《Prodigal Sun》


 Chapter 1

    ¡°The Irakari-Tol,¡± a hand drags across stone etched with sharp lines displaying a story on two dimensions. ¡°Star Owl.¡± Three drones float backward as the man¡¯s free hand swipes toward the floor. All three aim their lights across the wall to better illuminate the documented fable. ¡°Sun Owl, if I¡¯m being precise.¡± As one might graciously, and gently, touch a holy artifact, the man slides his skin over the dented and worn stone.


    ¡°Another tale of myths and monsters?¡± Soft humor, friendly and exhausted, comes from the darkness behind the drones. ¡°I¡¯ve not heard of this one. Irakari-Tol.¡± I¡¯ll remember this one. Could be useful. Neither simple beast nor playful tale. Not something like this.


    Staring at the carving, the creature stands nearly twenty meters tall along the wall of the tunnel. Massive wings stretch out in tethers like tapestries tying the bird to every aspect of life on the planet. Trees, mountains, animals, people¡­ this owl encompasses, embraces, them all.


    More like a crane of some sort. Is it an owl? Long neck, and¡­ are there four feet? Quite the design. Imaginative peoples. Religious and superstitious.


    ¡°You haven¡¯t heard the tales of Irakari-Tol? I¡¯m positive you have.¡± The man within the light continues to study the piece. His eyes, dark orbs when not facing the drones, suddenly flash as he turns. Like looking at deep caverns of water, the bright shorelines slope gradually into the bottomless maw of the tunnels. A childish smile overtakes his face. ¡°The Sun Owl¡¯s one of the Praetors.


    ¡°Pillars of creation gifted to Rakar¡ª¡±


    ¡°Icarus Alpha.¡± The voice in the darkness corrects.


    ¡°Yes, but here,¡± he glances over his shoulder at the beast. ¡°My blood demands the name Rakar.¡± Golden eyes, twinkling ever so gently in the darkness, and waving hand signal permission, and the energetic storyteller continues. ¡°From Almakamla, The Heart of Every Star, came these Praetors. Demi-gods of sorts to reshape the world and bless the faithful. Each with some manner of strength that set them above the common beasts of the Rakar.¡±


    ¡°There have been anything but common beasts here, Francestish.¡± The figure, walking into the light, slowly pushes his right hand through the silvery lengths of hair atop his head. Swiping it to the side, he feels the weight of the humidity fall from him in one of many meditative habits. Golden eyes, unnatural even among his bloodlines, flex like practiced warriors to adapt perfectly to the current level of light. ¡°This beast¡­ it connects to all life?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, Sir.¡± Francestish bows his head in a series of nods as he steps to his master¡¯s side. Sharing a view with his commander, he breathes deeply of the moment. ¡°A fascinating specimen, if ever it existed. It¡¯s said the beat of the Sun Owl¡¯s wings brought the crack of lightning.¡±


    ¡°Such a monstrous avian would require tremendous force to fly.¡±


    ¡°His eyes contained vast universes that twinkle with countless stars.¡±


    ¡°Nocturnal creature; likely possessing various adaptations for an extended spectrum of light. Advantageous for a hunter and scavenger.¡±


    ¡°Talons like Zurikan Steel.¡±


    ¡°Powerful predator. Among the specimens of Icarus, I¡¯d assume a beast of this historical and cultural significance to be quite capable. The landscape possesses a particularly hard series of minerals. Perhaps tools meant for rending flesh as well as landscapes.¡±


    ¡°He could see into a man¡¯s soul.¡± Francestish crosses his arms in pride as if he¡¯s stumped his commander.


    The silver-haired man scratches his chin as his golden eyes flash back and forth across the grand carving. Like a computer scanning, rescanning, analyzing, saving, and then organizing all aspects of the piece, the man nods and slides his hand through his hair again. His tongue clicks before he speaks. ¡°See¡¯s into a man¡¯s soul? Or, does it connect to other beings?¡±


    ¡°The legends do say one could hear the beast in their mind.¡±


    ¡°Spark.¡± The man nods and continues to click his tongue in an even tune. ¡°A creature capable of such a skill¡­ interesting.¡± He knocks on the stone; satisfied with the outcome of both physical and cultural discovery. ¡°A beast possessing the bloodline talent, or at least something similar to it, could be valuable. Alas,¡± the golden eyes turn toward Francestish, ¡°fairytales do not provide me with viable specimens or data.¡±


    ¡°It does provide you an understanding of your people.¡±


    ¡°That it does,¡± he looks over the length of the bird¡¯s wings like peninsulas sprawling over the map to bridge the divide between the five continents. Yet, the golden eyes notice how the tethers upon the southwest Potazel continent seem to spiral in a complex matrix. ¡°Peoples praising a creature for its power and ability to connect to their minds. A most fascinating detail.¡± The golden eyes blink as if trying to remove the sparkle like flecks of sand from the iris. ¡°One I¡¯d have preferred to know earlier.


    ¡°No matter. I know it now.¡± And I will make good use of the information.


    ¡°I could tell you more of the Sun Owl¡¯s story.¡± Francestish taps gently on the stone. ¡°You¡¯ve earned it, Sir. You¡¯ve worked hard since approving our cultural outreach program. Excavating this area will surely ripple through the Icarians.¡±


    ¡°Civilized or Ravagers?¡± The silver-haired man grins like a cat at his subordinate.


    ¡°All will find this uncovered treasure as a sign of good things to come. The Sun Owl has always been a sign of unity and great fortune. When all are connected and hear its voice, then the people can be as one.¡±Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    All in one connection? That does sound like Spark. How Francestish¡¯s eyes were alight in the dimmed tomb of this carved Sun Owl. Plain on his face, the wonder of such a subject binding all life with a single web of tethering feathers was infectious. Not that I could truly share in this. Yet, a smile spread across the man¡¯s face to mimic the young Francestish¡¯s expression. One cannot waste such an opportunity. Not when we¡¯re so close.


    ¡°Shall I go retrieve the crew? We¡¯ll want to block this area off so we can properly examine everything. We¡¯ll want to know what tribes created this. It would be most beneficial to contact their elders to reveal it to them first. There might be more carvings of the other Praetors¡ª¡±


    ¡°A fine showing of honor to the peoples responsible for this shared history.¡±


    ¡°Once we find the responsible tribe, they will hold high the title of Dominax and he that possesses it.¡± Francestish spins about with his arms wide as if to catch the faint breeze in the tunnel. As if he desires to embrace the very breath of Rakar, the man attempts to align himself properly. ¡°Simora Nor-Noctlin! They¡¯ll cheer it.¡± He turns and exhales with a dramatic shriek like several predators in the woodlands above. ¡°Simora! Simora!¡±


    ¡°Have you not made the same claim at the last temple, construction, relocation, supply delivery, and even now at the most recent Reaping.¡± Simora Nor-Noctlin, a fine man of golden eyes, silver hair, and a style that makes him look more like a pious professor of forest and oceanic gods than a planet¡¯s commanding voice, wiggles a finger in the air. ¡°Every time I¡¯m promised glory only to have half the peoples spit at the name you proclaim to be on the verge of hoisting beyond sight.¡±


    It is a playful tone. No true concern in it, yet the accusation must be addressed.


    ¡°The people are a fickle audience, Dominax,¡± Francestish swings his arms about like a symphony¡¯s conductor. ¡°You can never please them all. A seesaw on a tightrope. Offers spilled about to one side or the other. Ravenous beasts cheer for more but only get fed when the other starves.¡±


    ¡°You recommend that I allow one side to starve?¡±


    Francestish shrugs as he reexamines the carved stone of a sandy shine. ¡°Starve might¡¯ve been a strong word, but it could always come to that.¡±


    Simora swipes his hand through his hair. ¡°No one starves anymore.¡±


    ¡°I know you know what I mean.¡± Francestish grunts; knowing the Dominax plays with him. ¡°Amelioration has done a great service to the people.¡±


    Simora wriggles his fingers about, ¡°And even that! Damned as devils are the minds of tomorrow. Witches and warlocks, all that manifest the future of their own will wield what feeble minds believe to be magic.¡± He mocks as he exaggerates a recent preacher¡¯s words in the streets.


    ¡°Hence your standing with the Ravagers,¡± Francestish pulls back knowing the subject can churn a pleasant sky into a whirling storm. Today, the mention seems to merely tug at a humorous nerve within the Dominax¡¯s body.


    ¡°Or lack thereof.¡± Simora Nor-Noctlin turns toward the drones. ¡°You.¡± He points toward one. ¡°Travel deeper into this tunnel. I want mineral and atmospheric samples. Any algae, copper, and energy sources. Recordings of all notable factors based on user preference: 001340.¡±


    Buzzing and beeping signals confirmation and the accepted preference. The electronic voice, purposefully kept distinct from human vocals, responds, ¡°Voice registration accepted. Retinal scan complete. DNA validated.¡± The small screen on the front of the drone becomes a shining, black background with a blue, knotted tree standing in the center. The edge of the knotted outer circle and a specific design within the tree are slightly more greened to make the vertical infinity sign more distinguishable. ¡°For house Nor-Noctlin.¡± The machine¡¯s harsh emphasis on the prefix to the surname makes Simora¡¯s shoulders roll with quiet clicks.


    ¡°Yes, yes.¡± Simora waves it off as he turns to look into the darkness behind him. Different routes of carved stone through a temple, village, or some other uncertain structures and architecture. His golden eyes contort as the blackened center spreads in a more oval style than his companion¡¯s might. ¡°Take that route, first.¡± He points toward one with inscriptions above an archway.


    Likely some sort of inner temple. From the symbols, he studies at a distance through the dark, it may contain some relic or information from the tribe. Knowing the modern dialects and alphabets of the Icarians, he attempts to tie any of the symbols within his view to the known tribes. Bordana? Illapadan? Perhaps, the Shalazan? He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. Energy best reserved for more pressing matters of the present.


    ¡°Francestish,¡± Simora notions toward the carving that his subordinate seems unable to resist. ¡°When you¡¯re done obsequiously tending to the Sun Owl, gather the crew. I¡¯d have secrets brought to the light of day.¡± Simora begins to walk the known trail that leads to the uncovered entrance. ¡°Pay the farmer for his discovery.¡±


    ¡°The usual rate?¡±


    Simora stopped his exit as he thought over the possible routes these paths could take. Unfurling what is potential, the helix of life blooms with Born¡ªa specialized Spark.


    Of the various opportunities and routes yet to be taken, risks of the certain and uncertain are weighed. For such a simple situation, one might believe, there needn¡¯t be excess energy applied to the outcome. Yet, as Simora¡¯s eyes flicker about at invisible markings and probabilities, he clicks his tongue gently in a soothing rhythm.


    Studying snippets of events playing out like recorded holograms atop individual shards of glass, Simora examines the benefit, the size, the clarity, distortions, word choice, edges to the glass, movements of the subjects, length of the vision, locations, smells, emotions¡­ the overwhelming nature of this unrefined ability steals away the soul¡¯s breath. Only a day or two ahead. That¡¯s the extent of years of training.


    Unclear. Unpleasant. Unyielding and uncaring. The mind opens toward all possibilities. Every detail constructed from that which is known to be known, known to be unknown, unknown to be known, and unknown to be unknown. The biological computations struggles to resists the torrential flood of information and outcomes. Yet, the Dominax subjects himself.


    Even the slightest chance.


    ¡°Pay him quadruple the rate.¡± His breath is uneven, and he clicks his tongue between short huffs. Only a second or two of silence before his answer.


    ¡°Sir?¡± Francestish calls out to him, peeling his eyes from the Sun Owl.


    ¡°I want the tribe responsible for this to see the care we¡¯ve taken. The farmer¡¯s goodwill, the communal discussion, the striving citizens seeking more. I see no downfall to this but the additional cost. Reaping will come soon, and the coffers will again be filled.¡±


    Nodding, listening to the soft clicks of his Dominax, the man shrugs. ¡°Sure. Quadruple it is.¡±


    A waste of energy. A few more clicks of the tongue and a swipe of the hand through the hair. Simora steps into the brightened light of Icarus Alpha. His golden eyes swell until the darkness of his pupils all but disappear. He clicks his tongue and proceeds down through the overgrowth toward his guard. There¡¯s important work to be done.

 2

    ¡°Abetak.¡± A man swaddled in earthen-toned fabrics bows his head as he places two fingers to his chin; peeling through a bush of brown hair. ¡°Dominax, many blessings. Tehn ret gorrish.¡±


    The final blessing, his words are empty. A hand reflects the same gesture upon Simora¡¯s chin. ¡°Tebera.¡±


    ¡°The people of the Brotabak nation have sent me.¡± This man cloaked with all the familiar hues of his tribe stands with a back straighter than any arrow. Several layers of the people, as per their culture requires, change the shape of his body. This balled up man stands as a sort of beacon for his people¡ªthe emblem of a gold sword and spear rising and falling together though a green circle (all on a black background) rests on his breast.


    Blue eyes, like a Summer¡¯s day invaded only by one or two of the smallest, wispy clouds, peer across the desk at the ruler of his native planet. Though the tanned line of an exolung¡¯s nostril plug runs up his cheek, the man is currently without one. Sweat drips down over the discolored skin without slowing; falling into the nest of beard.


    ¡°And what, pray tell, has the hearts of the Brotabak people weighed with such need?¡± Ravager nation. Northeast continent: Enert. He must¡¯ve traveled by ship and mount for quite some time. Why must they avoid Discs at all cost? It would be much quicker.  ¡°Speak, and hear your words weigh upon my heart the same.¡±


    The man¡¯s lips flip about as he wets them. Taking up a glass of chilled water from the desk, the man parts beard from mustache to welcome the pure liquid. ¡°Nema cats.¡± He drinks again; chills poured down to his core to combat the heat swelling in the nest of fabrics.


    ¡°Nema cats?¡± Simora¡¯s mind maps out a series of mental images to be manipulated. Descriptors, studies, dissections, samples, and every other bit of data he could draw from the darkest corners of his mind. This cat, as luck would have it for the envoy, was one of Simora¡¯s favorite specimens. They were a problem. Now? I¡¯ve already taken care of these beasts. With risen brows and an elongated face, he leans into the desk, ¡°What of those blasted lions? I¡¯ve heard their cries are quite distressing. Surely a bother after the sun¡¯s fall.¡±


    ¡°Wev det Irakari.¡±


    ¡°What was that?¡± Whispered under your breath? Simora exhales and stretches his hands across the motif of stained currents in the wood. ¡°Please, sir. What of the nema cats?¡±


    Emptying the glass, the man leans back in his magnetically lofted chair. Seemingly uncomfortable, he shifts and settles the layers of fabric. ¡°Our people see them along the cliffs nearest the town, and our people are concerned.¡±


    Concerned. ¡°Preventing loss of life is, of course, our priority, Mr¡­¡±


    ¡°Ethar MoShac.¡±


    ¡°Mr. MoShac.¡± Simora¡¯s head swings about in a measured tempo until he finds the right words. ¡°None have attacked? Are your people in danger?¡±


    ¡°Of course, they are.¡± The Ravager lifts his arms with force enough he might¡¯ve flipped the desk. ¡°Once hunted, ho ra nof, the life test. None may lead among us save those that have taken an eye of the beast.¡± His thumb stabs at the empty space of his forehead.


    Three eyes per beast. Offers a chance to offer mercy, yet they must shed blood by trickery or bravery. Difficult item to safely traverse the jungle with. Glancing at the information of dissection notes that only he can see, the Dominax nods to himself as his tongue clicks three times. Apex predator in most locations; however, Enert¡¯s ecosystems actually force them down several rungs on the carnivore hierarchy. Their carrion exudes odd pheromones inciting hasty disposal of their dead. Their manes are valued highly for their prismatic dispersal of light. Used as a mechanism for defense or offense. He then studies the long claws, the jaw capable of locking once clamped, and the beast¡¯s mesmerizing mane. A prism of fur to catch prey silly enough to be temporarily blinded or charmed.


    ¡°I know their numbers have increased. An easier task, I would believe.¡±


    ¡°We needn¡¯t ease, Dominax.¡± The title sounds tainted by emotion¡­ any emotion. ¡°Untested are the newest generation. It is as if they hunt the hare.¡± Fabrics slide and cry against one another. ¡°We send them out, and they return before the day ends with arms filled with eyes!¡±


    ¡°Seems wasteful.¡±


    ¡°You know my meaning, Dominax!¡± As the volume increases, a small device on the desk opens, turns, and aims a spherical eye at the representative of the Brotabak people. A red blip signals the need for civility, and the Ravager nods with understanding. ¡°Please, Dominax.


    ¡°Tales of you have reached far,¡± the man¡¯s eyes drop to his calloused hands as the leader listens intently. ¡°Life has been preserved and forsaken at once. Where the body dies, the spirit lives on. What then, becomes of the soul that dies before the body?¡±


    ¡°A fine philosophical question.¡± Simora has already begun to review his knowledge of the cats and these peoples. ¡°I believe such an inquiry best posed to our Deep Root Patire Isserman. She may yet provide insight into how best to adapt with these practices while retaining the integrity of the ritual. Your cultural needs are important, yet this tempering of a man-eater weighs the scale against any plight to reverse what has been done.¡±


    ¡°I believe there has been enough adapting across Rakar.¡± Ethar shakes his head and stares at the mechanical vermin that studies him. The red ring of its singular eye has gradually faded to orange toward yellow. Once finished, he knows it will return to sleep, yet the warning remains. ¡°How long until the beasts remember their blood and desire ours? What if this evolution, as all that have come before it, leads to more bloodshed later?¡±


    ¡°The Amelioration has made that an impossibility. My studies span four counts of the Universal Atomic. While I have made public my apologies for being out of the people¡¯s eyes for these several cycles, I did so to begin the greatest breeding program  The Namaste could imagine. The nema cats were one of my first subjects. I do apologize for the trouble it has caused. I will admit, I knew nothing of your ho ra nof. However, this work I had begun long before my rise to Dominax has yielded spectacular results globally. Beginning before my father¡¯s untimely death.¡± Simora motioned toward a statue the man refuses to join him in examining.


    Ethar¡¯s eyes widen as he stares into the golden orbs of the Dominax. ¡°Almakamla, dit prow vum?¡±


    ¡°I do not believe myself a god, Mr. MoShac. I simply trust the practiced arts of the experts¡ªincluding myself. Selective breeding and minor changes to environments or ecosystems have turned even your ghastly nema cats into human-averse carnivores. Hunt them as necessary for your trials, and let your leaders stand in greater numbers by the deed. Or, adapt and find proper guidance by those wielding greater minds. Build upon the rituals and retain the rites.¡±


    Ethar and Simora stare into one another, yet one has been greatly ill-prepared for such a conflict. By blood, the Dominax wields the upper hand.


    He wants violent creatures. They seem to prefer the danger. Religion and cultural rites¡­ Patire should be handling this. He¡¯ll press for another type of breeding. Something to preserve those precious hunts.


    ¡°Then for ours, and the many tribes like us, might we fashion a sanctuary to the natural way? In this, we and the cat retain the soul before our body¡¯s death.¡±


    He seems pleased with himself. He¡¯s considered this¡­ several times along his journey. Fully conversed with himself and filled in my answers without any knowledge of my nature. I am no cat to be blinded for your crown. ¡°Why not evolve the rite? Complete a task of some other danger?¡± He¡¯ll note the success of my Amelioration and insult the new ways.


    ¡°There are no tasks for the hunter. Not for the forager, nor for the seeker.¡± He motions to himself in all his earthen-colored fabrics. ¡°Not one fabric displaced. Not one, Dominax.¡± The voice was rising, and a little yellow ring solidifies in preparation of reversing the colors. ¡°Prints-a-Ment jungles instead of woodlands, wastes, or open waters. A planet fashioned into a zoo. And our culture the pipe organ¡¯s tune.¡±


    Feeling only the slightest annoyance at his great work being labeled ¡°zoo,¡± Simora glances over his office where all his meetings are held.


    An expansive studio of art, artifacts of culture and of science, and all that is required to survive away from home. Though his residence is quite a blissful, solitary treasure, he finds himself trapped within the lab, kitchen, bedroom, or even entertainment studio through the many doors of this oddly colored room. Walls of deep brown, nearing black, stand in slats between Prints-a-Ment slabs of blue ocean beneath a sheet of ice.The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.


    A statue of a man, bronzed and projecting, stands beside a gathering of seats for more relaxed conversation. This statue steals most of Simora¡¯s attention as he glances over his domain¡ªa quick series of clicks escape his mouth. Dominax. He forces himself to glance across the remainder of the considerable room.


    Simora takes in all that he¡¯s found comfort in; the sanctuary of his mind. Where my soul thrives immortal as the body gradually seeks death.


    ¡°A world so filled with adversity.¡± Simora stands to turn toward the wall behind him. Knowing his user preference, the room activates the shaded windows. Brown, nearing black, and a blue ocean trapped beneath a sheet of ice suddenly vanish. A wall of grassy fields, standing trees, and a beautiful scene of natural serenity spans the view. Along the creek, a small critter scrubs his nose before sneezing and scurrying back toward a favored tree.


    Ethar stands with an open mouth as he moves around the desk¡ªthe little mechanical eye following his movements.


    He¡¯ll stay on that side to not raise suspicion. He¡¯ll answer how it might be lovely, but it¡¯s fabricated. He will talk of a strength robbed of his people.


    ¡°I-it¡¯s beautiful.¡± Ethar¡¯s hand rises to the layers over his heart. ¡°Are we not¡ª¡±


    ¡°Thirty-nine floors up?¡± Simora continues to peer outward. Among the bushes, a pair of eyes peers back at him. ¡°Yes.¡± The shades can block one direction from the other, yet he¡¯s never enjoyed that function. If he can see them, he wants them to see him.


    Ethar¡¯s head droops as he considers it again, ¡°Another zoo. Caged.¡± He focuses on something there; something among the bushes.


    ¡°Not at all.¡± Simora points one finger toward the right. ¡°We are against the cliffs, sir. Water flows naturally, unimpeded. Creatures come and go from this point as they wish.¡± Still, the man stares out. ¡°Since the fall of the Keep, I¡¯d had this building constructed as the jewel of Valkenaria. This tall slope was eroding. My building now braces it to preserve this beautiful scene.¡±


    ¡°Then you understand.¡± The Ravager points out, bouncing a bit like an overstuffed scarecrow, ¡°You see it. The varabelm.¡± He motions toward the eyes that stare toward the Dominax.


    He sees it. A hunter completing his rites before the Amelioration.


    ¡°How it watches as a mouse. These walls should be nothing!¡± Ethar clears his throat and glances at the orange-colored eye of the device. ¡°A varabelm is vicious. What has your hand done to break beast and man alike?¡±


    As predicted. ¡°I have fashioned gold from mud.¡± The ruler continues to stare down the notable predator¡ªone that even nema cats are sure to avoid. ¡°Drawn the attention of the collective among the stars. Grown economy and designed a more favorable structure for humanity.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve toppled the columns of Rakar!¡±


    ¡°You demand a hunt, Mr. MoShac.¡± Simora steps to his left, granting more distance between the two, and moves to the glass. ¡°You believe your people¡¯s worth comes from the rite of bloodshed and conquest.¡±


    ¡°Yand Forakan.¡± The voice trembles. ¡°Journey that must be. All walk their path, and all must struggle.¡±


    ¡°You believe that? You believe all must suffer?¡± Simora¡¯s hand raises and places itself on the glass. He will confirm it for me.


    Ethar steps back, noting the oddity in the Dominax¡¯s tone. ¡°We are Emel-Rakar.¡± He straightens himself with the pride of the word that has remained across all dialects and fables.


    ¡°Embers of Icarus.¡±


    ¡°Rakar.¡± The Ravager attempts to correct.


    Paying no mind to the attempt at control through semantics, the Dominax¡¯s tongue clicks ten times with the same beat of his fingers tapping against the glass. ¡°And why are you called ¡®embers?¡¯¡±


    ¡°Almakamla scorches and chills, breaks and builds. A world that must become by overcoming.¡± Ethar turns back to the beast that hasn¡¯t moved from the bushes in the distance. ¡°Almakamla places before us a mountain, and we break it to rubble. A varabelm is a king¡¯s trophy. To conquer the beast is to prove the brightness of the ember.¡± His hand again pounds at his padded chest. ¡°For Almakamla knows then of our strength and will.¡±


    ¡°To conquer the beast.¡± Simora taps a final time on the glass. ¡°Open wall.¡±


    Clicks and a snap of electricity precede a sudden vanishing of glass¡ªlike continents of frost receding into nothingness of invisible air. This powerful glass, mere molecules thick, bows to such a man with eagerness. A sudden wind from the surrounding cliffs floods the room.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± Ethar grabs at his waist and finds all the tools of his survival are still absent¡ªkept safely at the desk of the Dominax¡¯s secretaries. He now stands only in the protective, and cumbersome, layers of fabrics at the edge of tall grass that bends into the room as if trying to uproot and escape. ¡°Dominax. Please.¡±


    ¡°A king¡¯s trophy?¡± Simora steps into the grass where his flowing cloak of greens and blues blends into the surroundings as if it were woven of the flora. It wraps about his neck as if to give the appearance of a human face upon a floating sapling.


    ¡°Stop.¡± Ethar steps to the very edge where Prints-a-Ment resists the ever-expansive demand of the jungles. ¡°You damn me for your death?¡±


    ¡°Your people have not been wronged. I disarm the beast that no man in Valkenaria require pulser or blade.¡±


    Golden eyes from within the bushes across the creek move. Shifting like a pendulum, the beast¡¯s deceptive nature draws a smile from the ruler. Just as the families of Black. Secrecy. Hiding position, then hiding path, then hiding attack, then weapon, then end. A plan so many creatures experience yet never appreciate.


