The summons to the mid-level administrative offices arrived precisely ten minutes after the morning meal shift.
It was delivered by a young runner who refused to look me in the eye, simply handing me a stiff square of paper with Beta Vance's seal pressed into the wax. I knew Vance. He was the under-secretary of internal logistics, a man whose entire career was built on his unwavering, sycophantic loyalty to Luna Mira. He was an administrator who wielded paperwork like a blunt instrument, and a summons from his office was never a request for clarification. It was a trap.
I left my apron on its hook in the deep pantry, smoothed the front of my grey wool dress, and began the ascent.
The mid-level administrative floor was a stifling contrast to the subterranean cold. The air here was artifi
