ago, it seemed everyone thought she was responsible for beating out agreements between recalcitrant polities who accused various Galactic Assembly factions of bias. She should have shoved it on her nephew, Zhaiden’s third son, Richard; he’d been her trainee for almost two years, now, since the Stargate Institute was up and running.

Thirty-two years of witnessing the collective squabbling of humanity had left her heart unfulfilled and her soul weary. When had the joy of representing her family’s planet disappeared? Why did she keep fantasizing about running away?

Although it was only 16:20, she gathered her cross-body purse to leave. In the outer office, she passed between her assistant and their secretary, scanning their desks to judge their productivity. I’m going home for the day. If the Speaker calls, please tell him I’ll have something for him tomorrow afternoon.

Yes, Highness. Without even looking up at her, Lord Francis jotted a quick note on a sticky pad to the side before focusing all his attention on his computer again.

Elizabeth opened the outer office door while lowering the strap of her purse over her head. Remembering a security detail her niece Brielle had mentioned once, she took a moment to tuck the purse under her arm as she quickly scanned her immediate surroundings. Nothing seemed off, so she turned left and walked briskly to the lift.

Two of her Sentinels appeared out of nowhere to join her. How’s your shoulder, Major? She touched the button to descend to the tunnel leading to her Representative’s House on the Assembly’s campus.

Not quite as stiff today. He rotated his shoulder. Windholm still hasn’t made muster yet, though.

As she dutifully chuckled, a jolt made her lose her balance and tilt to one side.

Sergeant Messmer banged the stop button as Major Oliver keyed on his wrist phone. Scrub the deck, code 5. It wrenched Elizabeth’s heart once more when she remembered her code had been changed from seven to five after the death of her parents.

Both Sentinels scrutinized the lift, concluding they hadn’t reached the ground-level Hall of Worlds, yet. Since we were a full three seconds in the lift before the disturbance, my guess is that we’re on the third floor, just above the Hall. The major flashed his pen light between the edges of the doors again. Well, about a meter above the third floor. I’d rather wait until the substation gives us the all-clear than try to exit.

Code 5, haul ass. At that declaration from their wrist phones, the men immediately accessed the lift’s security features. A small door in the button panel opened for Major Oliver, who punched a code into the security keypad, whereas Sergeant Messmer had liberated his boot knife and inserted the blade between the door and the wall, half a meter from the ceiling.

The doors slid open, and the sergeant jumped down to the third floor of the Galactic Assembly’s office space, known as the Honeycomb. After a quick visual scan, he offered his hands as a stirrup for his princess and Galactic Assembly Representative to step down.

Elizabeth took off her high heels to do so. Once the major had jumped to the floor, she held them with the heels out like weapons as all three of them ran down the hall toward a distant stairwell that had basement access to the underground thoroughfare to the Bazaar.

Almost halfway there, they received another instruction: Code 5, fly the coop. An alarm began blaring through the halls.

As workers from the local offices began pouring out the doors into the hallway, Major Oliver growled in frustration. To the Gallery. Reversing course, he herded Elizabeth ahead of him past their original lift toward the access to the visitor’s seating area overlooking the Galactic Assembly.

Head straight for the far side, the major rumbled in an undertone as they slammed through the blast doors. Since the Galactic Assembly wasn’t in session, there were only four Sentinels guarding the Gallery. As soon as Elizabeth appeared, they all pointed to the far lower entrance.

That door had a small lift, tucked out of sight of the usual entry, and it led straight to the roof. Once they exited the building, a Sentinel air car’s rear door popped open, framed by the gently-stirring flags of a dozen nations. Barefoot in the chilly March weather, Elizabeth virtually dove for it; despite having to catch her breath, she was grateful to be nearly as limber at 57 years old as she had been at 27.

The instant Sergeant Messmer slammed the door shut, the pilot lifted and headed north, not west toward her home on the Assembly’s campus.

Elizabeth finally caught her breath enough to ask the co-pilot, What happened?