    Ethar thinks to move forward. He demands himself to, yet the leader of man must possess instinct. The part of his brain, the most primitive survival portion, plants his feet on the Prints-a-Ment. Had he been allowed his Vibrato-Po, Makam blade, sidearm, or even, he believes, a sharp stick¡­ he might trek forward with the crazed Dominax.


    Though, he knows¡­ this is a lie. Not before a varabelm. Not before such a beast.


    The bush begins to rustle.


    It¡¯s coming. Use this, Simora glances up to the sky; exposing his cloth-covered throat as he squints toward the sun. Sun. ¡°Come then! Confirm my honor and status!¡± The yellow eyes of the bush open wide as the creature¡¯s slender body leaves cover. A length of gray and green skin, smoother than the finest cut jewel, slithers through the air above the grass. Four meters, all slapping through the grass at odd intervals, tear through the blades and soil as the body rushes from its hiding spot. ¡°Hear the word of Irakari-Tol!¡±


    This skittering lizard¡¯s extended neck swings back and forth to keep the prey guessing which way the powerful jaw will lead. Of course that¡¯s the first trick. Simora stands still with his arms out¡ªblessing the scene and predator that threatens his life. Ethar listens, bewildered by the final comment of his planet¡¯s master, and finds his body unable to move¡­ unable to breathe. They both know the slithering head, as large as a man¡¯s torso, is a feint.


    Only when the powerful claws and poisonous-barbed tail get into range does the head proceeds to phase two. As if an object were cranked back, the spring tensing with the weight, the head is pulled back into folds of smoothed skin of grays and green.


    Dead. Ethar feels his chest suddenly empty as if his heart plummets into his stomach. He has watched many a man die, yet this would mean more than the simple end of a soul. Rakar often stole the lives of the weak and foreign. To watch a ruler expose his chest and throat¡­ to welcome death¡­ this was a new and disturbing thing. One direction will be the lunge, the other the tail, and the claws in the center. Such was the way of the apex varabelm.


    Were the Dominax, he knew, facing a beast yet to be Ameliorated, he would surely be torn apart and devoured. The varabelm is known for its vicious behavior¡­ the playful beast. Yet, Simora waits patiently as the beast turns slightly and begins running sideways at him. Even as the claws, reaching his shoulder¡¯s height with ease as it ran, approached, Simora watches the sky. His tower rising into the deep blues above.


    Ethar watches as a sickened expression creeps over his wrinkled skin. Will the next Dominax be grander? Does this return to us our ways? Will Almakamla guide us from the folly of off-worlders? I would give my life for such.  His body relaxes as the thought crosses his mind.


    As sunlight drowns the land above the Dominax¡¯s tower, the landscape of woods and streams, and the vicious predator¡­ silence slips between the streams of light. Tightened about throats, limbs, and flora, all stand silent and stilled.


    A hand, one human and weak, extends out toward the varabelm¡¯s head. The creature¡¯s tightened muscles overflow the cavern of a body it¡¯s sunken into. Two yellow eyes, as large as Ethar¡¯s fists, peer into the ruler¡¯s sandy, golden orbs. A predator that few beasts could match across the globe stands like a freshly finished piece of taxidermy.


    Placing two fingers gently against the beast¡¯s snout, the Dominax focuses his Spark. Touching upon the beast¡¯s mind, he drives in just to the surface of the simpleton creature¡¯s brain.


    Boring¡­ a dangerous and mostly disgraceful ability of the Blue¡­ penetrates the basic dealings of a beast¡¯s mind. Simora does not recall when he¡¯d first attempted such a skill, but he knows it must not become habit.


    Instincts. Hunger. Food and fun. Hunt. Simora¡¯s lips pull back into a smile that¡¯s unseen to the Ravager. Ameliorated. Of course you are. Now, go back to your hunt, and for this one time¡­ you may remind the human beside me of your nature.


    Turning back toward Ethar, Simora examines the wide eyes and pursed lips. Those blue eyes, aquatic planets turning about with exhausted clouds, flash with horror. Realization, the sudden, harsh collision with truth, can break even the strongest of wills.


    Varabelms, a symbol of a cunning and vicious leader, steps to the side. Like an arrow nocked in the swollen body of the beast, the prepared death now aims at Ethar. As if the myths and legends were true, the Ravager feels himself petrifying in place as the yellow eyes dig into him.


    There, loaded as a bullet, the spring-necked hunter of Icarus waited patiently for his master¡¯s command. ¡°Go and hunt, beast.¡± And so, the creature did his master¡¯s bidding. Leaving two fresh and tasty meals behind, he moves toward easier, less-delicious prey. ¡°Slaying a beast, Mr. MoShac?


    ¡°It seems such a waste,¡± Simora inhales slowly as he clicks his tongue. His eyes open back to the harsh light of Icarus. Bathing in the silent moment, the Dominax steadies his heartbeat after the use of Spark¡ªof Boring. ¡°Go home and tell of my trophy. No more need have your people of collecting eyes, teeth, or claw.¡± Golden eyes, like a gilded beach slipping into black wells, release Ethar from his petrification; though, a fate worse than stone seems to play out behind the wispy streams of golden sands. ¡°A king stands with open arms before you. Paradise is his promise. No need for weapons and war; of struggle.¡± His arms, still out, aim toward the Ravager. ¡°That I have conquered the planet itself, Almakamla must witness my will. In this, I offer all my prize.¡±


    He will carry my tale forth. He will remember my words¡­ Irakari-Tol. Yes. Sun Owl. Go and tell. He stands, unblinking, as the Ravager swallows back all the emotions that had sought escape. Ethar bows his head slowly with the aged understanding of how best to survive among the beasts. Go forth and tell.

 3

    ¡°You keep avoiding me, and I¡¯ll never be able to mold you into a master¡¯s blade.¡± Moving quickly through the hall, a man gallops toward Simora. A pleading voice precedes the man; though, humor attempts to mask the clear resolve he has to accomplish his task.


    Without turning toward the deep voice, Simora pictured the man¡¯s face perfectly in his mind. A small patch of black on his chin and a bun of the darkest hair tightly bound on the back of his head during training hours. Green eyes with rims of dusk¡¯s favored purple peeled wide at the inner conflict of duty from past and present. The head sits atop finely toned muscles forming the trunk of a neck.


    ¡°I regretfully must decline, Thomat.¡± Simora keeps his pace. His hands, stuck straight to his side, tap against the light fabrics of green and blue. ¡°Much work to do. Preparations and such!¡±


    A head of black hair swoops past the leader and turns to form a fleshy blockade. ¡°Sir, please. You¡¯re placing me in a troubling position.¡± Even with his quick movements, the toned man¡¯s breathing is as even as ever. His eyes, just as wide as Simora imagined, say more than the man¡¯s vocabulary allowed him to. ¡°Of my pride, I am wounded by your refusals.¡±


    ¡°Your pride neither diminishes nor suffers in any fashion but by the damage you do yourself.¡± Simora smiles gently to the man as if their ages reversed. The thought spreads Simora¡¯s grin farther up his cheeks. My silvery hair might make more sense. Fine hair and features for his years. ¡°You are no longer my father¡¯s man, Thomat. You¡¯ve been mine for some time.¡±


    Streams of lights come from extended series of rods along the ceiling. The hallway fill with funneled sunlight across deep blues and blacks. Like traveling a creek under the shade of a thick forest, Simora stuck to walking along the blue shapes. Careful to step into the false water instead of the blackened moss and muck.


    Simora notes the spotless uniform of the man; a reflection of the man within. The Nor-Noctlin crest above his right breast, and a sigil of a white hammer against a silver background. A Deep Root allowed to display, with the utmost honors, the sigil of their sworn charge and of their own bloodline.


    ¡°Sir, if I may.¡±


    ¡°You may not, Thomat. I¡¯ve heard your pleas four-hundred and seven times just since I¡¯ve assumed the title of Dominax.¡± Two cycles since manhood by the Universal Atomic Counter time. ¡°My Hand and Gavel is to follow my orders. Should my orders contradict an order of the past, would these not supersede the previous orders?¡±Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.


    A moment of hesitation grants Simora the time needed to swing swiftly about the man like a comet refusing to slow for a dwarf planet¡¯s pitiful gravity. ¡°I-I don¡¯t mean to insult my Dominax.¡± The title sounds native on the man¡¯s tongue. ¡°But your mother¡¯s¡ª¡±


    ¡°My mother¡¯s been gone for even a great time, Thomat. Please, let her and her commands rest within the stillness of an undisturbed past. I barely knew her, in truth. What I do recall were devotions toward philosophy and hobby than to maternal duty. ¡®From cosmic dust to cosmic dust, the order of all returns to chaos.¡¯ Right?¡± Reciting one of his mother¡¯s favored passages from the Star Testament, Simora taps at his side to the beat of the line.


    ¡°Of course, I am your man.¡± Thomat turns on his heels and keeps pace. ¡°But you insist on walking these halls alone, you avoid me when possible, and¡ª¡±


    ¡°Sounds more like questioning me, Thomat.¡± Simora¡¯s golden eyes glance to the side like a cat stirred by a mouse.


    ¡°You keep me around for such a challenge.¡±


    ¡°That I do.¡±


    ¡°But what use is the question when ignored?¡±


    Simora cannot refrain from chuckling, ¡°Come now, Thomat. You know your tongue speaks false. Your counsel is always considered. Your Tempering insights through Tact give a unique perspective. It applies well to probability calculations. Every quantifiable detail provided by your instincts paints a clearer picture.¡± The Dominax¡¯s shoulders roll as he clicks his tongue and taps his sides five times each. ¡°To keep the Civilized managed and safe in our arms. To predict movements and uprisings! Who else knows the laws like the back of his hand or people like pieces in Galaxia?¡±


    ¡°Then perhaps, my Lord, you¡¯d honor me with a game later, and we could discuss such things further.¡± Thomat nods to himself with pinched eyes considering another failure to sway his Dominax. ¡°Let us speak plainly and hone our skills. Tact versus Prescience.¡±


    He notes the Black and not the Blue. ¡°Indeed. Habit against manipulation.¡± I am son of a Black family first. Must they forget my mother¡¯s blood? Why does such an advantage nag me so? ¡°We will share a drink for your many future losses. Now, I must return to my study. When done with their counsel, I shall seek yours to solidify it.¡±


    ¡°I look to the future of your presence, my Lord. Take care to not leave the building without guards.¡± Thomat stops and lets his leader leave. Calling to him as if attempting to parent the orphaned man. ¡°There¡¯s a dark storm coming.¡±


    ¡°Another?¡±


    ¡°Indeed, Sir.¡± Thomat waited patiently for his master to turn the corner of the hallway. Alone in the square tunnel of deep blues and blacks, he looks up to the string of light poles. Stored sunlight falls over him in fractions of a true star, yet the warmth in the body rises as if in the midday sun. Somewhere, algae batteries and solar drinkers work tirelessly to keep this massive structure illuminated. ¡°I tried, Lady Grefta. He¡¯s a stubborn one.¡± His eyes fall back to the end of the hallway. Not a single soul about, ¡°He¡¯s grown to quite a man. Lord Morikal, you raised a fine man.¡±


    Thomat taps twice over his heart and once to his forehead, ¡°Beldara Wamenik.¡±

 4

    ¡°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¡ªfashioned 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¡ªthe 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¡ªhaving 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¡ªand 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.¡±

 5

    About the city of Valkenaria, a ruler walks the streets as his father before him. High structures of Prints-a-Ment and Zurikan steel pierce the low, orange-tinted clouds as if the dense atmosphere had specifically impaled the puffs. Like a painter from the stars, one never having seen a forest, was commissioned with the description of the landscape.


    A number of circular objects soar between the buildings. Pilots carefully navigating the skies and tribulations of the planet for either personal travel or protective detail of the Dominax below. He pays them little attention. Instead, he is painfully aware of the eight guards, ten sent-drones, and two medi-drones.


    Annoyed as any soul may be when removed from privacy and silence, Simora¡¯s agitated hand fixes the hooked device between his nostrils. Both tubes, matching the color of his flesh, flow over his cheeks and around his ears. A low hum in his ears confirms the device is active. He inhales deeply of the corrected air.


    Glancing back, two sent-drones float by him as elongated orbs of black metal. Their smooth forms provide no information as to any model¡¯s capabilities. Depending on the situation, any might leap into action at the first sign of danger to the planet¡¯s ruler.


    Since my Amelioration, there¡¯s been nothing but the danger of angry words from the Ravagers. The citizenry have willingly disarmed, too. I¡¯ve done more in a few years than these drones could do in a thousand. The Dominax shakes his head in discomfort as he plays with the tubes of his exolung device. Pretty bad air today. Looking to the sky creates bright lines across his protective glasses. Orange puffs caught against the gray and white trunks rise like megaflora toward a deep blue sky¡ªa blue like a bottomless sea that dries up nearer the sandy beaches encircling the sun¡¯s righteous aura.


    Expanding far over this once great forest, the metal and Prints-a-Ment platform stands a reflective oasis. An implanted, obviously foreign, jewel in the splendor of the continent. Valkenaria exists as a fool¡¯s realized dream. A mirage of sorts. Spanning generations until finally, in just the last few cycles, a permanent structure could rise. Simora¡¯s shoulders tighten back as he feels a tinge of pride rise in his chest. Having tended to the seed planted by his father, he now walks the streets of the mighty city of Valkenaria¡­


    No varabelm, nema cat, or weddletot to threaten me. Never again. The memory of a black-haired woman carrying him through this street flashes through his mind once. Just as quickly as it manifests, the Dominax thrusts it back into the recesses of his mind. No one will hurt like that again, mother.


    Streets once crumbled, overgrown, and splattered with human life now stretch on and up in direct opposition to the natural order. Civilized Icarians move about the walkways of this city. Too small to be a megacity, it still remains the largest concentration of human life across the treacherous planet.


    And it¡¯s growing.


    People go about their lives. Buying food or products, sharing stories and emotions, and gathering as cells forming the greater body. Simora grins at all his work has wrought, yet he knows in his heart that more can be done. As any Icarian¡¯s faith would believe, what god could peer into his creation and not desire more? Knowing he lacks the title of ¡°God,¡± the Dominax grunts and clicks his tongue in an attempt to force himself into contentedness. The numinous powers of his joined bloodlines will have to be enough.


    I could¡­ clicks of the tongue race as hands tap restlessly at the nostril clip of the exolung. No. I used the Helixer once. His finger extends to scratch beneath his eyes. I¡¯ve enough. To conquer planet and Dark Stars. Scratching as his eye, Simora reviews the visions of the Black heads¡¯ arrival. It¡¯ll come to pass. I knew this would happen¡­ but so soon?


    ¡°I want these blocks moved farther north. The main street should have more parks and recreational zones.¡± Simora turns toward one of the floating drones which blinks its understanding. Knowing the messages will be reviewable, as well as transmitted to the governing architects, Simora points about the area and notes the changes. ¡°Section AC. Additional braces required. River beneath will provide for temperate displays with fountains. The Dark Stars will desire a few days rest before deliberation. Easily within walking distance, they will find this an oasis among a jungle of Prints-a-Ment.


    ¡°I then want an extension of the entertainment district from AB into this zone. Elder Matheem Nephire enjoys the operas of old. Inquire of the Regal Minstrels as to their capabilities. I¡¯d have his ears plied with music before my dealings.


    ¡°Trails leading up into the hills should be maintained and widened. The entourage of General Obin Nephire will want to witness the surrounding landscape for themselves. Provide them an easy and naturally decorated experience. We are as safe as we are beautiful.


    ¡°Similarly,¡± the Dominax spins toward the south where two Discs soar overhead, ¡°I¡¯d have three of our finest pilots prepared to guide Planetist Finel Dornish about. She¡¯ll want to see the other continents as well. Have our fastest vessels readied and fashioned for her use. A bottle or two of our reserved spirits will keep her entertained. Restock daily. In fact,¡± he taps at his nostril tubes while clicking his tongue, ¡°make it three bottles.


    ¡°Lastly.¡± Simora turns on his heels and examines the streets. Though he looks at specific buildings, his attention soars beyond walls, windows, and any physical structures to encompass the entirety of Valkenaria. Every square foot of this city is locked within his mind. He tugs at the fabrics of his cloak around his neck to ensure they pull up to the base of his hair as he thinks. ¡°Veiled Remiran Noctlin.¡± The name slips from him as if he¡¯s forgotten to swallow a mouthful of water.


    ¡°I should say,¡± a sigh follows before the realization that every direction returns him to the same point.


    Himself.


    ¡°I must entertain him myself?¡± The clicking tongue speeds at the thought. Entertain my cousin? I¡¯ve not seen him since we were children! What commonality can we yet possess? He fancied board games and gambles. Snapping his fingers, the Dominax realizes he might have aid yet in this plan. ¡°Thomat! How many hours has that man stood playing Galaxia without rest? I¡¯d say Remiran may find a kindred spirit in my hammer! And if his interests have shifted, I have time enough to formulate a contingency.¡±


    Feeling accomplished at the construction and planned entertainment, the Dominax proceeded down the street yet contorted to his will. Soon, various rigs and levers would begin to redesign the city as if it were a living, growing beast. Farther into and above the forest, the southern platform will rise like a towering claw of mankind¡¯s fashioned evolution. What natural beasts could hope to endure when the sentient mind willed the titan¡¯s hands to conquest?


    Hearing the dull drone of the bots beside him, the Dominax rolled his neck, careful of his clothes, and reexamined the skies. The deep blue of the sky¡¯s majority clashed so preciously against the jewels of amber and salmon clouds. A faint discoloration of the hue; deepening in the florescence. Though he¡¯d never considered lifting a brush, the scene held a quality of calm that regularly entranced him in his work.


    Perhaps I should paint it. At least, commission the scene. I could hang it above my lab desk. The thought fills Simora with two joys. One being the prospect of something new; perhaps, even learning a new skill should he put his mind to it. The birth of wonder and newness. Something untainted by failure since the hands realize failure comes only from practiced hands. Pleasure is derived from the learning of that skill until such a time where failure becomes possible and is realized.


    Secondly, the capture of something natural and wonderful. The placing of it within his secure walls and collection. A beautiful scene plucked from the sky, something that can never be again in such sameness, and placed where only he can enjoy it.


    What would they think of it? Allowing himself a singular moment of sentimental leisure, Simora gazes up to the sky many had known to fear. His heart neither races nor stops at the sights. Such clouds tell of tomorrow¡¯s likely wrath. So much beauty comes before the inevitable fall.


    As the skies turn to fields of amber resin, the morrow births a darkness. Simora considers a lesson of the captains and hunters among the Ravagers. Dark storms were coming. We¡¯ll prepare for tomorrow. This one might be a little rougher on the equipment. Simora¡¯s eyes scan the city as he imagines it as he¡¯d dictated. Everything must be perfect. They¡¯ll not accept my answers easily.


    So, he walks. At the edge of the city to the south, he looks out over the lands of his father¡¯s failed conquest. As if the land were once liquid, it pours out and over in rolling waves to swallow all between it and the seas. Water, always seeking itself at the lowest points, falls in streams and rivers from various points along the ledges to the north. From beneath the high structures of the city, the Mobana River flows out toward the sea. Ever seeking rest within the kin of its creation. It pushes through miles upon miles of winding forests, avoiding any wandering tongues of passing beasts, to fall within that restful sea.


    A sea, Simora knows, needs only the slightest push of one to start the many. One movement from the individual, and the whole begins to shift and plot. An uneasiness among the many that means some manner of trouble for those unlike the family of molecules. For even the seas of Icarus Alpha spell trouble for the ignorant and fool. From high atop the expanding city of Valkenaria, Simora paces the edge as his thoughts travel to distant places and times.


    Down there, spread out hunters lying in wait for the unsuspecting prey, exist all manner of plants and creatures meaning to remind humanity of their place within the food chain. The Amelioration nears completion in these lands. This truth, Simora assures himself, will solidify his rule.


    To accomplish what none other has. He considers sitting at the ledge of his city to witness the closeness of beauty within the rush of mortality. Father. Mother. He steps away from the ledge and continues to pace, instead. Greens, oranges, indigos, golds¡­ the world below stretches on like a tsunami of spilled paint. Three percent or so should remain. I¡¯ve nearly completed. I¡¯m nearly there. Lands as tamed as the people.


    His eyes turn and compare the three distinct entities of reality.


    Towering formations of pleasingly designed architecture, skies of the sea¡¯s deepest regions reflected, and the endless forests of a world attempting to survive and evolve to spite the Dominax. Every portion of this planet intrigued the young master of all Civilized and Ravagers.


    Towers of businesses, leisure, and living quarters spread out like the trees of elven nations in books lining the family library. Simora, once again, allows himself a moment of memory. A woman of dark hair sat alone in a library as father brought the young babe in to join. They¡¯d read together of fantastical tales of worlds yet unfound but in the minds of man. Lofty trees welcoming the population into its bosom for no more than the respect of life towards life.


    ¡°Anyone can make a world.¡± She¡¯d said this once. ¡°To put a pen to paper creates something new and exciting. To write something, even copied with slightly new words or phrases, births beauty.¡±


    Simora recalls then how her head rose to look at him. The black eyes that spread almost entirely to the edges of the lids; white nearly drowned in a sea of inky darkness. They stared into him¡­ dark as the storms that would soon threaten every life foolish enough to leave the safety of Prints-a-Ment and steel.


    ¡°Beauty we can make reality.¡± Her head would press gently against the child¡¯s. Simora recalls the brilliance and vividness of this implanted thought. An architectural temple of a land constructed in her mind. As perfectly envisioned now as when she first shared it with her child.


    How lovely the smile that seemed to vanish within the eyes of black. Yanked up and spaghettified by the blackholes. All the world slipped into those orbs as the memory is thrust back into the past.


    Simora stands at the edge of Valkenaria.


    ¡°Dominax?¡± A man, wearing the sigil of Nor-Noctlin upon his black armor, steps forward. ¡°Are you alright?¡±If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°Fine.¡± Simora waves him off as he tugs at the Balan fabric about his neck. ¡°Prepare the city for a dark storm.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d just had one.¡± The man questions him with a cocked head; eyes invisible beneath his helmet.


    Simora spins with his golden eyes piercing through the visor of the helmet. This man, spawned by some mixed blood containing an ancestral Civilized, has lost the ways of reading the skies. ¡°Then I should say we needn¡¯t concern ourselves for any future storms? Might we finally be free of such dangers? I do not recall my works tempting the skies from their wrath! What secrets have you?¡±


    The man steps back.


    ¡°Then prepare the city. No one is to be outside between three and eight.¡±


    ¡°That long?¡± The man¡¯s tone is no longer of disobedience but of wonder. ¡°We¡¯ll let the engineers know to ready the generators and grid. The levers and limbs will be rendered inoperable.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Simora steps once against the edge of his city and clicks his tongue at the river which swings about far below. ¡°No mistakes. We have to make a grand impression, and I refuse to welcome my kin to a city unable to adhere to my commands.¡± The golden eyes glance back over his shoulder.


    ¡°Of course,¡± the man turns back and hurries away from his pack. From there, he¡¯ll issue the commands, speak with the appropriate individuals, and make sure the Dominax¡¯s city stands resolved against the coming dark storm.


    Simora; however, remains at the edge of all Valkenaria. A dangerous plummet, should he step incorrectly, would mean the city and planet await their newest leader. Who among the stars can hope to tame what Simora has bound, stitched, redesigned, and rebirthed by his own will?


    Who could ever? He clicks his tongue as he stares into a forest that neither roars nor leaps toward him. He stands above the forests and rivers to take in all that rushes toward the sea.


    About the city of Valkenaria, a ruler walks the streets as his father before him. High structures of Prints-a-Ment and Zurikan steel pierce the low, orange-tinted clouds as if the dense atmosphere had specifically impaled the puffs. Like a painter from the stars, one never having seen a forest, was commissioned with the description of the landscape.


    A number of circular objects soar between the buildings. Pilots carefully navigating the skies and tribulations of the planet for either personal travel or protective detail of the Dominax below. He pays them little attention. Instead, he is painfully aware of the eight guards, ten sent-drones, and two medi-drones.


    Annoyed as any soul may be when removed from privacy and silence, Simora¡¯s agitated hand fixes the hooked device between his nostrils. Both tubes, matching the color of his flesh, flow over his cheeks and around his ears. A low hum in his ears confirms the device is active. He inhales deeply of the corrected air.


    Glancing back, two sent-drones float by him as elongated orbs of black metal. Their smooth forms provide no information as to any model¡¯s capabilities. Depending on the situation, any might leap into action at the first sign of danger to the planet¡¯s ruler.


    Since my Amelioration, there¡¯s been nothing but the danger of angry words from the Ravagers. The citizenry have willingly disarmed, too. I¡¯ve done more in a few years than these drones could do in a thousand. The Dominax shakes his head in discomfort as he plays with the tubes of his exolung device. Pretty bad air today. Looking to the sky creates bright lines across his protective glasses. Orange puffs caught against the gray and white trunks rise like megaflora toward a deep blue sky¡ªa blue like a bottomless sea that dries up nearer the sandy beaches encircling the sun¡¯s righteous aura.


    Expanding far over this once great forest, the metal and Prints-a-Ment platform stands a reflective oasis. An implanted, obviously foreign, jewel in the splendor of the continent. Valkenaria exists as a fool¡¯s realized dream. A mirage of sorts. Spanning generations until finally, in just the last few cycles, a permanent structure could rise. Simora¡¯s shoulders tighten back as he feels a tinge of pride rise in his chest. Having tended to the seed planted by his father, he now walks the streets of the mighty city of Valkenaria¡­


    No varabelm, nema cat, or weddletot to threaten me. Never again. The memory of a black-haired woman carrying him through this street flashes through his mind once. Just as quickly as it manifests, the Dominax thrusts it back into the recesses of his mind. No one will hurt like that again, mother.


