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—”

“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.” 

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 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—a 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.

Chapter 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—the 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—including 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. 

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—a 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—the 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—”

“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—one 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—like 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—kept 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—blessing 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—of 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. 

Chapter 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?” 

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—”

“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—”

“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.” 

Chapter 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—fashioned steel by sweat and fire. A scarf wraps about his trunk of a neck with waves of blue and copper. “I’ve made some headway on that contraption you’d asked me to reverse engineer. Ravagers sure know their stuff. ‘What stuff?’ was my first question.” The hulking form puts Thomat to shame as he takes his seat; careful to not wrinkle his fine garbs of blue and black. 

“System.” Lights about the room confirm it has heard the command of the Dominax. “Please provide the Deep Roots, Patire and Wallace, a serving of the Domiclass Ten Year. One for me as well.” He leans back to show his comfort in this setting. Even with the woman’s will and the man’s physical power, Simora retains his air of aloofness. That, and all know of the safety precautions hidden within the Dominax’s walls. “My father’s favorite. Now. Of that device, Wallace, what did you think?” 

As the three wait for the mechanized systems to provide their drinks, Wallace leans forward and begins groping at the air as if the device were on a table before him. “It’s rather ingenious for the region they live in. It pulls substances from the air. Releasing the various compounds, the two greatest byproducts of the device are clean oxygen and solid blocks of carbon. Cleaner air, building materials… they are essentially mining the air.”

“And blocks of carbon can be manufactured into diamonds.” 

Nodding with the energy of an excited child, the man continues, “Tools capable of breaking the uniquely tough lands of Icarus Alpha.” Wallace swirls a hand around an opening no one else can see. Wallace, utilizing the Spark skill of Mapping, continues to examine this ghostly mechanism. “This opening generates a magnetic field which can create air pressures. Using similar systems to our pulse technology, they’ve devised a way to direct airflow; ensuring more of the noxious fumes are filtered and more product can be produced.” Wallace frowns at the invisible device. “Yet, it’s far too small to effectively manipulate a wide area; less so the populated regions. Either this is travel sized, there are entire fields of these, or there are larger devices.”

“Is it effective in regards to the other toxins?” Simora takes the glass of honey-colored liquid from a small golem of metal. The gliding creation shifts as if weightless in the gentle breeze of the air conditioning.

Wallace touches a glass, waits, then points toward Patire. “Come now. The Dominax, then the ladies, then the men.” 

“Apologies, Deep Root Horral.” The machine’s glowing blue eye brightens with programmed shame before it slips over to the female. 

“Such a gentleman,” Patire waves back the gesture. “And thank you, little fella.” She pats the robot atop the head as she takes her glass. She waits patiently for her comrade to receive his before hoisting the glasses to gentle tink. 

A sip slips a groan from Wallace. “A fine treat, Dominax. My appreciation.” 

“Of course. Only the best for the most trusted among my people.” Simora lifts is glass so both can act as if they’d connect in a more huddled cheers. “Now, please proceed,” his cheeks lift with the sweet flavor of the drink, “if the Ten Year agrees with you.” 

“Indeed, it does.” Wallace takes another sip and then begins retouching the invisible device. Simora’s tongue clicks away the soft burn of mouthfeel as he begins to construct the mental images produced by his Deep Root’s movements. “The filter itself can be easily modified. I can manufacture something capable of distilling poisons or condensing them, solidifying individual pieces of compounds, and perhaps even produce a more nourished farmland.” He sips as he motions over the entire body which stands almost as tall as himself. “The issue, again, is the size. 

“The power required to keep one of these functioning without stop is incredible. These Ravagers still utilize primitive electrical systems. While the metal they use is surprisingly resistant to rust, damage, and chemical degrading, it is incapable of being fueled by our pulse tech. It’ll work fine with our nuclear grid. Last reported, they use waterwheels and small windmills to power these things… just lots of them. We could cover a city in them.”

“Yet, they manage to use the tech to manipulate air currents with magnetized pressures?” Simora leans forward. His drink goes unattended while he listens. “The power seems rather demanding for what they can produce. This brings to mind another question. Are they not using any Zurikan steel? I believed our imports are higher than use exclusive to the cities.”

“They utilize it for the bases of various tools, but I’m not sure why they mix and match the metals the way they do.” Wallace sips from his glass as he envisions the device. “Wiring has the usual protections and failsafes. Copper wires are still used. Plenty of it available on Icarus. Something I’m not understanding here.”

“So they’re using this other metal in tandem with the Zurikan steel.” Simora’s eyes dart around as if he’s witnessing the envisioned devices Wallace had imagined. Like a mechanic violently separating every piece, the Dominax scrutinizes the parts, attempts to study the reasoning behind each, and the actions and reactions that occur between each. Golden eyes blink about as he attempts to manufacture a clear answer. “Cycles come and go, yet I know so little of the secrets of the Ravagers. I fear my seclusion has left me ignorant.”

“Makam, Sir.” Patire interjects after smacking her lips with a delightful expression. “Or, King’s Metal, is what the people call it.”

“I’ve seen peculiar blades and tools. I thought the metal was a poor conductor in general. Incapable of being blended with pulse technology does leave the metal few viable options for success in the universal market.” Simora’s eyes fall to Patire. “You said Makam with such confidence.” His eyes narrow toward the woman of Red. “What whispers have you heard among the people?”

“Well, Sir.” Patire straightens her outfit as the smile spreads over her face. The chance to transport all that has graced her ears to another’s overwhelms her person. “There are many whispers. I know you have been rather busy since the beginning of the Amelioration. Your successful breeding program was the catalyst for many of the Ravagers to seek new life within our cities. Your parents,” her eyes and forehead drop in a sign of respect, “would be proud. The faith of these Ravagers has developed a number of interesting teachings and practices. Makam is one faith; however, that existed before our off-world interventions and it remains a mystery. A secret that those within our cities either were never taught or refuse to share. Perhaps, the Civilized leaving the tribes generations back have left them with little knowledge of the guarded secret.”

“Cycles of productive solitude, and I find my planet possessing more treasures yet to discover.” Simora, since hearing of his Amelioration project, stares up to the metallic version of his father. “Many projects in the works, yet my attention to the management of my charged planet is paramount. The people must have a leader, after all.” The Dominax sips of his drink before motioning to the religious liaison of the Deep Root. “Makam is a rather durable metal then; perhaps, even uncommon. King’s Metal… it must be important for them to give it such a name.

“I believe I’m beginning to develop an understanding of how a leader emerges from these people.” Simora’s golden eyes again begin to flicker about as his free hand taps an even rhythm across his knee. “Yet, I’m in dire need of more information. Impossible to formulate more probable possibilities without details.” Noticing a coldness in his own voice, the Blue gives toward the Black. “To better comprehend their needs, it would behoove us to merge all we know.” 

“You’d hold Palaver?” Patire’s eyes contain the spark of excitement surrounded by fearsome flames. “If it is necessary, I will oblige.” 

“No need.” Simora clicks his tongue gently as he examines the air; allowing the mention of Blue abilities to be discussed in such a private setting. “Perhaps somewhere down this road, we may. Today; however, I have no need to delve in and invade your private thoughts.” 

“Thank you, my Lord.” Patire’s face regenerates into the ecstatic voice of the people. Glad to avoid the act, she continues. “Makam, then, is a specialized metal formed only in the mines nearest volcanic activity. With the rotation of the planet, the heat, and interference from the star create a multitude of dangers for the inhabitants of this planet.”

“Obviously, but what of the metal?”

“Many of the mines are simply for copper, coal, lithium, and whatnot.” Patire sips of her glass before placing it gently on the table before her. Hands cupping her knees, she seems to find the right words somewhere in the winding tunnels of the Ravager mines. “They’ve not shown me where this metal is mined from, nor have they shown me any of the processes to make it. It would seem that once forged, whatever shape the metal has taken is permanent.” She motions toward Wallace, “That they’d use Makam for such devices…” her voice trails off as she considers the meaning.

“Their settlements near the known volcanic zones are priceless to them.” Simora sips of his glass and hisses through the gentle burn before clicking his tongue. “Likely, these are the areas where such metals can be mined. Secretly, defensively, and transported when safe. How many are in the settlements?”

“They are often emptied. Only used during quick and infrequent trips into the heart of the volcanic zones.”

“I would wager there are far more present than you’d been privy to witness or told of. If this metal possesses some religious or unknown factor we are uncertain of, they would defend such monopolized mines with every breath.”

“To endure such conditions just for a metal?” Patire seemed appalled by the idea. 

“They endure all manner of horrors. Before the Amelioration, every square foot of this planet was a deadly trap.” Simora glances toward the wall of clear glass providing a gorgeous view of the woods containing deadly, tamed monsters. “Yet, subjecting themselves to such extremes for a specific metal. That is interesting.” He sips again and clicks his tongue three times. “There must be more to it than a bit of hard metal. Don’t you think?”

Patire and Wallace nod together like robots answering the master’s call. Machines ready to please and agree. Flesh so often finds this path easier—the existence of the servant mechanisms. 

“We shall investigate this more.” Simora’s tone creeps over the room like spreading roots of a great tree. “Patire, please return to the people of the Solos continent. I’d like to hear their reasoning for these devices. Your soothing presence will surely lower their guard. With any luck, we’ll be provided the information.”

Patire’s smile falters as she blinks through, “The Solos lands are harsh with harsher peoples. They will speak to me, but what if they do not share the knowledge? I can’t believe they shared this device you speak of.” Eyes twinkle with the expectation; a tapping finger of someone invisible and trapped far beneath the cooling layers of ice. 

“We needn’t force anything. We trade and we learn from one another.” Simora sips of his glass before flicking his eyes through the possibilities. “We can improve upon the advancements they’ve made to better conquer this planet for all. With disadvantages removed, our citizens, Ravager and Civilized, Wemi and Emel-Rakar, will benefit.” His eyes catch a glimpse of the scattering of thoughts, like bursting stars, in Patire’s eyes. “No matter where they stand in relation to our leadership, these people are my citizens. If you are concerned of nepotism or harsh reactions through repulsed Boring, I assure you that is not my aim.

“I understand your compassion and heightened sense of empathy—having lived with these various groups.” Simora taps across his knee as he speaks. As though a script is printed and read by a primitive machine, the words are cold and calculated, yet they do begin to sooth the woman. For she knows of this man. “We find commonality with the native peoples, and we blossom together. High tides rising all ships and such.” 

“And old sentiment.” Wallace chuckles. 

“Yet, the past paints the path for the present to travel the future.”

Wallace nods with the understanding of the Born ability—and the fearful name it carries. Purveyors of possibility, rare by all measures, often find security for self and family for generations, yet the muscled engineer, this practitioner of the Blue Spark, ignores the once lively flame of envy. Glancing to his fellow Deep Root, the man wonders just what truths, half-truths, and lies she knows of the Blue. Possibly, he considers, as fair an amount as he knows of the Red. 

When Wallace meets the studying gaze of his Dominax, he understands that everything he’s considered has already been analyzed. A smirk spreads over his face as he mentally ridicules himself for having been so slow. 

“We’ve learned much from the Civilized in the last decades, yet they were already more similarly cultured as The Namaste’s envoys. Since the rule of my father,” his eye flicks for a second to the statue, “we have gained much from the Ravagers. We trade. They are rewarded for their information, technology, military service, and granted permissions. When they give little, they receive little.

“Now, in the time of my Amelioration, I hope their tongues loosen and their arms open. I have negotiated through action, and it will benefit us all.” Simora motions about some of the nicer trinkets, decorations, and artifacts about the room. “Quinzat furs and organs, varabelm bones and teeth, nema cat manes for fashion and solar technology, mines rich with minerals, and even gifts like the weddletot.” Simora waves a hand as if the list could exceed his comfortability of conversation. “Being the newest of my Deep Roots, you’ve arrived after my crafted evolution began. Even the plants hungered for men, Patire, yet my hand tames flora, fauna, and soon… the very will of nature.” 

His pointer finger on the glass extends toward Wallace and his imagined item. 

“You weren’t gifted the device.” Patire’s shame weighs her eyes to her lap. Wringing her hands, she speaks with the gentle volume of a mouse. “If taken from the volcanic fields, the Emel-Rakar will believe it an act of war.”

“We did no such thing.” Simora nods as he recalls the probabilities fractured from the whole of the present reality. He’d placed himself along the right path. “A disc pilot returned with a deceased Emel-Rakar miner,” most of the native tongue slipped into an unnatural accent for the Dominax. “Among his gear was the device in question. We returned all his possessions except the one.”

“Then you possess Makam which was not forged for your hands or tribe.” Patire’s voice rises only slightly as she recalls the practices of those beyond the cities. “That creates various troubles as well. ‘Neither gifted nor forged, your hands bloody upon forbidden Makam.’”

“A man died,” Simora shakes his head as he questions her with narrowed eyes. “We returned all that he was to his people that they might honor their dead as necessary. They will hold no contempt over this act.” The Dominax grins playfully, “‘What dies favors the hunter and scavenger.’ Does this not mean the disc pilot was blessed in his finding? Need he anything of the man’s possessions, would we not expect our pilot to use all at his disposal to survive?” 

“Epimth.” Patire shakes her head and then nods her understanding. “The will to survive must be respected.” Her head cannot seem to choose between vertical and horizontal motion. She now bobbles back and forth with inner turmoil. “Yet we do not require it to survive, nor do we struggle without it.”

Simora nods as he leans into the conversation. Recalling all memory of such discussion, he summons history before him to paint the path for his future. “‘What a man may do for his people, he does to himself.’ Do I not owe my people all that I can provide?” Before Patire can recite another proverb, the Dominax answers the next answer, the next, and the next. “‘Wrong in the eyes of the many are the sins of chieftains we praise today.’ While you’d be correct in rebuking with my title not being that of an honored chieftain, I would simply respond with, ‘Any that might voice salvation, yet hold their tongue, have damned themselves to Hell twice.’” 

“You do not believe in Hell.” Witnessing the childish grin on her Dominax, she loosens her concerns and takes up the glass. “Very good, Dominax. Very good. For someone so adverse to the voice and study of planetary religions, you’ve armed yourself quite well with the teachings of these people.” 

“I’ve had a good teacher as of recent.” He points to her with the tipping of his glass before taking another sip. “I learn all I can, for these are my people. I would learn anything and everything I can.” Clicking through the burn of the drink, he adds, “And I often find myself reading between processes and lulls in my research.” 

Possibilities continue to span out before him as fractal mirrors portray probabilities and absolutes. No matter which he grabs to study, a million others attempt to slice through his hand as they speed toward that gray area between existence and dream. 

Even the practiced will make the mistake. Those of the Blue each attempt the prophetic ability, and so few will come close to understanding why they failed. Simora, mentally separated from the situation, watches shards float past and calculates. He’s found it best, in his own studies, to manifest oneself within the mind and to gradually examine and interpret the data. All in an attempt to steady himself; a man balancing on a turning log in the ocean.

Seeing many shapes of a similar course begin to take form, the leader of Icarus Alpha glances, with his physical eyes of sandy gold, to the statue of his father. Knowing of the secret tucked behind his father’s cape, he clicks his tongue before looking to his Deep Roots. 

“We have much work to do. The Dark Stars will soon hear of our successful strides in Amelioration. They’ll call a meeting.” Simora clicks his tongue and taps his knee ten times. As expected. “We must prepare.”

Chapter 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—a 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. 

Chapter 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—knowing 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—”

“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.”

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—but 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—especially 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.” 

Chapter 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—the 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. 

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—Deep 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.” 

Chapter 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—and 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—both 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.” 

“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—an 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—a 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.  

Chapter 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.”

“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—including 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—the 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—anticipation 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.” 

Chapter 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, 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.”

“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—fearful 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—the soul’s star. This difficult concoction of Sanctuary, 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.

Chapter 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.

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—”

“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—not 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—out 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. 

Chapter 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—soothing 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—to 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.”

“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—similar 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.”

Chapter 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—even 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—Dominax. 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—”

“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—”

“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?” 

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—even 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—if 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—kept 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—well, 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—aimed right into the pupils of Wallace. “But there’s still more to conquer.”

Chapter 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 woolly 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 ponytail that flutters in the wind. Swiping sweat from her brow, it’s evident how her arms are slightly longer than the average person. The skin, gradually adapting 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—leaving 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.

Simora bites his tongue at the thought of the fingerprints on the glass.

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 Donatello 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.”

“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—as 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—weighed 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—Eclipsing 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—”

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. 

Chapter 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—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table shares in laughter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You will see how Ultlu is a hero to be respected and emulated.” Simora takes up his freshly refilled cup. The fine wines of Icarus Alpha, squeezed from fruits hung from vicious floral snares, is a fine treat which he may enjoy any time 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, cut off 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. Chest out, chin level, and shoulders back. “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 natives' 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.

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

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

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

“And to meet them?”

“You’re welcome to.” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two persons. That is it. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nearly a Universal Atomic Counter?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was the one to extend life?” 

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

“Backlash?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“THE Universe.”

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

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

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

The Dark Stars nod in unison. 

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

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

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

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

Chapter 16

Space.

An empty void that many have feared. Rightfully so. As the first man feared fire; by the sky or on the ground. The second the waters; rivers, ponds, and eventually the oceans. The third feared the skies; winds which tore apart forests and coughed lightning down onto the lands. The forth man feared the lands; finding that pitiful deities did not bring the explosive volcanoes or quake the grounds… but the very planet beneath them did. 

The fifth man found something more to fear. 

The fifth looked beyond the Red, the Blue, the White, and the Green. The fifth man found darkness to be feared. When fire departs, when waters overtake, when skies fill, or when lands open wide… darkness awaits all. 

And then space came along. 

Space.

The emptiness between all that exists. A void so deadly and absolute that planets hold tightly to all they possess lest it be yanked into nothingness. A darkness so hungry that it births a central hole to reclaim all that once exploded into reality. 

It was and is a zone of fearsome empty. Stealing senses, time, energy, and all manner the faculties of what humanity has labeled “life.”

From the first time a shuttle left the ground, the expanse of darkness has been an adversary to all humanity. Something that, though they didn’t see it at the time, became an enemy to which all species could aim their aggression and fears. In the most honest accounts, there might have been one reason they didn’t… it wasn’t physically capable of accepting humanity’s need for physically thrashing that which they hate. 

So, darkness was merely feared. Feared and misunderstood. Secreted by means of eternal shrouding as it hangs planets from itself like paintings upon a wall. 

The Black was, is, feared for such secrecy. 

Eons have passed since man first questioned what exists beyond the clouds and into the blue or black of the skies. Slipping the horrid tethers of planetary solitude, humanity flung itself into the great adventure of exploration throughout the universe. In all this time, a mere fraction has been found, conquered, and welcomed beneath the banner of The Unanimity Namaste.

All of this, a sad and shortened history in philosophical terms, means as much to truth as the fraction of which mankind has claimed. Planets come and go. Some are labeled Uninhabitable or even Abandoned by The Namaste.

In truth, Black has claimed even this. Space takes even the lost histories of humanity farther back than the Far-Reach Conflict could manage to retain. Through a war unlike any in human history, much of the truth was swallowed by the gluttonous horror that is space. 

Transmissions lost to the curving of orbits and vastness of the empty. Ships claimed by the unending; hurdling toward places unknown then and now. Even what was known of how to transverse it gradually became, through the unimaginable strife and loss of humanity, an incredibly arduous and resource intense undertaking. 

Even with the most advanced ships, humanity sacrificed much to leap from one rock to the next. Before cryostasis, there was merely working together and enduring the emptiness through synthetic recreations of life upon a planet. Then humanity made artificial replicas of themselves to aid in the singular pilot’s journey—company for every need known to the human’s psyche. Then they eventually allowed themselves the lowest risk process of allowing some artificial mind to handle the course and sleep peacefully as a mote of memory in time—slipping into unconsciousness where the fear of the empty darkness beyond the ship could never reach. 

And many of these once praised avenues of success have been limited, castigated, forgotten, or even outlawed by the newly fashion Unanimity Namaste.

Thrusters lit from fuels derived of ancient creature remains were replaced with atomic reactors. These were refined and more easily controlled with the replacement of certain resources and understanding of their byproducts. Then came the understanding of solar winds and solar sails and nets. The sails would drag a ship along while nets provided a ship a means of recharging massive batteries, restarting reactors, or even replenishing one of the aforementioned systems to work alongside pulser tech. With solar capping, a ship’s systems of electromagnetic fields could generate power and thus be stored in batteries. 

Long systems of, what must have seemed like magic to early man, hovering copper or other metals spinning rapidly with the introduction of light. How fascinating to study the leaps and bounds mankind makes when the singular planet of their existence became threatened by their own fears and self-inflicted wounds. 

So much history. So many individuals that have created the whole. So vast the expanse that no library could possibly claim to hold it all. No Church of Many Mouths or school of any color across the spectrum. No machine could or can manage to retell the stories which haven’t been passed to it. 

Instead, we focus on the now which the past created. Every second a block upon which a foundation became a house, a house a village, a village a city, and a city a nation. We see a structure unlike any other forming in the present. 

Be it by the impossible gamble that mankind was made of nothing or the impossible ancient being which guided it from the primordial muck, humanity has thrived and found itself surviving despite itself. A species that develops through logic and emotions. Senses the worlds. Repairs itself when it has mortally wounded itself. Again and again, the process repeats while still they grow, shrink, and grow again across the universe. 

And still they fear. 

The darkness between and all the secrets it holds. They’ve yet to uncover the secrets of Repelling Forces or the Vibro Constant. Two laws of physics which may or may not last longer than the laws that came before or those that will proceed them. Laws that explain how mass within the vastness of space produce energy simply by manifesting and gathering. Energy which both invites some energies and wavelengths while repelling or distorting others. And to all forces that act upon energy, there is more either repelled or absorbed than simply offered. Similarly, a law of Vibro Constant explains the necessity of understanding the frequency of which all things, unique to each, vibrate. 

Perhaps this is what started many along a new path of religious enlightenment throughout the darkness. But, for now, that is not the path of this tale. 

The tale, instead, must discuss the importance of the secrets hidden within the darkness. A truth known to all Blacks. The fifth man, who stared into the deepest caverns, knew fear existed wearing cloaks of shadows and unknown. 

What happened to those men? The first, second, third, fourth, and fifth? 

You who read this and they who listen, to those that have extended themselves beyond once unimaginable heights to claim new worlds… to all humanity that exists, we are the sons and daughters of those that stared into the very eyes of fear and still walked forward. It was not the foolish that strode into danger that birthed new worlds nor was it the fearful that turned away and forsook truth. 

Humanity is the construct of the strong of heart, mind, will, and body. And to all those that would last through the worst of failures in history… those that were strong in the art of words. 

Space.

An endless, secretive expanse of treasures. A horrific battlefield of life versus death; neither of which will be known until again the souls within it send communication or set foot upon ground. A seductive devil to tempt men from their complacency into the unforgiving depths of directionless empty.

And so mankind discusses space as if it responds or reacts. 

There lies another truth mankind has since discovered.

Apathy is all space knows. 

And this, to all humanity or whatever species may one day be found, is where fear originates. The lack of any sign of humanity. The clear and unyielding acceptance that this intangible Aether cares not whether any lives, dies, succeeds, fails, leaves, stays, or even acknowledges it. 

It simply exists to secret. 

Secreting away the fate of all within it. 

And those waiting upon the destined or departed planet wait with growing impatience for some manner of answer from that void. Often, the stillness… absolute quite… is their answer. What an answer, how profound, it is. 

Silence. 

An eternity which will outlast even the eldest renditions of personified Death. An emptiness which The Creator will see swallowing up all constructs, molecules, and atoms. For that, if The Creator decides, shall be the fate of all things. A collective pool of blackness which all shall swirl about in, helpless, until the final moments where not a single soul nor consciousness might experience the universe—adding to the great library of memories in the existence beyond this. 

Countless beliefs and myths have been constructed around such beginnings and endings. Creatures and entities of unfathomable powers deciding the flow of time into that endless void of the secretive unknown. 

This moment among the history of time and experience is not meant for those myths and legends. Now is merely the look at the first of the Maiora Aliquam and the trailing Obnatus Pallide; the families of “growing light” and prospect. Their evolution from the ashes of all the revived phoenixes before them. And the stitched construct of many past governing bodies—The Unanimity Namaste. 

Somewhere beyond Icarus Alpha, coasting about the planet’s detection systems, floats a private Jumper vessel cloaked with the most advanced technology available to any noble or average citizen. The ship has been settled for a number of Icarus’s days, yet the crew and persons of note aboard keep a watchful eye on the planet from afar. 

Secreted in the darkness of space, the ship plays to the strengths of those aboard. 

Not knowing just how many times man has arrived, left, and arrived again to this planet of Icarus Alpha, the crew prepares for the orders to begin descending upon the planet. They do not know the planet’s ancient names or the number of names it has carried. They do not know the dangers that have evolved, been destroyed, evolved again, or even developed in spite of the off-world threats. Humans prepare for their leader’s commands by pressing buttons, documenting atmospheric changes and dark storms, and checking systems. 

An ecosystem trapped within the mechanical systems of the Jumper, people, plants, and creatures continue their daily routines. Three dark-helmed men peer through devices that scan the planet from afar. 

“Dark storm gathering to the north of Valkenaria.” 

“Another?” The second man sighs as he begins tapping away at a prismaslate screen. Placing his head back to the device, he adds, “Yup. Another. That’s three in the last week in the area. Not to mention the other continents. What about the Ravagers?”

“No readings.” The third man announces. “Too dense of woodlands, forests, or swamps for that. The whole damned planet’s too dense or rotten for long-range viewing.”

“Yet, we saw some enter Solos.” The first taps at his device. “Five tribes on the north side. Four so far from the south.”

“And they just move through those storms?” 

“Could circumvent it.” The second suggests; not convinced by his own answer. “Maybe tunnel systems. We don’t know the whole effect of the storms yet.”

“Chemicals should make breathing difficult… more difficult. I can keep an eye on some of the visible cave systems. Won’t have a direct viewing, but previous readings show atmospheric vortexes.”

The first nods as he scans an area with a partially visible system of open crevasses. “Meaning any oxygen inside is likely yanked out. Something to look into.” 

“We’d need to actually send a probe in to confirm any of that.” The third remarks. “Such vortexes can be created by any number of changes or effects in the area. Even magnetic fields. Keep an open eye and mark the area for review when we send in a scouting team.”

“Won’t be a scouting team.”

“What? Then why are we wasting our—”

“The commanders want more information. This is the Veiled’s cousin’s world. We have to play this close to the chest.” 

“Seek unto the universe and your brother shall know as well. Seek unto thy brother and the universe shall know as well.” 

The second man sighs. “Don’t start with that religious shit. Just get the maps and coordinates set then. If we aren’t scouting, then we’ll still want what evidence we do have. Commanders want inferences and outright guesses. That’s what they’ll get.” 

These three men sit on one ledge lowered in a semicircular room of many operating stations. There are teams of all manner of duties and positions controlling the various operations of the Jumper on other levels.

As the seventy-four members of this specialized crew work diligently in the empty, secretive void of space, the seals of the doors are unlocked. Only a few among the seventy-four turn to witness he that enters, but whispers and nudges draw the attention of the rest in small, unjointed waves. 

A uniform of black that could match the emptiness of the void beyond this grayed dome of the ship’s control deck. Hair like golden feathers sprout up and back over his head. A stride taken with silent steps. Muscles tightly wound about bones in a seemingly thin package. A silvery gold mustache that slides just above the lip to provide another ledge in which one might rest their eyes from his piercing gaze.

Blues rise from black pupils to green outer rims like oceans birthing paradise isles. And these eyes bounce about randomly, seeking all along the risen and lowered platforms, as he walks down the straightened path of the captain. 

Though he holds no such rank, he takes a position at the console rising from the edge of the platform. Hands behind his back and chin held high, the man watches silently as the crew continues to work in anxious alertness. 

It doesn’t take long before an audible set of footsteps arrive; breaking the seals to the doors again. These steps, echoing from the distant curves of the deck’s silvery, well-lit walls, are hurried by duty. 

“My Veiled.” A man, middle-aged with white hair wrapping firmly about his head and chin, clears his throat. Though deeply wrinkled and lacking any sign of physical prowess, his chest is painted with several shapes and designs of those accomplishments known on several planets somewhere in the vastness of the darkness. Two orange dots are tattooed on his left temple. Coming to a stop beside the younger man, he again clears his throat, “I heard you’d wished to witness the happenings of the deck.”

“I did.” The voice matches the youthful man well. His lack of cycles beams from him like a star’s rays as the voice bubbles up from his chest with delight. The terraformed eyes continue to glance about in wonder. “You know, I’ve been on these ships so many times, and I couldn’t tell you the first thing they do.” 

“Well,” the captain leans on his heels to attempt his newest task. “What can I show you today? I’d be happy to provide what knowledge and entertainment we can manage while adhering to your stipulations.” 

“Stipulations?” 

The captain spins toward one of the stairs leading toward the piloting section but hears the question. Stopping, he recalls, “You’d given orders to remain beyond the planet’s radar. Out of sight.”

“Had I?” 

“S-Sire.” The captain turns with surprise but hides it behind a quick clearing of his dried throat. “You had.”

“That doesn’t sound like me.” The man begins to poke at various dials of the ship’s console. Projections and commands arise as the captain steps forward with a hesitant interjection. “Oh, sorry. Curiosity may not do me well here.”

“N-no, Veiled Noctlin. I am happy to teach you, should you wish to learn.”

“Perhaps another time.” The man stretches with a yawn exposing perfectly aligned teeth within his splendidly aligned jaw. Even the captain, a man of sure intention and desires, can appreciate the youthful beauty. Despite all other shortcomings… “I’m tired of space, Captain Vandsin. When will we arrive at Iracus Beta?” 

“A-Alpha, Sire.” Captain Vandsin scratches through the white hairs on the side of his head. “Sire,” he peers over the crest on his master’s chest. A Black Shield with a black dot in the center of a white-outlined trio of tail-to-beak ravens. Black Shield and Black Emblem leader, Remiran Noctlin. “Do you wish to overturn your previous orders? Your counsel has ordered various tests since your command to remain at this distance. We’ve been in drift for the equivalent of six Icarus Alpha days.” 

“Six days! By all the gods, old and new, Vandsin! Get us down to that planet! I’m going crazy cooped up in this damned ship all day.” His boyish charm shines brightly through the heavy accent common among the learned elite. Exaggerating his head roll and sigh, the grown man seems more a child, yet the smile relieves most of their hatred. Instead, one might momentarily sulk before returning to diligence and duty—knowing their place in the universe. “Can we go then? Which of my counsel gave an order to drift?! Drift! I mean, come now man. My cousin and friends await me! Parties and discussions! Simora! I’m coming, cousin!” 

Remiran instinctually begins tapping more buttons with his unheard call to family bonds. Even if the domed room of Zurikan steel and space-faring materials allowed him an opening, the vast darkness would steal away his words. Yet, his actions begin to issue commands among the seventy-four crew. 

“S-Sire!” Vandsin’s slow reaction allows four more buttons to be pressed. “You’d just issued an attack on the eastern beaches of continent Solos! Please! I will ensure we arrive there without delay.” Placing himself between Veiled and console, the aged man asks over his shoulder, “Would you like us to send comm?”

“No! Never!” Remiran spins about to the crew. “All sails ahead! Take this ship to the land of my kin! Sing, lads. Sing!” 

To this, as one might imagine, the crew does not sing. They glance about with uncertainty of whether this refusal in dazed confusion would mean their jobs. Instead, they each continue to perform their duties—ignoring all dialed orders of The Veiled. 

“Course set. Take us just above the planet. Twenty-six by fifty-three. Prepare the Veiled’s Courier ships.” Clicking a button for an announcement to be made throughout the ship’s comm systems, Vandsin proceeds, “All departing parties prepare for landing. For the Veiled of Black, please prepare for duty.” 

“Prepare for duty!” Remiran’s voice sings as he spins about the captain’s space. 

And so, in the secretive blackness of space, the Jumper of The Veiled turns toward the destination of Icarus Alpha. For the deliberation of Dark Stars, the final and highest ranking official, the Black’s representative to The Namaste sings in anticipation. 

Space.

Space doesn’t hear him or the working heartbeats of all upon the Jumper. 

Space merely watches on in apathetic silence as the future is built… or destroyed… by the events of the past. 

Space watches with cold indifference as the future unfurls.  

Chapter 17

They see us as we allow. They are but extensions of the senses we imbue within creation. As one walks through the shadows, those fearing the darkness cannot perceive what lies within. Projected as we desire, the self is our connection to the world beyond the Black.

Simora’s eyes shift behind closed lids in the dark of a stilled sanctum. The walls are closed, the robotic systems are deactivated, and even the blinking lights of surveillance systems wait for the man to command them to blink alive again. 

Emotions are pillars which hold up the house of humanity. 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. 

Quiet in the absolute darkness. Looking inward, Simora’s mind traces the lines of his own features. Meditating through the Umbra and Spark; Black and Blue. 

A face of Black features. The Sign, Simora knows, grants him what so few possess. A glamorous connection to all. No matter the lines and imperfections, a true-blooded Black will draw eyes and all proceeding emotional responses. 

The contradiction not lost on the man. Those seeking to remain in the darkness draw the eyes of all. There lies the power of a true Black. To hide not only in the darkness… but in the purest light of day.

The hair, silver locks like rushing streams in early morning, falls back over his head and one side as if to crash into his shoulder. A thin nose, flat on the bottom, curves up like a fine bow into an extended crescent brow. The features are masculine, but perhaps the man desires them to be more so. In this, he can attempt to appear more so. It is that simple for the Glamor of the Black.

It will not be perfect by any means. Many will still see the lack of defining features marking the man, in any way, a warrior or even an athlete, yet he will meditate on it. This aspect of Umbra is merely the Sign of it. Nature that can be honed. 

Glamor is the first step toward acceptance of the people. Acceptance of the people opens the throne. Upon the throne, a man of Glamor will hold but a percentage of the past’s weight and all of the future’s glories. One must become worthy of the throne, for ours are the faces of the ruling. We of the Black must be beautiful, inside and out. 

Simora keeps with this mantra. Over and over in his mind, he envisions the words as a poem written across his limbs and features. Drawing himself, a 3D image, and filling the volume with the phrase, We of the Black must be beautiful, inside and out. 

There are four places upon his body where the words don’t reach. The receptors on his back twitch beneath the Balan material. Tightly bound to his body, the flaps of skin with swollen cilia attempt to analyze the world of darkness. 

We of the Black must be beautiful, inside and out. 

Simora notes the slow pattern of his breath. A gradual in through the nose and an even exhale through the mouth. 

I must be beautiful in all ways. They will choose me. This mantra has been the same for cycles. As Icarus Alpha, as Rakar, tumbles violently about its sun, the Dominax assures himself. I must be beautiful in all ways. They will choose me. He continues into his mind with the mantra painting the way for all his work. 

They will choose me. 

Possibilities, endless and ever forming, pass by as the man practices the Black and Blue. I may see what will come. Shards form and slide by the stilled man made of words he whispers within his mind. I will not be seen by others. The words become translucent as the shards pass by with ghostly shadows acting out a missing member’s role. They see us as we allow. And the shade forms. 

As if stitched together, the man’s form is woven by unclear words to manifest what cannot take shape within the shards. An enigma. An anomaly of humanity birthed through the joining of the Black and the Blue. 

Here the shards of possibilities play out in the supernatural. Curling glass, twisted into knots and helixes, form the events that others could not calculate—at least not without massive gaps in data. Perceiving all that he knows, Simora can watch the bright stories of possible pathways twirl and dance about in the darkness. How easily he travels this road that breaks most.

They will choose me because they will understand. I will make them understand.

A vision of a ghostly mist drifting about laboratory tables and specimens. Weaving life with the wave of the foggy hand, the subject of these visions sees species rising to stare into the fog without malice. 

Beside the mist, of course, is the distinct outline of a muscular man, slightly shorter than the mist. He’s fidgety in the revelation of success. 

They will come to understand. 

Shards show Couriers rising and falling from the skies. Every unfurled walkway filling with materials of trade. Every unfurled walkway delivering luxuries from across the universe. Delegates, spices, medicine and drugs, equipment, students, historians, tribute-bearing families, and even those seeking the Dominax’s acceptance of a seat at the head of The Unanimity Namaste. 

They’ll come. They’ll understand.

What awaits in another shard? The unknown. A secretive haven for the future and unfathomable truths to hide. Yet to come, the conceived victories over existence… over the Universe.

There, in the soaring, volatile river of another parade of shards. Eyes, unnatural to any upon the planet. Features from many leaves and twigs grafted into a new and fleshy branch. Every section of the parade, like nearly solidified mercury, seems woven together like metallic stitching tugging the next along with the rest. 

A series of victories. Another bound to another. Conquest over conquest, and in them a distinct sense that all the Universe shall understand in time. A prickly notion that conquest cometh in the hands of the willing. 

I will make them see. They will come and see all that I am… that I will do. 

And so, they will. 

The Universe will see. 

In all the apathetic space between planets and emotional creation, the Universe will be forced to bear witness. It will interact by the forceful hands of man. 

A knock on the door, from reality beyond the floating globules of mercurial possibility, interrupts the Dominax in his meditations. A rigorous rapping shakes the man from his emotionless study. 

Opening his mouth, Simora quickly shuts it and begins checking himself. His hand tugs at the Balan cloth over his neck; feeling his receptors drag and whine with a pinching pain. Hands over his face, he drags the moist clay of flesh down and rearranges it with a moment’s peace. 

More knocking and a quiet voice, dulled by the doors, “Simmy.”

Emotions are pillars which hold up the house of humanity. Anger is but one emotion. All emotions are the expression of humanity. To control them is to evolve. To lose them is to lose humanity. 

“Enter.”

“Simmy!” The voice pierces the doors even before the seal is broken. Knotted hair, two strands, falls down in golden helixes over her shoulders. Finel rushes in, turns, and shuts the doors to prevent her Wildlings from entering. “Oh. Lights?” 

“System. Lights.” Simora says and so there is light. 

“Here I find you, sitting in the dark, instead of entertaining me.” Finel turns with her back against the doors. A posture of curves up the wall like a serpent seeking to close off the exits. “Even for a Dark Star, rather creepy. Wouldn’t you say?”

“I would not say.” Standing, Simora stretches and begins his daily routine of masks. A simple smile, just enough for her to revel in her appeal, tugs his right cheek. “Do you not meditate in the Black? Perhaps that’s why your skills are lacking.”

“Lacking!” A heavy gasp swells the mounds of her black uniform. “Simmy! I’d never! I’m more than confident in my abilities. Glamor is truly all one needs, anyway.” She swipes back one of the golden braids and strikes a pose. 

“For some, it can be more than enough. For those that demand more,” finishing his stretches, he aims the golden orbs directly into her eyes, “we require more.”

“I know you’re ambitious, Simmy.”

“Simora.” He corrects.

“For being so damned smart, you don’t catch on quickly. Rather slow, I’d say.” She teases as she struts across the room. In his direction, she gets close enough to reach out a finger, a green-painted, sharpened nail scratches under his chin, and she turns toward the table filled with crystal containers. Beginning to mix herself a drink, she continues, “Come now. You said we’d spend the day together. I want to hear everything!

“Besides, you said you wanted to thank me. The Green gave you ideas, you said. You recall, you did say it. Then I want some return on my time and investment.” Finel pours two drinks without looking, and yet they fill precisely to the same, acceptable mark. “They say there’s another dark storm coming across the north. Seems we’ll be stuck inside all day. What to do, what to do?” She turns with one crystal glass extended. 

“I’m happy to discuss the past and present with you, Finel.” Simora takes the glass, they share a clink and a smile, then partake of the drink together. Must I? He thinks as the moments pass and the memories of all the shards Born before him had shown. “Perhaps,” he swallows another level of the drink and clicks his tongue twice, “we speak of the future as well.”

Finel walks, like a prized poodle knowing the destination of the blue ribbon, across the tiles with soft clicks and clacks as she studies the bland walls of shipwreck style woods and occasional art. “You could decorate more. It’s like walking through a mausoleum. Have you even seen these places? In person?”

