Grey shadows—attackers!—and he hurled the black sheet off his body, kicked out, stabbed with his fingertips— No-one there. Sylvana…Fate, had he spoken aloud? In one corner, a glowing tricon slowly revolved. Shaded apologetic green, it nevertheless required his presence in kitchens-admin right now. Groaning, he slid from the bed, fought down a curse as his toes knocked against one of his packed bags. The room's illumination grew bright. Chaos! Three hours before dawn-light. Gritty-eyed, he dressed and made his way to the office suite: fluted columns of dark blue glass, a basalt freeform sculpture; Chef-Steward Malkoril blearily sitting in his obsidian chair. “Sorry, Tom. But the others were working very late.” “Sir.” “It's only a food order. But I want you to take a drone, and one of Milran's Dragoons as escort.”