    Streets once crumbled, overgrown, and splattered with human life now stretch on and up in direct opposition to the natural order. Civilized Icarians move about the walkways of this city. Too small to be a megacity, it still remains the largest concentration of human life across the treacherous planet.


    And it¡¯s growing.


    People go about their lives. Buying food or products, sharing stories and emotions, and gathering as cells forming the greater body. Simora grins at all his work has wrought, yet he knows in his heart that more can be done. As any Icarian¡¯s faith would believe, what god could peer into his creation and not desire more? Knowing he lacks the title of ¡°God,¡± the Dominax grunts and clicks his tongue in an attempt to force himself into contentedness. The numinous powers of his joined bloodlines will have to be enough.


    I could¡­ clicks of the tongue race as hands tap restlessly at the nostril clip of the exolung. No. I used the Helixer once. His finger extends to scratch beneath his eyes. I¡¯ve enough. To conquer planet and Dark Stars. Scratching as his eye, Simora reviews the visions of the Black heads¡¯ arrival. It¡¯ll come to pass. I knew this would happen¡­ but so soon?


    ¡°I want these blocks moved farther north. The main street should have more parks and recreational zones.¡± Simora turns toward one of the floating drones which blinks its understanding. Knowing the messages will be reviewable, as well as transmitted to the governing architects, Simora points about the area and notes the changes. ¡°Section AC. Additional braces required. River beneath will provide for temperate displays with fountains. The Dark Stars will desire a few days rest before deliberation. Easily within walking distance, they will find this an oasis among a jungle of Prints-a-Ment.


    ¡°I then want an extension of the entertainment district from AB into this zone. Elder Matheem Nephire enjoys the operas of old. Inquire of the Regal Minstrels as to their capabilities. I¡¯d have his ears plied with music before my dealings.


    ¡°Trails leading up into the hills should be maintained and widened. The entourage of General Obin Nephire will want to witness the surrounding landscape for themselves. Provide them an easy and naturally decorated experience. We are as safe as we are beautiful.


    ¡°Similarly,¡± the Dominax spins toward the south where two Discs soar overhead, ¡°I¡¯d have three of our finest pilots prepared to guide Planetist Finel Dornish about. She¡¯ll want to see the other continents as well. Have our fastest vessels readied and fashioned for her use. A bottle or two of our reserved spirits will keep her entertained. Restock daily. In fact,¡± he taps at his nostril tubes while clicking his tongue, ¡°make it three bottles.


    ¡°Lastly.¡± Simora turns on his heels and examines the streets. Though he looks at specific buildings, his attention soars beyond walls, windows, and any physical structures to encompass the entirety of Valkenaria. Every square foot of this city is locked within his mind. He tugs at the fabrics of his cloak around his neck to ensure they pull up to the base of his hair as he thinks. ¡°Veiled Remiran Noctlin.¡± The name slips from him as if he¡¯s forgotten to swallow a mouthful of water.


    ¡°I should say,¡± a sigh follows before the realization that every direction returns him to the same point.


    Himself.


    ¡°I must entertain him myself?¡± The clicking tongue speeds at the thought. Entertain my cousin? I¡¯ve not seen him since we were children! What commonality can we yet possess? He fancied board games and gambles. Snapping his fingers, the Dominax realizes he might have aid yet in this plan. ¡°Thomat! How many hours has that man stood playing Galaxia without rest? I¡¯d say Remiran may find a kindred spirit in my hammer! And if his interests have shifted, I have time enough to formulate a contingency.¡±


    Feeling accomplished at the construction and planned entertainment, the Dominax proceeded down the street yet contorted to his will. Soon, various rigs and levers would begin to redesign the city as if it were a living, growing beast. Farther into and above the forest, the southern platform will rise like a towering claw of mankind¡¯s fashioned evolution. What natural beasts could hope to endure when the sentient mind willed the titan¡¯s hands to conquest?


    Hearing the dull drone of the bots beside him, the Dominax rolled his neck, careful of his clothes, and reexamined the skies. The deep blue of the sky¡¯s majority clashed so preciously against the jewels of amber and salmon clouds. A faint discoloration of the hue; deepening in the florescence. Though he¡¯d never considered lifting a brush, the scene held a quality of calm that regularly entranced him in his work.


    Perhaps I should paint it. At least, commission the scene. I could hang it above my lab desk. The thought fills Simora with two joys. One being the prospect of something new; perhaps, even learning a new skill should he put his mind to it. The birth of wonder and newness. Something untainted by failure since the hands realize failure comes only from practiced hands. Pleasure is derived from the learning of that skill until such a time where failure becomes possible and is realized.


    Secondly, the capture of something natural and wonderful. The placing of it within his secure walls and collection. A beautiful scene plucked from the sky, something that can never be again in such sameness, and placed where only he can enjoy it.


    What would they think of it? Allowing himself a singular moment of sentimental leisure, Simora gazes up to the sky many had known to fear. His heart neither races nor stops at the sights. Such clouds tell of tomorrow¡¯s likely wrath. So much beauty comes before the inevitable fall.


    As the skies turn to fields of amber resin, the morrow births a darkness. Simora considers a lesson of the captains and hunters among the Ravagers. Dark storms were coming. We¡¯ll prepare for tomorrow. This one might be a little rougher on the equipment. Simora¡¯s eyes scan the city as he imagines it as he¡¯d dictated. Everything must be perfect. They¡¯ll not accept my answers easily.


    So, he walks. At the edge of the city to the south, he looks out over the lands of his father¡¯s failed conquest. As if the land were once liquid, it pours out and over in rolling waves to swallow all between it and the seas. Water, always seeking itself at the lowest points, falls in streams and rivers from various points along the ledges to the north. From beneath the high structures of the city, the Mobana River flows out toward the sea. Ever seeking rest within the kin of its creation. It pushes through miles upon miles of winding forests, avoiding any wandering tongues of passing beasts, to fall within that restful sea.


    A sea, Simora knows, needs only the slightest push of one to start the many. One movement from the individual, and the whole begins to shift and plot. An uneasiness among the many that means some manner of trouble for those unlike the family of molecules. For even the seas of Icarus Alpha spell trouble for the ignorant and fool. From high atop the expanding city of Valkenaria, Simora paces the edge as his thoughts travel to distant places and times.


    Down there, spread out hunters lying in wait for the unsuspecting prey, exist all manner of plants and creatures meaning to remind humanity of their place within the food chain. The Amelioration nears completion in these lands. This truth, Simora assures himself, will solidify his rule.


    To accomplish what none other has. He considers sitting at the ledge of his city to witness the closeness of beauty within the rush of mortality. Father. Mother. He steps away from the ledge and continues to pace, instead. Greens, oranges, indigos, golds¡­ the world below stretches on like a tsunami of spilled paint. Three percent or so should remain. I¡¯ve nearly completed. I¡¯m nearly there. Lands as tamed as the people.


    His eyes turn and compare the three distinct entities of reality.


    Towering formations of pleasingly designed architecture, skies of the sea¡¯s deepest regions reflected, and the endless forests of a world attempting to survive and evolve to spite the Dominax. Every portion of this planet intrigued the young master of all Civilized and Ravagers.


    Towers of businesses, leisure, and living quarters spread out like the trees of elven nations in books lining the family library. Simora, once again, allows himself a moment of memory. A woman of dark hair sat alone in a library as father brought the young babe in to join. They¡¯d read together of fantastical tales of worlds yet unfound but in the minds of man. Lofty trees welcoming the population into its bosom for no more than the respect of life towards life.


    ¡°Anyone can make a world.¡± She¡¯d said this once. ¡°To put a pen to paper creates something new and exciting. To write something, even copied with slightly new words or phrases, births beauty.¡±


    Simora recalls then how her head rose to look at him. The black eyes that spread almost entirely to the edges of the lids; white nearly drowned in a sea of inky darkness. They stared into him¡­ dark as the storms that would soon threaten every life foolish enough to leave the safety of Prints-a-Ment and steel.


    ¡°Beauty we can make reality.¡± Her head would press gently against the child¡¯s. Simora recalls the brilliance and vividness of this implanted thought. An architectural temple of a land constructed in her mind. As perfectly envisioned now as when she first shared it with her child.


    How lovely the smile that seemed to vanish within the eyes of black. Yanked up and spaghettified by the blackholes. All the world slipped into those orbs as the memory is thrust back into the past.


    Simora stands at the edge of Valkenaria.


    ¡°Dominax?¡± A man, wearing the sigil of Nor-Noctlin upon his black armor, steps forward. ¡°Are you alright?¡±


    ¡°Fine.¡± Simora waves him off as he tugs at the Balan fabric about his neck. ¡°Prepare the city for a dark storm.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯d just had one.¡± The man questions him with a cocked head; eyes invisible beneath his helmet.


    Simora spins with his golden eyes piercing through the visor of the helmet. This man, spawned by some mixed blood containing an ancestral Civilized, has lost the ways of reading the skies. ¡°Then I should say we needn¡¯t concern ourselves for any future storms? Might we finally be free of such dangers? I do not recall my works tempting the skies from their wrath! What secrets have you?¡±


    The man steps back.


    ¡°Then prepare the city. No one is to be outside between three and eight.¡±


    ¡°That long?¡± The man¡¯s tone is no longer of disobedience but of wonder. ¡°We¡¯ll let the engineers know to ready the generators and grid. The levers and limbs will be rendered inoperable.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Simora steps once against the edge of his city and clicks his tongue at the river which swings about far below. ¡°No mistakes. We have to make a grand impression, and I refuse to welcome my kin to a city unable to adhere to my commands.¡± The golden eyes glance back over his shoulder.


    ¡°Of course,¡± the man turns back and hurries away from his pack. From there, he¡¯ll issue the commands, speak with the appropriate individuals, and make sure the Dominax¡¯s city stands resolved against the coming dark storm.


    Simora; however, remains at the edge of all Valkenaria. A dangerous plummet, should he step incorrectly, would mean the city and planet await their newest leader. Who among the stars can hope to tame what Simora has bound, stitched, redesigned, and rebirthed by his own will?


    Who could ever? He clicks his tongue as he stares into a forest that neither roars nor leaps toward him. He stands above the forests and rivers to take in all that rushes toward the sea.

 6

    ¡°Thank you all for joining me.¡± The office and study of the Dominax seems rather cramped with such personalities. ¡°Donatello should be here presently.¡± The golden eyes of the leader scan the door behind the Deep Roots and Francestish (an honorary member nearing an official position).


    ¡°So,¡± Thomat sat straight in the seat nearest the previous Dominax¡¯s statue. The eldest among those gathered speaks with an even tone at the prospect, ¡°The Dark Stars. Been awhile since they¡¯ve called for a meeting.¡±


    ¡°Of course, we¡¯ve entertained or visited in passing, but¡­¡± Simora clicks his fingers on the desk in an even tempo, ¡°never all together. I believe once during my father¡¯s rule.¡±


    ¡°When you were young.¡± Thomat agrees. His green eyes, and purple rims, seem to reflect light like a tower scanning the beaches. ¡°Your father hosted them, but not as a Dark Star. Since the death of Galitas Veneesi, your ascension into the role has caused a stir on interplanetary comms.¡± How quickly he glides over the notion of Morikal Nor-Noctlin¡¯s status as an outsider among the powers of the Dark Stars. The man¡¯s eyes seemed to shiver for a moment, ¡°That and this is the first time all have been called since your cousin took everything over completely.¡±


    ¡°Yes,¡± Simora continues to tap the desk as he motions the robotic servant to begin serving drinks. Though his tongue began to dry at the prospect of more drinks in such a short time, the necessity of comradery commands him. What man among my forces would follow one he cannot drink with? ¡°Remiran has taken his place on The Unanimity Namaste. Family Noctlin yet holds the sway of all Black planets.¡±


    ¡°The Pyrite Prince does sit on The Namaste? I¡¯d thought that just a nightmare.¡± Wallace chuckles with Francestish. Thomat grins, but he keeps his distaste inaudible.


    ¡°Pyrite Prince?¡± Patire turns from her seat directly across from Simora to examine the men. ¡°Why would our representative be given such a name?¡±


    Each looks toward Simora. The young man¡¯s eyes rise to the stares of the gathered elite and huffs, ¡°A crude joke on my cousin, I¡¯m afraid. One that shall not be repeated from this day until the last of The Dark Star attendants have departed. That understood?¡± As each nods, Simora examines Patire¡¯s expression. ¡°Travel as you do, and you may be exiled from the loop of knowledge. Do the Ravagers not study the off-world happenings? Every change may yet affect their lives.¡±


    Patire nods as though thinking of this for the first time, ¡°They do discuss off-world events and news, but it is infrequent. Or, I should say, it was.¡± Her eyes meet with the Dominax¡¯s. ¡°Since the Amelioration, the tribes have had more downtime. Oral stories become more refined and studied. Persons take more to the outside world, now. Some tribes have begun constructing stronger comm systems. Valkenaria is the only settlement I am aware of with comms strong enough to easily pierce the atmospheric static.¡±


    ¡°A fine thing,¡± Simora nods as he lets the alcohol barely touch his lips, ¡°to bring the eyes from the jungles to the skies.¡±


    Patire nods in return, ¡°In all manners. I must say, they are the most driven people I¡¯ve encountered.¡±


    ¡°That so?¡± Simora¡¯s eyes meet hers with genuine joy bleeding through the chiseled features of the Black. Allowing his emotions to be read was a true sign of trust; a gift as unnatural to the families of Black as offering another their fingers or legs. ¡°Our peoples are safest within our cities, but Ravager troops do create a fine barrier against any unwanted interventions. A common enemy to refocus the wrath of some tribes.¡±


    ¡°Emel-Rakar will fight when the time comes.¡± Patire¡¯s eyes slide over the table as if she¡¯d begrudgingly taken a hand of cards already known to lose the pot. ¡°They may not fight for you, but they will fight with you should a greater enemy be perceived.¡±


    ¡°A truth dressed in lies, I¡¯m afraid. A necessity for the time which aids in the joining I seek.¡± Varabelm. That representative should be home by now. Spreading the name of a conquering king. ¡°How quickly do these tribes disseminate information between the different nations?¡±


    The Deep Roots watch Patire as she considers her stints among the various tribes of note. After a few quiet moments, she returns her attention to the Dominax. ¡°Since communication systems are often knocked out by the storms.¡± Her eyes go toward the wooden wall hiding them from the outside world¡ªknowing well the sort of horrors that are occurring beyond. ¡°They rely on messenger animals, subterranean trade routes, and travel. It could be just a few hours before neighboring tribes hear the news, and it could be days before the other continents hear any word. Much of the communication network¡¯s effectiveness relies heavily on the benevolence of nature.¡± She adds a thought to punctuate her answer, ¡°Per all evidence I¡¯ve witnessed.¡±


    ¡°Then we¡¯ve confirmed our predictions.¡± Simora leans back in his seat. His expressions slip back into the cleaned palimpsest awaiting another command of the mind separated from the heart. ¡°Everything we can learn about the fine people beyond our cities is pertinent. They will not fight for me yet?


    ¡°I understand. They needn¡¯t lay down their lives in service of a chief they do not serve.¡± Attempting to sound more native, the Dominax lets his voice slip into a low groan of drawn speech. ¡°They will come around. I will greet them when the time comes.¡± What wonders they might yet hold to advance us all into the future! ¡°But, sweetest Patire, will they turn on me?¡±


    Patire¡¯s lips purse as the tribes play through her head. ¡°I do not believe any would turn on you, but that would be difficult to claim without more facts. I¡¯ve only met with the larger tribes, and even then I didn¡¯t meet the majority of people. The occasional attacks we suffer are quickly put down. The bands of brigades that attack your scouts are often unclaimed by any nation.¡±


    His eyes darting through possible answers, Simora¡¯s tongue clicks as each image passes by. Damn. Not enough information. But one thing¡¯s for sure, ¡°They will sell us out if it means fighting between the Black families.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure¡ª¡±


    ¡°They will definitely take the opportunity.¡± Thomat grunts himself into the conversation. ¡°Per their previous dealings with the Dominax, affiliated families, and off-worlders, we can infer that many of the tribes will make deals that would put pressure on our alliances, trades, and the like.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s possible, but I¡¯m fairly certain they will remain within the wilds. With The Dark Stars coming, they¡¯ll want nothing to do with these off-worlders.¡±


    ¡°A very conservative view of the human experience.¡± Simora continues to look through fractals of possible outcomes. ¡°These tribes are hardened people. Even their representatives in times of peace come with deadly intention hung from their belts. I¡¯d not be foolish enough to believe them a perfect ally.¡±


    ¡°Do you trust anyone so?¡± Thomat voices with a confident grin.


    ¡°Why ask what you already know?¡± The golden eyes flick back and forth toward invisible options.


    Thomat shrugs as he motions his glass toward Wallace and Francestish, ¡°I¡¯d have everyone hear it. Keeps us humbled in our service.¡±


    ¡°I barely trust myself.¡± Wallace tugs at the tight wrap around his neck before sipping his drink. The same Balan suit material as the Dominax. ¡°But the Ravagers do raise the hairs on my neck.¡±


    ¡°They are a fantastic people.¡± Patire playfully prods the men. ¡°We dare not brand them all the vile enemy of roaming thieves and cutthroats. At the very least, their crassness is bred with integrity and daunting masculinity.¡±This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Wallace taps his chest as if injured at the smirking woman¡¯s claim. ¡°Ah! Is there any such muse among them?¡± He then flexes his arm to reveal the rippling masses beneath his robes. ¡°We¡¯ve seen Icarians in the arenas and brawls.¡±


    ¡°And no real battles.¡± Patire protests. ¡°Even in their duels, the bodashak, the men face one another knowing death is likely. I saw only one in my travels, yet any and all must answer the call of the bodashak or be cast a coward.¡±


    ¡°Do names hold such meaning over the Ravagers?¡±


    Thomat huffs, ¡°All men should fear such labels, Wallace. To be challenged by a worthy foe in honorable combat is a test to your name and worth. Your bouts in the street hold no glory.¡±


    ¡°Nor your childish games, modrep.¡± A jabbing response to the elder of the group.


    ¡°I believe, and Patire correct me if I¡¯m wrong,¡± Thomat raises a finger to exaggerate his pontificating, ¡°felde would¡¯ve been a more disrespectful term.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s correct.¡± She nods with a giggle.


    Thomat beams. ¡°Mhm. Just as I thought. If you¡¯re going to insult me, do it right.¡± The man¡¯s eyes open wide as the group shares in their humor.


    Simora participates as he deems necessary. He examines the looks, interactions, and the tones to continue his formulae. Computing through the events possible to come, he examines his Deep Roots and Francestish. Our duty is not yet done, yet I must allow for their talks and joys. He taps across his desk in a steady rhythm. His free hand tugs at the fabric about his neck to secure it as he looks to Wallace¡¯s.


    They hate Signs. Simora examines his group again. Francestish has yet to notice anything from among them. Is that good? More visions pass before his eyes. He still practices the old ways as he was taught. This is a good test of what¡¯s to come. More shards of unrealized eternity soar by.


    ¡°We¡¯ll have the whole team now.¡± Simora nods toward the far wall where the team¡¯s eyes all shift. I¡¯d like this to be done. Can you not be on time?


    Doors fling open as a figure marches into the center of Simora¡¯s sanctum. Thomat, usually quick to lunge to his feet, remains seated as the intruder hurried across the tiles with an almost melodious stride.


    Black fabric, the Balan suit, clings tightly to the man. A pilot¡¯s uniform of the most updated materials allows the skin to breathe, provides additional resistance to the element and g-force, and recycles some of the body¡¯s lost nutrients. The helmet, a slanted breathing apparatus secured beneath a sheen screen, provides eye protection and safe breathing. Any pilot in this gear can survive many of the more dangerous atmospheres of Icarus Alpha¡ªbut not all.


    ¡°Must you dare the dark storms, Donatello?¡± Simora motions toward the seats where the dark-clad pilot may join his fellow Deep Roots. ¡°I¡¯d prefer to not lose my best pilot and a Dart in foolish seeking of thrills.¡±


    A somewhat robotic voice answers from behind the helmet, ¡°I test myself, Dominax. I ensure I¡¯m worthy to be in your service each and every day.¡± The helmet swings off to expose naturally tanned skin. Black hair springs up in patted-down curls. Eyes, creamy earth in the center and an outer rim of a starry sky, scan the room for his reward. Donatello motions toward the servant robots. Snapping his finger, he awaits a drink. ¡°What good¡¯s a pilot that can¡¯t fly through the worst of it?¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t actually go through a dark storm, did you?¡± Patire¡¯s concern is audible as she holds her drink tightly.


    Hissing slightly through the burn of the drink, Donatello shakes his head with current satisfaction overtaking the disappointment from moments ago. ¡°No. Went around it. I get closer each time. Test the courage, but I don¡¯t go inside the storm. Even at that distance systems begin to fail. I returned just before it hit here.¡±


    ¡°And the Dart?¡±


    ¡°Dart¡¯s fine.¡± Donatello responds to Thomat with glancing at him. He then looks to his Dominax, ¡°Report from my expedition.¡±


    Simora sees the hooked extension of the man¡¯s lips gradually slipping back into more natural, human-like features. ¡°Proceed.¡±


    ¡°Femolt tribe has sent a hunting party into the north of the continent. Brommorb and Nelen tribes both landed on the west. They¡¯ve left their camps visible, but they¡¯d entered into the jungles and ruins. I couldn¡¯t follow beyond that. When I¡¯d landed to speak with them, they¡¯d requested I leave their men to the act.¡± He looks to Patire, ¡°What does ¡®elomamole¡¯ mean?¡± He strains to recall the word.


    Patire takes no time to respond, ¡°Rite of Bloods.¡± Looking to the Dominax, she explains first to her superior. ¡°It¡¯s a type of blood feud between tribes. It isn¡¯t an all-out war, but they¡¯ll find a sacred place to settle their dispute with a select few. Often champions set against one another to the death.¡±


    ¡°And these tribes in particular?¡±


    ¡°Not sure. I can ask around and see what their concerns are.¡±


    ¡°Please do. Tomorrow, you and Donatello can go and inquire of their reasons. I¡¯d not have these bloodied battles if they can be avoided¡ªespecially during our deliberations.¡± Simora¡¯s taps increase in speed.


    ¡°Surely they have their reasons. I will get you a report, but I doubt we would be able to easily intervene.¡± Patire¡¯s eyes glance back to the other Deep Roots. ¡°This is an honorable battle.¡±


    ¡°Let¡¯s hope they solve it before the meeting of The Dark Stars.¡± Thomat interjects. ¡°We¡¯d not want the Black families seeing it.¡± The man¡¯s concern is that of a known warrior. ¡°They will believe it savage, I¡¯m sure. The laws prevent intervention with the native cultures; should the ruling family allow it.¡± Thomat looks to his Dominax. ¡°You¡¯d not deny them their honor and culture, yet discuss terms to postpone their feud should it continue into the visitation timeframe.¡±


    ¡°I would deny them nothing of the sort.¡± Simora slaps all fingers on his right hand across the table to end his quiet song. He sips of his glass and nods in his understanding of all the data. ¡°I¡¯ll not anger the Emel-Rakar. They¡¯ve earned their sovereignty in cultural matters. I need only step in should it become more wide-spread or terroristic. Their more physical expression of displeasure and honor is best focused within their own tribes.¡±


    ¡°Dominax?¡± Patire¡¯s eyes widen at the response.


    Simora¡¯s hand waves it off, ¡°It is their world, Patire. I do what I can to mingle the new and the old. I conquer the planet, but the people are their own.¡± He motions to all within his room; especially Francestish. Each wears their own family¡¯s crest and the crest of their Dominax. The blue and green infinity tree caught in a blackened shield. ¡°I bring all under my banner that ask for it. All that are worthy of it.¡±


    Patire¡¯s immediate unease dwindles in the even tones of her superior¡¯s words. Having heard the voice of many chiefs and warlords, she¡¯s now eased by the noble sounds of a high-born Dominax. His voice, she thinks, is as commanding¡­ as noble as his eyes.


