A mid-level officer, a major, came running up to him, stopped short and clumsily went to attention and saluted, exclaiming, "Herr General! What are you doing here!?"

The General jabbed the officer in the chest with his finger and said, "Either you bring him to me, you take me to him, or else I'll have you shot!"

The officer blanched and stammered, "Come, come this way, Herr General."

Amid the flashing warning lights and whining alarm, a voice over the intercom said, "Attention. Level 1, Level 2 and Level 3 personnel are ordered to evacuate the facility. Repeat, Level 1, Level 2 and Level 3 personnel are ordered to evacuate the facility. This is not a drill. This is not a drill."

Eventually they reached the Central Block, where the Core Unit was housed and Director Patil was most likely to be found if he was doing his job. The officer tried operating the panel to open the door, but a buzzer sounded, rejecting his inputs.

To one of his bodyguards, the General said, "Blady, motivate this gentleman."

Panicked, the officer cried, "I'm doing it! I'm doing it!"

If the little worm would just follow orders, the General would not have to resort to such methods. It was his own fault.

The officer ran the override and opened the door, but on the other side was a wall with two other doors waiting for them.

They went in the right-side door into a changing room with rows of little squarish lockers to the left and the right. The General stretched out his arms and two of his bodyguards went to work undressing him. The officer simply stood there gaping, as if he had never seen anything like it before. Someone like him was probably never going to rise high enough in the ranks to have orderlies attend on him.

The General disinterestedly watched the officer fumblingly undress himself. Skinny limbs, a babyish roll of fat about the middle. It would be a wonder if he met physical requirements. The General did not have much room to speak, though. When he was younger, he was a fine specimen of physical fitness, but age and rank steadily overcame him so that whenever he looked at himself in the mirror, he could only feel the cruelty of gravity bringing everything down.

They bodyguards were out of their uniforms in no time at all, as you would expect from first-rate soldiers at their peak. They efficiently stowed their uniforms and the General's in the lockers.

The officer noted the bodyguards still carrying their sidearms and said, "You cannot bring any foreign object inside. The system won't allow it and I can't override it."

The General nodded to the bodyguards and they stowed their sidearms as well. He was not worried. They were more than capable in hand-to-hand combat if it came to that. There was also the possibility of improvised weapons if they needed them.

After the officer went in, the light turned red. In his head, General Dubcic was counting the seconds. While he was doing that, he said to his bodyguards, "We don't have time to dawdle. When I get through, I'm going on ahead. You boys be sure to catch up."

The light above the door turned green. Two minutes, thirty seconds. Not any ten minutes at all. Maybe the officer was thinking about the time for all of them, but even that would have been wrong. Did they not teach math in the Science Corps these days?

The door opened automatically as the General approached. Beyond was a chamber with what looked like spider legs descending from the ceiling. It appeared to be the same basic design as the decon chambers on their spaceships. The procedure would be familiar then.

A computer voice said, "Please proceed to the yellow line."

He did so.

"Initial rinse cycle beginning in 3, 2, 1..."

The spider legs danced about spraying every millimeter of the General's body with jets of a special solvent people would just call 'water' for simplicity's sake. It was a few degrees above body temperature and the intensity was just enough to sting your more sensitive anatomy.

Once that was done, the voice then said, "Applying antimicrobial foam."

Next was the 'soap'. Compared to the 'water', it felt more pleasant on first contact, but then it started to burn as the chemicals went to work. Again, it was more of a mild discomfort, but there were some people who developed an allergic reaction to the foam. Oftentimes such personnel would have to be reassigned to a post that did not require frequent decontamination. It could be a career killer for some.

For Level 3 decontamination, there were five more cycles. He was not even sure what all went into Level 4. At that point, why bother sending in organics at all?

When the rinse cycle ended, the voice then said, "Initiating drying cycle."

Even with his eyes closed, he could see the the red glare of the heat lamps. They were precisely timed to evaporate any residual 'water' and cut out before your body could start to sweat. It was over in about five seconds.

He did.