Explosive gels were used to disperse a gas bomb. We quarantined the basement. Four people were caught, and we suspect one of them was the bomber. We’re evacuating the Hall of Worlds, and we’ve warned everyone at a computer to stay where they are if they aren’t in immediate danger.

Tear gas? the major asked.

Hunan pepper spray, which argues for a lone nutjob unable to access more sophisticated biological or chemical weaponry.

Major Oliver frowned. But they must have surveillance on the office, if they deployed just as the Princess would have reached the basement.

Sergeant Messmer offered, I saw what I thought was a Zurvan or Gathan lady about the time you left the office. She was dressed in full attire and was fishing through the pockets of her bandolier, or whatever that sash is called.

A cummerbund. Staring out the front windshield, Elizabeth wondered, But, why am I being taken to the Imperial Palace when overall it was such a mild attack?

Unknown. Sorry, Your Highness. The co-pilot turned back to his panels.

Her thoughts cycled through their speculations. I don’t think the Zurvan lady would have signaled anyone. If they expected me to be in the basement at that time, then they’ve probably timed me before and simply had an automatic sensor on the door to our outer office.

She described how and why she had paused to make a quick observation of the activity in the hall before leaving. I would say they probably had the scanner set for a lone individual, instead of multiple people. If I was the target in the first place.

Major Oliver nodded and activated his wrist phone. Haul the ashes, Rep’s office. Concentrate on the doorway. Keying off his wrist phone, he mused, That would’ve put us at about a five-second delay. And you usually leave with your assistant, and an hour later than today.

Leaving further speculations to her Sentinels, Elizabeth stared out at the Urban District. In the distance, the rolling foothills of the far western reaches sported the Imperial University and hid the shuttle port, buffering the district from the subsonic sounds of hundreds of grav-drive vehicles, such as grav-pallets porting luggage or shuttles destined for spaceships in orbit.

She absently donned her shoes, wishing she were back in college, despite already holding a Ph.D. in sociology. Maybe she could get a teaching position. Maybe she could make a teaching tour of the galaxy. Maybe she could study a new subject entirely. Those thoughts dribbled away to nothing, leaving her soul numb as the university fell from their view.

The air car lurched to the right as the pilot cursed. Get that lamebrain out of the air and throw his ass in jail!

With a will. Once he had reported the vehicle to Sentinel Command, the co-pilot listened to the response over his headphone. Fucking hell, that was one of Duke Oberman’s air cars. Probably one of his grandsons on a joy ride.

Those little shits had better not plan on going into the Service. The pilot cackled. Or maybe they will, and we’ll get a chance to teach a rotation or three. Wicked laughter burst from all four Sentinels in the air car.

Elizabeth tried to remember when her Sentinels had grown so used to her presence that they routinely ignored her, at least when it came to their own camaraderie. About fifteen years ago, when her brother Christian had died on Seti III? They were all stressed to the max, trying to get ready for the funeral, and one Sentinel, driving her to the shuttle port one night, had hit a rather large pothole.

He had proceeded to voice a particularly foul curse upon the Urban District’s maintenance personnel, which made her snort. She had blamed the Qixi, who seemed to have a demon for everything, and suggested the demon of potholes had decided to take up residence in the Demesnes because it knew it could find lots of worshippers.

Desperate to keep their thoughts cycling away from the arrival of Christian’s body, they had all come up with a number of other excuses for the abominable condition of the streets. Elizabeth had laughed along, simply glad she would soon be in Gerard’s arms, despite knowing he would probably be blaming himself for Christian’s death.

Or perhaps it was because her ex-husband Gerard was a Peer and a Serviceman, a general like her brother Brian, who was one of the most beloved men in Sentinel Command. They probably thought she was used to their gutter language, given how often she found herself laughing over some of the flagrantly scandalous yet creative insults Sentinels were notorious for dealing out to each other, as well as to unsuspecting passers-by.