Swallowing back the ignored topic, Simora glances about to the spaced articles and artifacts. Four paintings are hung from the walls; one of each continent beyond that of his tower. He’s had them hung on the walls in the direction of which those continents rise like toothy beasts from the ocean. 

Each as beautiful as it is deadly. Captured as if by the grandest of electrical eyes, yet as tenderly approached as a parent nurturing a child. While not often, staring into each is enough for Simora to truly feel himself traveling beyond the walls—forgoing the need to depart from the sanctum of his laboratory. 

Currently, Finel stands before the southwest painting. High cliffs erected like the planet’s walls protecting all evolved life from the vicious seas. White foam sprays up from the churning waters as shadows skulk about in the depths. These high cliffs, from this eastern vantage point, are some of the highest among the leveled, spiral formation the continent creates. Like an eyeball wrapped in its own viscera; however, none would gleam that mental image from this view. 

Instead, it is the surreal capture of the violent nature of nature. The darkened skies swirl over the green hangings of the livable land. A dark storm looming in the distance It isn’t lightning that attempts to pounce down, but the more common acidic bolts that lash this continent more than the others. 

Still, in the dangers of what lies high above or far below, the cliffs rise as the walls of a mighty temple. Perhaps, in reverence, the painter had sought to capture the majesty of Almakamla. In this, though not the religious type, Simora had always believed the man succeeded. 

“A few times. Potazel. A difficult place to reach without Disc or Dart, yet the Ravagers come by Skitter without much issue. Though the Amelioration has solved many problems with the aquatic hunters, the dangers of the cliffs, waters, and storms remain. We speculate vast underground networks in the region.”

“Rather resilient people, these Emel-Rakar.”

Understanding which direction to go, he acknowledges her use of their name. “You should remember. You’d spent time here. Seen them first hand.”

“Yes, but that was so, so long ago. Back in the Keep.” Speaking to him, she keeps her attention on the painting. Studying it as if seeking some secreted treasure hidden within the brushstrokes. “And father never let me truly explore the planet.”

“Yes. A fine man.” Simora raises his glass slightly in simple honor of the departed. “Keeping you back from the dangers yet to be… corrected.” 

“Corrected.” Finel turns on her heels to face Simora. Standing in such a way as to reveal more of her valued attributes, she speaks with a breathy voice to pull it all together. “An odd choice of words, Simmy.”

Golden rings of sunny sands fixate on her eyes. “I choose them carefully. ‘Corrected’ is the proper word. Icarus Alpha decided these beasts, plants, and even some of its microscopic lifeforms should be unimaginably inhospitable. I believe my concept of planetary geniality, of etiquette, is more preferable.”

“Through nothing more than a few cycles of breeding program.” The statement, in a low whisper, slides gently over his neck as she blows out the words. With his response merely a slight shiver ending in a nod, she closes the gap between them. “Is that so? Nothing… but… breeding.” 

“That’s correct.” 

Her eyes dare not blink. Though the two possess Umbra, they study one another in different ways. With her rather sophomoric understanding of Seek, she attempts to detect the slightest sign of lies. The two peer into one another. Their bloodlines mingling abilities of Blue and Green into the darkness. 

Careful to not fall into any weakened states, dangerous processes, or losing one’s self to the instinct, one’s eyes skitter about like a gnat seeking food while the other remains secured as a timeless monolith. 

Finel’s hand swirls the drink about as she groans with a thin smile. “Simmy.” Her lips rise to just centimeters from his. Her warm breath, redolent of the recently sipped brandy and an earthy scent like mints and thyme, wafts across his face. The blossoming lips fill with the color of innocence fueled with hormones—a glamorous creation to sway the battle. “I’m not convinced.”

Stilling himself as best he can, Simora taps his free hand against his side. Evenly staring, neither blinking nor twitching, he draws in the buzzing gnat. “Am I to convince you?”

A finger, delicate as the thorn upon the rose’s stem, glides up and over the man’s chest. Unflinching, the Dominax remains stiffened and resilient as he awaits his answer. 

“You wanted to speak of the future.” She lifts her finger from some unpaved path over his chest to tenderly touch his lips. “Then let’s talk.” Leaning in, she approaches him again. Only a finger separates them. 

Suddenly, she bounds away from him and giggles as she takes another sip. “Oh, Simmy! You’re so fun! All of that and not a wince or groan?”

“Are you done?” 

“Aw, Simmy.” She continues to dance about the room in swaying movements as she takes in the rest of the paintings. “I’m not done with you. Not by a longshot. You’re going to take me on a tour, and we’re going to talk about the past, present, and future. We’re going to talk about it all! Every deal and scheme.” She glances up to him as she prances by; heading toward the table with the drinks. “Even these tales of Ilgar.”

“Must we bring up the ghosts of the past?” Simora merely turns his head like an owl as he drinks; his mind careful to not summon spirits from memory.

“Your father wanted much of this planet.” She moves around the table after refilling his glass. The bronze statue stands over her as a conqueror. “Brain over brawn.” She giggles and peers over her shoulder. “Your father would have adored Ilgar.” 

“Indeed, he might’ve.” Simora notes from across the room. “Had either lived to meet the other.”

“And his works, of course.” Finel turns back with narrowed eyes to take in the man of metal. “Such power. Raw. The sort that change the very history that’s taught in the common man’s schools.”

“Not our schools.”

“Of course not our schools.” She waves it off as if bored by the need to differentiate the two. “I’ve conquered planets Simmy.” She swings a hand out to the metal man. “But, to rewrite an entire planet’s ecology! To master an entire world… not just by scorching it to an astral crisp.” She shivers visibly so her waist sways for the Dominax. Her lack of a caped uniform today leaves more tools for her trade. “If done properly, one might even forgive transgressions against The Namaste or even the natural order.”

“One might?” Simora remains stilled. His shoulders freeze as the receptors flinch beneath the Balan fabric tightly binding his neck. This isn’t exactly how Born portrayed it. Yet, he nods internally, it is within my parameters. “To do as Ilgar did is to call down the wrath of The Namaste.” He takes a single step forward and freezes. Like a game for children, he moves only when her eyes turn to his father’s immortalized figure. “Or so, Elder Matheem would have us believe.”

“He’s not wrong.” She responds so the echoes will reach her stalking prey. “The universe advances. It evolves, but do humans?” She bites her bottom lip as she regards the statue. “One man sacrifices his birthrights for a spinning pile of twelve-layer Hell.” 

Simora steps forward again. Regarding his own father, the memories of a broken man end as his flight into the sea. Silent and final.

“Every man makes mistakes.” 

“Still, a man must make choices. Interesting choices. Boring choices. Ones that lift humanity or damn it.” 

“Oddly philosophical coming from you.” Another step.

“I tend to agree with the living corpse as often as I fail in domesticating a planet.” The stance, no longer for seduction, slides into an entity built upon a foundation of prowess. “But genetic engineering, Simmy.”

“Genetic manipulation.” Corrections and corrections. 

Turning around, with Simora only three steps from her, Finel’s amethyst eyes stare into the golden sands. No longer a jittering gnat or predatory black widow. Now, the eyes are gentle and equal. “You’re grand at lying, Simmy.” Her voice, still breathy, thickens with empathy. A vocalized tightrope walk. “Nearly as good as I.”

“I’ve not lied.”

“Half-truths.” Finel’s head dips to the side, “Quarter-truths.”

“Sharing the bits that give you peace and provide me privacy is enough.” 

“Then I’m to believe you’ve done it?”

“Have you ever paid off an informant?” 

Finel’s head cocks the other direction. “The purpose of this?” His answer is only silence. “Of course, Simmy. You’ve not forgotten I hold the title of Dark Star, same as you.”

“Exactly. Let’s say, as any Dark Star of history, that some among us have committed crimes of extortion, bribery, coercion, assassination, or even the time-honored tradition of spreading propaganda.” He swirls his drink about. Sniffing it gently of all the intoxicating aromas, he shares the moment with her. “Are these not actions damnable by most society or Namaste?” 

“You compare lions to house cats.” A smile, born of numerous emotions yet indescribable by means of Umbra and Glamor, graces her lovely face. A crescent moon to paint the dim light of a dying day. 

“And yet, you raise no alarms or call representatives and shadowed guard to steal me away.” He holds out his cup to share in a simple clink. Her slight resistance to leap into celebration forces him to speak. She’s just returning my own answers. Playful as always. “You wanted to speak of the future before I brought it up, didn’t you?” 

“Using Born to spy on the future me?” Finel leans forward with narrowed eyes and licks her upper lip. As quickly as she’d built herself into the powerful Green celebrity of the Black, she’s returned into common practices. “Naughty boy.”

“Knowledge of such things? Too many open mouths.” Simora’s eyes don’t dip from hers. “The future, Finel.”

“You’re plotting.” She answers. “Schemes in schemes.” Those eyes. Eyes that charm the entirety of nations, sooth the beasts of numerous worlds, and even command the attention of commanders. “That brain always working.” Her free hand drifts like a bird taking flight. Smooth and graceful, the fingers take to Simora’s chin and cheek. “What of my future, Simmy?”

Simora inhales slowly through his nose. “Your future.”

“What’s to be Born?” 

Simora steps closer still. Leaning in quietly, Simora’s mind races through all the possibilities now available. Lips part in gentle anticipation of the union. Warm breath mixing as the two take hold of one another. Another alliance secure—

A twitch beneath the Balan scarf halts Simora. 

A knock then sounds from the door. 

Simora’s eyes open wide. Interruption? That’s… no. 

“Dammit.” Finel whispers near his lips before pulling back and turning her now wide eyes toward the door. “Who the hell is it?!” 

A whimpering answer comes through as the seal is broken. A slight dragging sound, a whine of the metal, nearly makes the messenger leap through the portal. “A-apologies, Dark Stars! There’s comm. Within the hour, Dark Star, Veiled Remiran Noctlin, will arrive.” 

“Damn.” Simora clicks his tongue several times as he places the glass on the table behind him. 

“Didn’t see this?” Finel mocks.

“Not like this.” Simora, returning his expression to the usual fleshy mask, calls to the messenger. “Prepare the Deep Roots and Francestish. Call for another Ceremony of the Steps.” Sighing, letting his annoyance slip through, he turns back to Finel. “Our business will have to wait, but I assure you I intend to continue this discussion.”

“Discussion?” She giggles and downs the rest of her drink. She turns toward the door and walks ahead of him; restarting the dramatic sway to her strut. Noting the messenger is gone, she continues. “I look forward to it. You must’ve seen quite the future.” 

“Secrets, Finel.”

“Yes, yes. The Black way.” The dazzling amethysts fall back on Simora. Her grin is the same playful grin she’d had back in School. The same smile that teased him in every way possible, yet they’d always returned for more. “I’ll keep my lips tightly sealed.” 

Always the same smile. Simora thinks and feels himself pulled, if only slightly, in a direction unknown. His fingers tap at his side as his tongue clicks three times. 

“At least,” a short wink and she turns, “for now.”

Chapter 18

“What a lovely home!” Remiran hurries with a childish exuberance. More energetic than his younger cousin, the blonde man attempts to force a hastened pace. “Hurry up, Simora! How long has it been?”

Simora does keep pace, but his feet neither skip nor prance. “Too long, cousin.” His tone, familiar and yet distant, is higher than normal. Proclivities of a vocal man require shared enthusiasms. “What would you prefer to do first? No sense in deliberation so soon after your arrival.”

“To Hell with the very notion! I’m exhausted! I’d hoped you could at least save me from working for a day, cousin. I’m so damned bored. Day in and day out,” Remiran takes a more adult stride as he waves his hands about and whines. It’s not a whine of a petulant child, at least. It’s the tired expression of true emotion from under the stacking weight of time. “Edoniam has become unreasonably boring.”

“Has the weight of the Black become so grand, cousin?”

“In many ways, it has.” Remiran continues forward. Down a high-ceiling hallway, he takes in all the wondrous colors and subjects. Unfamiliar with most of it, the pieces merely slip back into the foggy gallery of his mind. Yet, in the moment, the appreciation is as legitimate as any patron of the arts. Even more so, perhaps. “The nobles are so pushy. Complaining day and night about their station, what they’re owed, or what they believe they’re owed.

“I’ve longed for a chance to leave it, if only for a few weeks. An Eden among the quiet gaps between planets.” A gathering of Metem stand in colorful garbs in the arc of one column set against the wall. Their eyes do not look down to the Veiled. He searches the ceiling for what has taken the attention of such a gathering of important men. “Your explosive leap into the scene has given me just the opportunity I’ve been waiting for.” Turning to the Dominax, Remiran opens his arms wide. “Thank you, cousin. Thank you.”

Clicking his tongue twice, Simora steps forward with a smile brightening his face. The two cousins of Black share a quick hug before Simora pats him on the back and retreats. 

“Still not the most hands-on, touchy-feely?” Remiran nods with his hands up. A clear indication he’d recalled and apologizes as best a leader of man can. “I can respect that. You’d always been that way. Ever since we were kids. Since…” 

Simora nods, “It’s alright. Yes. Since that day.” 

“Tough borosc, aren’t you?” 

“A borosc wouldn’t last three days upon Icarus Alpha.” Simora’s smile grows to draw the Veiled deeper into the web. “Here I’ve hoped myself among the highest predators of the planet. You’d demote me so?” 

“Meant as a compliment! Too damned smart and worldly. I’d not know the first creature that comes scurrying over my boots.”

“The Lycoths wouldn’t allow them that close,” Simora looks back to the four oddly fashioned figures trailing them exactly twenty tiles, “even if there existed some residual danger.”

Looking back to the Lycoths, the personal guard of the Veiled, Remiran nods at his own peculiar forces. “They’d gleefully take the opportunity. Can you imagine how bored they are?! They’d depart on a Jihad tomorrow if I ordered it. Not even a reason needed! Just,” he waves his hands as if casting a spell, “poof! Off they’d go to fight a war no one needs or wants.”

“Isn’t that most war?”

“Every war has someone wanting it, cousin. Violence always has a reason. Even if we can’t plainly see it.” 

“Again, oddly philosophical.” Simora bows his head with a slight chuckle. “Very good, Veiled.” 

“I have my moments, but I can’t take credit for that one.” Remiran slips forward to stand close to his cousin, but he keeps his arms hovering over the shoulder. Pointing down the hall, he aims at the spiritually entranced Lycoths. “Just as those ones, grandfather’s to blame.”

“Droma Noctlin,” Simora studies the fabled forces of the Black’s head family. “Spoken as a king within the Black.”

“And a devil by every other tongue!” Remiran shakes a fist out in the air. Joyousy even in his breath, he speaks the name, “Droma! The ‘Vile Veiled’ of the Far-Reach Conflict! Returns from all the bloodshed and uncertainty to birth an empire all his own! Our blood, Simora.”

“A fine pedigree.” 

Yet, as they spoke of a figure Simora never knew in his lifetime, the Dominax’s curiosity is invoked like the enslaved devil. In the distance there stand the four humans. Each one a homunculus. Their hairstyles are swooped and straightened into colorful patterns. This alteration is neither by choice nor natural.

As any might tell, there are other attributes of note in the Lycoths. A jawline that wobbles and bubbles with spurred bones. A side effect of the favored drug distilled in secret by the Noctlin household. Veins that swell up from the neck and jaw into the eyes leave the flesh and orbs tainted with a deep violet. 

“Bormata,” Simora confirms with a whisper. “Affective as they say?”

“No pain if they choose it. What the White wish they could perfect without all the practice and meditation!” The Veiled chuckles and motions as if to strike Simora on the back. 

The Veiled, the head of the Black houses, is chosen from among the Black Shields. As with any of the Maiora Aliquam, the houses choose the family which claims a seat at the table of The Unanimity Namaste. Though the seat could change, it hasn’t. Still new is the age of the Far-Reach and The Namaste. Still new are the ways of the Lycoths which Droma bred by flesh and vile toxins. 

More damnable offenses. The breaking of the rules comes in being discovered. 

Their garb is simplistic black. A tightened shirt that flows over oddly contorted torsos. Legs hidden beneath a swirling skirt. Golden weaves of runic symbols line the waist and down from the groin. Across their bodies are a decorative menagerie of technologies and tools. Many items one can easily determine to be dangerous to, or even pain inducing, to the wielder. 

The two in the front have odd capsules, tanks, and devices sticking out from the clothing. Only the right front wears a heavy helmet of some silvery, reflective metal and a heavy, black trench coat. This individual’s eyes are hidden beneath a shadowed visor; though, Simora knows the eyes are there. Purple-stained orbs of emotionless vigilance. Bright, sickly stars waiting for some reason to forsake their apathy for the attack. 

Discolored veins rise up from under the skin connecting the jaw to the right eye. Simora watches how the distorted face seems, at this distance, to pulsate as if the vein were another heart or hungering organ slithering up the Lycoth’s cheek. As the expressionless, bottom half of the face dips, the domed helmet catches the lights of the ceiling. A rod twists in the beams as preparing to launch data into the air. 

Those I can meet eyes with haven’t blinked for some time. Bormata. Numbing all that is pain… more like all emotion. Is this truly the desire of the Vile Veiled? The common name for the drug passes through his mind. Grit. Puppets drugged into unyielding servitude. Clicking his tongue twice more, Such practices will require great review when my schemes come to fruition. The same destination from different paths.

“Give us some space, you cretins!” Remiran’s lips peel back in a snarling smile. Such youthful wilds of command. Ten steps back is the distance they give, and Remiran nods as if satisfied. Partially, at least. He shrugs with an exhausted slump of his shoulders. “Compromising. They’ll obey to the bare minimum they believe won’t annoy me, but they also know I’m tired of being annoyed!” He shouts the last bit in their direction.

They move back another step. 

“That may be the best we’ll get. He’s not a threat. He’s my favorite cousin! Treat him as such.” Remiran waves a finger about as if it were a weapon. With the same deadly focus as a skilled swordsman, the art of the finger wave is spectacular in its relatively useless nature yet respected for the skill and time. The Lycoths nod in unison; verifying they understand their Veiled. “Good! Then remember it. Simora’ll likely be your boss someday.” 

Taken aback by the sudden claim, Simora mimics the stone statues of the hallway. Forcing all the energy of his human heart, the Dominax responds. “Nonsense, cousin. Why would I be their boss?” 

“I’d not have you stay here forever, Simora.” The Veiled turns himself with a hovering hand guiding his younger cousin. 

He’s careful around me? Why? 

“Come now, a man such as you? I can’t promise precise timeframes, yet I’d assure you of my intentions. Nor-Noctlin needn’t stand a lone tree in a field. I’d have you return beneath your banner of the three ravens.” 

Together, the two walk through the halls as any family might. Two children now grown in a building once believed impossible. Despite the separation of time and space, blood tugs like magnets to revive that which exists in familiar bonds. As if tied together, legs to legs and arms to arms, they continue in tandem. 

“Pretty words, my Veiled. Forgive me my weariness at such news.” Simora’s face may have drooped or slipped from behind the mask of flesh he’d created for these interactions. Now, he pulls himself back behind the façade to best study the situation from afar. Like a specter drifting high above, against the masterfully painted ceilings, he witnesses and mentally documents their walk, interactions, tones, word choices, and even the slips of hidden truths trapped within the exposed truths. “It is difficult to—”

“I know. I know. Sudden! Always so sudden. That’s the issue with running the Black empire, Simora. Always busy and so little time for the important details. I’ve been battling with my decision for a while, now. I need people I can trust. And sharp! You know about Bormata and you’ve been stuck on this rock or at School!”

“You told me of Bormata at School, cousin.”

“Did I?” Remiran taps his chin. “That seems silly of me. Why would I do that?”

“I’m sure grandfather would have punished you greatly for it.” Simora’s voice is calm; though, memories sour his mood. 

“Indeed. Punishment would have been just. Grandfather was a great man. Yes, yes. Terrible things were done by many. Yet, forged are our futures by way of his hand.” Remiran’s eyes drop to his cousin as his voice dips, “He had his reasons for the banishment, I’m sure.”

“If you are being honest,” Simora gauges his cousin and feels neither chills in his veins nor tightening of the heart, “I must as well. Your admiration for the man raises concern.”

“I can understand why! He was a pillar of stone among us beings of flesh. I can understand your hesitation. Even your concern. Grandfather gave you little mind because of your father.”

“What little I received would’ve been best withheld.” 

“True. I must admit, in my own prejudice of kingly figures I have blocked such harmful memories tightly behind mental walls. Surely, the mental doctors have spoken against such things, but they know so little compared to we sons of the proper Black family. Sons, I say, that must keep together.”

To what end, cousin? “Of course. To this, I can agree. Yet, it was the first Veiled which cut my branch from the tree of Noctlin. My father had not asked to be planted here, and yet I have grown as a transplanted seed on an infertile world.”

“And now your world becomes a machine which turns dirt to gold. I know. I know. You’ll think me selfish and superficial. I cannot possibly deny this. Noctlin’s coffers would swell with the addition of your planet’s resources and trade.” Remiran turns the corner and speaks closer to his cousin. Caring not for the listening ears of the Lycoth or any other wandering ears hidden just behind the walls of an alien building, he desires to keep the conversation between the two. “We may speak more later in secured locations of a plan, dealings, and practices.

“For now, I wish you to know my heart, cousin. What grandfather did was emotional. It was drastic and as harsh as the gods of old eating their own sons!” Drawing in his voice, the Veiled clears his throat. “It pains me to see you here, still. Were I able to reform the entirety of the universe, your planet would orbit Edoniam. We’d be neighbors.”

“Then, you would keep me here?”

“I would have you wherever you would want to be.” Remiran’s finger gently pokes into the puffy garb of the Dominax. As if pressing buttons on a machine, he prods and twists to create the preferred outcomes. Just as with the Jumper ship, his understanding of the controls are lacking, yet his boyish charm attempts to rebalance the scales. “I’ve been buried under mountains of duties. Endless comms, meetings, managing a series of planets, and all the rest. It’s incredibly boring and tiresome.

“Yet, as the cycles steal away my memories of fonder years. School wasn’t easy, but how wonderful those years! You were always the best in every class. You’d always let me copy off you. Our little secrets. All the Black families’ prodigies bound up in a single campus secreted away from the universe and The Namaste! Secrets upon secrets, cousin.

“And now, as I find myself attempting to reclaim the humanity these cycles abscond with, I peer fondly into the past for those moments that remind me I’m alive. Whenever I’m gifted such seconds to slip into memory, I find myself walking the halls of School. You, Ilgar, and that finely sculpted beauty, Finel. After all this time, and my seat upon The Namaste, I have obtained the ability to restructure the worlds of Black. Time to bring the team back together! To claim the reach of Black for our generation.”

Simora’s eyes resist narrowing at this sudden spilling of emotional recollections. Seeking to flip control of the situation in these clear violations of Black practices, Simora offers a needle to see if the poke will provide more truth among this spouting of mad possibilities. “Ilgar has been dead for many cycles, my Veiled. His planet was Abandoned after the corruption of his meddling in genetics backlashed. Technomonger studies lost as well.” Simora, studying the gasping response of his cousin, presses the verbal needle farther. “The Namaste left all the citizens of the planet to fend for themselves. Quarantining the planet from possibly infecting others in trade or ideology. Very likely the mass of their research and population are both destroyed.”

“My goodness! By all the gods and heavens, am I that far removed?” The Veiled steps away. His body faulting like a man speared through the chest. Slumping against the farthest wall, his sudden drooping causes a series of hurried boots behind him. He waves back; a hasty and immediate response that stops the Lycoths misstep. “No. No, I’ve missed far too much.”

He was the lowest grade in our years of School. Have such Black talents skipped the son of the second son? Simora considers the lineage of his father, the eldest son, and the genes cut from the tree of Noctlin. To loose such emotion openly. 

“Never again!” Making Simora hop, Remiran takes his cousin’s lapels in his fists. “I will repay such debts! Accrued through foolish apathy. Never again. I swear this to you! I must correct such wrongs.”

“My V—”

“Cousin! Stop, please! I wish not to waste my years with unnecessary titles. We are blood! Speak only my name.”

What game does he play? What game could he possibly think he’d win when faced against us? He’d never won. Simora recalls the days of School. 

The four were a merry band of uneasy minds. Bound by their tethers in noble bloods, the four found refuge in one another. Simora was a collected mind which could only cure homesickness with the unending hours of study or some manner of entertainment which could be reasoned as practical. Ilgar was an intellectual caught between the necessity to succeed and the desire to forge himself a place in the universe by appealing to the needs of others. A parasite, as seen by some, but a rather useful companion to those of the four. 

Finel was the singular female of their group. Though she’d adapted flawlessly from group to group, she’d found herself tested and intrigued most by the two sons of genteel families and one son of a rather rebellious branch. The youthful female caught their scent in her animalistic nose. From that moment, her amethyst eyes dazzled most when in the company of her favored prey. 

Then, there was Remiran.

Simora recalls, with perfect detail, how the young man lived as if the future of House Noctlin rested upon the shoulders of some far-off entity rather than his own. Living by the hours, he’d spent more time laughing and running amok than studying or preparing himself for the future. When it came to games of Galaxia, Lie and Lie, Forgo the Dark, or even the ancient practice of Chess, Remiran was by far the least adept in any viable skills. As grades slipped, time was spent in The Corridor. He’d lost in every contest of Black skill or intellect. Yet, Remiran did continue to develop his smile as Glamor painted the young man an Adonis. 

Masters of the Black, elders trained for no more reason in their lengthy existence than to teach those of Maiora Aliquam, became enamored by the youth. Even as he’d failed his tests or disturbed studies with pranks or giggles, he’d somehow found himself spending less and less time within The Corridor. It was as if they’d constructed a being perfected in merely the privileged life of beauty. Somehow, in this, he has retained all power after the untimely passing of his father. 

Even as the cycles turn and The Namaste demands energy of the man, Remiran retains his youthful Glamor and genuine smile. A charm which most lose within their metamorphosis into adults. A specimen purely skilled in the physical nature of attraction. Even for those which sexual attraction would seem impossible, his face catches them as family, as a subject of art, or even as the intriguing topic of some dream trapped in the grayness between waking life and forgotten darkness. 

Glamor, Simora swallows back a tinge of annoyance, is all the man needs. “Remiran,” the man beams at the hearing of his name, “I assure you that none hold any ill will toward you. Ilgar may have passed, yet his memory remains. Finel has spoken fondly of you, and I have never considered you anything but faithful family.”

“Do you mean it?” Remiran waits for confirmation. It comes in the confident and singular nod of his cousin. Nearly coming to tears, the Veiled whimpers, “Thank you, dearest Simora. I’ve failed the Black families. I must make it up to you all, and I hope to begin with you. Coalesce the powers of our people!” 

“Cousin,” Simora motions forward. The two continue their march toward some unknown destination. From his vantage, this out of body experience, the Dominax keeps his attention solely on the Veiled’s responses. “If this is your desire, I would happily accept. Let us talk over such possibilities in more secured privacy. There is much to discuss.” 

“Do you mean it? Surely you do. You’ve always been a kinder heart, Simora.” Remiran’s hand wipes away the singular line of moisture in his eyes. “I’ll not mention it before the other Dark Stars. Not yet, anyway. Even Finel.” A smile returns to his face, “A fine choice for any man. Eh, cousin?”

“Indeed,” Simora nods as he continues forward beside the Veiled. “I was discussing future possibilities with her just as your arrival was announced. Skirting a dark storm, too. Your timing was impeccable.”

“Apologies! I’d stolen a man’s glory! Even as I recall my duties of family and blood, I wrong you merely by intruding! What wrongs I’ve committed. Foolish as always. I shall make it up to you both. Surely. I promise.”

“There is much you’ve promised. We shall discuss it at length.” Simora motions down one hallway toward an end where Prints-a-Ment and Zurikan Steel expanses hang out from the building. “Later, dear cousin.” As the doors open before them, Simora bows his head. “For now, and for all your kind words, let me regale my Veiled properly.” 

Sunlight falls over the outstretched limb of white metal and Prints-a-Ment. Vendors of various wares and services wait patiently for the arrival of the Dark Stars. Women dance near the edges like islanders at the edges of the purest beaches of the planet. Fine fabrics of silk create rainbow waves along the shores. Their movements create a soft breeze which carries forth scents of succulent meats and sweetened drinks. 

A paradise built in a matter of an hour at the behest of their Dominax. Entertainment and refreshments meant to ease the stressed muscles of the head of Black. As Remiran stares in disbelief at this small gathering, his wonder hurries to consider what other pleasures exist within this nameless building. 

“Later.” Remiran agrees as he watches the line of dancers at a distance. A tall glass of a bluish-yellow drink is delivered to his hands, and he takes it without even considering the dangers. His Lycoths cannot help but hurry to examine and test the liquid. Though, he’s already taken a sip and hums with delight. “Later, Simora. We’ll discuss your unimaginably spectacular future later. Come! Let us partake of your glories!” 

And the cousins take their seats to be pampered with drink, dance, music, and food. They sit as kings gathered before their subjects. How happy all present are. How brightly the souls of Rakar shine as the sun pours over them all. The passing dark storm cracks across the northern skies; far beyond the glow of Valkenaria.

“Oh, Simora.” Remiran speaks without taking his eyes from all the wonders present—ignoring the black clouds in the distance. “What of your new eyes?”

Without pausing in the swamp of memories, Simora responds, “Contacts, Remiran. The native despise Sign.”

“Right. Of course.” Remiran smiles and sips of his drink again. “I like them.”

Chapter 19

It is said that the Universe may be understood. There is truth that a portion, what it allows, may be understood. As The Creator permits, humanity might glimpse upon the face constructed by mightier hands than we. For if we were able to understand the Universe, we would not be part of the Universe. Neither trapped within or left to the whims of apathetic solar systems. 

Of those that subscribe to the teachings of the Star Testament or some unique ideology of a particular planet, most will attest to the impossibility that mankind will truly come to understand the Universe. Just as any star will eventually supernova, humanity will find itself upon a forked path. One step leads toward the death of self and all about it. The other leads to reforming itself to better, and continuously, sustain itself upon the blood of creation. 

What masters might rise above the supreme expanse and secrecy of space which cannot, or even will not, obtain the title of “God?”

And so, the spiritual side of such tales must be discussed. For the secrets of the Universe are ever expanding at the edges of dark space. What eons have passed? What civilizations have risen and fallen? What minds in the present day can even properly attest to those civilizations or eons? What lives will be recalled precisely as more eons pass? 

Questions which can never be truly answered. Too narrow the minds of man to understand that these open-ended riddles are not meant to be answered but simply pondered. In this, the foolish man will claim he knows all and answers with enthusiastic ignorance. It is the smartest among humanity which lifts the hand and speaks, “I know nothing.”

Truly, in the eyes of the faithful, these men and women are closer to The Creator than all others. They understand their place.

This is not to say they do not resist that place. 

No creator, breeder, engineer or craftsman ever desires the stagnation of their creations. The evolution of self is as important as the very birth of the self into the woven tapestry of life. In the inescapable path of creation, humanity must resist and evolve. 

The first man that feared the fire, second fearing the waters, third fearing the skies, and the fourth which feared all the earth… they understood the necessity of fear and the practice of overcoming such fears. Even the man which stared into the fearsome darkness and entered found victory in the act of resistance. 

Mankind fears, and so it has challenges to overcome. 

Mankind loves, and so it has duties which provide direction.

Mankind hates, and so it has enemies toward which to aim its aggressions.

Mankind believes, and so it has reason to remain and resist. 

Such histories and beliefs, mingled in myth and reality, are spoken of constantly among the Emel-Rakar. In the sanctums of their tribes or in the passing of dangerous landscapes, they keep themselves warmed with the knowledge of what was in the hopes of overcoming what is. They know of the men that feared the fires, waters, airs, earths, and darkness. These men were just and they were champions for they each raised their hands in initial defeat and said, “I know nothing.”

Yet, in this admission of ignorance, the men had confirmed their need for resistance. For those that feared these elements and did nothing remained tucked beneath rocks and within caves just at the terrifying edge of all elements. 

These men chose something new. They chose to face the fears, to overcome… to harness. 

And so, the legends of the Praetors came into existence. Lost to the secretive blackness of eons and space, the myths breathed life into those that refused to resist. 

It was said, in this legend, how The Creator glanced down upon all of creation with diminished joy. From the darkness of nothingness into the expansive universe, there was naught but the horrified creatures of semi-intelligence. Still, The Creator waited and introduced more and more into the expanse of reality. As if Pandora’s Box had yet to be engineered by the Heavens, evils and dangers ran rampant.

It was then that five specimens among the countless lives claimed The Creator’s attention. Their steps were hesitant. They still cried out and even considered retreat. 

Yet, through their wails and their protests, they trudged on toward the crux of their fears. Atop the boiling mountains, across the churning waters of violent seas, in the open plains beneath vast skies of cracking lightning, within the forests of rumbling lands filled with predators, and the stepping through a moonless night into the howling wilds where darkness rules… humans commanded the attention of The Creator.

Fire was grabbed from the bushes that were caught ablaze. Atop the hills among the peoples crying out below, one man stood with branches alight! Wielding it like the baton of the orchestral director, he cried out to every singular soul. Binding them all to the light of his burning branch, he delivered the passionate words, grumbles and grunts, which filled the world with the warmth of The Creator. Fire called forth the people from hiding and embolden them with passions. 

And so, the people gathered.

Waters were swam through and studied. One man pressed himself deeper into the waters until he’d learned the ways of its motion. When next he returned, he found the paths that cut through the open waves. He traveled the globe to find more lost souls among the isles separated by oceans. These souls would watch the man’s approach as he conquered the waters. A ship, like a path of floating land, would offer them safety across the waves and those secreted beasts swimming below. His voice called out and instructed them in the ways of distant worlds and the ways to construct their own bridges. Water was split and the people took to the living element.

And so, the people traveled. 

Wind was heard and embraced as long-lost kin. Mimicking the breaths of every wind, the man fashioned devices to sing the songs of the directions. Within the plains, open and exposed to the storms of the skies, he played his songs and called out to the Heavens to please The Creator. The man’s tributes drew the ears of all among the lands, and he found himself surrounded by the soothed hearts of the masses. As lightning fell, the man’s voice and instruments kept the spirits of humanity strong. They found themselves willing to chance danger for that which is blissful and gifted to humanity. Winds gathered and encased the minds of the vigilant and driven. 

And so, the people shared in community.

Earth rumbled and opened wide. Within, a man saw where life begins and shall return. Dust and dirt to rise and fall in the passing of time. With the knowledge of what will be, he found himself willing to resist and remain. He took the seeds of one plant and made three. He took in the beasts beneath his stones and lashing and found two became seven. He took the ore and fashioned himself the claws and fangs evolution had denied him. He took these beasts and traversed the lands taking in those fearing him more than the world. Earth was conquered as it was used to conquer. Earth opened wide to offer seed, beast, metals, and truth. 

And so, the people evolved. 

Darkness swallowed in the final man. He offered himself fully to the darkness where wailing uncertainties awaited. Venoms, traps, claws, or any number of dangers might have awaited him, yet he waited patiently and soothed himself. In the darkness he found himself quieted. As darkness was embraced, there were no longer the wails of uncertainty but the truths of known creatures, of possibilities, and of the self. Reflecting inward, he found the darkness had never been dangerous in and of itself. The horrors of darkness came from within, and so the darkness was listened to. The darkness was carried from the shadow of night into the light of day. 

And so, the man became enlightened. 

And in this all, The Creator smiled upon them. A piece of the Universe had been taken up and taken in by these souls. And for their courage, The Creator blessed each. 

The fire warmed the man down to his bones. The spirit within rose as the very blood of the planet so that his voice might boom as the volcanic roar. 

“Let none hear your voice and ignore it.” 

And so, the man fell to all fours with a howl escaping his throat. As fires rose from his heart and into his throat, the howl sent sparks through the ashy skies. 

The water swelled and rose the man high above the violent waves. That he might carry men from shore to shore and hear them wherever they may reside, his body became the warmed waters which rise as silent seas to float above the world.

“Let none forsake your call to thought.”

And so, the man lifted his arms and took to the sky. His silent wings beat against all creation to send musing thoughts into their minds. 

The skies and winds cast lightning and rains upon the people. Still, the man stood against the raging storms as a vigilant soldier against the will of the wilds. He inhaled the storms and placed himself between the world and his people.

“Let none see your resolve and believe you weak.”

And so, lightning filled the eyes of the man as he fell into a hunched mass of resistance. White fur glistened as electricity danced over the lumbering hulk. The growling form becomes a titan which even the wilds cannot break. 

The earth granted every blessing to the man that forsook his fear of it. Evolving to the world about him, he in turn evolved like the Tree of Life digging deep into his essence. Every beast and environment would offer itself to the man as a bequest of The Creator. 

“Let none hide from the worlds you conquer.”

And so, the world bled into the man. Steel became his fangs and claws. Countless pelts became his flesh. The land, water, or sky beneath his feet became his domain. An apex above the apex, the man became an amalgamation of nature. 

And so, darkness swelled within the man. The abyss drew in as the shadow disappeared and the mind split into many voices. All that is offers the absence of light the stars create. He walked among the living without fear for he absorbed all and became as the shadows always at their backs. 

“Let none steal truth from you.”

And the man fell into shadows. Beyond the sight of the average man, he became something secreted away by darkness itself. His whispers have led the way for many, yet his face remains obscured by the world and space. 

So goes the tale of the five men that conquered fear and became Praetors. Perhaps, as time continues and the Obnatus Pallide or any minor Family of the Hue become more empowered, more men might join the fable spoken upon Rakar. Their Praetors may equal the five or may live just beneath the might of the original. 

The Emel-Rakar speak these stories in hushed darkness beyond the eyes and ears of strangers. The elements have left marks upon the souls and DNA of humanity. From these origins, the Embers of Rakar follow the practices of these forefathers. 

Were these souls once alive upon the lands of Rakar? Were the oral histories carried across the solar systems? They raise their hands in the ending of the tale and admit to their own tribes, “I know nothing.” 

In this, they confirm their desire to resist.

In this, they conquer the world which so many have come to fear. 

Chapter 20

“What’s any of that to do with this?” 

“Everything, my dear Wallace.” Simora sticks his hands into some mound of flesh with two devices recording the work. These mechanical eyes zoom into the intricate happenings between the deconstruction and reconstruction of biological pieces. “The schemes have begun and the di cast.” 

“And the game’s begun? You’ve bet quite the radical sums.” 

“How do you figure? Wait, that. Farther up. Extending the cord.” Bloodied hands extend to show the increment of his expectations. A simple signal that Wallace follows nearly to the letter, and the hands adjust again to command another attempt. 

“Here? Yeah. Right.” Wallace takes the Dominax’s diving back into the flesh as confirmation. “I mean, Sir, the bets of lives.”

“You mean Thomat’s, Patire’s, and yours?” 

Wallace nods with a grunt as he places bone against bone. A heavy section of ivory slips into place so one of the many devices can clamp down, spark with focused light, and a mechanically grinding voice confirms the next step is in process. “Y-yes. You’d made mention of my inclusion within your own—”

“Family lineage, yes. Your family and your skills are rather interesting.” Three clicks of the tongue before Simora begins intricately stitching like weaving already knotted strings. Wires and sinew knitted together. A pair of goggles meant to assist with magnification and protection of the corneas shine with brilliant light as they reveal the beautiful building blocks of the materials. “Spark might be the one bloodline power to rival Umbra.”

“You barely speak of Umbra. Now, I’ve heard you speak of it a handful of times in a few days. Am I supposed to hear this?”

“You’ll hear what I wish, won’t you? No one else to talk of it with. I could speak to the walls, but they always respond with the same childish voice.”

“Your own?”

“My own.” Simora allows himself a smile in this relaxed place. A sanctuary cut away from the outside world. 

“Is that a true smile?”

“It is.”

“Am I supposed to see that?” Wallace begins hoisting the next section of cleaned, carved out bone. “I can’t imagine how tiring it is.”

“As with all skills and strengths.”

“I can lift these,” Wallace hears the snapping of the brightened light within the clamp. Releasing it, the length rests with a gentle curve, like a quiet stream, against the metal table. “No problem. Spark?” He shakes his head. “That’s tiring.”

“You need to train more.” 

“I try.”

