“We’ve not heard one damned transmission on the matter! Like he’s blipped clear off the charts.” Obin shouts across the table as Matheem chews carefully on the steamed vegetables his teeth will allow him. “Wasting our time! And yers!” The meaty fingers of the square-jawed man aim at Simora.


    “Indeed. I’ve not given it much thought beyond the initial frustration.” Simora lies through his teeth with such ease that he grins inwardly. So simple to cast one lie and then another; a test. They should be more mindful. Of course, he considers their aptitude for the Black teachings. “I hope Icarus Alpha has provided you all distraction while we await my cousin’s arrival.”


    “Aye. Distractions a plenty.” Obin motions down the table from him. “That Thomat’s a right good Galaxia player. I’m not sure we saw sunlight yesterday!” A hunk of meat slides into the man’s mouth.


    “And I’ve so enjoyed the passionate displays of your well-practiced performers! Incredible, Simora. Simply incredible.” Matheem sips from his shaking cup to ease the throat. Across the great hall, his voice carries as a quivering songbird expressing his joy at seeing another rise of the sun. “For so few citizens from off-world, I’d incorrectly assumed that these Civilized would provide a subpar performance.”


    “How wrong you are.” Simora lifts his cup to show a mutual appreciation of the arts. “The Specter of the Spire will be playing tonight. A tale personally picked by one of my personal consultants in anthropology and history, Francestish. He’s rather busy with the arrival of the native leadership, and thus couldn’t make it tonight. I would be happy to accompany you, if you’d desire it.”


    “Desire it! I should be so lucky! I would hear your every comment in the whispers of the balcony seats. Secrets and pointers, I do so appreciate the opportunity. To fully comprehend and absorb the work, the whole of it, will properly honor the composer.”


    Grinning in response to the Elder’s gleeful babbling, Simora flicks a wrist. “Then it’s settled. Any are welcome, should you desire to join us.”


    “I—”


    Raising his eyes to Patire, Simora notices how her voice had cut mid squeak. “Come now. My Deep Roots are welcome as well.”


    “T-then.” She glances between the Red and Blue masters of the table, “I shall tag along.”


    “If it’s a party,” Finel glances to Patire—the latter fallings silent again. “I will go.”


    “Whash ee abow?” Obin’s lack of etiquette draws a plethora of reactions from those at the table. The most disgusted, Matheem, attempts to look away from the man as if he’s covered in pox.


    Glancing over the table, Simora’s eyes trail over the hands of those present—silently soaring beneath all contact with the eyes. “I’d not ruin it for you all, but the tale is simply summarized. A man must leave his home to find glory in life; a meaning. He finds a town asking, pleading, for him to accomplish what none other could perform.


    “They ask him to slay the spirit that haunts a tower in the forest beyond the town. None dare go there, but the wailing of night has become insufferable. So much in fact… well, that will wait to be seen. Let the actors show you what nightmares manifest from stolen rest.


    “So, our hero will seek out this tower; following the wails into the woods. He meets a man just within the tree line that claims to be a trapper—points him in the direction of the tower. Offers to guide him. From there, the hero meets misfortune, suffering, and trickery at the hands of many a foul beast. Still, he presses on through the nights listening to the wails.”


    In a hushed acceptance of the synopsis, the group considers returning to their meal. Obin; however, leans forward. “So? What happens?”


    “For the,” Finel rolls her eyes and lifts a knife toward the General. “It’s meant to be watched. If you’d like… Simora… to tell you the tale, pay him for the experience.”


    “I,” Obin stops with a chunk of meet caught mid-chew. “Fair enough. Ye’ve intrigued me. I’ll go.”


    “Good.” Simora says with a smile shared by all. “All are welcome. Let’s have a private showing. Just the lot of us.”


    “A fine idea! The passion they will give toward their Dominax and Dark Stars! Fire!” Matheem’s wrinkled fingers poke one another as his head twists. “Suggestion, I have. Might I speak to the cast prior to the performance?”


