Unlisted Planet, Unknown Sector

In a remote town atop a lonely hill in a planet far from the busy space lanes of Galactic commerce there was a house.

It was a simple, one-story tile-roofed house, its pale white walls showing the ravages of both time and weather. Inside, were four rooms built for giants; two of the rooms had been bedrooms still containing the outline of four-meter-long beds on their clean swept floors, a large kitchen, and a common room that occupied the entire length of the house. It was a simple, rustic construction, not even containing a separate restroom or toilet within its old walls.

In the sparsely decorated common room a rough wooden table occupied pride of place, its scarred, stain-darkened surface rough and made of unevenly joined slabs of treated wood.

At this particular moment, a handsome, heavy-set man, of a size commensurate with the dimensions of the ancient dwelling, wearing a three-piece suit that cost more than most planetary economies could generate in a year was sitting in a single crudely-built chair. He appeared as one of the natives of the area; broad-faced and pugnacious, with ruddy, tough-looking skin, and heavy eyebrow ridges overhanging his sharp, yellow-glowing eyes. A beautiful cup made of Shensil porcelain was before him, the rare golden tea inside it filling the entire place with a soothing, calming aroma.

The giant’s name was Reeshad Jurador Ket-Roshul, and he was a True Dragon.

Every year, on a certain date, Reeshad arrived at this remote location, unheralded and in secret, accompanied by none but his most trusted assistant, to take one cup of tea and look out the wide window into the ancient wooded valley beyond. He did this in remembrance of his first mortal wife, dead now for almost five thousand standard cycles.

Blessed with a prodigious mind and a near-perfect memory, Reeshad could still picture his wife as she had looked that first time they had met. She had been a common farmer’s daughter, of a race native to this isolated world who called themselves the ellein, and she had been the first person to speak to him without fear.

The day had been overcast and grey, the air rich with the scents of rain and wet earth from the brief morning shower that had just swept through the area. He had stumbled out of the forest soon after managing to trigger his first Change, confused and disorientated by the sudden alteration in perspective and sensory input the Change had wrought on his senses. She had been checking the meadows for edible tubers, and had seen him, naked and alone, walking erratically along a small river bank.

Dragons, as a rule, rarely give in to their emotional impulses. It is not in their nature to allow themselves to fall under the influence of strong emotions, and when they do, the experience is more often skewed towards the darker side of the spectrum: Rage, Jealousy, Avarice. Even the process of reproduction, arguably one of the strongest driving forces of a species, is conducted at somewhat of a remove; where the product of their rare sexual unions, the precious dragon eggs, are given over to the hidden creches of the Wae-Lun system, there to grow into the first stage of their existence as little more than savage beasts.

Therefore, the Change, which gave dragons the humanoid form needed to access the System, came with a slew of emotions that many of his species had no experience dealing with.

The effects could be destiny altering.

In Reeshad’s case, his first meeting with an ellein female triggered an instant, and obsessive attraction. She, in accordance with the traditions of her race, had reacted appropriately and with considerable force.

Hours later, Reeshad had awakened within this house, wed and ready to be bedded.

In the present, thousands of years removed from his memories, Reeshad allowed himself a slight smile as he recalled the moment. Ah, to be young again.

Pensively, Reeshad sipped at his tea, relishing the warming sensation as the concentrated aether infused into the leaves spread through the channels and nodes of his Frame. It was an indulgence he allowed himself sparingly, knowing that luxuries such as these could leave small weaknesses that his many, many enemies and rivals could exploit. Still, from time to time, it was good to be reminded that the Universe had its perks: Otherwise, why strive for anything at all, eh?

And just like that his mood changed.

Carefully, Reeshad placed the cup he was holding down on to the plate, focusing on controlling his strength so as not to break the precious treasure. Inevitably, his thoughts turned to the most urgent of the issues that he had expressly come here to escape:

In particular, the Empress’ blanket moratorium on association, or even casual trading, with any Sects or organizations expressly dedicated to the principles of Death and Destruction.

The list that had accompanied the Imperial Decree had been quite extensive, and contained organizations that his own Consortium, and specifically his branch, had several business ventures and agreements with. With a stroke of her pen, the Empress had essentially eviscerated deals that had taken Reeshad centuries to set up, potentially costing him trillions in lost revenue, but more importantly, influence and standing among his peers and superiors. The fact that many of his own competitors would be similarly affected was scant consolation at best.

There were ways around the Edict of course, they always were given enough time and effort, but it was time and effort he would have to take away from other equally crucial projects. His mood irrevocably ruined, Reeshad gave a mental call to the only other sapient being within miles.