As the ‘bat cave’ air car entrance in the cliff above the Imperial Palace opened its doors to admit them, she wondered if there was any benefit in being treated like a commoner by them. Perhaps she simply knew too much about Sentinels in the first place, or perhaps she felt too isolated in her position, that she needed people she could be herself around without judgment.

Maybe she had just grown too jaded with her life. Waiting for the pilot to settle the air car and let her out, Elizabeth decided she had to make a change of some kind, and soon, or she would disgrace herself and the Imperial Family out of sheer frustration.

◊ ◊ ◊

Brian was waiting for Elizabeth in Emperor Matthieu’s outer office. He rose to give her a hug, saying over her shoulder to her Sentinels, Get Daniels to harass Oberman for risking my sister’s life. Her Sentinels chortled their way out the door.

She perfunctorily leaned into the hug before backing out. So, why am I here?

He held her upper arms as his eyebrows rose sharply. What do you mean? He genuinely seemed perplexed.

I mean, after all the wackos and attacks upon the Galactic Assembly over the years, despite Sentinel’s ostensibly fool-proof security, I wonder why I’ve suddenly been evacuated to the Emperor’s office.

He grimaced. I don’t know why I keep forgetting you’re as brilliant as everyone else in the family.

Staring daggers at him, she virtually tore herself out of his hands as she turned from him sharply. Well, it’d be nice if you’d said that in a pleasant way.

As she seated herself in the chair closest to the outer office’s enormous desk, she greeted her nephew Jacob, Matthieu’s secretary. So, how are you doing? And Sabine?

Just great. I think she might be ready to have kids, now. Jacob smiled pleasantly, even when the vidphone chimed; he held his hand up to her in polite permission as he answered it. May I help you?

Elizabeth stared back at Brian, who finally came out of his surprise to sit beside her. He spoke in low tones. I’m sorry if you thought I was disrespectful. But throwing our inadequacies in the face of the fifth-highest-ranking Sentinel made me rather angry. His shoulders slumped. And worried. Do you know of any actual access points we don’t have covered?

Ashamed to have come down so hard on him, she placed her hand on his arm and spoke just as quietly. I apologize, Brian. I’m just upset that I was whisked over here so abruptly, especially when Major Oliver said the situation was under control.

Her nephew Richard entered from the corridor. I guess I’m not late. He straightened out his jacket sleeves and subtly checked that his shirt was in his pants. Although she had been training him to have a backup for the Galactic Assembly Representative, he still worked as the Governor of the Stargate Institute, a part-time position now that they were all settled on Marabelle. Elizabeth suspected he’d been visiting his wife when he was called for the meeting.

No, but you missed a good one. The Galactic Assembly peacekeepers stationed on Mythos IV think the Panslovakians should pay for the stranded Fondulacan fleet, especially since they jacked up the price double for a rescue instead of an in-orbit fuel-up. The Panslovakians stated it was the Fondulacans’ responsibility, pure and simple.

Wait, aren’t the Panslovakians allegedly friendly to the Fondulacans? Why would they risk ticking off one of their trade fleets?

"The Fondulacans checked the pricing in their volume and figured they could coast their way to the Mythosian wormhole and thus get the peacekeepers to pay for the fuel, since they were headed to the Attican Empire. They didn’t know about the lengthening of the Panslovakian volume, which is why they think Panslovakia should pay for their rescue.

But when they exited the wormhole, three of the five ships had so little power they couldn’t even take a bearing for the Mythosian wormhole, and the other two couldn’t rescue themselves much less the others. The Panslovakians caught up to them about four light-hours and fifty-five degrees from the wormhole. She described the further situation, as well as its fallout.

Richard was shaking his head when a Sinclair watchman opened the door to the inner office, escorting Matthieu’s assistant, her son Kyle, and the Minister of War out with suave phrases. Elizabeth, Richard, and Brian all nodded greetings to the general before filing into the Emperor’s inner office.

Standing in the center of the lounge and looking out the windows into the Eastern Courtyard, Emperor Matthieu had just taken a