“Would either of you like a drink?” Simora takes the seat beside the bronzed statue of his predecessor. “It isn’t often I can get a number of us together. I’d be happy to tap into the secret reserves.” A wink to one and two fingers aiming toward another, while feeling rather unnatural, is the required finish to the greetings for the individuals.
A woman, dark of skin with hair like ashen remains of fine willow leaves, sits with a proper posture and brimming smile. Her eyes are that of caramel with glistening spots of sugar pressed gently into the gooey brown. Today, her hair is pulled back into a gentle bun like an ancient mushroom. Even in her outfit of gray and white, sitting before her Dominax, she sits with the remnants of hard work still caught in her fabrics. Surely, a hasty cleaning through machinery done just before the appointment time. The cleanest part is the crest of Simora’s family above her right breast, and her own symbol of three red crosses on a brown background over her left.
This woman nods as pearly whites spread with joy, “Thank you, my Lord. A fine drink for a fine day.”
“Earned the break already. I wouldn’t turn down your generosity.” A vicious smile on a childish face on a rounded head atop a thick neck peers down at the Dominax. Lengthy waves of midnight fall over the limestone skin and almond eyes. The hue beneath the black shines as blue waters trapped in sections between icicles falling into the black of the pupils. Still, the frozen eyes offer reprieve from the harsh forge of the man’s body—fashioned steel by sweat and fire. A scarf wraps about his trunk of a neck with waves of blue and copper. “I’ve made some headway on that contraption you’d asked me to reverse engineer. Ravagers sure know their stuff. ‘What stuff?’ was my first question.” The hulking form puts Thomat to shame as he takes his seat; careful to not wrinkle his fine garbs of blue and black.
“System.” Lights about the room confirm it has heard the command of the Dominax. “Please provide the Deep Roots, Patire and Wallace, a serving of the Domiclass Ten Year. One for me as well.” He leans back to show his comfort in this setting. Even with the woman’s will and the man’s physical power, Simora retains his air of aloofness. That, and all know of the safety precautions hidden within the Dominax’s walls. “My father’s favorite. Now. Of that device, Wallace, what did you think?”
As the three wait for the mechanized systems to provide their drinks, Wallace leans forward and begins groping at the air as if the device were on a table before him. “It’s rather ingenious for the region they live in. It pulls substances from the air. Releasing the various compounds, the two greatest byproducts of the device are clean oxygen and solid blocks of carbon. Cleaner air, building materials… they are essentially mining the air.”
“And blocks of carbon can be manufactured into diamonds.”
Nodding with the energy of an excited child, the man continues, “Tools capable of breaking the uniquely tough lands of Icarus Alpha.” Wallace swirls a hand around an opening no one else can see. Wallace, utilizing the Spark skill of Mapping, continues to examine this ghostly mechanism. “This opening generates a magnetic field which can create air pressures. Using similar systems to our pulse technology, they’ve devised a way to direct airflow; ensuring more of the noxious fumes are filtered and more product can be produced.” Wallace frowns at the invisible device. “Yet, it’s far too small to effectively manipulate a wide area; less so the populated regions. Either this is travel sized, there are entire fields of these, or there are larger devices.”
“Is it effective in regards to the other toxins?” Simora takes the glass of honey-colored liquid from a small golem of metal. The gliding creation shifts as if weightless in the gentle breeze of the air conditioning.
Wallace touches a glass, waits, then points toward Patire. “Come now. The Dominax, then the ladies, then the men.”
“Apologies, Deep Root Horral.” The machine’s glowing blue eye brightens with programmed shame before it slips over to the female.
“Such a gentleman,” Patire waves back the gesture. “And thank you, little fella.” She pats the robot atop the head as she takes her glass. She waits patiently for her comrade to receive his before hoisting the glasses to gentle tink.
A sip slips a groan from Wallace. “A fine treat, Dominax. My appreciation.”
“Of course. Only the best for the most trusted among my people.” Simora lifts is glass so both can act as if they’d connect in a more huddled cheers. “Now, please proceed,” his cheeks lift with the sweet flavor of the drink, “if the Ten Year agrees with you.”