    “My Elder, you’d not think to Bolster our artists?” Simora leans toward the man with an unnaturally playful demeanor. The tone rises and echoes along the walls like children running about. “You’ll break their spirits! I’d still have them perform after you’ve left.”


    “Oh, poppycock.” The old man’s hands wave about to disperse the notion. “Neither drug nor dream. They will see what more they can provide you! Passion. I would ignite it! Every ember burning brightly can be fed by the Red! ‘Every heart speaks their truth. We give their voice all the powers to make the truth known!’ A fine lesson.” Matheem nods in honor of his own colors. “B-but, if you would prefer—”


    Simora clears his throat to interrupt. “I merely jest, my old friend. You’re welcome to influence them with your wild magics of the Red. Bolster them. Inspire! Hypno! Whatever skills you possess. I only ask that you not convince them to move against me!”


    The table shares in laughter.


    It is a comfortable laughter. Known to all as part of the game. No hostility outright, yet the underlining sensation is that of a circle of wild savages all knowing their spear is as long as the others around them. None wants to lift the spear into a deadly thrust, yet the threat remains. And to thrust unjustly will mean they are defenseless to all other spears lying in wait.


    Just as Wallace, near the end of the group, still hears the dancing tune of the devil in his mind’s shadows, so too are those seated rocking on the edge of the unknown.


    Still, the laugh is shared and the moment passes. A storm in the distance that all citizens have become accustomed. It neither threatens nor concerns the majority. It simply is and, just as any danger on Icarus Alpha, exists despite all attempts to dispel it through simple wishing.


    “They are your citizens, my Dark Star. I’d not so easily sway the people of such a benevolent Dominax as yourself. The fire you possess! They will teach of you every semester in the colleges. The Church of Many Mouths will have specialists trained in your history for students to better attempt to understand you. Mark my words, Simora. Mark them well! Your successes will span the Far-Reach.”


    Watching the old hand flick through the air with a dangerous fork aimed in his direction, Simora feels the brush strokes of his claim come to life. Universities across the stars with tales of the conqueror of Icarus Alpha. Entire sections of libraries dedicated to his name and family.


    “You’ll give him too big a head, Elder. Does he need more books to read? Even those of himself? He’d drown in the paper.” Finel pokes at the meat of her plate while eying the Dominax.


    “Prismaslate and comm systems, mostly.” The vision of paper books gradually fades from Simora’s mind—a click of the tongue following. Smells of fresh books and aged leather bindings disappear with the Elder’s correction. “No space you see, but still a great honor to be taught and made available for the students.”


    “I’ve enough stories to keep me busy for some time, Elder. But, the notion is intriguing. Perhaps, should our deliberations proceed without incident, and our… fifth arrive soon… we shall see all our names rise above the simple footnotes of history. I’d see all, every one of us here, rise in glory.”


    “Seeking wails atop the spire?” Obin asks as he cuts into another slab of pink meat.


    Nodding to his peer, the Dominax motions out to all those seated at the table. “All present will rise. Nor-Noctlin, though a young family, shall show it deserves its seat at the table. Just as glory awaits the hero atop the tower.”


    “So, there’s a happy ending?” asks the General.


    “Indeed.” Simora topples some bulbous sprouts onto his plate and motions for one of the servants to start another round of filling the cups. “An ending that reminds us reality often does not contain such black and white victories and losses. A hero seeking glory must do what some might see as disturbing. Some might find him revolting. Some may even demand his head for the choices he’d made to achieve so much.


    “You will see how Ultlu is a hero to be respected and emulated.” Simora takes up his freshly refilled cup. The fine wines of Icarus Alpha, squeezed from fruits hung from vicious floral snares, is a fine treat which he may enjoy anytime of the day. To him, the drink is common. To the other Dark Stars, the drink is a sweetened present which they will likely demand in their future orders of trade from the planet. “All he puts himself through for the sake of love and glory.”


    “Love?”


    Looking to Finel, Simora nods. “You’ll have to watch the play. They’ll tell it far better than I.”