    As she looks to study his eyes, Simora pulls away to watch his fingers tap across the table again. ¡°The Dark Stars will be arriving within the week. Donatello, you will be tasked with keeping Finel Dornish entertained. She¡¯ll likely want a Dart of her own. I expect you¡¯ll take care of the Planetist.¡±


    Donatello¡¯s smirk shines with pearly whites caught like jewels in creamed coffee. ¡°I¡¯ll do my best to tantalize.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ll be a gentleman.¡± Simora¡¯s tone confirms his meaning and reprimands before the acts are done. Donatello lifts a hand in submission and good humor. ¡°Thomat, I¡¯ll have you by my side while Remiran remains. I¡¯ll need your wisdom in all matters of law, my Hand and Gavel.¡± His head swings about, I need tell him for the right possibilities. He¡¯ll sulk otherwise. ¡°He¡¯s a man of games.¡± He was at least. ¡°I¡¯m sure we can keep him rightly entertained for some time.¡±


    A mixture of solemn delight passes the man¡¯s earthy face. ¡°Philosophy, law, and games. I believe this might be my most relaxing conference yet.¡±


    Continuing to answer his subordinates by means of possibilities and calculation, his eyes skitter about with golden rings watching the invisible options pass in a floating dance. He picks at some mentally. They topple and tumble as he clicks his tongue and fingers to the pace. ¡°Patire will accompany Elder Matheem Nephire, if he desires it.¡± The voice drops, ¡°If he does not, he is to be left alone. Is that understood?¡±


    Patire¡¯s eyes shine brightly with the news. ¡°R-really? Elder Nephire? I¡¯ve heard some of his speeches and attended a few lectures. This will be an incredible experience.¡± She giggles and speaks quietly to herself for a moment, ¡°I wonder if he remembers me. Thank you, Dominax. Thank you!¡±


    Accepting the praise with silent dignity, Simora continues. ¡°Wallace, I¡¯d have you help the General about. He¡¯ll want to see our city¡¯s architectural systems and military force. Review the most recent battles with Ravager attackers. He¡¯ll delight in our records and unwittingly offer useful tactics and advice for future incursions. Then take him through your workshop.¡±


    Wallace¡¯s drink dips down suddenly. ¡°You want me to let the Pious Enigma into my workshop?¡±


    ¡°Just the front end.¡±


    Understanding the distinction, Wallace groaned with a long nod. ¡°Got it. Yes, sir! I¡¯ll keep him mentally stimulated.¡±


    ¡°I will continue to give you various duties throughout the next week. We must have this city, and this planet, surpassing all expectation. We will adapt to their needs as they arise.¡±


    Thomat¡¯s eyes widen with a quiet jest, ¡°Plants not eating them right off the ship is a success.¡±


    ¡°Then the bar is low.¡± Simora taps and clicks his tongue. ¡°I want them to see the seat of power that Icarus Alpha is and will become. I want them to see all we¡¯ve accomplished as the people see it.¡± His eyes meet each, in turn, for only a second. His steady expression not shifting from one sentence to the next without his permission. ¡°They are to see no more than what we allow. And in this, they will know how far we may yet reach.¡±

 7

    ¡°This does not compliment my physique at all.¡± Donatello whispers to anyone that would hear him.


    Thomat, glancing over from his straightened stance in military garb and honors, smirks, ¡°Does anything?¡±


    ¡°Quiet down old man.¡± Donatello hisses as he tries to straighten the bulkier uniform of black with blue trimmings along the shoulder and ends of the limbs.


    Each Deep Root was decorated with various medals. Their uniforms depict the pride of those held aloft by the honorable Nor-Noctlin offshoot of the family tree. On the open stretch of off-white steel, Prints-a-Ment, and a dais of orange stone from local quarries, three-hundred soldiers of the Nor-Noctlin forces stand behind the favored leaders of the Maiora Aliquam family.


    ¡°Stand straight, lads.¡± Standing in an unusually normal black outfit, Simora tugs gently at the tight Balan fabric about his neck. Glancing back for a moment, he notes Wallace¡¯s fabric is slipped down to the collar. ¡°Presentable, Wallace.¡±


    Wallace, taking note, yanks the black fabric up and over the swell of muscles. ¡°Bit warm today.¡± His eyes narrow as he tries to resist the burn of the deep blue sky. Two ships have begun the landing process across the stretch of extended steel. A process which would terrify any ancient human as much as it would fill them with wonder.


    These Couriers, massive upside-down pyramids stretched along one axis, set down as a plethora of defensive and safety appendages begin to retract or realign themselves. Legs twist out with magnetically connected limbs that float separate of each other. Hooked pieces then find one another, locks are engaged, and the full weight of the ship is handed from engines to physical limbs.


    From somewhere high over the planet, these two Couriers were once attached to a now orbiting Jumper¡ªthe massive constructs of human engineering capable of traversing entire solar systems. Carting away entire civilizations when needed, the unseen vessels above Icarus Alpha waited for word of their delivery¡¯s arrival before speeding off toward other destinations across the stars.


    ¡°Who¡¯re we meeting today?¡± Donatello continues to play with his suit as the heat and light of the day begin to morph the Branching practitioner into a petulant child. His exolung is loose. His suit untucked and re-tucked. And now, his voice drones into a whine.


    ¡°Today, the Black Shields of White and Red Emblems arrive.¡± Simora glances back, again (and rather annoyed), to stare into his favored pilot. ¡°You know their names. Now straight yourself.¡±


    Donatello sighs before snapping his shoulders back in another childish form of overplaying his obedience. Wallace¡¯s smile spreads as the two share in the humor to pass the stressful moments before the Couriers open their doors.


    Gusts of wind, cooled for the pleasure of the passengers, rush over the Prints-a-Ment and steel to catch those on the dais in a wondrous gale. Simora can¡¯t resist enjoying the breeze that lingers on the backs of his hands and his cheeks in direct revolt of the sun¡¯s tyranny. Black and Red, and Black and White. I¡¯ve not seen them since I was a child. They demand my audience now because they know something. They¡¯ve heard of the trades, of the potential, and the unnatural success of a family meant to rot. The game of Blacks begins today.


    Parties from both ships begin to exit. From the left ship, groups of black with red trims and banners begin to spread out at the bottom of the ship¡¯s levered maw. Two devices connect and begin to unfurl a red path at the bottom. Those from the ship begin a march of displayed powers and nobility for the family. Several instruments, trumpet-like brass to announce the arrival, begin to play from the back of this arrival party.


    Forty men and women in the black and red. In the center back, a figure in black robes with designs of crimson swirls, knots, and pious symbols strides with a rhythm fueled by power and pride. Elder Matheem Nephire moves like a ghost across the crimson carpet with two of his banners flapping over his head.


    Seven spokes of twisted rays coming from a sun, all red, burns brightly in the Black Shield of his family crest. The men and women that lead the way, Valkyries and Exorcists, stand a formidable force to encase their preacher and leader.


    Black hair, only a collection of fuzzy fields atop his aged head, fades into the heavily wrinkled face of Matheem. From his chin; however, falls a mighty beard of midnight black that floats to a point at the height of his waist. Though many would say he¡¯d dyed it, none would say it in his company.


    Peaceful Giant. What a misnomer. Simora waits patiently, back straight, for the Ceremony of the Steps to finish. The man, while slightly taller, was by no means a giant. Matheem, in fact, was shorter than many of his Exorcists and a few of the Valkyries.


    When they arrived at the end of their path, the middle Exorcist marched ahead three paces and called out, ¡°Upon Icarus Alpha, we call out to the Dominax of this planet. May your kin, Elder Matheem Nephire, enter the lands of your domain? May his forces, the Valkyries and Exorcists, his servants and attendants, his faithful and his followers enter your domain? For we come in peace, and we ask that peace be given.¡±


    Simora steps forward for all his gathered forces to note the power in his movements. I must appear higher still. ¡°To my kin, you are welcome. Peace be shared and sealed by your honor. The house of Nor-Noctlin accepts you.¡±


    The Exorcist retreats and stands as the rest in his row of blacks and reds. With a swoosh of his cloak, the various tools of a trained warrior¡­ an exorcist of all evil that lives in the hearts of men, rest patiently on his hips.


    To the right ship, the party dressed in mostly black is trimmed with perfectly cleaned whites. Every individual masked with protective helmets marches in their military gear. Weapons holstered or slung over their backs. They move as a unit preparing for battle. Any would consider this an invasion of an incredibly confident nation; sending only a handful of their strongest to overtake a planet.This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    There stand twenty surrounding a man carrying himself with incredible poise despite the girth of his center. Blonde hair slicks back from a clean-shaven face to leave the scar on his right cheek plain for all to see. Wearing it with more pride than any of the medal on his chest, more medals than any three in Simora¡¯s Deep Roots combined, the healed wound forms a ¡°V¡± up his cheek to the hairline.


    Simora, reviewing the man, confirms the plain Signs upon him.


    A perfectly chiseled jaw falls in sharp angles from General Obin Nephire. His shoulders pop up from a stiffened back, and Simora knows this isn¡¯t from padding or armor. Though the forces wear minor armor not meant for true war, the General wore none at all.


    His body shows Signs. Tempering has reshaped his bloodline well.


    Upon the General¡¯s breast and four banners at his diagonals roared a white lion lined in gold upon a Black Shield. The Black Shield White Emblem had arrived with the sound of perfectly commanded marching. Finer soldiers, there are none within the Black Families. Tested in the finest arts of honorable combat, these men march to the beat of a war drum all their own. For they are one of many, and the many of the whole.


    They are the Berkara.


    One soldier clicks his feet and grunts. Every man behind him comes to a halt. Obin lifts his chin high to peer over the men about him. Easily done for the goliath.


    ¡°Pious Enigma¡± they call him. Simora narrows his eyes and clicks his tongue. Exposing himself to any possible threat. Even here, atop an alien city and open to likelihood of sniper fire, he¡¯s left his head out. A confident man.


    ¡°Upon Icarus Alpha, we call out to the Dominax of this planet. May your kin, General Obin Nephire, honorable servant of The Namaste, victor in the Far-Reach Conflict, conqueror of man and planet¡­¡±


    This introduction goes on to the larger man¡¯s disgust. Shaking the belly that falls from the giant¡¯s sturdy frame, he grumbles loud enough for the soldier to hear. ¡°May your kin enter the lands of your domain? May his forces, the Berkara, his servants and attendants, his faithful and his followers enter your domain? For we come in peace, and we ask that peace be given.¡±


    ¡°To my kin, you are welcome. Peace be shared and sealed by your honor. The house of Nor-Noctlin accepts you.¡±


    Simora lifts his arms in welcome, and he hears the calls of those about the city below. A few of the higher structures might catch glimpses of this ceremony, but the broadcasting to projections about the city has enticed the populace. Their Dominax has brought down two titans of lore to share in their planet and culture.


    The Ravagers won¡¯t care. The Signs will dissuade them. The General¡¯s are too obvious. Glancing back to Matheem, Simora nods in his findings. Nothing from a distance. He has none of the markings of the Red formed on his skin. From a distance, he seems no different than the rest. Though, I¡¯m sure closer inspection would reveal more.


    ¡°My kin!¡± Simora calls, his voice echoing over the distance. ¡°I have prepared your quarters and entertainment. Tomorrow, I expect our beloved kin, Planetist Finel Dornish shall join us. Allow me to welcome you to Icarus Alpha.¡± His arms swing out to show the distant horizons of deep-blue skies, orange clouds clawing back into the regions displaced by the Couriers, and the jungles threatening to wash over the edges of the city.


    Elder Matheem Nephire can be seen examining the surroundings from this tower, one of many airfields, with a visible concern spreading through the wrinkles of his ancient face. He leans to one side where an attendant listens intently.


    In direct opposition, General Obin presses forward, even pushing his men from his path, with a bellowing laugh. ¡°Is tha¡¯ little Simora?!¡±


    This one. Simora¡¯s lips pull just enough to shine with joy. His eyes open despite the harsh light. The eyebrows raise slightly in the centers. He wears no exolung so he might greet his guests as equals. ¡°Obin! It has been far too long!¡± He calls out with hands extended; calling the man up to the dais.


    Though the man¡¯s gut seems a trapped mass of dirt preparing to tear through the fabrics of his military uniform, the General lunges up the steps without hesitation or restriction. Almost supernaturally, he flings himself forward to embrace his relative.


    Floaters? Or is his Tempering that advanced?


    ¡°Damned by the gods, yer big.¡± Obin¡¯s massive hand slaps at the Dominax¡¯s shoulder.


    Hearing a titter behind him, Simora suddenly shivers with a chill somehow manifesting up his spine. ¡°You flatter from atop a mountain.¡±


    ¡°Ah.¡± Obin grabs hold of the young man and grins madly. ¡°A fine man. Just like yer father!¡± Seeing no change in Simora¡¯s expression, the General¡¯s smile dampens with realization. ¡°More talented than ¡®im, too. I¡¯d wager.¡±


    ¡°Many details and stories to be shared. I hope you find my successes surpassing his as well.¡±


    Leaning away with a hesitant glance, Obin¡¯s eyes narrow. ¡°Successes? Blasted, boy. From what I hear, yer father cou¡¯n¡¯t be prouder.¡± Obin laughs again and pulls the Dominax in for a hug.


    Immediately upon seeing this, several hundred soldiers, wearing the Nor-Noctlin symbols, take a stance bordering on defensive. Obin hears their stomps and grunts only to repay their vigilance with laughter. ¡°Aye! Drop yer guard, ye silly dolts! He¡¯s not safer with any hands but mine near ¡®im!¡± Glancing back down to Simora, the two laugh together before Simora waves his men back to ease. ¡°A fine force just for this showy nonsense,¡± Obin continues. ¡°Their reaction was a tad slow. Mayhaps they need some instruction from someone facing threats beyond the planet.¡±


    ¡°They have faced the planet that would make even the Ygnalsi quiver, General.¡±


    ¡°The boast of a leader!¡± Obin narrows his eyes in a more serious fashion. ¡°Will I be convinced? Have these savages gifted you with proper combat? Surely! You bloom in the graveyard of Icarus Alpha.¡±


    ¡°You walk a new world.¡± Simora turns to lead them back to his companions and relaxation. ¡°You walk my reformed Icarus. You see my army; men and women I¡¯d not separate myself from for all the planets in the Far-Reach.¡±


    ¡°A true leader.¡± Obin grunts.


    ¡°Men!¡± Simora calls out to all the forces¡ªDeep Roots included.


    Not one among them hesitates before snapping heels together and calling out, ¡°Yes, Dominax!¡±


    Simora, his grin spreading slightly at the vibration they¡¯d cast into the atmosphere, calls, ¡°To whom does my life belong?¡±


    ¡°To the people of Icarus Alpha!¡±


    ¡°To whom do your lives belong?¡±


    ¡°To the people of Icarus Alpha!¡±


    Simora calls again, goading himself with the repetition and the echoing vibrations slipping through his spine. All the world can bleed away as the tingles in his neck remind him of his reasons and passions. He lets the pulse within the air spread over him. Spread through the patches of flesh beneath his Balan suit. ¡°Then tell me! Tell them! Call out to the Icarians! To whom do you entrust this planet to?!¡±


    ¡°Dominax! Dominax! Dominax!¡±


    Simora listens to the chants with a true smile slithering up the mask he¡¯d donned. ¡°They mean it.¡± Simora says as his golden eyes open wide for Obin to see. The General, now noticing the golden rings seems unsettled, ¡°As do I, cousin. I would give my everything for this planet and these people. They know it, too. You will soon see what glories I have in store for this paradise. For our futures.¡±


    Obin, staring into the sparkling gold of his (distant) cousin¡¯s eyes, feels himself gradually cooking in the harsh light of day. Beyond the Prints-a-Ment walls exists a world fraught with dangers, and still the churning of his gut tells him the battle is much closer. ¡°Aye. Ye¡¯ve bonded well to people and planet.¡± He pulls his attention away to peer out across the jungles in all directions. Something tickles the man¡¯s belly, and his spine quakes. ¡°To stand above green hells and be offered men¡¯s hearts as tribute¡­ the Ygnalsi would fear it indeed.¡±

 8

    ¡°Thank you all for joining us.¡± Simora¡¯s black cloak wraps about the man like shadows yanked from the walls. His arms rise to draw forth participation from those gathered. Veins of morning blue fabric spread like roots around the Dominax¡¯s arms, up his neck, and surround the separated Balan suit. ¡°It is my honor to gather you all here today for a fine meal and conversation.


    ¡°Share in drink, food, and company. As with all things on Icarus Alpha,¡± Simora looks over the eyes of tycoons, diplomats, and the guests of honor, ¡°you shall be pleasantly surprised at the bounty of each. I¡¯d only ask you temper yourselves with the drinks.¡± His wide smile tugs up laughter from those nearest him. In turn, the giggles spread down the long table. ¡°It is here, in the home of my father, Morikal Nor-Noctlin, that I welcome you. Thank you, one and all, for joining me. For filling these empty halls with joy and companionship. I hope this night, and all nights forward, are as splendidly perfect as this. My breath is yours.¡±


    ¡°Here, here!¡± A portly fellow, clad in reds and yellows, thrusts his glass into the air. Nevel Portanat¡¯s rosy nose and eyes lazily lowered speak volumes of the party¡¯s success among the higher classes¡ªand of the potency of the indulgences. Even though the man wears golden chords and hanging medallions, none would think to disrupt the occasion by asking him just how he¡¯d earned such honors.


    Nor do they interview each other beyond acceptable pleasantries. The conversations, even as Simora half-listens to the restarted stories and topics, is painfully superficial. What he listens to, instead, are the voices of those closest to him. They don¡¯t break their group¡¯s silence until well after the Dominax¡¯s small speech.


    Patire, in a lengthy black suit crossing between a military uniform and taut dress, shines with her family crest of three red crosses against a brown shield. Her eyes widen at the opportunity as quiet leaves the party vulnerable.


    Seeing this as a possibility, Simora had placed her specifically where he¡¯d needed her. Grinning to himself, he taps slowly across the arm of his chair as she leans slightly over the table to be better heard.


    ¡°Elder Matheem, it is a pleasure to welcome you to Valkenaria. It has been some time; though, I¡¯m sure you do not recall me.¡±


    The yellow orbs of Matheem Nephire meet Patire¡¯s glowing eyes. Though seemingly sickly, the yellowish whites bleed into foggy grays that surround a black center. All the years of the man seem to gather in his eyes like light of the universe sucked in uncontrollably by the gluttonous hole in the center of the galaxy.


    It takes a moment, but his facial features morph with gradual acceptance of the woman¡¯s leap into conversation. Simora notes the similarities in their fleshy manipulations, yet the younger man finds himself uneased by the ravages of time on such capabilities.


    Smiling widely, genuine and unprotected by Mask, Matheem nods to Patire. ¡°A fine meeting, Ms. Isserman.¡± The old man¡¯s brimming display of emotions melts the hearts of those about him. Patire¡¯s face is that of a child in awe. Though his eyes may absorb all the light, the man¡¯s presence immediately begins to lift the atmosphere as Atlas dragging the world upon his shoulders. ¡°How fine the years have been to you. It seems only yesterday I¡¯d been in lecture! Oh, dear.¡±


    ¡°You remember me?¡± Patire cannot restrain herself and the words, as bees rattled from their hive, soar into the air. Presently, her skin darkens with warmth.


    Matheem leans back in his chair with a glass held tightly in his wrinkled fingers, ¡°Of course! A fine candidate for the Valkyrie Ascendance. I¡¯d told them. I said, ¡®You¡¯d all be a fool to waste her time! We plant the seeds and let fruit rot upon the branches!¡¯ I said it, you know. Right to the Elders. Every one of them.


    ¡°I remember your fire; your passion!¡± Matheem sips of his cup and slides a hand through the spattering of black hair atop his head. ¡°It¡¯s something many among our recruits lack. The true Resonate!¡± Matheem¡¯s eyes widen to absorb more of the candlelight which all ate in. Only the soft illumination of ceiling lights far above gently painted in the cracks. ¡°To ignite the passions of the people. To empathize and blend. Tis a task far beyond the capabilities of most, and still they send you on wild chases to gather credits toward earning the Ascension. Blah!


    ¡°I¡¯d have taken you alone over the last wave of candidates.¡± Matheem sips of his cup as he scans over the food along the table. ¡°No offense to you, Simora. I mean only that her talents are yet truly appreciated within our organization.¡±


    ¡°No need to apologize.¡± Simora matches the ancient man¡¯s face offered to the world. ¡°Patire¡¯s talents have been recognized by the keenest of eyes. Sadly for you, I need not ask permission from a gathering of ambulating corpses.¡±


    Patire¡¯s wide-eyes tell Simora of her sudden shock, if not appall, at his twisting of the conversation from delightful praise to attack upon The Elders. Matheem; however, cannot help but loose a laugh at the comment. ¡°A fine description! Decades have, in my opinion, turned their wondrous dreams into fine grains of sand. Corpses! Hah! That is their truest form. Every change and stride dead upon arrival. Since the formation of the Church of Many Mouths, I¡¯d seen my beloved goals be stomped on and dragged through acid! I give power to the Many Mouths and now find my own voice silenced in the act!¡±


    ¡°Rather worked up, I¡¯d say.¡± Obin chimes in from across the table¡ªboth Dark Stars around the edges from Simora at the end of the long table. ¡°Do priests trapped in tombs of books not change the universe with the flick of their wrists?¡±


    ¡°For all the good left behind,¡± Matheem responds with a genuine smile bleeding through the century of Black training, ¡°the slow change through magic wands and holy altars is no different than the charred maps armies leave in their wake.¡±


    Obin¡¯s lips thin as he bobs his head about. ¡°Ye¡¯ve a fine point. Though, I¡¯d wager painful truths more valuable than pretty lies.¡±


    Matheem¡¯s aged eyes, portals into more worlds than this, narrow toward the General. ¡°Lies are what the unchanging mind labels the truth of the universe. For all we have advanced, General, what have we found to be absolute truth? I do not spend my time in books merely studying the endless names for the universe, gods, or even the peoples that praise them. Scientific theories and new studies occupy the majority of my time. A sifter of which I might cull the poisons from my own theories and understanding. A lie today may be tomorrow¡¯s truth.¡± The cup tips toward Obin. ¡°Do you truly believe these lies hold no value? No possibility?¡±


    Obin, again, bobs his head about as he cuts into the thick flank of a mantiflop¡¯s hindquarters. ¡°I¡¯d not wager against ye on that. Pretty lies, as they are, keep the flocks from chargin¡¯ headfirst off cliffs, stickin¡¯ their heads in a wolf¡¯s maw, or risin¡¯ up.¡±


    This admission, catching the ear of many, draws wild eyes from near the end of the table. Matheem, giggling in the dry fashion of an ancient man reminded that life still entertains and surprises, responds as the people¡¯s representative. ¡°If lies create a better world, then I care not that placebo rectifies the unjust nature of this universe. If there is truth within it, than we stand closest to that light so many believe exists.¡±Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°Patire,¡± Simora interjects into this debate. ¡°When you first departed for the Emel-Rakar tribes, what were your intentions?¡±


    The two Dark Stars on opposing sides glance to the emotionally disheveled woman. Perhaps feeling she¡¯d been the catalyst for this escalating topic, her eyes dash between each of the heads of famous houses.


    ¡°Please. I¡¯d hear your thoughts.¡± Matheem prods her with excitement.


    ¡°Oh, go on. I¡¯d have another tell me I¡¯m wrong.¡± Obin turns his square chin, a feature not shared by any other on the planet, and grins down at the lady.


    The right choice to keep even the civilized from this dinner. Simora¡¯s eyes glance down the length, both sides, and to each of the servants. Francestish might even find his Signs disagreeable.


    ¡°I-I¡¯d say I went to learn.¡± She tilts her head as the eyes drift from the room and dinner. All others present are no longer with her. She has left them. Far away, recalling the emotional milestones of her duties, she plucks these specific moments from time. ¡°Upon learning, I¡¯d share tidbits. Little seeds,¡± her chin unconsciously jolts toward The Elder. ¡°Planted in a line to connect the fields. Something natural. Something life giving and life retaining. Something less tragic than they¡¯ve known.


    ¡°Something,¡± Patire¡¯s eyes close for a moment, ¡°human.¡±


    ¡°True passion! Fire!¡± Matheem¡¯s outburst breaks Patire of her solitude. ¡°Her among my Valkyrie would ripple as light through the cosmos! Every planet a new altar of which the faith might be practiced and The Creator might be honored. In every name and every fashion.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d almost believe it meself.¡± Obin¡¯s shoulders relax as he exhales. Every painstaking second, he¡¯d held himself in physical stasis to properly consider the woman¡ªan act not performed by most. ¡°The stars have purpose beyond man¡¯s recognition. Be it by divine hands, intellect which preceded us, or by some chance of the cosmos, we are dust all the same.¡±


    Noting the paraphrased response, Matheem lifts his cup, ¡°You do read! Crimson Dawn, by Romeni Porfelatcio. An old work, but one worth reading.¡±


    ¡°A first edition in my quarters! Quite the price, but I have my collection. Always travelin¡¯ with me.¡± A cup lifts in response.


    As the two clink their cups, the Deep Roots watch with drooping shoulders and collapsing lungs as the atmosphere steadies. For two such as these, man does not see the title, the wealth, the promises of ancestors to ensure an easy life, or the future promise to their own descendants.


    No.


    What a man sees when witnessing two such as they is the soul¡¯s momentary cut through the fabric of reality. A willpower, an essence, so strong that their truest self draws in the world around them. The sort of gravitational pull that a star might wield had it gained sentience. In this, a man sees the two as mortal and yet something more.


    Something that refuses to yield, and you might honor the repudiation. Something demanding attention, and you might offer it gladly. Something that may place a hand upon your shoulder, and your body may freeze with the understanding that, even with Matheem¡¯s fragile physique, your resistance will mean your breaking.


    These two, the Deep Roots witness now with all doubts shaded by truest darkness of the trained Blacks, sat as titans guarding the end of the table. In turn, each of the Deep Roots looks down, beneath the archway of clanking goblets and shared laughter, to see their Dominax¡¯s evened composure studying them all in turn.


    Simora¡¯s fingers tap gracefully over the arm of his chair as his smile spreads. Even in all the teachings of the Black, we know so little of the awareness of the beast called ¡°man.¡± These two have shown just how little they command the Black Umbra. Nodding, Simora lifts his own cup as the two drink from theirs.


    ¡°Let us believe our pretty lies, welcome the difficult truths, and find our own purpose among the stars.¡± As both look to him, Simora lifts his cup another few centimeters. ¡°Let our dust not settle until we build the cosmos anew. Together.¡±


    ¡°Lofty goals! Fire! Fire! Passion!¡±


    ¡°Aye! Dust to dust! Life between!¡±


    All clank their cups together as The Dark Stars share a collective grunt of approval toward a common future. Whatever they think, let them think. Simora laughs with his fellow heads of the Black houses. We are on the right path. I will not drop my Eclipse. They needn¡¯t know what a Black does not wish to share; for even the self has rights to privacy.


    Simora interacts, but many do not look at him. Though the Deep Roots had just glanced to him, they return to their conversations and meals.


