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The space traffic control room was as quiet as an old sleepy cat. Computers and sensors were gently purring in the faint reddish hue of the room, designed to simulate the night time : a necessity in regards to maintaining the circadian rhythm.

There was, of course, no traffic. The 4 to 8 shift was terribly placed in regards to sleeping patterns, but it was widely considered as the most peaceful one. Many of the less professional sailors sneaked in a few naps during their shifts, with their superiors being none the wiser for it.

The two men on the watch this night were professionals. One of them, a quartier-maître, was having a hard time not dosing off in the face of such relentless tranquillity. The more experienced maître principal had just entered the room with two coffees and croissants.

"Merci, Cipal."
"De rien."
"Two more hours, right ?"
"Right."

The monitors insisted upon remaining still, as various sensors searched through the endless night. Breakfast on those empty stomachs and dry mouths came as a great relief. Suddenly, those two hours seemed so insignificant, when they felt so far away a moment before.

"What's on the menu for today, Cipal ?"
The older sailor pointed towards the white board fixated to one of the bulkheads. It was the list of all programmed inbound and outbound flights, displayed for each shift. The 4 to 8 was hopelessly empty. But then again, the rest of the day wasn't going to be particularly intensive, either. The quartier-maître noticed one name on the shift just after theirs. It had been written with a red marker, with "Sirian" in parenthesis. Unusual. Cordes used to be a huge communication hub as the one antichamber between Gallia and Sirius. It was a constant flow of ships of all types. Then the Languedoc gate in Tau 23 was completed, and no one bothered much with Orkney anymore. That a Sirian would go out of their way to come here... The quartier-maître's gaze lingered on the name.

"Hookieur...?" he murmured.
"Don't ask. Sirians." the maître principal simply replied.

"We hear you. Standby for pressurisation" came the curt reply.
Soon afterwards, the docking hatches opened, revealing two sailors in clearly freshly pressed uniforms. Not the usual (and still quite elegant, this being the Gallic navy) coveralls worn for day to day service onboard one such station. Both of them were quite tall, one clean-shaven and of friendly dispositions, the other bearded and significantly more taciturn. They stood at attention, waiting for their guest to enter.

"Welcome to Cordes outpost, madame Hookieur. I hope your transit was pleasant enough" said the friendly one, trying his best and failing at not overgaulifying her name.
The taciturn merely nodded at her politely, and gestured at the corridor next to them. "They're expecting you."
They walked alongside her, keeping a respectful distance, their demeanor neither cold nor especially warm. They weren't even armed... Nor were they particularly talkative.

A minute passed as they traveled through the same grey tunnel, passing by a few of their colleagues in blue coveralls, whom they promptly greeted along the way. Startled looks were directed both at them and at their guest : most of them knew their way around flight suits and noticed the expensive, custom design Sombra was sporting. No one asked questions, or even said anything beyond the usual greetings. She even got a few awkward but cordial "Bonjour" aimed at her. Cordes outpost still had a few functions, but it clearly wasn't accustomed to visits from the outside.

Pictures and paintings of various ships, monuments and famous admirals started lining up the walls they passed on their way, indicating they had left the operations area in favour of the administrative quarters. Bulkheads and hatches gave way to walls and doors. They passed the mess hall, the recreation centre, the bar... And stopped at a closed door with a sign reading "Salle de conférence".

The taciturn sailor issued three sharp knocks on the door, opened it slightly, leaned in, whispered a few words, then moved back.
"They're ready for you, madame Hookié" he said, evidently puzzled at the name.
"After you, if you please" the friendly one said, as he opened the door and gestured Sombra in.

The room was simple enough. A fairly small, round mahogany table with similar chairs surrounding it. Directly facing the door was one woman, already sitting and in front of a closed folder. And the rest of the room was empty, save for a large reproduction of a Claude-Joseph Vernet painting that took up almost the entire wall on the left. The woman was of a slender build, advancing years and possessed short dark hair and piercing grey eyes. She wore an elegant uniform vest and stars on her rank slides. She didn't stand up.

"This is Sombra Hookieur, as you requested..." said the friendly one.

She waved curtly at Sombra's escorts. "Thank you. You are dismissed."
They replied "Oui, amiral" in unison, stood briefly at attention and exited the room, closing the door behind them and leaving the two women inside.

"Bonjour, mademoiselle Hookier. Good of you to have accepted my invitation. Please, sit. Coffee ?" said Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup.

Chanteloup took an instant liking to the girl, not that she'd ever admit this to anyone - including herself. There was something in her playful, irreverent manner that the amiral wasn't accustomed to in such circumstances - and she had given a lot of those interviews. None of that air of superiority affected by those who thought themselves beyond every rule, every system, but not that shy, defeated air worn by sheep headed to the slaughter, either. She despised both.