Within less than half a heartbeat Orven, his most current executive assistant, arrived and positioned himself attentively a few paces from behind Reeshad’s seat. Dressed in a patterned gray suit with maroon accents at throat and cuffs, the well-trained ashen drake exuded an aura of competence and ability, even while waiting to be acknowledged by his lord. Secretly pleased, Reeshad allowed the moment to stretch, examining the young man with a critical, yet approving eye: He himself had had a hand in the specialized selection and breeding that had resulted in Orven and his many siblings, all so they could all be raised and trained to his own exacting ideals of service.

“Your wish, my Lord?” His assistant asked politely after a minute, both hands holding what looked like a substantial amount of papers and reports in front of him. Coming into power long before the popularity of dataslates and psi-encoded mem-stones, Reeshad had a marked preference for information set down on paper and ink and, because he could, insisted his personal staff adhere to the same somewhat dated methods.

“Has the board convened?” Reeshad casually asked, watching Orven’s reaction closely.

The drake nodded slightly, and Reeshad noticed the slight dilation of his assistant’s ophidian pupils, the exaggerated flare of his nostrils, as well as the rapid pulse of blood through the large blood vessels of the man’s neck. He allowed his tongue to flick out and sample the air, recognizing the telltale tang of fear pheromones in the air.

“Tell me.” Reeshad commanded.

“The Holbast has decided to move forward and suspend all operations and transactions with all the organizations indicated in the Imperial Edict, my Lord… Yet both the production targets and the completion dates for all branch projects affected by the Edict have not been adjusted.” Seeing Reeshad’s expression go deathly calm at his words, Orven hurried to get the rest of his news out. “G-Grand Duke Saress sent his Herald to your office immediately after the meeting my Lord, to remind you in no uncertain terms that he fully expects a positive resolution to a certain project that he personally tasked you with. He also informs us that there will be no projected reallocation of resources planned for the remainder of the cycle and that, for the time being, your department is urged to look to alternative sources for all ongoing projects.”

Orven paused then, struggling to keep his features impassive as he felt the psychic weight of his Lord’s displeasure at the news he had brought.

Then Reeshad blinked and, after taking a deep breath of his tea, masterfully controlled his emotions. “I see… What do you have for me regarding these alternative sources the Grand Duke tells us to rely on?”

Clearing his throat, Orven turned to the topmost report on the stack he held. “General Kachvik reports that most of the strongholds of the rebels of the Golden Sphere uprising have been destroyed and captured, and that he will have the entire System back within capacity by the end of the Cycle at the latest.”

“Tell him to up the timeline,” Reeshad said, sipping once more at his tea. Orven stopped to write down a note before continuing.

“Master Lua-Shao’s Discovery Team have found promising indications that Master Vashanka’s speculations regarding the Eshuma System might just be true. They have found a rather large deposit of Black Shuracite and other spiritual elements at the system’s fifth planet.”

“Good,” Reeshad rumbled, already thinking on which of his contacts to inform regarding the matter, and who would want it the most. It was unfortunate that he would have to credit that upstart Vashanka for this discovery, but perhaps there was a way to turn this into an opportunity. Speaking of which… “Any news on Vashanka’s expedition?”

“My Lord, Master Vashanka has not reported in for the fifth cycle in a row.”

Interesting, Reeshad thought. Had Fata finally smiled on him? “What of the Monitors?”

“The Kelebus reports that his blood is inert, his spirit crystal broken. It seems that he is truly lost to us this time.”

Better and better. Perhaps he was finally rid of his bothersome cousin and his endless obsession with dusty, ancient artifacts.

“And this project he insisted on?”

“We have no news, my Lord, but it would be safe to assume that it remains unfinished.”

Reeshad considered that last piece of information for a moment, taking another sip of his tea. “Disappointing.”

Orven was silent for a long moment before he spoke again. “Shall I task a new agent to discover what happened?”

“No,” Reeshad said firmly, finishing his cup and setting it down. The Consortium had already spent too many resources and time on Vashanka’s half-guesses and expensive flights of fancy. “Keep an ear out for any information about his demise as a matter of course but, as the Grand Duke took pains to remind us, the Holbast is obviously more interested in a different matter altogether… Tell me, what have we learned about the Oblivion?”

The assistant nodded, glad to have his master turn away from such a volatile matter. With some relief he set aside the report he had prepared on Vashanka’s movements, along with the warning note the Kelebus had attached to it. With practiced ease he pulled up the Oblivion report and placed it in Reeshad’s hands.

“These are our preliminary findings my Lord…” He began while Reeshad settled down to listen.

Planet Lalik, Urudal Sector

“Everything is in place, Mistress. We await the signal.”