    “But I’d like to hear your stories.” Finel leans over the table slightly to better connect their eyes.


    Patire, cutoff from the Dominax’s view, looks on inquisitively at the situation she’d just been momentarily removed from. The Deep Roots share a web of looks, blinks, and twitches, each taught to them by the Dominax, to commune in a secretive fashion. As any Black family would confirm, such communications are necessary to remain atop any situation.


    “Am I reading things correctly?” Patire’s fingers dance beside her neck.


    Thomat nods gently as his Dominax responds to the Dark Stars. “I have stories aplenty to share in time.” His voice matching her rhythm. Golden eyes fixate on the dazzling purples. “Tonight, let us allow the professionals their chance at your attentions. Should you all be as pleased in their performances as I, you may even request them for your own people. Best to share all pieces of our cultures.”


    “All pieces, yes.” Matheem hurriedly nods. “We see much of the culture bred here in Valkenaria. A seed of the civilized schools of the Maiora Aliquam. How often we move ourselves and our people’s ways into the worlds we gain. Seeds to root themselves deep into the cores of the planet and minds.”


    “A planet is unique, and uniqueness shall be preserved.”


    “The first of the Ten Columns.” Obin confirms with an almost electronic voice. As if the mentioning of the laws activates the man’s truest purpose, his boxy body straightens so the bulging gut pushes the table slightly. Immediately, without embarrassment, he corrects himself and utters. “And ye’ve done so? Kept their uniqueness?”


    “I should say I have. Patire has seen to furthering this cause by interacting with the tribes.” Finel slides back into her chair so that all might confirm the worth of the woman tasked with such an honorable endeavor. “She’s done fine work thus far, and I would have her continue such work. The Church of Many Mouths will benefit greatly from all these slightly altered oral and documented histories, recollections, myths, and religious practices.”


    Matheem and Finel both gaze down the edge of the table to the woman. Matheem’s lips curl about to wet themselves before he gives up, drinks more wine, and speaks. “Uniqueness of the world is uniqueness of the peoples.” Simora’s golden eyes fixate on the man as his tone reveals more than the words. “If Patire confirms that the native populations retain their uniqueness…” he takes another sip of wine as his eyes skim over Finel (as men of any age will do), over the table, and back to his plate, “then the Church will stand by the decision until she finds her work to be done. Such information will be quite the boon to our archives.”


    He’s upset by this. Was his aim my failure to adhere to the first law? Open-ended as it is, I rely on her responses as my representative here. I have chosen well. Simora motions to her, “Well? I leave it to you, Patire. Have I adhered to this law of The Unanimity Namaste, or are there failures I must correct for the good of my charged people?”


    Such benevolence in the tone, the way he bows his head, causes Patire’s heart to leap forward and answer. “Yes, Dominax and Dark Stars.” She lifts her chin and closes her eyes to give a proper response within a proper posture. “In my interactions within the communities of several tribes of Rakar, I do believe all practices, beliefs, governances, cultural practices, and ideals have been kept intact.


    “Furthermore, I do believe that the people of this planet have benefited from the implemented practices and leadership of the current Dominax.” Feeling a slight change in the atmosphere of the table, Patire shifts direction. “This is not to say that any previous Dominax has failed, but that they succeeded in a number of situations while others remained out of their grasps. The Emel-Rakar have seen an increase in the number of their citizens that have given up the ways of the wilds and decided to move to Valkenaria; a right to choose. Due to our Dominax’s will and mind, the Amelioration has granted the entirety of Rakar a chance at a more stable, enjoyable, and longer life.”


    Having opened her eyes, she sees all Dark Stars and Deep Roots looking to her. They continue to eat and drink, but they listen to her intently for any opening to expose or fill. Such answers, she knows, must be kept somewhat concise. The more you speak, the more area they will be granted to dig and expose, she recalls the words of her Dominax.


