Tables of Mass and Blood

A cathedral of vacuumglass and old stone. Banners of rival HOUSES hang beside star-maps. At the center: an OVAL TABLE of black iron inlaid with runes and circuit-traces — the IRON PSALTER, lid open like a reliquary. Its inner surface scrolls names, numbers, timecodes.

LADY CATRIN VALE stands at ease in court blacks. Her gloves are immaculate. A cluster of LORDS and CLERKS circle her like wolves.

Across the room, LEGATE SERA KEST watches, armored, unsmiling.

At the lectern, a SENESCHAL reads.

By petition of House Vale: charter of supply, patronage, and ledger-rights to the Starborn Legion.

Murmurs. A LORD OF HOUSE DURN leans forward.

Ledger-rights? You’d put your seal between the Legion and its bread?

Not between. Beneath. Like a keystone. You want discipline? Discipline is fed.

She gestures — a CLERK slides a thin slate to the Seneschal. The Iron Psalter CHIMES, auto-registering the exhibit.

CATRIN VALE (CONT’D)

Protocol Seven: Any expedition raised under Imperial oath must declare a single supply authority— or every House claims “shortage” when blood is owed.

A LADY OF HOUSE ARK sneers.

Convenient that “single authority” is you.

Convenient that my warehouses already orbit the shipyard. Convenient that my captains answer my writ without bribes. Inconvenient that your rivals will starve this Legion if you don’t bind them.

Kest’s gaze sharpens. Vale meets it — a quiet pact across politics.

CATRIN VALE (CONT’D)

Let the Psalter decide.

She steps to the Iron Psalter, touches the rim— not intimate, ceremonial. A pulse of light. The Psalter projects a COLUMN: CURRENT STORES / REQUIRED STORES. The required line glows red.

CATRIN VALE (CONT’D)

We are short. Not by accident. By design.

The lords shift. That word lands.

CATRIN VALE (CONT’D)

Grant me ledger-rights and I’ll make shortage impossible to pretend. Deny me, and you’ll argue over whose grain is holier while the corridor window closes.

A beat. The Seneschal, reluctant, speaks the formal phrase.

Do you swear your entries to be iron-true? No revision. No mercy.

I swear.

The Psalter ACCEPTS with a harsh metallic TONE.

Kest exhales once. Not relief. Calculation.

A cramped chamber of screens and suspended instruments. Starfield imagery crawls in precise grids. DR. IVO RELLAN sits amid drifting paper-thin data films, eyes bloodshot.

On a monitor: PULSAR CORRIDOR SOLUTION. The numbers flicker. His jaw tightens.

He pulls up two documents side by side:

— NAVIGATION BRIEF (ARCHIVED)

— NAVIGATION BRIEF (CURRENT)

Tiny differences. A single parameter changed: INSERTION PERIAPSIS.

No. No, that’s—

He runs a sim. The corridor path tightens like a noose. The margin band turns from green to a thin, sickly yellow.

A soft CLICK. The door seals. TRIBUNE JANNIK COR enters, boots silent on mag-floor.

You sent for me, Doctor.

IVO doesn’t look up. He points at the screen.

They moved the periapsis. Two point three kilometers deeper at insertion.

That doesn’t sound like much.

In vacuum, “not much” is a funeral with cleaner handwriting.

He flips the sim forward. The ship’s projected stress spikes. A red line stabs upward.

IVO (CONT’D)

Thermal shear at corridor exit. Reaction mass bleed. We’ll compensate with thrust we don’t have— or we’ll come out wrong and the pulsar cadence will tear us like cloth.

COR studies him, then the documents.

Who touched the brief?

It’s signed with the expedition seal. That’s the trick. No name, no hand— just “authorized.”

He enlarges the metadata. A timestamp. His finger trembles.

IVO (CONT’D)

It was altered after today’s court session. Minutes after Lady Vale’s petition hit the Psalter.

You think she did it?

I think someone wants the supplies locked and the trajectory sharpened. Feed the Legion, aim it wrong, and you get… a story.

A martyr story.

IVO turns, finally looking at Cor.

And the Psalter will sing it in perfect numbers.

Cor’s expression hardens into something soldierly and grim.

Can you prove the alteration?

The archived brief is still in the system. But when the Psalter syncs at dawn, the “current” becomes gospel. After that— dissent is heresy.

COR steps closer, voice low.

Then we don’t let dawn take it.

The hall is dim, lit by cold aisle lights. The Iron Psalter sits closed now, like a coffin.

Catrin Vale stands alone at it, listening to the distant hum of station rotation. She places her gloved hand on the lid, feeling its vibration — the coming sync.

Footsteps. Kest enters from shadow.

They granted you the leash.

I prefer “chain.” Leashes imply affection.

The Legion will eat. That matters.

So will where you point it.

Kest stops. The slightest shift — she heard something in that.

What do you know?

Before Vale can answer, the far door hisses. Cor appears with Ivo, moving fast, controlled urgency.

Legate. Lady Vale. We have minutes.

Ivo holds up his films — the two briefs, the altered parameter circled like an accusation.

The navigation brief was changed. It will kill the ship or break it. And the Psalter will sanctify the choice at dawn.

Vale’s eyes flick— not to the data, but to the Psalter. The machine that makes truth into law.

If the Psalter syncs, the court will call it “fate.”

And if we stop the sync?

Then we’re the ones who touched the scripture.

A thin, lethal silence. Rotation hum. The Psalter emits a faint PRE-SYNC TONE, like a distant bell.

Kest steps to the lid, armor whispering. Her hand hovers— not reverent. Commanding.

Doctor. Tribune. Show me the original. Now.

Ivo slides the archived brief to her. Kest reads, quick, ruthless.

KEST (CONT’D)

Vale— can your ledger-rights override a navigation annex?

Vale’s smile is small and sharp.

Protocol cuts both ways, Legate. If you know where to press.

The pre-sync tone grows louder.

Then press it.

Vale removes one glove. Bare fingers to iron. She whispers the formal words, weaponized.

By patronage granted and oath recorded: suspend automatic sync pending clerical dispute.

The Psalter hesitates. Lights stutter. A warning rune flares: DISPUTE REGISTERED.

Cor exhales. Ivo’s shoulders drop— only a fraction.

Then the Psalter prints a new line in cold light:

DISPUTE FILED — AUTHORITY TRACE REQUIRED.

Kest looks from the words to their faces.

It won’t just kill a ship. It’ll name whoever tried.

Vale slips her glove back on, eyes on the glowing line like it’s a blade.

Good. Let it.

The hall fills with the hard, patient sound of the Psalter waiting to be fed truth.