Irvain Selenar Ket-Ursunder, the Verdant Death, once one of the Scaled Empire’s Twelve Lords of the Conquering Host, nodded at her lieutenant’s words. The four-armed wyvurri bowed briefly and stepped behind her, its compound eyes shimmering through a variety of colors.

Irvain inclined her horned head, marking where the last remnants of the strike force she had led on-planet were located. With mixed emotions, she noted how very few of her original team remained. She brushed her fingers over the beautiful white ring on her left ring finger, remembering the artifact she had safely stored inside. The artifact that she had spent the blood and lives of her followers to recover. Tiredly, she reflected on the shambles her once-lofty goals had degenerated into:

Once she had commanded Intersectoral Fleets in pursuit of order and justice, while local warlords and politicos battled for her favor and died at her whims.

Now she waited in the shadow of an abandoned hangar, getting ready to steal a battered freighter so she and a handful of blindly-loyal soldiers could escape a world she had just ensured would be embroiled in war and destruction for decades to come.

It was enough to turn the stomach of the person she once was.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Thankfully, for good or ill, she had left most of her long-cherished principles behind, on bloody battlefields scattered across space and time.

And Luz-Kalar III had been the first.

She clearly remembered the moment that everything she knew had been overturned, seared into her brain through countless nightmares and obsessive recall, when the taste of victory she had so long strived to gain became ashes in her mouth. She had been striding through the shattered defenses of the rebel fortress, stomping on the burned bones of her enemies. She had stooped to smash the Warsprite’s massive fists against the protective shield of the fortress’s primary bunker, as dropships carrying even more of her Legion’s down onto the conquered planet. There, in the bunker’s newly-exposed interior she had come face to face with the Truth that made everything else a lie.

She had brutally killed her escort, then called a general retreat immediately, abandoning the planet she had lost nearly two full Legions to subjugate, offering no other explanation to the other Co-Commanders of the Task Force except a stony silence and the shield of her Imperial Seal of Authority.

As expected, the Grand Martial Tribunal, the Legion’s overwatch board, had not been understanding.

She had been removed of her command pending an investigation that never came. Two days after her incarceration the Imperial Lord Arbiter had arrived in person at the Empress’ personal command, placing all of the Tribunal’s proceedings under the Seal of Silence, clearing Irvain of all charges and swearing her to the utmost secrecy. Then, after a brief conversation, the Lord Arbiter stripped her of the Imperial Seal and all Imperial rank and privileges except those that came naturally to her by blood and birthright.

Suddenly cast adrift after losing everything she had dedicated her life to achieving, Irvain had become Symbol, a rogue dragon warlord aboard her own personal warship, fighting in obscure wars and minor conflicts, following the half-mad visions of the sister she had sacrificed everything for.

“There’s the signal, Mistress.”

Irvain looked up at her lieutenant’s prompt, seeing one of the commando’s she had sent out standing at the cargo freighters hatch, his arms crossed above his head in the agreed upon signal. She nodded, curtly, and then with a few muffled commands, the bulk of the men with her rushed forward to provide a secure pathway for her to board the freighter. The operation was done swiftly and efficiently, sweeping aside what little resistance there was with professional alacrity.

Exactly as an outlaw crew would have done, Irvain thought bitterly, as she stepped out of the shelter of the hangar and into the dying light.

Three hours later Irvain and her men disembarked safely onto the cramped shuttle dock of the Shrouded, her personal warship.

Ichraeda was waiting for her as she disembarked, clad in robes dyed the green and silver of their House, her upswept horns glittering with rubies and diamonds like a crown upon her white-haired head. Irvain and her estranged sister had both taken the forms of statuesque, powerfully-built Nethids when they had both underwent their Change, possibly influenced by their eccentric Sire’s preference for the warrior race as his personal bodyguards. It was the form they had favored during their time as a bonded pair in the Arena Circuit in Far Hala, where she and her sister had made a striking and impressive tandem.

But that was all in the past, and where she had entered the Imperial Legions after her Investiture, her sister had gone down the path of the Fate Witch, willingly giving over her eyesight to be able to read the twisting skeins of Fata and Fortuna.

Irvain was not so faithless as to consider her sister’s choice foolish, but where had her dedication to the feckless gods taken her? Pain and Ruin and War Unending.

Waving her men to disperse, Irvain set her shoulders and resolutely walked up alone to where her sister waited.

“Did you find it?”

“Yes sister,” Irvain said, keeping from rolling her eyes at her sister’s discourteous greeting only with the greatest of efforts. She drew out the item in question and handed it over. It looked so small in her sisters blackened and burned hands, but Irvain knew the blood price that had been paid to acquire it. Feeling faintly disgusted at the glee she saw in her sister’s dark green eyes, Irvain made to walk away.

