Erevos Prime — Anderson Spire, Private Gallery Level
Year 2146, Martian Standard Time 19:06
The gallery's canopy arched like the inside of a cut gemstone, bending Erevos Prime's crimson dusk into warm gold over basalt floors veined with platinum. The Armstrong crest—a star between an eagle's jaws—hid in the trim, a symbol of the ruling family's power, meant to be discovered, not displayed. Power here didn't announce itself; it inhaled, and the room breathed with it.
The guests understood. Senators' spouses wore silks that poured instead of draped, colors tuned to the light curve of the hour. Shipping directors blinked with mirror-black implants that never dried. Artists moved with the careful confidence of those invited to a table they did not own. Conversation stayed at a practiced hum—audible enough to overhear, private sufficient to deny.
Hecosios Anderson sat at the periphery in a cobalt armchair: close enough to be seen, far enough to make the approach deliberate. One leg crossed, one hand relaxed. Jet-blue suit, grey silk shirt, hair deliberately disordered. Eyes shifting from grey to green in the light. A face softened by red lips, sharpened by stillness—feminine in symmetry, predatory in motion. People mistook the softness first. Tonight, he was counting who could afford that mistake twice.
He read.
The book was cloth-bound, cool under his fingers: Glass Skies—Cassi. No photos, no interviews. Some claimed her prose contained harmonies that an AI could read as mathematics. He'd tested the claim; the fun was in the attempt.
The page painted five realms:
Athenaeum Keepers — knowledge as a gated citadel.
Machinists — policy written on the body in chrome.
Faithborne — doctrine under strain.
Orris Elders — memory turned to architecture.
Nightborne Swarm — hunger as travel.
He turned a page with the same care he used for glassware.
"Lord Anderson."
Warm voice, measured smile. The wife of a Federation senator leaned in, gown like liquid metal. "Surrounded by beauty," she said, eyes flicking from sculpture to his mouth, "do you ever find it lonely?"
He let the question stretch. "Beauty is a mirror," he said, closing the book. "I have never been alone with myself."
Her smile faltered, then held. She stepped back, fingers brushing the air where his hand might have been.
A mining baron replaced her, hand out before he was close enough. "Your neural engine's the talk of the Belt. License it and—"
"No," Hecosios said. "But I'll let you know if I decide to buy a mine."
The man's laugh trailed off like an engine losing pressure.
Three more arrived: Athenaeum scholar, Hypero affiliate, Oros attaché. Their clothes carried the subtle markers of their orders—color gradations, metal threads, unspoken rules.
"We debated Arcsidium," the scholar said. "Whether you portray factions fairly."
"Fairness is for debates," Hecosios said. "Accuracy is for architects."
The Hypero woman tilted her chin. "Your Machinists read… unsympathetic."
"I gave them purpose. Empathy is optional."
The Oros attaché smiled. "Your Orris Elders feel polished."
"Polish comes from abrasion," he said. "If they shine, they learned on stone."
They left, pleased to have been parried by him, glancing over their shoulders as if replaying the exchange.
A Faithborne priestess stood by a triptych—three greys forming a cross only when you stepped back. Her scarf was embroidered with the mark of an inner order. "Your father hosted our first convent fundraiser," she said. "Do you share his piety?"
"I appreciate devotion," he said. "It's efficient."
"And faith?"
"I value structures that hold under pressure. If you call that faith, I won't correct you."
She weighed him like a knife—admiring balance, remembering purpose—and moved on.
A young painter brought a holo-frame: light and dark in stalemate.
"You see two forces in contest," he said. "You haven't chosen who should win."
"I—"
"Decide," he said, handing it back. "Then paint again. Or stop."
She left unsure if she'd been blessed or cut down.
The Athenaeum curator arrived, Cassi's book balanced in her hands. "We've tried to acquire a print for twelve years. How did you get this one?"
"I asked."
She smiled at the refusal. "Does she exist?"
"At least one person exists."
"And the rumor? Mathematics in the prose?"
"They hide what you bring to them," Hecosios said. "That's the only kind worth reading."