Simora shakes his head as he continues his own work. “Not the same as the body. Meditation. Mental exercises. Your logs and reports rarely mention such training. This,” he feels the sinew squeak with the gradual injection of his fingers, “is salubrious. While alone, I can fall into the quiet networks of Spark. Hours can pass by without any notice of the world beyond these walls.” 

“You’ve brought me here to train?” Wallace leans back and cracks his neck. Examining his Dominax, the massive man is as a youth entering his professor’s office for the first time. “That’s quite generous, Sir.”

“I am a generous man.” Simora smiles again. The wide lenses of his goggles peer up in the direction of Wallace to mimic eye contact. Like a bug made of stained glass, the Dominax buzzes around the meat. “My last companion in such revelations of science and knowledge did not receive your blessings of the Blue. Merely the Black.

“While any family of the Black may possess a brain, a Blue Spark is more favorable in this specific line of work. My goals, theories, and data point toward favorable futures.” The bug returns to the deep intricacies of the pieces before him. “However, I am limited by time and culture.”

“The Emel-Rakar?”

“The Namaste.” Simora sighs as he continues to let down the masks of the Umbra. Allowing himself to fully leap upward from the shadows into the blue waters, he splashes through stilled blood and cold meat. “Traditions are the haunting commands of the dead. Do you know the inevitability of the new and the old?”

“What do you mean?” Another pristine section of spinal cord is moved into place. “Old giving into the new?”

“What did this beast do? Hm?” The bug eyes glance back up to the man across the table from him. “What did it do to find its way here?” 

“Cross your path, I’d say.”

Three clicks of the tongue and Simora’s back to work. “The new ways are as violent as the old, Wallace. New ways are simply more efficient. More potent. There are tales from humanity’s earliest empires of this difference exemplified in the grandest of fashions.

“A swordsman, his blade made of inferior steel yet wielded by a tempered mind, marched on the field against another man with a rifle able to kill from over a hundred meters away.” Simora continues with a quiet fascination. A mind built as much for the past as it is for the future. “Wooden ships sunk before the brutish, barbaric metals of empires. Missiles falling from space into villages of twigs and thatch.

“The new ways demand the path be cleared. The old ways struggle to survive.” A quite, yet excited voice, sinks into the cooled slab. “The inevitability of the new is that the path be paved in sin. Now, sin is a rather open-ended descriptor, don’t you think?”

“Who,” Wallace grunts as he fastens two metallic joints to his work, “defines the word?”

“Exactly!” An excited bug man leaps up from his specimen. “Did the man with the rifle, a now archaic contraption, consider the swordsman’s culture or beliefs before he’d constructed it? Was there a moment where the man weighed the positives with the negatives and found them to be acceptable?

“I do believe the latter is more likely.” Two floating devices bob about the bloodied hands of the Dominax. “Every upgrade I make. Every new… tool… I engineer. Am I to be plagued by the cultural traditions and norms set by the invisible specters of men wishing they truly lived? We, here, are alive, Wallace. I’ll not be hindered by their nonsensical call to limitations of exceptional persons.” 

Wallace has since stopped his work. His contact-covered eyes remain fixed on his leader. In this filled discussion of dreams and lofted ideals, the young Wallace knows he’s not simply found a physical sanctum but a mental one as well. So, as any good student, he attempts to absorb what his teacher provides him. 

“Will you be limited, Wallace? Or will we pave a new path?”

Wallace grunts as he allows himself to stare through the eyes of Spark. The calculations of the coming moments begin to clear as an image of a man stepping closer through the fog. 

The advancing probabilities are like whispers through that same fog. Every one of them beckoning the man toward something greater; though, the uncertainty, that dancing devil, remains. There is a tune the devices and devil play in a special sort of combat that speeds Wallace’s heart. 

Now, at the edge of the fog, beckoned by the unclear visage of what could be tempting devil or protective angel, Wallace knows he must make a choice. There stands the intersection between new and old awaiting the blood of life. No matter which one might sacrifice itself to, the path must be built. 

“I’d not be left behind.” Wallace chuckles as he pats the cleaned section of bone. “You’re too damned driven. If I don’t hitch to you, I’d be left in the ditches. Heavens forbid I be dumb enough to stand against you.”

“You can make your choice.” Simora’s glass eyes float beside the work. He clicks his tongue with the snapping from a device that fires red beams into the meat. More precise than any surgeon on Icarus Alpha, the Dominax speaks with as much care as he moves his hands. “I merely offer you an… apprenticeship of sorts.”

“And a future in your family.”

“That as well. Our children will have children. Our futures entwined, yet that shouldn’t strangle away your freedoms of choice.” 

“Freedom of choice?” Another metal piece is secured into the bone. The old and the new, Wallace thinks to himself as he uses devices to bind the materials. He straightens his back and tugs at the Balan scarf. “Freedom then? Do we limit ourselves?” 

Simora’s bug eyes lift over the cooled specimen for a moment as he examines his student and confidant. There’s a silence as the young men study one another. Two scientists offering stimulating conversation with the challenge of minds. Gauging the response, an apathetic consideration of the outside rules versus those of the inside, Wallace yanks the scarf down to the base of his neck. 

“Much better.” Wallace shivers as the two flaps spread up like tongues on the back of his neck. Sniffing in the air of the laboratory, more than just the scents of the room touch the sensitive pathways of the senses. The small patches, like the miniature bulbs of the tongue, swell over the edges of the receptors. “Don’t live by their limits, eh?”

Stopping his work, Simora looks up from the welding of quiet flesh to study the larger man. Clicking his tongue, he then returns to the work as a mechanic under the Dart. “No need.”

“Doesn’t feel…” back to work as the assistant should. “Doesn’t feel wrong?”

“How do you mean?”

Wallace grunts up another section of spine. Reaching up to refocus the dials of his machine, the hum of the devices join the song. “Like… breathing. You wouldn’t just go around holding your breath, Sir.”

“I perform such breathing exercises every day. The Civilized have shared such practices with me; though, I do not believe they share all the skills and reasoning.” 

“But you eventually take a breath.” 

Simora’s head swivels a bit as if attempting to resist a shiver. “Of course. That’s life.”

“But you cage yourself. Let loose.” Balan fabric removed, Wallace leans forward and lets the thin flaps curl up gently. “There’s so much more to this, isn’t there?” Just beyond the fog of this uncertainty, the Spark begins to shine brightly in the man. “I’ll learn from you, Sir. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll learn from me, too.”

“That’s rather optimistic.” Simora’s head bobs about. The lights dancing about the metal table continue to burn, weld, stitch, and reshape as the Dominax requires. Every thought a simple command to reform the device as necessary. “Yet, I will never turn down an experience or lesson.”

“Then why not give it a chance?” Wallace reviews the cord of rested bone and metal. Glimmering as a limp machine, the remains and materials await the next step. Wallace’s tanned hands slide over the bound construct as he closes his eyes. “You say to practice Spark. Understood.”

There is a twitch of the receptors. There is a sniff and a lick of the lips. A moment of silence as the sound isn’t what he feels vibrating in him. The scent isn’t just in the nose but on the spongy appendages of tongue and receptor. Sight not required when still and learning. The lab speaks to him. 

“This creature,” his fingers poke on one of the bones that stand out, “was the older piece. Two cycles more than the rest. Well fed.” Along the edge of a protruding piece, a sharpened, primitive axe-like shape creates a bumpy path for the finger. “Stood seven feet at the hump. Eh? Venom was potent. Still deep in the cavities. Too toxic for human consumption. Deadly, not just sickly.”

“What else?” 

The eyes, painted with a false and icy blue, open wide to review the pieces. The vibrations of the bone, not tampered with by the attached metal, pulse across the pinkish cushions in the neck. “Dense. Yet, there must have been an injury to the beast. Lopsided in the chatter. Built strong on the right.” 

“Just from a bone?” Simora asks as he digs deeper. 

“Is that enough?” 

“It’s a start. A fine start.” Simora leans back to examine the gaping wound in the corpse. “Yet, you required the full exposure of the receptors.” The bug eyes of glass don’t point toward Wallace, but he can tell the sandy gold orbs are aimed in his direction. “A good start. Truly.”

“So, you do use them?” 

“Of course.” Simora rolls his head around the neck; cracks doubling on the clicks on his tongue. “But I try not to dig too far.” 

Wallace points toward a collection of white pieces on the next table. “These next?”

“Sure.” Simora’s already begun his own next step. 

“So, digging too far?” 

The Dominax pauses as the memory of the recent days chill his bones. Still, he won’t let it show on his face. Thinking. Just make him think I’m thinking. “Muscles take training. To press too far can be dangerous.

“Reading’s no different.”

“I’ve only Read the bone.”

“And a price is still incurred.” 

Wallace grunts his understanding as he motions for the devices to do their work. Seven pairs of curved bones are clamped, fired upon with crimson beams, and directed to his mental command. “A fine point. You recommend practice and then speak of restraint. You speak of freedom and new ways, yet you seem to skirt about the cultures here.”

“Mhm.” 

Wallace watches the Dominax continue to work. It’s a game, eh? All a game. The receptors, open to the acrid air of the chemically pungent laboratory, quiver with the faintest rumble of a clicking tongue. “Why’d you pick me, Dominax?”

“You know it’s a game.” Wallace pauses. Feeling his thoughts immediately invaded, he quiets himself at the edge of the fog—a spark shivering in the open air of the Umbra’s domain. Simora continues to fire his devices into the newly opened section as if his words do not call to some ghastly shade in the fog. “That’s good. It should always be seen as such.

“You see, Wallace.” Simora waves a hand as four more devices float down from the ceiling. One begins to float about the entirety of their work to examine and scan it. A curious little bug of metal to obey the hive’s master. “A game, just like life, has an end. The difference is that one doesn’t lose themselves in the chance that the game ends unfavorably. They cloud their minds with only enough concern and stress to hopefully feel the joy of success in the fleeting memory of victory.

“Life, Wallace, can be dealt with in such a way. One must forgo some stress and resistance in order to fling oneself forward toward victory. The bird too scared to leap from the nest eventually outgrows it and falls, starves, or gets eaten. So, there must be a balance. In doing so, we can be free to make the choices we desire. Free to choose with well-informed haste which neither leaves us ignorantly vulnerable nor fearfully complacent. We are the strong that earn such freedom.”

“Is this Umbra?” Wallace watches as the small device scanning the table turns its red eye toward him. It drifts forward with a more narrowed eye. It does not scan; instead, it glows with the anger only mimicking the fury a human might muster. “W-what?”

“And death awaits us all.”

The moment draws on as the silence overtakes the lab once more. Four devices circle Wallace for a moment before stopping. They all stare with their singular eyes of red beating wildly in the slick, white bodies. 

Wallace’s eyes scan them all as a cold sweat nearly freezes in the conditioned air. “Plain on your face.” Simora removes his goggles and places them gently on the edge of the table. A mask, for a moment, returns as a clay fashioned face for the Dominax to mold. “That simply won’t do.” All the floating devices begin to back away and return to their docking stations. “Umbra isn’t for training the Spark, Wallace. It’s for keeping what the Spark can truly do tucked away from those that would remove our freedom of choice.”

“You’re right damaged in the skull, Dominax.” Wallace’s shoulders slump for a moment with a heavy sigh. “You’re all over the place today.”

“Today, tomorrow, yesterday, and the next.” Simora stands with a flourish and motions to their quiet pet. A simple creature of puzzle pieces yet to form a total picture. “I want to know everything, Wallace. You’d ask, ‘Why me?’ I’ll tell you. Your innovation with the Woad Warrior bracer was incredible. Your ability to forgo the whining so often associated with Blue families is a perk I’d sooner pay a ransom for than lose. Your capability of Matter is rather interesting and requires further study.”

“You know about—”

“Of course I do.” Simora motions to the man. “Look how big you’ve gotten with your diet and genetics. Your father’s barely over one and a half meters. Mother’s similar. Your definition is quite profound. How much energy you must put into the control of the body. It’s impressive, Wallace. Not as impressive as some of your innovations and research, but impressive in its own right.” 

“Now I’m fairly concerned.” A chill runs from the spine into the receptors. There’s no taste of danger, no recognizable pheromone or chemical agent, from the Dominax. More thuds through the organs confirm the clicking of the tongue. “I barely know anything about you. Now, I’m fairly sure anything I thought I knew is either a half-truth or tactful lie.”

Simora pushes away from the desk with a tired sigh. “You know more than most. Anyone that knew more is already dead.”

“That’s the Ilgar they’d spoke of.” 

Simora nods without responding. Instead, he turns about and begins collecting his tools and documents. Making notes on prismaslate or on the many floating screens about him. There’s a lengthy pause by which the laboratory seems to breathe a soft sigh of relaxation—hoping itself no longer burdened with such conversation. In this silence, one could only assume, correctly so, that the question asked was answered in the lack of answering. For someone of the Black, Wallace knows, this point is rather clear. 

No answer given often leaves the mind to wander and fabricate more splendid answers upon the foundations of the question. A simple and straightforward question such as this leaves little room for such mental craftsmanship, yet the myth of the unanswered inquiry grows. For a Black student such as Simora, he was taught to always consider the outcomes of such silences. What the stillness brings can be far worse than the pain of breaking such a silence. 

“What was he like?”

“How are the nerves in the neck? Were there any mutations or notable characteristics?” 

Wallace pokes the vertebrae he’d read through with Spark and receptors. “You’ve shared a lot today. I didn’t mean to offend—”

“Not offended.” The mask turns back to Wallace. A morphed expression which the Deep Root recognizes immediately—having been shown what face lies beneath. “Simply more than is necessary at this time. I’ll not have our bloodlines joined until I’m sure the extent and powers of the Blue. It must be cultivated.” 

His smile. Wallace examines his Dominax with strained breaths. I’ve used Spark more than most days. He’s right. Does that smile mean our deal can be overturned? The masked leader peers through a nearly imperceptible falsehood of living humanity, and the Deep Root begins to retreat.. I can’t read him. That’s truly Umbra. This is the man who’s offered me a future. Knowing the mask exists cannot save him from the charm of Glamor.

“You’ll keep trying to read me. I understand.” Simora nods toward him with the allowed smile reaching farther up toward the ears. “I genuinely hope you do, Wallace. For your bloodline, mine, and all of humanity. Keep pressing forward, if that is what you so choose.”

“And you’ll continue to hide.”

“Some of who I am, of course. For even the self has rights to privacy.” Speaking his Black mantra, the Dominax bows his head. “You know of me what you must. I still stand your Dominax. This title is not only to give me power over all those upon my planet, but to remind them that there is power which leads them. With such power, a Black might know true privacy.

“Privacy is a right for all, yet power provides the means to retain it. The Ravagers have kept many things a secret from us, and that is a power I do not possess.”

“And you will?”

“With this.” Simora points to all the tables, tools, prismaslates, and projected screens around him. A plethora of avenues and mediums by which all information is composed, stored, deliberated, compared, restructured, and prepared for practice. This haven of the mind seems to breathe, with a chemical stench deadly to the weakest lifeforms, as if a living extension of the master. “With all of this. I will reshape the universe. And you, Wallace, will help me complete that.

“Now.” Simora turns back to his student and points at the spinal cord. “Were there any mutations or notable characteristics?”

Chapter 21

“Welcome, the blood of my blood! Emel-Rakar, the Metem of Rakar, my remer is the refuge for your spirits and bodies. My breath is yours.” An opened armed Simora calls out from the dais of the throne room. This room, connected with greeting antechambers and quiet spaces of contemplation, is opened and wide to the air of Rakar. Normally, this far wall would blockade the world from the gentle tones of the honey hued stones. 

Here, now, the powerful among Black and Emel-Rakar are brought together within the space. Rows of lengthy tables are set with extravagant offerings. Fine wines and spirits. The freshest fruit of even the most dangerous plants. Meats from every creature that could be considered, in some very loose definition, domesticated. 

“Iphalma, Almakamla, nota Rakar.”

May God and Rakar keep you. Simora bows his head to the current line of chieftains. Each of them shine like the various jewels and ore from deep in the earth. Dazzling as precious stones from Icarus Alpha, the leaders of many tribes bow with a clutched fist to their chests. Their expressions as gloriously bland as the surface of jewels.

“Abetak.”

“Tebera.” The many respond. 

From the many, one slides a foot forward. Upon the dais, where the Dark Stars sit upon carved stones draped in the tapestries and gems of their hues, Simora notes the singular man attempting to dominate the line. He’s the alpha in this group. 

Colors and designs of various lands seem to slip back from the steps, yet the man draped in cooled colors of greens and browns remains slightly bowed. 

“Their language is so rough!” From the largest of the thrones, yet off-center, Remiran whispers with youthful excitement. “As coarse as their hands, I’m sure.” 

“A wild tongue.” Finel bites at her lip; sharing this immature delight on the edge of what some might consider inappropriate. 

Three of the four Metem turn their heads toward the forward man. Realizing the situation before many of the Dark Stars, they spin on their heels and march back to their respective tribes. Theirs, these men leading nations, depart from those leading planets. One from their flock remains. 

“Tehn ret gorrish, Dominax.” 

The word “Dominax” sounds so natural upon the tongue of the Metem. Raising his head, the copper eyes that bleed into wild greens and yellows connect with the golden sands. A pleasant smile etches itself into the stony flesh. Years yet to be fully experienced seem trapped within the man. Simora sees the decades gathered in flesh still malleable. 

Older than me, perhaps by a few cycles. Nearing three decades. The Dominax considers the specifics in comparison. A machine, shiny and sparking with manufactured brilliance, set atop the path of a leathery beast tamed by its own hand. New meets the old, and a playful smile touches Simora’s own lips. 

“Speak, Metem Yamay Fo Neplet. Let me hear the words of the Brotabak Tribe.” Simora leans forward with an arm stretched out. The act beckons the voice of the chief. In this, all tables, filled with murmurs and discussion just moments ago now fall silent. They wait for this chief among chiefs to speak. He’s surely one of the alphas. Look how they hang upon the moment. 

Yamay straightens himself as he slides a wide hand through the darkness of his hair. In this massive hall opened to the world, the Metem glanced back to the brightness of the day. Sighing, he turns back to the gathered powers atop the thrones. A tongue swirls between the lips and the teeth as he collects himself before the Dominax. 

A low voice, one as tempered in the light of day as the flesh of the man, answers the imposed ruler of Rakar. “Thank you for the refuge, Dominax.” Still, it sounds natural and resonates with a true weight which many citizens cannot match. Whether the man truly believes the title worthy, which is yet to be seen, he speaks it with all the import it’s owed. “My breath is yours, if your blood is mine.”

Though a constant breeze had graced all in attendance with a cooled respite from the harsh sunlight, the breath of Icarus slows to silence. Chief and ruler peered into one another. 

Forests and the sands.

How quite can a cathedral become? Quite the achievement to observe such a marvelous cavern devoid of sound. Eyes from all corners of the globe wait for the men to break the silence for them. It has become nearly a spiritual event, that all hold their tongue and await one side to gain victory over the other. Comms will be sent, and this moment recalled by many.

Simora, uncomfortable in this silence which provides no benefit to himself, speaks, “My blood is yours, brother.” In this, tension refuses to depart, yet it now drifts about like an unwelcomed stench. 

As Yamay examines the ruler, it is Remiran that speaks next, “Such conflict in words? One might think we’re at war.”

This does little for the atmosphere. His whispers draw the eyes of those that had kept them on the table. One man, somewhere far from the stage of Dark Stars, coughs into his cup. Many focus on the Veiled, then to the Metem, then to the Dominax. 

“Nonsense. The Brotabak tribe has been honest and friendly. You merely hear the melodious tones of a Metem among Metem. I believe they agree.” Simora motions from his seat to the many gathered. His own forces, notable Civilized, and the Emel-Rakar gathered under one roof. Any eyes brave enough to be part of the conversation glance toward Yamay. 

None answer in opposition. 

“Kind words, Dominax. Kind, kind words.” Yamay turns to glance over the massive crowd. Even when surrounded by what one would confirm as allies and friends, his eyes would move in efficient sweeps. He knows not all are allies and friends. “Dark Stars.” He nods as he returns his attention to them all. Bowing only his head to these elite from various planets. 

Still, the man’s lips bulge with the searching of his tongue. As if words are trapped between teeth or behind the gums, he stands silent for a moment in quiet contemplation. 

Some Dark Stars seem to become uncomfortable in such silences. Simora had already overcome one. It is now the Ravager’s turn. 

“Words.” His voice booms. A sudden cry of the Heavens that sends a spark under Remiran’s seat. The Dark Star flinches on his throne before sighing and listening. “Words from any man may bear his soul. I would hear the words from the man’s tongue.” A right hand, missing the middle finger, points up at the Dark Stars with an anemic strength. “From the Dark Stars.”

This arouses the crowd. Fresh meat tossed to the wolves. 

“Which words would you wish to hear?”

Smacking his lips before allowing the dry words to slip through, Yamay nods along with his answer, “Truth, Dominax. Palaver and truth.” 

“Then you shall have it.” Simora motions to the Dark Stars beside him. “To our fine envoy from Enert, the northeast continent, you shall join us for the meal. If this is acceptable, Metem Fo Neplet?”

“‘Yamay’ will do.” The Metem nods as he continues his scanning of those within the massive space. So open and defenseless. To any Emel-Rakar, such a place would mean certain death… in days past. “I hear myself.” His hand twirls about his ear; clearly referring to the echo. 

“Here, you are safe.” Simora assures him. “Will you join us?”

Yamay continues his examination of the faces with professional intrigue. Pursing his lips with a stern nod, he answers, “Yes.”

“Thank you. We will begin vuluta shortly. You shall be my honored guest among the Dark Stars.” 

And so he is. There is music and merriment as is called for during a vuluta. A gathering of the Metem demands the finer things. To call such persons from far and wide into one location would take months previously. Comms sent by computing systems or by traveler; new and the old. More from each continent than usual. Small parties from many tribes. The hall is filled with a variety of nations. 

Simora notes this, I’ve not seen so many answer or gather at once. They seek favor as I advance this world into the future. 

Wine pours freely as the dais is redecorated in a sweeping flood of servants. A circular table of stone is moved into the center where the thrones are turned back inward. Cloths of jeweled silks and wools are cast across the table like lines into the water for fishing. Crossed and woven in madness, the colors of every nation and hue overlap and curl about until the twisted image of a rainbow sun unfurls from the center. 

Beside Simora, a seat is prepared for Yamay. The Deep Roots are not welcomed to the table of the Dark Stars. In truth, only four spaces were spoken of in private with the servants. Four spaces for the possibility of some major voice from each of the foreign continents. However, corrected by the recent events, Simora has decided to quietly remove all possible invitations from the populace. 

He’ll entertain them, surely. Yamay was one of the first here. Vision was Born, and here he is in more splendor than I could have planned for. 

“Mister Ravager,” Remiran immediately speaks with the voice of an ignorant off-worlder. His excitement beams from his face as if he were another moon catching the finest rays from the blazing sun. Had more heard this derogatory term, there might’ve been whispers and narrowed eyes. Yamay simply listens. “What brings you to my cousin’s jeweled city upon this planet?” 

Yamay took his seat with quiet swiftness and looks the Veiled in the eyes, “The Dominax has called for the meeting of Metem. Here, in open air, we find ourselves, the Emel-Rakar, beneath Dark Stars.” Plates and dishes are delivered before the leaders as the entire gathering hums with quiet music and chatter. Hundreds of individual conversations to mask the topics discussed in the whine of human noise. Still, Yamay remains fixated to this present company. 

“And what a delight it is to have you.” Finel grips at her cup as she examines the man. In her usual manner, exaggerated for the benefit of Simora, her eyes rise and fall with slight twitches to her cheeks. A gentle reddening of the skin turns her tanned skin into a cherry caramel. “You are from Enert?” 

“I am.”

“What wonders does the land hold?” Elder Matheem interjects at the sight of the young and intriguing Finel sipping. “Such a young man! Surely you must have tales to share!” 

“I do.”

A silence overtakes the table as some wait for the Emel-Rakar’s answer. In his mind, he’s given all he needs to. Simora’s thoughts fill with a quiet giggle he dare not share with the table, this lowly man of majority, not a hue to his bloodline, gives a better showing of Black than the Stars. 

“Have we the dullest chieftain of the planet in our company?” Remiran breaks the silence after a minute. “Spin us not a single woven tale?” The wine swirls about in his mouth as he meets Simora’s narrowed eyes. Explaining himself, “I just thought we’d be entertained.” 

My greatest obstacle… “Yamay has been offered a seat at my table. He’s not a jester or minstrel.” Turning, he finds Yamay examining a swollen fruit over a slab of perfectly seared meat. “Yamay may tell any story or merely listen. Whatever he wishes.”

A grunt confirms his understanding. 

Obin swallows his first mouthful of fresh meats before saying, “If ye’d speak, I would listen. As the delegate of the White, The Ten Columns of The Unanimity Namaste must be upheld. Fear no retaliation from our fine Simora Nor-Noctlin, my fair man. He’s a fair man, yet I’d honor my duty. Aye. Duty must be honored. So, speak if ye must.”

“I mustn’t. Or, rather, have no reason.” Yamay leans back and meets the massive, blocky man’s eyes. There is neither aggression nor comradery; even in the clear presence of Sign. Simplistic is the connection between two men meeting for the first time under the white flag of truth. Neither has an agenda over the other; though, their plans may involve others at the table. “I’ve come to speak to the Dominax. Time enough for such pleasantries as the night proceeds and Irakari turns the world over.” 

“Finely put, sir. Finely put.” Obin nods and lifts his cup. This act, kindly in the invitation to the table, is acceptable to the Metem. Sharing in drink is often the quickest path toward friendship. Removing inhibition through inebriation can allow passage through personal walls like molecules slipping through membranes in osmosis. “Then speak as ye would, Yamay. Let no title nor tale frighten ye from our table.”

Nodding is his answer. 

“If I may,” Matheem cuts in, “might I inquire as to the daily routines and spiritual practices of your tribe? I apologize profusely for my brash interjection, yet I seek the passions of your people. Yes, the fire and passions.” 

Simora’s eyes do not roll; though, an animalistic necessity to do so attempts to rise to the surface. Finel, seeming to smell the acrid pheromone change in her favorite prey, grins madly at the man. As if to add fuel to the problematic fires, she speaks into the rim of her cup, “Yes. Passions. Please do, Yamay.”

The tanned man worn by sun, waters, wind, and earth responds with a drawl so heavy it tugs down the audience. Drawing down deeper into the waves of speech. “We wake with Irakari. We tend the beasts and the fields. Our flesh bears the wounds of our successes.

“We give thanks to Almakamla by means of blood; our own or that of what the world provides.” Yamay’s lips pinch inward as he licks over the teeth. The sparkling rings of his eyes meet every pair that look to him in turn. He won’t, or perhaps cannot, look away from their eyes. Be it to never show weakness or simply that his father taught him properly, he retains eye contact. “We speak and we build. We tend and we reap. We sing and we dance. All beneath Irakari, we are human and adore as human.

“My tribesmen and I have come to pay Athta to the Dominax. I come for the tale I’ve heard.” 

The tale reached his ears. Simora nods internally, Of course it did.

“A tale? One we’d hear?” Remiran verbally leaps at the chance to be told a tale. A story from a world he’d recently arrived on. In such a hasty response, he’d removed the Elder’s chance to question farther. 

Matheem, knowing his interruption of the Veiled would likely result in some manner of confrontation, he’s chosen instead to quietly recede into the shadows of the conversation. 

“A tale of a man that would be a conqueror.” Yamay answers. He glances to Simora who does all he can to meet the Metem’s gaze. This gaze outweighs the others preceding it. “Varabelm are among the deadliest of beasts. A trophy which raises a man from common to king within our tribe.”

“Varabelm?” Remiran nearly thrusts himself into the table. “What’s a varabelm?” Anyone. He doesn’t look to the speaker for clarity. Instead, he turns to the gathered Dark Stars.

Simora remains stilled as Yamay narrows his eyes at the Veiled. “A lizard. One of the most violent creatures of Rakar. Even within the vast wilds of Enert, it stands a force of death.”

“Rak… Icarus. Understood. Lizard? Fascinating.”

“Venomous, vicious, and is as are the branches.”

“Branches.”

“Armed to the teeth, so to say. Prepared with all the natural fixings evolution has so benevolently bestowed upon our hunters.” Simora steps in to clarify and translate where needed.

“Armed! Deadly beasts! I should say that’s worth a crown!” Remiran says it with such uncertainty obvious on his breath. This alien world’s culture and an ignorance of the nightmares which prowl the lands create a clear lack of mental bridging for the Veiled. Instead, Remiran simply, wide-eyed, nods with fascination. 

“A vicious beast!” Elder Matheem shivers violently. “Wicked. Horrific.”

“Testing of the man and his grit! Aye. A fine test.”

“Test! Passion.”

“I’d love to see one.”

“They’re rather dangerous, my Veiled.”

“Such power! To have a Ravager speaking so highly of it.”

“Fine tale. Fine and passionate!” 

A cleared throat tears through the Dark Stars as they bicker and respond. Finel’s teeth clench tightly on her lips as she resorts to silence with the rest. 

“The varabelm is a lizard, my Dark Stars. A creature with venom that burns your limbs as if you walk upon Irakari.” His fingers swirl and point upward in honor of the sun. A truly reverent act even as he blasphemes against the sun’s might. “Claws capable of shredding your Zurikan Steel. A hooked tail that shreds flesh as paper. Each tool as proficient in ending human life than the others. Each more deadly than any of your bracer techs can resist.” His finger then falls to point about the table. Each one is, in fact, wearing some manner of bracer technology which, as he described, would do nothing against the varabelm. “Vibrato weapons that only agitate it.

“Even as off-worlders,” he motions to the lot of them, “come with new weapons and defenses, such beasts seem to adapt as quickly. Short of Raking the planet, facing such beasts merely places you before a mirror which reflects your death.”

Another short pause in the man’s tale is compounded in weight by the numerous eyes upon him. Hanging on the man’s commanding quiet, they stare in acceptable silence at the edge of the spacious room’s echoed chatter. 

Simora examines each in turn. Again and again, his golden eyes of glistening sand skips from one person to the next. Expressions, twitches, eyes, ticks, smells, noises… everything’s important. Each piece of the whole to form the image. 

As any quiet might linger in the air like the pressure far beneath the waves of a cold ocean, one might occasionally find themselves stuck in this silence knowing one among those trapped is incredibly warm and comfortable. As if dragging every soul down into the depths with them, this individual’s demeanor places them in a position of great power. In the current struggle of personalities and overly developed egos, the one considered to be the least takes control. 

“I speak to…” his eyes widen slightly as a tug at his cheeks nearly seems like a smile. “I speak more than I mean to. I forget myself.”

“You’re a spinner of tales.” Simora interjects; ignoring the man’s self-reflection. “I believe the Dark Stars are in the mood for stories. Still, I leave it to you. It’s not my intention to make you uncomfortable.”

Simora’s words keep the others quiet. This gives the Emel-Rakar time to think; to deeply consider his next steps. This, too, is part of the plan. Moving pieces into place. The game excites Simora, and he ticks the time away with gentle clicks of the tongue. 

It's obvious he’s uncomfortable. I’ve removed my agonizingly dull duty of entertaining these people without fail whilst simultaneously reinforcing my company against any accusations or doubts this chieftain might have. Even in these moments of non-nefarious scheming, Simora takes a mental bite of the sweetened victory. With this daily practice of sharpening one’s teeth, the Dominax thrives with the fervor necessary for survival upon Icarus Alpha. 

So deadly, the beasts and world, that the citizens take to honing every skill to the perfected edge and point. Simora studies the Metem and his expression. The man’s face, slightly discolored from the swoop of his exolung, remains etched even in his possible discomfort. A rather difficult report, the face of Yamay, yet Simora studies it with studious elation. 

“I’ve tales.” He downs all the wine in his cup before licking his lips and inquiring, “Apologies, Dominax. Is there something stronger? Such stories, soaked with blood and regret, require the numbing of the tongue and heart.”

“Pour this man the finest reserve.” Calling out to the servants, the Civilized bow before the Emel-Rakar… the Ravager of a time dying to the newest ways. They leave the dais of Dark Stars to work and struggle in the great halls of man; all the while, the man that struggles against the wilds sits in comfort and expects his mind-numbing beverage. 

“Let my blood thin, that I might speak without lies swelling the tongue.”

Chapter 22

“There were once two brothers. Two youths sure of themselves. Foolishly so.”

Yamay sips again of his thrice filled cup. The brandy settles in his gut, his heart slows, and he exhales the minute-long breath held deep within his chest. Relaxing into the natural state of a man unthreatened by nature or humanity (within this single moment), the chieftain licks his lips before continuing. 

“Sons of a Metem, their blood is the blood of Rakar. Young by any terms of the off-worlders, yet upon Rakar… they stood as men. Youths who stood before the Remer in ulhlu—or a counsel of the truth. Gatherings where all the trusted voices might form council and offer their minds to those of understanding and wisdom. 

“They’d hunted nema cats, elwa tattles, siren ors. They’d fought as two fists to one mighty warrior. They learned every trap, every ration and lesson, and mastered their wytun. That no Fe Alila, Death’s Wail, or nature’s fury could steal their blood or breath. That no man could fell them. That no ill may befall them. They who conquered land, sky, and sea in all ways that are required of a Metem.

“They traveled to Womot,” he motions to the lands about him—beyond the open walls of the human cavern filled with chattering men and women. “This land of shared secrets and honorable claims. They ventured forth beneath their father’s name and built their legends upon their backs. By their flesh and bones, names on the tongues of tribes across Rakar.

“The eldest had often sought the challenge of rivals. He’d found that the test of flesh revived the soul. Believing that even a well-fought loss was nearly as elevating as a victory, he’d spilled blood in honorable combat. To walk away was to forsake all. Every fight witnessed by Almakamla.

“The younger brother sought the same. Following every step, the same pits and issued duels. He’d thought that failure to follow his brother would mean the dwindling sight of Almakamla, and these brothers both refused such fates. Even in this continent of gathered shadows.”

There, in this moment, the man’s eyes scan the table. A slight pause, Simora notes, that goes mostly unnoticed by the others. 

“No greater reward could be asked of Almakamla than to walk together. These brothers were all but attached at the hip; save the nights spent between tents and shelves warming another’s bed.” Grinning through the implications of travelled exploits, the man continues. “These men had done what most had dreamed of, and still more was needed. More was hungered for. 

“Battle had left marks upon the soul and flesh. Women, the same. Years marched on as the memories formed across their skin. Marred by the inevitable passage of time, they became more and more as men spawned from their father’s loins.

“But their father…

“The Metem had fallen. Upon the journey to Womot, Rashashar claimed him for Almakamla.” The man holds out his cup, sips of it gently, and touches the rim to his forehead. Simora takes in this ritual; one not seen in such unfamiliar recollections. “Dragged down to the depths, this Metem and his men were removed from the world, and his sons found themselves favored for the ascension.

“Neither brother would concede to the other, and neither would allow the other to back out. You see, no greater rival could have lived than the other. No matter the trial the people demanded, the brothers returned with similar outcomes. Even in their contest of combat, they waged battle for two days and two nights. Almakamla watched on with joy, for neither would submit, sleep, or die. All the wilds fell silent—no predator dared interrupt. They were met as equals and found that their bond had only strengthened. 

“There was little more to be done. The tribe requires Metem. Emel-Rakar requires it. The people need it. One to lead. One.” His calloused finger swings about as he nods through this recalling of the story. He snaps his fingers and points to his cup again; quick to finish the contents before the servant responds. “And so, they devised a curious plot.

“‘Brother,’ one had said to the other, ‘what if we both were to lead? Two tasks to grant glory to us both; more than our father could imagine. I have spoken to Elders in my travels, and they share whispers.’ ‘Speak, then.’ His brother had responded. ‘Speak, and tell me this plan.’ So, the one spoke to the other. Every detail refined by the collaborative brothers. 

“So, the first explained. ‘Two more tasks. One to prove our worth together. The other to prove our worth to the continent.’ Intrigued, the second brother answered, ‘Dominax?’ This name that means ‘the Metem of the many.’ A master of the lands which are called home. ‘Yes, brother. Our second confirms which is Dominax and which is Metem.’

“So they formed their plan. Their first task would be the deadlier of the two, as they believed it. For completing the other would mean nothing without first knowing this true glory was achieved. Even after traveling Rakar and seeking the boots of their father, they found themselves drunk in their youthful immortality.

“They would hunt a trophy worthy of a king… a conqueror.”

Simora’s lips pull gently back. Born had shown me a similar outcome. Not even knowing the specifics of this man, and here he sits opening myths and legends which will bind their blood to mine. And so, the clicking tongue slows with pleased victory. 

“They would seek out a beast which all children are taught early to avoid. Every sign, every print, smell, and fallen prey. We are taught to fear and to run from the varabelm, the growing serpent.

“These two brothers refused to accept counsel. Every whisper of promise and compromise. Their minds were made. Their bloodline would rise as the tides of the storm. They set out with their traps, their rations, and their wytun, they set forth to conquer what men fear.”

Drinking heavily of the cup, his low voice takes a momentary reprieve in the burning medicine. The tale had caught the attention of the Dark Stars, but the voice is what keeps them hooked. It calls like honey, thick and deep in tones, to the unsuspecting flies. Once stuck in the substance, the Dark Stars had become unable, and eventually unwilling, to struggle against the melodious recounting. 

Swirling the drink in his cheeks, Yamay lets the searing flavor burrow between his teeth and slick the space between his gums and lips. He lets it wet the mouth as he lets another lengthy sigh escape his nostrils in the practiced fashion of the Emel-Rakar. 

With a gulp and a flick of the fingers pointed at the cup, he proceeds. 

“Two brothers, still foolish in their youth, ventured out into the wilderness as they had done so many times. Every season returning with fresh meats and fantastic stories to tell around the fire. This season, they would seek that which does not provide meat but takes it.

“They sought, and of course, as any stubborn youngling comes to realize, the seeking of a joyous thing may often bring sadness and ruin. Wise in the ways of their people, they were not yet wise in the ways of truth. 

“So, they tracked. They stalked. They eventually found.”

Silence rises like heat from stones left in the sun. A drink is taken as the burn cools the tongue’s flame, and Yamay settles back into his seat. 

After a moment, an excruciatingly long moment, some Dark Stars stir. 

“What of the end?” 

“Yes, yes. What of the brothers?” 

Yamay sips delicately of his cup. 

Remiran grunts, “A fine story with no end? Not a story at all.”

“Rather anticlimactic. Hate being brought to the edge without a leap.” Finel grins as her eyes drop with displeasure. 

“Might you finish your story?” Elder Matheem pleads as he leans over his plate—untouched since the story began. 

“I have. They found their beast. I sit before you a Metem.”

“You?” Remiran cocks his head. “Oh! You are one brother?! You sit here before us a chief! Fantastic! A varabelm! I would love to see one.”

Yamay lifts his right hand where the ring finger is missing. The leathery skin of his hand bends in the caramel light which flows through the open wall. Examining his own hand, he speaks with as much force as he had prior to five cups of brandy. 

“I sit before you.”

“Your brother does not.” Simora, Dominax, interjects. “He was a warrior, true to your blood.”

“Thank you, Dominax.” The name remains balanced between some manner of honor and question. Yamay looks to Remiran, “Perhaps, Dark Star, I will finish the story for you someday. We found but a young serpent, and the results are whispers of history. For now, let me share the wisdom I was too foolish to ignore. The varabelm is not to be sought… unless it is the child of the Dominax’s processes.”

When the Dark Stars look to Simora, he restrains the smile that desires the light of the surface. He clears his throat and widens his eyes. A defenseless and youthful look. Masking himself with some manner of sorrow and disbelief. A perfect mask of Glammor.

“Amelioration? My! I’d known that many suffered, Yamay. Perhaps, I might save more lives to atone for the loss of your brother.”

“Mm.” Yamay licks around his teeth. “My brother died as any man. He found his end in battle. Fools and wise alike will die when battles come; when schemes are realized.” He looks to his Dominax and thinks of all the whispers and plots of times past. “I would hear your tales as well, Dominax. I would hear what has brought the end to death for the fools and wise alike.”