    “Then,” Matheem attempts to lick his lips, unsuccessful in wetting them, before speaking again, “I believe you’ve accomplished this, Simora Nor-Noctlin. A great victory in handling a planet nearly deemed Uninhabitable by the Namaste.”


    “Such a ruling would have been reversed as soon as they’d found the stubborn citizens. A path toward Abandonment would have left these poor souls to exile within the Far-Reach without having done anything but survive the hell of Icarus. I’d see them all rise as well.”


    “Still,” Matheem continues, “I see our cultures, Simora. Plays, music, gardens, and even the feasts, I see our own people in them.” A new wind overtakes the stillness in the air. Chills were intended, but the Dark Stars are practiced in such tactics. “What of their culture? What of the Emel-Rakar?”


    Simora nods without hesitation and responds. “The gardens you’d walked through are the very creations of employed natives. The buildings and their layouts prioritize cooler winds for the daytime and warmer, open areas for night. Each architecturally reviewed and approved by natives from the first to the current. Valkenaria extends over a shaded forest, an area which, somehow on this planet, can survive with very little sunlight. The marshlands below us, difficult to transverse and even build upon, is protected and kept thriving by the native’s request and constant work toward creating a balanced civilization.


    “The feasts we’ve eaten are prepared in traditional Emel-Rakar fashion. The wine,” Simora points to the cup that touches the Elder’s lips, “is an old recipe of the Femolt tribe. Sweet, isn’t it? A lovely little fruit mixed with leaves. It makes a rather interesting tea, but fermenting them all together brings out the best of each flavor.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    “The art decorating my hallways are all done by the native Emel-Rakar. Though, they surely do become influenced by their perceptions of our off-world propensities. However, the truest form of their skills and subjects bleeds through as any proper family’s talents will. No matter how a skilled master may adhere to their teachings, evolve with the times, or even request aid from another person’s skillset,” the golden eyes fall to each Dark Star in turn, “one with practiced eyes may see through the layers of influence to discern the truth beneath.”


    “And your eyes are trained in such?” Matheem nods as he waves it off. “Of course. Of course! You’ve always had a keen eye, Simora. Always have. Fire and passion. Your father knew it! Deep in your breast and now across a planet! Look at this.” He lifts the wine with an expression bordering on acceptance of the moment’s defeat. “A fine wine, indeed. Delicious.” He examines the cup. “So many see the outside while never sampling the truth within.”


    “That’s why I offer to give you all a firsthand account of their culture. If after tonight you all see only the cup and not sample the wine,” Simora curls a hand through the air as if to sweep the thought under the rug, “then you have none but yourself to blame. The play is a story of the Emel-Rakar’s own history. Many tribes share the tale. While slightly different in minor details, the story is the same at the crux. I implore each of you to seek that crux and sample their finest flavors.”


    “And to meet them?”


    “You’re welcome to.”


    “We’d not seen any of the Emel-Rakar on our flights.” Finel calls out with a soft and pouty tone.


    “Along the path, we saw the movement of a tribe a day’s march away.” Donatello intervenes for his Dominax. “Lady Dornish requested we intercept them for palaver, yet aggrieved, I denied the request.”


    “A ritualistic journey. Yoon Fardick.” Finel answers in a playfully mocking tone which makes the Deep Root blush. Her breathy voice takes away his words as she slips another cut of meat past her tender lips.


    “Yand Farakan.” Simora corrects her without answering the purposeful mispronunciation. “A journey of spiritual and dutiful means. One that must be taken. To intervene would be to draw concern of a planet’s ruling family. Adhering to the First Column, and such.” The golden eyes glance over the Elder again; a man unwilling to look up from his soft, mashed vegetables.


    Back to the other guests, Simora peers over each with a studying eye. Donatello wasn’t able to add Finel to his conquests. Poor man, Born isn’t necessary to tell he’d fail in that. Her appetites are as a nema cat with the meekest of mice in paw.


    Obin is intrigued. My addition of Wallace to our negotiations will be more favorable after the play. His emotions make for fine dealings.