They spoke briefly on paper grain and the glue used in binding. When she left, she took only her opinion. He liked that kind of guest.
Publicists were flocking now—smiles too large, devices already hungry. That was the measure.
He stood. The crowd shifted aside without a word.
The elevator whispered shut. The city unfolded below.
The Meridian Spine blazed, maglevs pulsing white. Stations wore polished stone, the scent of engineered citrus. Orchard Stacks stepped downward in terraces of engineered green; workers grafted leaves with a surgeon's patience.
Beyond, the Industrial Girders sprawled—printer arrays larger than theaters, drone bays like hive mouths. Company crests marked rooftops. Smoke happened "off-site."
The Edge Wards clung to the dome rim: patched habitats, colors uncurated. The city liked to believe it always rose. Stories had other endings, and he remembered them.
The Athenaeum Annex, a bastion of knowledge and contradiction, wore banners—"The Mathematics of Love Poetry," "Ethics Under Low Oxygen." He respected a building that owned its contradictions, a place where the most esoteric and the most practical of knowledge coexisted.
The Hypero Foundry crowned a plaza, glass walkways over chrome arteries. The Oros Embassy waited aside, silver-leafed trees in stone planters; a caretaker read a trunk with her palm as one might read a page.
Galgamed Clinics ringed a white spire. Relief and calculation walked in together; one left with a voucher, one with counseling, one with denial, and a tract urging them to love it.
Graywater Lines flashed where the city forgot to hide them. The Under-Ribs spidered beneath—tonight lit by a chain of hand-lights. A child chased a municipal drone until it vanished into speed, laughing at its absence.
Above all, the Andromeda Gate hung—a web of bright lines around a heart the eye refused to hold. People loved it because it looked like fate. He loved it because it proved fate could be built.
His father's voice came: "A city is a chessboard, Hecosi. The people are pieces. The winner moves first and last." His reply, kept private: The first move is initiative. The last is endurance. Between them: appetite and restraint.
The lift slowed. Reflection in glass: suit exact, hair deliberately unmade, eyes that learned people faster than they knew themselves. He tried on tomorrow's investor smile. It fit. He removed it.
"Coffee," he said.
"Yes, my lord."
The first sip would sharpen him. The second would soften nothing.
The coffee arrived with the exact weight. Bitter, floral, spicy, keeping the sweetness honest. Delay could be cultivated.
The study dimmed to coal and steel. On the desk: pen, sealed folio, vellum sketchbook. He drew five glyphs: tower, split circle, knot, eye, dark stroke. Not names—he liked what came before names.
Tower: Gatekeeping is a technology. Failure: priesthood.
Split circle: Optimization is a theology—failure: Eugenics by spreadsheet.
Knot: Conviction is tensile—failure: strangulation.
Eye: Time confers weight—failure: inertia in elegant clothes.
Dark stroke: blank. Some truths are better felt.
The building hummed itself clean. A drone vanished toward the Gate.
He turned a page, drew a face—angular, inevitable. Eyes shaded until graphite shone like metal.
The desk opened to a plain black interface. The Arcsidium node populated:
Scholars locked in doctrinal debate—sixteen cycles to resolve, four if nudged. Machinists are split between the augmentation policy and the supply chain. Faithborne oscillates between sermons. Oros was quiet, which meant unseen work. The fifth cluster moved like it thought with its whole body.
He could nudge any of them. He didn't.
The Edge Wards pulsed irregularly. The Halo Clinics admitted three in a tight group.
Sleep itched at his skull. He disliked it—hours never balanced when given to it.
His sister's message: dinner at the Highland dome. He signed attendance, didn't reply.
The portrait of Lord Armstrong bore a flaw at the mouth—a second thought in the brushstroke. Even that face had been uncertain for the width of a hair.
He practiced tomorrow's smile, then let it go.
Glass Skies again: a cartographer charting absences. On the back flap, a foil triangle winked in prime intervals. He hadn't decoded it. Curiosity was better hungry.