“A message came for you while you were away.”

Irvain stopped, inclining her head slightly as an invitation for her sister to continue.

“It was from that Urgan you personally sponsored for testing and training,” Her sister drawled infuriatingly, seemingly still engrossed in examining the item that Irvain had given her. Irvain controlled her irritation, knowing that the more she reacted the more Ichraeda would want to draw things out. “What was his name again?”

“Osar.” Irvain answered, gritting her teeth in impatience. “Out with his news, sister.”

“He said that Symbol needed to know that he had just witnessed a Confluence… just as you said he would.” Suddenly, Ichraeda looked up, her eyes sharp and glowing brightly with eldritch light. “Is the message true?”

Irvain suppressed her urge to shout with excitements, her spirits lifting for the first time in cycles, it seemed. He had found it… after all this time, Osar had found it. Seeing that her sister was waiting for her answer, Irvain gave the infuriating woman a secretive smile before turning and walking away.

“I am unsure sister,” She said, barely loud enough to hear above the normal sounds of a working hangar. “But I intend to find out.”

Behind her, she did not see the look of smug satisfaction her sister flashed for the briefest of moments before stowing her prize and moving after her.

The Moon Demuros, orbiting the Planet Cardos

Anasketa System, Ash Cloud Region

The wounded Tosjang roared, and within seconds its victory cry was echoed by all its clone-sibs within the sprawling Castle’s walls.

From his gold-veined marble and ruby throne, the Ravager Prince Rovska Demuros smiled.

The Tosjang gave a last drawn-out roar, before bending its long neck to clamp its jaws over the tear- and snot-streaked face of what had been Rovska’s appointed fighter. With deliberate cruelty the Tosjang slowly squeezed its jaws shut, its one remaining eye fixed on the amused Prince, gauging the pirate lord’s reaction.

Defiance. Rovska thought as he met the war-beast’s eyes. How stupid.

Still smiling, Rovska vanished from his throne with a shimmer of light, only to appear in front of the victorious Tosjang. Before the creature could do anything but widen its pupils in surprise, Rovska took hold of the scruff at the top of its multi-horned head and sent a pulse of aether into the creature’s brain.

Howling, the beast recoiled, stumbling back in a panic, as Rovska’s ability painfully flooded the war-beast’s brain with waves of unending, agonizing pain. Howls also rose up from each of the creature’s clone-sibs, wherever they were located on the Moon, as each and everyone of them clawed at their eyes and slammed their heads on the floors and walls to get rid of the rising tide of pain. Within three agonizing minutes of torment it was over, and every single Tosjang on the moon was dead.

Slapping his hands together with distaste, Rovska looked over the suddenly quiet crowd.

“Apologies, my friends,” The Ravager Prince declared insincerely, his broad smile never touching the coldness of his dark eyes. “Please, continue with the festivities.”

At a whispered command from one of his senior servants the music started up again, and murmurs arose among the crowd before amused applause rose up for their generous Prince. A group of ritually mutilated slaves appeared to clear the arena floor of blood and bodies.

Turning away from the cleaning up activities, Rovska activated another of his abilities and appeared once more upon his throne, where a scantily-clad human female promptly presented him with his refilled wine cup.

Seeing that most of the gathered people had returned to their bacchanalian pursuits, Rovska leaned on an elbow and addressed the personage for which he had ordered the feast be organized.

“That was a waste of good fighting stock,” Rovska said languidly, studying his guest’s reaction to the demonstration of power that had just occurred a few paces away. “Don’t you think, Master Bauvin?”

The elderly human male that Rovska addressed bobbed his head in agreement, though his words were decidedly noncommittal. “Death comes to every creature at the end, my Prince,” The man intoned in a graveyard voice, the bags of sagging, discolored skin on his neck shaking with every word. “Our scriptures tell us that even after death, we may still serve.”

Rovska leaned back on his chair, disguising his displeasure behind the act of drinking from his full cup. These death cultists were such odiously boring conversationalists, he thought, before his eyes fell on the three large spatial chests surrounded by his best guards at the left side of the large feasting hall. However, they did have very, very deep pockets. His good mood restored at the prospect of gaining more riches, Rovska turned once more to his guest.

“I hope this fresh batch of slaves meet your exacting standards, Master Bauvin,” The Prince said casually, knowing the old man had purchased every single sigvin he had on stock, as well as nearly half of all the other slaves from this season’s intake inventory.