“Indeed, it does.” Wallace takes another sip and then begins retouching the invisible device. Simora’s tongue clicks away the soft burn of mouthfeel as he begins to construct the mental images produced by his Deep Root’s movements. “The filter itself can be easily modified. I can manufacture something capable of distilling poisons or condensing them, solidifying individual pieces of compounds, and perhaps even produce a more nourished farmland.” He sips as he motions over the entire body which stands almost as tall as himself. “The issue, again, is the size.
“The power required to keep one of these functioning without stop is incredible. These Ravagers still utilize primitive electrical systems. While the metal they use is surprisingly resistant to rust, damage, and chemical degrading, it is incapable of being fueled by our pulse tech. It’ll work fine with our nuclear grid. Last reported, they use waterwheels and small windmills to power these things… just lots of them. We could cover a city in them.”
“Yet, they manage to use the tech to manipulate air currents with magnetized pressures?” Simora leans forward. His drink goes unattended while he listens. “The power seems rather demanding for what they can produce. This brings to mind another question. Are they not using any Zurikan steel? I believed our imports are higher than use exclusive to the cities.”
“They utilize it for the bases of various tools, but I’m not sure why they mix and match the metals the way they do.” Wallace sips from his glass as he envisions the device. “Wiring has the usual protections and failsafes. Copper wires are still used. Plenty of it available on Icarus. Something I’m not understanding here.”
“So they’re using this other metal in tandem with the Zurikan steel.” Simora’s eyes dart around as if he’s witnessing the envisioned devices Wallace had imagined. Like a mechanic violently separating every piece, the Dominax scrutinizes the parts, attempts to study the reasoning behind each, and the actions and reactions that occur between each. Golden eyes blink about as he attempts to manufacture a clear answer. “Cycles come and go, yet I know so little of the secrets of the Ravagers. I fear my seclusion has left me ignorant.”
“Makam, Sir.” Patire interjects after smacking her lips with a delightful expression. “Or, King’s Metal, is what the people call it.”
“I’ve seen peculiar blades and tools. I thought the metal was a poor conductor in general. Incapable of being blended with pulse technology does leave the metal few viable options for success in the universal market.” Simora’s eyes fall to Patire. “You said Makam with such confidence.” His eyes narrow toward the woman of Red. “What whispers have you heard among the people?”
“Well, Sir.” Patire straightens her outfit as the smile spreads over her face. The chance to transport all that has graced her ears to another’s overwhelms her person. “There are many whispers. I know you have been rather busy since the beginning of the Amelioration. Your successful breeding program was the catalyst for many of the Ravagers to seek new life within our cities. Your parents,” her eyes and forehead drop in a sign of respect, “would be proud. The faith of these Ravagers has developed a number of interesting teachings and practices. Makam is one faith; however, that existed before our off-world interventions and it remains a mystery. A secret that those within our cities either were never taught or refuse to share. Perhaps, the Civilized leaving the tribes generations back have left them with little knowledge of the guarded secret.”
“Cycles of productive solitude, and I find my planet possessing more treasures yet to discover.” Simora, since hearing of his Amelioration project, stares up to the metallic version of his father. “Many projects in the works, yet my attention to the management of my charged planet is paramount. The people must have a leader, after all.” The Dominax sips of his drink before motioning to the religious liaison of the Deep Root. “Makam is a rather durable metal then; perhaps, even uncommon. King’s Metal… it must be important for them to give it such a name.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“I believe I’m beginning to develop an understanding of how a leader emerges from these people.” Simora’s golden eyes again begin to flicker about as his free hand taps an even rhythm across his knee. “Yet, I’m in dire need of more information. Impossible to formulate more probable possibilities without details.” Noticing a coldness in his own voice, the Blue gives toward the Black. “To better comprehend their needs, it would behoove us to merge all we know.”
“You’d hold Palaver?” Patire’s eyes contain the spark of excitement surrounded by fearsome flames. “If it is necessary, I will oblige.”
“No need.” Simora clicks his tongue gently as he examines the air; allowing the mention of Blue abilities to be discussed in such a private setting. “Perhaps somewhere down this road, we may. Today; however, I have no need to delve in and invade your private thoughts.”