Chapter 23

“Take a seat, Yamay.” Simora motions to one of the seats in his office. Permitted inside, the Metem and Remiran take their spots around the table of drinks—all watched by the bronzed statue of Simora’s late father. “Remiran, your choice of drink?”

“Brandy, cousin. Thank you.”

“Yamay?”

“Same.”

Noting the clear opposites in their voices, Simora begins another round of calculations. They want to be served; both. One for means of superiority he’s been born into and the other for the chance to witness the humility of the Dominax. He pours carefully and reexamines his study. No lights confirming recoding. Robotic servants all stilled and out of sight. 

“Where’re your servants?” As if responding to Simora’s thoughts, Remiran takes his glass with a slight hesitation.

“It’s not poisoned, if that’s what you’re concerned of.” Simora keeps his hand extended. 

As if the moment might pass into some horrid shattering of familiar bonds, the two stare at one another. Yamay remains quite as he gauges the two. 

“Ha! I know you’re not silly enough to poison me. You’d be the first suspect! Branch family usurping the throne! Tale as old as time.” Remiran takes his glass and shakes a finger at the Dominax. “And I’m your favorite cousin.”

“Of course. Favorite cousin to favorite cousin.” Simora hands the next glass to Yamay before taking his own. “And Yamay, for you, no treachery would ever pass from my hands to your flesh.”

“You speak as if you’re one of the Emel-Rakar.” Yamay takes his glass with a nod of the head and a whispered gratitude. “I believed you hermit, but I hear you speak as one of the people.”

“I was born here. I have practiced many of the traditions your people graciously shared with us. What you say is true. Study, though I might, I am interested in continued growth. What might permit me the true blood of the Emel-Rakar?”

Yamay glances to Remiran, the man with more fascination in drinks than the intricacies of cultural development and intersection, before returning to Simora. “Rakar has birthed you here. Almakamla has led the Nor-Noctlin to our lands.” He shifts slightly in his seat. “Is it your desire to be more as the Emel-Rakar? Does the conqueror of varabelm, epols, and rashashar desire to be welcomed king instead of frightful tyrant?” Before Simora could answer, he continues, “Why do you have the eyes of a nema cat?”

Simora examines his cousin without moving his eyes. The sudden shift in conversation sends a chill through his spine, yet Umbra provides the facial mask to prevent giving away fear or answer. As obscure to the man as the cultural norms of the planet, Remiran joins only the edge of the conversation. Simora; however, had prepared for just such a plausible storm.

“A surgery. An embarrassment I must admit to.” He sighs and opens up just enough where he knows Born has led him. A path that requires spite toward mother and bloodline. “The eyes of a Blue family were my inheritance. Sign had been placed upon me. A frightful damnation of my person among some of the tribes.” 

Yamay hums along with this incredible revelation; yet, he seems rather pacified. Comparing his face to the expression expected from Born’s images, this leaves Simora feeling rather deflated. He’d prepared responses. He’d considered the paths. He’d calculated the events of forking pathways and found himself as well stocked against the approaching storm as any mortal could be. 

“Family of hue. Expected. I’ve heard tales of your mother.” 

There was no hatred or spite. There wasn’t even the flickering essence of the flame which all Ravagers were said to have. This hatred was supposed to be common. Simora considered all the information he’d been provided. We’ve had our reports, and men have died. How many battles? How many wars?

Keeping his mask as perfectly fitted as his practice allows, Simora takes his seat across from his cousin. “Do the Emel-Rakar not see such Sign as damnable traits? Perhaps the stories reaching my ears were false?”

“The man is judged. The Sign is but a stone atop the sands of beach or desert.”

“Yet many battles have been waged. I’ve lost good men.”

“You’ve lost men. Good is relative.” 

“Sign means nothing?” Simora narrows his eyes at the man drinking quietly from his cup. 

Yamay sighs, “A stone among the grains of sand.”

“It weighs heavier upon the man.”

Yamay nods and leans forward. His calloused hands wrap tightly about the glass. “Tribes are separated for many reasons, Dominax. I’ve come to see what man might claim our banners beneath his own. Your boys,” the difference of age noted in his comment, “may die for many reasons. Sign inspires hatred in many, but not for most.

“You’ve constructed a false vision of the Emel-Rakar. Can’t blame you. Wouldn’t. Yet,” he clears his throat and licks his teeth. He takes a leaf from the pouch at his chest. Holding it up, he offers some to the Dark Stars, “Share of my bounty, brothers?” 

Remiran giddily leaned forward, “Drugs? Why not.” 

Having one leaf plucked from his hand and another left to stand quiet, he nods to Simora. “A fine leaf. I’d not recommend swallowing the juice. Suck and spit.” Motioning the liquid from his lips, he advises the Veiled to care for himself. A soft smile touches his lips before tossing the curled leaf into his own mouth. Sweetness, a gentle sprinkling of foreign agents, activates before the bitter leaf begins to mix with mucus. A soft inhale, Simora counts one for every five of his own, signals the relaxed composure of the Metem. “Now, Dominax. About your boys.”

“Men.”

“Debatable.” Yamay waves a gentle hand. “I’ve not come to debate the loss of your people. Various reasons for bloodshed of both sides. Before our time and during. Emel-Rakar die every day, Dominax. We expect it. Your people die every day, and it is we who expect it. These bouts are often the conversation of tribal communications.”

“And you claim men are not targeted for their Sign?”

“Not by my tribe. Nor by the tribes of my brethren. I know of some across Rakar that might believe Sign to be marks of Zazzat Shalahdi. Some even speak of your marking the arrival of such an entity.” 

“Do you believe so?”

“I’ve not decided; however, I’m no enemy to you. Unless you sprout the devil’s wings and breathe ice, I’m comfortable right here.” Simora watches the bulge of his throat as he swallows the liquid of the leaf. 

“Bleh! Bitter.” Remiran interrupts as he sips his drink; not adhering to the “spit it out” recommendation. 

“I will speak plainly, Dominax. Some believe Sign a gift beyond gift. A touch of Almakamla which no faithless off-worlder understands proper. When a man is found to be no man at all, the Sign weighs against him.” The bright rings of his eyes touch on the Dominax as he puffs out his cheeks slightly. The tone drops into a grave bass which rumbles the teeth. “You touch upon a topic with deep roots. One I admit I am unable to fully elaborate upon presently.”

It’s something in the voice. A deep rumble like Icarus Alpha quakes beneath his feet. There is no dark storm today. No violent force of nature approaching the city’s gates. This voice gathers like vombal moles swarming their prey, collapsing the grounds, and leaving emptied carcasses behind. Yet, no hellish horde steals Simora’s footing. It just rumbles and groans with the frightful cadence of what might come from below. 

“Then Sign is not a death sentence?” 

Yamay shakes his head with a gulp of the leaf’s bitter flavor. “Not among my tribes, yet I would tread carefully if you were to travel. I cannot speak for all Emel-Rakar.”

“Yet, they would have you speak for them.” Connecting back to the events in the hall, the two recall the other Metem backing away. 

“I’ve not taken a king’s trophy. I’ve not received a Praetor’s blessing.”

Praetor’s blessing, eh? Simora keeps his focus. 

“I’ve come as a man among my men. Power recognizes power. They see the wilds in me, and they see the failure’s I’ve learned from.”

“Every failure is a lesson.” Simora agrees. 

“And I’ve learned my lessons well.” Yammay stares into Simora’s eyes as Remiran coughs through the flavor of his leaf. “And I recognize your power.”

“The Amelioration has done wonders, no?”

“That, also, is debatable.” 

“This land is nearly completely restructured thanks to my breeding programs. The other continents are on track; though, there’s still more to do. I’ve even heard your continent’s nema cats have become docile?”

Yamay nods once as his voice dips farther into a tectonic rumble. “Disappointing to most. Troubling to all.”

“How many lives have been lost to nema cats every cycle? From your tribe alone?”

“Enough.” 

Not an exact number for such a precise man? Interesting. “And now?”

“None.”

“None! Much better. Cats shouldn’t kill!” Remiran rubs backward into his chair as if burrowing into a nest. His voice high and soft like the orange clouds sluggishly slipping between the towers. “Bad kitties.”

“I told him not to swallow.” Yamay shakes his head before returning his attention to Simora. “We expect death, Dominax. It comes daily in the testing of Almakamla. It comes by the cleansing fires, the purifying waters, the breathing plains, and the expanding wilds. It is the truth of death that makes life so precious. Life… as life was formed. You’ve herded the wilds, but how far does this leash reach? How long before the beast abhors confinement?”

“You’re concerned with the efficacy of my processes?” 

Yamay shakes his head. “Oh, I see the effects. I see the benefits. I’m not old enough to be etched in stone, nor am I young enough to believe the past is dead.” The Metem swallows again as his eyes scan the two Dark Stars. Though the conversation swells with a tension like a glass overfilled to a bubble atop the rim, the two sip effortlessly from the contents. “That’s why I’ve come to speak to you. Just you and I.” Yamay’s face spreads in an uncharacteristic smile. “And him.” 

Simora looks back to his cousin who has taken an interest in his own hand. Swirling it about, back and forth, he’s taken to whispering to his fingers. “Pointer. Middle. Ring. Pinky. Pinky. Ring. Middle. Ring. Pinky. Pointer.”

Yamay calls the conversation’s focus back, “You’re of the Blue.”

“I’m of the Black with the benefits of Blue.” Simora corrects. 

“Black?” Surprise doesn’t echo through the study. It’s interest. Intrigue. A sense of curiosity which any man of science can easily identify. “Of course. Apologies.”

“I’ve revealed more than intended.”

“Dominax?” 

Peering deeply into Yamay’s eyes, Simora explains. “You’d not asked any questions. So you understand the bloodlines?”

“Am I not a citizen of The Unanimity Namaste?” Yamay swallows again as his eyes remain fixed. 

He’s not affected the same as Remiran. Makes sense… for a practiced user. 

“I know many things, Dominax.”

Now comes the moment that all scientists pray toward unknown entities for. A beautiful moment of spiritual and logical facets connecting like rivers all flowing toward the inevitability of oceans. It feels proper. A Heaven-sent invitation to return home. 

“Somethings that even you could not know.” 

As if damming the waterways, the fisherman has baited the prized prey. 

“Somethings that only a true conqueror could ever be allowed to hear.”

With mouth moistened and brain swelling at the opportunity, Simora retains his mask with great effort. The fish splashing about far down in the murky depths fearing what treachery exists within the floating morsels above. Floundering in decisions. 

Born hadn’t shown me this. Excitement. Genuine excitement growing like a weed through the curiosity and discipline. Having calculated so much to come, surprises remain a most delicate treasure. 

Simora leans forward to top off the drinks; ignoring how his cousin’s continued conversation with his own hands is going. “Then we’re going to have to have more conversations, Metem Yamay. What must a man prove to be welcomed as such a conqueror? What more can I do but restructure the entire planet?” 

“This planet thrives on blood. A living entity that thirsts eternal. Conflict after conflict. Off-worlder after off-worlder seeking domination of people and planet.” The Metem smacks his lips with the bitter flavor of his medicinal leaf. “I hope in you, and for the sake of yours, that you find a way. So…

“I’ve not seen a varabelm since the day I’d lost my brother,” he lifts his hand with the nub of a digit, “and this. Now, I’d like to see one up close.” He stands with his drink still in his hand. “A start.” 

“Let’s take a walk.” Simora stands with him. “Remiran, might you wish to stay here?”

“Pinky. Middle. Pointer. Ring. Pinky. Middle. Thumb.”

“How about just the two of us?” Simora offers with a soft grin. Showing the way, he calls out, “System. User ID: 001340. Activate. Open back wall.”

And so, the system obeys the Nor-Noctlin. Red lights signal the recordings, defense systems, and various computerized mechanisms. The wall opens like a password-guarded doorway of myths. No riddle or blood sacrifice necessary. Merely the mention of a name in the proper voice. Merely a reminder to the systems who controls it, and the very walls adhere to command.

This building… my sanctum… and soon, this planet. 

The two walk out into the promise of paradise. At the sight of Simora’s confidence and offered company, Yamay does not hesitate on the barrier between worlds. They walk out together, and the Emel-Rakar witnesses all he’d sought to see. 

Come and see. Yamay thinks to lessons of old. Walk into the light and witness. Come and see, and I saw. 

Chapter 24

It’s quite a sight to see the gathered armies of five planets’ rulers. Not their entire armies, of course, but the fractions of showy toys dazzle in the harsh light of Icarus Alpha’s midday. Marching, chanting, doing drills, and each have a unique performance to them. Letting songbirds loose among the population when their duties end.

Songbirds with deadly training and devices. 

Citizens with little to no protection. Forgoing such ideals upon entering the capital. 

They know the laws. 

“No planet, nor its people, shall be subject to aiding armies and / or forces of the leading parties. No army and / or force shall be permitted onto the planet without the ruling party’s permission.”

This is the fourth Column of The Unanimity Namaste.

A ruling party may form and manage their forces as they deem fit. It would be foolish, The Namaste had once decided, that any governing people would not protect themselves from the possibility of danger. If no force is required, that is for the ruling party of any planet to decide. While they trust that The Namaste holds power over all families, peoples, planets, and governing bodies, they must do as they see fit to defend themselves within the confines of the law. 

A people may deny their leader’s forces. 

This ideal that no home be invaded by their ruler’s forces is especially sacred. 

One’s home is a sanctum. Warm meals are shared. Hours in slumber. Shelter from the world and winds; whatever either might carry toward you. This sacred site is protected, and your doorway is your own. Invite or deny. That choice is yours. 

Finally, that any force may be denied from the planet. 

Whomever rules a planet retains the rights to close the atmosphere to any possibility of invasion. While The Namaste has taken to handling such disputes and incursions with swift, often violent, justice, there are always those that seek to disobey the common laws of civility and warfare. 

Anywhere from pirate forces large enough to sack a planet to Maiora Aliquam families foolishly seeking more than they already have, war still breathes with uneven, labored gasps across the universe. Set humanity across the stars, and they shall remain ever wanting and prone to aggressions. 

The eon-old genes which wrought such an adaptive predator, such a survivor of a species, have become a mountain to overcome. Humanity as one retains races, creeds, ideals, and physical traits to set them apart. 

For two men shall look toward one another and say, “You are not me, and you must die for it.” 

The debates of the rules and their reasons might continue forever; or rather, at least until the day The Unanimity Namaste devolves into a shriveled concept in a single man’s mind… just before it vanishes entirely. 

This fourth Column was placed to remind all of their rights and their civil duty. No man must endure the forces of another. He may resist. He may make a claim before The Namaste. His words might carry his concerns across the galaxies and call forth the full wrath of The Namaste upon the aggressor. 

Or, it may fall on deaf ears. 

The Namaste is yet young. Foolishly hopeful and freshly stretching the new muscles it’s come to possess. 

Here, on Icarus Alpha, there are no claims of aggression. There are currently no calls of the Dominax that foreign worlds have invaded. There are no claims of citizens forced to welcome troops into their homes, to feed the off-worlders, or even to interact with them. For even the Civilized, those the Emel-Rakar call “Wemi” or “Toppled,” do not particularly appreciate the idea of off-worlders intruding upon their lives.

Ravagers might have filed such a claim with The Namaste had they the belief it would change the outcome. Instead, they either bite their tongues and hold to their devices and weapons—believing the foolish Toppled have sacrificed their hands for the safety of the cities.  

Of all the planets within the Far Reach, beneath The Namaste’s protective banner, those born of Icarus Alpha have a peculiar way of developing a protective demeanor for their planet. Be them born into a tribe, into the cities, or a first generation transplant from off-world, all come to desire the planet’s inhabitants. 

This isn’t uncommon across planets, yet this planet has been documented as “cultish” or “manic” per some scholarly reports. 

It is in the memory of these reports that soldiers have fallen into the pitfall of bias. Dealings with locals have been strained. Soldiers from off-world have taken to remaining within groups, keeping to their designated quarters, or even avoiding the city all together in their recreation time. 

But drills must continue. 

The Dark Stars each command their forces to continue their duties. Icarus Alpha continues to turn as its people watch the spectacles from high structures or city streets. The Dominax’s communications officers have made all aware of the presence and assured every citizen of the necessity in welcoming the forces. 

Many are not happy. Many more are indifferent. The majority, mostly silent, watch with tempered resolve for the moment that might possibly come. The Dominax has spoken and offered them welcome. Most adhere to the leader’s wishes. Most will welcome and interact—even begrudgingly. 

It is in this vast array of possibilities that Born has offered the calculating Dominax his current conundrum. As many paths as there are personalities, he’s seen the many outcomes and pathways. The show of forces was the best route. 

A path less travelled on this planet of hellish beasts and plants and winds. Revealing what powers await those that disobey, any malcontents are reminded of the powers that be. History is filled with conflict, and now the odds are heavily weighed in off-worlder favor. Here, in the vastness of the white jewel of Valkenaria, march the favored soldiers of five Dark Stars. 

Simora knows this does not remove any dangers or fetishized attempts at glory. There will always be those that do not agree. There will always be those that seek blood where blood needn’t be shed. 

So, a leader must plan accordingly.

Here, Simora has planned as best he could. He’d believed himself nearly perfect in the task. As if fencing off paths, caution signs placed at forks, and even military personnel blocking the path… he has blockaded the routes toward violence. 

And yet, Icarus Alpha will not see peaceful exhibitions as planned. There is still more to come. More to discuss and more schemes to unfurl. 

Simora has ordered his men to take to the streets with the song of their loyalty. In the marching rhythm of proper soldiers, they chant the words to “Domi Domi One and All.” How it echoes from the Prints-a-Ment buildings. Up, up, up and up the tunnels of structures to the highest human ears to hear and enjoy. 

Flashy and uniform, these soldiers seem more artistically inclined than ruthless combatants. So, they sing and they march. Armed with the greatest in current technology, they are prepared and ready for any disturbance. 

Or so they think. 

Because, just as any weatherman will tell you, the winds can change with the snap of a finger, the blink of an eye, or the mere thought to do either. 

A shift in the winds steals the orange clouds from the deep blue skies between white towers. Where once they had begun their leisurely float toward the east, they now hurtle down through the city toward the south. Creamy fogs turn the streets into a soup. 

Citizens take to their doors or flock into safety zones—orderly as they have seen it a hundred times. Soldiers begin their trained processes of evacuation—citizens first and soldiers second. They serve their communities well. As the skies blind them with the stringy winds of colossal clouds, the planet reminds all of the true powers that be. 

Simora stares down from his tower, beside the Dark Stars, as the calculations of his Born sights fade from reality. He’d seen the data and known the currents. Yet, in all that he’s known… something’s changed. 

“Everyone inside.” Simora turns his fellow Dark Stars back toward the doors.

“What?” Remiran leans over the railings toward the specks of men far below. “I haven’t seen,” he finds himself unable to see any as the fogs roll through; swelling up to the higher floors. Flooding the city, clouds churn like violent rapids down the rivers. “What’s going on?” 

Simora speaks with an even voice. No cause for concern. This is only an oddity of the weather. Nothing more. The Dominax knows it is nothing more than that… he knows it’s truth.

Yet, Icarus Alpha… Rakar… has more in store for the man that would tame a planet. 

Simora motions again to the door with a grand smile, “Why cousin, it’s a dark storm.”

Chapter 25

How quickly the world can turn someone on their head! Orbits continue and the celestial bodies evolve along with the extensive universe. 

Several of the philosophical and spiritual teachings within the Far Reach would tell you that every planet has a force of life to it. A node of consciousness which is unlike any of our senses. A grouping of nerves incomparable to any root network, spinal cord, or hive mind communication humanity has studied or come to understand. 

In part, many believe a planet is alive in some sense. The vast majority cannot tell you why or how, but they will tell you all the same. 

Perhaps, some would say (especially some among the Emel-Rakar), Icarus Alpha has belched forth this cleansing force for some manner of retribution. Having been injected with more of the virus from the stars known as humans, the planet may have been attempting to cleanse itself—displeased with this meaningless show of force. Perhaps, the planet was doing nothing more than exhaling in relief or pleasant bliss. Or maybe, the planet cares nothing for those upon it just as the space which surrounds it.

Apathy, those philosophers and spiritual leaders might agree, would be the worst case. 

With no way to appease the planet, no barter or offerings to stay its proverbial wrath, humanity is but a leaf in a hurricane. This hurricane; however, swirls with dense fog like semi-formed waves. It huffs and inhales with sudden, destructive winds that scatter like mice released from a cage. This vicious display of violence is another flexing of a planet that cannot kneel to weather control or storm displacement technology.  

In apathy, humanity faces a planet it can never befriend or truly conquer. 

It merely is, and the humans merely are. 

Simora calmly rushes his guard and fellow Dark Stars back inside as the first flash occurs. Just as the doors close and the seal is about to be fixed, a high-pitched screech deafens those in the hallway of gold leafed walls, fine paintings, and thriving culture. The off-worlders clench the sides of their heads as if it’ll end the humming whine of the storm’s residual blessings. The pain in their ears is sharp and sudden enough to dull their realization of the momentary blindness which follows. 

Simora and his guards, accustomed to this event, hold still and exhale slowly. The whine turns to a dulled groan before fading in seconds. Vision returns immediately with the click of the doors. 

There truly is no fear in the leader of this planet. It is natural; though, it is an annoyance.

“Breathe, Dark Stars. It fades with calm breaths.”

“W-was that what a dark storm is?!” Matheem gasps as he clenches at his chest. Doubled over, he coughs through the surprise. 

Obin grunts, half laughter and half fright, “I’d read the reports. I’d not think it that bad! How distressing, Simora.”

“As I said, it fades rather quickly.”

“Ow!” Remiran whines from the wall. His hands rubbing the sides of his head is doing nothing to dull the pain. “W-what!” His eyes scan the others as he continues to aggressively attempt reprieve with fingers in his ears. 

Lycoths swarm about their charge, and a standard issue pulser is aimed at Simora’s forehead. “What have you done to the Veiled?”

Simora neither flinches nor gasps. He simply responds with his usual, even voice, “I’ve done nothing. Kindly replace your pulser before someone is needlessly harmed.” 

The Lycoth’s purple-tainted eyes and surrounding skin all seem to attempt burrowing into the Dominax. The individual remains stilled with their finger now slightly relaxed on the trigger. “Then w—”

“Dark storm. As I’d said. Have you all come here unprepared for the natural phenomena of the planet? Would you travel to Bezenmat without body temperature controls? To Galtha without medi-drones stocked with antibiotics? Surely you’d done your research to best protect our Veiled.” Simora’s voice drops into a monotone rumble; Finel considers the similarity to the vocal command of Yamay. “Are you capable of protecting our Veiled?”

“Of course.” The pulser falls immediately. The Lycoth replaces it and stands at attention. “Please tend to the Veiled.”

“Owie!” Remiran now pats at the sides of his head as if that will relieve the pain. His breathing harsh and uneven. Where the others have already begun to settle, he continues to bob about. “WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY?”

“Calm, cousin.” Simora steps between two Lycoths without hesitation or asking permission. He motions up and down his chest to illustrate the technique of breathing slowly through the nose. Remiran hesitates, but follows his direction. “Good, my Veiled. Good. Calm yourself.”

“IT BLINDED ME!” Remiran shouts into Simora’s face. 

Pinching his eyes at the more annoying of outbursts, Simora nods. “Yes. Dark storms steal the light. Chemical reactions disrupt the photons of the area. We also believe the high frequency of its thunder disrupts certain nervous pathways. Sadly, we’ve been unable to discern the exact causes and processes. Still, we study them as best we can. The actual storm makes these experiments rather difficult.”

“OH! THAT’S INCREDIBLE!” Remiran shouts as he begins to hear his own voice. Settling slightly, he examines the rest. “That was awful! Aw-ful. Awful. Huh, odd how words sound. How glad I am that isn’t permanent!”

“Indeed.” Finel rolls her head about; tired of all the whines. A stronger sense of personal strength than most present, the noble lady responds with a sharp tone, “You’re not blind, Veiled. The storm steals away our senses. Simora, how long will this blasted thing last? I’d hoped to see the finale of your troops today.”

Simora’s ear turns back to the door behind him. A droning whine can be heard just beyond the seal. Even these advanced structures and locking mechanisms tremble with the force of the storm. The grumbles roll through the floor and up into the bones of the legs. Four receptor flaps quiver just below the Balan material around the neck. 

To respond truthfully would be to show weakness—per the leader’s beliefs. I’d not seen this? How? How did this occur so quickly? How did I not see this possibility? A distant storm turned on its heels and thrust into the capital?

“Simora?” 

He turns back to Finel and the Dark Stars. Each staring intently at his face. Clearing his throat, Simora releases the tension in his cheeks. What expression had I just had on? The Dominax straightens himself and reapplies the Glamor of Umbra. “Apologies, I’d simply recalled the last time I’d seen the true force of such a storm.” 

“W-what happened? Wait… there’s more?” Remiran’s hands drag down his cheeks in anguish. “Please tell me we’re safe.”

“You’re safe. I assure you. We live this reality. As common to us as a Lycoth skulking about your hallways.” Simora nods with a friendly smile he’d painted himself. The augmented soldiers do not share the smile. “Inside, you are far from the worst of these storms. The bolts are… unforgiving. Only should you not protect yourself.” 

“You mean monstrous.”

“A nightmare.” 

Simora looks back toward two guards who’d spoken beneath their breaths—believing none would hear. The look, while still painted with a smile, is more fearsome than the storm beyond the walls. Spinning back with refreshed kindness in his golden eyes, the Dominax lifts his hands as one might to placate a crying child. “No, no. They are no worse than the storms on other planets. Just that these bolts are not electricity. We do have average storms as well, but these are… special.

“The same chemical reactions that create the high whine or that steals the light create a… well… corrosive connection between objects. Another process of which we are woefully ignorant of, yet we’re striving to ascertain the truth behind this as well. These bolts are not dangerous as long as you are inside.”

“Corrosive?” 

Simora’s nod draws an exhale from most of the off-worlders. “Yes. Corrosive. I’ll spare you the medical details, but I promise it behooves you to not be exposed to the dark storm. You needn’t fear the most horrid of events upon Icarus Alpha. I am here to show you just how a planet can be made to kneel.”

“Kneel?” Elder Matheem grunts in dried years and humor. “Your planet seems to stand tall.”

“Safely inside, you witness how a city shall outlast the devastating and sudden rampage of the planet’s most fearsome force. Time and again these storms wage their useless wars. You say it has not knelt? I say it attempts to stand, and we shall remain with boot on neck. I do not bow to a planet, Elder Matheem. The planet can thrash and convulse, yet I remain the guiding hand.

“I hope this reveals just what manner of control I possess over this planet.” Simora motions to all present. The Lycoths. The guards. The Dark Stars and Veiled. “I’ve asked you to walk but a few steps and you are removed from danger. You’ve all come here to inquire of my successes. Let us not lie or speak half-truths. Here you all are to share in the glory of Icarus Alpha’s success at my hands.”

Simora’s eyes are half-open as they always are. His hands are outstretched as if to embrace each one in turn. His expression, though stone etched, seems the most human within the hallway. “I hold nothing against you.” The smiles grows as if blooming across the stone of his head. “I wish to welcome you in all my endeavors. We will guide more than just a planet, fellow Dark Stars.”

How quickly a lump of coal might be turned into a diamond. The right conditions and it can be formed into wealth. 

“Let’s proceed to an observation deck. While startling, you can all have a front row seat to the most vicious of dark storms this cycle.” Simora’s guiding hand moves the Dark Stars and their immediate parties toward another floor. The Lycoths surround their Veiled with expressions as lifeless as the subjects in Simora’s lab. Still, he sees the spark of purpose in their corrupted eyes and considers the applications of such processes. Maybe my experiments would benefit from the use of Grit. A secret to pry from my cousin. “Please, this way.”

And so, the nobles and their guard begin the walk through decorative hallways. Fine treasures and art guide the path with quiet instruction. Each Dark Star mulls over the Dominax’s explanation. 

Obin grunts in humor, “They did say weather manipulation’s a bust. To wrestle such a beast and remain standing! True might.”

They’re not confident in their own answers now. Simora walks near the back and watches their shared expressions, quiet sounds, changes in their walks or motions, and any small change caught by the unseen receptors. Matheem was so confident a moment ago. Obin balances the scale. I’ll not let them step over me. Finel needs more time with me. Remiran is family and will want my assistance. It’s coming together, but there’s still work to be done.

“Guardsman.” The man to Simora’s right tensed and snapped up a salute, fist to head and then chest, as they walked. His answer is hasty, born of excitement and valor, and Simora can smell the yearning of worth in his receptors. “Please send comm to Yamay Fo Neplet. Since our parades have been cut short, I’d like to proceed with our discussions later today. Please see if he’d accompany me with Lady Dornish for a flight.”

“Yes, Dominax.” The guard turns and hurries away with a smile. Before he’s even gone from the ranks, another guard takes his place at Simora’s side. They are all diligent. The team surrounds him as a pack of trained beasts, and they do so without complaint. 

Simora’s tongue clicks three times as he evaluates the men at his side. Compared to those forces of the other Dark Stars, his forces are rather impressing. Though often a captious man, Simora’s scientist brain is able to find the value of things not easily numbered or tracked. Their willingness and speed to his side is enough for now. Their physiques and their making a home upon Icarus Alpha is enough. They are more than enough if they are similar to the mask of Glamor.

Will I need them? This path is new. What more surprises will come? I need time to study. I need to solidify my alliances. 

Finel begins to slow her pace and glances over her shoulder, “A flight? Two men and a lady? Are you sure that’s proper?” 

“I’d thought you’d like an aerial view of the continents. Donatello will be our pilot. I’d also value your company when negotiating my dealings with Yamay. He’s a fine Metem, and I would prefer good terms with the man and his tribe. They are valuable assets for domesticated animal and farming goods.” Speaking loud enough, Simora ensures the Dark Stars can all hear him. “He’ll be a fine point of contact with all other tribes in the region. It can only benefit us in our off-world trading. Which of course will expand exponentially in cycles to come.”

“Your dates need work.” Finel giggles back. 

“When the storm is over, we will spend the rest of this day together.” Simora clicks his tongue and looks to the rest of the Dark Stars. “Tomorrow will begin our delegations. Unless any have reason to delay.”

“I would have these dealings done with. I’ve had quite the luxurious vacation; what with all the storms and deadly flora.” Matheem sneers as he turns a corner at the leading guard’s direction. “I’ve much work to do upon my return. Your hospitality will be remembered, Simora.” 

Mixing the positive and negative as always. The Dominax looks from Elder Matheem to General Obin who has already begun to clear his throat. 

Swigging from a flask tucked into the tightened folds of his black and white uniform, the General guzzles down unneeded courage before coughing. “I agree with ye. Fine hospitality. I’ll want a full shipment of this brandy, Simora! A full shipment! No less!” Grunting as the laugh becomes more of a groan, he glances back with his square jaw swiveling like a statue’s head on display. “Delivered as promised, and ye’ll be rewarded.” He gives a gentle wink.

“Brandy? When there’s the mazer chimera wool, Icarus diamonds, and specimens to catalog, you ask for booze?” 

“Ye’ve taken to the church, cousin. Me desires and vices are me own!” The distinct accent seeps through like the bursting streams through the levee. “Aye! I’ve made me choices. Ye make yers and leave me be! Ha!” Another sip and a (mostly) gentle slap to Matheem’s back. 

Some of the Elder’s guard flinch as if they are about to be forced to leap at the fabled General. Instead, the slap forces a dried cough from the old man. “Damned, Obin. Damned. Leave me be. You trade as you will. I’ve my own requests in trade.” The eyes caught in layered wrinkles of faded flesh turn back on Simora. “I’ve been promised a share of the success, after all. As have we all. I would expect our patronage to be honored.” 

“Of course.” Simora follows along with the Dark Stars and taps at his hip with the rhythm of the walk. 

 The walk continues for some time as the troop travels farther into the fortress of the Dominax. 

It’s the purpose of a fortress to protect those within as well as allow those within to defend the construct. A symbiotic relationship between the living and the inanimate. Just as so many bonds with the non-living creations of humanity; it’s the humans that have to apply the work… the energy. 

A fortress, for instance, is a particularly special invention which wealthy elite gather forces and wealth against the outside world. Like humanoid dragons amassing all the gold their claws can gather, these noblemen prepare themselves against all the holy and unholy would-be heroes that would climb their towers to slay the beast. 

Today, even Dark Stars find themselves trapped high atop the towers as the world spins a tale. The storm rages on outside; screeching and stealing senses away from those unlucky or foolish enough to remain out. 

But within this fortress of the Dominax, a building without a proper name or description, come the muffled groans of fallen men and quiet running. 

It isn’t until a voice comes over the comms that Simora’s eyes widen. 

Thomat’s excited tone enters only the ear of his Dominax, “Sir! Where are you? They’ve entered the building. They’ve,” there’s a series of whines and static, “dammit! You will not take this holy place!”

Chapter 26

“What?” Simora speaks so only his comm’s microphone can hear him. 

“Huh?” Finel turns her head in wonder. Not quiet enough.

Though her eyes stick to him, he waves it off with a smile. “Oh, sorry, I’d thought I’d heard…” he glances with a finger pointed to a guard. The man doesn’t react beyond pursing his lips. “Oh! Nothing? Apologies.” Forcing his thoughts toward the comm and continued linking, he speaks to both Finel and Thomat, “Carry on.”

“They’ve taken the first floors, Sir. I’m… many or where they’ve… The dark storm,” Thomat’s voice is spaced and heavy with breaths. 

He’s running, Simora analyzes what he can to understand the situation. Electromagnetic interference from the storm. Our generators have enough for basic functions, but our defenses! Dammit! Who’s come, Thomat! Who?!

“We’ve intercepted three squads… dead. I’ve lost six…” the broken voice continues to charge toward wherever he’s meant to be. 

“Our destination?” Speaking to the guard, his mind continues to the comm. When the guard looks to him, Simora motions up with a thumb from his side. A language spoken through silence among his men. The signals are registered. 

“Would our Dominax and his party prefer the sanctum?” 

“I believe the Sanctum would be preferred.” Spoken again toward the comm and group, his words are cut and distilled for his head of militants. 

“Sanctum… Dominax…”

More hand signs tell the tale.

Even as the Dark Stars continue their idle conversation of future endeavors and promised trading, Simora informs his personal guard. Send comm to forces. Intruders. I want survivors if possible. Dark Stars are top priority. 

Returning a signal, one guard waits for the next cross of hallways to turn off from the group silently. Understood. Additional forces will be acquired. The order is issued and kept secret from the watchful eyes and opened ears. 

How has Born left me so blind? Simora’s tongue clicks away the tempo of the living world as he attempts to dive partially into the visions of broken shards and passing sands. Even if they see me, I have to… dammit. I have to. 

Almost immediately, as he’d feared, Finel turns back as Remiran whispers something to her. His own eyes turn as well. 

Both see how the Dominax’s right hand tugs gently at a guard’s elbow—slightly behind him as to draw little attention. The eyes have gone blank. Even the golden expanse of his irises seem to have dulled into a flat strip of sandpaper. 

He delves into the world where so many refuse to tread… so few ever reach.

What’s happening? Born. Show me. 

A number of shards pass by which depict his men sprawled across hallways or silenced in the darkness of otherwise empty rooms. Forces, his and the enemy, march like demonic shades soaring through the dimmed hallways of worthless wealth. 

Who could it be? The eyes of gold, similar to that of the nema cat, analyze the possibilities and data. Hundreds of small shards press by. Four dead on floor two. Seven on three. Eight on five. Who?! He shouts in his head as if simply demanding an answer has every truly ensnared the universe into submission. Even as the universe rewards his ignorance with information, he’s blinded himself to the truth that stands before him.

Shards showing blurry uniforms of blacks mixed with various colors span the darkness of the Born world. Reds, whites, greens, all black, or even the small possibility of blues dance about as they clash with the guards of the Dominax. 

Which is it? More persons. Civilians. Civilized and Ravager. Could it be them? No, the Ravagers don’t have climate tech. The shards of such a possibility are warped, sharpened, and slide by like blobs of mercury. Just as it blocks the warmth of the sun, the dark storm has clouded sense. Climate tech… the Dark Stars. 

Simora looks to the start of his decline into uncertainty. 

Dark storm. The Dark Stars each have a ship capable of planetary surveillance for weather systems. A single massive output could potentially redirect, but could they have done so without our systems warning us of interlopers? The Ravagers know the planet’s patterns… who?! WHY?!

The endless shards rise and fall like passing cycles. Each comes and goes. Every second another story. As the outside world ticks by with the soft clicking of a tongue, the world of Born plays out like days and weeks. 

Such an incredible mountain of data. To climb, no matter the pace, drains the mind, body, and soul. An exhausted man might find himself stuck upon the side of such a titanic mound. A silent place of solitude to breathe a final breath. Yet, the Dominax prowls on. 

Show me!

More data. Distant wafts of air carry fragments of scents. Receptors twitch with each new piece of the greater puzzle. 

A scent of earthy tones which one would use for the purposes of masking; neither pleasant nor particularly offensive. It’s meant to mask a predator which acts on instinct. A thinking beast might track it… a similar smell had been part of the cacophony of stimuli at the recent feast with the Metem and Dark Star forces. 

Vibrations through the distance; a slight quiver to the air and Prints-a-Ment. It’s lesser than the sure footsteps of ignorant Lycoths and Dark Stars. 

The Lycoths. The rabid beasts of the Veiled remain calm. There are more than these few. What’s happened to the others? Have they been avoided in the attack? Passed by? 

One more scent. With receptors tapping gently on his neck beneath tight fabric, a sour taste of heated metal and an unfamiliar lingering of a heavy stain in the air. A fume of a sort. A spent reaction. 

Manifesting the information, he sees the largest and most defined of answers. 

Organized… Simora takes his answers from the world of Born. Back into the waking world, he returns as a man from a journey abroad; though, his body betrays no passage of time. Which of these paths is right? Who dares such violence in my home?!

Heavy is the air which lingers like the fog of war. Eons have passed since those terrible blips of time where mankind would entrench themselves in the muck beneath a blotted out sky. 

Yet, here in the halls of the Dominax’s command, there is a familiar smell passed down through the genes of humanity. That earthy smell. The same chemical stain that wafts through the halls like spent matches and fireworks. This celebration, this gathering, had no such archaic festivities planned. 

Up two flights of stairs, down three hallways, and back to the doors of the Dominax’s sanctum…

The smell… where’s it… no!

“What’s the meaning of this?” 

The voice comes from ahead before Simora can see. The Lycoth with a smoothed helmet, whose eyes remain hidden at all times, calls out with his pulser raised toward the doors ahead. Once Simora turns with his guards and the other Dark Stars, they see the remnants of conflict. 

Simora pushes forward—failing to keep the mask of ignorance upon his companions. The comms have become static and the voices, like white cells spreading within the body of the tower, sink into the hollow chatter of ghosts. 

NO! No, no, no, no, no! 

Simora rushes forward despite one Lycoth’s sudden twist and vibro pole aimed at his throat. This weapon, of Vibrato technology, received the misnomer of “sword” while some refer to it as “pole.” With a smoothed length of roughly a meter extended, this Lycoth attempts to halt the possible threat to the Veiled. 

Seeing this reaction in the passing shards of future seconds, Born provides Simora with just the right angle to dip to the side and continue forward. Snapping his tongue and clenching his hands in odd, yet calculated, intervals, the leader of these men rushes to the opened doors of his sanctum where a light pole dangles from one end like a grandfather clock’s arm counting the slowing seconds. 

Within the sanctum, darkened to the world with neither lights nor opened wall behind his desk, the Dominax sees sparks illuminate the motionless remains of two men. A robot servant, an obedient server of drinks and delightful noises, lies between them. His neck, separated from his head, snaps with electricity to provide just enough light over the blood-soaked faces of two guards. 

How?! How could this happen? I saw nothing!

Simora hurries into the room as the comms earpiece continues to pop and whine in his ear. 

“Dominax Simora! You will obey!” A Lycoth stands in the swinging light of the doorway. Like a shadow of death sent through time, this cursed human swings his vibro pole to the side. An audible quake in the air bends the light falling over it. 

