The chamber was too quiet. Not silent—there was the low hum of filtered air moving through the vents, the distant whine of mag-trams slicing through the upper rings of the Capitol—but still, unnervingly quiet. The kind of quiet that felt like breath being held.
Twelve robed figures sat around the half-moon table of the High Court, their expressions ranging from exhausted to unreadable. Each one wore the crest of their sector—burnished metal disks affixed to their left shoulder, polished as if the ceremony would cover the rot beneath. Most of them hadn't spoken to each other in days.
The chair at the center remained empty. And all eyes, consciously or not, flicked toward it.
The late Chancellor Varin had not vacated it willingly. He had screamed as they dragged him from the Hall, pleaded innocence until the end—then cursed everyone in the room when the evidence began to surface. Billions siphoned from reconstruction funds. Biometric voter manipulation. Blacksite disappearances. The man had bled the Outer Colonies dry while smiling through every speech he gave about unity.
Now his body was ash, courtesy of an orbital execution carried out just forty hours prior.
"Let the record show," said Councilor Reen, voice steady but thick with something—fatigue, maybe, or grief, though the two often felt like the same thing now—"that the High Court is convened to finalize the installment of a new Interim Chancellor, as per emergency protocol thirteen-point-nine-seven."
Her words echoed against the carbon-steel walls. No one moved.
"Let it also be noted," she continued, tapping a few commands into her wristpad, "that this appointment follows the conviction and execution of Chancellor Varin Korr under charges of systemic fraud, gross dereliction of duty, and treason."
There was a faint hiss as her signature locked into the holographic docket. One by one, the others followed.
Except for Councilor Arvik. The old man stared blankly at the center seat, fingers clasped tightly in front of him.
Reen glanced at him but said nothing. Everyone was tired of pushing.
Then the door hissed open behind them.
Every head turned.
Two security officers entered first—black armor, mirrored visors, tight formation. Between them, a tall figure in a matte-black coat, face partially obscured by a tactical mask. The faintest flicker of electric blue pulsed beneath the mask's vents, in sync with his breathing.
"Ashar Vale," said Reen quietly, as if saying the name too loudly might provoke something.
He didn't respond.
He walked toward the center chair with a pace that wasn't rushed but not hesitant either. The boots he wore had seen wear—scuffed leather, not the polished synthchrome of the Capitol elite. His coat was old-world military issue, retrofitted for function rather than fashion. And his eyes—pale, uncomfortably bright even under the Court's filtered lights—swept the room like a scanner.
"You come before this Court as nominee for Interim Chancellor of the Unified Territories," said Reen, her voice steadier now. "Do you accept the nomination as confirmed by Protocol Nine-Two, following the emergency consensus vote?"
Ashar didn't sit.
"I accept," he said, voice low, modulated slightly by the mask but still entirely human. Rough. He'd been a soldier once. A field commander during the Sevast Conflicts, maybe. There were records, but most of them redacted.
"And do you swear to uphold—"
"No," he interrupted. "I won't swear."
The room tensed.
Reen blinked. "I—excuse me?"
Ashar took a step forward. "I'll serve. I'll act. I'll even lead, if that's what you've decided. But I won't swear loyalty to the same code that let Varin sit here for four years. I've read it. It's a tombstone. Words carved to look like laws. And I won't pretend they're anything else."
For a moment, Reen looked like she might argue. Instead, she exhaled through her nose and nodded. "Let the record show… the appointee declines formal oath. Proceeding under clause forty-one—Reluctant Consent."
Another tap of her wristpad. The central seat's base pulsed with amber light.
Ashar finally sat.
The room seemed to breathe again, though uneasily.
Councilor Drest, who hadn't spoken in nearly twenty minutes, leaned forward. "You understand this isn't a throne. You're not here to command armies or stage revolutions."
Ashar looked at him. "That's not why I'm here."
"No?" Arvik rasped suddenly, his voice dry as paper. "Then tell us, Vale—why are you here?"
Ashar's gaze held his. There was a quiet intensity to it, not anger, exactly—more like the weight of someone who'd buried too many names to keep track of.
"I'm here," he said, "because someone has to be. Because you sat in this room and let a butcher play patriot. Because the people out there are starting to ask if anyone in here even remembers what it means to serve."
Drest scoffed. "You speak like a martyr. Or a poet."
"No," Ashar said, coldly. "I speak like someone who survived it."
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was brittle.
Reen cleared her throat. "You'll be granted operational authority for ninety days. During this time, your actions are subject to review by the Court. You will not authorize strikes, amend law, or initiate planetary sanctions without consensus. Understood?"
Ashar nodded once.
"Your residence has been pre-cleared. Staff selected. A direct neural uplink to the capital grid will be installed within forty-eight hours."
"No," Ashar said again. "I won't wear a grid."
"That's not optional," Reen said, a sharp edge now in her tone. "We need to monitor decisions, observe process, track—"
"I said no." His voice wasn't louder, just heavier. "I've seen what neural links do. Backdoors in the name of transparency. I make decisions in my head. I won't let anyone wiretap my thoughts."
Reen stood. "This is highly irregular."
"So was executing a sitting Chancellor," Ashar said quietly.
Another long pause. Drest turned to Reen. "Let him work. If he fails, he falls. Like the last one."
The doors behind Ashar opened agin.
A young aide—barely old enough to shave—stood with a data-slab in trembling hands. "Your—your escort is ready, sir. If you're ready."
Ashar rose, gave the Council one last glance.
This isn't a new beginning," he said. "It's the reckoning you were too afraid to start."
And then he walked out.
Behind him, the light on the Chancellor's chair flickered once… then went dark.