“Thank you, my Lord.” Patire’s face regenerates into the ecstatic voice of the people. Glad to avoid the act, she continues. “Makam, then, is a specialized metal formed only in the mines nearest volcanic activity. With the rotation of the planet, the heat, and interference from the star create a multitude of dangers for the inhabitants of this planet.”
“Obviously, but what of the metal?”
“Many of the mines are simply for copper, coal, lithium, and whatnot.” Patire sips of her glass before placing it gently on the table before her. Hands cupping her knees, she seems to find the right words somewhere in the winding tunnels of the Ravager mines. “They’ve not shown me where this metal is mined from, nor have they shown me any of the processes to make it. It would seem that once forged, whatever shape the metal has taken is permanent.” She motions toward Wallace, “That they’d use Makam for such devices…” her voice trails off as she considers the meaning.
“Their settlements near the known volcanic zones are priceless to them.” Simora sips of his glass and hisses through the gentle burn before clicking his tongue. “Likely, these are the areas where such metals can be mined. Secretly, defensively, and transported when safe. How many are in the settlements?”
“They are often emptied. Only used during quick and infrequent trips into the heart of the volcanic zones.”
“I would wager there are far more present than you’d been privy to witness or told of. If this metal possesses some religious or unknown factor we are uncertain of, they would defend such monopolized mines with every breath.”
“To endure such conditions just for a metal?” Patire seemed appalled by the idea.
“They endure all manner of horrors. Before the Amelioration, every square foot of this planet was a deadly trap.” Simora glances toward the wall of clear glass providing a gorgeous view of the woods containing deadly, tamed monsters. “Yet, subjecting themselves to such extremes for a specific metal. That is interesting.” He sips again and clicks his tongue three times. “There must be more to it than a bit of hard metal. Don’t you think?”
Patire and Wallace nod together like robots answering the master’s call. Machines ready to please and agree. Flesh so often finds this path easier—the existence of the servant mechanisms.
“We shall investigate this more.” Simora’s tone creeps over the room like spreading roots of a great tree. “Patire, please return to the people of the Solos continent. I’d like to hear their reasoning for these devices. Your soothing presence will surely lower their guard. With any luck, we’ll be provided the information.”
Patire’s smile falters as she blinks through, “The Solos lands are harsh with harsher peoples. They will speak to me, but what if they do not share the knowledge? I can’t believe they shared this device you speak of.” Eyes twinkle with the expectation; a tapping finger of someone invisible and trapped far beneath the cooling layers of ice.
“We needn’t force anything. We trade and we learn from one another.” Simora sips of his glass before flicking his eyes through the possibilities. “We can improve upon the advancements they’ve made to better conquer this planet for all. With disadvantages removed, our citizens, Ravager and Civilized, Wemi and Emel-Rakar, will benefit.” His eyes catch a glimpse of the scattering of thoughts, like bursting stars, in Patire’s eyes. “No matter where they stand in relation to our leadership, these people are my citizens. If you are concerned of nepotism or harsh reactions through repulsed Boring, I assure you that is not my aim.
“I understand your compassion and heightened sense of empathy—having lived with these various groups.” Simora taps across his knee as he speaks. As though a script is printed and read by a primitive machine, the words are cold and calculated, yet they do begin to sooth the woman. For she knows of this man. “We find commonality with the native peoples, and we blossom together. High tides rising all ships and such.”
“And old sentiment.” Wallace chuckles.
“Yet, the past paints the path for the present to travel the future.”
Wallace nods with the understanding of the Born ability—and the fearful name it carries. Purveyors of possibility, rare by all measures, often find security for self and family for generations, yet the muscled engineer, this practitioner of the Blue Spark, ignores the once lively flame of envy. Glancing to his fellow Deep Root, the man wonders just what truths, half-truths, and lies she knows of the Blue. Possibly, he considers, as fair an amount as he knows of the Red.
When Wallace meets the studying gaze of his Dominax, he understands that everything he’s considered has already been analyzed. A smirk spreads over his face as he mentally ridicules himself for having been so slow.
“We’ve learned much from the Civilized in the last decades, yet they were already more similarly cultured as The Namaste’s envoys. Since the rule of my father,” his eye flicks for a second to the statue, “we have gained much from the Ravagers. We trade. They are rewarded for their information, technology, military service, and granted permissions. When they give little, they receive little.