How? No. My works. Simora turns from the two men who’ve already departed. He’s hurried into the false study where the everyday works now lie scattered or destroyed. Prismaslate pieces shattered besides parchments and various materials of containers, specimens, and reports. A graveyard of knowledge. Checking the wall where no discernable opening might be found, he finds no seal has been broken. Good. But… what… as his mind catches up… wallowing through the murky horrors, his eyes open wide.  

“Dominax!” The Lycoth enters the room and lifts his pulser toward the man. “You will listen! What is the meaning of this? Answer!”

Simora rushes by this individual. Again, he ignores, or more precisely, he cannot hear them above the internal noise which rumbles like a storm. A ship upon the waves of uncertainty, the lost man feels as a child of Blue—far from understanding the strengths of his bloodline. Cast out to open waters as nothing but another man among the farms of countless planets. A man afraid of the waters that trap him.

“I said,” the Lycoth leaps forward with incredible speed. The drug-fueled movements place him at the Dominax’s side. “Answer!” The vibro pole connects with flesh. No whispers of Born come to aid the muscles toward safety.

In his hurry and fear, the Dominax twists to the ground as the echoing roar of Vibrato weaponry shakes his skeleton. His right arm feels broken. He knows it is. His stomach begins to convulse, and he’s sure that he’ll vomit in just a few seconds. 

“Enough of this!” Remiran calls from the swaying light of the entryway. “Lycoth! Heel! Down boy!” The Veiled rushes forward to the already violated cousin sprawled across the floor. Gripping him by the broken arm, the Veiled flinches back at the puking cry of his cousin. “Dammit! He’d done nothing! Go and find the bastards that did!” 

“Sir!”

“You obey me, Lycoth. Not the other way around!” Remiran points back toward the door where three Dark Stars cast long and dancing shadows like demons investigating the tragedies. “All of you! Find who did this! Bring medi-drones! Lights? Dammit, where are the drones? Quickly!”

“Major systems are offline due to the storm, my Veiled. We run on stored power.” One of the Nor-Noctlin men answers, but he still motions for their men to move. The remaining guards spread through the halls and attempt to defend this position against whatever came and might return. 

“Aye. We’re no dead beasts. Not yet!” General Obin’s voice booms through the halls and he turns himself. “Give me that!” A massive hand yanks at the pulser rifle from a Lycoth’s hands. Two Lycoths respond by pointing their smaller arms at the massive man out of instinct. “Oh? Ye’d join the corpses?” 

Both men drop their weapons before turning their purple-stained eyes back to the Veiled for direction. These mutated monsters, foaming at the scent of blood meaning promise of combat, groan as the seconds pass. 

“Your dogs are not well behaved, are they?” Finel examines each as she steps through the portal and into the darkened study. “Men.” Those wearing the colors of Black and Green move into position as if the mere octave and sway of her voice was enough to give distinct orders. “You are our defense.”

“Me men are the front line. Aye. Move!” And the Black and White are off. “Chokepoints. I want answers! At least one alive!” 

How quickly the merry Dark Stars, fat cats from across the galaxies, fall back into their vicious routines which distinguish titans from mortal man. Even Elder Matheem steps into the study’s darkness with head held high. His arms out as he mutters his prayers and givings. “Go, and set forth the shadow which all men fall beneath. The force which comes at the end of each day. Be the darkness which cannot be burned away.”

These words… spoken by a master of Red, boil the blood of all who hear it. Welcoming in the hypnotic commands, all present push forward to complete whatever tasks must be performed. They move as proper armies of devils, for that is what their masters demand of them. The Lycoths… how they shake and grown in hellish pains to enact their drug-fueled, horrid desires. 

“Still yourselves. Be reasonable. Matheem, please consider the poor things.” Remiran’s voice, falling into something akin to mindful leadership, stills the trembling warriors. Glancing back, he sees his cousin dragging himself through the bile of the floor. “Eh, cousin. Where do you—”

“Simmy, please.” Finel rushes to Remiran’s side as they both attempt to keep their companion from his injured self. 

I must… is it safe? What happened here? Simora’s blurred vision seeks the blackened bronze of his father. Why? Who can step beyond Born? What more must I lose? The broken right arm swings around to pull the man forward. Numb the pain. Numb it all. 

“We have to defend this position.” Finel snaps back to her men who begin moving furniture and décor about to provide a chokepoint. “What’s happened? Simmy, please.” There’s not a flinch of fear in her voice. Though the emotion attempts to fill the room, Matheem’s voice has barricaded the hearts of all present—all except the Dominax. 

Receptors fidget beneath the Balan material as the spice of emotion fills the air. 

Still, Simora attempts to pull himself toward the statue of his father. He whimpers within himself, You cannot fail me again. Please, father. Unable to contain it, the Dominax spits vial curses from between his teeth as he tugs at the immovable cape of his father. 

“These damned savages!” Matheem turns against a wall to relax against it; far from the door and possible crossfire. “Damn them to the Hells.” 

“Savages?” Remiran calls out as he gently pats his cousin’s back. 

“More help, less talk.” Finel places an arm under Simora’s chest to help lift him; turning him gently. “Old fool. At least take a pulser!” 

Matheem’s eyes widen as a Wildling steps over and produces an additional pulser; a model meant for the inept and uncertain. The wide edge of the weapon points toward the floor as the Elder shakes his head. “No need for weapons. I but speak, and they shall feel my wrath.” 

“Sure, your words are as spears.” Finel mocks. 

A coughing gasp escapes Simora as he continues his journey; supporting himself against Finel’s arms. 

“What savages?!” Remiran calls out to the Elder again. 

“I’ve dropped armies to their knees in repentance.” 

Finel laughs as she points to the two corpses, “Surely, these intruders would prefer sermon over blood.”

“Mock all you desire. It matters not.” Turning to the Wildling, the Elder shouts, “Take that blasted contraption away from me!” He does so without hesitation. His mind made for him.

Remiran’s voice pierces the study’s symphony of shouts, “WHAT SAVAGES?!”

“These Ravagers! By all the Universe, my boy, look! Use the eyes provided you!” Metheem’s voice shakes like clashing symbols in the minds of the guards. 

“Inspire as you would, you doddering old fool,” Finel stands with a dagger suddenly exposed from a strap on her wrist. Ignoring the topic of Ravagers, her emotions spring forth in response to her soldier’s mindless obedience. “Don’t you dare Whisper them!”

“Keep your wits, Finel. Remember who you speak to,” the old man waves a hand, “before you force my voice as well!” 

“Insolent swine!” 

The voices begin to fall like waves against the sandy beach. A vision of some locked away memory; the white beach where smoke rose from the waters. Gradually, and with the same melody of the waters keeping in tempo, Simora’s world becomes a swelling whine. The vibro pole’s affects still rumble in his bones like trees shaking off the passing storm.

Is it there? Please, by all the Heavens. You cannot fail me. Not again, father. Simora’s hand rises beneath the cape with an unsteady hand. Just as the foundation of the sandy world of Born began to soften in Simora’s mind, so too does reality and what ought to be. 

Squabbling Dark Stars become a warbling string ready to snap across the neck of a vio. 

“Formation, ye daft bastard!” Obin’s commands catch even the Lycoth’s unprepared as they suddenly snap into position. 

It’s… Simora’s hand slides over the edge of the compartment. 

“You reanimated skeleton!” 

“How dare you!” A masked tone beneath the voice rises.

A sharp hiss responds, “Try it and the Church loses an Elder!” 

“It’s gone…”

“Stand down!” The ancient voice echoes with discovered choirs of youth. 

Sounds of clicks and metal stress the vio’s string. 

“It’s gone!” 

All stress within the bunker beneath the sense-thieving storms quiets. As if within the eye of the hurricane. A single moment where all attention falls on the Dominax who lies slumped against the metal legs of his father. Tears pour down like acid rain. 

Simora’s hand, outstretched, pats gently at the empty crevasse of his father’s spine. Nothing but cold metal. Nothing but the lack of his everything.

“What’s gone?” Finel’s chilling response echoes. The heavy silence which follows is that of a mortuary or mausoleum. 

Unable to bring the fractals of the concussed world together, Simora attempts to aim himself toward her voice. All his effort, and the storm yet moves on. As the edges of the eye shift, the calmest quiet known in the life of a storm leaves behind the woeful souls silly enough to believe themselves safe. 

All that silence… stolen away with the first explosion that sounds the end of the status quo on Icarus Alpha…

… on Rakar. 

Chapter 27

On a continent to the southwest, the lands rise as natural towers and columns from the most violent of waters. Like a stew of the primordial powers, the churning oceans and fortressed lands exhaled deeply. This slumbering, coiled giant’s breath clung upon the air as if to yank down the skies.

From a distance or on a more agreeable day, such lands would be a most splendid subject for a master painter. Clouds create skirts or launch high above the columns to swirl about in a heavenly waltz. Even the youngest in the tribes of Potazel watch the clouds with all the care of a seasoned sailor. 

High or below us, no need to fuss. 

Spiral and falling, Almakamla’s culling. 

A local reminder of how the world works upon the risen lands. 

It was on this day, the day which reminded a Dominax of his mortality and all that entails, that the orange Heavens began to swell and dance. A symphony that draws the eyes and ears of all upon Potazel, yet they listen with tensed muscles preparing for the finale to begin. 

As the song comes to climax, Emel-Rakar begin to depart nature’s theater. Deep into the grounds or tucked away constructs, hidden communities pray for Almakamla’s wrath to pass over their doorways. 

His word carried upon the backs of black wings steals away all that has made man man. The vast majority will wait patiently, in fear and love of their creator, for the furious symphony to end. 

Some; however, might remain beneath the falling spirals of orange skies. Some might call out, dance, pray, and sacrifice. Perhaps some believe this helps. Perhaps they believe they can control, they can wield what Almakamla has created. 

Yet, no matter the superstitions or supernatural natures of the Emel-Rakar, the dark storm formed itself in relation to a dastardly plan. Working on Almakamla’s time, humans began to move at the confirmation of the storm. Potazel has long been the womb of the worst storms—those that spread their horrid cries and blackening wings far across the globe. 

It was on this day that the storm dragged itself like a gluttonous beast across the sea. There is a jeweled city, a white coin placed neatly atop the deadly forests and swamps, which requires another symphony. 

Hear well, one might say; though, they smirk knowing the storm steals the music away.

Keep an eye to the skies, off-worlders. Keep your weathered eye trained on the horizon. Vigilance necessary to survive what machines fail to recognize and endure. 

You won’t last long on the evolving planet as hungry for mankind as any of its numerous beasts and flora. The Emel-Rakar have lasted thousands of years as a link haphazardly joined into the food chain. And, in this self-inflicted poisoning of the genetic lines into a forced evolution, some people have likewise come to see this invasion from the stars as a viral infection.

And who can blame them? 

What nation has not seen the unwelcomed hordes as enemy? How many planets have transformed from empire or Eden into the dismal realism of human’s base nature? What populations have danced at the end of ropes because the new ways always come in sin? 

Infections must be cleansed from the body. A dark storm, like a warrior cell, seeks to cleanse the surface. Some call for it as if their voice directs the clouds toward their enemies. 

Valkenaria, embraced by the orange and gray arms of Almakamla, had been called to judgement by some among the population. Prayers, seemingly answered, had wrought the wrath of God.

Not a single soul was lost to the acidic bolts or disappeared in the sudden void of the shrieking choir. Not a single man, woman, or child was taken by the forces of the powers that rule Rakar. It was the more violent, the sinful, that harmed man this day. 

The first major explosion had shaken the foundation of the Dominax’s tower. Like a mighty chop of an axe to an oak, the building shivered with pain yet remained standing as it will in the days and cycles to come. 

Dark Stars, Berkara, Exorcists, Wildlings, Lycoths, and the unnamed forces of the Dominax react. Their bodies, like a hive-minded force of insects, begin moving in unison through the veins of the oak. Finel’s Wildlings directed to take up the Dominax and ensure “he lives, lest your lives pay his passage into the afterlife.”

Matheem’s mouth parted only for the bolstering of the many through his, now team oriented, Whispers. Obin’s swollen frame leads the way like the head of a battering ram. The building, while safe from the storm, has become a scene of war. 

“Fow brestalla!” This phrase in Litn, beasts in sight, often refers to prey. While the man’s confidence fills the halls, the immediate response of Obin’s pulser wipes the walls and floor clear of all the venomous tones. Silencing the first of these men, the General springs forward as if the rush of combat transports him back into a more youthful, marble-carved version of himself. 

The response of these local savages is the echoing burst of the wytum. Earthen smells of spent chemical reactions soak the air. Small holes appear in paintings, stone faces shatter, and the General’s suit pinches twice around the shoulders and once on his leg. These small wounds feel more like expansive caverns dug deeply into the mantle of the flesh. A searing tickle that refuses to be ignored.

Yet, Obin moves with impressive speed; taking cover behind a column. Though agony spreads as a poison through his muscles, into the veins, and up to his brain, his body claps with excitement at the nearly forgotten resource. Transforming pain into something else, while often sung as a fabled talent of heroes, has become something of a mantra for the White. 

The Pious Enigma, Obin Nephire, begins to breathe heavier as his Berkara forces take advantageous positions behind cover. All present take this moment to activate their bracer tech as two Berkara rush forward to drop a deployable defense. A grid of blue light springs up as a protective net. 

Breathing easy, the two crouching behind the defense laugh and prepare themselves for war. The first stands with all the confidence bred in the fabled Berkara under the mythical General of Gremeta Beta’s conquest. This soldier stands with a grin nourished by the dreams of glorious rewards. His pulser rifle aims down the hall toward two scrap and rag covered natives. 

Another small explosion, one from a single, short wytum sounds…

And the soldier crumples to the ground with blood trickling from his forehead. 

He’s alive. The bracer’s shielding was enough to reflect the projectile, yet force enough to concuss the man and break the skin. Had he not been shot in the head, perhaps glory would still be his to take. 

With his body processing the pain, Obin watches his man fall with a grumble growing in his barreled belly. His plainly blue eyes begin to glaze over as the agony is refined into fuel. 

Two roars erupt at once, and the unknown number of savage rebels recoil. Though only for a second, the opening is enough. 

Four figures rush by the General and his hunkering defenders. These figures move in tandem like reflected shadows—two to either side of the projected cover. Lengthened limbs and extended snouts. These beastly abominations (in the eyes of many) collide with the enemy. Throats are torn clean from the body. Claws dig deep into the chest to remove all the necessary bits that make a man work. One still manages to swing a vibro sword with practiced ease; flinging a masked savage halfway up a column. The man’s spine wraps around the carved stone like a wet towel before he drops to the floor… motionless. 

Matheem’s words waft behind them as if these four canine men drag unraveling scrolls, “Protect one another and the Dark Stars who command you. We are as the galaxies wrapped and warped as one! Let no force stand before the might of creation through destruction!” 

Muscles tense and minds ease into that delightful space between various thoughts. Directed into the singularity of a Dark Star, humanity better realizes purpose. Realizing it… and manifesting it. The soldiers know only what must be done. The thought was already there, but their minds had been clouded by every stimuli and concern. Now… there is only deed. 

The roaring Dark Stars, utilizing their practiced traits, rush the line. A black and gold bipedal wolf wearing green and black leaps from wall to wall. Finel’s innate talents birth a more perfected form than her Wildling changlings. Alpha, Predator, and Primal skills combine like drugs to lift the woman into evolutionary bliss. Doing as the Caesar hound does, she takes to the hunt with her pack. 

Beside her, keeping pace with the blood-stirred wolves, stomps the legendary Berserker. Pain does not exist now. Burning like calories in the running beast, the General presses his own attack with an extended vibro pole hanging from his side—unused. He opens his chest to the world caring little for what might come—injury only means a more unrestrained rebuke upon the weak. 

What sights might man see and still believe Hell does not exist? When the living, waking world contains such monsters… how can Hell not wait with more vicious and inhumane creations of the Creator? The savages in the tattered cloths of the Emel-Rakar scream as they either retreat or attack senselessly. Those that fight might strike a wolf or knock out a Berkara, yet the Dark Stars are coming.

As Fenrir and Ymir, the leaders approach in the burning light of Valhalla’s preached word. That word is one that has been unheard by the leaders of White and Green for some time…

War. 

Moving like a man a quarter his size, Obin weaves as though his body were liquid. Closing in on two men, he takes a slap from a vibro pole that causes both to recoil. Blue and white light fills the area as the Vibrato technology struggle against one another. Bracer versus sword. Like rubber pressing through rubber, the two surfaces struggle to puncture the other until eventually they both, exhausted, rebound. 

The massive body of Obin wobbles backward before redirecting the force in a centrifugal fashion. A fist delivers the compounded collisions into the second, undefended savage’s head. His body folds like an envelope before bouncing into the wall and silently resting. 

The first man, the initial attacker, is far less lucky. A quick death, a good death, will not be granted to him. Berserk, when unleashed, can be difficult to restrain by even the most practiced White. The same can be said by the Alpha and Predator practitioner of the Green. To give oneself such an advantage, like Simora standing in the world of glass and sand, can leave open the door toward an eternity not as yourself.

And now, looking down at this warrior seeking a Dark Star’s blood, Obin flashes forward to clamp his fingers around the throat and spine of the savage. Lifted from the floor, the man become an unwilling tool of the Dark Star. With his left hand, Obin begins punching the shoulder of the vibro-wielding arm. Up against the wall, a flurry of blows turn the bones into a fine powder. 

From there, through the silent screams of the dumbfounded savage, Obin turns back down the hallway where the transformed Wildlings have continued the attack. Now, leading his men, Obin continues forward at full speed with a twitching, agonized savage leading the way. As both shield and weapon, the man has become part of Obin’s arsenal. 

“Ve loma borw!” Ravagers rush about and take position. They swarm around one wolf broken from the pack and beat him with vibro weaponry. They silence one; enough to regain ground and momentum. “Plu greves nalantat! Plu! Ve loma!”

As if the waters were chummed, the savages become emboldened. Like each becming their own Elder Matheem. Three men rush forward in direct opposition of the wolves; more animalistic than the Wildlings in several ways. Some reveal their animals on the outside… some unleash it purely in action. The savage Emel-Rakar fire their wytum and swing their vibro swords, poles, and knuckles into the enemy line. 

Obin’s human shield absorbs the majority of the metallic projectiles. The hallways have become trenches of battle, and Obin doesn’t slow himself. The chemical reaction permeates the stone, the paints, and even the fabric and flesh of those fallen in the labyrinth of the halls. Punctures swing body about as the man attempts to gasp for air—as if that will heal the wounds. Eventually, the only movement comes from the giant hurling the meat weapon about.

Any projectiles passing around the dying man shimmer with the vibro shield of Obin’s bracers. He still bleeds. He still recoils from the force penetrating the stretched shield—thinner with every blow. Still, his body rushes forward alongside the advancing forces. 

The limp Emel-Rakar club claims the lives of three men. Another two are left unconscious before one of several Wildlings dispose of those still breathing. As four Berkara are dropped and silenced, Obin’s body twists like an ancient trebuchet to send the desecrated corpse into the Emel-Rakar line. 

This moment, in a split path of hallways and corridors, Obin finds himself pressed between two advancing fronts—the third slightly off-guard having just been bowled over by the dead. 

Confronted by the encroaching Emel-Rakar, the Dark Stars struggle to keep their mental faculties in the face of blood. Finel’s howl draws back several Wildlings from leaping into the fray. Soldiers in the black uniforms flow as a stream. One the Dark Stars command. They step back over fallen brethren as the Emel-Rakar savages advance. A retreat such proud beings are reluctant to order. 

“Set the charges!” Finel’s low growl drags the small remaining forces of the Dark Stars back. “Obin!” The growl comes as the female canine leaps over two projected grids. Her inhuman eyes watch as Obin stands steadfast against the threat with one Berkara on either side—though one is soon shot several times and falls breathless. “Obin, now!” 

“Go!” The roar of the Black and White leader, father of many kings and queens, causes a shockwave through the halls. “Protect them!” The grumbling comes through a series of violent grunts and phlegmy gasps. Like a man hanging on the edge of a canyon, he cries out as he struggles to save himself from the plummet into a world not his own. His arms rise to create vibro shields over his face as the metallic projectiles snap against him.

Never one to relax, his bracers were properly charged. Even in the perceived safety of an ally’s home, he readied himself for whatever might come. Even as the batteries drain and the waves of the shield snap harder with every shot, the man stands as a bleeding wall between the forces.

“Obin!” Finel’s concern howls through the line.

“G-go! I’ll catch up, lass!” The shaking Berserker steps forward as his second Berkara falls. “GAH!” He runs to the left; taking off with enough force to leap over the crumpling body of his subordinate. 

Such a roar takes all attention with him. For a man to cry out so… the Heavens surely take notice. For his battle cry steals the eyes of every Emel-Rakar; a people known to battle the planet itself. 

“No!” Howling after him, a Wildling soldier takes hold of his Dark Star—yanking her back behind a projected guard as a shot screams just over her head. “Obin!”

He disappears from her sight, but he enters and dominates the vision of the savages. Having marched easily through the forces of the city, the Emel-Rakar had gained momentum. Now, they face someone worthy of his position as Dark Star. 

The shadowed figure, a giant leaping into strike and shots, drops a fist; feeling a man break beneath his knuckles. Falling back with the force of several vibro weapon hits, he turns himself to apply the momentum into a sweeping kick. Two attackers, leaping forward to drag the General down, fly to the side as a cluster of mangled muscle. 

Enduring and refining the pain, the Dark Star continues. 

Sliding over the ground and taking hold of his vibro weapon, Obin winds up his pitch. Loosing the weapon like a bolt of judgement. It meets a man’s face and soars up toward the ceiling. 

Twenty men remain to drag down a fabled warrior. Even with his maximized bracers, a series of rings, cuffs, and a band about his neck, Obin struggle to resist the concussive shockwaves and blows. His ears are ringing; a swan’s song that will remain with him until his final breath. His breathing is uneven as he coughs blood and rage’s byproducts from the lungs. Muscles tense as he attempts to ready himself for the rest.

All a spectacular finale to the symphony of life. Though he’d never had admitted to his peers, he’d recently found new joys in the presentation of life through music—a grand performance in the local opera hall.

Aye. A fine death. He thinks to himself as all memories of his planets, family, and even the others behind him drift away. In this moment, the Dark Star who’d conquered worlds wipes crimson from his lip before dropping into a crouch—his knee not touching the ground. A good death. After all these years… finally.

“Clear the way!” Finel, retreating, barks her orders. Her bloodlust calls for her to return to Obin’s side, yet Simora’s unconscious body (held by a soldier beside her) tempers her fury. “Veiled!” The forces turn a corner, another, and continue to search for an escape. In the madness, one scent vanishes. “Veiled?! Remiran?! Where is he?!” 

“I…” one Wildling, one thick and ape-like arm rubbing the back of his head, shrugs. 

Matheem’s exhausted voice calls out, “I’d not seen him!” The ancient man, propped up by two of his Exorcists, points down a hall. “That way! That way! Go, go!”

“We need Remiran!” 

“We need to escape! The boy has Lycoths!” Matheem calls over his, and his man’s, shoulder. “We need to move, Finel! Now!” With twelve soldiers remaining, three assisting with the transport of non-combative Dark Stars, the team moves down a seemingly safe passage. 

Destruction of civilization apparent as busts, statues, paintings, sculptures, and the like lie as scattered pieces to an unimaginable puzzle of the human psyche. This glistening jewel of life and creation now stained with blood and corpses among the debris. Breathing had never been difficult in these halls. Eyes had adjusted well to the empathetic lights which dimmed or brightened for necessity. Hearing gave way to truest listening. Pleasant emptiness allowed the senses to draw in all sounds like a choir of practiced angels. 

Now, the stench of chemical reactions lathers the space with dense air. Having a heightened sense of smell, Finel’s retroussé snout exposes sharp teeth. Her eyes water as the explosive reaction of the wytum hangs like a thin fog. It all mixes with the oppressive stench of blood… which she struggles to resist. 

 Retreating, the innate desire to live, is the only answer. She knows that is what Simora would say. Taking the path of least resistance like a spark of electricity flowing through the network of the tower. Soft rumbles shake the building. The occasional savage attacker keeps the survivors on their toes. 

Out toward the hopeful light at the end of these tunnels they run. Life lost on both sides. This was the hope of many and the inevitability of others. Some will look to the dead and touch two fingers to their heart and foreheads. Some will examine the battlefield and scavenge the strength from the dead. Then there are others that haven’t quite found their way to the path before the blinding light of Creation… they wait patiently with labored breaths as the chemical fog fills their nose and the silence counts the passing hours.

The Dark Stars and their party do not stop for those that await their ends. They don’t stop to scavenge or to pay respect. They continue to charge down hallway after hallway until they find a route toward the Aviary—a network of hangars for the Dominax’s forces. Finel, having strolled these networks many times beside Donatello, follows her own scent through the dense air that threatens to loose her into the wilds of her own mind. 

“There’s a dark storm! It won’t work! We’ll be dropped out of the sky.” One of the Dominax’s men whines as they rush out into an open hangar with high, arched ceilings of Zurikan Steel. “Wha—”

“Such man-children! Act as if you’ve not been castrated!” Finel’s vicious tone forces all remaining soldiers into position. Their minds, returning to the common anxiety of thoughtful men, lacked direction. Matheem’s Whispers begins to dissipated, but the animalistic growl of the Planetist steps in. “Prepare four ships! You!” She points to the man in black and blue carrying Simora. “You two in my ship. Which of you can fly?” 

Three men raise their hands immediately and two lift shaking hands. Pointing to the more confident of the soldiers, she calls out, “You three. Pilots. Matheem, pick a ship.”

They hurry off. Each to their ship and duty. Each to their place in the plan to escape. Each knowing that Death awaits, in all the Destroyer’s patience and apathy, before and behind them. Trapped between two raging forces of savage nature, these soldiers race toward a route in silent prayer that wild nature be kinder than the nature of man. That the storm rage on and shake their ships as it wishes, but they might stumble away with broken limbs or superficial cuts from a crash.

Preferable to the savages hunting them. 

“Open the doors!” Over a comm connection, Finel’s voice echoes through three Darts and one Raker—the larger ship containing the Exorcists and their Elder. “Go!” 

The Emel-Rakar haven’t broken into this hangar of the Aviary. Still, the threat lingers like a gathering fog pouring in from the historic hallways. Exhaling the dense death of the battlefield, the Aviary gasps violently as black winds fly inward while the fog of war is yanked outward. 

At the proper combination of dials, buttons, commands, and levers, Finel’s Dart lifts from the metal floor. Immediately losing its grip, the swirling winds take hold of the ship. Ejected from the Aviary, the ship’s crew jostles about like manikins in transit as the vehicle spirals upward, downward, to and fro. 

The screen, cracking in the pressure difference of the worlds within and beyond the Dart, blocks streams of black clouds like helix tentacles prowling through the aisles of buildings. Even as Finel does all she can to tug on the controls and swear at the machine, the Dart is swept away from the small fleet of ships. 

Unable to see, Finel’s corrective actions are best directed by attempting to follow the streams. After a hellish series of lengthy seconds careening out of control, a wall of thick glass and Prints-a-Ment leaps from the black river. Hard corrections twist the ship into a roll; tossing the secured personnel about as the bottom of the Dart swims through glass. 

Like a dolphin leaping from the waters, the Dart flings itself from the walls to roll within the horizontal typhoon. Debris is all they’ve become as Finel struggles to utilize her skills as a pilot. The world cares not for her talents or lessons. The dark storm has claimed and embraced the ship. A loving, violent, embrace. 

Finel doesn’t scream or cry. She roars with the might of an alpha as the world goes black and silent. 

Chapter 28

“Simmy.” 

It’s a distant voice calling to the lad. 

“Simmy.” 

Opening his eyes, the youth that would become a Dominax steps forward. Hands gently tugging at leaves to open the path. 

“Simmy, where are you?” The voice is different. It’s gentle and giggly. A melody as sweet as the honey from these various species of tamed flowers. “I’m going to find you.”

Resisting a responsive giggle of his own, the youth slips between the dense foliage toward a trunk of a fruit-bearing tree. Careful to keep his feet on quiet dirt and his hands from certain flowers, he moves flawlessly through this garden. Once beneath the tree, and secluded from a number of harsher plants, his eyes rise up to the humming systems of vents and light piping. 

“Simmy.” His name drawn out as if by some fluffy, fairytale beast. The hunt is on, and both sides stifle a laugh as the other plays for victory. 

Simora opens the receptors of his neck. Small flaps of flesh and pink sponges tug gently at the world around him. Cutting through the delicate and welcoming clouds of floral scents, Simora focuses on these battling concoctions. 

The length of petals and stems. Depth of the dirt and its contents. Mulch quality and nutrients—balbi wood makes for great fertilizer.

Delve deeper. 

Glancing up to the light funneled into this constructed Eden, Simora waits for the sign to come. So, he waits quietly as fans cycle the filtered air through the building.

Then it happens. 

Behind the tree, several rows of bushes and flowers over, the clouds of floral scents part in their mixtures. New concoctions are birthed, and they swirl like storm clouds. This disturbance alerts the boy, and he turns on his heels. Rushing around the tree, his smiles extends into that childish attempt at transforming into a vicious beast. 

“Rawr!” 

A rush to plant his feet and unleash his might. Simora lifts his arms and swipes at the air as if he’d claw flesh from bone. He’d learned about every creature… he learned every adaptation and description. His favorite, the nema cat, channels through him now as he gives his best roar for his mother. 

She’d often react. She’d come at him as a flapping aba kite or devihawk, a chest-beating brushback, or a skittering talamalat. Beasts of the sea, the air, and the lands mimicked with practiced, studious minds. His mother’s eyes have always met his as a challenging beast before they both broke into laughter.

The black eyes of Grefta Nor-Noctlin catch the black eyes of her son. 

The roars stop as Simora straightens himself. Like a soldier scolded back into line, his body stiffens in the knowledge that something’s wrong. 

“Slowly, my love.” The faded violet of her lips part in silent command. Her eyes and fingers dance about as well. Two steps back, around the tree, and warn your father. The woman’s feet remain stilled as she waits for her son to move. She faces the center of the angle between the threat and her child. 

Delve deeper. 

Simora’s feet remain planted in the soft mulch of the balbi wood about the fruit tree. His toes dig into the ground as the mind attempts to open. His mother’s receptors are peeled back and curled up. A deer’s tail rising. The hair on a wolf’s back stabbing the air. 

The matriarch of the recently formed branching family, Nor-Noctlin, slips one foot forward as her black eyes examine her son. Slowly. Go! Her fingers tap away in the air. 

Simora hasn’t moved. 

He’s frozen as the receptors on his neck rise up and quiver. 

That’s a new smell. It’s one that comes with the usual huffs redolent of soil and organically manufactured chemicals. Almost all plants on Icarus Alpha produce such scents, yet this contains a sweetness unlike honey or cane. A sickly sweetness which leaves the stomach churning with emptiness and the tongue salivating. The spirit yearns for the truth in this sweetness which has no equal. 

Thick like streams of taffy drawn down before the child’s eyes. Dense and lingering on the tongue. 

The young man feels an involuntary flare to his nostrils and giggles at the tickling in his nose. His giggle is more than a whisper, and his breath mixes with the array of the garden. 

As fans turn high overhead and the funneled light of the sun beats down on the perceived Eden, Simora feels his neck tighten with the strengthening scent. Even as the sensory organs pick up the tiniest stench of predatory intent, the young man becomes enticed by the tender kiss on his nose. 

A mind not strong enough, not broken enough, to understand or resist.

“Simora!” 

Knocked to the ground, the child immediately grips his arm. Mulch, though softer than most, pokes and sticks to his skin. He attempts to whine, but what he sees next sticks the emotions in his throat—caught like flies in the thick sweetness of the scent. 

“S-Sim… ora.”

A beautiful woman, the same woman Simora sees nearly nightly (as often as he permits himself to sleep), hunches over him. Her long hair of midnight nearly glows like fountains of fresh pitch in the falling sunlight. Her eyes, wide and black, are like wells of oil rising to the surface. Behind elven cheekbones and tight ashen skin, the lids retreat farther than the boy has ever seen. The unique features, a nearly immortalized youth in this gifted woman of the Blue, freeze as if painted professionally for the walls of her husband’s study. 

Her brightly colored dress, a blue similar to the closest rings of the sun, hangs loosely around the feminine frame. As if wrapping her in the soft embrace of angelic wings, the light of Almakamla envelopes one of his favored daughters. 

The light embraces all but her face… 

Rain begins to fall. It cannot block the lights funneled in from Irakari. Water runs down the short and hooked nose; a singular predatory feature which only exaggerates her beauty. Simora’s cheek moistens as he looks up into those dripping eyes of his smiling mother. 

“Simora…” she whispers. Her throat swells as she resists crying out. She remains evenly toned and keeps her son in front of her. The needles in her back have already emptied themselves of their organically manufactured toxins. “You be good and go get your father.” She whispers, but the squeak in her voice sends a quiver through the young boy’s receptors. 

Another scent tingles the receptors from somewhere within the garden. A sweetness that’s too sweet alongside a bitterness that’s too bitter. Illogically satisfying as it is confounding. Somehow, this new scent curls about and dilutes the hypnotizing aroma. 

“Are you—”

“Go get your father!” She snaps at the boy. It isn’t a scream or an offense, but she cuts him off in the same manner as when he draws during lessons, when he runs down the halls of soldiers, or when he attempts to leave the Keep without protection. “Please.” She whimpers as the tears dry and soft creaking perks up her receptors. “Be quick.” 

“Mom?” 

“Be… good.” She turns her eyes. She tries not to, but she does. The mostly black eyes, one Sign of the Blue, move as if hooked in the nostrils like some beast of burden. Her head spins on a swivel like an owl. The slight hook of her nose completing the image. “So… good.”

“Mom, what’s…” Simora sees his mother turn to reveal the four darts in her back. Long and thin, these black needles pin her blue dress, slightly red around the wounds, to her flesh. Simora slides back with a gasp and groan. A whine like a pup left to the storms with no pack beside him. 

“So good.” Grefta’s eyes of black widen as she looks toward the opening tangle of spiny vines. She stumbles and growls through the hazy thoughts. One hand drifts up and slides a thumb over Simora’s forehead. “Be good.”

“Mom.” Simora’s eyes follow hers. Or rather, he sees as she sees. For a moment. It comes and goes, as many of their lessons, before he returns to himself. 

It’s an odd experience. Having another’s voice, their thoughts, and their very self standing where you stand. Less practiced hands and minds might’ve left scars within the mind. Damaged passages, networks snipped, after images sparkling in the mental mirrors like phantoms of uncertain selves. 

Run and get father. An adult man’s voice echoes in the youth’s head. Ringing about between the clouds of sweetened toxins. Run and save her. 

Still, the boy is still. He is as bronze crafted into the visage of humanity.

Run! Two voices… 

Get him! Three… four… ten. 

RUN!

“It’s okay, Simora.” She steps forward. “You… just aren’t ready. Move past this.” Her wincing tugs back into a smile—like a fish hooked through both sides of the mouth. She tries to resist, is dragged, and tries again. “It’s not your fault. We needed… more time.” Her eyes attempt to absorb her Eden… all the perfected plants and tamed species she’s gradually cultivated.

Simora’s eyes remain fixed. Black and wide—the true sign of an analytical Blue.

The eyes of his mother. The impressive intellect attempting to find anything which might provide escape. Yet in the end, she can only look toward the Blud Kiss

“Miscalculated. That’s all.” The fish grin widens further. “Mistakes.” Her thumb taps a final time on the boy’s head. Beyond the embrace of a mother’s touch, she leaves her child behind in the garden of her unfinished dreams. “But it’s all fine. It’s good, Simmy.”

Simora watches in silence as the vines claim the flesh. Even as groans of agony are prodded and stabbed from the woman, her voice draws into lengthy gasps and moans of pleasure. A trick of the toxins. Those sweet, confounding toxins. 

A biological iron maiden wraps about the mother of the future Dominax. Crimson petals open wide to tenderly embrace the human. Like lovers entwined, flora and fauna combine into something magnificent.

The screams and groans and passionate embrace are drowned out by the mental passages opening like spiraling tunnels opening… door after door… stairwell after stairwell… kilometer after kilometer. 

It will be some time before someone comes to help. Time enough for a mind to break and to come to understand.

As four receptors settle on the neck of the young master, he silently watches both the world of the mind and physical reality contradict one another as they merge… merge like lover plants and humans. As the woman goes silent in the embrace of bloody kisses, her voice continues in Simora’s mind.

He thinks to himself, with a voice slightly older than that of a child, Miscalculated. 

Chapter 29

“Stay down.” A soldier’s voice whispers through the slits of foliage. 

“I’m not a child.” 

“Stop whining like one.” 

The two bicker back and forth until a short hiss comes from farther back in the brush. The two soldiers feel a chill slip up their spines as if the serpents were already between their armor and flesh. One turns back with a vibro sword in his hand only to find Finel’s morphed eyes, like ambers with black slits, staring back at them. 

“Shut it.” She lips move though the voice is barely audible. 

Immediately, the soldiers straighten themselves in dutiful response. In the distance, a snap of wood glues the men’s bones in place. They breathe as the dead as the unknown passes. A sniff, like the earth gasping, draws the surroundings in. A whirlpool of air seems to steal the heat from the world as it slips deeper into the canopied wood. 

It is a long while before the snorts and the quiet pats leave the area. Far enough, and with enough silence proceeding, the men loosen their muscles in relaxation. As if they’d been through the crucible, again proving themselves soldiers, they feel the energy pour from them into the soil. 

“You were right.” Finel falls back to her tree and rests. Her eyes trace along the branches overhead for any movement. “Hog.”

“Of course I was. I always am.” Simora holds to his right arm as he strains himself in an attempt to relax between two gnarled roots. “Ameliorated or not, best to not get in their way. That was a shro hog. They’re territorial. Good to give him distance.” 

“Shro hogs?” Finel shakes her head as she rests on the other side of one of Simora’s roots. “I don’t recall them. Useful for my men and I?”

“Doubt it.” Simora’s face freezes in pain as the broken bones refuse to cease their screams. Attempting to dull the pain through mental fortification, Simora’s breathing becomes somewhat uneven. Beneath the Balan material, four receptors struggle to remain still with a plethora of scents, reactions, and information offered. Accepting pain as necessity while the brain seems momentarily incapable of such processes. Sighing, Simora rolls his head toward Finel; eyes darting about the surroundings. “They are ruthless, yes, yet they provide little advantage where another beast would better accomplish. Their bulk and danger are married in their massive front shoulders and mess of tusks. Torque enough to be a stationary battering ram.

“They’ve little in the means of toxin or chemical resistance. Their hide is remarkably thin for such an environment. Bristles contain neither venom nor spines. Overall, I’m sure you’ve come into contact with a variety of preferable specimens.”

“That feel good?” Finel cannot help but giggle gently against the root. “Giving a full report instead of a simple ‘yes’ or ‘no.’” Her tone mocks the marginally more masculine voice. 

Ignoring the pains of her humor and his arm, Simora shrugs with his uninjured shoulder. “I prefer my allies knowledgeable of the situation. A prepared and efficient soldier is more likely to secure my victory and safety than one wasting their time with the shro hog.” He continues to scan and prod the surroundings with wriggling receptors and golden eyes—the darkness more visible than to other humans.

“Ally? Pretty assumptive.” 

“Are we not? I’m fairly certain I’d secured your patronage already.” 

“Patronage? Really?” Finel’s soft voice is as musical as the mating birds above. “You really did have big plans.”

“Always do.” The Dominax looks up to the canopy where the soft, fading light falls through in sharp angles. “We don’t have long until night, but that may work well. We need to get to our ships. Retreat to space and assess the sit—”

“Impossible.” 

Simora’s head snaps to stare at the woman with his golden sand expanses. “What do you mean? What’s happened?” 

“You were out like a babe in his mother’s arms. Torik carried you most the time. You should probably thank him.”

“I’ll make him a duke when we’re done.”

“A duke? Wow. I didn’t know the Dominax of Icarus Alpha had such power.” Her narrowed eyes drag up the edges of her colorful lips. “Or are you confirming your plans with me like a deathbed confession.”

“I’m not dying.” 

“Aren’t you?”

Simora’s grunt is both in physical and mental anguish. “So, let’s get to a ship.”

“Impossible.”