Lights down—palm on glass. The Gate held its small storm. The first line he'd written for Arcsidium: Actions must have costs.
The building inhaled. He exhaled.
Darius carried the tray back to the kitchen and cleaned the cup by hand. Machines did it faster; hands did it right. Porcelain still held a trace of warmth before cooling.
He made a circuit of the penthouse. The study door hummed at his touch.
He paused at the portrait. People said father and son shared a mouth. Darius saw the difference: command versus calculation. He preferred calculation—it left space for mercy if efficient.
Tomorrow's gossip: senator's wife dimming, mining baron stumbling, three loyalties built in four sentences.
The city looked different from here than from the staff hall. Down there, it worked. Up here, it performed.
Nine minutes' rest in the anteroom. The house breathed with discipline.
Passing the study, he slowed. The silence inside was a held note. Restraint had more use than bravery.
He moved on.
He didn't notice Darius pass. He finished the coffee and set it down without a sound.
"Lock study," he said.
A shuttle aligned with the Gate, hull light deckling like torn paper before vanishing. A ship obeying a rule.
His comm chimed: pattern reached threshold. He didn't open it.
"Lights to night protocol."
The penthouse softened. The Gate held its geometry.
He stayed until stillness became sleep's invitation.
He declined.
Tomorrow could have its moves. Tonight belonged to the board.
The coffee arrived with the exact weight he preferred; the saucer made a soft porcelain syllable against the side table. Bitter, floral, a trace of spice that kept the sweetness honest. He let it sit on his tongue longer than needed. People mistook delay for indecision; he cultivated it the way an actor learned stillness. Most questions answered themselves if you gave them the room.
He set the cup down exactly centered on its ring and crossed to the study. The door dimmed the light by one degree at voice recognition. Coal greys, steel whites, and a measured shadow—colors that didn't hide so much as clarify.
The desk was a slab of black diamond. On it, nothing but a pen, a sealed folio, and a vellum sketchbook thick enough to forgive mistakes. He no longer began with faces; rules came first. The body that lived under them came later.
He drew five quick glyphs: a tower, a circle split by a line, a knot, an eye, a dark stroke dragged toward the margin. Not names—he liked what came before names.
Under the tower: Gatekeeping is a technology. Failure mode: priesthood.
Under the split circle: Optimization is a theology. Failure mode: eugenics by spreadsheet.
Under the knot: Conviction is tensile. Failure mode: strangulation.
Under the eye: Time confers weight—failure mode: inertia in elegant clothes.
By the dragged stroke, he wrote nothing. Some truths were better felt than stated.
The building hummed itself clean; ducts breathed, elevators damped their sighs. A courier drone traced a line of light across the skyline and vanished into the Gate's approach like a bead pulled on a wire.
He turned the page and, for the first time that night, drew a face—not his father's, not his own. The line from cheek to crown was angular without being sharp, inevitability rather than force. The eyes were two dark ellipses; he shaded their centers until the graphite shone like cooled metal.
The pencil's hiss against the sharpener broke the stillness. He softened the mouth by the tiniest fraction; indecision lived there if you let it. He didn't.
His palm opened the desk surface. A plain black interface appeared, cursor blinking like a patient's heartbeat. He entered a string that had never been written down. The Arcsidium node accepted him with a slight sigh.
The screen listed construct clusters in bare text—no icons, no friendly colors. He read them as some read weather: pressure, currents, convergence zones.
The scholar cluster had stiffened around a doctrinal debate. Left alone, it would resolve in sixteen cycles; seeded with the correct rumor, in four. Machinists had split focus between the augmentation policy and the supply chain—healthy competition. Faithborne was oscillating between two sermons: heat without light unless directed. Oros constructs showed long quiet, which meant work beneath the surface. The fifth cluster—its label long since hidden—moved as if thinking with its whole body.
He could push any of them. Splinter one into schism, slow another until boredom forced invention, feed a third into reform. The temptation was particular to creators: conducting a symphony you'd written yourself. He resisted. Resistance sweetened later indulgence.
He closed the node. The cursor blinked out.