“Now, in the time of my Amelioration, I hope their tongues loosen and their arms open. I have negotiated through action, and it will benefit us all.” Simora motions about some of the nicer trinkets, decorations, and artifacts about the room. “Quinzat furs and organs, varabelm bones and teeth, nema cat manes for fashion and solar technology, mines rich with minerals, and even gifts like the weddletot.” Simora waves a hand as if the list could exceed his comfortability of conversation. “Being the newest of my Deep Roots, you’ve arrived after my crafted evolution began. Even the plants hungered for men, Patire, yet my hand tames flora, fauna, and soon… the very will of nature.”
His pointer finger on the glass extends toward Wallace and his imagined item.
“You weren’t gifted the device.” Patire’s shame weighs her eyes to her lap. Wringing her hands, she speaks with the gentle volume of a mouse. “If taken from the volcanic fields, the Emel-Rakar will believe it an act of war.”
“We did no such thing.” Simora nods as he recalls the probabilities fractured from the whole of the present reality. He’d placed himself along the right path. “A disc pilot returned with a deceased Emel-Rakar miner,” most of the native tongue slipped into an unnatural accent for the Dominax. “Among his gear was the device in question. We returned all his possessions except the one.”
“Then you possess Makam which was not forged for your hands or tribe.” Patire’s voice rises only slightly as she recalls the practices of those beyond the cities. “That creates various troubles as well. ‘Neither gifted nor forged, your hands bloody upon forbidden Makam.’”
“A man died,” Simora shakes his head as he questions her with narrowed eyes. “We returned all that he was to his people that they might honor their dead as necessary. They will hold no contempt over this act.” The Dominax grins playfully, “‘What dies favors the hunter and scavenger.’ Does this not mean the disc pilot was blessed in his finding? Need he anything of the man’s possessions, would we not expect our pilot to use all at his disposal to survive?”
“Epimth.” Patire shakes her head and then nods her understanding. “The will to survive must be respected.” Her head cannot seem to choose between vertical and horizontal motion. She now bobbles back and forth with inner turmoil. “Yet we do not require it to survive, nor do we struggle without it.”
Simora nods as he leans into the conversation. Recalling all memory of such discussion, he summons history before him to paint the path for his future. “‘What a man may do for his people, he does to himself.’ Do I not owe my people all that I can provide?” Before Patire can recite another proverb, the Dominax answers the next answer, the next, and the next. “‘Wrong in the eyes of the many are the sins of chieftains we praise today.’ While you’d be correct in rebuking with my title not being that of an honored chieftain, I would simply respond with, ‘Any that might voice salvation, yet hold their tongue, have damned themselves to Hell twice.’”
“You do not believe in Hell.” Witnessing the childish grin on her Dominax, she loosens her concerns and takes up the glass. “Very good, Dominax. Very good. For someone so adverse to the voice and study of planetary religions, you’ve armed yourself quite well with the teachings of these people.”
“I’ve had a good teacher as of recent.” He points to her with the tipping of his glass before taking another sip. “I learn all I can, for these are my people. I would learn anything and everything I can.” Clicking through the burn of the drink, he adds, “And I often find myself reading between processes and lulls in my research.”
Possibilities continue to span out before him as fractal mirrors portray probabilities and absolutes. No matter which he grabs to study, a million others attempt to slice through his hand as they speed toward that gray area between existence and dream.
Even the practiced will make the mistake. Those of the Blue each attempt the prophetic ability, and so few will come close to understanding why they failed. Simora, mentally separated from the situation, watches shards float past and calculates. He’s found it best, in his own studies, to manifest oneself within the mind and to gradually examine and interpret the data. All in an attempt to steady himself; a man balancing on a turning log in the ocean.
Seeing many shapes of a similar course begin to take form, the leader of Icarus Alpha glances, with his physical eyes of sandy gold, to the statue of his father. Knowing of the secret tucked behind his father’s cape, he clicks his tongue before looking to his Deep Roots.
“We have much work to do. The Dark Stars will soon hear of our successful strides in Amelioration. They’ll call a meeting.” Simora clicks his tongue and taps his knee ten times. As expected. “We must prepare.”