“You’ll make me ask?”

“It’s more enjoyable.”

“Why is getting to a ship impossible.” 

“Can’t you extrapolate?” 

“Finel.” The voice is slightly too loud, and Simora sighs as he leans back and attempts to ignore the throbbing in his right side. “Why?”

“Valkenaria is currently split into sections. One’s on fire, one’s crumbling, and the other’s filled with enemy forces. Ships were taken or destroyed. We got into some Darts. They are,” her head bobs about as if she’s reliving the flight, “grounded until further notice.” 

“Unbelievable.” Simora’s head beats against the tree’s trunk. Attempting to delve slightly into the sandy world of Born. As if trying to pierce through a coarse film, he presses on only to succeed in exhausting himself against a suffocating wall. 

Flung backward, as if the barrier were rubber, the man falls back into his conscious body with a gasp. The fire of his right arm spreads up his body and sets his spine ablaze. The memory, the dream, of blud kiss needles sends a shiver up his body as if he were currently being forcibly administered acupuncture.

The memory? I’ve never… his eyes continue to scan every direction; now with a hastened patrol. Sure that his receptors scan for any too sweet of scents. 

He does not attempt Born again. The discomfort surely prevents him from entering such a taxing state of mind. 

“The Dark Stars?” 

Looking over Simora, Finel listens carefully to his hushed voice. Cold. Calculating. Even now. Shelving any feminine concern for this subject of her playful jabs, she answers in a similar tone. “No word or sight of Obin. Lost himself to Berserk, yet he ordered us to retreat while he held the enemy off. Matheem’s ship was seen crashing north of our position. I have scouts searching.”

“Remiran?” 

Colder than the other questions, the question feels like a frosted string unable to fully vibrate. “He’d disappeared in our retreat. We’d seen no body or heard any comm responses. No Lycoths found either. It seemed likely they’d taken to a different route behind us. Perhaps they’d gotten to a ship.” 

“Hm.” His eyes don’t dance about as he envisions data invisible to the rest. He’s simply sitting still in the cradle of the tree’s roots. A simplistic tree. Durable and resilient to insects and brutish, competitive species. It’s branches reach high toward the blue and orange Heavens; unconcerned with the weak and fragile creatures at its feet. 

Tucked within it’s safe arms, his eyes continue to watch everything they can. 

“Are you all right?” 

Simora’s eyes don’t move away from the canopy. A numbness persists even though several beams of light fall over him. This cold emptiness unthawed by the heat of an Icarus Alpha dying day. 

“No.” The golden eyes study the world above. “Yes. I don’t know really.” Calm down. Simora remains tucked back as if carved from the roots. “I’d not seen any of this. None of it.” 

“Born? It’s not a perfect ability.”

“Nothing is perfect.” 

“Has that ever stopped you from trying?” 

“No.” 

“Then what do we do, Dominax?” 

Simora’s eyes fall to the woman over the root from him. Her dazzling eyes flicker out like lights switched off. Something must’ve flown over the canopy. Her eyes, Simora notes, were almost black. Another pang of some distant dream tucked gently beneath folds of the brain.

The amethysts are back and sparkling. 

“I need more information.” 

“It’s incredible.”

“What is?” 

Leaning against the root, Finel’s more delicate side comes to the surface. Survival often means playing the roles required. Adapting, Simora notes, is what she does best. 

“Everything that’s happened, and you’re so calm.” 

Shrugging his good shoulder, Simora says, “The same goes for you.” Am I calm? I don’t feel calm. He touches his face with a single finger as if to test if his mask of Glamor remains.

“I spent the first few hours panicking. You weren’t waking up right away.” Her eyes scan the woodlands. “My men need me to be a rock. On the inside?” She grunts in dry humor. “I’ve been screaming most the time. Nothing as collected as you.”

Simora’s head doesn’t move. Or rather, perhaps he can’t. He merely stares on and listens to her words as an icy memory taps at his brain. The sands beyond his current reach. Visions escaping him as impossibilities among the probable outcomes. 

“We’ve supplies to survive and get back. Once my men return, they’ll hopefully have a medi-drone. Rest up. We’ll make a battle plan when you’re better.” Finel’s fingers track along her pants and belt to check over what she does have. Hearing a slight groan from her left, she opens a small pouch on the belt. “Want a painkiller?” 

Hesitating, knowing full well that his mind isn’t controlling the body properly, Simora nods. Taking the singular white pill, Simora’s throat tightens around the dry object. Still, forcing it down with a series of gulps, the pill drops into his gut. It will only be a minute or two, and the drug’s pleasant numbness will overtake the burning areas. The stabbing in his spine has already begun to dull. 

“Better?” Finel waits a moment for the man to nod. “Good. We’ll get that arm fixed up… but Simmy?”

His head slides to the side to look at her. 

“What was it they stole?” 

Golden eyes twitched open wide before slipping back into the even slits. Now, in this moment of a drug’s powerful grip, Simora feels himself tensing against the quieting hand of the little pill. “My city? My pride? My seat atop this planet?”

“You know what I’m speaking of.” The playful smile of the predator returns. Now leaning over the root, her lips are only inches from Simora’s forehead. “Whatever it was in the back of your father’s statue.”

Simora’s face rolls over the bark. He’s felt bark like this millions of times; safely examined around his study or city. Cracked flesh of the tree feels like uneven stone heated slightly in the beams of sunlight. Pressing flesh into the valleys and gouges of the bark, he’s found himself lulled back into exhausted comfort. That manner of comfort that only exists when the body cannot fathom spending more energy in search of better accommodations. 

Even as the question prods the already over stimulated nerves, Simora groans through the world which wavers before him. Painkiller? “This isn’t meant for simple pain.”

“No.” Finel nods as she puts a long finger into his silvery hair. “Where did this lovely color come from?”

“Did you mean to poison me?” 

“You’re not poisoned. Just,” she curls the silver in her fingers, “a bit out of it. Guess I’ve built a tolerance.” She whispers, “Adapt taxes the body. Sometimes we get a bit… overzealous. I don’t use it often, but it works wonderfully. Doesn’t it, Simmy?” 

“Yeah.” His eyes drift about as he follows the grooves in the bark. Miscalculated. I should have used my receptors. “Yeah it does.” 

“So, Simmy.” The hair curling continues. “Where did you get this hair color from?”

“I thank my parents for my genetics.” 

“Oh, come now. I’m not daft, and you shouldn’t treat me as such. Not if we’re to ally ourselves in these troubling times.” She leans in to whisper with her tongue then sliding over her lips, “Or for our future.”

“We have to find my forces. Comms.”

“Now’s not the time for you to try being cold and calculating. My Wildlings are scouting. We should stay in cover and defensive until we know more and you’re healed up.” She taps at his forehead, “Now. Help me pass the time. Hair.”

“I told you.”

“Alright. And the eyes?”

“Contacts. Help with sight and Sign.” The golden eyes meet her gaze to confirm his response. 

“Hm.” She nods and pokes his head harder. “Contacts? Your vision is perfect. Are they technologically augmented or do you just… like them? Gold? Bit gaudy for you, isn’t it?”

“Have you seen the clothes I wear?” 

“Ha!” Stifling a burst of laughter, Finel examines the area and finds no wild response to her noise. “A joke? You?”

“Just an observation.”

Finel’s body leans farther over the root as a finger slides under Simora’s chin. Lifting his face toward hers, she continues with a soft voice, “You aren’t the only one who observes, Simmy. If you want continued alliance, you will not treat me,” her nail digs into the soft flesh under his chin, “as an imbecile.” 

Sighing through the numbing agent, Simora meets her gaze, “I have done so, haven’t I?” 

“You have.” Finel grins playfully as she bites the peak of her bottom lip. “You always have. Even at School, you’d done so. I hadn’t minded. It’s the one time you stand above others. Powerful. Directed. Manly.” 

Simora’s golden sands meet with her amethyst jewels. Exhaling through the stillness of the air, he lets his receptors take in what information they can. No beasts or threats. No one else within hearing distance. Her comm isn’t transmitting. No buzz of activated or recording equipment on her. Am I safe? Have I miscalculated again?

He’s distracted. Obvious to the huntress, but he it pierces all the same.

Simora’s eyes glance about as he feels his grasp on reality slip. In this jungle he’d not truly walked, he feels pain sacrifice itself to nourish blooming weeds of doubt. Endless, slithering paths of dangers and unknowns. Another may have begun hyperventilating—the sort of elites left beyond servant and wealth to fend off nature as the first of mankind.

Simora is neither common nor helpless. He steadies his breathing and refocuses his mind. “The drug.” The wilds, he thinks as his face goes slack, are not the worrisome factors here. What matters is… “It wouldn’t be another attempt by treacherous hands.”

“You ask me?” 

“You’d not wanted to be treated as an imbecile.” Simora admits coldly. A familiar calculative response in the heat of the hunt. 

“No! I had nothing to do with the attack.” Her eyes widen with rage. “For the loss of my Wildlings alone, I will crush every attacker myself. I will hunt every savage down.” Her features extend and sharpen with vicious intent. A shadow falls over her face as the glimmering purple of her eyes seems to illuminate like a cursed flame. 

Simora nods. He’s certain she’s honest. Her continued attempts upon him are clearly an advantage he’s considered. Plotted for. Yet, this wasn’t the time or place. He can’t think clearly as the drug lulls him into a stupor. 

There is so much information to process, and he can’t connect the dots. All the plots laid low by unforeseen contingencies. Moves in the shadows of his own targets. The kingdom of a planet crumbled in a day. Lives and research and years of planning… 

What mother wanted. 

He pauses at the thought. Another blurred entry into the system that connects or switches nothing. As frustrating as it is, he’s yet sensible enough to understand this is wasted energy. He leans back against the tree with his eyes fixated ahead of him. He leans from her curled finger and welcoming warmth. 

“Simmy.” Her breath, like a waterfall over the root, flows across his face. 

“Hm?”

“We’ll get these bastards.”

So quiet. So compassionate. An invitation not lettered for the mind. 

Sighing at all that was lost to the mentioned bastards, Simora shakes his head and stares at nothing in particular. “Thank you, Finel.” 

She rests her head against the root as she basks in the warm embrace of that which accepts her. 

He rests himself because his mind is too crippled to wander. 

Yet, there is an uninterrupted stillness between the Dark Stars. A distance, unseen between them, too great to overcome this day. Gravity shifts and redirects the cosmos.

Simora looks into the endless expanse of life and thinks of his little office atop his little building within his little city; not even an inkblot on the map. 

Valkenaria. I will return. 

Chapter 30

“All better?” 

The medi-drone’s retreat and affirmative beeps answer before Simora. “Seems it.” Rolling his right shoulder and bending his arm, the Dominax tests his body. No pain. “What else did they find?” 

Finel, by the moonlight falling through the canopy and by the beam offered by the medi-drone, sprawls out a collection of scavenged items. Simora considers this, Conserving energy. She could use a nocturnal creature’s eyes. 

“Two pulsers. One’s a rifle model. Could be useful. I have a sharpshooter in my forces yet. Seven vibro tools. The medi-drone. Four comm earpieces. Six ration kits. Two med kits. Three survival kits. A computing prismaslate—the only one still intact. None of the long-range radar or transmission devices were salvageable.” 

“Then we have what we need to survive.” Simora studies the items before rechecking the device on his hip. Having not used it previously, not believing he had to with his own allies, he ensures that his bracer tech is still functional. “Near a full charge. Will keep that on reserve.”

“We ought to get to a more defensible position. This place is too open.” 

Finel looks to one of her Wildlings returned from patrol. His snout gradually shrinking back into human features. Nodding, she turns back to her companion. “Are we truly safe in this region? When I’d visited, your father wouldn’t let us leave the walls of the Keep.” 

“While the beasts may still retain some territorial or defensive instinct, Amelioration has made Womot the safest of the continents. I was sure to secure my own lands before any other.” Simora nods as he takes the smaller pulser. “Best to handle any backlashes and negative reactions on my own soil before subjecting the tribes.”

“Perhaps you should’ve let them deal with it themselves.” 

Simora shakes his head with a groan, “Not in my cards. I needed cooperation.” Tilting his head, he considers that thought. “This attack doesn’t make sense.”

“The natives have never trusted off-worlders.” A guard pipes up from around the side of the tree. “Never. They just up and take over the city!”

“Quiet, you.” Finel growls. “Are all your guards so quick to panic?”

“I’ve not focused on military forces for some time, but he’s right to show some emotional response. Look around.” Simora doesn’t, but he allows the others to. “We’re safe here only by the work I’ve done. We’ve not needed strict military force because of our restructure of the world’s ecosystems and natural propensities against humanity. Our greatest threat are people that’ve refrained from outright war with us for some time.

“Small aggressions from a handful of tribes infrequently. A fringe gathering of violent dissidents. They’d struck us at a vulnerable moment I’d not been able to foresee through Born. A failure on my part. One I shall not repeat.”

“Very calm and collected for a man just confirming his own people attempted to murder him and his fellow Dark Stars.” Finel grasps the longest vibro sword and places it on her belt. The rifle, she gives the scout still catching his breath from patrol. “Cold as always.”

“Finel,” Simora glances up to her with his mentally managed mask slipping, “I’m… unsure in this moment. There is more than just the attack that bothers me. I need… a safe place to meditate and gather information. We need to return to the city.” 

“They’ve taken over the city, Dominax.” The upset soldier has somewhat settled himself. Breathing uneasily, he turns back. “Are their more exolungs?” 

Finel opens one of the survival kits and finds a row of the devices. “Oh! Yes. Here. Distribute these.” Each begins to secure their own devices and take a long, even breath. 

Sighing, Simora holds his tightly before putting it on. Quietly, he mutters under his breath. “Another thing I hadn’t even considered.” 

“Hm?”

“Nothing.” Simora stands and looks to the soldiers. “Have we seen signs of any tribes on the move? Any banners or distinguishing details? There are those, even among the Ravagers, that would aid us.”

“You’d still trust them?”

Looking to the soldier that had voiced his anxieties, Simora nods, “As of now, that is all we can do. We don’t have the forces here to retake the city. No comm devices strong enough to reach forces in space. Nor am I able to contact any of the forces of my fellow Dark Stars.” Raising his voice slightly, the Dominax steps toward the man with sure footing, “Yes. This is the way. Now, what data have we?”

Finel bites her lip at the scene; waiting for the reply. 

Steadying his breath, the soldier nods. “We saw the signs of Ravager passings. Footprints that circled and went in both directions. Difficult to keep track of where they’d head.” 

“Old tricks to remain hidden from beasts or rival tribes.” 

“Figured.” The soldier corrects his stance and tone after Finel’s eyes narrow upon him. “Dominax.” He adds. “We’re a few kilometers from the edge of the city. We didn’t make it very far. Only the territorial beasts seem to be an issue. No visuals of actual tribes yet.” 

“None?” Simora asks.

“None at all.” 

“How long have we been here?” 

“Half a day? You were out for many hours, Dominax.” The Wildling points toward the north. “There was a path we’d found just beyond one of the ships. The Raker is emptied out. Stripped clear of any easily managed equipment.”

“Raker? Why didn’t you start with that? Where’s Matheem?”

“The Elder wasn’t there.” The Wildling realizes his mistake and points in the actual direction. “We checked the surrounding area. No tracks or marks around that ship. Too damaged to do a proper investigation without more time. My Planetist, there was blood… but no sign of any of the Exorcists or Elder Matheem.” 

“An entire Raker? Nothing salvageable? Then it’s been raided already.”

“Ravagers?”

“Surely.”

“We didn’t see any—”

“They’ve remained secured and hidden from the most dangerous creatures in existence. Hiding from your eyes takes little more than a child’s training.” 

“But you said they’d leave tracks to confuse us.”

“One to confuse, and one to lure. A creature with only one skill dies first.” Simora looks to the Wildling with the injured pride. “That isn’t a comment on your lack of skills but the impressive nature of theirs. The same reason I know we only faced a small fraction of the tribes.” His eyes widen as he, once again, is scanning every direction. “Therein lies our dilemma. We gamble finding ally or predator.”  

“There were quite a number of combatants. Surely the majority of combat-aged males.” The soldier retorts. 

Simora’s golden eyes scan the area past the surrounding soldiers. Unwilling to use what little energy he has to attempt another delve into Born, he focuses on the conversation. “I’m not certain of population numbers. We know very little of actual tribe practices or breeding. They manage to retain a great amount of freedom from off-world rule and prying eyes. Yet, I know they are incredibly efficient combatants, survivalists, and killers.”

Many of the soldiers, wearing different colors with their blacks, gulp back the information. Some of his men wearing blue (those that remain) kept quiet; for they either knew such truths or wonder why their Dominax had left this garden of men unattended for so long. Hearing the proclamation of ignorance from even the greatest mind known to the Black families, their spirits fall back into a hushed contemplation. 

“We have very few advantages other than the element of surprise. Depending on which tribes or outside benefactors we face, we may have even fewer advantages than I believe. It’s not ideal, but I would prefer seeking a tribe that has the capabilities to send off-world comms.” 

“Who would that be?” Finel questions as she leans comfortably against the root while digging into the first ration from a box. 

“Most of the larger tribes are capable of such communications. I don’t know who specifically has what technology; however.” Simora exhales slowly as he attempts to follow the paths of his logic. 

“And to whomever stole your whatever it was.”

Simora glances to Finel with a visible slip of the mental mask—a slight furrow of the brow followed by a hiss through his teeth. “Not now.”

“So, we’re going to trust some Ravagers just like that? What? They’ll show us some Tree of Wisdom or Spring of Eternal Ass Kicking, and we’ll find the path back home?”

Snapping his head toward another of the soldiers, one wearing white around his black, Simora responds, “Is that all you think of these people?” 

“Savages living in trees or under rocks? Wholesome barbarians shitting in holes and covering it with their hands.”

“I believe you’re mistaken as to the advanced lives and cultures of these peoples.” Simora steps toward the man who could, just from a quick glance, clearly overpower the Dominax.

“I never asked to come to this shithole. In fact,” the soldier whips out his vibro pole and lifts his wrist, wreathed with some device Simora notes likely fires a manner of dart, toward the Dominax. “How about we just finish what the savages started? Kill one nerdy noble too dumb to see he can’t pen the beasts. Finally put someone other than a damned Nor-Noctlin offshoot in power.”

Growling from the other side of a ration’s silver packaging, the seated female lunges up to her feet with ease. “Choosing to die after a crash? Innovative.”

“Shut up.” He aims his weapons toward the Planetist. “Forced here and this happens? The General should’ve left you all to die. He was worth a hundred of you!”

“That so?” Finel’s fingers twitch on her own vibro weapon; her remaining Wildlings move quietly into position. 

“Oh? The pack swarms? I’d been trained by the General! I’ll kill you all before you ev—”

A spectacular crack interrupts the noise of a quiet woods (save one shouting soldier). Like thunder from a normal storm, it causes all to leap in their boots. Simora, after ducking away from the man, feels his receptors twitch under the tight Balan fabric. That’s the chemical reaction. The singed, earthy scent fills his nostrils and receptors with a lingering pleasure. 

The soldier in black and white falls to the side. Crumpling, having not activated his bracer device, the soldier’s forehead splits open and sprays liquid over the roots beside Finel. The moonlight catches the droplets and pieces like black pitch floating in tractor beams of a ship. 

Simora examines these trapped liquids as one might watch plasma bubble and flow in a lamp. Time gradually marches forward as the crack of thunder ends and the body hits the ground. 

As if Almakamla had dealt the blow.

“Apologies. I’d have listened further, but he’d made such wild claims and threats.”

“Who’s that?!” Finel pivots with her forces so the pack now faces a black forest. The forces of blue and black remain frozen. “Show yourself!”

Hands up, the shadow approaches with a swinging appendage at the end of an arm. It moves silently unless it speaks or steps carelessly—which it doesn’t. Simora’s receptors twitch, and the being produces an aura like a vicious beast; perhaps some manner of primate-serpent hybrid. The Dominax’s body tenses with the illogical assumption of some mutated nightmare. A tale of old where the Devil comes to shake hands and steal souls. It only allows itself to be perceived as human when the medi-drone’s light curls up toward the man. 

Straightening himself with surprise, the Dominax reclaims his mental mask of Glamor and corrects himself. I’d heard his voice and still didn’t recognize it. Why am I… why? The memories of visions dance at the edge of his thoughts. “Yamay. Your assistance is appreciated; though, sadly I feel your reaction was a bit drastic.”

“Was it? I did apologize for the inconvenience to you, Dominax.”

Dominax. He still uses my title? “Please, abetak.”

“Tebera.” The man bows his head and drops the metallic device in his right hand into a leather holster at his side. “Has your party stumbled upon yand forakan?”

“No. He stumbled in life upon his own path.” Simora points to the crumpled, bloodied mess of the fallen soldier. “Am I to assume us safe in your presence?”

“A shame, what occurred.” He lifts a hand to his eyes, “Might I request less light?” Yamay’s colorful eyes glisten slightly as the medi-drone’s light falls to his feet. “Thanks to you and yours, Dominax. I assure your safety among mine.”

“Yours?” Finel’s eyes begin to scan the area. 

“How many are you?”

“My people, my troop, or those currently surrounding us?”

Simora grunts in humor as the man spits his leaf juice near the corpse’s feet. Even scanning the area, I could not detect them. Even my receptors? “Surrounding us first. The rest I can learn later.” 

“Twelve.” 

“A fair force.” Simora motions for his men to relax. Glancing back to Finel, he motions in their old ways from school. Reluctantly, she drops her vibro weapon. “How long have you been watching?”

“Your scouts were seen at the Raker crash. Our first scavengers had cleared most of the viable worth. We found no survivors, but your troops were easily tracked.” Glancing to the Wildling, the man’s eyes drop as his face floods with color in the moonlight. “Wowettem Almakamla, Dominax, that we found you first.”

Simora’s receptors wring about under the tight fabric. The faint scent of sweat in the distance, a salted aroma, hangs under the cover of dirt and floral scents. “You move as shadows from the sight of a coup, and you honor me?”

“Would you not?” He spits another mouthful; landing it across the boots of the corpse. “I believe ‘savages’ was the word he used.”

“One of many.”

Groaning with a nod, Yamay stares at the body without actually taking in anything more than the surface details of the dead. “No Metem would damn their people to the violence that was and will surely come.” He shrugs as his tongue swims around his teeth. “Not without reason, that is.”

“So you’d fled?” Finel’s fingers tightened around her weapon.

Nodding, Yamay meets her gaze, “Yes. Epimth. Dominax reported to have fled. Dark Stars scattered. We found a crashed ship. A few blood stains but not the sight of a slaughter. We took what was needed.” Spitting again, he continues, “I keep mine safe and thriving. It seems yand forakan is not yet done.” His eyes slip over toward Simora. 

“You took what you needed?” Finel’s blood races. Animalistic proclivities enhanced in the stress of the situation. Responses volatile. Flames ready to swallow the underbrush. “While my Wildlings—”

“Finel.” Her eyes turn on him. A predator now aware there’s competition for the kill. Simora’s tone and eyes are enough for her to slow her breathing. 

I need time. I need to calculate. This moment of stillness draws sweat from Simora’s neck and forehead. The moon’s chill crashes over the man freshly pieced together by the medi-drone. There’s more data to consider. His golden eyes, more white in the moonlight, dance about as if the answer were hung from the shoulders of his companions. The past has become a weight his frail arms cannot possibly hoist… and the emptied statue of his father anchors him into the depths of despair. 

More time. Simora requests this of whatever being might listen. More data. 

Exhausted, but refusing to show it, Simora finds himself the center of people’s attention. Guards and leaders await his response. They wait for him to decide just how he will continue to run this planet granted to his shamed branch of a family. 

Simora steps forward. A guard moves to the side, blocking the path between the two, but the Dominax brushes by him. He’s waiting on my answer. Without consulting the world of Born, the man reaches out one hand while the other taps rapidly at his side.

“You’ve saved my life and those of my companions. Hear my words, Metem, that your Dominax asks for your continued service. Will you answer?”

Licking about under his closed lips, the Metem stares at the hand with his usual, stern expression. After a short silence, experienced by all others present as minutes, the men clasp their hands about the other’s forearm. “I have given you my breath, Dominax. With such a title, all Remer are your Remer. All Metem at your command.”

“Obviously, that is untrue.” Simora’s eyes narrow in this odd response of the Ravager. “But you, Yamay, will aid me in reclaiming my status and city?”

Nodding, hands still clasped, Yamay responds, “I shall. In time.” Correcting himself, he nods in a short bow, “If I may, Dominax?”

Simora retrieves his hand and motions for the man to speak plainly. 

Spitting before he speaks, he continues, “Retreat for now. Return home with my tribe. You shall be safe.” He glances now around those that still stand. “Is this all that remains of your force?”

Simora sighs, “Perhaps. I do not know. We need intel. We need comms and supplies. We need to find those we’ve lost. Deep Roots. Dark Stars. Hidden forces scattered.” He nods as he tries to plunge through time without calculated foresight—a tiresome endeavor. Clicking his tongue, he asks, “Are you capable of such things?”

“My men are already scouring the woods, and my forces will protect you as they would my own flesh.” He notes the rigid stances of those behind the Dominax. Spitting and brushing his hand through his hair, Yamay adds, “You all may not trust me. Fine. Do not. Your paths are your own. Stay here and face Almakamla’s trials as you wish. Join us, and I ensure your safety in our midst.”

Unsure, and restraining a heat of anger, Simora turns back toward his companions. With a quiet voice, attempting to keep all his royal demeanor intact, he asks, “Will you all join me?”

“Do we really have a choice?” Finel’s voice growls toward Simora. 

“Do you?” Yamay answers with a dry tone as his lower lip opens to launch another blob of leaf juice. Glancing back to Simora, he proceeds, “Their treachery will be found. Blood,” he nods toward the corpse, “will be repaid.”

“Wowettem Almakamla lutius,” Simora nods with a fist clutched over his heart before raising it to his forehead. 

“Come. We have much ground to cover… and the world is not right.” Yamay turns and walks into the darkness of Womot. 

Chapter 31

“Functional Skitters.” Simora moves along the edge of the ship with his newly provided cloak pulled up over his face. Simply a vagrant joining the caravan. He examines the lengthy appendages tucked under the side overhangs. Various designs and models have docked across the continent, but this one seems in fine, if not incredible, condition. “Still necessary to use these? The largest predators were first in my breeding programs. I’d been led to believe the reasons for such specialized ships had been mollified.”

“When the army is formed, you do not drop your weapons.” 

Simora turns back on the Prints-a-Ment dock toward the Metem knocking on his main ship with one knuckle. “Do you pride yourself on parable-like responses?”

“I do.” Yamay grunts in his humor. “It makes me seem more sagely to my people. Perhaps, I get carried away, but,” he grins at the man he pledged his allegiance to, “I will continue to do so. Any conversation worth having should be filled with speech as deep as the seas.”

“You may find your time greatly occupied with palaver.” 

“As Metem, most of my time is spent in palaver. To speak to the Dominax of Rakar, as servant in the stead of ruler, I shall breathe easy having my hand guided for me.”

“You flatter. This means my words and laws were accepted? Followed?”

Yamay shrugs, “To the best of my knowledge. Criminal acts are constant in humanity. We, by the grace of Almakamla, are not perfect. So sayeth even the Church of Many Mouths, does it not?”

“That is true.” Simora turns to examine the horizon of waves. The Ravagers, the Emel-Rakar, move quickly. Even the older among them take care to keep pace and carry their weight. “I often refrain from the topics of morality and existentialism, yet they are topics which captivate the mind.”

“Perhaps you require the proper palaver partners.” 

“Those I had,” Simora’s eyes look through the crowd and find none of the faces he seeks. “I hope your men find them.”

“The Deep Roots you’ve mentioned? Patire Isserman?”

Ravagers, the Emel-Rakar, begin loading on one ship. Passing between the Dominax and Metem, the people paid each a bow of the head and a hand to the forehead. 

“Indeed. Patire is one of them. My Hand and Gavel, Thomat Baralas. My gamekeeper and personal pilot, Donatello Abernel. My lab assistant and investigative prodigy, Wallace Horral.” 

“Hm.” Yamay takes hold of a man’s arm, one of the oldest of the group, and aids him in climbing up and over the ship’s ledge. Once finished, he returns his attention to the young man. Sliding a hand through his black, wavy hair, Yamay nods, “I recall her. We welcomed her for a time, but she found us rather quiet. One may even say dull. I’d explained, you see, how the world has changed.

“For better or worse, it’s changed. We, too, must change with it. We shared stories and talks, yet many of our rituals and practices have been… postponed. She’d found this rather disappointing, yet she smiled and shared as the most splendid guest.”

“She’s always been a friendly soul.” Simora sighs as he peers back toward the forest. No additional groups or forces. Not even another tribe. Instead, there is the one ship being loaded while another two are quiet and still. “You’re looking for them?”

“Three days we’ve traveled together. I’d not waste the chance to have my men speak with the other tribes or scour the lands. Gives them reason to stay longer.”

“Stay longer?”

“You’ve ascertained my numbers are not whole for there are two ships with our seals that we do not take. You’d not questioned it as loss of men in the sieging of your city.” Yamay taps his head and walks toward the end of the dock. He motions for the Dominax to follow. “I cannot presume to fully understand. You’re a clever man.

“Staying longer, you ask. Staying longer is what they want. Why is that? Why would they want to be separated from their homes and family?”

“You’d make a game of it?” 

“Word games and puzzles are an easy and quiet way to pass the time. On Enert as well as Womot, that has long been necessary.”

Simora examines the gentle waves of a new morning. Taking in the salted breeze of the sea, his receptors jitter with the pleasant scene. Sanded beaches of white and tan grains rest quietly for the welcomed waters. Not the sand I’d wished to see… memories of just such a beach swell up like geysers ready to burst. The memory of black smoke rising out of the angry sea. 

Simora’s tongue clicks gently in his mouth as he considers delving into the sands of Born, yet the concern of entrapment within the film between worlds plagues him. 

“You move at night even though Amelioration pacified most of the creatures across the continent. Your people still move silently and with purpose. You train in the old ways.”

“The old ways are still fresh in our minds and hearts.”

“And so, you move as shadows between beasts. You come to this land for your disputes and your meetings from across the globe.”

“Aye. We do all that, too.”

“This land is holy for a miscellany of sanctified reasons.”

“That it is.”

“And you’ll explain those reasons?”

“Perhaps.”

“In time?”

“Likely.”

“Now you decide to be short?”

“When it suits me.” Yamay grins as he plops two leaves between his lips and teeth. 

“So, your men are gathering information and searching for my people or useful materials. This is like a religious pilgrimage.”

“Survival is Almakamla’s duty placed upon us, and survival in the Black Lands is both blessing and game.”

“Black Lands?” Simora’s ears had perked up, and now he turns his attention to the Metem.

“More to discuss later.” 

Black Lands? How much have we not truly learned about these people? Simora turns back to the sea where calm waves rise and fall with deep blues. Expansive are the oceans of Icarus Alpha. Spanning kilometers without any semblance of land. Small bars of sand might rise or fall with the passage of time and waves, yet the five continents are the only true masses to welcome thriving ecosystems of land creatures—most notable being the human. 

“The smallest lands, Womot.” Simora’s fingers tap at his sides as he stares forward. As the blistering sun begins its heavenly ascent, he knows the city far behind him will catch the rays like miniature prisms. “Home sickness” cannot quite describe this emotion properly. It is not a geographical area or a people that beckon the man’s return. A silent series of rooms tucked out of reality only exist because of his knowledge. To be separated was as leaving a patient with one failing lung and the other exposed. “I’d prefer to stay. Holy as it is, I fear my soul may not last in its absence.”

“A pain felt by all.”

It wasn’t. Not truly in the same fashion. Yamay’s attempt at empathy speeds Simora’s tapping and clicking. Uneasy, the Dominax begins to bob his head with the waves. “They stole something from me, Yamay.” 

Sensing this turn of conversation’s root emotion, the Metem spit into the waters before turning toward his superior. “Tell me, Dominax, what troubles you.”

“Many things trouble me, Metem. Many things, siblings of things, and the extended family of such things.” Simora doesn’t mean to hiss the final words, but his clicking tongue fills his mouth with saliva. Speaking with a semblance of an impediment, the man groans and cracks his neck. “I fear leaving will mean all that is lost may never be returned to me.”

“A true fear that all men must face.” Yamay nods and places a hand upon Simora’s shoulder. The younger man retreats; causing Yamay’s hand to float oddly about the air. Clutching his fingers into a softened fist, Yamay examines the empty hand. “Shalahs inne brask Almakamla.”

“Death is the mask God wears?”

Yamay nods as he points out toward the waters. “Amelioration has appeased Almakamla, it seems. Yet, the Death is a persona that must walk these lands, Dominax. Skitters are necessary because there is more beyond these shores than calm waves and salty breezes.”

“And Almakamla wears the masks of his duties. What other masks does he wear?” 

Yamay shrugs. “I’ve not the fingers and toes to count.”

“And of Almakamla’s many masks, would the destruction and death in Valkenaria fall under his domain?” Though the spite in his voice was masked beneath layers of physical and vocal manipulation, Yamay ignores the anger and nods. “Does a man blame Almakamla?” Simora waits through the man’s silence until he cannot take the stillness before the waves. 

How haunting the memories of hushed waves climbing sands. How they cover the scene of death and loss as if tucking away secrets for mankind to ignorantly pass by. Still, the memory plays through the silence.

“One can. One often does. Many only speak to Almakamla when their lives are led to a barren waste or smoldering ash.” Yamay straightens himself. Aimed at the waves, the two men share one picturesque scene. “Is it not a man’s freedom that allows him to curse his creator? A man may cut off his right hand. Yes, that is his right. We may wish to stop him, but the act is his decision alone. 

“We do not blame the stump by which he braces the arm. We blame neither his knife nor the rotation of Rakar. It is the man which chooses his path.”

“And I am a man who would blame the stump and blade?”

“Many men blame the stump. More still the blade. Most, in time, will come to pass the pain into a silent clearing where the chill of Death passes behind the trees like a prowling beast. In those moments, many will blame Almakamla; the faithless most of all.”

“And I am a faithless man.”

“I considered this.”

“You knew this.” 

“I knew this.”

Simora inhales deeply again of the briny waters. This world, beyond the sparkling jewel of his city, had been properly categorized and placed within mental filings. Or so, he believed. Standing once more, after many cycles, before the hungry waters, he knows his records have become obsolete. 

It was with my helixer. The waters are where I started… all life starts here.

“Yet, you stare at the world as if through the eyes of Almakamla Himself.”

Simora’s interest, and pride, being piqued, he cocks his head to better pay attention. His fingers tap along with the tempo of the conversation. 

“Fierus nak au Karak.” Yamay spits before sliding his fingers over his eyes and looking up into the light of the new day. Directly into the sun, he allows his retinas to burn for a few seconds. “Through Heaven’s eyes, Dominax. You see what is. Even as the eyes of man might be fooled.”

“That is merely deductive reasoning and cognitive prowess. I wouldn’t consider that Heaven.”

“A seeker of truth and science not believing the sight of all truths as Heaven? I am flabbergasted.”

Watching a brown and reddish sludge slip from Yamay’s lips, Simora studies how it lands into a falling wave and quickly dissipates into the grander liquids. Each molecule moving toward equilibrium in the natural order of balancing forces. “My lab was Heaven, my dear Yamay. Heaven does not merely provide me the answer but allows for me to seek it. By my hands, I…”

A silence overtakes the moment so waves might count the gradual pass of time. Emel-Rakar continue their boarding of the ship along with the remaining forces of the two Dark Stars. “Your woman has noted your loss. Was it this lab’s contents?”

Blocking his emotions behind mental bricks, Simora refuses himself to expose his truth to another living man. Not for any sense of macho superiority, manly expectations, or distrust. He’d done it because it was how he was taught and what he knows. His immediate need is to retain his truth while keeping the anger aimed down constructive pathways. 

Just as father taught. He stares out over the waters. No black smoke rising from the waves today.

Someday, I will find who stole my Helixer. Simora swallows back the rage three days of anxious travel has accumulated. Whoever it was, they’ve elected themselves my second human subject! Oh, the truths I’ll find! Heaven’s eyes or no!

It is difficult, even for a properly and professionally trained Dark Star, to resist all emotion. They cannot remove them entirely, nor is that the objective. 

Instead, the anger, pure and distilled into weaponized hatred, will be aimed like ancient missiles toward the discovered target. Another truth to be discovered by the man’s own hands and talents. As he stares out over the waters of his first experiments, he’s drifting between a sorrowful pride and an hateful emptiness. 

“You have a right to your silences and secrets, Dominax. Cocrius em tepish fierus cocrius tyracus.”

“I’ve conquered myself and elevated a planet, Yamay.” 

“Yet, you are troubled.”

“I require my forces returned, my city returned… my life returned.” A series of clicks from his tongue mimic a crab’s tapping frenzy in the waves below. 

“It will.” Yamay spits and nods. “We’ll return to Draynala. Any survivors will be swept across the lands and seas to your side. Eventually, I will return you to your lab, personally, Dominax. Perhaps then, you will find the questions you seek to answer.”

Simora’s unsettled rage bleeds through. Unable to restrain himself with mere bricks; the need to be heard explodes. “And why, dear Metem, would you go to such lengths? How many of the Emel-Rakar have demanded my removal or even death? How many are you truly, to have sacked the city that exists in spite of this world’s ferocity?”

Yamay allows this outburst and licks his teeth. 

Simora sinks back into himself as he rolls his neck; a series of cracks firing up his spine. Clicking his tongue three times and fingers twice (each), he shakes his head. “You have granted much to me already, Yamay. I thank you for all you give.”

“As you require, Dominax.”

“You say I have a right to secrecy. As do you. The Black would have it no other way.” Simora nods as he stares out over the waters; hoping the lands he is destined to walk might simply appear over a short bridge of land unnaturally rising from the waters. “Then let us share secrets in time, Metem. Trust grown over time that should promise us both lofty returns to the city of Valkenaria. For every man of my force you return to me, I shall grant another twenty acres. For each Deep Root, another of your chosen men shall sit in council; should you require it.

“When I again stand in my lab and possess all that has been taken from me… I shall hold your word in highest regard as one of my Deep Roots. You, a native of Rakar, shall become my bridge and hold my ear constant to the winds of change and need.”

How far must I go? How much talking… planning… how many conversations must be had? Simora thinks with growing frustration as the seas neither part nor retreat for an easy voyage. I’ve not conquered all to be left behind with nothing more than a burning city as my epitaph! I have not conquered all to fall into the sea! Not as my coward father had done!

“Yamay,” the name is harsh and filled with a loathing that grabs the Metem by both ears. Yamay’s blood runs warm as he recalls such a tone prior to his notorious hunt where two left and one returned. He stares into the avoiding eyes of Simora as he hears the command and promise, “Find the device stolen from the statue of my father in my study, and I shall leave this world with newest titles and a name which shames all Dominax’s before me. Across the stars, I shall still carry your counsel as to assure you and your kin grow as my name.” The golden eyes want to meet Yamay’s colorful orbs, yet Simora can only click his tongue and stare out over the waters. “Bring me whomever stole the device, and you shall be as my hands and my voice. Bring them to me, and the title of Dominax shall be yours.”

Chapter 32

There has always been the schemes of would-be adventurers and conquerors painted with glorious victories in finding the grandest of the settlements of the Emel-Rakar. A man seeking glory might believe himself prepared for such an undertaking. 

More than a simple walk through the carved trails of a civilized domain. More than a jog through the trees with a pulser in one hand and a machete in the other. More than a few exhausted nights beneath a clear sky of endless stars and countless stories to fabricate. 

Sojourns and respites be damned, a worldly man finds no such peace upon Icarus Alpha. Idle hands find naught but the dwindling desire to live from within a cage of self-inflicted solitude. 

All dreams and duties turn from silver to pyrite as survival becomes the primary goal. Struggle against the airs, the lands, the beasts, the plants, the sun, and the waters. 

When even Zurikan Steel rusts or corrodes in certain spreads of noxious air. When lands roll like living beasts just as hungry for flesh as any vicious pack. What is an off-worlder to do when the planet seeks their end? 

