Dark Omega

CHAPTER 21 - DUTY TO THE DRAGON

It had been a long day, more so because Moeral Princeps's day was several hours longer than Earth's twenty-four-hour standard. As one of the few prefects to have a Dark Omega clearance, it fell on Maximilian Eccard to arrange for the transmission—and reception—of highly classified communication.

His message to Asset Sigma Draconis—Lord-Commander Kaminsky and his merry band of outcasts—had been the most noteworthy of the day, but far from the only one. There had been a flurry of dispatches going out and in. For the most part, these were for Xerza's eyes only. Private communication with fellow Quaestors and other highly placed individuals, and official correspondence with the Draconic Assembly, the Order's ruling body.

The Dragon Order routinely used astral projection—it was the only practical means of interstellar communication not controlled by the Technocracy. While it was possible to write down a message or dictate to the projecting legate, that wasn't how it was usually done. The standard procedure was to create a psychic recording. That way, the recipient would get a clear, unaltered message that left no doubts as to the true identity of the sender. The process allowed for encryption, meaning the transmitting legate need not know what was being sent, nor would an eavesdropper be able to decipher the contents.

With today's dispatches finally done, Prefect Eccard shut down the terminal. The amanuensis—a highly specialized chimaera responsible for turning digital information into mnemonic conglomerates suitable for telepathic transmission—continued operating for a few seconds longer, encrypting and transfiguring the last messages before powering down. Maximilian took a moment to stretch out a budding cramp in his calf. His current schedule had forced him to skimp on physical exercise. He promised himself to remedy that with a good workout after his other duties were done. Maxi retrieved a jet-black cylinder from the back of the cyborg's chromed skull and manually wiped its mind-buffer—standard procedure following any Dark Omega level communication—before locking himself out of the cubicle. 

He stepped out into the muted bustle of Lady Xerza's athenaeum. It wasn't anything like the vast edifice of lore that was the Second Pentacle, but it still held quite a few secrets—and a lot of mundane information. The athenaeum was also their communications hub. The actual interstellar transmission was handled by the on-duty legate. Xerza had three indentured legates permanently attached to her headquarters, plus two more that served in a mobile role, accompanying the mistress when she went into the field or following her key agents on critical missions. Marcus's mission hadn't warranted any legates. Maybe that meant his mission wasn't all that important. Prefect Aurelian was a legate himself, of course, but as far as Maximilian knew, he wasn't certified for interstellar communication.

Old Amicus, stooped with age and nearly hairless save bushy eyebrows and a few white strands ringing his head, was on duty. He wasn't the chatty type, so Maximilian just handed him the archive cylinder. The old man nodded but said nothing, turned around and began preparing to send his soul into the great void between the stars.

It was already late, yet Maximilian was nowhere near finished for the day. Xerza's organization never slept, and by definition, the dragonsworn were always on duty, every hour of every day. The only break they got was death—waiting to be reborn to serve again. That was the theory, anyway. In reality, the servants of the Dragon worked hard but enjoyed more privileges than most people.

With artificial daylight wasting, Maxi headed for his next assignment. Deep within the Arcanum—both the name of Xerza's base of operations and the organization she had inherited from her predecessor, Quaestor Tancred—lay a section informally know as 'the Bastille.' It was where suspects were brought in for interrogation and where prisoners were detained while waiting for processing. Maximilian knew the Bastille like the back of his hand. Before being promoted to Prefect of Communications, Maxi had served on the Bastille's staff, working diligently to make sense of the confessions extracted from known or suspected recidivists. Information was usually obtained under severe physical and mental duress, making it imperative that the Bastille had a skilled staff, capable of filtering out real intel from all the non-consequential rubbish. Working as an interrogator required you to have a keen, analytical mind, unburdened by empathy or conscience.