    ¡°When the two slackers finally get here, we can get to business.¡± Obin bellows. ¡°A bloody waste of time, I say! Dust to dust. That¡¯s right. Let¡¯s celebrate the sentient dust.¡± The cup swings toward the Dominax. ¡°Icarus Alpha.¡± Lips slap about as the exhale mimics a motor. ¡°I¡¯d right thought this planet a lost cause. You¡¯d done the impossible, Simora. Damn shame what Ramurel did to your father. Sendin¡¯ a son to this!¡±


    ¡°Impossibility is a pretty lie, General Nephire.¡± Playing the formal title and ignoring the names draws the two Dark Stars¡¯ attentions to the end of the table. ¡°Every question will inevitably be answered. Every problem solved.¡± Simora¡¯s impish smile brightens the table. ¡°Any yet unsolved means I simply haven¡¯t had enough time. I am only in my early twenties, after all.¡± The Dark Stars share in their trinity of good spirits as the night proceeds.


    ¡°Cycles of assemblies toiling for naught! I¡¯d said it! Even in your youth, I would have preferred you! Their comm updates were rather lackluster, I say. Constant bloodshed and no progress. Now, we learn the Keep¡­¡±


    ¡°The Keep was lost soon after my father¡¯s passing. I¡¯d spent little time there since his death, and the Ravagers made short work of the deconstruction.¡±


    ¡°And the looting! Defilements, I¡¯m sure!¡± Matheem reenters with a splash of frustration. ¡°The art, books, and the gardens! Savages to destroy such beauty. Such a collection and footing thanks to your father. The previous Dominax¡¯s never lasted long enough to create such a structure; let alone a city!¡±


    ¡°It was a loss, yet one mostly unfelt by my person. Art is still born. Music still plays. My library overflows.¡± Simora¡¯s golden eyes match the black holes of Matheem. ¡°Dust to dust. I remain. I forge anew.¡±


    It is only a few moments after this display of confidence and companionship among the Dark Stars that one man¡¯s words catch Simora¡¯s attentive ears. Somewhere down the right length, cut apart from the fat of superficial or pontificating nobility, a man grumbles in surprise. As if the words are dangerous to touch, his white mustache prickles at the ends as he leans toward the center of his group¡¯s conversation.


    ¡°¡­Amelioration.¡±


    A woman beside him, finely draped as a porcelain doll in artisan blues and whites, waves off the man¡¯s apparent concern. ¡°It is Icarus, Altin. They live beyond the cities! My goodness, whatever would one expect?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d pay it no mind.¡± A man from across the table fixes the patch of crimson fabrics in his suit¡¯s front pocket. Curling the thin strands of his oiled beard, the man laughs through his response. ¡°They are beasts, sir. Beasts killing beasts.¡±


    ¡°Three are dead. Three. Dead. Kaput.¡± Altin¡¯s thumb drags through the air before his throat. As his gloved hand stops, the green eyes curve beneath bushy brows toward the end of the table.


    The Deep Roots had not noticed such idle chatter among those invited. They were deeply involved in hearing the stories of Obin¡¯s conquests or Matheem¡¯s philosophical lectures. They had not even been able to view beyond Eclipse.


    For a moment, Altin is the most aware man in the room.


    His eyes of green meet the unblinking golden sands of the Dominax. A vast, rich desert encompasses the green lawns. Leave but this single patch of flora and all the world will disappear. Altin knows this. His bones and organs know this. Any staring into the third eye of a nema cat would know this.


    ¡°Altin?¡± A hand glances over the man¡¯s shoulder. The woman of blues and whites, nobility dragged down from the cloudy skies, returns him to the conversation.


    ¡°Oh,¡± he looks back toward the end of the table where Simora smiles gladly and jokes with the Dark Stars in a conversation he cannot hear. His mind, cloudy and uncertain, begins to slip away from the dream that cannot be recalled.


    As memory drips lifelessly into that crevasse of grayed fog between subconscious memory and conscious thought, the event disappears forever into a wrinkle of the aged man¡¯s brain. Never to be seen again, the moment disappears in the shadow of combined Eclipse and Elliptical.


    Even a king might walk through his own throne room unnoticed. It is not Simora¡¯s desire to disappear entirely, but he walks along the edge of Eclipse¡ªa sliver of light.


    Altin has known and forgotten it all in a few seconds. All who gather here sit beside families of Black and know nothing of what it means. They know nothing of their Dominax.


    They know nothing of Simora¡¯s aptitude for the Black skills¡­ Umbra.

 9

    ¡°Ye¡¯ve backed yeself to the edge!¡± Obin¡¯s massive jaw drops as the heavy laugh flows through the opened dam. ¡°Marks.¡± A hand, the one free of a quickly emptying cup, pokes through the bright lines of white and blue to create the ship¡¯s route. ¡°Sheller. Target.¡±


    As the slender ship in white speeds across the field of battle in a nosedive, Obin beams with pride and anticipation. His eyes scan the area, then rescan, and finally release as his finger confirms the end position of his ship and the commands given. Spinning in an expertly executed maneuver, the projected pilot turns back with a barrage of neo-rounds into the backside of a Sheller. Shields down for the sector, Thomat stares with even emotions into the grid of white bars and blue space.


    ¡°Ye hate to see it.¡± Obin laughs as he pulls away. ¡°Tact, lad. Are you not the Dominax¡¯s Hand and Gavel? White in yer blood?¡±


    Thomat watches his Sheller be split up the back by rows of glowing teeth puncturing a metal beast¡¯s hide. As the black ship shatters, the Hand and Gavel watches how the debris spreads out as per the usual process of the game.


    ¡°He¡¯s a fine judge of my people and person.¡± Simora plops a chunk of ice into three glasses from the dark edge of his study. He looks down the hall of his sanctuary toward a lit space of workstations, computers, and half-finished projects. Sighing to himself, he turns back toward the dark room where the seventh game of Galaxia begins with first blood drawn. ¡°No one else would come to Icarus.¡±


    ¡°Ha!¡± Obin points through the blue and white grid with a meaty finger as he takes one of the offered glasses from Simora, ¡°Tact, lad! Have ye been honing your Tempering?¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s quite lively.¡± Simora leans in to comment on the General as Thomat takes the glass without looking.


    ¡°Thank you, Dominax.¡± Thomat¡¯s attention remains fixated on the projected grid.


    Turning back to Obin, Simora sees the General¡¯s hand wave over the glass. A band of metal over his wrist blinks with a small green light. Without returning his gaze, Obin reponds, ¡°Cannae be too careful. It¡¯s not you, Simora.¡±


    ¡°I should expect not.¡± Simora¡¯s eyes look over the man once as if swooshing a brush of multicolored paint in a magical display of creativity. ¡°You¡¯re cautious. That and your perceptiveness are the reason you¡¯ve gained the titles and position you have.¡±


    ¡°Black Shield White Emblem. Dark Star!¡± He lifts the glass toward Thomat. ¡°You¡¯ll have my position someday! Work that Tact, and none would deny you!¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d forgo the ascension of your own children to the position?¡± Simora calls back as he returns for his own glass (as well as depositing Obin¡¯s finished one). Taking it from the counter, he glances to the side where the caped figure of his metallic father stands as proud sentinel over the study. A small grin spreads in confirmation that the true game has just begun. ¡°You¡¯ve plenty of choices.¡±


    ¡°Aye.¡± Obin nods with pursed lips as he waits for Thomat¡¯s move. ¡°Forty-seven to be exact. The ladies do love a good war story. Hard to deny them all. Pracilla likes the extra attention, too.¡±


    Simora turns to see the man¡¯s massive form straightened with pride. Though his belly swells in the black uniform he wears, Obin¡¯s extremely wide shoulders and square chin beam with the rising glory of an eagle preparing to take flight. Noting this sureness of the man¡¯s energy, he thinks, He could easy be one of the predators here, and the Ravagers would note him as a myth upon their walls.


    ¡°Pracilla?¡± Simora adds the information to his calculations. A noble lady of memory seen in darker lighting. No matter how small the fact, it can be added as a brick to the grander structure. The imagery fills his mind, and he clicks his tongue at the instinctual reaction of humanity. ¡°Scandalous. A queen of Gremeta Beta swelling the ranks of concubines for her king.¡±


    Booming with laughter, the General leans back with his drink nearly emptied. ¡°Let the people talk their envies away! I sire generals and militants! A new generation of conquerors brewed right here!¡± A vulgar act, none willing nor able to correct him, to display his unchallenged goals. ¡°I¡¯d not damn any of my children to the life of a Dark Star. Damned behind stacks of ledgers, screens, and prismaslate? No.¡± The square jaw drops for the final swig of the glass. ¡°There are wars to wage!


    ¡°You! Hand and Gavel!¡± The empty glass swings up, ¡°I can tell yer mind splits in two. Prismaslate and battle mix as fine as these drinks!¡±


    ¡°He would make a fine Dark Star.¡± Simora takes his place on a chair to the side and between the two men of White training. He hands over a second glass; already prepared for the General. ¡°Only after he¡¯s helped me complete my conquest of Icarus Alpha, of course. I¡¯d not lose my Deep Root because you shrug off your duties.¡±


    As they both laugh together, Obin points toward his opponent. ¡°Conquest? Is that what yer doing? Taking on the Ravagers and beasts, plants and world! I fight a war against man, and ye take on an entire planet!¡± Obin¡¯s shoulders curve back to include the Dominax. ¡°And shrug my duties? I¡¯d unload it entirely! Cast off like a mound of dirt.¡±


    ¡°Then you¡¯d consider such a future?¡± Simora¡¯s eyes playfully stare over the even liquid in his glass as he sips carefully.


    ¡°Eh?¡± Both Obin and Thomat¡¯s eyes turn on the planet¡¯s leader. ¡°Ye¡¯d scheme for yer men as well?¡±


    ¡°Scheme? Of course.¡± Simora clicks his tongue at the burn of his alcohol.


    Obin¡¯s massive form leans back into the chair as he settles himself with a tone unfamiliar to Thomat. A true tone, a loose of control, and the revelation that the giant man¡¯s jolliness cannot survive in the harsh environment of politics. ¡°Then why tell me, Simora? Ye¡¯re no fool, boy. Never thought you were. Even as a wee lad, ye¡¯d stared at me with eyes like some ancient soul. So, speak plainly of yer plans.¡±If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    ¡°You are capable of some Eclipse, then?¡± Simora nods. In an unfazed response, he continues while ignoring the scanning eyes of Thomat. ¡°Quick to the point, Obin. I respect you, and I understand schemes are not the way to your patronage.¡±


    ¡°Patronage?¡± Obin¡¯s jaw tightens as he scans the much smaller Simora.


    ¡°Yes. I¡¯d have you tout the successes, once finalized, of Thomat upon Icarus Alpha. Once completed here, the Ravagers and Civilized brought to commonality beneath my banner and law, much of his time will be spent playing a game with far less worthy opponents.¡± Simora motions to Galaxia. He still hasn¡¯t made his next move. Good. Wait. ¡°Instead, he could be playing with you and yours. A head of a beast armed to the teeth by your own brood.


    ¡°Unstoppable, truly. A monster with the tactician of Icarus Alpha¡¯s conquest, the warriors of Obin Nephire¡¯s loins, and the full forces of the Black families at their whims.¡± Simora does not gloat. He does not lean into the conversation or smile as if he¡¯s uncovered some magical answer to life. He merely stares forward at the man who dwarfs him. A man that, were the rule of nature enforced, would own the lad. The man that stares at him with emotions plain on his face. So his Eclipse isn¡¯t well practiced.


    ¡°Full forces of the Blacks?¡± Obin¡¯s eyes do glance about. Tact obvious in his expression, Simora begins to fill in the answers he knows are to come.


    ¡°You¡¯re concerned of recordings. No need. This is my private sanctum, and there are no recordings allowed here unless specifically dictated by me. System.¡± The robotic features do not answer. ¡°I have specifically blacked out the programs in this room for our conversation here.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why ye mixed my drinks.¡± Obin lifts his empty glass.


    ¡°Of course.¡± Simora, leaning forward, takes the glass from the man and places it on a small table beside him. ¡°And I will continue to do so; no matter your answer. Whether you answer me now or need time, I believe you a man of honor who¡¯ll not keep me waiting forever. I want neither robot, drone, fareye, android or any other device recalling what¡¯s offered here. There¡¯s no device capable of overcoming my protocols and contingencies.¡± He points upward to the unseen machines all working together to restrain all other devices within the area. Not going into the specifics, Simora¡¯s programming has left certain systems online¡ªincluding the Galaxia game he knew they¡¯d both encourage of each other. ¡°You¡¯re a master of Tact, General.


    ¡°Thomat is quite skilled in it as well. I know not all the capabilities of the Tempering, but I¡¯m willing to wager that Thomat possesses genes enough to epitomize the Emblem for the White.¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s not of Black.¡±


    ¡°Are you?¡± Simora¡¯s head cocks gently to Obin¡¯s grunt of disapproval. ¡°You, Pious Enigma, gained that title for your avoiding of the Black Umbra in the Far-Reach Conflict. I¡¯d not go so far as to say you lack the Umbra, but your refusal to use the skills was a deceitful move of the Black within itself. By not lying, by not hiding truths within truths within feints within truths, you caught your enemy off-guard.¡±


    ¡°Aye. And I¡¯d taken all the planets I¡¯d warred on.¡± Obin¡¯s stature remains curved and ready, as any soldier would, for what might come. His eyes scan each movement¡ªthe Tact still obvious. ¡°And ye¡¯d add to the legend by means of Icarus Alpha. Securing my lineage by Thomat¡¯s betrothal to one of my princesses.¡± Obin nods his head to Thomat though the eyes continue to dance about the study. ¡°Promising a rule for generations at the least, we also breed two families of White along with opportunity for developing the Black. Though,¡± the eyes narrow, ¡°yer plan limits my family¡¯s probability of Umbra for another generation or two.¡±


    ¡°A small sacrifice, yes.¡± Simora looks to Thomat; still dumbfounded by what¡¯s occurring. ¡°Keep up, Thomat. I¡¯d not have you fall behind. Baralas is a lower family, a Obnatus Pallide, which your Nephire patronage and breeding will rise. There are also his years to consider. A cousin, a male of Nephire¡¯s clan will then marry the offspring produced by our dealings. Thomat will ensure a female is first born.¡±


    ¡°S-Sire.¡±


    ¡°Not done, Thomat. Your Tempering is capable of such things, and I know you¡¯re a fast learner.¡± Simora turns back to Obin. ¡°And you¡¯ve already questioned the full force of the Black. I see how your Tact draws you back to that question. Pining after the node of truth within the Black¡¯s lies. As I stated, I will not lie to you. Truth is just as powerful a weapon among the Black, and it would be a disrespect not befitting my promises of the future. A stain.¡±


    ¡°Then ye mean to retake the head of the Noctlin clan.¡± Obin says it aloud. Knowing this will force truth and action should the recordings and computers not truly be off or limited. Obin¡¯s face still shines brightly with true emotion¡ªanticipation held with delight of what myths might be born of such actions.


    ¡°You¡¯ve discovered me then.¡± Simora nods. ¡°My father¡¯s birthright. Wrongs righted.¡± His mind travels to the statue behind him. A metallic rendering of a man denied much for the promise of love. ¡°If my plan works,¡± the golden eyes of the Dominax begin to dazzle at the prospect. A hunter seeking his prey yet to enter the predestined path, ¡°I may yet avoid bloodshed. I want to know that I have the blessings of the Pious Enigma.¡±


    ¡°I didn¡¯t just arrive early by chance, did I?¡± Obin¡¯s unnaturally square jaw opens wide with humor. ¡°Aye. Ye¡¯ve been schemin¡¯ alright. A fine showing of Black. And ye¡¯ve made a fine argument for the headin¡¯ of me clan.¡± The voice slips back into a heavier slur of an alien dialect. ¡°Aye. Ye¡¯ve got me patronage.¡± The giant¡¯s shoulders slump forward as he narrows his eyes. ¡°On two conditions.¡±


    ¡°First, you¡¯d like my honest numbers of exports and to have first choice of goods sold to your domains. Truth will be yours, but our trading must remain level among the Dark Stars. You will retain advantage over all others not of our committee. Secondly, you¡¯d like to see that Thomat is worthy.¡±


    ¡°Aye, ye ancient soul. Or are ye a devil?¡± A booming laugh confirms the joke. Obin straightens himself and tugs on his uniform to ensure it covers his massive gut. ¡°I¡¯d see one game of clear, decisive victory.¡± He turns to the Deep Root. ¡°Yer master paints ye a masterpiece of a future, lad. Far above the worth of yer station, in my opinion. Can ye show ye deserve it?¡±


    Thomat, swallowing back all the tension of the darkened room, tugs at his own uniform. His hand glances over the two emblems upon his breasts. A White hammer upon a silver background, and the other the Blue tree twisting in mythical might to survive in the vastness of the Black Shield.


    Meeting the Dark Star¡¯s eyes, the Hand and Gavel nods with absolute certainty. ¡°As the Amelioration has birthed a new planet, I too have been reborn here.¡± His eyes turn to Simora. The aged man, yet fiery as the youngest of the planet¡¯s military forces, burns with a passion noted within the lineages of White. ¡°I will not waste this opportunity.¡±


    ¡°Good. Then make your move.¡± Simora points to the grid of blue and white with a smile tucked devilishly behind his lips. New passions and doorways. He¡¯ll fight tooth and nail now. No more holding back against a superior. Redirecting that vigilance from my person to his own goals. Thomat never took more than twenty-seven seconds to make a move in the last two years of playing.


    ¡°Of course.¡± Thomat reaches into the grid with a smile cracking the face of the militant. ¡°Mothership.¡± His movement places the strongest piece into the center of his forces. ¡°Bolster.¡± Meeting eyes with the Dark Star, the two share a spark seen often between equals. ¡°Your move, General.¡±

 10

    As the day¡¯s aggressive sun begins to dip behind the mountains, the denizens of Valkenaria move about with a revitalized sense of living. As if specters wait for the death of light to harvest fear from the living, most within the capital keep to their temperature and security controlled homes until the world welcomes them. Tall buildings of Prints-a-Ment and Zurikan steel, mostly colored white to reflect the light and heat, begin to turn an amber-gray with the final breaths of the Icarus sun.


    Some citizens of the city move about for their shopping, their commutes (returning from or to work), they go toward friends or lovers, and each steps through the scene toward untold stories and secret lives. There are too many to account for, even on such a planet as this. The largest gatherings of humans are here; or so most say. The world has no need for humans, yet here they go about their days with the same sense of destined immortality as any other planet. The dangers that once plagued an entire planet have begun to drip from their minds as the poisons let from the veins by doctors of old.


    Data has been gathered and analyzed by census. Bureaucracy offers few solutions or actions based on the information, yet the data rests somewhere in collected files on computing systems someone likely approved and stored. One might find it odd, this correlation between the time spent under civilized rule and the time one might spend outdoors even as the sun begins to dip behind towers and mountains.


    Discs float about, busses hover from station to station, and pedestrians wander between the clogged hotspots of the city. Valkenaria is alive. It breathes with the very spirit of a mixed peoples. Those that came from the stars and those that had survived the trials of the planet. Though reports show small tribes of Ravagers remain distant from the civilized cities, the collection of natives and off-worlders swell to form a jeweled tumor on the center of the middle continent.


    A gathering where, in the time honored tradition of humanity, collectives experience the boredom and necessity of conflict dwelling in human hearts. This data, Simora had reviewed.


    Extended structures and newly formed streets stretch just the way Simora had envisioned. Newly lofted areas stand as testament of man over the wilds below. Streams and flora permitted to entangle themselves with the city draw the attention of the wanderers and lovers. A new garden, granted such privilege by the Dominax, twists and grows in a park of fountains and statues between two city blocks.


    These newest sectors of the city have pushed certain problematic regions farther from the Dark Stars¡¯ scrutinizing gazes. A design best for all parties that might find themselves entangled in negative interactions.


    As so many walk about, admiring the newest addition to the city, there strides a group flanked by militant figures and slender drones. The citizens are not pushed from the scene, not threatened or badgered, but they do sense the desire for them to depart. With little prompting, the group accompanying the Dark Star are allowed freedom to examine the gardens at their own pace.


    ¡°Of course, my dear,¡± Matheem Nephire¡¯s ancient hand glides over heavy leaves of this alien planet. Every plant and specimen he sees is as incredible as the last. ¡°The value of spiritual education is grander than gold or silver. As is true with all human history, that which shines and sparkles turns men to war and worship.¡± He nods as he tugs gently at a plant¡¯s striped leaf. The bulbs along the blue-green stem begin to churn and unfurl as they look to him. ¡°Splendid. Simply splendid.¡±


    As each bulb opens up, a string of mucus-soaked barbs begin to rise out like fangs from a serpent. Patire steps forward, taking the ancient hand, and pulling it back slightly. ¡°Amelioration did breed out actively violent species; however,¡± her hand pulls him back out of reach of the slowly advancing lines of stingers, ¡°creation still holds the right to hunt.¡±


    ¡°Splendid.¡± Matheem squeaks with joy as he witnesses the plant resist the temptation of human flesh. Stems rise and curl toward the location where pheromones, salt, and carbon dioxide are detected. A central bulb uncurls to reveal a beautiful flower of thick, crimson petals, and offers an embrace to the unsuspecting and foolish. This vicious plant presses on and offers a delectable perfume as invitation. ¡°What plant is this?¡±


    ¡°Blud Kiss.¡± Patire motions to the guards as some of those from the planet begin to check the area. ¡°While beautiful, it is one of the most deadly species on the planet.¡± A drone begins to scan the plant and process the necessary actions. Once it confirms her known truth, it begins to approach the plant¡¯s roots and begin the destruction.


    ¡°Why?¡± Matheem, seemingly hurt by this brutal show of hatred over such a beautiful plant, inquires quietly while watching the garden lessened. ¡°Are there not other deadly flora here? Why must this one suffer?¡±


    Patire sighs as she turns the Elder, leading him farther into the garden (a hurried pace without panic), and explains, ¡°Blud Kiss has, even after the changes granted by the Dominax, taken the lives of many. It¡¯s peculiar in how it spreads, seeds, and grows, but we do know the violence it¡¯s capable of. Best to remove it now before children or pets are lured in by the pretty petals and clenched in an iron maiden.¡± She whispers to herself, ¡°It wasn¡¯t there yesterday.¡±


    ¡°Is it so truly feared?¡± Matheem¡¯s arms wave about as if he¡¯s trying to find another answer among all his memories; scattered before him on an invisible desk. ¡°I¡¯ve not heard of any such plants! Marvelous how life constructs such beautiful predators.¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes.¡± Patire continues to move the admiring Elder toward other specimens. The unwelcomed Blud Kiss is exterminated with extreme prejudice behind them. ¡°Here, we have a variety of plants that have been domesticated thanks to the Dominax¡¯s Amelioration.¡±


    ¡°Blud Kiss.¡± Matheem¡¯s eyes resist the journey. His wonderment caught as a fish upon the enticing lure. ¡°Difficulty studying its seeding and dispersion, and now one within the city limits. Incredible. There seem to be many deadly seeds that the Dominax has yet to tame.¡±


    Patire, the willful servant to lofty ideals and callings, takes the Elder by the arm and speaks. As the lips part, the Elder tightens his grip about her arm. Feeling the intention and the tension of the powers within, she chooses her words more carefully. ¡°Elder Matheem Nephire,¡± the voice is soothing as an ice cube sliding over warm skin, ¡°I recall the day you¡¯d arrived. Do you remember the skies?¡±


    ¡°The skies? Dearie me, I believe I do.¡± His playful demeanor drifts into the grayed fog between reality and pretend. A Dark Star delving into the games of politics and espionage. ¡°A beautiful sky. A spectrum of blue. Horizon of amber sliding into the distant greens. A lovely sky indeed.¡± An elderly yet childish grin spreads over his face as he glances through the garden.


