Althea stood in the president's office, in her usual place at the door. Her muscles were sore after two hours in the training ring earlier that morning, but she pushed away the pain and stood at attention in the stiff-necked Paragon uniform, her four-barrel rifle hanging heavy at her hip.

At his desk, the president was surrounded by his usual entourage, listening to updates about a recent trade scuffle over timber. Vice-President Tae stood fixed at his side, an immovable object. Her remaining eye gave nothing away as it scanned the room.

Althea liked quiet days like these when her father reviewed policies and legislation—even though it made her feet hurt to stand in the same spot for so long.

She straightened the square black Paragon pin on her lapel. It gave her a surge of pride to wear it—to be part of the institution that brought peace to the ever-warring factions of Meraki.

Someone gave a quiet snort of disapproval.

Althea's twin brother Nathaniel leaned against the far wall, half-concealed in the shadows. For every ounce of Paragon loyalty that Althea had, Nathaniel had a pound of skepticism. 

There was a nasty blue bruise on his chin from sparring last week—their father's doing, not hers. When Althea and Nathaniel sparred in the ring, they never struck each other. They always stopped short, hovering just above the skin. Their father used to be the same—he would hold back during practice...but not anymore.

"Starched your shirt again, I see," he said with a drawl.

Althea stared resolutely ahead, trying to look unbothered. "Yes. I take care of the uniform, Nathaniel." She muttered out of the side of her mouth—they couldn't let their father hear them bickering.

"It looks uncomfortable," said Nathaniel.

"It isn't."

(It was.)

"Maybe you're using too much starch."

Althea's nostrils flared. She wouldn't let him get under her skin.

Nathaniel scratched at his cheek, where a thin layer of white-blond scruff had appeared. "Too much starch causes itchiness and irritation, you know."

"You don't say."

"And it shortens the life of the clothes."

"I'll make a note."

"You should. It's a great tip."

She shot him an accusing look. "We're supposed to be silent, you know. We're on duty." She glanced back at their father, who thankfully hadn't noticed their whispers.

He shrugged. "We're the president's kids, here to keep up appearances. They keep the proper soldiers stationed outside."

She scowled at him. "How we behave matters."

"Riiiight," he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

They returned to silence, and Althea was glad for it. Nathaniel didn't take their roles seriously, but someday they might run the Paragon and she wanted to be a good leader. That meant starting here, as a humble guard, and working her way up. She wished she could make Nathaniel try a little harder, but she'd had no success for the last sixteen years. Frustrated but determined not to let him ruin her day, Althea returned her attention to their father.

President Emory Glass sifted through a thick folder, a heavy scowl on his face. As usual, a team of stylists had teased his thin flaxen hair into place and added a touch of rouge to his otherwise colourless cheeks. His mouth and eyes were pinched with wrinkles, which had only become more increasingly pronounced since the Settlement tragedy eight years ago—the one that had claimed the Lady Sofia.

Althea's father had never recovered from that, not really. His temper now went unchecked, any shred of kindness thrown by the wayside. He was all hard edges without Althea and Nathaniel's kind-hearted mother.

"We have the delegates luncheon at one o'clock," the president's assistant was saying. "Regarding the Raintown project."

"Good—we need their funding support. Let's allow them thirty minutes, but not a second more. I can't bear the mindless drivel."

"We have a natural out. You're giving a welcome speech to the new military recruits at two o'clock."

"Excellent, excellent..."

A runner appeared, out of breath, at Althea's side. He nodded a quick greeting to her. Everyone knew Althea in these parts: the president's tight-lipped but kind-enough daughter.

She nodded back. The runner took a moment to adjust his uniform, then stepped forward.

A few of the president's entourage gave him a cursory glance before returning to their discussions, although at a lower volume so that the runner could make his report. The president didn't bother looking up. He waved a hand. "Go ahead."

"Sir, a report from the Tystead command post. They expected a shipment of propellers from the Venture factories two days ago," the runner reported. "But it appears the shipments were intercepted. The propellers never arrived at Tystead."

"Pirates," the president growled.

"Yes, sir. That's what the representatives believe. There's been another report from Bridgemount, sir—"

"Another?" He was angry now. Hearing the angry edge to the president's voice, the entourage behind him fell silent—they were well trained.

"Yes, sir," the runner continued, his voice shaking. "Unfortunately, there's been another hold-up at the bank..."

The president's fist tightened, crumpling the paper in his hand. "How much?"

The runner swallowed hard, looking more uncomfortable by the second. "Twelve thousand pounds, sir."

"Filthy bottom-feeders!" The president slammed a fist down on his desk, upsetting his inkwell. His assistant pressed a piece of cloth down on it, quick as a flash, and staunched the flow.

Tae alone seemed unmoved by the president's outburst. She eyed the runner lazily.

President Glass noticed that the runner was still waiting. "...there's more?"

"There's been a break-in at the Ice Gate outpost, sir."

"What do you mean? The outpost itself?"

"Yes, sir. They infiltrated the supply depot and took all of the Aravid medication."

"Medicine for Withering Lung," Tae said.

"Three robberies in one day..." The president turned to his entourage, who flinched back. "Have we given up our defences completely? Have we decided to throw in the towel and let anyone have our supplies?"

He whipped back around to the runner, his lips little more than a thin line. "Well? What else?"

"We have a thorough description of the ship and the thieves, sir. Apparently, er...it was a young girl—"

The president's face went bright red.

"—and an automaton."

Althea's eyes went wide. They'd destroyed all of Yugoslav's automatons, hadn't they? Althea's grandfather, President Maxwell Glass, had seen to it.

She could almost see the plumes of steam coming from her father's ears.

"That's it!" he roared. "Turn Ice Gate upside down! Double our soldiers in Tystead! Make it known that the Paragon does not abide pirates, and it certainly doesn't abide automatons! This reign of terror ends now!"