    The elder will take further plying. His desire to command resists the necessity to join. His every request has been considered in advance. Even now the Emel-Rakar march here to fulfill his demands he’d only now considered necessary.


    All in the seconds passing, Simora is able to straighten his thoughts on each. Their answers at the table add to the data which reform some of the shards which pass his eyes in more private quarters. When not surrounded by the predatory eyes of other Dark Stars, he’ll review the data and reshape what possibilities may come.


    Matheem is still my weakest connection. Patire will be a key component to my success. These Dark Stars are swallowing away the weeks.


    “We’ll meet these Emel-Rakar soon, I should hope.” Obin joins back in. The words, rekindling a point of uncharacteristic uncertainty for the Dominax, draws a quick glance from Simora. “Tis my duty to ensure they’ve been met with all honors due the native population. Nothing at all against ye, lad. In fact, I fully expect resounding checkmarks in all fields. A White’s duty to be vigilant! For when honor is lost to the void, so too are the blocks which build man.”


    “A fine lesson of the White.” Simora’s masking smile confirms an agreement between the White and Blue. What lies beneath this mask; however, is a singular note of the devil’s dance. Not letting himself fall into the pit as Wallace, he forces his mind, The smile is real. What will come cannot be absolute, nor can it be unexpected. Possibilities to be studied. What tribe will arrive first, and what words will they carry? I move the pieces yet cannot control their tongues. Simora allows himself a moment to delve. “Whichever tribes arrive, we will have plenty of time for discussion. They are welcomed guests invited prior to your arrivals, and the Metem will be given a place at each feast and party. You will all have your moments with our leaders.”


    “Fantastic!” Obin drains his cup and immediately motions for one of the many motionless servants to refill it. Grunting his thanks to the woman that bows as she departs the filled cup, he continues, “I’m fascinated by these Emel-Rakar. Such a planet breeds a hearty people. I’ve heard previous Dominax have suffered at their skilled hands. In time, maybe our forces will swell with their blood!”


    Adding them to the military? Simora says, “Of course. They make fine warriors. What man or unknown world can stand against those that endure the varabelm, epol, and levitan? Masters of adaptation and warfare. A phenomena yet to shame the Green and White.” Obin laughs in response, and Simora’s sure he’s not completely unfamiliar with these creatures. He only knows what little is sold to the rest of Far-Reach. Components of the whole. Never the entirety. Simora continues to attempt seeking through the invisible shards of possibility.


    “Then we’ll have some sparring!” Obin announces with delight. He turns his eyes to Thomat. “What say ye? Ye bet any of our forces be taken by these natives? These Ravagers?” He says the word with delightful respect, but Patire draws away from the table slightly. “I’d see a fair match. Whatever tools they need or use. A good spar. Universe be damned, I’d fight meself! Would a chief take such a wager?”


    Patire, realizing she’s been asked, looks up in surprise to the Dark Star. Shifting slightly to look for direction from her Dominax, she finds Simora slightly caught in a daze. The Dominax’s mouth juts down. He’s clicking his tongue again. Clearing her throat, she answers with all the politeness called for when interacting with a representative to The Namaste. “Well, Dark Star. The tribes may choose leaders for various reasons.


    “Depending on the parties which arrive, we may not even see Metem. If we do; however, I assume there would be many a chosen champion or even the Metem themselves which would accept your duel.” Her eyes suddenly widen, “But please,” she suddenly raises her volume with hurried concern, “do not make any such requests without me present. I plead. Their language and meanings can be… tricky.”


    “Ye’d not want blood sport to turn to blood death?” Obin asks. With her immediate nod, he understands her reasons. “Worry not. I think no less of them for their ideals and rituals. Blood is spilled in all cultures, Ms. Isserman. If a warrior were to take my head, then he must surely have earned it.” He winks to the woman less than half his size as if jollily presenting her with all the peaceful kinship of an ancient holiday. Her uncertain smile draws more from him. “I’ll not speak to a chief without you present.”


    “Thank you, Dark Star.” She bows her head in appreciation.


