Baron Tyrelos stared at the Station Authority newscast, taking in the images flashing by: the remains of the Second City Bellows, the gritty particulates of the incinerated debris hanging in the air, Station Authority forces cordoning off the area, and one brief image of Lord Sonim Makar and Chancellor Muringyne being ushered into a secure area by Station Authority units. That last image was, she knew, standard emergency protocol—she’d signed and authorized it herself—but it made her angry. Angry, and more than a little frightened.

“Adyt!” She heard her voice, but didn’t quite recognize it. It sounded calm, in control, and revealed nothing of the seething mess of emotions she was trying to force her way through.

The Lieutenant immediately stepped forward. “Baron.” He was all business. He knew what this was, and had been chosen for her personal detail precisely because he could be trusted when the time came.

And that time is now, the baron thought. Damn it all to hell.