They will push on, surely. Drones prowling through the lands to spy on the Emel-Rakar before a passing storm, dark storm, toxic currents, or beasts destroy it. Comms to off-world vessels hindered, a journal or well-structured mind must be kept to retain the data. 

Cities have been found. 

Surely, the Emel-Rakar are not specters that merely rise from the sands, stone, or magma. They are men and women of flesh and bone. When found, the tribe may react in some manner of humanity which is as diverse as the dealt genes of evolution. Reports have come back from a majority of the minority which return. 

Simora, the first Dominax to feel the welcomed embrace of a major tribe since the title was held properly by a native, sighs in relief as the Skitter slips up against the dock of a hidden cavern. As neon streams of brightened waves cast dancing auras over the dripping ceiling, those from the capital feel themselves trapped in the mesmerizing calm. 

The calm, that is, beyond the domain of hunting shrimp and deep-sea predators.

“It’s beautiful.” Finel plops down to her haunches as her eyes scan over the massive mouth of the docks. The soothing sounds of droplets, like a gentle rain, creates an echoing symphony of altos over the baritone groans and roars of waves against the stone shore and docks. 

Simora notes how she watches the curling waves and the shifting streams reflected on the overhead darkness. “It is.” Breathing in the salty aroma, the dense air of the cavern swells his lungs. Not used to it, Simora coughs gently as his organs adjust. 

“I’m glad you like it, Dominax.”

“Do you have vacation homes here?” Finel giggles as she reaches down into the dark waters farthest from the bright opening of the cave. 

“Everywhere, my Lady. If this takes hold your heart, than our journey may rob you of all desires to leave.” 

“There’re more beautiful places than this?” Finel bobs her head as her lengthy arm swirls in the splashing waves. “I find that hard to believe.”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, I believe they say.” His thick accent exaggerates the uncertainty of an apparently infrequently used idiom. “Yet, my eyes are filled with many signs of Almakamla. I would say it is all beautiful in its own right.”

“A sensitive man beneath that rough exterior.” Finel’s fanged smile turns back on Yamay. 

Shrugging, he responds, “Emotional to the point of humanity.”

Standing with water dripping from her hands, she nods. “Human, aren’t we all.” 

“Indeed.” He nods as he examines her arm.

“Then you plan to take us further inland? And we’re welcome within your homelands?”

Nodding without any hesitation, Yamay points down the dark tunnels behind the docks. “There are secured restings ahead. Some may elect to remain longer. The majority of us will return to Draynala; a great city, a Remer of Enert. You will be safe.” His own toothy grin responds to hers. “Together, we shall plot and scheme for the Dominax’s return. All I have promised.”

“And if I were to say I don’t trust you?”

Simora tenses as if to interject, but he remains silent. Let them struggle before you, and the chinks open as doorways before you. Another teaching of the Black justifies the silence of the Blue’s—A voice unheard is victory unrealized. A voice kept silent ruination’s seed. An easier path to avoid conflict. He clicks his tongue as his only allowed response. 

Yamay’s silence persists as his people continue to unload the Skitter behind him. At a distance, Ethar stands on the edge of the ship with an expression contorted by the desire to speak. Instead, he waits through the silence until Yamay chuckles; warming the chilled atmosphere. 

“Then I would say you’re rather intelligent.” Motioning his thumb to the side, the Metem aims at Simora. “I know he doesn’t either. Not entirely. Calculated necessity, aye?”

Simora’s mind, like an addict without a fix, shakes as if the warm, moist air suddenly freezes over. Clicking his tongue three times, he attempts to still himself. “Humanity has confirmed itself for me incapable of earning absolute trust. In my understanding of animal nature, I would not assume any trust or allegiance to be unconditional or immortal.”

Yamay glances back to Finel. “I believe he’s stating I don’t trust him entirely, either. Truly spoke, Brawix.”

“Speak U.T.” Finel waves a hand in frustration. “I’ve no mind for all these languages. Such a crude one to boot.”

Grunting in humor, Yamay bows his head. “Our words are for the soul as honey to the lips, but I will attempt to involve you.” Raising his hands to precede his explanation, he continues, “Brawix. Off-worlder.”

“The dirty version.” Simora chimes in. When Finel turns toward him, he scrunches up his nose to add the vocalized stench to the word. “The more affectionate and respectful term for us would be ‘ewmella.’ Knowing I’d understand the difference. Similar to their use of olwemik when describing someone that leaves their teachings behind. A meaning of ‘toppled ruins’ as a way of labeling the non-believers.”

Chuckling from deep in his chest, the Metem nods with approval. “Fine distinction. Most find Litn rather difficult. Combinations or similar meanings deter them.”

“Find Patire Isserman. You’ll see how high our conversations can be elevated.” Simora turns toward the crowd still exiting and unloading the Skitter. His men, and the remaining forces of the Dark Stars, assist in any way they can. Discussed in their travels, the men continue to build trust with the Emel-Rakar on behalf of the Dominax. 

“We should be ready to leave soon.” Responding to the viewing of the people, Yamay walks toward his tribe. “I’ve heard no word, but we will find them and retrieve them.”

“In case they were captured.”

“Exactly.”

Considering what this means, Simora clicks his tongue several times. Unwilling to attempt another delve in this polluted atmosphere of political discussion, the leader tells himself the wait is worth it. Wait, and the answers will become clear. 

Eventually, the moment comes. Feet march in quiet, coordinated time that draws in the outsiders like a choir of some jubilee. Finel allows herself a lingering glance over the mesmerizing cavern; a dreamland unsuspectedly found and forced to abandon. 

Various tunnels are travelled. The maze, obviously meant to disorient invaders or predators, is conquered easily by the Emel-Rakar. In turn, the Dominax found himself easily mapping the various corridors, false halls, specific rooms or explanations from whispers, and in the end created a mental model of the system. Sure they would be displeased should they know he’s committed such defenses to memory, he continues to march. 

Sharing words with Finel and Yamay, the trio keep to the back of the pack like an alpha keeping watch over all under their protection. The people move as necessary. Quick like breezes through the dark and damp passages, the contents speed toward the exhale. 

By the example of the horde before them, Simora notes how many move their hands to their ears. Exolungs are activated or at least reviewed before the world opens wide to them. Clicking his tongue, Simora matches the tempo of his receptors wriggling on his neck. 

Their breathing has slowed. These practices Patire had explained to me. The exolungs are contingencies? Receptors bounce about beneath the tightened fabric in an attempt to taste the air. Neither poison nor irritant threatens the people, yet they instinctively prepare for the outside world. Their feet, even against stone or sand, move like padding against pillows. So, the Dominax taps over his own exolung and instructs Finel to do the same. 

Leaving the final, drier tunnels of stone, the humans are enveloped by light as if the Creator welcomes them into the vastness of Heaven. Soon; however, the eyes adjust to realize they remain within the grasp of Icarus Alpha’s living Hell. 

Perspectives, Simora thinks as he notes the differences between his forces and the native Emel-Rakar. While his men tighten their stances and flinch into the shades of outstretched trees, the Emel-Rakar open their arms wide as if wishing the sun to fall from the skies to embrace them. 

They take to a more predatory formation of the willing, able warriors spreading through the wood and shadows. In the time Simora studies the group’s preparations of open-world travel, their communal tasks are already realized and implemented. 

“Do you have anything for my men to do?” Finel steps over some branches along the path; careful to keep her feet as silent as those before her. “I’m not comfortable simply taking charity.” 

Ensuring we’re free to defend ourselves? Simora clicks his tongue as he listens without reacting. 

“Of course. Many hands lighten the work.” Yamay motions for the Dark Star to follow. Simora, keeping with them, follows without invitation. “Less dangers these days, yet we protect one another. Many beasts will retreat, but there are more that won’t.”

Amelioration hasn’t conquered it all. I knew this, but what percentages are we still facing here? “Then I’ll be your bestiary.” 

“Shall we allow the Dominax to stand nearest the dangers?” 

“I won’t let him leave my sight.” Finel giggles over her shoulder as she motions for the young leader to follow. 

Yamay nods and motions for the two to take positions on the eastern side of the caravan. “I’ll post a few men with you. Arm yourself with their knowledge. I will cycle through the positions. Never will I be too far.” 

 Confirming their place and purpose, the Dark Stars take the time to talk surrounded by their own forces. Simora, glancing back through the wood, finds it difficult to pinpoint many of those traveling with them. Clicking his tongue, the Dominax attempts to calm his mind as the wilds stretch on in all directions about him. 

“Feeling uneasy?”

“You heard them.” 

“What?” Finel steps over some tangle of roots and tilts her head. “Damn. They’re quiet.” The woman sighs as her voice drops into a hush pouting. “They’d snuck up on us so easily.”

Simora’s footsteps, obvious as a bull among a gaggle of geese, are unsuccessfully sneaky. It isn’t without attempt. Of all the talents of the Black, Simora’s hours were focused in other directions. So, he walks as quietly as his clumsy feet will allow. 

Finel leads the way for the two as their black-donning soldiers spread out. They have plenty of room to themselves, yet Finel’s Green senses pick up each man’s movements. “You’re not very light on your feet.” 

“Is that an issue for you?” 

Reaching back to assist him, Finel helps the city-dwelling man over a rough patch of tangled roots. “You have redeeming qualities. It does mean I’ll have to take hikes alone. You’d slow me down too much.” 

“You’re ignoring my comment.”

“I heard them.”

Simora speaks with a hushed tone he knows only her sharp ears can pick up. “Amelioration hasn’t completed here. There are real dangers.” The man clicks his tongue twice before the woman takes his elbow.

“Still with that habit? I’m more terrifying than anything out here.”

Countless memories and studied specimens confirms that this joke holds little truth. “This is a land of beasts, Finel. We must be careful. Almost all manner of species have adapted to this continent. It’s imperative that we keep our wits about us. Every creature and plant is another danger. Sinkholes, fumes…”

“Simmy,” Finel drags the man forward as she hisses his name with the tenderness of a motherly wolf. Sunlight pours over the duo as they continue their trek through the woodlands. “You just keep your eyes open. There’s nothing here you don’t know of by name. You point and explain, we survive. Nothing’s gained by bitching about it.” 

Simora, realizing his vocal control had escaped him, attempts to settle himself as he’s dragged along the woods. Clicking his tongue twice, he holds a finger up before Finel to silence her response. Like injecting himself with a calming agent, the emotions slip back beneath the surface. The mask of Glamor repaired, the man beneath remains cracked as he clicks in an attempt to reconstruct himself. 

“Merely concerned, is all. You remember my father’s warnings to us.”

Finel’s smile fades, “He had rules for everything. Your father was almost as tyrannical as School.”

“He’d seen too much.” 

Finel nods, “It wasn’t a bad thing. He probably kept me from dying a hundred times over.” She stops and points, “You were the same. Taught me about that. Lalbatal?”

 “Lalbratak.” He corrects. 

Approaching carefully, Finel moves down the path where a length of light pierces the treetops. Between the trees, she moves as a hushed deer through the forest; ready to leap and sprint if that be the best route. Kneeling at an acceptable range, the woman studies the plant. 

“Right. Don’t touch the flowers or fruit.” She appreciates the delicate white flowers that cuddle with rounded fruits of purest snow. About the beautiful center of fruit and petals, coiled, partially submerged, roots prepare like springs and clamp about the unsuspecting victims. “It is remarkable.”

Simora’s sure he understands her meaning. “You like the flowers.”

“So white.” She kneels down beside the plant; tucked against the violently spastic growth of a tree’s roots. Careful to remain outside the plant’s circle, she touches the air before the white petals as if actually caressing the tender flowers. “So pure and clean.” 

Glancing up, she follows the beams of sunlight that fall through the canopy. Like blessed rays of Heaven leading one toward destined safety. An oasis granted by divine hands; surely an offer of peace among the lands of hellish conflict. 

“Out in the light. Open and seen.” Finel’s eyes close tightly. “What beauty can thrive in darkness… in the black?” 

“Secrets bloom as easily in the light as in darkness.” Simora glances around the woods; his receptors wriggling about. “Truth the same. Seeded only where best it grows, nourished by our deeds.”

“It’s like you read directly from their books.” Referencing School, she turns back to Simora. “We have days of danger ahead, and there is still so much more for us to share.”

“There are dangers.” Simora stands, blankly staring, beside the kneeling woman. 

Sighing, Finel glances past the lalbratak. Advancing forces continue, so she stands and swipes the brush and dirt from her knees. “That’s it. Danger. That’s what we face.

“I’d not face it alone, Simmy. You’d agreed to our treaty; an alliance.” Her dazzling eyes of purple jewels meet his. The powers of Glamor keeping her gorgeous predator painted in opposition of Simora’s inhuman gaze. “I’m quite capable of seeing in the dark, too.

“The White live in the light. Perhaps, we must adapt like the lalbratak.” She turns on her heels and steps to the side of the deadly trap. Once over, she turns back with that same, succubus-like glare, “Coming?”

Certain he’s understood her again, the man takes her outstretched hand. He glances back, after stepping over the tree’s roots, toward the patch of white flowers to the right and left Finel hadn’t commented on. A collected, singular beam of light falls on the one plant that was in their path. 

The two continue on their path toward the city of Yamay’s people… of Emel-Rakar. 

Chapter 33

After four days of constant marching, through furtive forest paths and hushed orders, the Emel-Rakar and their guests see the nearing end of their journey. Returning home, their hearts hasten though their gait resumes. A bulbous tumor of a forest protrudes from a point where the landscape can’t seem to decide upon a biome. 

There’s a dried scar of desert that thrives despite the lush surroundings; it wraps to the west and up the northern reach. A marshy land hugs the eastern sands. Desert cracked and thirsty in the harsh sunlight—somehow just beyond the drowning grasses of the marsh. It stretches into the marsh as if dragging itself through exhaustion for a sip. 

An enigma on most planets. 

A hilly series of colorful waves born from the stretched marsh coil up and around the eastern border of the forest. 

It seems, no matter the direction, there are dangers facing any human uncertain of the proper path. With Yamay and his people leading the way, all present make it through a path purposefully left minimally beaten. In bursts of rushing flesh, the humans traverse the marsh toward safe pockets of brush and hidden barriers. Careful to spread out and not create trenches, the commune attempts to retain their anonymity among the wilds. 

Simora and his entourage are spread in groups; best to displace the ignorance among the pockets of veterans. An uncertain mind may consider this another ploy; a separation of powers and safety nets leaves each person vulnerable. Without Simora’s explicit knowledge, the lives of the Dark Stars’ and his men can be easily transported into the vastness of the mash only to be extinguished and plunged into the murky waters for some foul beast to ravage the evidence. 

Simora’s mind is an uncertain one.

He clicks his tongue as he presses tightly against a tree’s trunk; tucked back and away from the circling birds, leaping amphibians, distant rumblings, and unknown which exists just beyond the border of dense trees and swollen moss. Anything out there could be hunting his men… these people. While fear, the sour dryness of it all, hangs in the back of Simor’s throat, Emel-Rakar wait patiently for their turns. Yamay sits on a lower branch, his feet clear off the ground, as he sucks on his leaves and glances over those in his charge. 

“Nervous?” 

Memories fill Simora’s mind as his receptors twitch like his tongue. Sweat permeates the mass of humans, but it’s dulled in the mingling of herbs and dirt. Among them, a sense of relaxation seems the majority’s chemical expression. Simplistic and incredibly human, the need, the yearning, for home tempers whatever fear might exist. Though, the only stench of fear comes from those unfamiliar with the lands beyond Valkenaria’s perimeter. 

“I’ve not felt this way since I was a child.” 

“Before Amelioration.” 

Simora clicks his tongue and taps his side. “I’d believe you to be of Blue blood, Yamay.”

“No man has blood but red.” Waving his hand, he continues, “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean.” 

“Amelioration has made the lands safer, Dominax. Still, I tread on the side of caution.” 

“So, there is no danger?” Simora nods toward the marshland without glancing back at the man in the tree. Clouds begin to twist inward and over the distant, plump forest. Rain. Simora’s receptors begin to taste the density of moist air; confirming the prediction. Birds still continue to fly, and the Dominax knows the answer to his question. 

“I didn’t say that.” Yamay spits over his shoulder and points. “Epols hunt these lands. Those of Womot have ignored man. Here they are a mixed batch.”

“I see vorrows and prismatic raptears.” Simora looks toward the north where three dots, zoomed in with the intentions of the Blue, that circle about a far edge of the marsh. Two green and one orange. “It would seem those raptears prefer something other than man.” 

“Amelioration has solved much of that issue. Raptears are smart, you see.” Yamay pats the sling and holstered wytum on his hip. “Our thunder solved the rest.” 

“They leave you alone? I find that hard to believe.” 

Yamay grunts, “Mostly. They still hunt us, but they kill one… we kill thirty.” Simora turns back to the man with the earthy eyes blooming in the dark of the tree’s shade. “They understand and calculate whether we are worth the bloodshed. Raptears are one of the few creatures that do. A fine species. Beautiful. I’d hate to kill more.” 

“They aren’t hunted for feathers or their eyes?” 

Yamay’s grunt is softer than before, “And their hearts for rituals?” 

Simora nods, “Some practices are known. Many more are not.” He glances about, “I’ve not seen any evidence of the nema cats your people ritually hunt.” 

Yamay, understanding that the stereotype does hold water, grins after spitting another mouthful of leaf juice. “Ah. Ethar. He did advocate our people’s concerns. The cats aren’t like the raptears. They know no fear. They know only the hunger for meat… and humans are no longer ‘meat.’” 

“I would like to see the cats whenever possible.” Simora’s sandy eyes scan the marsh as dark clouds gather into conference in the distance. “All of your beasts. Perhaps, when you return all that is mine to me, I will benefit from all I’ve learned here.”

“There’s no greater teacher than the reality of the wilds.” Yamay leaps down from the tree. Even as his tanned and tightened skin seems taut enough to tear, the muscles disperse the energy evenly and without issue. He takes a spot to the right of Simora; leaning against his own tree. “You will see it all, and Almakamla is a fine teacher.”

Ignoring the call upon their god, Simora continues to study the marshlands. His receptors tingle with the earthy sweetness fuming from Yamay’s leaf juice. The stagnant waters of the marsh reek of successful conquests in the name of bacteria and fungus. Disease, Simora considers, would be another front of the future battles of Amelioration. Today; however, he desires the next step toward reclaiming his own campaign.   

“You’ll cross the marsh soon, Dominax.” Yamay nods with a hiss as another blob of leaf juice hits the tree. “I will call an immediate council.” 

“Ulmemlu?” Simora asks. 

“Ullu,” Yamay confirms. “Local. Elders and trusted persons only.”

“I’d like all my men there.”

“Then they shall be. During the talks; however,” Yamay motions out in the direction of his hidden home, “you and your woman will have the rights to speak. Your men are no more than children in our eyes.”

They look down on outsiders. We knew this. Still, children? Interesting comparison. Recalling the stealthy execution of the turncoat days prior, Simora accepts the word choice. “They shall remain silent. Finel, I could not contain her whether you demanded it or not.”

“Ha!” Yamay grunts as a dribble of juice slips over his lips. “I’d figured. Strong will. She’ll be quickly accepted.”

“And me?”

Yamay shrugs. “My people know you only by name and tale. A false image of the man. I will let them make their judgements.” 

Prismatic raptears continue to swirl overhead in the distance. Eventually, one dives down. Just a moment later, each of the others follow. One by one, raptears swoop down toward an unseen, and particularly unlucky, specimen. Knowing their direction is far beyond the scope of the human paths, a shadow of uneasy peace creeps up the man’s spine. 

How gracefully those distant predators fall. Their metallic-like feathers, even at this distance, twinkle in the light of a sun still dominating the sky beyond the gathering storm’s reach. In contrast, the vorrows continue their leisurely gliding high over the marshlands; caught in pockets of thermals like flies in a web. 

Raptears, knowing the dangers of both marsh and man, still fall toward some manner of food worth this clear defiance of Death. They will eat, or they will die. They might even eat and then die. Either way, their fight for life occurs now in the form of evolutionary warfare. 

Still, the vorrows will soar overhead desiring safety over food. The spores. Simora recalls. They hunt with tapper cap spores. Have the raptears stolen their meal? The idea intrigues the Dominax. The spores won’t be dense enough from that height. They mustn’t be hunting, or do they feared the raptears?

Beautiful… evolutionary warfare.

Across a marsh of unknown threats and possible sparse scattering of tapper cap spores, the Dominax waits impatiently. Five more minutes before the next group leaves. Two more groups before his, the final, party departs. 

Even as the air might fill with spores of the tapper caps, Simora watches the emptied sky where raptears once circled. Those vicious predators hadn’t minded the close proximity of weak, toxin-utilizing species. They’d continued to live and now feast while the vorrows soar. 

Chapter 34

“Mu fer an twulious, Yammay. Redew plac sustuptut gaji.”

“Fierus rak au Almakamla, Dredius.” Yamay speaks quietly through his woven fingers as he leans over the stone table. His voice carries well enough through the subterranean space. Across this oblong, perfectly smoothed table, every one of the gathered persons sits at attention of the Metem. Within this Remer, Yamay was voice of all reason; or at least, the bridge to it. None would pass, at least not easily, into truth and power without his say. No matter age or status. To Simora, this seems apparent from the sudden chill of the man’s words. “Auro besh rashalt au noka. Der si Dominax portious.”

By the light of God, he’d gone and returned. Blessed with the Dominax. Simora’s mind translates every word like a high-powered computer. Even without his mind attempting to penetrate the veil of Born, he anticipates the next words based on the various voices. Whispers and grumbles. Agreement and dissent. You’ve allowed outsiders, off-worlders, into our lands! Into our sanctums!

“Qut amarli brawix el bretterb! El taberebat!”

Simora grins internally as the conversation proceeds as he’d expected. A man, covered mostly in a beard like moss overtaking an ancient tree, speaks from behind glazed eyes like quartz. This man is not particularly fond of the Dominax and his people, yet another man beside him, nearly equal in age, shakes his head in disbelief. 

 “Bunwa tius eve.” The second man waves off the first. “Metem foc ol weth malnif.”

“Paq noe el!”

“Brawix int blay ab! Blay ab, ip fir!”

“Wew qop tra uyapa.”

“Er vulle Litn.” Yamay interrupts before the men continue too far into their debate. Everyone but those surrounding Simora turn to glance at him. Yamay’s voice carries like stallions loosed over the table. Echoes from the far wall of jagged stone create a warm, embracing flood of masculine tones. “He hears us, Remer. He speaks and he hears.” He looks to the old man that had suddenly silenced himself after hearing the Dominax knows their tongue. “You speak mightily in darkness, yet mute in the light.” 

More reference to the absence or abundance of light. Simora glances to Finel who hangs upon the words of the Metem. They’ve not expected us to speak their language. They’ve not expected us to be capable. How surprised they are! As if their tongue is what escapes us… Simora examines each person in turn without drawing too much attention to himself. A quick glance is all he needs for now. A face to the names and a name to the characteristics he’ll need to study. 

“Then we speak their tongue? Our tongues soured for the ears of brawix?”

“Mazanik fro ‘brawix’ na shalata. Graut ve nellesh bodashak… tet… yadashak au pilost.” Simora nods toward the man that had spoken out against the inclusion of the Dominax. In Litn, the displaced leader issues his challenge. Any might step forward toward honorable combat should they so choose to risk life over such a decision. Following this, he corrects himself to mean ‘dishonorable combat’ in which any choosing such a path would surely be seen as the offender and a murderer. I’d not win this fight. They know that. Who will be the lion that kills a child? Simora suppresses a grin at the thought of their pride. Keep them in the light. “My men do not speak Litn, dearest members of the Brotabak people, the Remer of Enert. I hope our words and minds might mingle, that we overcome recent adversities.”

“You speak over our Metem?” 

“Have I been spoken over?” Yamay responds with a cold expression. His eyes, a forest nearing hibernation, weigh heavily on the man while Simora continues his scanning of those in attendance. “I speak for myself. The Dominax speaks for himself. Are we not free?”

Responding to the Metem, Simora nods as he continues his glances. “We are.” 

“Just as you are free to show hospitality, Bledeesh.” The man quiets himself at the far end of the table. “Any of you are free to speak your minds. You are free to show the Dominax, our people, and me just what thoughts curse your heart with glass chambers.”

There is a moment of silence proceeding the man’s words. He licks his lips and waits for someone to raise their voice. Though many had been speaking only moments ago, the chamber lulls into a hushed stillness where only the collective heartbeat of the people seems to create a thrumming beat. 

“I’ve asked the Dominax here. I offered our protection and our resources.” None challenge this decree, yet Simora notes many around the table peering through narrowed eyes with venom building up as if to puff their cheeks. “Our first task is the recovery of the Deep Roots, the trusted advisors and confidants of the Dominax. Second, I want any information on possible conspirators against the Dominax.” 

“You’ve gone too far, Yamay!” 

“You’d ask us to turn on our own!”

“Voscast ius evitnok! Paska evotnok!”

“Our resources? Has the boy no army of his own?!”

Listening to the choir of voices, Simora keeps his mentally dictated diary neatly organized. Every face to every word. Every emotional response. Even those wincing or reacting in the most minute of ways, the man sees and notes. 

“Has Valkenaria been truly sacked? How easily it falls!”

“The off-worlders lose even their greatest achievements with little resistance!”

“And I am to feel bad for the Wemi? Fe Alila called for them, and so they have been reaped! Traitors and invaders!” 

Yamay listens intently as he takes a drink from his water, cracks his knuckles, and then relaxes in his seat. He lets them get the initial responses out of their systems. It takes some time, but the Metem provides his people their demanded platform. Even as they shout over one another, mumble about themselves, or attempt civility in quiet reflection among the noise. 

When nearly all have spoken, though few are heard, the man licks his teeth and clears his throat. “I have opened my home and our city to the Dominax. Might we discuss? Might my words be heard as yours?” He beckons to them in the ancient ways; asking their confirmation of his position.

None respond, but the man to his right, Ethar, sighs as his eyes drop to his hands beneath the table. 

“We seek the Deep Roots. We seek those responsible for the attack on Valkenaria. I have given vukuv, my honor. Will any yada?” 

Dishonor him? Simora nods mentally, but his physicality is as stilled as the bronzed statue of his father. 

“Makam de fel zelius broew.”

His King’s Metal? Wait. Simora’s eyes slip to the side. It’s involuntary, and the man quickly draws them back. Uncertain if someone has noticed, Simora stills himself with the teachings of Glamor, yet his ears remain fixated for any clues from Yamay.

“Good. Then we are understood. I will speak with all recon, couriers, warriors, and hunters that have left our border in the last month. Starting there.”

“This will take time, Yamay.”

“Understood, brother.” A title he would not give lightly, thinks Simora. Speaking to Ethar, the Metem continues. “It will not be easy. I pray we find neither snake nor breeder among us.” 

There is a quiet that suffocates unlike any swelling noise. It contains the swift and anxious dance of eyes, the tension of the body, and a sudden chill that flows from each body until an unnatural cloud hangs over the table. Each person looks toward their primary, secondary, and perhaps even tertiary suspects. 

This quiet storm, like blue fog condensing into thick puffs, feeds on the suspicion and negativity. One should expect the darkness to overtake this delightfully colored manifestation of human mistrust, yet the blue would persist. Delightful, nurturing, and even soothing in a way… it lures the human soul into the woods after dark. What vileness and sin might come from the welcoming monster?

“For an off-worlder?”

Ethar’s voice, barely heard by most, still made its way to Simora’s ear. Turning, he sees Yamay already facing the man. A hand, aged in the harsh light of Icarus Alpha, takes hold of the collar about the man. 

All silence stills as the blue cloud tenses in anticipation. Yamay’s force, that of a true Metem, is put on full display. His voice is calm, yet it carries easily over the tables. 

“Your lips spoke the words, brother. You carried word across the globe and spoke before man and Almakamla.” His fist tightens about the rough fabric of a plant-based shirt. As if feeling the tightened rope around his throat, Ethar struggles to swallow. “Did you lie, brother? Did you lie to me?” 

“I would never.” 

Still, he stands there as a colossus carved about Ethar’s clothes; doomed to struggle against the statue forever. Both men capable of surviving this deadly world reveal the truth of power—and the difference of it. 

Simora casually scans the crowd. That! How they glance back at their leader. How their eyes remain fixated on him. Every expression is provided like a painters pallet laid plain before the planet. 

“Who here has claimed the varabelm?” 

Ethar shared my words!

Every seat suddenly becomes too hot to comfortably sit in. Every stone uneven or perhaps they are so improperly smoothed that they become painful. No matter the cause, each body seems to shift, eyes dart about, or bodies reposition themselves. 

“Varabelm? Who conquers the conquering beast? Have any?” Yamay’s words call to his people to condemn their concerns, yet there is a plea in the tone. 

Two stand. 

Two among a hundred, though surely the rest of the planet’s inhabitants suddenly felt the necessity to sit for a minute or two, stand. 

“A conqueror’s trophy. A hunter unlike any other! One that does not return wounded and alone, but one that commands and the beast obeys!” Yamay looses the man in his grip and reaches behind him. Without looking, he points (careful to not pat the man on the back) toward Simora. The missing finger for all to see. 

Though many would surely have already examined Simora, studying him like a youth set for tryouts, they remain silently awed by the outburst of their Metem. 

Ethar slides back into his seat as a scolded pup. His moment had come and gone without the power to change the situation; apparent in both voice and vigilance. 

Likewise, the people whisper or shuffle about in their seats. Still hanging over the room is this delightfully awful cloud of splendid blues. It waits for the moment that another might call out the Metem, resist him, or even challenge him for rule. 

No such challenge comes. 

By word or by fist… there are none.

Simora and Finel share a short glance as the silence relaxes from anxious quiet into stilled acceptance. The people look toward a man they’ve never seen in person. One they’ve, until just seconds ago, seen as the weakest, most shameful example of masculinity to be allowed to grow into adulthood. 

Now, they hear a man’s voice, one they’ve always trusted (even if they hadn’t wanted to) claim the worthiness of this scrawny bookworm. The very cause of perceived dwindling of honor. Here, in a stiff stance like a sapling beside an oak, stands Simora Nor-Noctlin. 

Clicking his tongue thrice, he steadies himself and lifts his voice to match Yamay’s. Leaving out the vibrato of a stressed and memory-filled Metem, the Dominax speaks the words he knows will illicit the desired response, “I’ve conquered the varabelm, Emel-Rakar. I have stood before the beast and commanded it to flee, and thus it fled. In my home, I have been wronged by the unjust and the cowardly! Will you give aid to your Dominax?

“Will you aid the conqueror of conquerors? Will you aid me in destroying my enemies?” Looking to Ethar, though he speaks to everyone, “Will you right the world beneath Irakari?”

The whispers begin, and Simora allows himself that internal smile he often restrains. One name stands out among the whispers. 

Disbelief spreads like a newly transformed cloud of crimson emotion and fire. Their words ignite the hearts beside them, and thus the wild burn spreads. 

Irakari-Tol. I am the Sun-Owl.

Chapter 35

“Ye’ve got odd eyes, Sir.”

“Is that anyway to address the Dominax?” 

A woman’s ungloved hand swats the older man with the unworn glove. Her lively eyes of chilled grasslands nearly match the codger’s. Comparable as the frosted lands of early spring to that of late autumn. 

“I apologize for him, Dominax. I think your eyes are beautiful.” Her charm is owed in the majority to the way her clay-like skin still folds and shifts in smooth movements after years baking in the sun. The chilled grasses of her eyes are soothing, yet they do not sooth the mind or heart of the purple-eyed predator behind the Dominax. 

“There is no need to apologize.” Simora sits at a finely carved slab of stone. A table, covered in coffee, meats, and confections, between the Dominax and the Planetist. Comfortable cushions of a variety of colors curl up the stony walls behind the seated guests. “What’s your name?”

“Delena, Dominax. Delena Olamuk.” The lady, several years Simora’s senior, bows with a wide grin that can be best described as impishly pleased. The thoughts in her head span a wide array, yet the necessity of hospitality among the Emel-Rakar is a noteworthy trait—to those that they deem worthy of hospitality. “Is there anything else we might get you?” 

Denying any thought to the comparison between his heavenly sanctum and this stony guesthouse, Simora shakes his head with a smile painted in Glamor. “No, ma’am. Though, if I might ask, your Universal Tongue is splendid. A finer accent.” 

“Father taught me well.” She glances to the man behind her; his frosted eyes of autumn still peering into the golden rings of the Dominax. “To better the mind is to better the self. Litn is our language of choice, but I will oblige my Dominax and his companions.” 

“Wowe qut.” Simora nods his head. 

Her smile opens to a perfectly lined row of white teeth. “Ogan.” When she turns, she takes hold of her father’s arm. “Ne pla, anap. Etatalk fo aul ip.”

When the older man is finally rushed out the door by his daughter, both waving their goodbyes, Simora sniffs his coffee while the receptors on his neck taste the atmosphere cautiously. Not poisoned, from what I can tell. The man sips of the cup, a fine piece of work, and sighs as the thick warmth immediately relaxes tensed muscles. 

“Now, Simmy,” Simora’s hand rises to silence conversation. Counting the seconds, he waits until Delena’s feminine scent fades to a ghost lingering about the room and doorway. 

“Proceed.” 

Though most would surely fear some manner of minor retaliation for the silencing of the Planetist, Simora continues to calmly drink his coffee as she begins to speak quietly. “They sure changed their tune quickly.” She examines the room with a short series of sniffs. “One democratic vote at the start, and we’d be hanging at the town’s entrance.” 

“It was an acceptable risk. The likelihood of Yamay betraying us or allowing our injury was low. He possesses a great tool in his grasp.” 

“Tool?” Finel glances about as she sniffs again. Finding it acceptable, and not finding any devices or surveillance, she continues. “To the other tribes, huh? He’ll leverage you against those that are faithful against those that aren’t. In this, he’s rallied the troops more than when he’d failed to take down that varbelem.”

“Varabelm.” Simora corrects. “And he didn’t fail to bring it down. His brother and he had succeeded. He took the position left to the pair, and now he has a path toward grander positions. Such a pact between brothers cannot easily be erased or forgotten. A dream yet to be fully realized.”

“And we are the tools to realize that dream.” Finel nods and sniffs at the coffee. 

Simora sighs in delight. He needn’t click his tongue as he takes to this singular moment of rest—more than he’s truly had in weeks. “There is always a power struggle, and it would seem many, if not most, are not particularly fond of their off-world Dominax. I wonder what else their distrust hides.” 

“Then are we prisoners of sorts?” 

Without glancing about this roomy space carved in the side of the hill, Simora shakes his head. “Though he does possess a king’s pride, he admires me in many ways. He’s developing a sense of comradery with me. His word choices and constant desire to talk, whereas he talks very little to his people, betrays this fact. He’s taking a less pack-leader approach with me. Even if it is pageantry, he stands to gain from it.” 

Finel grunts, “You’ve never been the soft, personable type.” 

“He knows this. He does what Emel-Rakar do so well,” he sips his coffee and sighs, “they adapt. A trait I would expect you to appreciate.” 

Finel’s legs extend as she stretches out against the pillow which attempts to envelope her. “Oh, I do. The homes we’ve seen are beautiful.” She recalls the homes of logs, Prints-a-Ment, and even just frames with heavy plastic siding. A diverse arrangement of architectural styles all blended into the surroundings to mix personality with efficiency upon Icarus Alpha. Tucked away abodes noticeably alien to the forest when you approached—a well-populated planet’s suburbs seemingly plucked up and scattered about the trench of forest. “They live alongside nature while still retaining creature comforts.” She sips of her own coffee before groaning. “Bit bitter.”

“They make it strong here.” 

“Everything’s strong here.” 

Simora nods as his head falls farther back against the soft pillow beneath him. After the long journey, his often sedentary body begins to relax while occasionally screaming like a child with night terrors. “They’ve already begun working for us; though, to what extent of loyalty, I cannot say. I’ll have to see what labs they have available. Or libraries. Something to keep my mind and hands busy.” 

Finel sips of her coffee again. “Are computers more interesting than me?” 

“You are an enigma to which no machine could compare.” Simora’s receptors continue to wriggle as they take in the information of the surroundings. “I’ve only been in a Ra—Emel-Rakar town once. I’m not sure, looking back, that it was even legitimate.”

“Fake towns?” 

“To distract my father and myself. They claimed little control over their surroundings, few systems and devices, and fewer still the people to manage the town. This was one of the more notable tribes of Solos, the Nelen. They’d worn incredibly fashioned Balan suits for having little technology available to them. They also wore tampered exolungs.”

“Fiddling with factory settings?”

“Even the tech itself.” Simora recalls the meetings with their feeble leaders. How aged and broken they seemed while existing on the edge of ashy, noxious mountains. Still, they refused to leave. “We’ve learned much since those days; though, I am sure they are unaware of our education.” 

“Then you’ve really calculated your position here.” 

“Of course.” He says behind the mask of Glamor. 

“And that… Iri carry tolly, thing?”

“Irakari-Tol.” He corrects. “Yes. Planted in the ear of Yamay’s man some time back. A fine little finding of ours. I’d levied that in a minor gamble. I believe it now pays dividends.”

Examining the man drinking his coffee, Finel shakes her head with a laugh. “You’d expected it. That’s why we’re not hanging.” 

“Much of it. A seed planted in their ears now blooms in my presence.” 

“And why you didn’t want to talk while they were here.”

“I spoke the name to Ethar who then transported it here. Now, with his outburst against us, it will be unlikely most will listen to his whole story now. If he’d not explicitly explained the situation, I now seem all the more a destined leader handpicked by Almakamla.”

Giggling, Finel responds, “You’ve never been one for religion.”

“I don’t need to believe in their god to use him.”

Finel’s eyes widen as she nearly coughs through the surprise. “Rather cold, don’t you think?”

“Is it?” Simora considers it with minimal concern. “If their god is real, I am chosen. If he’s fake, I am an icon of their pride and power. Either way, I’m securing the safety of mine and yours.”

Finel slides back into the pillow with a chunk of meat in her hand. Her lips smack as her eyes widen in jest. “Just like in School. It’s difficult to keep up with you.” 

“You do a fine job of it.” 

“Your lady of Red would be proud.” A sarcastic tone goes unnoticed. 

“Patire has been a considerable asset to me. I’d prefer her safety over most. She’ll be an even greater ally in the reclaiming of Valkenaria. Utilizing the various tribes as our forces, her connections and tribal understanding will be invaluable.” 

“Hm.” Finel tears a piece of meat away. 

Simora curls up in his pillow as he continues to calculate without attempting to pierce the veil of Born. “Thomat and Donatello would be incredible warriors toward reclaiming the city. Better still to have them for their talents of soothing the beast that is human mob.

“However, Wallace and Patire are necessary for a swift and highly probable, low-cost, victory. Patire’s advice and constant opposition is as necessary as her knowledge of the tribes. It’d been challenging at first, yet she’s now essential. Cold calculations haven’t warmed the hearts as she has. Even now, the gambit of the Sun Owl was inspired greatly by her lessons.” Simora considers how quickly he’s fallen back into his ways—pre-Patire. “She’s as the whetstone against a crude blade. A blade that will carve this cancerous hatred of the Dominax from hearts and minds across the globe.”

A chunk of meat hits Simora in the cheek. Surprised, he nearly drops his hot drink into his lap. Glancing to the side, he grunts as he sees Finel cleaning her hands by violently slapping them up and down. Her eyes are on her hands as her tongue searches the nooks about her teeth for any remnants of the meal. 

“And that was for?” 

Finel stands and stretches out her noticeably long limbs. Sighing with a squeak, a sound Simora finds rather unnatural for her, she seems out of sorts. She then steps toward the edge of the room opposite the exit; another door leading toward the bathroom. She stops and turns with sudden conviction. “Just like School. Dumb as ever.”

Annoyed by this interruption of thought and disparaging remark, he responds. “What corrupts sense?”

“You speak of all these allies and plots. There is more to life than that, Simmy.” She strikes a pose without even realizing it. Flustered to the point her Glamor cannot entirely smooth the wrinkles of true emotion. “Not everything is an equation.”

“But it can be.” 

“Forget it.” She tosses up her hands as if gravity suddenly reverses. 