    “I’d ask for such an honor as well.” Finel’s bright eyes fall on Patire. The woman’s predatory nature rises over the student of Red as a sun over the blue horizon. “Might they fight a woman, or am I to sit politely on the edge of the party. Dress unwrinkled and words kept in my head.”


    Smiling, cracked open from her shell, Patire rides Finel’s snarky tone like a raft in an open ocean. “No, Dark Star. They care not for what gender one may be; as long as you are capable. Trained in combat, I’ve earned a warrior’s respect in many tribes. Though, I’ve yet to win a single match, the attempt is often appreciated. Sadly, you must earn it among every tribe that has yet to witness you. That would be the extent of dishonor you may face.”


    “Yet, they are men.” Finel leans to close the gap between them. Eyes locked into Patire’s, she is as the cobra swaying back and forth to mesmerize the mouse. “And men,” a breathy voice catches Patire’s spine and locks it in place, “share habits no matter which planet they claim.”


    Two persons. That is it.


    That’s all that might exist when one of Red and one of Green mix for a moment. One that naturally attempts to dig into the heart of the other. The other will adapt to the situation. In this, the Green’s eyes become hypnotic. The teeth glistening petals to welcome the insect. And the tongue a flicking finger beckoning the weary traveler.


    “Finel.” Simora’s voice calls back the poisonous beast.


    Finel leans back in her seat and eyes the resurfacing Patire with a giggle. “Oh, just a bit of fun.” Evident to all are the shortcomings of the powers each color holds. “She didn’t resist long. Matheem, you’d best remember to empower the strong and fortify the weak.”


    “A Green teaching that would do our school well.” The old man groans at the sight of his student so spectacularly failing. “So few disputes between the families, we have little use to arm ourselves with such practices.”


    “Complacency is the trait of the dying.” Finel speaks without taking her eyes from her blushing prey. “Pay us no mind, Patire. I meant only to play, but I get carried away. Si…Simora knows my shortcomings. You, however,” the predator’s eyes of mesmerizing purple fall and rise in clear appreciation of the form, “I could teach a great many things. What a miracle Simora was able to secure you for his little team of Deep Roots.” A twiddling finger points to the woman before a wink ends their discussion.


    “A fine Segway. I’m sure all of my Deep Roots would benefit from your teachings, fellow Dark Stars.”


    “Indeed.” Matheem sneers from the side of his mouth.


    “I do hope in the years to come, we may share more than just trade.”


    Obin huffs through the noise, “Ye’d share the lessons and secrets of the traits? Sign? Skills? Dominax… I doubt my ears.” Good humor rumbles from the massive man.


    “It’s true we of the Black know the importance, the necessity, of secrecy. Still, to defend ourselves against the Shields of the array or even those families that might yet come to rise with new traits, I do believe we need to,” he glances toward Wallace, silently sitting far down the table, “evolve.


    “Be it not my demands that we do so, but let my suggestion mull in your minds. We have cycles to come and far more questions to answer. Pressing matters take the attention now, yet the future holds more opportunity.” More of the future. The tribes that will arrive soon… Brotabak will be one of the first. I can use this to my advantage. Having glanced at the soon-to-pass shards, the Dominax proceeds to speak of a future yet to be near.


    “How quickly we’ve evolved since the Black Shield and Blue Emblem was granted to you.” Matheem’s voice has become sullied with spite. Noticed by all at the table, the events of the day seem more and more weighted upon the Elder’s spirits. “Should we proceed at such a pace, I believe many will fall behind.”


    “Many, yes.” Simora nods. “Change comes in constant flow. Those that cannot adapt to the waves or accept the currents will exhaust themselves and be lost beneath. I cannot drag any with me, but I would gladly offer any space upon my raft.” Another smile, playful and masked, portrays the necessary confidence for the moment. In this room, cramped within the solidified air of egos, the auras of kings and queens clash in the excitedly anticipated games.


    “Words are dangerous, Dominax.” Matheem whispers to the youngest of the Dark Stars.


