I grip the cuffs of my uniform and look away, hoping to find someone, anyone sitting in the shadows who hasn’t noticed me. A quick inspection of the room proves that it’s empty except for me and the sleeping man.

I sit at one of the workstations and strap on a pair of tendril gloves I find in a compartment below the panel. The Undil Embassy crest rotates on the screen. When I tap it, the image dissolves into a list of files that are labeled with the names of people and planets and years. It doesn’t take me long to figure out how to use the menu.

Zacharias Slater—the man who developed the Modern Embassy Program—appears in several documents, articles about planets that adopted his ideas for new trading and political systems. Only a few original governments remain unchanged today.

I come across a quote straight from Slater himself: ‘Should one branch fail, it is the responsibility of the other two branches to restore their Embassy’s prominence.’

During the Restructuring Era of 4220 to 4227, Slater became Undil’s first chancellor, organized a technology-based economy, installed the military program that later turned into Shield Tower, and discovered two planets: Lebene and Koyan. He pioneered Undil’s modern civilization. Built his dream.

One man.

“Ah, Arman.”

I jump in my seat, startled by the voice when the room has been so silent. I turn around. Captain Blitner is staring at me. He pushes himself out of his seat before I can think of anything to say. The effort must exhaust him because he pauses to catch his breath before stepping toward me. His feet seem unsteady. I stand up and start toward him, but he holds a hand up.

“No, no. Don’t trouble yourself. I can make it.”

He takes small, determined steps, knees trembling. His back is hunched slightly. When he moves out of the shadow, I understand why he’s having so much trouble.

He is old.

Not Orcher’s age. Older. Much older.

Decades older.

White hair sprouts from his scalp, but it fails to cover most of his head. Thick wrinkles sag down his face and hands and fingers, and his skin is paler than a normal person’s.

My mouth goes dry as he approaches. I still don’t know what to say. He offers out a hand. I shake it. His hand is cold, his skin dry. Dying stalks of hair cover his wrist and fingers.

“Captain Lawrence Blitner,” he says in an airy, fragile voice. “Head Archivist of the Ember.”

As his lips move, the skin on his face stretches and wobbles and the large lump in his throat slides up and down.

“Hi,” I say, my voice timid.