Receiving a summons from the Defence Committee was definitely not on his list of things to do for the day. Christian can only watch helplessly as the officers wave themselves into the lab. He vaguely recognises the one with the hat—an unremarkable older man, with pale features and wavy brown hair that looks the colour of strong tea. He’s been to the lab before, usually to escort Christian to any unscheduled meetings with the Committee. There’s a permanent look of boredom on his face as he gives the room a brief once-over before his eyes land on Christian, like being here is below his pay grade. Christian crosses his arms and meets his gaze. This whole situation is below Christian’s pay grade.

The officer Christian doesn’t recognise, on the other hand, is a smaller man with a delicate frame and distinctly less adornments on his uniform. What he lacks in rank though, he makes up for in appearance and overall enthusiasm. In fact, Christian doesn’t think his eyes have stopped moving once since he’d stepped into the lab—flitting from the row of machines that make up one side of the lab to Cal, to the various charts that flicker on all the screens.

Christian sees the exact moment he notices Reina’s little floating experiment. His whole body tenses like he’s about to take a step back, but he catches himself in time. It doesn’t stop the red from tingeing his already sun-warmed cheeks when he notices Christian watching him though.

Christian’s lips twitch but he lets nothing else show on his face before he returns his attention to the more senior officer—one Charles Mazet, if memory serves him correctly.

“Sergeant.” Christian dips his head. “Has something happened? I’m not due for a meeting with the Committee for another two weeks.”

“Astute. But I suppose there has to be a reason the Committee keeps you on their list of consultants.” Christian doesn’t rise to the bait, and Charles sighs, almost as if he’d been itching for a fight. “An emergency meeting’s been called. With the Council. The Defence Committee has been summoned and your presence was requested as well.”

Christian can’t help the frown that tugs at his features. Yes, Christian is a regular consultant on some of the biotechnologies the military is working on, but it’s usually as a second or third opinion. He’s never been involved in anything purely defence-related, it’s simply not his area of expertise. He can also count on one hand the number of times he’s been called upon by the committee outside of their regular meetings. But, who is he to turn down a summons to a full-scale Council meeting?

Shrugging out of his lab coat, which he arranges neatly on his own bench, he gives the Sergeant a curt nod. “Lead the way then. I’m assuming everything about this meeting is to be kept confidential?”

Charles nods. “You know the drill, Doctor. You will be briefed in the hovercraft on the way to the Council chambers. I assume your subordinates know better than to speak about this?”

Christian levels a cool gaze at Charles, his fingers curling deftly into a fist so that he doesn’t do anything stupid. Like strangle the guy. No one gets to speak about his subordinates like that. Except him. And only when they deserve it.

“Of course. Not exactly their first rodeo, is it?” He turns around to look at Reina and Cal, who are watching them with thinly veiled interest. Or blatant interest, on Cal’s part, because no one besides the two of them can interpret his lightning colours. “Take care of the lab. Cal, please keep an eye on Reina. Don’t let her near any sharp objects.”

Reina scowls at him but Cal nods, his thin metallic arms rising in a mock salute as Christian is led away by his escorts. Honestly, two officers is a bit much, he’s just a scientist. Although, they probably saw an opportunity to let the new guy get his feet wet.

Christian takes a moment to study him as they make their way down the hall, taking in the nametag on his uniform that reads Private H. Shirong. It’s not every day that he meets someone new, after all. It doesn’t help that the boy is quite obviously trying, but failing, to not stare at Christian’s cybernetics. Christian is long past feeling self-conscious of them, but he’s always wondered what people think when they notice. Are they curious? Intrigued? Disgusted by the unnatural absence of skin grafts?

Shirong is clearly young, on top of being a fresh recruit. The sheer wonder on his face tells Christian that much. An interesting choice of escort. There’s no way he’d have the clearance to sit in on the briefing later, let alone the actual meeting.

When they’re in the lift, Christian undoes the buttons on his shirt sleeve and folds them back towards his elbow, revealing the entirety of his forearm. The way Shirong’s eyes practically fall out of his head at the sight is almost enough to have Christian losing his composure.

Instead, Christian holds his arm out. Lines of green-blue light race along the surface, emitting a faint glow that is just visible despite the bright lights of the lift. “Never seen one of these before?”

Charles lets out a small scoff, but Christian ignores him in favour of watching Shirong, who has flushed a deep red and is studiously looking everywhere but at Christian.

“I—” Shirong chokes off.

The flush spreads to his ears and Christian is suddenly thrust back in time, to another boy. Another place. He, too, had looked at Christian’s arms and burned a red so bright it had stood out even against his deep, golden skin. He can still see the way that boy’s hands curled into fists by his side, his knuckles a taut white. If Christian thinks hard enough, he can even hear the beep of the machines that were keeping him alive, the scent of the hospital-grade decontamination fluid. Then that boy had looked away, and never looked back.

