The central hanger was clean and featureless as to be expected. If he had his preferences, he might have more appreciated the functional and striking aesthetic of the open view from the transparent airlocks of a carrier, the long walkway floating among the stars. Perhaps. If he hadn't been raised in a claustrophobic underground complex.

Two officers were waiting at attention in the mostly empty space, standing a distance specified in an operating procedure manual appropriate for the circumstance and the docking code used. A blonde traffic controller in her greys. The other, Captain Teram Baker, a man built like a marine in a grey naval uniform; tall, lean, square jaw, and a brown regulation haircut with somewhat flinty eyes. The Operative approached them.

"Ensign," he acknowledged. She processed his identification with an attitude that could only be described as politely bored, and almost managed mild surprise when she saw his full security clearance. She hesitantly saluted, and he inwardly sighed at the all-too-familiar confusion. "I have no rank," he explained to her, before she could attempt to ask. "Nor any name, and you would be advised, after this conversation, to consider that I am a figment of your imagination." Little more than a shadow, easily forgotten, and if what he'd heard about this facility was accurate, everyone stationed here was heavily modified and could be remote wiped or commanded as necessary. Parliament was very serious about controlling dangerous information and security leaks, and almost as serious about not wasting any more resources than they had to.

"O-of course," she answered, dubiously, and carefully swallowed the 'sir' that she was trained to add. She exchanged a look and a nod with her supervisor, and was dismissed. They none of them had any idea how easily they could disappear.

He was on the clock now. Nine hours from that reading, a notification from over the cortex would reach the citadel on Londinium, confirm