Chapter 10 · Bureaucracy in Bloom

Eli had always liked the days before a new assignment — that nervous balance between readiness and the unknown.

But preparing to teach Basic at Naporar felt different.

He wasn’t briefing soldiers or cadets; he was preparing to stand in front of Chiss officers, to teach them the words of a language born from chaos and empire.

He’d started drafting lessons on his questis: simple syntax, pronunciation rules, idioms that could survive translation.

On a separate page he kept a private list labeled Do Not Teach Yet — Imperial slang, command phrases, and tactical speech patterns that could mean more than they seemed.

Stent hadn’t ordered him to make that list. Eli had done it instinctively, already aware that every word he gave away was a form of currency.

Zisera entered the room quietly, her footfalls soft as thought. “Lesson planning,” she said.

“Trying to make sure I don’t start a diplomatic incident,” Eli said.

She tilted her head. “Do your languages often begin that way?”

“More often than you’d think.”

She came closer, scanning the notes projected above his desk. “You begin with command structures?”

He nodded. “It’s how we think. You want to understand humans, start with who’s in charge.”

“That explains much,” she murmured, studying the word sir on his list, then ma’am. “Gender distinctions again.”

He smiled faintly. “We seem to like dividing things that don’t need dividing.”

Zisera’s gaze lingered on the screen longer than usual, as if the glowing words were giving her cover to think.

Finally she said, “You will have an audience of twenty. Senior cadets, two flight instructors, one Syndicure observer.”

Eli looked up sharply. “Observer?”

“Officially, for academic review,” she said. “Unofficially, for evaluation.”

He set down the stylus slowly. “They want to see if I’m a threat.”

“They want to see if you are controllable,” she corrected.

He gave a small, humorless laugh. “Comforting.”

“It is not meant to be.”

He leaned back. “Did they tell you to warn me?”

She hesitated, then said, “They did not forbid it.”

The next few days blurred into rehearsed sentences and careful restraint.

Eli practiced aloud when alone, testing words for tone. He’d never realized how militarized Basic sounded until he tried to teach it — all sharp commands and clipped hierarchies.

Meanwhile, Zisera’s behavior shifted. Nothing dramatic; she simply became more precise, as if her every movement were under scrutiny.

She spent longer reviewing her reports before transmission, reading them twice, sometimes three times, before sealing them with her signature.

Eli noticed.

“Getting more audits lately?” he asked one evening.

She didn’t look up from her work. “The Syndicure believes attention prevents deviation.”

“Does it?”

“It prevents honesty,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear.

He blinked. “That sounds almost rebellious.”

“It is factual,” she replied, but the faintest wry curve touched her mouth.

On the morning before his first class, Eli found her already in the common room, checking the environmental readouts on her questis. Temperature settings had been altered to Eli’s comfort, raising his room by a couple degrees.

“You’re early,” he said.

“I will attend the first session,” she said without looking up. “To ensure protocol compliance.”

“Or to make sure I don’t offend anyone?”

“That would also be protocol compliance.”

He chuckled softly. “You ever get tired of keeping me out of trouble?”

Her gaze flicked to him, level and unreadable. “Often,” she said. “But it is preferable to explaining your behavior to the Syndicure.”

He grinned. “Fair point.”

She studied him for a moment longer, then said, “Eli—” It was the first time she’d dropped his title.

He froze, startled by the sound of his name spoken in her accent.

“Yes?”

She seemed to weigh the next words carefully. “The Syndicure is not a single will. It is a collection of voices—loud, discordant, competing. They envy what the Fleet controls but cannot command it. Be cautious how you show them your knowledge. They will measure you by how well you hold it back.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s good advice.”

“It is not advice,” she said. “It is warning.”

Then, quieter: “If their questions grow intrusive, defer to me. My duty is to absorb their attention before it reaches you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. Gratitude would sound too human, too fragile for her precision. So he just said, “Understood.”

Her gaze softened a fraction. “Good. Then you are ready.”

When she left, Eli sat alone for a long time, staring at the lesson plan glowing on his questis.

Rows of words in Basic and Cheunh reflected faintly in his eyes: we, us, they.

So simple in one language, so treacherous in another.

He wondered which version the Syndicure preferred.

The lecture hall had been polished to mirror perfection.

Every surface gleamed; every light burned in the Ascendancy’s signature blue-white hue that made human skin look faintly translucent. Two banners hung at the front—one bearing the symbol of the Defense Hierarchy, the other the seal of the Syndicure.

Eli tried not to think too much about the second.

He stood by the podium, reviewing his notes one last time while cadets filed in with quiet efficiency. Twenty of them, as Zisera had said, their uniforms immaculate, their eyes bright with restrained curiosity.

Zisera was already seated along the side row, posture perfect, questis in hand. Behind her, Stent leaned against the rear wall with the calm of a man pretending to be uninterested.