    Patire¡¯s throat bulges with the weight of the atmosphere. She can feel her exolung tug at her nostrils, the humidity sticking to the thick strands of her hair, and the Dark Star¡¯s eyes scanning like a lighthouse¡¯s beam across the harbor. As if the full force of the beam might burn her skin, she speaks plainly as to not arouse the wrath of the lighthouse. ¡°Aba kites. Prorp wings. Lesser epols.¡± She nods with delight. ¡°Three fearsome predators of Icarus Alpha.¡±If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°I don¡¯t recall any animals.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡± Patire smiles as she allows herself an equal grip on the Elder¡¯s arm. ¡°As you said. A beautiful sky. No predator¡¯s spinning overhead waiting to toss you from the rise, disembowel you on your walk, or spray an unpleasant concoction of acid and dumbing pheromones into your face.¡± She shivers from the memories of such sights. ¡°The Emel-Rakar call the epols¡¯s poisoning intoxication ¡®weltik.¡¯ They seem fascinated by it, and they fear it just as well. Similar to the fire of the Creator.¡±


    ¡°One creation of the grander design.¡± Matheem¡¯s eyes widen with delight. ¡°So the Amelioration,¡± he licks his lips as the playful smile spreads with the skills of a Black. ¡°These aerial predators died out?¡±


    ¡°Heavens no!¡± Patire pats his arm. ¡°Elder, Dominax has done all in his power to retain all species of Icarus Alpha. They no longer desire the flesh of man, and so they¡¯ve migrated to more profitable hunting grounds. Ones where their DNA might continue within new populations.¡±


    ¡°Your Dark Star rearranges the Creator¡¯s plans of an entire planet.¡± Matheem pats her hand while continuing through the paths of the garden. ¡°Even the Blud Kiss, which currently escapes him, must yield to him in time.¡±


    ¡°He truly is brilliant.¡±


    ¡°Do the natives believe so? These Emel-Rakar? I¡¯ve yet to meet one, and I should say I would like to. Passionate fire! These people!¡± He motions to all the plants that canvas the party. ¡°They who survived as predators atop the echelons of Icarus! All the potential here more easily secured!¡±


    ¡°Of course, Elder. Of course.¡± Patire¡¯s voice is filled with anticipation of such a day. ¡°I¡¯d love to introduce you the some of the Metem.¡±


    ¡°Chieftains.¡±


    ¡°Yes. I¡¯ve been to eight of the Remer across two continents. I¡¯ve seen how they don the nema cat¡¯s furs, how they¡¯ve milked depter fangs, drank sweetened refinements of the weddletot¡¯s juices. Rituals, battles, practices¡­ they are unlike any culture I¡¯ve learned of in our schoolings.¡±


    ¡°Fire and passion.¡± Matheem strides on as the mobile lighthouse seeking some unlucky specter to be caught in the terrifying light. ¡°Amelioration. A change to the world. A rebuilding of the Creator¡¯s design.¡± The old man¡¯s eyes peer into the woman at his arm. ¡°What do the Emel-Rakar believe of this?¡±


    ¡°They,¡± feeling the beam of light sliding past her once again, she speaks with care tempering her enthusiasm, ¡°they are mixed upon the topic. There are plenty that resist any off-worlder rule. Others speak out against the changes. Some; however, embrace new ways and adapt. The tragedy of progress. Without their input, Dominax has seeded their fields with new crops.¡±


    ¡°Idioms?¡±


    ¡°The kindest of the many. Dominax has swayed more Emel-Rakar to the ways of off-worlders than any before him. Every house has failed to gather such numbers from the fields, jungles, seas, and mounts. Yet,¡± her eyes call to a place far beyond the light of the Dark Star, ¡°many believe him an avatar of Zazat Shalahdi.¡±


    ¡°That is?¡±


    Pursing her lips, she feels the words trying to formulate. He wants it all for the archives. He wants it all, and he wants to know that I can be the one to deliver it. With excitement rising at the prospect of future glories, she finds the courage to continue. I walk beneath the canopy of countless, deadly flora. Only years ago, everything here would have swept me into the undergrowth to devour me. ¡°Zazzat Shalahdi is an entity of the darkness beyond the darkness. A hole within a hole that is neither chaos nor order. There is no universe there, and the light of Almakamla cannot reach there.


    ¡°That isn¡¯t the majority of dissenters; however, as most of them believe him a stealer of Almakamla¡¯s will. A usurper of the divine.¡± She giggles gently to herself. ¡°Simora has not once claimed the bloodline or right of a god. Some Metem believe him a prophet, some believe him enlightened, others believe him trying to overtake the Creator¡¯s petri dish. Yet, no matter the whispers and secrecy among the tribes, he remains the most successful Dominax since The Namaste overtook the planet.¡±


    ¡°And among all these animals and plants, all of their byproducts and materials, the Dominax now capitalizes on it all.¡± Matheem nods with amusement. The wonder sparks another beam of light to overtake the walkways of the city¡¯s garden. ¡°A plethora of profitable avenues. A shining light to the people. Fire! Enough to draw in the people that believe themselves the very spark of the Creator.¡± The Elder¡¯s grin spreads in the secretive plays of the Black. ¡°And you playing the part of the prophet¡¯s right hand.


    ¡°Patire, wonderful child,¡± the smile spreads deeper into the wrinkles of the ancient man, ¡°you¡¯ve done splendidly. If we might, I would meet one of these Metem during my visit. Could you please arrange this?¡±


    ¡°They will want to meet all the Dark Stars. Judging the off-world rulers, they will want to ensure Rakar is in proper hands.¡±


    ¡°So much occurring on one planet. Marvelous.¡± The Elder, granted youth in the peace of this garden, occasionally draws in a deep breath with the aid of his refined exolung. ¡°To overcome it all and become the talk of The Namaste.¡±


    ¡°The talk? Really?¡± Patire¡¯s mind begins to wonder at just what¡¯s said about their work.


    ¡°Was it all breeding? That simplistic?¡± Matheem¡¯s brightened eyes scan over the deadly, tamed flora caught up in the Prints-a-Ment and steel city. Streamers of sunlight fall between the occasionally parted leaves; though, most of the plant life refuses to give up any wave of light it can rightly claim. ¡°Helix commands transcribed into the genome. Studs and breeders all. A new evolution written by his own quill.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± Patire¡¯s eyes droop as she tries to pluck answers from the path. Knowing ignorance is not the way of the enlightened, the Elder will want something more. ¡°I¡¯m not sure the specifics. I¡¯d come in after it all began and have not been privy to the process, but how quickly it took! Like a spark igniting a dry woodland.


    ¡°I¡¯d not venture a guess of how he went about it.¡± A spark of her own blazes with passion known within the Red. Straightening herself with surprise, she turns and pats his hand again, ¡°His study! That man would place a bed in his workshop were it not for our refusal. Many a day we fight to get him outside his own dark walls and into the sunlight. I¡¯ve learned to not worry over the man, but I still wish he¡¯d leave more often.


    ¡°Oh.¡± Realizing she¡¯s left the path a bit, she corrects herself. ¡°What I mean to say is, I¡¯m sure somewhere within those computers and that brilliant mind there are untold treasure-troves of information. For a man to reshape all of reality for this Hell of a planet,¡± a true admiration seeps into the voice as if she reads from a holy text, ¡°it would be difficult for the Emel-Rakar to not believe him a prophet.¡±


    ¡°The Emel-Rakar, or you?¡± Matheem smiles to the woman, but there is a calculating chill to the eyes. ¡°You may speak plainly.¡±


    She will. She does.


    It is without malice. For what a man possesses he will use. Does one man blink away his sight for another does not possess eyes? Does this man cut his tongue from his mouth in defiance of his voice? These are practiced words of the Church of Many Mouths. The idea of equality among humanity has taken new shape in these last millennia. Terrifying to some, and Heaven-sent by others, the changes of mankind separate all those that are born in wailing equality¡ªfearful and pained into this world.


    Here, in this garden of tamed beauty, the Red sparks to life in the hidden tones of the Elder. Vocalized passion. Weaponized, at times, surely. Now, it is as a song¡¯s tender embrace to the psyche. Alluring as the brightened petal to the bee or the bee¡¯s unguarded honey to a lazy predator.


    Matheem Nephire does not prey on Patire Isserman.


    She knows what has happened, and yet she finds herself giving into that which will happen anyway. Though her will may resist, she participates freely.


    Her eyes widen as if the words suddenly are born of her throat. Having not considered it previously, the Elder¡¯s Red ignites destiny in the woman. It gives shape to the grayed blurs of truth. It gives life to the unmaterialized.


    Resonance burns brightly¡ªthe soul¡¯s star. This difficult concoction of Santuary, Whispers, and Inspire combined into something grander, creates the perfect potion for the soul¡¯s consecration.


    Red power seeps from the Dark Star into Patire. She meets the Elder¡¯s eyes and says, ¡°He is my Dominax. I trust him as I trust you; though, my heart desires to proceed with the Emel-Rakar under the guidance of my Dominax. Though, if required¡­ my loyalties lie with the Church of Many Mouths.¡± Somewhat surprised by the words, she grins to her superior knowing he¡¯s pleased with having heard her truth. ¡°I will still strive for the Ascension to Valkyrie.¡±


    ¡°Of course, child.¡± Matheem pats her hands as he continues to lead and to be lead. They walk as one creature might move through the overgrown jungles of Icarus Alpha. A wicked smile slipping through the Black and Red¡¯s face.


    They walk and share in the bright warmth of the Red. Offered from Elder to the youth, from the learning to the learned, from the teacher to the student, and from the rising flame to the dulling. Red walks with Red as the Elder thinks over all he has heard.

 11

    Closing the door to his study, that special sanctum separated from the world, Simora lifts his head with three clicks of the tongue. ¡°System. Lock. Protocol one.¡±


    ¡°Recognized.¡± A hushed female voice answers as the doors seal tightly.


    From the number of hisses, mechanical movements, and clanks, one might assume the vault to The Namaste¡¯s coffers had just been closed. Simora turns, once satisfied, to wander the halls of his keep. In these moments, as Obin is entertained by Thomat with discussions of planetary conquest and Matheem relaxes in the company of Patire, the Dominax proceeds as he normally would. For the time, unbound of his duties to entertain the guests, he can resume his works in the study and throughout the city.


    The Ravagers will be sending their representatives soon. Matheem will want to meet their leaders. Of course, I will grant him permission. This will incite Obin to want similar treatment and one-on-one discussions. They¡¯ll gauge the governance of the planet against their ideals and perceptions. Omerta was once the code. Those with hatred of me will not speak to off-world conquerors such as yourself. Seek your plots and schemes, Dark Stars.


    Dominax Simora Nor-Noctlin swipes at his robes to ensure they rest symmetrically about him. Tapping his pockets to ensure he has the devices he needs, he then taps again four times on each side. Feeling they¡¯ve been adequately equalized in the pressure placed, the Dominax continues through the halls. His final check of himself can be done on the go. He tugs at the tight, blue scarf on his neck. Feeling it holds well enough, he¡¯s satisfied with his presentation; though, he¡¯d not even checked his face in a mirror.


    Plot and scheme. Scheme and plot. I¡¯ve left nothing to study. No trail of breadcrumbs or marks on trees along the path.


    Thinking back to his study, a bronzed man stands as the defining image of the conquered future. I¡¯ll return for what father left behind. It will all be as I design. What I see.


    Shards of possibility float beside him as he walks. None, even if they were here, would see them. Of course, this is the mental projection of the Dominax¡¯s Born and his prodding of what the future may hold. Constant calculations to fill his time until he arrives at his destination.


    Merely a week and my alliances seem to be taking shape. At the least, the White have taken to my plan. Simora¡¯s pride stiffens his back. He continues looking down the path of possible futures for his Hand and Gavel as he enters the elevator. Likely, three children of his wife. Obin will give his ninth daughter. She¡¯s young and of Pracilla¡¯s line. This will give the old man a good length of time.


    He wants my bloodline, though. Simora¡¯s head bobs as these possibilities play out. I will need more data as time continues. There could be viable stock among his kin, but I am unsure of any that would grab my attention. Not the way she grabbed his. The thoughts linger back as he weighs his options. Instead of on the future and possible shards which might grow to mirrors, he thinks back to the bronzed man that broke rank to take his mother¡¯s hand.


    And look where it got you.


    The world, this Hell, is the cause of anguish. A birthright of bloodied lands and forbidden dreams. Caught as ruins overgrown in tangles and thorns. Yet, Simora walks with chin high.


    I won¡¯t allow it to happen again. I know the most likely path for me. A fair trade, and Obin will have one of my heirs for his own descendants.


    The doors open to a wide, high-ceiling lobby where black-donned banner men perform their own duties. Comms are sent, reports studied, citizens met with, and the city kept moving by the black cells protecting the veins and brain.


    Keeping a distance from the general population, the leader of Icarus Alpha steps to the side of one columned wall where a painting of ravenous wildlife looms over those that have conquered it. Creatures dance in Ravager-style; a tantalizing union of realism and special flattening that forces the viewer to see all threats as equally close and dangerous.


    An ant shifting about the edges of glass in the farm, Simora looks to the domed ceiling where the plethora of species has multiplied into a risen domain of Almakamla. Various creatures and myths spread about the brightened sun that paints the sky with an unending spread of pigments. A world painted in volatile hues that seek to bleed over those that came before it while struggling to remain shiny and bright beneath the newest strokes.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    We shall have to add the Irakari-Tol to the paintings.


    ¡°Dominax.¡± Three men snap into a salute at the arrival of their leader.


    ¡°Relax, please.¡± Simora glides to a stop before them and takes in their faces. ¡°Any issues requiring my presence today?¡±


    ¡°None at the moment, Sire.¡± The middle man, taller than the other two and more sure in the stability of his voice, speaks for the group. ¡°Our drones return with an update of the shorelines. Comms confirmed. Ravager leaders are landing. Within the next few days, they should arrive.¡±


    ¡°Thank you, Whelton.¡± Simora, about to step away, pauses mid-step. ¡°If that¡¯s all there is, might I inquire of the Dark Stars? Not that I don¡¯t trust you all, but,¡± Simora¡¯s hands wiggle in the air, ¡°they are rather particular.¡±


    ¡°Elder Nephire is partaking of the local opera rendition of,¡± the eyes of Whelton narrow. Little jewels of yellow-spotted greens attempt to recall what isn¡¯t there.


    ¡°Beloved, Thy World Cries.¡± Simora answers. ¡°I chose it myself. I¡¯m sure that will keep him busy for the remainder of the day. And the General?¡±


    A shorter man, filling out his uniform well, clears his throat to make way for the uneven rhythm of his voice. His fit, yet pudgy, face droops as he speaks. Green eyes brimmed with white lock onto his superior. ¡°He¡¯s gone with Hand and Gavel to explore the city and then to Wallace¡¯s workshop.¡±


    Clicking along to the unsteady meter of the man¡¯s vocal gait, Simora nods to confirm his appeased curiosity. ¡°Very good. Thank you, gentlemen. If you¡¯ll excuse me.¡±


    ¡°Are you to go about the people, Dominax?¡±


    A snap of the tongue is followed by the answering expression of a welcoming friend, ¡°Of course. I¡¯d take a bit of time in the sun. My Deep Roots hound me otherwise.¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll prepare an escort¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no.¡± Simora waves it off. ¡°I won¡¯t be long. I¡¯ll not need anyone today.¡±


    ¡°S-Sire.¡± Those beside Whelton step forward as the central, towering figure remains still.


    ¡°No. Please. I needn¡¯t every second be defended. Call me two drones if you must, but I will be alone with my thoughts.¡±


    ¡°Very well.¡± The shorter man hurries off to prepare two escorting drones for their Dominax; bronze hair bouncing in gentle waves as he goes. The remaining soldiers bow to their leader in obedient understanding.


    Sighing at their diligence, Simora¡¯s Black tugs the strings of his face. A friendly smile, driven by a passion and desire in the heart, bends the flesh to purpose. ¡°Your care and vigilance is appreciated and noted. Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Of course, Sire.¡± Whelton answers as the other man, still new to the orders, stares as a child caught in their first snow. ¡°Do you require anything? Might we prepare your study for relaxation or entertaining guests? Whatever our Dominax needs.¡±


    He¡¯s Civilized¡ªnot off-world. A fine addition to our ranks.


    ¡°Whelton,¡± Simora nods, ¡°you spoil. No need to put yourselves out. Continue to assist the citizens. I want this city to run without any issue.¡±


    ¡°As you order, Dominax.¡± Whelton lowers his voice as he glances to the other. ¡°Palya, your Dominax has given a command.¡±


    ¡°A-as you order, Dominax.¡± A man standing less than Whelton¡¯s shoulders bows beside him. In contrast to Whelton¡¯s silvery hair, Payla¡¯s golden strands wave about like silk blowing gently in the wind.


    The two remain bowed for a few seconds too long, and Simora clears his throat. ¡°Very well. Thank you. Keep to the protocol. I¡¯ll return when my mind¡¯s cleared.¡±


    ¡°Your drones, Dominax.¡± The shorter man returns, his chest puffed out so the patch reading ¡°Elthan¡± is clearly visible. ¡°Bit busy today, Sire. Perhaps, another route.¡±


    Sighing again, Simora waves for the drones to follow. ¡°Come along. Follow unseen defensive protocol. User preference: 001340.¡±


    ¡°Good day, Dominax.¡± Two robotic voices greet the leader of the planet.


    Noticing how all the eyes have wandered toward his direction, Simora decides to take Elthan¡¯s advice. Bidding farewell to the bronze-haired, uneven voiced Elthan, the youthful Payla, and the pseudo-giant of silver Whelton, Simora returns to the hallways beyond the welcoming lobby where all citizens and banner men have gathered.


    Through stretching hallways of checkered tiles, tall ceilings, native artists¡¯ pieces he goes. A lovely stretch of all things Rakar. Such paintings, caught lives upon stretched skins, tell more of the human experience than most within the city could recall. The dull hums of the drones force the Dominax to click his tongue in haste¡ªout of rhythm with his steps.


    Needing the freshness of the air beyond the walls and awaiting eyes, Simora continues back toward one of the many lofted balconies and bridges to his tower. Every step a ticking of some magical clock none else could hear, nor can he keep in time with. As the drones buzz and float on, he struggles to click at an acceptable pace.


    There¡¯s more work to be done. Artists¡¯ collections span the winding paths of the bottom floors where guests are wooed and treated to the world blooming from Icarus Alpha¡¯s rotten core. Obin should be placated. Matheem yet requires coercion. I hold Patire over him, but to what ends will he work? His network to the farthest corners of Far-Reach aren¡¯t crucial, but they are preferred. Only a few days before the other Dark Stars arrive.


    Forty-thousand troops at the ready. Most within the city. How better can I show just what command I possess over the planet than letting the Ravagers keep to themselves? Both empathetic to the natives and logically avoiding the despot¡¯s crown in the eyes of The Namaste.


    As the journey spans on and on, the Dominax considers to himself, Maybe I should¡¯ve just stayed in my study. He waves off the drones and proceeds back to his study.

 12

    The sun, an inferno of nuclear reaction, roars as the deadliest of all predators within the solar system. Though the day has marched on and the new threat of a humid night approaches, those exiting the boats move without a hurried concern over what will hide in the shadows. Forty-three individuals leap from the edges of ships constructed of various metals and wood.


    From these vessels, many of the armed individuals move from the docks toward the tree lines beyond the stretch of white beaches. Lively responses of curious creatures come in howling and screeching welcome.


    The eyes of the Emel-Rakar, the young soldiers forming a perimeter, scan the area for any threat. No matter how many times they¡¯ve heard of Amelioration and the Dominax¡¯s control over the species of Rakar, they keep to the training of the generations before them. Calloused hands, on men and women alike, grip at whatever they keep for preferred defense. Two or three might have a pulser in hand, but most of the Emel-Rakar grip their wytun.


    Almost all of humanity had forgone such primitive and resource consuming weaponry, but the Emel-Rakar keep ancient ghosts walking among them. They have many reasons, differing between tribe and individual, for wielding such a variety of tools and even antique technologies.


    With their exolungs properly secured, the bodies of the Emel-Rakar at the perimeter lock into place. No movement of the shoulders. Shallow beats of the heart. They are as the beach itself. Mummified statues patiently taking in the world around them until that final, decisive moment.


    As the deep blues of the sky give way to the violets and ambers, the Emel-Rakar continue their departure from the vessels. Tied off and ramps locked, carts and luggage move from sea to land. Orders begin to fill the air as duties are distributed among the people.


    For brevity and comprehension, the discussions of the Emel-Rakar must be translated. From Litn to the universal tongue, the voices must be heard.


    ¡°Assist the elders first. I want the ships checked. Get that perimeter filled in.¡± A man with hair as dense and black as chilled tar rubs the sleep from the edges of his eyes. Copper bands dissolve into the greenish-yellow within seas of white. Sighing before a deep inhale through his exolung-guarded nose, he scans the docks and listens to the sounds of waves slapping against the metallic platforms and lengths of white sand.


    After just a few orders are given, the man steps to the edge of the Prints-a-Ment dock with segmented metal wrapped around it. The path has been traversed with ease, and he scans the dark blues of the horizon for any sign that they¡¯d simply avoided the threats in time.


    No bubbles or rancid smell. No shrimp waiting.


    Wind catches the strands of his thick hair to form flickering flames of darkness atop his head. For how unkempt the mane seems, it moves with a grace and ease which haunts the memory. Adding to the impressing atmosphere of command, a green and brown cloak catches the wind in violent jolts. A grayed uniform, perhaps once it was a lighter black, tenses around the flesh within it.


    This man, somehow tense and relaxed, stands as the singular force of valley and mountain among the hurrying Emel-Rakar. He does not need to turn back to know that his people perform as needed. They know the height of the sun and stillness of the world.


    ¡°Yamay.¡± A man, his head covered in the wild bush of brown, steps quickly to the end of the dock. Stopping five paces behind his companion, the man wipes the wind from his moistened eyes of blue. ¡°We¡¯re almost done. Four empreys. Taken and tied off.¡± He lifts one of the knotted lengths of gray eel. The body, tensed and locked into place, undulates with that natural aggression animals exhibit when cornered or caught. ¡°To the tribe?¡±


    ¡°Keep the largest.¡± Yamay calls back over his shoulder while still watching the distant, stilled waves. Still, the sound of the waters crashing over metal and sand fills his head with a chorus of the natural order¡ªsoothing him as he releases a slow breath.


    Examining the balled up specimen in his possession, Ethar drops and yanks the head so the bound body bounces about from his waist to his knees. The tail occasionally slips over the Prints-a-Ment. ¡°I¡¯d say this one¡¯ll do. What becomes of it?¡±


    ¡°A gift.¡± The voice is the bass to the treble of the hissing and moaning waters. The words are harsh, but the expression is as stilled as the distant horizon. He watches how the single line of blue, unmoving and calm, eventually blurs into the white-tipped talons of the beast battling the shore. ¡°The Dominax has conquered the varabelm. A chief deserving athta.¡±


    Noting the cut at the end of the word, Ethar clears his throat. ¡°If he¡¯s worthy of such tribute, then you know best.¡± The man straightens as he reexamines the creature in his hands. Two of the long feathers of the cranial fins are twisted and knotted to keep the creature¡¯s squishy head of endless teeth closed.


    Without his multiple layers of family colors covering the man¡¯s body, one might feel Ethar had undergone some manner of metamorphosis. Like some puffy caterpillar blossoming into a toned and steely butterfly, he peers down at the disarmed prey. A wide hand slides down one of the freed feathers, along the silvery appendage from the collapsed head (which is larger than his fist). Though slimy, almost offensive to the touch, the slick body possesses a sort of shimmer that appeals to the human senses¡ªto the animalistic habit of being mesmerized.


    Knowing; however, grants the meek a weapon.


    ¡°It will do.¡± Yamay nods and turns back to face Ethar. A soft smile spreads over the stony slabs of his lips as he examines the man. Tensed arms wielding a deadly creature. Hips and sides decorated with tools and weapons. A wytun across his chest. ¡°You are as the branches.¡±This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.


    ¡°I bring prized gifts and face disrespect?¡± Ethar nods and spits to the side before returning his own smile. ¡°Shaming your own blood, Yamay.¡±


    ¡°Shame comes from forgetting one¡¯s blood, friend.¡± The leader steps forward to peer down into the emprey¡¯s eyes. Black crosses bulge outward like plumes of ink. The eyes, while that of a large and vicious animal, seem to open as wide as they could¡ªsimilar to that of a puppy begging for food from its master. ¡°You,¡± his finger pokes the creature¡¯s head; causing it to flop about as any fish simply desiring more water instead of the flesh from his bones. ¡°You have forgotten your blood.


    ¡°All five skitters made it without issue.¡± Now addressing Ethar, he looks back to the waters they¡¯d recently crossed.


    ¡°Besides the empreys,¡± Ethar shrugs to no one, ¡°yes.¡±


    ¡°Five ships. No deaths. No losses.¡± Yamay plucks a leaf from a pouch on his breast. ¡°Correct me, friend, for I may be wrong.¡± He tosses the curled leaf into his mouth to suck on. ¡°Memory is as fragile as life itself, yet I recall that horizon once thrashing and discolored with the hunting of Emel-Rakar.¡± He spits a greasy droplet onto the dock. ¡°Has the planet lost its hunger, or has Almakamla lost interest?¡±


    Ethar¡¯s boots move, and yet his feet make nearly no sound. Beneath the overwhelming crash of waves, these steps are imperceptible except by the trained ear of Yamay. The leader leans to the side and offers a leaf to his companion. Ethar declines with a sign of gratitude; extending his fingers up and over his heart.


    ¡°More for me then.¡± The drawl of the hardened man is cut by the flavorful plant. ¡°So, which is it? Or you have another idea in your mind?¡±


    ¡°Something else.¡± Ethar responds with a voice like cotton.


    Meant to comfort, the Metem instead sighs with the lingering dread. ¡°Then share, o¡¯ ye man of sight.¡±


    ¡°If you¡¯d joke so,¡± Ethar swings out the empery as if to toss it back to the water, ¡°your athta can sink back for his brothers to eat.¡±


    ¡°Such a threat!¡± Yamay snaps another droplet from pursed lips. This one soaring out over the Prints-a-Ment and into the water. ¡°You talk to Metem so? Brazen. I¡¯ll sleep with both eyes open.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t already?¡± The suffocating emprey wriggles for freedom, yet it doesn¡¯t even consider that it hangs from a meal. Ethar contemplates the beast for a moment. ¡°Seems the grandest monsters are losing their teeth.¡±


    ¡°They¡¯ve finished unloading.¡± Yamay¡¯s hand glides over the pouches and holsters of his belt. ¡°I¡¯d like us to fan out. March through the woods along the paths. Elders in the middle-back. I want no surprises.¡±


    ¡°As you command.¡±


    Yamay¡¯s attention turns from the stretching blue to the expansive, rising greens. The path will soon be dark and difficult to navigate, and still he¡¯d prefer it to the stretch of brightened day. ¡°Keep illumination to a minimum.¡± He begins the walk toward the people and their gear.


    Along the docks, the skitters rise in pinched mechanical arms to keep them out of the waters yet away from the wandering animals of the land. With no food left aboard, water sprayed along the edges, and blue canvases drawn over the tops will (hopefully) keep the vessels safe. This practice, as many others, has become a vestigial, time-consuming hereditary habit. Plucking at one rope attached to a canvas, Yamay notes the low hum of the vibration.