    “Words are never dangerous.” Simora corrects. “It is the fire, the passion, they inspire which others might fear.” The games are enjoyable to all, but as always… winners enjoy the games the most. “If you fear the words upon the prismaslate, projected screen, or even the utterance of the ignorant, I should say we have no reason governing.”


    “Words, no matter their form, are power, Simora.” Matheem intercepts with a bit of a bite across his dried lips. “Every book upon our shelves, ancient in their meanings, understandings, and promises must be regulated to the universe. What word might be viewed by one can change from person to person, cycle to cycle, or age to age. Let yourself not rush too soon into the future.”


    “Or I shall be swallowed by the past? Of course. What was shapes what will be. Every moment is another block by which we form the future.”


    Obin adds his voice to the mix, “Any family resisting the order of The Namaste will face banishment. The Tenth Column reminds us of our direction. Words have, in previous cases, caused many a family problems.” The General is facing the Elder, but his eyes dance to Simora with the mention of the past.


    “Such allusions are not lost on me. The previous Dark Star of Blue,” Matheem speaks down to his plate. “A foolish man seeking more than his station allowed. Clearly a lost cause. The family lost for ten generations! Ten!” The Elder rolls his eyes. “Sholtaza was a fine family of Blue. Technomongers. The thought!”


    “But one door shut opens another wide.” Says Obin. “How lucky the Black confirmed the Nor-Noctlin family. A blessing in disguise how we’d found a replacement. That such an unfavorable union… well, a blessing through and through.”


    Indeed it was, Simora thinks to himself as the Black Stars discuss the past which molded the present.


    “Nearly a Universal Atomic Counter?”


    “Yes. Four and a half cycles of Icarus.” Simora adds.


    Finel chimes in, “I don’t recall the Sholtazas, yet it rings a certain bell. What planet did they claim?”


    Matheem nearly whispers. “Hephelt Olm. The blackened world.”


    “A shame to lose such a promising leader.” Simora offers his condolences to the party. “I recall Ilgar. The eldest son of the house. A fine thinker and practitioner of the Blue. We often tested our Spark against one another at School.”


    “Ilgar!” Finel nearly leaps from her seat. “That’s why the name sounds familiar! Ilgar Sholtaza. He was an interesting young man. You two were in the lab or studying together all the damned time! I was rather jealous.”


    Simora answers, “Yes, he was a great friend. Schooling was the only time I’d had off-world. Since then, I’ve been confined to my own labs that would put School’s to shame. Ilgar would have truly appreciated what I’ve built here.”


    “I’m sure he would, were he still alive…” a dusty grumble from the Elder.


    “Blackened? What happened with them again? Wasn’t a military action.” Obin points about the party. “Which one was that? I didn’t do that.”


    “No, no.” Matheem hisses. “It was an act of foolishness.” Eyes of a passionate flame cast over fuel, the older man recalls a family with fondness and rage. His fist, skin thinned as eons-aged paper, strikes the table. “Damned foolish! A fire in the lad. Father and son damning an entire planet! All of them! Dead or mutilated! Abandoned! Any who weren’t upon the planet were banished for the ten generations!”


    “I can’t recall either.” Finel taps her chin as the eyes roll about seeking answers in the ceiling.


    “An act of The Creator! Foolish acts of arrogant man.”


    Simora remains silent as he hears the man ramble. Answering without substance.


    The Elder continues as the others desire the truth. All the information they can gather. Secrecy is not afforded to the dead.


    “The will of the Universe is absolute. Beyond comprehension and control. What hands might be formed by the Universe and then turn about to strangle the necessary chaos? Taming that which cannot be tamed? Enslaving the very master which enslaves all to time and flesh?


    “Sholtazas attempted to play God.” Matheem’s throat swells as the ancient beast of legends preparing to breathe fire across the lands. “Plain and simple. Those fools had it all. A planet of nearly endless wealth, prosperous in culture and peoples, and a climate to rival even the most splendid of controlled ports.” Mattheem’s rage overwhelms him. Hands fling out to knocks over his cup.