The sharp pain of that memory is like a knife in his chest, bringing him back to the present. To the blinding white fluorescence of the lift. Christian shakes himself mentally. This is neither the time nor the place for those memories.

Clearing his throat, Shirong speaks again. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. I’ve never—” He swallows, finally meeting Christian’s gaze for all of one second before looking away again. “I don’t think I’ve seen them look like that before. Usually— usually you can’t tell.”

So he’s just curious. Curiosity, Christian can live with. “You’re wondering why I chose to have it look this way instead of like a regular arm.”

Shirong nods, completely unaware of the roiling ire coming off his superior officer in waves.

“I wanted it to be a reminder.” Christian looks back at where Charles is glaring daggers into Shirong’s head before leaning closer. “But that’s a story for another time. I don’t think your commanding officer is very happy with me at the moment.”

Shirong stiffens and Christian has to hold back the urge to laugh at expression Shirong makes when he realises that he’d forgotten he was on duty. Christian can barely remember being that young and joyfully oblivious. He’d miss it, if there’d been enough of it to miss.

Christian casts a glance at Charles.

He looks like he’s a second away from reporting him to the Committee for crimes against ailing military officers and Christian feels a twinge of guilt. Hopefully Shirong doesn’t get too bad of a dressing down after this. Hopefully there isn’t anything in the military code of conduct that says officers aren’t allowed to make small talk.

Stifling a sigh, Christian looks away. Honestly, this isn’t even like him. He isn’t usually this chatty. Or combative. Not towards government officials anyway. He blames it on the weird morning he’s been having.

The lift doors open and Christian straightens up, rolling his sleeves back down as he does. The lobby buzzes with the activity of people headed to work. Groups of people with white coats—either worn over their daily work outfits or slung across their arms—walk past them. The smell of coffee and takeaway breakfast fills the air and Christian’s stomach gives a low rumble. This is his own fault for putting aside food in favour of getting his arm straightened out.

Frosted doors lead out into Hyperion’s perpetual nightscape, which bustles with activity. A surging wave of people in suits, smart business wear and the occasional lab coat crash past them on the sidewalk. The low hum of conversation is a constant backdrop, words barely discernible save for the few people who get close enough.

Christian looks up at the swirling nebulas and tiny pinpricks of faraway stars above them. Hyperion, being one of the first and oldest of humanity’s space ports, is structured like a giant terrarium. Its districts are built atop the flat side of metallic, upside-down, half-dome structures salvaged from the remains of the very first Ark to leave Old Earth during the Evacuation.

Each of these Arks expanded to become Ports that now orbit their targeted sun at just the right distance to sustain life. A true marvel of shield technology and their very own artificial gravity and atmosphere generators. But the absence of a true planetary atmosphere means that there is no sky above them, just the beauty of space. They are also far enough away from their sun that its light barely reaches them, which contributes to Hyperion’s constant twilight.

Of course, the Port simulates day and night cycles easily enough with automatic lighting but it will never come close to being on a planet with actual sunlight and skies. And weather patterns. Not that Christian has experienced these things. He hasn’t set a single foot off Port Hyperion in all of his thirty years. What he knows about weather and the sky comes from archive material—films and books salvaged from Old Earth. Not that he’s watched much of those either.

A military transport carrier waits for them along the sidewalk, its engines on idle as its automatic systems await the return of its driver. No one really drives or flies nowadays though, not with how advanced autopilot technology is. Even personal carriers and vehicles are built with their latest Autonomous Intelligence systems. But someone still has to start the engine and input the coordinates.

The lights along the carrier light up as they get within range. A pale golden glow rings the edge where its bottom thrusters are keeping it hovering within the demarcated landing zone. A coat of arms bearing the Hyperion constellation set within the vee of a rifle and sword crossing—the insignia of Hyperion’s military—flashes a brilliant gold against the side of the carrier before the panelling slides back to reveal a well-furnished interior.

Charles gestures towards the entrance as Shirong makes his way around the vehicle. Despite the cold, metallic exterior of the carrier, the inside is furnished with an oblong table made of warm, polished wood with cushioned, velveteen seats wrapping around three of its edges. Real wood too, not a synthetic as far as Christian can tell.

He resists the urge to wrinkle his nose at the opulent display. He can’t remember the last time he’d seen an entire interior designed with wood as a primary material. With trees as rare as they are on Hyperion, real wood is too expensive to be used in common items. This has to be a diplomatic vessel of some kind. There’s no way the Committee would have spent this much money otherwise.

Inside, there is just enough space for Christian to stand upright. A bit of a tight fit but more than enough space for two people. He edges around the table and settles himself in the far corner, strapping himself in as Charles slips into a seat at closer to the front, by an interior door. He raps on it twice after he straps himself and the main doors slide shut with a soft hiss before the carrier takes off.