She almost looks like she's happy to be here, Chanteloup thought with some surprise. Not many people were happy to see her, usually. As she unraveled these thoughts, she had pressed the intercom, barked "deux cafés, immédiatement" and took hold of the steaming cup her aide-de-camp brought her. He, a ravishing if utterly terrified young man, then moved up to Sombra and placed a similar cup in front of her, with a smile that could either mean "please get me out of here" or "I'm so sorry you're here".

He exited as quickly as he entered. Chanteloup had not taken her gaze off Sombra.

"Gallia is governed by the principle of efficiency, mademoiselle Hookier. I, for one, consider it one of the two cornerstones of any civilisation worth a footnote in history. I've not had the chance to engage in... Administrative procedures (she had pronounced those words as though they had just pissed in her coffee) with other nations, but I'm not surprised by your estimations. There's a reason we're winning this war." She brought the still steaming cup to her lips with alarming speed, yet not a drop was lost.

Putting the cup down, she eyed the folder in front of her for one second, then shifted her focus back to her vis-à-vis.
"There's going to be a slight shift from the standard procedure in your case. As you rightfully pointed out, we do not usually task our amiraux on such measly busywork as visa interview... Let alone chiefs of staff."

She pushed the folder towards Sombra. The front cover simply read "VERTIGA". Not especially thick, it contained the reports, sightings, pictures and other evidence of the Apahanta's appearances obtained by Gallic military intelligence during the past few months. It also featured a very unflattering picture of the man himself. Sketchy and unsubstantiated stuff for the most part, despite the usual thoroughness of the service.

"I have not introduced myself yet. My name is Isabelle Montlaville de Chanteloup. I run the Marine Royale Gauloise. And I need you to tell me a few things about your master. Once this is done, you'll be free to go, and with your visa in the pocket."

She went from her somewhat relaxed stance to a more intense one, as she leaned forward, joined her hands and pierced Sombra's eyes, without hostility - merely purpose.
"Those are my terms. Do you have any ?"

Chanteloup had expected this part to be the tipping point of the interview. There was barely any record of Sombra Hookier in Gallic databases outside of open source intelligence, save for her association with the wild card that was Vertiga. As such, the amiral wasn't sure how suspicious her guest had been before she arrived in Cordes. Not a whole lot, it turned out. This would make both their lives much easier, although in different ways. Sombra's question was not unexpected, and she was correct ; the only time Gallia had, in recent memory, interacted with Vertiga resulted in a significant success, with the acquisition of precious technologies and the consolidation of Gallo-Core ties. And that had been it ; Vertiga had virtually vanished afterwards. And not only virtually, according to some extravagant rumours. The Roi could never abide mysteries.

Chanteloup kept her forward stance for a bit, staying silent following Sombra's question. Gauging her, surveying whatever may lay in those eyes, those features. Then she relaxed, sat back in her seat, a touch of softness returning to her previously intense and sharpened traits. She laid a hand on her cup and spoke.
"You may. And no, Ezrael Vertiga is not in any real trouble, stricto sensu. He just managed to get the personal attention of some people that find themselves above me in the hierarchy. There aren't many. Some might say that, in itself, is already being in trouble, however." She barked one of her sudden, somewhat cruel laughters. As usual, it disappeared as quickly as it happened.

"Gallia is not out to kill him, and I haven't been ordered to use you to get to him and kill you both with one bullet, to get the éléphant blanc out of the room. I suppose, given the nature of this interview, you have the right to know that he's not been targetted for what we call kinetic purposes, but for influence. Like you said, the one time my organisation collaborated with his, everyone went home happy and wealthy. I like wealth, and happiness sounds lovely. It appears Gallia's thinking heads share the sentiment, and they demanded to know what became of the jovial adventurer."
She smirked and pointed at herself. "Et voilà."

Chanteloup hoped this would be enough to put the girl's fears to rest. It was a good chunk of the truth, too, more than she usually served to her guests.

"Let's start with something easy. Where is your master as of this moment, and what has he been up to ?"

Chanteloup nodded, ever so slightly, taking in Sombra's response. She thoughtfully tapped her fingers on the desk, as her gaze lingered on the Vernet painting.
"Hmmm... Precious few connections, risk averse... Wouldn't risk it..." she muttered, mostly to herself, because turning her attention back to Sombra.

"Unnecessary conflicts, you say. That's interesting. What do you reckon your master considers a necessary conflict, then ? For what reason, to what end would he risk his precious ship and the people living in it ? You mentioned neutrality... What would be likely to draw him out of that ?"

She had all but forgotten her untouched coffee.