A trail of lights in the floor pointed him to the exit, as if anyone would get turned around during the decon process.

When he exited the decon chamber, a small bundle wrapped in plastic descended from a chute to his left. It was a disposable jumpsuit and a pair of slippers. The officer was already dressed and standing uncomfortably at attention. General Dubcic could have told him to stand at ease, but why bother?

The jumpsuit was rather sturdy for a disposable, being made of a special carbon fiber weave that nanomachines would break down and reconstitute after going through decontamination. For that matter, the plastic wrapping was recyclable by the nanomachine colonies, contributing to the facility's 98.7% self-sustainability. Back when the General worked in Logistics, this sort of thing was all he would think about.

Once he was dressed, General Dubcic told the officer, "Let's get going."

The officer led the General to the central control room. Inside was a scene of pure chaos, panicked technicians at their consoles shouting over each other and Director Patil standing there in middle of it. Patil did not even notice the General enter until the officer approached him.

Director Patil furrowed his brow at the sight of the General.

Even though the Director was a general officer himself, it was nevertheless customary for the junior to address the senior as 'Herr General' the same as any subordinate would. The Science Corps was notoriously lax when it came to customs and courtesies, though. It was, however, a trivial concern at the moment.

"Planetbound Core Units like this one have no way to leave, unless they can somehow break containment, which is what we're trying to keep from happening. They seem desperate, as if time is running out for them."

General Dubcic narrowed his eyes as the Director and said, "Watch yourself, Patil. You are dangerously close to saying something you can't take back."

Where the hell was the political officer? If he was here doing his job, the Director would not have such loose lips.

Director Patil was undaunted and said, "My only concern is for the Imperial citizens whose lives are at stake here. Order the evacuation, General."

Did he not see the trap he had walked into? Was he that blind?

General Dubcic was willing to forgive the Director's insubordination if he would show the good sense to take this opportunity offered to him.

Either he did not see it or he deliberately kept his foot firmly planted in the trap he had made for himself.

So that was it then. General Dubcic glanced over his shoulder to see his bodyguards standing at parade rest behind him.

Blady went forward, put Director Patil in a headlock and with a swift, sharp motion, broke his neck. He dropped the body to the floor amidst frightened gasps and quailing from the technicians.

The technician gave him an awkward look and said, "Sir, this isn't a comms console."

The General glared at the commo operator and barked, "Why the hell didn't you speak up!?"

General Dubcic snatched the headset off the operator and said into the mic, "This is General Dubcic, Chief of Staff for Military Affairs. Director Patil has just been relieved of his command. That puts you in charge. In the name of His Majesty the Emperor, I'm ordering you to terminate the Core Unit immediately."

Damn Arcanists had a habit of being too big for their britches, but they were too valuable to kill out of hand like the dearly departed Director Patil.

General Dubcic waited impatiently for Assistant Director Grummond to arrive. Two figures in Level 3 hazmat suits entered the control room a few minutes later. They took off their masks to reveal a hard-faced man and a boy still in his teens. The hard-faced man—Grummond, apparently—looked at Director Patil's body on the floor and then to the General.

Ignoring the fact that Grummond failed to address him as 'Herr General' or even just 'sir', General Dubcic said, "The situation is out of control. I want it in control and now."

The General nodded to Director Patil's body.

Grummond eyed the General's bodyguards and said, "It would be a mistake to think me as defenseless as Vikram. Do you know what an Arcanist is capable of? I could boil the blood in your veins, fry your entrails in your own belly fat or command your skeleton to tear its way out of your flesh. When weighed against all life on this planet, your existence is very small, General."

The General cursed himself for it, but he reflexively took a step back. He did not really understand any of the Arcana nonsense and the natural response to the unknown was fear. The General had his bodyguards and Grummond had whatever strange abilities made him an Arcanist. In a contest between their respective powers, who would win?

The question did not have the opportunity to be tested because a new, more urgent alarm sounded.

It was too late.

There was an ear-piercing screech as a brilliant light devoured everything.