    Slack. Too much. They hurry to the tasks of the now not considering how we¡¯d get home if this failed. ¡°We¡¯ll relearn this when we leave.¡± Snapping the leaf¡¯s juice from his lips, he turns toward his people with a more dutiful expression. ¡°Attention! Ye hunters and survivors. Ready yourselves.


    ¡°We move as the tribe.¡± The drawl is a deep slithering of a massive serpent. Every note of the fleshy bass hangs in their ears. People turn and watch with careful eyes while the perimeter keeps half their attention on the woodlands. ¡°Blood of your brother, blood of your own.¡±


    ¡°Blood of our brother, blood of our own.¡± The group responds in unison.


    The elderly, the young, the armed, the serving¡­ they all speak with the same, hushed strength of union and understanding. A chill of comprehension, the connected spark between human souls, runs up Yamay¡¯s spine.


    ¡°Then move as one. I would meet this Dominax that seeks to rule as king. Almakamla guide us.¡± All nod toward the direction of the sun. ¡°Let¡¯s move. We dare not waste the dusk.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll get the young moving.¡±


    ¡°Give them the other emprey.¡± Yamay points out as he snaps another mouthful of leafy juice out. ¡°Live to bear more fruit.¡±


    ¡°As you wish.¡± Ethar¡¯s chin dips as he takes a pause beside the Metem. ¡°Pardon, Yamay, but the men asked.¡± He rolls his shoulders to attempt to relax himself.


    ¡°They want to know my plans.¡± The leader nods as he pats his friend¡¯s back without looking toward him. ¡°Brother, you know me. My blood is yours. My blood is that of the tribe.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no question of that.¡± Ethar responds immediately.


    Lifting his hand, Yamay silences the concern. ¡°I¡¯ve not named the path I will walk. I¡¯ve yet seen the most visible paths and wait for my eyes to catch those still hidden in the wood.¡± He nods toward the thick woodlands.


    A mixture of many worlds; one the vast majority of humanity could never manage. Conifer woods, dense jungles, deep quagmires, dry underbrush and moist canopies, and all manner of mixed ecosystems mashed into a violent turf war. This land, even for how often the tribes have traveled to these sacred place, has produced the same, clashing air of awe and horror. A duality of life and death bred together in this place of unspeakable glory hidden in the blood of nightmares.


    ¡°There lies my path, brother.¡± The bright rings of the man¡¯s eyes catch the dying light of day. As if fire, perhaps even the spark of Rakar itself, dances along the edges of the rings. ¡°The Dominax walks his path, and I must walk mine. I carry the blood of our people. He must carry my blood. Now, we see if this burden, the weight of all tribes, will be accepted.¡±


    ¡°So,¡± Ethar shrugs and swings the disarmed emprey toward the young men and women of the perimeter team, ¡°you¡¯ll leave the choice to him.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll leave the choice to him.¡± The leaf, sweet and soothing to the mind, draws Yamay¡¯s calm into a deeper appreciation of the land. ¡°Almakamla shall lead us.¡± He leans, only a few centimeters to the side, and whispers, ¡°And of his men?¡±


    ¡°No Sign.¡± Ethar closes his eyes to recall the events. ¡°I was dragged in, sat down, and rushed out so quickly. Enough time only to burn the memory of Simora Nor-Noctlin into my brain.¡±


    ¡°You met him alone. No Sign? Nothing of his mother.¡± Yamay nods with satisfaction. ¡°You said his eyes were gold.¡±


    ¡°Gold.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Thinking of the black holes which steal the light of all existence, the documenting and analytical eyes of the Blue devils, creeps into the leader¡¯s mind. Haunting are those black portals that stare, often unblinking, to absorb all the essence of the situation. Much of such data came from those under her employ at The Keep. ¡°We shall study their people. I do not wish to make war unless necessary.¡±


    ¡°We will keep our eyes open.¡±


    ¡°As always.¡± Yamay plucks another leaf from his pouch and adds it to the dulled flavor of the first. ¡°Lips tightened in the sacred lands.¡±


    ¡°As we must remain silent to the ways of the tribe.¡±


    Yamay nods as his hand swipes his forehead of sweat, touches his lips, and then balls up over his heart. Saying a silent prayer, he looks back to the tree line of the world they must travel into. ¡°Let¡¯s get these hunters moving. I¡¯d not linger at the edges of this place.¡± His eyes catch the final rays of the roaring sun over the horizon of deep blues, ¡°We enter the land of the Black.¡±

 13

    As the day begins and sunlight bleeds profusely through the reinforced wall of glass, Simora calls for robotic assistance. Whistling as he does, he then clicks his tongue three times. ¡°What¡¯d you find?¡±


    Wallace slips a hand over his thin-cut hair as he examines the length of tables and workstations within the side lab of Simora¡¯s sanctum. The devices, chemistry, and computer systems are similar to his own. Similar, he thinks, as a pigeon to epols.


    The systems for the ruling of this planet laid bare and bisected. As if machinery were gutted carefully by the curious surgeon, technology came to die and be reborn. Rising from the ashes of the obsolete. Mechanized futures. The possibilities of all that could and will be. Here, as if constructed upon an altar to the mind, Wallace stares in renewed disbelief.


    ¡°Every time.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s no more incredible than your own.¡±


    Wallace feels his muscles tensing with the natural desire to be superior. ¡°Lies don¡¯t make me work better. Pretty words and hurt pride.¡± The man, tamed by his own drives, stares in wonder at his leader. ¡°But, I appreciate your attempts, I guess.¡± Clearing his throat, he reconsiders the reason for his presence. ¡°The defumigator? Well, it¡¯s not an easy fix. That metal?¡±


    ¡°Makam?¡±


    ¡°Yeah. Makam.¡± Wallace steps forward into the lab. Bright lights of yellowish-white pour down over him. The stored light is natural. He knows this, yet it feels different from the light of the window. That light, even indirect, is felt in the bones. ¡°It¡¯s quite the oddity.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡± Simora, peeked by the tone and volume, leans around the corner into his lab.


    Wallace¡¯s hands drag over the devices and systems in a lab somewhat alien to him. ¡°Odd. Freaking tough stuff. I tried other metals against it, and it doesn¡¯t even budge. Tough, tough stuff.¡± He stares over a collection of leaves and flowers which are prepared before a number of robotic arms. ¡°Had to crank the dials for the laser cutters.¡±


    ¡°How high?¡±


    ¡°Eight.¡±


    ¡°That high? The focus?¡± Simora¡¯s tone continues to rise.


    Wallace¡¯s head tilts as he recalls the events that burned surprise into his memory. ¡°Focus at twelve times ray.¡± Wallace turns from the plants, all behind protective glass, toward his Dominax. ¡°Rather low from what I considered it would take, but a hell of a lot tougher than your Zurikan Steel or their competitors.¡±


    ¡°My cousin¡¯s steel can¡¯t withstand it?¡± Simora walks into the lab and joins his Deep Root at the table of various plant species. The Dominax leans over the table as the new data begins to slip into his calculations. ¡°And they used it for a defumigator? Why?¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Wallace shrugs as he steps to the side. Simora notes the need for distance. ¡°The metal itself seems to be impervious to most of the chemical reactions in the air.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d already surmised that.¡± Simora clicks his tongue but stares at the plants. ¡°What of this resistance to chemicals? There must be more of interest.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s that it doesn¡¯t break down.¡± Wallace tries not to shout it. His voice is filled with a level excitement only reserved for those terrified of what hides behind the closed door. ¡°What sort of metal does that? The worst chemical storms, dark storms, and atmospheric changes of Solos. Even a tank of nearly pure oxygen! Not a damn change. That¡¯s,¡± his eyes widen; his contacts unable to cover the expansive darkness beneath the colored lenses, ¡°it should be impossible.¡±


    ¡°All manner of deadly and corrosive gasses. A region where only a handful of foolhardy Ravagers remain. Just what secrets are they hiding?¡±


    Wallace¡¯s eyes, the black disappearing behind the lenses, narrow as he recalls the experiments. ¡°We haven¡¯t had a clear census of the region, but it does seem unlikely they¡¯ve survived or even thrived in that region. And now¡­¡±


    ¡°Makam.¡± Simora taps at the glass case where a bluish flower begins to curl it¡¯s petals¡ªeven disconnected from the plant. ¡°A curious material.¡±


    ¡°Unbelievably so.¡± Wallace watches his Dominax moving about and studying the plants he¡¯s likely studied a thousand times. ¡°It doesn¡¯t really break down. No accounting for time yet, but I can¡¯t imagine the ticking clock can do what lasers can¡¯t.¡±


    ¡°Incredible.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d say so.¡± Wallace looks toward the sanctum and the doors that remain shut. ¡°But,¡± his voice trails off as he watches the petals of the trapped and lobbed-off planet react to fresh meat, ¡°electricity?¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± Simora taps the glass causing the petals to form a layer of mucus and extend a line of small, jagged teeth.


    ¡°It absorbs it. Really,¡± Wallace scratches at the back of his head; fingers sliding under the heavy wrapping around his neck. ¡°almost all energy. I¡¯m thinking that¡¯s why pulser batteries don¡¯t mingle well with it.¡±


    ¡°Absorbs it?¡± Simora¡¯s eyes are peeled from the plant. ¡°To what end?¡±


    ¡°None that I can discern thus far.¡± Wallace pulls back. It isn¡¯t a fear of what is to come but of that prickly little devil that dances in all men¡¯s skulls. Tucked in darkened corners, draped in our anxieties, the beast plucks the spinal cord to a monstrous melody. ¡°It¡¯s a mystery.¡±


    Hearing Wallace¡¯s tone gives Simora a grin. The rising volume approaching that thin line between controlled emotion and excited squeak. The way his voice hurries along like a rodent fleeing the predator.


    ¡°There¡¯s no need to be so concerned, Wallace.¡± Simora assures him with a gentle tone. He needs something to draw him back. ¡°Stop fidgeting with your scarf and take a breath. There¡¯s time to figure this out, Wallace. Plenty of time.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m just,¡± Wallace waves his thick fingers about. ¡°I don¡¯t know. It¡¯s not right.¡±


    ¡°Well,¡± Simora taps at the glass to his left, ¡°what of this damned planet is?¡±


    Wallace¡¯s head slumps to the side. Simora¡¯s fingers tap a steady rhythm across the glass; different plants awaken, react, or droop in defeat of their disembodied imprisonment. Still, he tabs across each with a steady hand.


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    ¡°This planet, Wallace.¡± Eyes far away from the conversation dazzle in the bright lab. ¡°One more nonsensical seed of this planet. Makam. No different than the leaves that bleed the brain, animals that burst your ears or convince you to walk off cliffs, or even the storms that melt a man where he stands.


    ¡°The planet has been Hell, Wallace.¡± Simora¡¯s lips purse together as he returns to the moment. Suddenly frozen while surrounded by the shards of possibility, he can¡¯t decide between looking toward them or looking into Wallace¡¯s eyes. So, he simply stares at nothing. ¡°Always has been.¡±


    ¡°Hell?¡± The Deep Root grunts. ¡°You never believed in anything like that. Patire said so.¡±


    ¡°Nothing as trivial as the unproven afterlife, Wallace.¡± Simora waves it off as he lets the tormented flora rest. ¡°Hell is what mankind either makes or suffers in life. This,¡± he points to the walls and to all the horrors that exist in the light of day beyond, ¡°this has been Hell. And I have reached down into the pits of green wilds, raging fires, deepest trenches of blue, the vast deserts, and tallest peaks.


    ¡°I have touched it all!¡± The Dominax steps through his lab with arms out. His collection of achievements and new projects spread about him like the settled seeds of a tree confident the lands belong to none but its kin. ¡°I¡¯ve taken every monster¡¯s fangs. Every plant¡¯s venom. I¡¯ve taken Hell¡¯s flame. Soon, the ember of Rakar will be a lantern by which I lead the way.


    ¡°So what, my dear Wallace, could be of concern for this Makam?¡±


    Wallace, caught off-guard by sudden explosion of emotional truth, takes a step back. His hands are clammy as he tries to resist the urge to shiver. His eyes, in an attempt to find something calming, settle on a dazzling section of a shrimp¡¯s massive claw hung on the wall. ¡°Si¡ªDominax. W-why all this?¡±


    Laughing, Simora turns from the honoring of his many tools, trinkets, studies, and projects to look at the man. ¡°Wallace, I tell you all I have done, and you are concerned over metal.¡±


    ¡°B-because of what¡ª¡±


    ¡°It might do? What it is capable of? Because of the secrets that might tip this world into bloody wars that the Ravagers might win?¡± Simora nods as he closes the gap. Though considerably smaller, he looks up to Wallace with all the might of a giant peering down upon the adolescent man. ¡°You worry too much.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps you don¡¯t worry enough.¡±


    Simora laughs as he clicks his tongue calmly; the cheeks flinching between the two expressions. ¡°A fair point. In my calculations,¡± he taps to his head before placing one finger before his lips, ¡°we needn¡¯t worry. I have carried the burden. We can Trim if you¡¯d like. I¡¯d not have you weighed so heavily.¡±


    Knowing the concoction of good humor and mockery, Wallace¡¯s muscles tense. Had any other man prodded him so, they might meet the large fists with which he so delicately works his trade. ¡°I¡¯m not so weak.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡± Simora pokes his chest. ¡°My point. I¡¯ve not the proficiency in Trim as I do other skills, anyhow. Were it also not so widely frowned upon.¡± The eyes widen in playful jest as he witnesses Wallace¡¯s scowl. ¡°You¡¯ve done incredible work for me, Deep Root. Why not continue to do so. Why fear what is unknown but not currently posing a threat? We are scientists, my boy.¡±


    ¡°This metal, sir. They could be using it for all manner of¡ª¡±


    ¡°Indeed, they are. A few savages running about the wilderness with an incredible material which we someday will understand and utilize.¡±


    Wallace nods through his uncertainty. A pain in his throat, scratched by that devil in the shadows of the mind, forces the words to rise. As if verbalizing the thought will cure the pain, he blurts, ¡°It doesn¡¯t feel right, sir.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± Simora¡¯s right eyebrow rises; though, his eyes remain on the man¡¯s throat. ¡°Is it something primal? Instinct? Superstition?¡±Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.


    Wallace shakes his head. ¡°You mock me?¡±


    ¡°I question.¡± Simora¡¯s humor vanishes as quickly as it arrived. ¡°You come to me with concerns over a metal, and when I remind you of your importance and logic you turn to a feeling. I am intrigued by this, Wallace. If you consider this to be such a threat or, at the very least, important to the future, I will prioritize the investigation.¡±


    ¡°T-thank you, Dominax.¡±


    ¡°It will have to occur after the departure of the Dark Stars. You understand.¡±


    ¡°Of course.¡± Wallace speaks the words, but he doesn¡¯t truly desire them. He wants it done sooner. That much is evident. In the race of his thoughts, dancing to the beat of the musical devil in his head, he loses his sense of assurance with each passing second. ¡°Whenever possible.¡±


    ¡°I have many ears to reach and plans to continue. Makam, while a valuable secret, must take a step back.¡± Simora turns toward the lab. ¡°I¡¯ve not spent nearly enough time here this last week. Entertaining my guests has taken priority; as I¡¯d expected.


    ¡°The two here are in need of further pampering.¡± Simora¡¯s head slides side to side. ¡°Obin has been quite understanding. I believe he¡¯s come around sooner than I¡¯d expected.¡± His eyes scan and confirm their privacy¡ªeven how the machines do not record within his lab. ¡°My skill in Born has provided me quite the advantage. Your silence in the matter another advantage in the greater scheme.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d not whisper a single word.¡±


    ¡°Of course you wouldn¡¯t.¡± Simora claps the man on his meaty shoulder. The pain only vibrating through the Dominax¡¯s palm. ¡°Only you know, brother of Blue. And still, we must continue to secret away all we have.¡±


    ¡°For even the self has rights to privacy.¡± Wallace nods before lifting his chin. Recalling the trust in this secret, he finds himself able to step away from the devil¡¯s dance¡ªif but for a moment. ¡°A Black proverb. One I can understand and respect.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Simora¡¯s smile returns; as he permits. ¡°Black proverbs paint a very different picture of this, and every other, world than the other pigments of the spectrum. Whites, Greens, Reds, Blues, and all the minor houses, everyone has their mechanisms and teachings.


    ¡°Your feelings about Makam¡­ unfounded, perhaps, but relevant all the same. Investing in your creativity and senses was one of my strongest moves toward my own future, Wallace. A young prodigy creating the Woad Warrior bracer tech. Astounding. Know that I mean this.¡± Simora¡¯s hand tugs at the man¡¯s scarf. ¡°Your receptors bothering you? You¡¯ve been playing with this in public.¡±


    ¡°Maybe they¡¯re just sensitive.¡±


    ¡°Big man like you?¡± Simora¡¯s eyes dance around the lab. ¡°Of course, that¡¯s possible. They¡¯ve done you well. Just be sure to restrain them when in public. I¡¯d not have the Ravagers all rowdy because of Sign.¡± His lips part with a gentle chuckle. ¡°Incredible, isn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Sir?¡±


    Simora retreats back, farther into his lab, and motions for Wallace to follow. ¡°Fear of Sign, my boy. Fear of the unknown. Some superstitious horror of what they neither understand nor appreciate. The receptors, the eyes, or any of the other major color¡¯s Signs¡­ they condemn.¡± Simora, stepping up to a decorated wall of pure white, places his hand on a massive tile, ¡°Nor-Noctlin. Prodigal son.¡±


    A door, one that Wallace (nor any other Deep Root or servant) has never seen, begins to slide open. The sounds of massive locks, mechanisms, and various computer-managed limbs shift within the layers of Prints-a-Ment and Zurikan steel. Wallace, dumbfounded in this revelation, watches with familiar delight of surprises. A white utopia of knowledge and testing evolves into something grander.


    As the larva transforms through time and work, the lab extends from the prodigal child¡¯s playroom into the enthralling cathedral of science meant for a true practitioner. Simora turns and nods toward the exit. The Deep Root spins and finds that the entry to the first lab has become nothing but a white wall.


    ¡°Secrecy, Wallace.¡± Simora motions for the Deep Root to enter. ¡°Welcome to the greatest lab in the Far-Reach. I¡¯m confident even Marithia Anmutdenken would green with envy.¡±


    ¡°W-what? Why?¡± Stepping quickly into the inner lab, Wallace Horral¡¯s almond eyes open wider than ever. Black reaches extend past the colored contacts. Blue-white ice begins to drift into a black hole as the man¡¯s expression drops in awe.


    Tables for all manner of purposes extend the walls or open walls. Screen projections all about the extensive lab leave the Dominax free roam throughout the facility. Even floater tech is utilized to carry projectors, connections, comm systems, and equipment. No matter where Simora goes, the lab will move to provide him the greatest convenience.


    Wallace strides into the well-lit room. ¡°Are these Phasaline Protocutters?¡±


    ¡°Seven throughout the lab.¡± Simora motions across the facility where it curves around corners and continues into several different rooms. ¡°Top of the line and, well, improved. I found them rather lacking when faced with the evolutionary prowess of this planet. Only a day or two of tinkering. I quite say I could revolutionize the market.¡± Simora waves it off; not looking at any one thing.


    Examining one of the seven devices, hanging like a massive cannon from the ceiling, Wallace glances down to where the nozzle points. A purple stain across a shiny surface. A drain, coiled and outlined in the discolored ichor, leaves the faucet an exit for the water. ¡°A-autopsies?¡± Wallace turns back to Simora who¡¯s already begun walking into the deeper extensions of his secretive lab.


    ¡°Several. Daily.¡± Simora motions down a tunnel, darker than the white room they stand in now, toward something unseen. Like a ghost leading Wallace through levels of the afterlife, his stiff finger aims the way.


    Walking through the rows of tables, desks, and even a few bookshelves (filled with actual paper), Wallace approaches his Dominax. At an intersection into more labs, he finds a length of white hallway with archways. Nozzles dip down from the tubes of the metallic arches. Down to Simora, the muscular man is called to continue. The finger, a silent needle aimed at destiny, offers no explanation.


    Receptors, clasped shut beneath a tightened scarf, peel back slightly with all their might. In the air¡­ chemicals. Neutralizers. Sprayed recently. An acrid stench on the floor, near the drains and intake valves, tells of active and dangerous agents beyond this point. Spraying for those that enter and those that leave. Something, like intoxicating perfume, floats beyond the archways¡ªkept at bay by the threat of the spraying walls and various bracer technologies.


    ¡°What¡¯s back there?¡± But the finger only points. The golden eyes of the Dominax remain fixated on the end of the hallway as a soft clicking vibrates through the Deep Root¡¯s neck; his receptors flinching with each snap. Instead of asking more questions, he steps forward.


    After a length of white hallways and four sprays of the neutralizing agents, Wallace stands at the mouth of a lab to his right. Three tables under several arms of equipment. Twisting, jointed machines meant to prod, poke, dissect, amplify, reduce, sample, rejuvenate, disintegrate, document, weld, graft, electrify, magnetize, and all other manner of interactions with a subject.


    On the central table lies the remains of something alien to Icarus Alpha.


    ¡°Evolution, as privacy, is part of every creature¡¯s story and desire. A puzzle of time and prejudice which gradually builds something capable of withstanding time and prejudice. Fascinating by all accounts.¡± Simora¡¯s footsteps are only picked up by the receptors of Wallace¡¯s neck; his ears unable to discern the individual clicks of the heel. Yet, the three clicks, two feet and a tongue, keep tempo for the Dominax. ¡°These specimens are all unique, yet they have many aspects, attributes, in common.¡±


    ¡°Evolution is the warfare of all branches sprouting from the same trunk.¡±


    ¡°And what of the introduction of another tree?¡±


    ¡°Then the two trees will war each other.¡±


    ¡°Will they?¡± Simora¡¯s eyes, never meeting with Wallace¡¯s, scan the sections of the beasts. A smile playfully tugging at the edges of his lips.


    The devil¡¯s dance still plays. That demonic tune to pry open a man¡¯s mind so all the nightmares drip into the waking world. Staring down at the sections, a broken puzzle of mismatched pieces, Wallace inquires, ¡°W-won¡¯t they?¡±


    ¡°Timid as always, Wallace. Have I ever given you reason to fear?¡±


    ¡°Not you, Dominax.¡±


    ¡°So formal.¡± Simora¡¯s hands slide through the furs, over the scales, and across the toughened flesh. ¡°What if we broke a branch from one tree and grafted it to another? How would this change the warfare of the single tree atop a single trunk?¡±


    ¡°Grafted?¡± The question is caught up in the devil¡¯s dance. Swaying in that darkness between truth and lies¡­ the unknown. ¡°I¡¯m not sure.¡±


    ¡°Most wouldn¡¯t be so honest.¡±


    ¡°Most won¡¯t know the answer.¡±


    ¡°None know the answer.¡± Simora drily giggles. ¡°Father didn¡¯t. Moth¡ªwell, no one knows. It¡¯s never been done. Greens are the closest to the concept. Their Branching is quite incredible isn¡¯t it? DNA will change to adapt almost immediately. Merely interacting with a planet¡¯s native species will provide their genome the proper components to surviving.


    ¡°Offspring are even possible. Dangerous and amazing.?¡± Simora¡¯s eyes find his subordinate standing as a statue at the end of the table. False colors sparkle in the beams of light as he peers over the beasts; drawing Simora to certainty. He¡¯s interested. Born shows the way, yet he¡¯ll rely on me to guide him. Born beyond his capabilities¡­ too timid as always. ¡°All natural and expedited adaptation to a new environment. A powerful Green offers a grafting to the very trunk of the tree, but it must still rise from there. Branches struggling for the same nutrition as their newly introduced invaders.


    ¡°But what happens after the introduction? War continues all the same. ¡®The whole image is a sum of the pieces. Each piece meaningless unless the end is sought and achieved. The whole meaningless unless the pieces are studied as wholes themselves.¡¯¡±


    ¡°Blue logic is difficult to argue with.¡±


    ¡°Especially when so simplified.¡± Simora tugs at thick fur, golden and speckled with black, as he continues. ¡°I see the piece of it all. Greens and their natural ability to graft themselves into the whole. A self-correcting piece of the greater puzzle.¡±


    ¡°The other colors?¡±


    ¡°All in time, Wallace.¡± Simora lifts the fur for the man to examine. ¡°Pretty stories and explanations will come as time and prejudice allow.¡± Smirking at the levels which separate them, Simora offers a verbal hand to lift the man higher. ¡°I¡¯ve surpassed grafting, Wallace. I have tamed the branches of the tree by means you will come to understand.


    ¡°Still,¡± the Dominax looks down to his severed components, ¡°I¡¯m not finished. What if, Wallace, one could not only tame the tree¡­ but reshape the roots, replant the tree, and have it stand exactly as one may specify?¡±


    There is a silence as the devil¡¯s dance slows to a hushed breakdown for the man to mull over. All the pieces, the shards of possibility, remain invisible to the man. A man of advance thoughts and of receptors, but one lacking the natural affinity for the Blue as his master. Gaps, one would see easily if given a few hours to study all subjects, exist between the average human, Wallace, and Simora.


    Though Wallace understands this, it provides him little advantage in facing the beast. Simply knowing one¡¯s opponent grants no true strength in comparison, but it does allow for inspection of the self. Growth, a branch blooming at the end of a mighty trunk, provided by these connections and interactions.