And then the Syndics arrived.

Two of them.

The first was a tall, narrow figure with the silver insignia of House Mitth—Councilor Mitth’arn’thari, if Eli remembered correctly. The second wore the bronze of House Chaff, Councilor Chaff’ael’riin. Their presence together was unusual enough to make the cadets sit even straighter.

Zisera inclined her head, composed but cautious.

The Syndics acknowledged her briefly, then took seats beside the central aisle, folding their robes with the kind of precision that implied both rank and scrutiny.

Eli swallowed, squared his shoulders, and began.

“Good morning,” he said in Basic, then repeated it in Cheunh. “Today’s lesson is an introduction to Imperial Basic—a language designed for communication across diversity.”

The room was quiet, disciplined. He continued, keeping his voice steady.

“Basic is functional. Direct. It values clarity over nuance. Words don’t carry as much hierarchy as Cheunh does. The way you speak to an admiral is almost the same way you’d speak to a merchant. The context gives respect, not the grammar.”

A few cadets exchanged discreet glances; the concept was alien to them.

Eli smiled faintly. “In the Empire, this makes things efficient. In the Ascendancy, it would probably make them chaotic.”

A flicker of amusement passed through the room, even from Zisera—subtle, but there.

He walked to the board and wrote three words in glowing blue script: I – We – They.

“These,” he said, “are simple pronouns. But they reveal how a culture thinks about belonging.”

He turned, gesturing toward the class. “In Basic, I is personal. Independent. We includes everyone in your group. They means everyone outside of it. Simple, yes?”

Nods.

“In Cheunh,” he went on, “you have more options. You have an inclusive and an exclusive we. You choose whether the listener belongs in your circle or not. It’s deliberate. It’s… political.”

A low murmur rippled among the cadets. Even the Syndics leaned slightly forward.

“Language,” Eli said, “is how a people decide who gets to stand beside them.”

He wrote another set of words beneath: Command – Request – Question.

“In Basic, tone decides which is which. In Cheunh, it’s grammar. In the Empire, we assume that command is the default. In the Ascendancy—” he paused, glancing toward Zisera, “—obedience seems to be built from mutual expectation.”

Zisera’s gaze flicked sharply to him—warning.

But it was too late; one of the Syndics had already spoken.

“Are you suggesting, Lieutenant,” said Chaf’ael’riin, her voice smooth as polished stone, “that the Ascendancy’s command structure is negotiable?”

Eli froze for a heartbeat. The cadets went still.

He caught Zisera’s eyes. She gave no signal, no help—just composure. This was his test.

He took a slow breath. “Not negotiable,” he said finally. “Collaborative. In Basic, authority is expressed. In Cheunh, it’s assumed. You don’t need to prove it; it’s already woven into the structure. That’s not weakness. That’s stability.”

The Syndic regarded him for a long, assessing moment. “A curious perspective.”

The other Syndic, Mitth’arn’thari, spoke next. “And where would you say the Empire places its stability?”

“In control,” Eli said simply. “In ensuring that words move only in one direction. Orders flow downward, responsibility upward.”

“And in the Ascendancy?”

“In conversation,” he said. “Orders here feel like dialogue that’s already been decided.”

A few cadets looked almost startled. Zisera’s stylus stopped mid-note.

Mitth’arn’thari’s eyes narrowed faintly. “You speak boldly, Lieutenant Vanto.”

“I’m teaching language, not politics,” he said, smiling faintly. “But sometimes they’re the same lesson.”

When the class ended, the Syndics rose together.

Councilor Chaf’ael’riin said nothing, only inclined her head with perfect civility.

Councilor Mitth’arn’thari lingered a moment longer, gaze fixed on Eli. “The Empire taught you to survive. The Ascendancy may yet teach you discretion.”

“Understood, Councilor.”

The Syndic’s lips curved in something that might have been approval—or warning. Then they left.

The cadets exhaled collectively, like an engine venting pressure.

Zisera stood, her expression unreadable. “You were precise,” she said.

“I was diplomatic.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“Maybe not,” Eli said, “but it worked.”

Stent approached from the back, expression impassive but eyes glinting with restrained amusement. “You made them think, Lieutenant. That’s almost dangerous.”

“Almost?”

Stent’s tone dropped to something quieter. “Do not do it twice in one day.”

Later that evening, Zisera sat at her console, drafting her report.

She summarized the event exactly as it had happened: content, attendance, observations.

But when she reached the section titled Instructor Evaluation, she hesitated, stylus hovering.

Finally, she wrote:
The liaison exhibits clarity, restraint, and dangerous honesty. Recommend continued supervision, not correction.

She read it twice before signing.

Ar’Irizi’ser’ali.

Then, for the first time in her career, she added a single sentence not required by regulation:

He speaks as though he remembers a truth we have forgotten.