“You asked me not to treat you as an imbecile; though, this somehow was attractive to you.” He picked up the meat from his lap. Warm. Scented with herbs. Bloody. “Our alliance is favorable to us both.”

“Alliance.” She glares without hatred. Her throat pulses with life and purpose. Blood rushing to color her cheeks. “That’s what you want? A strong alliance.”

“I’ve little else to offer or benefit from—especially in our current state. Our joined—”

“Simmy,” her voice falls as if gravity has corrected itself. It soon rises with the heat of her passions. Bubbling up as her emotions permit more of the Green to slip through. “We’re already in this together. We’re Dark Stars! Leaders among all the Black across the stars, and you… even here and now, after everything that’s happened, talk of plots and schemes while the days steal away dreams.” 

Simora halts himself. Speaking to quickly will exacerbate this tension. She needs more. Sighing, he collects his thoughts while the woman waits. 

She’s waited for years. 

A few more seconds can’t hurt. 

“I’ve considered much over the years, Finel. Your companionship has been both remedy and perplexing puzzle.” What must I say? Of course, he was refining his thoughts. Dragging concepts in chains from the heart to the brain. Looking for the proper formula to cool her veins. “Yet, it would taste a lie to say I’ve not contemplated it. Operose calculations of certain matters unprecedented for me.”

“That’s,” Finel clicks her tongue, “vague.”

Simora grips the bloody meat and stands. He straightens his clothes before closing the distance between them. Fast. Certain in his steps. He stands close enough that her breath lingers around his nose, and he knows his will do the same for her. His eyes burrow into hers with all the confidence she expects of him when formulating those endless schemes. 

“You’re quite the anomaly.” 

“Another observation?”

“A fact confirmed through the years.” He lifts the meat and dangles it as if attempting to coax an animal from its den. “You’ve been playing with your food again, Finel. Ferocious and captivating Finel.” 

“Flattery will get you everywhere.” 

“Then my calculations were correct.”

“They often are.” Finel’s finger drags gently until the nail forces his chin up toward hers. “Speak the words.”

“Will it secure our alliance?” 

“Would it not?”

“You want marriage.” 

“I want marriage.”

Simora’s golden sands meet with her amethyst jewels. His receptors note the vibrations of her heart—hastening. The scents on her breath—meat and pheromones. Enticing as the ambush predator luring its prey in. Yet, he takes the chance. 

“You want me?” He whispers. He already knows the answer, but he’ll make her say it. That, too, is what she wants. “To marry me?”

“I want you.”

“Then I promise you, here and now.” Simora takes the last step—their faces just centimeters apart. So close that the primal parts of the brain confirm there’s another body. Magnetism of the souls. Black attempting to join both the Blue and Green. “You will be my wife.”

He embraces her. Takes her in close as she’s longed for; though, she holds tighter than he’d expected. She grips him to secure him; her lips firmly to his. 

Though neither often permit such things, they are both subject to human nature. Despite all the eons of evolution, neither can fully remove the inevitability, the absolute, of emotion. Fear of what occurred or what will be. Love of the same. 

They share their kiss and seal their joint future. 

And Simora… doesn’t pull away. 

He leans in. He joins. He partakes of her flavor and the newness that flows through his veins. When the kiss ends, he keeps her in his arms. 

“Then we have a deal.” Finel whispers against his neck. “We’ll reclaim this planet. Get back what’s ours. Avenge the fallen.” A peck against his jaw. “And I’ll help you… with your crazy schemes.” She then pulls away; breaking free rather easily. “But first, I’m going to take a shower. It’s been days since I’ve had the pleasure.” 

Simora watches her walk away before turning back to his seat. He sets the meat on the table. Pleased with his diplomacy and success, he smirks to himself.

Then, his receptors wiggle about as an odd sensation spreads through his neck and spine. A sigh calls to him through the enticing atmosphere. 

Glancing back, Simora’s voice slips from Glamor. It nearly squeaks, “What?”

Standing at the door to the bathroom, Finel’s arms fall back to her side with her top in one hand. Her purple eyes glance back over her naked shoulder, “Just like School. Dumb as ever.” She proceeds into the bathroom but calls over her shoulder. “Bring the meat.”

A moment later, the Dominax stands up and follows her in. Plate in hand.

Chapter 36

“Su fly, paramatachi, wes nor boniche,” Simora’s hand hovers safely out of reach from the various flora. The expansive collection of shelved and potted specimens are healthy. In this defensible and contained facility, the greenhouse provides a grand display, fresh materials, and security in the face of the dangerous organisms. “Barn fuzz, obinini, marsh tulips, dwarf cacti, bronzed long-leaf rezi. I’d say you’ve quite the collection. Even some off-world crossbreeds?” He’d only spoken a fraction of the whole, yet his eyes scanned over the contents and absorbed them all. 

“Quite.” A man of many years, still capable and taut with muscle, leans against a workbench at the edge of the greenhouse. On this raised platform of Prints-a-Ment, he’s able to look over a railing toward all the rows, shelves, and patches of flora. His eyes keep on the Dominax who moves about with youthful vigor and pent-up energy. His are orbs of yellow with orange along the edges (an interesting set even by today’s standards).

“You study them here? No wonder Yamay sent me here. Fascinating.” Simora glances back at the man, but he’s more interested in the tools and devices spread across the workstation behind him. Lengthy appendages of machinery, clean and properly tended, rest in compacted spaces beside computing systems and manual testing kits of varying purposes. Altogether, this seems more the lab than a botanist’s respite. Most botanists from the stars would find this a den of nightmares. “Medicinal properties and such.”

“Yuhuh.”

Simora notes the apathetic tone and moves to the center space to stand against a black iron railing. Twisted with basic coils, the metal guard is like an artifact of a simpler time. Simora’s hands run along the semi-smoothed top. “Very impressive. I’ve a similar collection in my lab. Quite extensive. Useful pabulum. Testament to your bailiwick. Grandiose is the quality of your compound.”

“Grandiose?”

Simora turns and sees the man’s eyes narrowed. There is a moment as the stranger simply stares at the Dominax. It is plain to see the sudden nictitate unrelated to any ignorance. Instead, the man seems annoyed. 

Taking a pipe from a pouch at his side, the man begins to pack the bowl with leaves. His peppered hair slides around his tan face; blocking momentarily any examination of his reworked exolung. High cheekbones seem exaggerated as the man looks downward; giving a more elven appearance. 

“I don’t mean to fustigate, Dominax, but this orgulous botanist speaks plainly and unbashful.” He strikes a match. An archaic way to light anything, but still the man gladly swipes it with his thumb nail. “My lab here is quite modern.”

Unapologetic himself, Simora turns toward the man with a masking grin. “I’d expect no less from the Emel-Rakar.”

“I expect you wouldn’t.” The man drags in from the pipe. A long and hollow tug of the moist air. Leaves spark as a thin serpent of smoke begins to coil up at the end of the bowl. 

“May I ask, first of many, how you procured such advanced mechanisms?” 

Without glancing at the devices and tools he’d been asked of, the man nods as he recalls his Metem’s words. He’s the Dominax. No need to share everything, but if he asks… you answer. That understood? It was. Secrets, the man thinks. What is acceptable to share and what isn’t. An Emel-Rakar understands the need of privacy and secrecy. Just as he understands the strength in loyalty and trust. 

“Scavenged in parts. Off-worlders that don’t last long usually leave quality gear behind. We make use of whatever we find.”

“Epimth. Yes, and none of mine begrudge you for it.” Surely, the man minds the separation by the Dominax’s own admission. This is done on purpose as Simora attempts to read the man’s expression. The face responds only by sucking in on the pipe again. Cold with a specific form of distaste; unlike the others of the city. Why? “Still, that’s a fairly new Eva-Ren copper solar capper.” Simora’s eyes point up with a flash to the spinning machine atop the glass ceiling—a bright pole in the center free-floating in a magnetic field to charge the greenhouse below. 

“None see the whole of the tapestry from a single thread yet unwoven.” 

“You buy in pieces. Interesting.”

“Gradual off-world imports and sharing between tribes.” 

Simora’s eyes continue to take in all the sights. The lab is capable of a variety of testing, distilling, reforming, and treatments while utilizing all products of this facility. State of the art systems comparable to those among civilian labs in Valkenaria—not nearly the level of the Dominax’s. 

“I’m hoping to learn more of your ways, sir.” Simora’s eyes drop. “What name might I call you?” 

“Kavin Eqit, Dominax.” He speaks the word yet lacks the firmness behind it. “Kavin’s fine.” Another puff of the pipe leaves streams of smoke curling up around those high cheeks. 

“Thank you for your assistance then, Kavin. Very fine to meet you.”

Kavin waits patiently for the Dominax as if something was missed or something should have been mentioned. When these words go unspoken, he merely nods once in response. 

Clicking his tongue thrice, Simora speaks again. “I’m becoming anxiously torpid, Kavin. I prefer moiling. Honing the mind. Idle hands and such.” He clicks again, his lips tugging a bit too far.  

“There’s plenty to learn.” 

Did he answer contemptuously or is he annoyed? Simora’s receptors detect neither emotion’s defining flavors. Instead, they simply pick up the powerful stench of the flavored leaves—something both sweet and bitter. Perhaps, it is a bit much of both. 

Something… familiar.

“And Yamay permits me to learn such secrets?”

“They secrets now?” 

Restraining the instinctual human desire to rebuke spite with spite, the Dominax grins. “I’d believed the Emel-Rakar a private people.” 

“Yuhuh.”

“Is your knowledge not protected?” Simora looks across the shelves of components and reagents. “Surely, you utilize these for more than just a beautiful respite.” 

“Protect, yes. Secret, perhaps.” Drawing in heavily of the pipe, a net of tendrils falls from his nostrils. A soft cupping of the lips, like a fish, sends a singular circle of smoke forward. “Yamay says you’re trustworthy. Means more to me than your big words or compliments.” Another drag and lengthy exhale toward the Dominax. Though Simora doesn’t cough, his receptors flinch beneath his clothes. Masking all scents. Why does it smell familiar? “Or those eyes.”

Glamor, born of the Black and tempered by the Blue, solidifies the quivering waters that are human emotions. To resist their expression provides a foundation for soothing the explosion. Emotions exist within the control of the human; not the other way around. 

“My eyes? Do they bother you?”

“Never seen a man with nema cat eyes. One might think you’d had transplants.” 

Without missing a beat, Simora’s face slacks as he paints the picture of an awestruck, dumbfounded man. “Nema cat? I’ve not heard that one before. Father always said I had interesting eyes, but—”

“Not like the black you used to have.” 

Simora, once since the moment he’d failed to enter Born’s land of wispy sands, falters. Leaning against the iron railing, Simora cocks his head and begins to click his tongue loud enough that Kavin narrows his eyes. Smoke continues to fill the area between them; not a single plant in the greenhouse seeming to mind the least dangerous creatures present. 

“Used to—”

A door opens to the left of Kavin. A warm, drier wind swirls with the moist air of the greenhouse. Finel enters wearing her freshly cleaned uniform of black and green. Hurrying in, she almost immediately slides to a halt as if her body hits an invisible wall. 

“Ugh. What’s that,” she turns toward Kavin. “What’s that?” Her nasally voice seeping through the pinched nose steals away the tension of the moment. 

Kavin gradually turns to her and lets another plume fall from his wide mouth. “Veterosque. Takes some getting used to, but the flavor grows on you. Good for hunting.”

“Masking scents.” Simora whispers as he clicks his tongue. 

“Right.” The older man returns his eyes to Simora. “Masking scents.” 

“And?”

Kavin’s eyes narrow, and he now shines in a lighter atmosphere. 

True to her nature, the subtle arts of conversation slip by Finel. “Whatever it is, it’s giving me a headache.” She turns toward her companion and waves, “Are you having fun with plants now?” 

“What did you find in your perimeter sweep?” Simora speaks to her, but his mind is fully fixated on the man smoking his pipe calmly at the workbench. “Playing nicely with the locals?”

“They’re more than capable. I dare to say, and regret every second, that some of their scouts are better than my Wildlings.” She glances over the man with his smoke and grins. “They have their nifty little tricks; even if they are disgusting.” She scrunches her nose at the stench. 

“Yes.” Simora’s eyes meet with Kavin’s. There is another silence before he continues. “All these secrets to learn.” 

A billow of smoke leads a gruff voice, “Plenty to learn. Or relearn.” 

“Well, that can wait, I think. Simmy, if you’d please.” A sense of urgency returns to her voice. Simora, begrudgingly departing the vast greenhouse, follows Finel through the door. Kavin neither waves nor bids farewell—simply blowing another stream of smoke. 

Once cleared of the doors, before Simora has any chance to openly discuss or mention the odd conversation, Finel turns back with a quiet, yet rushed tone. 

“There’s been a transmission.”

Simora’s golden eyes widen as the tongues click, “Who? What did they say?”

Finel grabs him by the arm and leads him into the shade beside the greenhouse. Just outside the blinding light of the sun, heat immediately draws the sweat from them both. Finel, at least, naturally cools with a more efficient body than her companion. 

“Yamay is calling his counsel. There’s an issue.”

“The Deep Roots?”

“What?” Finel shakes her head. “No. It’s about the planet, Simmy.”

Simora’s tongue clicks as his head bobs about. “The pla—”

“The Unanimity Namaste’s new orders. Column Eight.” 

All time might’ve stopped. It can feel that way at times. Simora’s experienced such a feeling plenty of times, yet the sands of Born seem a lifetime ago; though, it’s been about a week. Heat licks at his forehead and tightens the man’s chest. 

“We’re Abandoned.” 

Landing against the Prints-a-Ment wall of the greenhouse, Simora fails to catch his breath. As if the heat evaporates it from his lungs, he pauses in the panicky stillness. 

“No.” A series of steps and missing pieces, pathways shattered with sand pouring from the sides, span out before his waking eyes. No, no, no. Clicking his tongue, the Dominax scans the world for answers he knows aren’t there. Logic breaks as easily as the forms of shifting sands. 

To a man who’d once painted the future with wide and confident strokes, the uncertain nature of life creeps in like a stampede. For he’d build his castle upon shifting sands, and now the foundation falls into the sifting grains.

Back to the sands. Back to Born. I have… I could’ve prevented this… miscalculated. Too bitter. Abandoned. Too sweet. Simora’s tongue clicks faster. 

“Simmy, calm down. We need to—”

Miscalculated. Mistakes. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong!

Pressing against the film, the man attempts reentry. A world of countless answers built by muddied data awaits. As many paths as there are grains among the dunes, somewhere a truth exists in response to this shock. Pressing against the barrier, Simora struggles like a man caught in wrapped layers of plastic. 

“Simmy. Breathe! What’s the matter?” 

Wrong! Wrong!

Simora gasps for air that cannot find him between worlds. In a place where time stills in breathless agony, this place between normal time and a gradual crawl, Simora spirals out of control. A dark world of dunes beyond the veil. A wall so thin and yet so impenetrable. The master of Blue and Black fumbles against it like a fish out of water. 

“Simmy! Help! Somebody!” 

Miscalculated.

Chapter 37

“Hurry!” 

This voice is distant like a whisper over rolling hills. As the voice moves, it turns the clock as both time and echo crumble down the slopes. Grass decays as it bends in the wind. Soil cracks in the dying light of an exhausted star. Golden flakes roll into a collective avalanche until the hills are as permanent as human life in the grandest of schemes.

In adagio dances, the hills crawl, rise, flatten, fall, swell, and swallow the horizon. Voices from far lands enter this world only to die upon their crests; adding to the collection of sand rolling over the surface. Grains, bright as if in the midday sun, exist in a dark world of perpetual night. 

It was all fashioned this way. A mind capable of writing basic rules for such a world finds… found it peaceful. 

“… overheating. What’s going—”

Feminine. Masculine. Old. Gruff. Quick. Articulate. 

No matter the descriptions, it fades all the same. Every letter becoming another addition to the vast desert. An ending to all things in the world between time’s lethargic concept and constant march. 

Somewhere in the chilled breath of this lifeless world exists a fumbling fracas of foreign material. Thrashing about like a serpent swimming across the sand’s surface. It wriggles and interrupts the serene scene of beautiful chaos. 

“Get the… inject… time.”

This bound figure’s prison moves with him like a placenta refusing to tear. This child of man stuck between birth and unlife, pressing as best he can against the film that refuses to let him into the promised lands. 

Refusing to retreat, the Dominax’s ghostly form claws and flails against his restraining membrane. A ghastly face like an unfinished drawing stretches against the film. Air cannot pass through, and Death does not walk these sands. Instead, the Reaper will wait patiently beside the sources of distant, dying voices. 

“Blood pressure… much longer!” 

The sands roll and tumble down the crests of endless dunes. Existing through perception, this manifestation of Born exists in the quiet of dying, distant wails. 

The memories Simora has of his first attempts of Born are the same as many who once found themselves knocking on the subconscious’s gate. A portal locked behind layers of ego and gray matter. Even finding the doorway can be a challenge. Most Blue never find their way to such a forbidden fruit as this succulent treasure of the penial gland. 

Even fewer have the courage to knock on that door. Fewer still are those that pry the door open when faced with the reality that pleasant knocks and asking nicely are neither key nor answer. 

And finally, in the company of the smallest fraction, are those that pass the door and enter a massless void beyond the veil. Manifest what you might, and then survive whatever you create. Similar to many of the mental capabilities of fashioning worlds, the Blue play as gods and programmers in this cranial space. Limited only by the powers of the will and mind, they must manage themselves or be crushed by it. 

Simora had never feared his mind. 

He’d never faulted. Never caught himself in the veil like the ignorant children he’d soared past in School for the Black. Even as he’d studied the shadows and the manner of his family, he’d quietly mastered the world of Blue within this space of Born. 

Weeks of practice in minutes. 

Years of exhaustive practice managed in days; locked away in his room away from games, networking, teams, and the like. This place, a home for the Dominax, quietly watches him suffocate for hours as the film tightens around the phantom’s form. 

“… extract of alphanius.” 

The phantom’s wide sockets aim toward some distant crest of golden sand. As if swollen by an invisible sea, muddied towers of sand rise like a castle quietly watching those invisible waters. Emptied halls of quiet bricks lift into eight points across the horizon, and the phantom Dominax quietly wails. For he shall never tread those halls and climb those stairs. Never again shall he walk the halls of the Keep.

“He’s stabilizing. What caused…”

“… not possible.”

“… Blue… Sign.”

What wonders those emptied towers hold! Information breathed into the very walls and tiles of the floors. Data requiring practiced eyes, hands, and ears to decipher. A tale to be told by reading the sands like a gypsy fresh off the spaceship. 

Just as fantastical as the practiced pitch of a vagabond con, the tale spun would be masterful and entertaining. If only this poor phantom could reach the risen walls and climb the towers. Any of the eight within the spectral Keep.

Hatching from the film membrane, a single hand reaches into the dead world of granular data. A ghastly face falls motionless into the sand; soon to be buried by the traveling waves of gold. 

Though the waking world sees Simora’s body slip into peaceful rest rather quickly, this phantom’s perception of time marches on in a hellish silence. Soundless gasps offered in prayers for entry… for release. Only when the conscious mind is struck by drug-induced sleep, the phantom stills and vanishes. 

None exist now within the sands. No observation to draw in the dying echoes of the living. No towers or castle upon the dunes. Not even a secreted garden tucked in the center of the Keep. Nothing but golden sands glowing in the sunlight of night.

That is… until a singular shadow soars over the sands. 

Chapter 38

“Just drink the damn milk.”

“The doctor hasn’t checked on me in hours.” Simora stretches in the hospital bed beside a window. His Balan suit removed, the man rubs his hand across the smooth receptors that lay flush in his skin.

Though the sun’s time has passed, the dim lights of the room cast strips across the falling mosses and vines beyond the glass. Many unfamiliar to the region might see the shadows and let their imagination run wild. Not Simora. He simply ignores the glass and the oddly arranged splattering of light, like an illuminated inkblot test, just as he’d prefer to ignore everything else in his room. 

“It’s no wonder you faint like a ballroom bell.” Finel’s tone has taken a sterner bass than the usual, humorous tenor. “Drink it.”

“I’m full.”

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

“I don’t need to.” Simora’s exhaustion has gotten the better of him. He’s speaking quickly. Answering with little more than a passing fancy at the notion of conversation. “I’ve better control of myself than most.”

“You’re just being difficult.”

“Have you eaten?” 

Finel grumbles as her left hand displays her form, “To keep this machine running? I’m likely tripling your calories. Maybe more!” Her lips peel back in that familiar snarl of a predator. “Could help you actually build some muscle.”

“I have all I need.” 

“Could use more.”

“I’m not drinking it. I’m not hungry. And I’m damned sure not in need of some sophomoric lesson in biology or physical education. I’m quite aware of my own body. It obeys as I command.” Simora’s legs stiffen under his white blanket. His sudden outburst pauses Finel’s banter, but he feels how the room’s atmosphere condenses. Like a fog hanging over the bed, a shadow of some paralyzing entity, he tucks himself in and sighs from the safety of his coverings, “I’m just tired, Finel.”

“No.” She leaps from her chair across the room and hurries to his side. She spins off the top of a bland, metal bottle. “You’re angry.”

“I’m not—”

“No different than our time at School. You’re angry. You’re frustrated. Holding up that Glamor for so long, you’d think you’d forgotten your own emotions.”

Simora’s body tenses beneath the covers as his receptors flinch. The pungent stench of Finel’s desire to fight tightens the muscles on Simora’s neck. 

Clicking his tongue three times, he settles himself like a wooden plank rested atop balls of cotton. His eyes move toward the ceiling where tubes of stored light create a soft, late afternoon effect. The shadows and their nightmarish outlines beyond the window rest easier than the Dominax. 

“You’re keeping secrets. Black as Black can be. A true Noctlin.”

“I’m not a Noctlin.”

Hearing this, Finel ceases her attempts at forcing Simora to drink the milk. Instead, she retrieves another chair and places it directly beside the head of the bed. Leaning over him, she is like the storm front gathering clouds in preparation of angry strikes. 

“Not a Noctlin?” Her voice is more like the first droplets of rain rather than the booming thunder. “Does the name make the man? Does your blood change by decree?”

“It can.”

Finel slides forward in her chair to rest beside and over Simora. Her eyes trace his lips as she hears gentle clicking, “Blood does not change, Simmy.”

The man’s stubborn silence returns.

“None are more deserving of the name that’s lasted through the millennia.” A hand extends and slides gently over the lump that is Simora’s left arm. “Is that what concerns you? You are more capable than any I’ve seen in the Black.”

There is no reply. The man instead stares at the end of his bed. His eyes fixed on the mounds of his feet while the mind travels far beyond them. He clicks his tongue in steady time to some unheard song. 

“The Dark Stars respect you enough to come, chancing this hellish planet, just to scheme directly with you.” She grins as the realization comes to her. Her words are reaching him, but he’s mentally attempting escape. Speaking, she knows her words must be strong to drag him back. “Nor or not, you are my favorite Noctlin. In time, we know the Dark Stars will require new leadership.

“Remiran speaks often of how he envies you. And who would blame him? He prattles on like a love-struck teenager. Awestruck how you turned this shithole into a thriving new jewel of The Far-Reach. The success of this planet owed entirely to you, Simmy.” Her presence is appreciated, yet a distance between the souls is kept. 

“Remiran voices envy?”

His eyes haven’t moved. His only response being that of his missing cousin should warm her heart, yet only the chill of being kept so far from heart’s reach grips her. A small voice answers, “Of course, Simmy. All that’s happened… we will find him.”

“What has he said?”

“Simmy…”

There’s no response as she wishes him to rejoin her in pleasant conversation.

“What’s happened, Simmy?” She looks to the devices in the wall that read his vitals without having to poke or prod the man. Everything reads within acceptable ranges, yet she is correct to be concerned. “If you’ve mastered your body by Blue and Black, why are you here?”

“What has Remiran said?”

“You won’t let me in?”

“There’s nothing within worth discussing.” 

Finel’s hand retreats to the edge of the soft bed. Her eyes drop, but they do not fill with tears. Her voice does not crack nor does her body slump. “You really haven’t changed.”

There is a silence. 

Finel’s sigh returns her predatory Glamor. The two share a moment of silent staring; though, they peer in different directions. Two faces untouched by the emotions that dwell far beneath the skin. 

“Such strength is dangerous, Simmy. To keep the world out, you might yet lose your grip on reality.” She examines the man and decides to speak as he would. “You’d tried some manner of mental processing and found yourself ill. You’d nearly died, Simmy. After what I’d told you,” she trails off as she attempts to understand all that he had failed in. As the answers remain beyond her grasp, her impatience returns her to words, “Let me help you.”

“What can you do?” Simora’s golden eyes turn toward her. They possess far more life than the stone face of Glamor allows. “When all’s been stolen from me, my city and planet set to flame, and my life’s work gone.” Those golden eyes peer into those of amethyst. “Have you the power to turn back the sands of time?”

“You know I do not.” She answers with the calm of a fellow Dark Star. 

This nearly emotionless answer cuts through the Dominax’s outburst. He drops his eyes to her hands on the edge of his bed. 

Clicking his tongue, the man continues, “My frustrations are my own, Finel. I do not wish to burden you.”

“You’d agreed to a partnership.”

“I have.” Simora nods and sighs. “Yet, you must understand—”

“I understand what a partnership entails,” Finel’s answer is swift and snaps like thunder. The storm finally arrives. “Dammit, Simmy.” The frustration breaks through the Glamor she’d been able to hold for mere minutes. “Do you know what it means to be partners? To share and to open yourself? What weaknesses might I secure for you when you would prefer to attack yourself?”

Simora watches intently as the woman’s emotions slip through her talents. After the silence continues, and Simora considers her answers, he clicks his tongue twice. “Upon hearing your explanation of our Abandonment, and some previously heard, troubling information, I’d attempted to delve into the world of Born.”

“You attempted Born?!” Finel’s voice rises and falls. She’s surprised by her own surprise. “Simmy! That’s your secret.”

“I have since my younger years, Finel.”

“You immortalize your father in metal only to mock him for his failed commands.”

“His concerns were considered and noted. My prowess was unknown to the man. Blue teachings and comprehension beyond his faculties. He’d known little of her capabilities or the power of her blood.” Ignoring her obvious frustration with him, he continues, “I’ve made great use of this ability since our years in School. Even upon the announcement of our Dark Star gathering, I’d viewed into the possibilities of the future.

“Since the attack on Valkenaria, I’ve been incapable of accessing my fullest mental capabilities. In my current state of disability, I’ve been acquiring more troubling information that cannot be properly processed. All because this future was never a possibility. I’d not seen, nor even had notion, that such events were to come to pass.

“I appreciate your concerns, Finel. A welcomed alliance, and your friendship is priceless.” Simora’s golden eyes return to hers. His tongue clicks again, “I am working through my current failures as both a practitioner of Blue and Dominax. In this, I am not concerned with our interpersonal relationships, the manner of our habitation, or even the damned species that seek my blood just beyond these walls.

“I want the information of what occurred. I want every pertinent detail so I might formulate a plan. Data by which I might reclaim all that was and is yet to be mine. Blood for blood, Finel. And now my secret is yours to defend.” Simora’s golden eyes do not widen or shift. It is as if the woman stares into the most advanced form of artificial life; a robotic system calculating even this moment of connected hearts. A game of numbers and codes. “Now, tell me what Remiran had spoken of.”

Finel’s shoulders straighten as the man’s words strike like a blade. The atmosphere condenses as if the room were a point of gravitational anomaly. The knowledge of Born’s usage now weighing upon her; understanding now the cause of his fit. The cause of his disassociation. The crippling addiction such power has produced.

“We’ve remained in contact, of course. He’s sent me to develop Krosatas most recently. A difficult planet, but nothing I couldn’t handle. In our conquering of one continent, we’d found a species similar to your mazer chimeras. In our excitement, Remiran and I began to process the beasts immediately.

“While a fine material, they are not nearly as desirable as the wool of your chimeras. Bulkier strands which are difficult to weave, machines often damage the material, and people found them less exciting. Fashion designers on Ultana Kapor put the final nail in our coffins.

“Long story short, Remiran and I shared disappointed words over strong drinks. We’d talked much of the past and how easily wrangled the universe once seemed to our younger minds.”

“You spoke of me?”

“Of course. We spoke of much. How you’ve succeeded in such a place. How strong your command of the universal markets has become. Your reports are always cut to the bone; leaving off the fluff and bragging. You excel in every aspect. You’ve been an idol of sorts to the man for some time. Since School, surely. How he’d always designed our activities in manners which would appeal to you. 

“All that talent. Remiran keeps you as a benchmark by which he measures himself. Look at this planet! Ilgar’s loftiest dreams hadn’t reached such heights.”

“Ilgar?”

“Remiran was rather fascinated with the man. Their whole family really. Shame what happened.”

Simora’s head bobs once as he clicks his tongue. “Finel.”

“Yes?” Her eyes return with an expression softened by the memories.

“The Abandonment comes directly from The Unanimity Namaste. Did the reports say all members were present?”

Finel’s eyes are wide with realization. The path the Dominax has tried to find, attempted to confirm within Born, illuminates. 

“Remiran is alive.” 

It was such a simple answer that hadn’t dawned on the woman. It hadn’t been realized by Simora. Instead, the man that some would label prophet or molder of reality couldn’t put together this piece of the puzzle. 

“He’s not brought his forces back. Why had he left? Does he believe us dead? I don’t know what comms have been sent from the capital.”

“Does it matter?” Simora turns with narrowed eyes to stare out the window toward the bright lines across nightmarish vines and branches. Cutting through, as if staring across the lands, the golden eyes shine in the dim light of the hospital room. “He’s left us to Icarus Alpha’s judgement. My work is missing, my city sieged, and my life extricated from willful stress.”

“Do you believe him at fault?”

Simora’s eyes remain narrowed as he considers the trip through the mind. Again, his need to return to the sands becomes a thirst that cannot be quenched in this place of healing. Yet, a prickly fear taps away in his mind like a devil preparing the next dance for all at his party. 

“I need to speak to Yamay.”

“Now?”

“Now.”

Chapter 39

“There’s no news from the other tribes.” 

“Days without word?”

Yamay’s leathery hand scratches at his chin. “Dark storm. Local comm towers were disrupted. Can take days to replicate working pieces and send teams to fix them. Long-range comms work, but you are aware of their unreliability.” 

“Except to space.”

Nodding at the exaggerated spite, Yamay responds, “I heard. Abandoned.” His spring colored eyes meet the golden sands. “Mixed emotions have birthed conversation among my people.”

“Mixed?” Simora, wearing his usual clothes and released from the hospital by his own command, sits across the desk with risen brows. “Your people want Abandonment?”

Yamay shakes his head, “We don’t want to be removed from the universe of our fellow men. Some simply want… simplicity.” Yamay swipes some of the sleep from his eyes as he opens a drawer to his right. Within are a number of fine glasses and an unlabeled bottle of some earthy-colored alcohol. A glass is placed before him, Simora, and Finel. “Off-worlders produce a multitude of feelings.”

Stuck on the word “we”, Simora waves off the drink. Yamay listens as he pours one for himself and the lady. “It’s not even light out.” 

Finel shrugs as she takes the glass. “Still night then.” 

Simora’s head shakes as he returns his attention to the Metem. “Then we have motive.” 

“Motive?” The Metem sips from his glass and hisses as the burn begins to erode the exhaustion. 

“Why the tribes attacked.” Simora’s eyes remain fixed on the man before him. “Desiring a world without brawix. Simplicity in exile, or rather… confinement.” 

Pouring more into his glass, Yamay nods, “Many desire such a thing. And now you believe some may be among my people.”

“Are some of such a thought?”

Smacking his lips, Yamay nods. “Surely. Yet, my men were all accounted for.”

“And we are to trust that.” Simora gauges the man as he responds.

“Do or do not. That’s your choice. I sat at your table. I partook of your food and your drink. Were any of my men to commit an act of war on such holy land without my permission…”

Simora’s chin rises as he examines the man. Holy land. He’s telling me the truth. The receptors on his neck flick as hidden worms beneath his clothing. They taste neither anxiety nor stress in the usual concoction of untruth. 

“Your people are still an unknown to me, Metem.”

Yamay halts the glass at his lips as the title is spoken. Clearing his throat, he waits in silence of the Dominax’s lingering words. 

“While I was in hospital, I hadn’t received one visit from a nurse or doctor. Rather odd seeing as I’m the Dominax who’d just undergone some manner of seizure. Don’t you think?”

“Indeed,” Yamay nods with his glass held before him. 

“While under, I’d heard mere fragments of your physician’s words, yet I am troubled.” Simora’s golden orbs remain on the man even as Finel’s interest forces her to lean into his view. “Do you know what I speak of?”

“Simmy—”

 “Blue Sign.” Yamay finally sips again from his glass. “Yes. The doctor saw.” 

A silence unlike any these three have endured overtakes the office. No paintings on the walls, the smell of the alcohol, the humidity rising as the sun considers turning on the lights. Every pair of eyes is bound open with surprise, anger, or the necessity to retain power in the face of such a storm. 

Principles colliding, ideals at odds, creates a specific type of static. Atmospheric pressure, what the monks of Pandalan and highest priests of The Church of Many Mouths preach as evidence of the soul, imposing on one another. Three souls more powerful than the average human sit like electrodes humming with the invisible forces of the storm. 

Peculiar as it is, that such conflicting views can produce similar tensions, these three stand as pinnacles of society. Necessities like oxygen, water, and food. 

Cold, hard logic. 

Interpersonal empathy and leadership.

Adaptation and survival. 

Can any point to such a specific nature being without fail? Can any point to such a specific personality that has succeeded without the loss of some or many? 

Has humanity, in all the eons that have passed, ever witnessed such leadership? Has it ever experienced the overwhelming grace of divinity in human—any which it didn’t immediately attempt to kill?

Even in the grandest of moments in the greatest of times on the greatest of planets, humanity will find something to silence itself over. As the atmosphere thickens with the powers of greater men and women, the globe turns on as though time hasn’t come to a screeching halt. 

“And the poison?” 

Broken silence allows time to return. Ice clanks in the glass of booze. Sense is regained; though, the weight of it all lingers like the smell of burnt leaves soaked into the walls.  

“No one poisoned you, Dominax. I assure you.” 

The drink is confident. The eyes drop as they have; no need to strain in visual combat. Another glass is poured. The drinks are small, but the potency wafts through the room like an ancient speakeasy. The aromatic domination, a result of decades of decadence within this office, creates a manner of smokescreen for the Metem. Home field advantage, one might say. 

“Extract of alphanius.” Simora’s voice is harsh even through the hushed controls of Glamor and the teachings of Black. Finel’s eyes widen as her gaze now follows Simora’s toward the Metem. “A common poison used among the dishonored clans of Ravagers.”

“Emel-Rakar.”

“I choose my words carefully enough.” Simora’s eyes narrow as the gold seems to shine in the dulled light poles’ glow. These floating devices nearest the ceiling remained stilled, unswaying, yet cast shadows over the man’s face. “A poison among the dishonored. Meant to dehydrate a body. Simple enough if given during a medical emergency to simulate organ failure through loss of liquids. Hot world. Seems inconspicuous to most.”

“You weren’t poisoned.”

“I heard—”

Cutting Finel’s confirmation off, Yamay continues. “Extract of alphanius. Commonly used for the dehydration qualities which nature has perfected. We keep it in the hospital.” Yamay sips of his glass and hisses through the burn. “Almost every patient gets an injection. Surgeries and fixers. When properly manufactured, a potent, no-risk anesthesia. Aids in moving fluids and medications through the bloodstreams. Even reports of a pleasant morning-after boost of energy.” He swirls the drink around in his mouth. “Energetic enough to demand a meeting before sunrise?”

Another silence. This, unlike the last, is quickly destroyed with the simple smile of the Dominax. 

Considering what he can, the master of Blue does still possesses a master’s mind—even if he struggles to retain what once he had. Information blends together into an image once scattered as pieces of a puzzle. 

“So you do have uses for all the plants.” Simora leans back in his chair; more relaxed than any person stirring from their slumber within the town. “I’m hoping to learn every use your people have for such plants. Particularly,” the man’s eyes fall to the drink, “your many vices.”

“Simmy.”

Without looking to Finel, Simora explains. “They have found many uses for even the most deadly of specimens here. A library of sorts which I am most fascinated to partake of. And now, I know this is a haven for us.”

“Haven?”

“They saw my Signs, yet I breathe. The nature of the natives isn’t nearly as bloodied as we’d been led to believe. Though the tribes are as varied as any nation or planet, they do possess strong roots that bind their civilization. By dishonorable tribe misdeeds or by false information spread by these fine people,” Simora smiles as he taps his fingers across the arm of his chair, “we’ve been misled since the first steps upon this planet.”

“They know you’re…” Finel’s eyes glance toward the man’s back. Though she can’t see the receptors from her angle, she knows of their presence. 

“Even the gardener knew.”

“Kavin? He’s quite insightful.” Yamay’s head bounces around as he examines his drink. “And used to work for your father.”

Finel’s eyes are like two perfect orbs of precious jewels on a swivel. They turn between the two men as more about the others are revealed. 

“How he knows that my eyes shouldn’t be gold. He’d seen them before.” 

“Tended your mother’s prized garden within the Keep. Sworn to secrecy… until circumstances changed.” Yamay pours the glasses that have been unused. An offering, not only of friendship, but of celebration for surviving such troubled storms. “He’s a fine man. A finer teacher, if you can handle the gruff persona.” 

“A difficult shell, but I’m adept in dealing with such brusque company.” Simora’s demeanor shifts with the mental focus on Glamor. Shifting the flesh into a more solemn shape, he watches the Metem lift the glass to his lips. “Before I consider my next step, I would ask a question.”

“I’d not deny you your tongue.” 

“Leaves, alcohol, and Kavin’s smoking.” Simora needs only mention them, and the clear recognition is readable on Yamay’s face. 

“You wonder why we partake so frequently.”

“Specifically you and other leadership.” Simora glances to Finel. “We Dark Stars do imbibe the occasional substance during entertainment or prolonged diplomatic interactions, but it would seem you partake rather frequently.”

“I do. Passionately.”

Simora’s eyes narrow as he nods and clicks his tongue. “Is life here so difficult that the Metem must numb himself?”

Yamay grins before downing the remainder of his glass. He clears his throat and begins to gradually fill the glass with another acceptable amount—though several portions add up quickly. His deep voice rises as if this same conversation has played frequently in his mind.

“It’s not fear, pain, despair, hatred, or even a loathing of this life that drive our people to usage and escapism.” He places the bottle down carefully while lifting the glass and swirling the brown liquid around. His earthy eyes watch the liquid with a longing and intense consideration. “It’s the emptiness.

“That numbness so many people, those off-worlders, say they use it for? I would think they taste a lie. Or perhaps, their lives are so splendid and empty already that numbness is the drug they truly seek. I cannot fathom it. To take upon yourself such blessings merely to stare into nothingness is as much as waste of time as it is life. 

“You use or escape to feel good—recall some sense of connection to what it means to be alive. A rush that reminds the brain there’s reason to exist if only to stave off that dismal possibility, no matter how infinitesimal this sense is compared to the cosmos around it, that we cease to be able to use, escape, or feel in any capacity.

“It’s the creeping sensation, realization, of what might exist long after the flesh has broken and vanished. I fear sitting silently as my thoughts bring neither fear nor love. I fear sitting in the numbness suspended far between the memory of ice and fire. If only the lack of sensation, of stimuli and effect, would end. I fear, in those quiet seconds where I feel nothing for the world that interacts around me, that I am already dead.”

“I’ll take that.” Finel grabs hold of the glass and begins to drink. A heavy drink. She gulps what exists and asks for another without words; the burn a reminder that she does exist. That, and the sudden realization that her restless night will be compounded with philosophical discussion. “It’s going to be a long day.”

“Longer still. Yamay,” Simora leans and grabs his own glass. “I’d like to take you up on your offer of leaves.” The receptors twitch on the back of his neck as the stench of sucked, dried, burnt, and all manner of utilized substances overwhelm the fleshy appendages. The contemplation, the deep place by which Yamay has travelled within himself, excites the receptors with pheromone flavors. “I’d like to live as the Emel-Rakar. I want to feel alive.”

Chapter 40