The shuttle came down hard. Lothar von Finsterherz felt the hull shudder.

  Straps bit into shoulders. Outside, they were already waiting. Through the porthole Lothar caught floodlights, armor plates, silhouettes with rifles. Military ships hung over the pad like a lid on a pot.

  The ramp did not lower all the way. It stopped halfway, as if it had second thoughts.

  Nozer’s air was colder than Ypsilon’s, damp with smoke. It carried the sour bite of wet concrete and old burn.

  Wilt Norcat stepped forward first. Hood down. Hands empty. Yet she had that particular tone that made people remember, all at once, that they could die.

  “I am Wilt Norcat. In the name of the Human Confederacy, you will disarm and escort me to President Ludwig van Ries.”

  No one moved. A few barrels lifted a fraction.

  A man in a sharper uniform than the rest came out of the line. Colonel’s insignia on his sleeve. A dry, worn face, the kind that had forgotten how to be surprised, but he held himself straight.

  “Colonel Iorvet Dew,” he said. “The president was removed. Then executed.”

  She did not flinch. Only her eyes tightened.

  “I need to report that on the ground. Officially.”

  “Report it,” the colonel said. “That’s your right. But you don’t command here anymore. We’re leaving the Confederacy.”

  He nodded, and his people closed the ring, tighter.

  “You’re under arrest as a representative of the old regime. If you resist, I will order my men to fire.”

  Goodman stood at the ramp and said nothing. He understood exactly what would happen if anyone started a fight. Their shuttle would become scrap in under a minute.

  Nightingale shifted forward a step. The female inquisitor lifted a palm and he stopped.

  Finsterherz stood close, just behind her shoulder. He watched the soldiers and felt something rise in him. Not fear. Something else. Heavy, hollow.

  He knew a word could hit harder than a bullet.

  He hated knowing it. But it worked.

  Wilt flicked a glance at him. Not a plea. A reminder.

  Now.

  Lothar stepped out, voice low, almost conversational.

  “Silāh tva bar dā.”

  The syllables came out sharp and wrong in the air, like metal on glass. The sound settled on the line of soldiers as pressure.

  They flinched.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  One man’s hand twitched, as if trying to keep hold of his rifle. He couldn’t. Fingers opened on their own. Metal hit concrete. Then another. Then another. In seconds rifles were clattering to the ground as if someone had given an order no one could refuse.

  Colonel Dew stayed upright. He did not drop his sidearm immediately, but his hand trembled. He looked at Lothar like a man realizing, very late, what he’d agreed to stand near.

  “What was that?” he asked quietly.

  He did not explain. Breathing had already turned rough. The sickness from Graff still sat in his chest. Every strong word cut him from the inside.

  The female inquisitor walked in close to the colonel.

  “Listen,” she said. “I didn’t come here to die because you decided to play at power. You say the president is dead. That means power is yours.”

  The colonel’s jaw tightened.

  “Not mine alone. A military committee.”

  “Fine,” she said. “Then you’re taking me to the committee. Right now.”

  Her gaze swept the rifles on the ground, the faces, the sudden uncertainty.

  “And one more thing. From this moment, you are under my temporary authority until I understand what’s happening on this planet.”

  The colonel drew a slow breath. Let it go.

  “You can’t.”

  Wilt cut in. “I can. You tried to solve it with force. It didn’t hold. So we’re moving.”

  She turned to her own people.

  “Goodman, keep the shuttle sealed. Nightingale, with me. Lothar, don’t waste words.”

  Lothar nodded, said nothing. Something inside him was stirring, listening.

  The female inquisitor led them into a squat gray building beside the landing pad. It was warm, but the air tasted of damp insulation and old wiring. Soot stains marked the walls, as if fire had been here recently. Windows were covered by armored shutters. A generator droned in a corner.

  The signal was poor. Static, delay, the channel fighting to stay open. But she punched through to Earth anyway, set a transmitter on the table, and waited.

  A face appeared. A man in an official suit. Not military, not by his eyes. Behind him people moved in and out, flashes of folders, maps, screens.

  “Norcat,” he said. “We received your report. You’ve taken on too much. This will be reviewed by Congress.”

  Wilt let out a small laugh.

  “Of course. Congress. When? A year from now? Five? Ten? Eventually you might decide what to do about it.”

  “Watch your tone,” the man said flatly. “You have no authority to declare yourself the government of a planet.”

  “I’m not declaring anything permanent,” Wilt said. “I’m taking control until this stops bleeding. I’ll restore order. I’ll run elections. Then I’ll go back to hunting Adam Graff.”

  The man’s face hardened.

  “You have no authority to run elections. This is not an Inquisition zone. This is Confederacy territory.”

  Wilt leaned toward the camera.

  “The Inquisition has authority when the Confederacy moves too slowly. If you don’t like it, move faster.”

  “This is mutiny, Wilt.”

  “Mutiny is what they did here,” she said. “They executed the president. Power is in the hands of a military committee. Right now they either fall in line or they start shooting.”

  A pause. Someone on the other end spoke in a whisper. The man looked aside, then back.

  “You’re putting yourself at risk,” he said. “And you’re putting us at risk.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “Graff matters. He’s more dangerous than your protocols.”

  Something thudded against the outer wall.

  Lothar, posted by the door, went still at once. Nightingale turned his head too, the way a trained body does when it hears a cue before the mind names it.

  Another impact. Then footsteps. Many.

  Colonel Dew leaned into the doorway and said, clipped and grim.

  “They’re coming.”

  “Who?” the female inquisitor asked.

  “Two hundred and fifty. Locals. Not mine. The committee brought them.”

  She killed the connection with one movement, like slamming a door.

  “Good,” Wilt said. “Then we’re done talking.”

  They stepped outside.

  The pad was already ringed. Soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder. Two hundred and fifty was not exaggeration. From the edge of the circle, the young man saw more shapes feeding in, groups tightening the ring. Many carried rifles. Some had heavy shields. Two tripod turrets were aimed straight at the shuttle.

  At the front stood a man in black uniform without insignia. Two guards beside him. He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t rushing. He was simply waiting.

  “Inquisitor,” he said. “You decided very quickly that this is yours.”

  Wilt walked forward.

  “I decided you had no right to execute a president and wait for Earth to wake up.”

  The man smiled.

  “And we decided we won’t wait at all.”

  The ring tightened.