    ¡°To share such secrecy with me.¡± Wallace allows himself to fall from the dance of the devil¡¯s tune. A soothing chill comes over him in this lab. Invisible shards of possibility, a quiet inner sanctuary caught in time, passes him by. ¡°You must need more of me.¡±


    ¡°Precisely, Wallace! Precisely!¡± The Dominax clicks his tongue as he pats one preserved section five times. ¡°I need to call upon my forces and make my move. Payment will come due, and I will ensure all my men are cared for.¡± His golden eyes dance across the frame of Wallace. ¡°You, most of all, will carry on beneath my banner in highest regard.¡±


    ¡°An accomplice in this.¡± Wallace¡¯s eyes dart back and forth as he allows himself to utilize what strengths he possesses in the Spark. ¡°You¡¯ll move toward higher standing. Dangerous for all involved. You do this in secrecy because,¡± he drops his eyes to the unmet orbs of the Dominax, ¡°morality or law prohibits it.¡±


    ¡°Among other issues, yes.¡±


    ¡°Encroaching upon other powerful person¡¯s assets.¡±


    ¡°Exactly.¡±


    ¡°Patire will not like this.¡±


    ¡°I should expect most will not.¡± Simora pats the creature another five times. ¡°Does this mean I was wrong? Or does Born yet favor me with your destined answer?¡±


    ¡°Destined?¡± Wallace steps forward, just close enough to stare into the eyes of an impressive varabelm. ¡°You speak as a prophet then? Are we to play god?¡±


    ¡°Play?¡± Simora laughs and shakes his head. ¡°No pretending. No falsehoods. Nothing so trivial. Against all teachings of the Black, I open myself to you in this moment to buy your loyalty. When I achieve the next rung of my plans, I guarantee you adaughter of General Obin Nephire. He¡¯s yet to agree to two daughters, but I will convince him.


    ¡°You will bear a daughter first. Betrothed to my son, she will unite our families and forever bind Horral to Noctlin.¡±


    ¡°Noctlin?¡± His eyes narrow, ¡°Not Nor-Noctlin?¡±


    Simora only smiles as he pats the beast and reexamines what he¡¯s already studied in depth. ¡°What do you say, Wallace?¡±


    ¡°You know my fears.¡±


    ¡°Fear is but one emotion. All emotions are the expression of humanity. To control them is to evolve. To lose them is to lose humanity.¡±


    ¡°Another Black sermon.¡±


    ¡°One I often remind myself of.¡± Simora nods. ¡°The unknown. I know. The unknown scares many. Yet, I stand in the light.¡± His head simply tilts upward to welcome the brightness. ¡°Are you with me?¡±


    ¡°What could drive a man to this?¡± Wallace speaks without emotion because they are safely tucked beneath the sands as he studies from the vantage of Spark. Logic in the moment. Fear may come and go when the deeds are done.


    Simora, matching his emotionless expression, answers truthfully. Allowing for Umbra to mask him in all things but truth, he opens his mouth to allow the reality a glimpse of light. ¡°I¡¯ve already conquered Icarus Alpha. Whether they know it or not¡­ Ravager or Civilized. Namaste or average human. I¡¯ve conquered this planet.¡± Golden eyes slide up like the gouged ends of a pulser¡ªaimed right into the pupils of Wallace. ¡°But there¡¯s still more to conquer.¡±

 14

    ¡°Another ceremony done, and still I¡¯m required to do the whole damned thing again.¡± Simora slides into the chair behind his desk. Comfort provided by the most advanced floater tech, the leather and wooly stuffing from a mazer chimera, and a flexing body to shape to his needs. Something befitting the busy schedule and stressful lifestyle of the ruler of a planet.


    ¡°At least Finel is,¡± Thomat sits with his eyes rolling about in their orbits. ¡°Well, I¡¯d say ¡®friendly,¡¯ but that¡¯s not quite right, is it?¡±


    Simora taps across his table as the memory plays out.


    A fanned approach of several squadrons of forces in black and green. The emblem of a sword and pickaxe before a glistening emerald, all outlined in white, set against a black background rests upon their breasts. How they moved. A flooding wave of black, like a pack of wild beasts, spreading over the Prints-a-Ment and steel platform.


    Similar to the arrival of the other two Dark Stars, the welcome was a meeting of two forces in the harsh sun of a clear Icarus Alpha day. Rain, while somewhat frequent, was shunned away by chemical agents.


    Planetist Finel Dornish, the Dark Star of Black and Green, strode out as the predator of predators. A General and a Church-head had less confidence in their well-aged powers than this youthful embodiment of the Green. Beneath a capped uniform of black sprouts the perfectly tanned skin of the head of House Dornish.


    Eyes, splendidly cut amethysts, dazzled as she took in the forces standing out in the open air. Flags flapping. Winds blowing. Weapons down.


    A sight to behold for the woman that had visited Icarus Alpha several times prior.


    Blonde hair, a single strip of black flowing from above her left eye, tightens in a single ponytail that flutters in the wind like an actual horse¡¯s tail. One arm, both seemingly longer than the average human¡¯s, slips over her forehead to remove the instantly gathered sweat. The skin, gradually darkening to that perfect tone for the time of day, stands blemished only by three red bars tattooed into her forehead; wrapping from hairline to hairline.


    Sniffing the air confirmed it all for her. No threats here. No threats to concern herself with.


    She¡¯d strode through Hell before, and now she was welcomed into its embrace by unarmed men in plain view of every soaring beast. What a transformation! Bewildered and overjoyed, the woman had ignored most formalities and walked toward the dais of the Nor-Noctlin and Deep Roots.


    ¡°¡®Friendly¡¯ might be the most accurate word.¡± Simora¡¯s eyes dart about the shards of possibility. ¡°She¡¯ll be here soon. Ensure Donatello isn¡¯t late. Patience was never her strongest attribute, nor is her ability to allow me to work.¡±


    ¡°Oh.¡± Thomat nods with pursed lips. ¡°Perhaps I do recall the meeting of Green and Blue. How long since those precious days?¡±


    ¡°Do you forget so easily the days gone by?¡± Simora meets the man¡¯s gaze. ¡°Hand and Gavel shouldn¡¯t slip so easily into darkness.¡±


    ¡°I do not forget,¡± Thomat waves off the annoyance. ¡°I merely recall with surprise. It does an aging man¡¯s heart good to see eyes fixated upon you. Now, if it were returned¡­¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve work to do.¡± Simora¡¯s eyes begin to scan over prismaslate screens. ¡°Perhaps the future holds more relaxed hobbies and frivolities.¡±


    ¡°Of course, sir.¡± Thomat grins as he slaps his knee and stands. ¡°I¡¯ll ensure the good ¡®Lover¡¯ is on his way.¡± Waiting for a moment, he grunts in good humor before turning toward the door.


    Simora¡¯s hand pauses over a prismaslate. ¡°Don¡¯t smile as if you¡¯d discerned some secret.¡±


    ¡°Of course, sir.¡± Thomat closes the door behind him¡ªleaving the Dominax to his thoughts.


    ¡°Didn¡¯t show up.¡± Simora clicks his tongue and waves the projection screen of his computers to life. ¡°Why? Damned.¡± He begins to motion through the systems, reports, and information.


    Glancing through all comms, no update has been provided.


    ¡°He makes me wait without even the good manners of notifying me!¡± Swiping out, his hand goes through the projection. ¡°Where are you Remiran?¡±


    A knock on the door silences all emotional outburst. As if every such piece of humanity were a weary rodent, they skitter back into the Dominax to hide beneath his mask. He swipes over his desk. All screens and prismaslate fall silent and dark for the meeting.


    ¡°Enter.¡±


    As the first sound escapes his lips, he notes how the doors already break their seals. Three people stand across the threshold, but only one enters.


    Long strides in tightened shapes of black, the figure of Finel Dornish moves as flawlessly as an epol through the sky. Her figure is one that can break a man in many ways, and yet somehow she retains an aura of femininity. As if the moon blessed her through ancient rituals, her movements are a graceful whirlwind. The huntress known throughout the Far-Reach clicks her boots and bows before her fellow Dark Star.


    ¡°Good morning, Dominax Simora Nor-Noctlin.¡± A quivering smile spreads up the left cheek. A smile to be painted yet hated for wrinkling such skin.


    ¡°Afternoon, Planetist.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s it?¡± Her accent, heavy from her teachings from School (the Black¡¯s prestigious center of learning), catches the Dominax¡¯s full attention. ¡°All these years. All my help. I don¡¯t recall Icarus being so cold.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s never been cold.¡± Meeting her eyes, the golden sands meet the dazzling amethysts.


    ¡°Gold lenses? Oh, right. Your comms. No Sign.¡± She wiggles her fingers, and, if one were paying close attention, one might notice how her arms seem to shorten. ¡°Am I to be shackled, too?¡±


    ¡°You were all called by Remiran for business.¡±


    ¡°Stern as always, Simmy.¡±


    ¡°Simora.¡± He corrects.


    ¡°Simmy,¡± she proceeds, ¡°I¡¯ve been adrift in space for days! Come now! I¡¯d hoped we could catch-up.¡± While drawing a finger over the mound in her uniform, she scratches at the emblem of her family. When his eyes do not leave hers, she sighs. ¡°At least let some light in here.¡±


    ¡°System.¡± The wall of deep browns behind him dissolves into a thick panel of invisible glass.


    A wondrous scene of mixed colors, like a painter¡¯s pallet, stretches out in a blissfully lit paradise. Caught by the sudden vision and the proximity to it, she exhales gently and rushes to the Dominax¡¯s side. She presses her fingers to the windows as she scans the scene.


    Flowing fronds, vines, and trunks span the area like extended limbs of the planet piercing through a thick layer of grasses. The edges of a twisted river in the distance sparkle with the occasional slaps of sunlight. Purple eyes blink as if answering in code to the irregular glimpses of the river.


    Of the paradise, only the singular stain of red, paints the edge of the forest with reality. Still, she speaks as if she¡¯d been given the keys to a kingdom. ¡°Oh, it¡¯s beautiful!¡±


    ¡°Of course it is.¡± Simora nods as he keeps his eyes on her face; avoiding all that might distract a lesser man. ¡°I guess I should thank you for the early stages of my work.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± She turns her head, but her eyes remain on the sights beyond the glass. Birds flutter by, plants twist and move, and she sees one vine pluck a songbird from the air. ¡°Do tell.¡±


    ¡°What you¡¯d shown me.¡±


    ¡°There were many things I showed you.¡±


    ¡°The Green.¡±


    ¡°Oh? We showed each other.¡±


    ¡°It has been a solid foundation for my work.¡±


    ¡°Has it?¡± Finel turns to face the seated man. ¡°And since then you¡¯ve been a hermit. Busy busy, little Simmy.¡±


    ¡°Simora.¡±


    ¡°Simmy.¡± She corrects.


    Sighing, he locks eyes with her as he stands. Now, after all the years, he¡¯s met her height; though the slight elevation to her boots does grant an even field. Warmth rises between them as it reflects through the glass wall. A dimmed, muted sanctuary of a scientist fills itself with the brutish light of an angry star. Better to illuminate those sharing a silent moment.


    ¡°Just recently, Wal Fier suddenly received an impressive shipment of mazer wool. I can¡¯t imagine you¡¯d convinced the entirety of these Ravagers to deal with you, eh? There must be more to it.¡± Her head tilts to the side as she smiles. When his face neither twists nor responds, she huffs and rolls her eyes. ¡°Must you always be guarded?¡±


    ¡°I do not slip from the teachings of the Umbra.¡±


    ¡°Oh! The Umbra, is it?¡± She steps away as she bites her tongue; visible for him. ¡°You always were a bore. The perfect student.¡±


    ¡°As you¡¯d always made perfectly clear.¡±


    ¡°Not like Remiran.¡± She leans away so the shapes of her form slither through the air. Her movements, like dancing, do not peel Simora¡¯s eyes from hers. More stillness. No response to blush her cheeks or sate her playful desires. ¡°Come now. Even now! So droll.¡±


    ¡°That¡¯s why I¡¯ve arranged for your entertainment.¡±


    ¡°Oh?¡± The woman¡¯s eyes widen.


    A knock on the door cuts through her numerous expressions. Simora¡¯s lips open just enough, ¡°Enter.¡±


    Doors swing wide as the two Wildlings, the Planetist¡¯s forces, step aside. ¡°Apologies, ladies.¡± The confident voice of Donetello precedes him into the drifting light of the office. ¡°Thank you. Ah! My Dark Stars! Oh, lovely lady Finel Dornish.¡± The long-armed man bows with a flourish to his step. A quiet, quick sniff draws in the atmosphere of the room. As his mesmerizing eyes rise up, the creamy caramels slipping into a starry night of blues, he glances from Dark Star to Dark Star. ¡°I hope I wasn¡¯t interrupting.¡±The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    ¡°Perfect timing.¡± Simora motions to the bowing man. ¡°Finel. My personal escort for you.¡±


    ¡°Simmy.¡±


    ¡°Simmy?¡±


    Ignoring Donatello¡¯s input, Simora nods. ¡°He¡¯s my finest pilot. A member of my Deep Roots.¡±


    ¡°You still have cutesy names for your advisors? I thought Black didn¡¯t keep names. It causes schisms, eh?¡± Her playful banter draws a few clicks from the Dominax.


    ¡°He will show you the continents from aerial views, provide information on the planet for your adventuring nature, and keep you entertained. All within acceptable safety parameters.¡±


    ¡°Entertained?¡± Finel glances back to the man of tanned skin and charming smiles. His straightened posture is both dignified and relaxed. The pheromones in the air¡­ they both smell them. ¡°I¡¯m not sure he can keep up.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m more than capable.¡± As he stares into the woman¡¯s eyes, she witnesses the change begin. A metamorphosis. All the most notable of the Green know this well. Branching, the skill of Adapt, is now expressed as the sudden extension of an upper lip. More precisely, the extension of the jawline and nostrils.


    Within a minute, a short beak, still fleshy along the edges, begins to form. Reddish tints along the breaks in skin rise in the notches where feathers might protrude. As the face slims to a piercing edge, the predator manifests.


    ¡°Oh?¡± Stepping forward with surprise, Finel begins to examine the man from a safe distance¡ªas any animal would. ¡°A fair enough specimen. You caught yourself a Green?¡±


    ¡°Fair?¡± Concern squeaks in the voice of the birdman.


    ¡°What creature have you taken?¡±


    Feelings the rush of chilled air at the edge of the sun¡¯s reflected light, Donatello seeks confirmation from his superior. Receiving the nearly unperceivable nod, the Deep Root turns his full attention on the woman. His eyes still high, but they skitter about¡ªweighed by the faults of his gender. ¡°Devihawk, Dark Star Dornish.¡±


    ¡°Please, call me Finel.¡± Her eyes peer back over her shoulder to Simora before falling back on the pilot. ¡°A bit sloppy around the expression. Sign visible in the tenderness of your skin. Do you Adapt often?¡±


    ¡°The bird allows me to press our Darts to their limits.¡± The eyes narrow playfully in an attempt to act upon the pheromones in the air. Pungent as potpourri placed out to mask the scent of disinfectants and chemical reagents. ¡°I Adapt quite frequently. Always at the ready.¡±


    Their voices slipping lower and deeper as Finel steps closer arouses no response from Simora. Instead, he simply watches from behind the mask of Umbra¡ªEclipsing all that is to be perceived. Only the quiet click of the tongue sounds out his acknowledgement of the passing, agonizing seconds.


    ¡°Always ready?¡± Finel bites at her tongue again as she examines further. ¡°Yet there are so many things to teach you.¡±


    ¡°Yes?¡± Donatello¡¯s expression rises like the sun from the horizon.


    Closing the gap between them, she steps in close enough for her breath to warm the cold skin of his neck. ¡°Would you like that?¡±


    Donatello nods. Once and with force. The way the omega might when faced with the command of the alpha. There is command even in inquiry. Those of the lowest rank are expected to answer, and he does so with great anticipation of the lessons that might be shared.


    With a sudden rise in her voice, ¡°Then we¡¯ll teach you proper Branching!¡± As the general may call to the troops, the wrathful voice reminds all of the proper order. ¡°Is this how I¡¯m expected to pass my time?¡± Her body spins with enough force the Deep Root¡¯s feet seem to glide with her. ¡°Passing me off to your subordinates?¡±


    Reacting to the pouting voice with only the soft click of his tongue, Simora nods. Instead, to the conversation, he responds with an even tone, ¡°For today. Since my cousin¡¯s failure to arrive has pushed back my plans, I have more work to attend to.¡±


    ¡°Is that the only reason?¡±


    Noting her prying, Simora envisions the woman with long claws like some mutated mole. ¡°One of many, Finel. Another of my Deep Roots will be arriving shortly, and I have matters to discuss with them. I believe Donatello will be a preferred guide for you. As a fellow seeker of adventure, practitioner of the Green, and lover of music, I chose him to stand in my stead. This does not preclude us of future interactions.¡±


    Attempting to read the expression of the man standing against a backdrop of golden sun and blooming woods, Finel narrows her eyes. The sparkling purple, like specters hidden in the mouths of blackened caves, attempts to dig where the claws cannot. ¡°Always with Eclipse.¡±


    Digging deeper into the repertoire of practiced skills of bloodline and talent, Simora leans on the Umbra aspect of Abstruse. A wobbling to his voice, perhaps perceived as a chink in his emotional armor to most, provides a distinct set of separate sounds. A message within a message. The movements of the body. The shape of the mouth. The extension of sounds or shortening of them.


    In these warping aspects of language, body and voice, the Dominax says, ¡°Donatello will escort you today. Tomorrow, I shall accompany you myself.¡±


    Yet, under these blatant words Donatello and the distant Wildlings heard, is another message. ¡°Don¡¯t loose secrets.¡± To which the body adds with the voice, ¡°We shall comm.¡±


    Allowing (more so forcing) himself to smile, Simora¡¯s face shines as the world behind him. ¡°Donatello, please keep our guest well entertained. As always, keep to protocol. I¡¯d not have you lost with my Darts to a dark storm or traveling beyond the protected zones.¡±


    ¡°Aye, sir.¡± Donatello says with renewed confidence. His face has already begun to return to normal. He extends an elbow for the lady to take. ¡°If I may.¡±


    A quiet sigh still shocks the room with a dryness that creates static between the furniture and living beings. Arms up in surrender, Finel accepts her current fate. One finger falls to point at the Dominax of Icarus Alpha. ¡°Fine! Today, I will allow your man to entertain me. Tomorrow, I¡¯ll refuse your refusal, Simmy.¡± She takes Donatello¡¯s arm with an infectious smile. ¡°You¡¯re a musician?¡±


    ¡°Only in my free-time, Dark Star.¡±


    ¡°Finel.¡± She corrects. Swaying her body purposefully and elegantly, she nudges the man, ¡°Tell me what instrument.¡±


    ¡°The vio.¡±


    ¡°Vio! Astounding! My father was a vio man. Never caught with me, but I do love the sound.¡± She holds tightly to him as they round the corner. Her eyes glance back to Simora who remains unmoved behind his desk. The Wildlings follow the adventurous duo toward the hangars. ¡°You know the Black¡¯s ¡®Quiet, Here and Now?¡¯You¡¯ll have to play us a s¡ª¡±


    Silence at the finalized rest of the doors. A moment of respite before more work and greater schemes.


    They kept the door open while Donatello was with us. So, I¡¯m no threat. Simora considers the data. She would have said as much. Finel. An ally of the past and likely one of the future. This will work, and I know where her heart lies.


    Shards of possibilities soar up from the right and fall to the left. Like celestial bodies to ancient men, created anew each day and sent to nothingness at the end of their arc. Newly placed pieces of the puzzle begin to formulate what may, and very likely, will be.


    She¡¯s still enamored. A childish fantasy created in youth and recalled fondly now. School did her little favor. Though, considering her expressions, or was it Eclipse? She¡¯d let herself be heard with every step and every intention. Forgoing Elliptical, were these authentic responses? I¡¯ll require more data.


    Her interactions and memories make her an important asset. Once confirmed, I believe I know the first step in realizing my plans.


    Suddenly caught in the stream of shards reflecting a more sinister Finel, Simora struggles to resist the urge. Glancing forward at the possibilities, where all outcomes present themselves, he dives farther into the Born.


    A broken Simora slumps behind his desk as she removes the smear of lipstick from her bottom lip. Removing herself from the room, the same playful smile of an apex predator guides her through any and all doorways. The lights above the door indicate the systems have removed all surveillance.


    Personal vendetta. Unlikely. I¡¯d not scorned her. Merely a mouse unwilling to play a cat¡¯s game.


    Another line of shards speeds by. This Finel sipping wine with Donatello within the study. Neither wear the emblem of the tree against the darkness. Instead, her Green Emblem Black Shield stands brightly on each¡¯s breast. The statue of Morikal Noctlin, the first Nor-Noctlin of the line, has been removed. A rainy day beyond the glass wall provides the lovers a fairly uneventful day to remain within and fully explore all within the sanctum.


    They are as one and bound together. Nothing remains of the Nor-Noctlin youth that conquered a planet. Without guidance, the plants beyond the windowed wall have grown with extended limbs to claw at the wall like starving hordes of shambling corpses. Even as the world beyond their structure threatens them, they find peace in their quiet embrace within the protected sanctum of a greater mind.


    She¡¯ll break him before that happens. He clicks his tongue and forces deeper into the Born toward the larger, sharper pieces of the possible outcomes. Something so specific it must fit into place for the whole to become visible¡­ to be understood.


    Another series of moments pass. More defined and brighter to the inner eye of Spark.


    This chills the bones. Four slits beneath the Balan scarf quiver as the events unfurl. Simora¡¯s projected self hurries toward the statue of his late father. Reaching behind the back as a son may to his father as they embrace for the crowd¡¯s joyous photography, he reaches up from the emptiness of the cloak and finds nothing but an opened cavity of metal.


    The seal is broken. What should remain fixed and protected by personalized systems has been decoded and bypassed. The device¡­


    Turning toward the door, Matheem Nephire calls out to him. ¡°Bow!¡±


    Before he can try to resist, his knees are already touching the tiled floor. Finel, holding a black bag tightly to her side, aims a pulser toward him. Calling for her Wildlings, they move into position to begin the process of creating a scene. One that will show the world what¡¯s occurred but retain their anonymity.


    A true plot of the Black.


    Disgust, plain as the sun of Icarus Alpha, morphs the changling¡¯s face. With all the power of Green and Black, she allows this expression to sear itself into his mind. Forever in the dying moments where the brain attempts to slow time and find some manner of survival, he will be plagued by that ghastly face like an overexposed image of the past. Printed like fog atop the recollection of personal history, she will watch him with eyes filled with disdain.


    For the first time in a long while, Simora steps back from the shards.


    Enough.


    They continue to flow onward; as time so often does. Forever in the march from right to left. Left to right, if that is how you may envision it. Whatever the route, they travel all the same. Beyond the sands or mentally manifested world of the user¡¯s Spark, the world marches on¡­


    Even as he attempts to regain control¡­ the manifestation mingles with truest reality. Marching on. Right to left.


    Enough!


    Right to left. The future coming. Finel standing over him with her pulser pressed to his forehead. The disconnected longing replaced with hatred. A sorrow for what she knows will come for her as the moment comes to a climax.


    Enough!


    The gradual tightening of her fingers. Pheromones thickening the air; redolent of decay and poison. There is a hatred that seeps from their bodies as the plagues across a rotting field. The finger twitches back, and the cranking of the device becomes deafening.


    ¡°I said enough!¡± Yelling aloud in his own study, Simora stares at the empty room in disbelief. Sweat drips from his forehead. His lungs struggle to catch acceptable air. ¡°Enough.¡± He winces as the expressionless mask slips away from him.


    Human, through and through, the Dominax reveals himself to the void within his sanctum and the creatures which might be spying from beyond the wall of glass. Exhausted, he forces his feet to move. Around the desk and across the room. A short distance feels like a journey across the city.


    The sands of time and all the shards of possibility have taken their toll. Marching on and on, the days might slip into months which bleed into years. The mind attempts to understand and withstand, yet even the practiced are human. Simora, having only stood motionless for a few seconds had failed in his lessons.


    Curiosity, while necessary, is the often the tool of one¡¯s own demise. Curiosity breeds possibility. By creativity. By opportunity. By vulnerability. Life changes when the mind opens. The lessons of the Blue repeat in his head. Over and over, he reminds himself of his failure. To delve into possibility is to welcome the unknown. Brace yourself for all that can be. Born opens many windows of which to view the future. The view may be more lovely than the reality of life, or draw you from unknown heights through the alluring portal. Know your limits and remember the truth¡­ you are here. Now, and forever, you are here.


    Catching his breath, the man extends his hand behind the statue of his fallen father. Beneath the cape, there¡¯s a thin groove. He slides his finger from the left to the right, pokes two edges, and then pokes with two fingers which separate slowly. A click is heard, and the small door opens wide.


    Once the cold metal within is touched and confirmed still present, Simora sighs relief and closes the compartment. Still there. He cannot forget this time and place. Still here. Here. He anchors himself to the present and to the location. The Spark power of Born slips back into dormancy as the Dominax slides into a chair beside his father.


    I¡¯ll complete it. I¡¯ve come this far¡­ I won¡¯t die by plants or fall into the sea. I won¡¯t abandon them. His eyes rise to his father.


    ¡°Drink.¡±


    A small servant, a delightfully delicate automaton, rolls across the floor with outstretched clamps holding a glass of water. Taking the drink, Simora pats the robot on the white square that guards the facial display.


    ¡°Good. Good. Something stronger next.¡± He motions for the little robot to hurry off. Clicking his tongue frantically between gulps of the water, Simora settles himself back into the seat of his sanctum. My sanctum, he assures himself.


    Wallace will arrive soon. Inhales taken and held. Exhales drawn-out with mindful obedience. We have work to do. So much work.

 15

    ¡°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¡ª¡±


    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¡ªthe 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¡ªsilently 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¡ªpoints 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¡ª¡±


    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¡ªa 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¡ªa 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.¡±