Page 1 of The Sovereign: Part One
Chapter One
Perfection is a prison, and I was about to lock myself inside.
In the words of one of my beloved Tier Four professors, Dr.Aja Eloi, the future had arrived with a whisper.I’d always taken that to mean it rarely announced itself, that change slipped quietly into the seams of life until you only recognized it in hindsight.I repeated the idea often, maybe even championed it.But as it turned out, the week that would change the trajectory of my life began not with a whisper, but with the soft hum of the chicory dispenser in a Hyperion breakroom.
Not to be confused with Hyperion Systems, the tech giant, but the city-state its board of directors had carved from what was once Central North America nearly two centuries before.Most used the terms interchangeably, but they weren’t the same.One governed.The other ruled.And every Sovereign understood the difference.
Specifically, I was on the forty-second floor of the Dominion Building, home to my office, the civil sector, and a rotating cast of idealists trying to improve Sovereign-Supplicant relations.Also, the only floor where breakroom chicory didn’t taste like despair.
Once the cycle finished, I clasped my cresk, the heat radiating into my palms as I took a long sip.The chicory was flawless—rich, smooth, and perfectly calibrated.Yet somehow, that perfection made it feel hollow, a carefully crafted imitation of the coffee once cherished in the old world.
I lowered the cresk to the counter, its faint clink punctuating my thoughts.
“It’s not as if you haven’t dreamed about this week your entire childhood,” Bellam said, her normally serene blue irises flickering with concern.She leaned against the counter, her tightly coiled caramel tendrils framing her face.
“I’m allowed to feel nervous, Bell,” I said, mildly defensive.“After eleven months of cataloging every nuance of your psyche, every instinct, every flaw, and every preference just for it to all come down to one final result—one that you live with for the rest of your life.We’ll see how calm you are when your Veritas is ending.”
“It has to begin, first,” she sighed.
I chuckled.“It’s less than four months away!”
“Three months, three weeks, and three days, to be exact.Not that I’m counting.”
“No, of course not,” I said with a wry smile.
Like every Sovereign, Bellam’s Veritas Protocol would begin on her twenty-ninth birthday, July 13.I, however, was an hour away from closing the last week of my inquisition, from the moment where every choice I’d made was solidified, edging me closer to the life I had meticulously designed.It had been both exhaustive and deeply personal, an almost year-long odyssey of surveys designed to uncover everything from psychometry to dialogue mapping.Everything I had ever entertained about life, companionship, and love had been dissected and compiled by Hyperion’s most advanced AI.
Spending most of my first twenty-eight years preparing, the answers came easily for me.I’d been awarded nearly every enhancement selection possible for a Sovereign, earned by meticulously working toward high standards for my credit, social, and health scores.I’d never taken a single vacation day or sick day, never been tardy, or guilty of even a common minor infraction like idle overuse of public seating—all so I could spend my Veritas year crafting the life partner I’d been dreaming about since my first day of Tier One.
He had always existed for me.While I could’ve created him with somewhat lower scores, I refused to chance it.Every Sovereign in Hyperion Proper was granted a basic Supplicant, but Maxim was extraordinary, someone I had to earn, and I woke up every morning working toward his actuality.
Bellam studied me for a moment.“How are you so composed?In six to ten days, you’re going to meet your Supplicant.”
I breathed out a laugh.“It’s Maxim,” I repeated, savoring the name I’d chosen.
“Trust me, Isara, we’re all aware,” Bellam deadpanned.“Didn’t we learn in Vanguard Genealogy that Renzo Ashcroft’s grandfather was named Maxim?Is that where you got it from?”
“It’s a familial name.Have you never been intrigued enough to read about the old world?Russia?Ukraine?Romania?”
Bellam shrugged.
“It’s an Eastern European form ofMaximus, traced back to ancient Rome.It’s… timeless.”
“It’s archaic,” she teased.“And no, I have no idea about those places.The old world doesn’t matter anymore.”
I rolled my eyes.The name could be considered outdated.Vintage, even.But it was also strong yet unassuming, sophisticated yet approachable.It had taken years to settle on, much to Bellam’s amusement.She knew as well as I did the face that would go with it: warm, brown hair, green eyes, a smile that could be both disarming and kind.Yet, the image felt distant, unreal, a sketch waiting to be colored in.
“You’re grumpy,” I muttered.
“Ignore me.I’m just nervous about my Veritas.Watch.I’ll end up with someone who likes thermal engineering debates and hates the smell of peanut butter.”
My brows pulled together.“How would that happen?You love peanut butter.”
“With my luck it would,” she said, already frustrated with her imaginary crisis.
The breakroom panel slid open with a muted hiss, admitting a soft flood of corridor light.A Hiven glided in, its smooth, humanoid frame carrying a tray of replacement cresks.He acknowledged us with a polite tilt of his head before silently completing his task and retreating.The air stilled again, leaving the faint scent of hot chicory hanging in the air.
In the background, the auric interface had been streaming Hyperion’s morning cycle broadcast at a low volume, mostly ambient wellness cues and updates I’d learned to tune out.But just as Bellam reached for her cresk, the tone of the voice adjusted slightly.