    Servants hurry to correct the table and pour him another cup.


    “Ah! Back! For now. Damned.” He waves them off as he continues, “That father and son got it in their heads, blasted brains, that they could rewire the genetic codes of all species of their planet! They’d wanted to fashion improved products that couldn’t be resisted. Greed! Pride! Selfish gluttons of all the Universe has granted to the many.


    “You all recall the Hephian gourd.” Many of those at the table nod. “Already high in demand among the entirety of the Far-Reach. Wanting more, they sought to increase their takes. That all their species might produce a similar spice as the gourd. They’d kept it a secret. No other planet had yet cultivated the gourd. The properties only recently coming to light, they extended beyond their grasps.”


    “That was the one to extend life?”


    Matheem looks with transferred fury to Obin. When confronted by a more terrifying gaze of a boxy man responding to the dwindling power, the Elder calms himself with a clearing of the throat. “Yes. Hephian gourd spice is now lost to us. Processed already, the spice available cannot simply be synthesized. Worlds of people were lost to backlash before work could be done, lives documented, or masterpieces finished. Barely studied. All for greed!”


    “Backlash?”


    “Withdrawals!” Matheem confirmed. “We knew such a sudden lack of the spice would cause health concerns; however, they’d not realized the forced quitting could cause death in many of the addicted.”


    “You sound as if it’s divine justice.”


    Spinning on Finel, he regards her with as much spite as he would a child. Caught within the throes of his sermon, his voice cannot be contained, “It was! To play God is to draw the unyielding, unfathomable wrath of the Universe!”


    “Of course it is.” Finel winks to Simora as she drags her thumb across her throat.


    “There is no excuse for their actions.” Matheem’s eyes dart slyly over the table. “All those that worked with them will be equally judged. Any that spawned the idea or continue such blasphemies! And Technomongers! The tests they did upon their own people to integrate technological advancements! There must be justice for the atrocities they committed in the name of their religion of science!”


    “Well, they died for it.” Obin nearly whispers as his cup is refilled. “Come now, Elder. Their world is Abandoned. The Namaste have set down their judgement along with the wrath of yer Universe.”


    “THE Universe.”


    “Yes, yes. The. Then let the dead lie in stilled remembrance. We are here, and we have a show to catch. Let’s enjoy it, shall we?”


    “Y…” the Elder suddenly slips back into his seat. Slumping as the exhausted bear retreating within the den before winter’s apathetic march. “Yes. That would be fine. Quite fantastic.” Looking to the spilled wine and the tired faces, he waves the moment aside and beckons the servants. “Apologies. Apologies. I’d blame my age, but to do so would taste an ashy lie and foolish shrugging of responsibility. I forget,” a giggle escapes him, “I’m not in the lecture halls of the Church.”


    “Quite alright.” Simora assures him. “Technological integration has long been frowned upon by the Blue. Genetic manipulation banned by The Namaste. It’s important to know the history of our failed brethren.” Important indeed, he thinks as the golden orbs regard the Elder. “Better to build our successes of tomorrow.”


    The Dark Stars nod in unison.


    “Now,” Simora proceeds into the future without the need of a vote or permission, “how about we go to the play?”


    “It won’t be a senseless romantic, will it?” Obin, now slightly inebriated, slurs slightly. His massive form slides from side to side as a child refusing to follow their parent’s commands. “Ye said it’s a tale of a hero. Of glory! Tell me ye don’t lie.”


    “Romantic is the tale.” Hearing the sigh from the General, Simora laughs and lifts a hand to silence the man. “Glory is achieved along the way and secured in the end, my dear Obin. There is horror and anxiety. Conflict and opposition. A man walking alone in the dark of the woods—a fear known well to the Emel-Rakar.


    “It is a tail of conquest of self and the world. Known and the unknown. A tale of the beast which lies within every man’s heart. You shall find it intriguing, Obin. I guarantee it.”