Chapter One: Arrival..
Throne World hung in space like a jewel in an obsidian crown.
Chris von Lenggram—or Chris von Reinhart, as his falsified credentials now declared—watched the planet's approach through Golden Dragon's observation deck, his hands clasped behind his back in an unconscious imitation of his father's command posture. The ship's AI had morphed the vessel's exterior into a tier-three courier configuration: sleek lines, modest weapons pods, standard-issue energy signature. To any scanner, they would appear as nothing more remarkable than minor nobility's transportation.
The reality was somewhat different.
"Imperial traffic control is requesting our identification and approach vector," Golden Dragon's AI said, its voice emerging from the ambient audio with perfect neutrality. The AI had no name beyond the ship's designation—Chris had always found naming artificial intelligences to be an unnecessary affectation. "Shall I transmit the prepared credentials?"
"Proceed."
The planet below was a work of art, though Chris knew the aesthetic beauty was merely a byproduct of functional necessity. Throne World's surface was covered in city-structures that rose kilometers into the atmosphere, each one a self-contained arcology housing billions. The spaces between the cities remained deliberately preserved—forests, oceans, mountain ranges maintained in their natural state, a reminder that humanity's expansion had not erased its origins.
The Imperial Academy occupied an entire continent on the southern hemisphere, positioned so that it was always day somewhere on the campus. Chris had reviewed the facility's specifications during the two-week journey from the Lenggram estate. The Academy could accommodate five hundred thousand students simultaneously, with facilities that included combat training sectors, diplomatic simulation chambers, entire artificial biomes for survival instruction, and a library that allegedly contained copies of every significant text produced by human civilization over three million years.
He doubted that last claim. Nobody could catalog everything humanity had written. But the hyperbole indicated the Academy's self-perception, which was itself useful data.
"Clearance granted," the AI reported. "We've been assigned docking bay Seven-Seven-Four in the student quarter. Traffic control notes that arrival ceremonies begin in six hours. We're advised to expedite ground processing."
Chris nodded, though the AI didn't require visual confirmation. "Begin landing sequence. And maintain tier-three configuration until we're planet-side. No sense drawing attention before we've even docked."
The ship shuddered slightly as it entered the upper atmosphere, artificial gravity compensating for the atmospheric friction that would have vaporized a less sophisticated vessel. Through the viewport, Chris could see other ships descending toward the Academy—hundreds of them, representing every major house in the Empire. Some were ostentatious, their hulls decorated with family crests and precious metals. Others were utilitarian, favoring function over form. Chris approved of the latter approach, though he understood the former had its own strategic purpose. Displaying wealth was a form of psychological warfare, establishing dominance before a single word was spoken.
Golden Dragon's modified appearance fell somewhere in the middle. Respectable, but not remarkable. Exactly as intended.
The docking bay was a cathedral of metal and energy fields, vast enough to hold fifty vessels Golden Dragon's apparent size. Automated systems guided them to their designated position, magnetic clamps engaging with precise mechanical clicks. Through the viewport, Chris could see other students disembarking from their ships—some surrounded by entourages of servants and guards, others traveling alone or in small groups.
"Atmospheric composition is standard," the AI reported. "Temperature is calibrated for human comfort. No biological hazards detected. You're clear to disembark."
"What about surveillance?"
"The docking bay has standard security monitoring—visual feeds, energy scanners, basic biometric readers. Nothing that will penetrate my countermeasures or detect this ship's true capabilities. However, I should note that several other vessels in the bay have military-grade scanning equipment. Two appear to be actively probing other ships."
Chris filed that information away. Students conducting reconnaissance on their peers before classes even began. The social maneuvering had already started. "Can you identify the vessels?"
"Cross-referencing against Imperial registry data... The first belongs to House Meridian, a Marquess-level family controlling seventeen systems in the Sagittarius Arm. They're known for their intelligence networks. The second is registered to House Kavanaugh, Dukes of the Outer Rim, military specialists. Both families are politically aligned with the Imperial center, though their voting records suggest moderate reformist tendencies."
"They're scanning for threats or opportunities."
"Both, most likely. Should I engage active countermeasures? I can feed them false data, make our ship appear more or less capable than its current configuration suggests."
Chris considered this. Active countermeasures would reveal that he had something worth hiding. Better to appear exactly as his credentials suggested—a minor Viscount with appropriate resources but nothing exceptional. "No. Let them scan. They'll find exactly what they expect to find."
"Understood. Standing by."
Chris moved to the ship's airlock, pausing to check his appearance in a reflective panel. He'd dressed deliberately neutral—practical clothing of good quality but unremarkable design, nothing that would indicate either poverty or excessive wealth. His face was his own, unaltered; he'd considered temporary genetic modifications to disguise his appearance but decided against it. If someone recognized him, they'd have earned the knowledge. Besides, most people had never seen the Lenggram heir's face. His family preferred operational security to public celebrity.
The airlock cycled open, and Chris stepped onto Throne World for the first time in his life.
The docking bay thrummed with activity. Students moved in clusters, some arguing with customs officials, others coordinating the unloading of personal cargo. The air smelled of ozone and recycled atmosphere, underlaid with something organic—actual plant life, growing in hydroponics banks built into the bay's support columns. That detail impressed Chris; most stations relied entirely on mechanical air processing.
"Identity verification, please," a bored voice said.
Chris turned to find himself facing a customs official, a middle-aged woman whose uniform indicated civilian rather than military authority. She held a scanning device pointed vaguely in his direction, not making eye contact.
"Chris von Reinhart," he said, allowing his identification crystal to interface with her scanner. "Viscount of the Reinhart territories, here for Academy enrollment."
The scanner chimed. The official's eyes flickered as she reviewed data only she could see, her neural implants displaying information directly onto her visual cortex. Her expression shifted from boredom to mild interest.
"Reinhart territories... that's out in the Centaurus Cluster, correct? Beyond the Meridian Line?"
"Yes." Chris had chosen the location deliberately—a real star cluster, controlled by a real if minor noble family who owed the Lenggrams several substantial favors. If anyone investigated deeply, they'd find documentation showing that Chris was a distant cousin, elevated to Viscount status as a reward for unspecified services to the family. The documentation would withstand anything short of a full Imperial intelligence investigation.
"Says here you're traveling without staff." The official's tone suggested this was unusual.
"I prefer independence."
"Hm." She made a notation in her system. "Most of the Viscounts arrive with at least a few attendants. But it's not against regulations. You're cleared for entry. Your ship will remain in this bay for the duration of your enrollment. Standard security protocols apply—no unauthorized modifications, no weapons discharge, no live ordnance loading without Academy approval. Violation of any of these terms will result in immediate expulsion and potential criminal charges. Do you understand?"
"Understood."
"Welcome to the Imperial Academy, Viscount Reinhart. Try not to cause any incidents." She moved on to the next student before Chris could respond, already bored again.
Chris made his way through the docking bay, observing the other arrivals with systematic attention. The diversity was notable—humans of every genetic variation, some enhanced to the point where their humanity was barely recognizable, others maintaining baseline configurations. Body modifications ranged from subtle to extreme. One student appeared to be more machine than organic, their body replaced with cybernetic components that hummed with barely contained power. Another had skin that shifted colors in response to their emotional state, a biological display system that likely made diplomatic negotiations complicated.
Most, however, looked relatively normal. Enhanced, certainly—baseline humans rarely left their home systems, the rigors of space travel requiring augmentation for all but the shortest trips—but recognizably human. That was a deliberate policy. The Empire officially encouraged diversity while subtly promoting a core human template, preventing speciation while allowing individual variation.
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