Back at the window, the city had slipped into its late-evening honesty. The rich had gone home—or to the places they called home when they wanted to be seen. The Edge Wards pulsed irregularly—parties in rooms too small to drink in without touching shoulders. Somewhere under the dock rails, a band tuned badly and didn't care. The Halo Clinics let three through in a cluster: one left with a voucher, one with a schedule for counseling, one with a denial, and a tract instructing him to love it.
Coffee cooled toward clarity. He finished it, setting the cup down so quietly porcelain and stone barely knew they'd met. A message chimed once. His sister: a note about dinner at the Highland dome. He signed the attendance and sent no reply.
His gaze drifted to the west wall. The portrait of Lord Armstrong kept its usual place in the dark—a man painted to wear metal as if it were personality. A flaw at the mouth showed the brush's second thought, almost invisible. Even that face had been uncertain for the width of a hair.
He picked up Glass Skies again, flipping to a paragraph about a cartographer charting absences—the routes ships didn't take, the messages never sent. Cassi wrote like she was mapping the weather inside a skull. On the back flap, a foil triangle winked three times, prime intervals. He'd timed it the first night and chosen not to decode it yet. Curiosity was better when left a little hungry.
He checked the time. The city had an hour before it pretended to sleep. He had two before the first calls. The tilt in him was familiar: to push the engine or see if it would move without him.
"Lights down," he said.
The Andromeda Gate glowed in its steel tether, patient as a mouth before a word. Somewhere beneath his feet, constructs argued within careful parameters. He remembered the first line he'd written for Arcsidium, before factions, before physics: Actions must have costs. He'd written it for players. He lived under it, too.
The building inhaled. He exhaled with it.
Darius carried the tray back to the kitchen module and cleaned the cup by hand. Machines did it faster; hands did it right. Porcelain felt warm against his palm before cooling under the cloth.
He made a quiet circuit of the penthouse, as always when the public part of a night had ended. The study door's seam hummed with pleased recognition at his passing—Lord Anderson had set it to respond to specific palms. In houses like this, staff learned what not to touch before they knew where to stand.
He paused by the west wall. People said father and son shared a mouth. Darius saw the difference plainly: Lord Armstrong's said command; Lord Anderson's said calculation. He preferred calculation—it left space for mercy if mercy proved efficient.
Staff gossip would orbit tomorrow: how the senator's wife brightened then dimmed, how the mining baron tripped over his pitch, how Lord Anderson said four sentences and built three loyalties—one reluctant, one hungry, one that would call itself friendship because the alternative stung pride. Darius would hear it secondhand, sort it, and keep what mattered.
The city looked different from here than from the staff hall. Down there, it worked. Up here, it performed. The Under-Ribs were visible if you knew how to see past the reflection. The chain of hand-lights had moved on, job finished or abandoned. He hoped to finish; abandonments came back as crises on someone else's shift.
Nine minutes' rest in the anteroom—enough for the spine, not enough for the mind to drift. The building breathed with discipline.
On his way past the study again, he slowed. From inside came a silence that wasn't empty—more like a held note. He pictured Lord Anderson at the desk, palms open over black glass, choosing not to press a key he could press. Restraint had more use than bravery.
He moved on.
Hecosios didn't notice Darius pass. Good staff were weather—felt, not seen.
"Lock study," he said. The room acknowledged with a tone most wouldn't notice.
At the window, the city took one more slow breath. He matched it, palm flat to glass. A shuttle aligned with the Gate, the light on its hull breaking into jagged edges before it vanished into the web. A ship obeying a rule.
His comm implant chimed—an internal thread flagging pattern reached threshold. He didn't open it. The best games began with the decision not to look where the knife was.
"Lights to night protocol."
The penthouse softened. Outside, the Andromeda Gate kept its bright geometry like a word on the tip of a tongue. Inside, the room kept his reflection and let go of the city.
He stayed until stillness shifted from patience to sleep's invitation.
He declined, as he usually did.
Tomorrow could have its moves. Tonight belonged to the board.