“They are adequate for now,” The man replied, pushing at the pile of rich food that Rovska’s most skilled slaves had prepared and placed before him. From the looks of it, it seemed that the old man had not taken a single bite all night. “Though we would like to place an advanced order on more of those fish-people you had on hand.”

“Are you speaking of the sigvin?” Rovska asked with some surprise. The last batch of scaled mer-people had been a recent acquisition by his roving slave-takers, native to one of the newly discovered, or should he say rediscovered, Dungeon Worlds within the region. He had not been very optimistic about the prices they would command, and had ordered his factor to raise the price ridiculously on a single test lot to gauge the market. Despite that, his people had reported that the Jenovah Clan delegation had examined one of the creatures and immediately put out an order for the entire lot. Pleading scarcity, his factor had tripled the asking price for the rest of the product, fully expecting to have to bargain the price down. The Jenovah had bought everything at the asking price and then upped the stakes by offering a single Oblivion Pill for a meeting with Rovska himself.

“Is that what they are called?” Master Bauvin murmured disinterestedly, before turning back to the matter at hand. “No matter, the Clan has authorized me to negotiate for more of these… sigvin, you say? Yes, more of this sigvin at a ten percent increase per individual at the price we paid for them this morning.”

“It will be difficult,” Ravdos stalled, his greedy mind running through the calculations at speed. “These tribals are fierce and resolute fighters, and we lost many of our best… acquisitions specialists to gain even so much as we were able to sell.”

“Ah, but with a customer ready and waiting to buy up your stock, I am sure some accommodations may be made, yes?"

Ravdos' eyes narrowed, and his eyes flicked briefly to the astounded face of his head factor. The woman had worked for the organization for years now, and even she was shocked by the price that the Jenovah were willing to pay for these sigvin.

Unwilling to let an opportunity escape without squeezing it for everything he could get, Ravdos probed for his guest’s limits. “The requirements for keeping these particular specimens alive and healthy during transit are somewhat expensive Master Bauvin, which was why we had only a couple of hundreds in stock in the first place.”

“We at the Jenovah Coven understand the costs of doing business with your kind, Prince Ravdos,” The old man said drily, raising his own cup to wet his cracked lips for a moment. “We do not require healthy or even living specimens… as long as they are fresh and relatively undamaged when they are turned over to us.”

It was Ravdos’ turn to be amazed. Dead bodies could be stacked into spatial chests instead of taking up space in a transport hold, and at two hundred bodies per standard chest, at a five hundred chest capacity for his smallest freighter… Still, his natural wariness regarding deals that seemed to be too good to be true won out over his greed.

“Excuse my rudeness, Master Bauvin, but I have to ask: Why would you be willing to pay so much for these creatures?”

“Certain recent developments and events within the Empire have caused… difficulties for our regular suppliers, delaying the production process,” The representative reluctantly admitted with a slight grimace, exposing a few of its yellowed teeth. “The Coven would be very grateful if you can help alleviate some of the… um, difficulties regarding the supply of essential manufacturing materials.”

Rovska stilled, the goblet of wine halfway to his mouth, the gleam of avarice in his eyes growing as he registered the import of the representative’s words. Lowering his drink and trying to keep his tone casual, the pirate lord decided to probe for more information. “How grateful would the Coven be exactly?”

“We are prepared to raise the purchase price to half again the agreed upon amount, and a substantial premium once certain quota targets are reached.” Rovska allowed himself to show a slight frown at the representative’s words, spurring the grey-skinned man to clear his throat and redirect. “In addition, as a gesture of good faith and the esteem we hold for you Prince Demuros, the Coven would also be willing to gift you personally with two Oblivion Pills from the newest batch we have produced following last year’s trades.”

Rovska kept his face impassive, though elation rose within his withered heart. The small, black Oblivion Pills were the source and reason for the Jenovah Coven’s sudden rise in riches and influence within the Empire. Using unknown processes and ingredients, the small relatively unknown Coven of death cultists and black alchemists had managed to create an alchemical pill capable of giving a person enough densely concentrated aether to be able to breakthrough into the next Stage of their Gens Progression: For the millions of Imperial citizens who had found themselves unable to progress for one reason or another, the Coven’s pills were a godsend most would spend their entire fortunes to acquire.

“Make it four and we shall see what my meager network can do to help my friends at the esteemed Jenovah Coven.”

Unknown

Tell me what do you observe?

A waveform cluster: Transient, System-bound, Indiscrete.

Unremarkable?

Its component signatures are non-local, but are quickly being accreted onto and subsumed through the System Totalsphere.

The prognosticators indicate a slight, yet potentially significant Convergence.

Hmmm, prognosticators have been wrong before. I can see there are considerable manifested instances of spatio-temporal tampering, with significant evidence of purposeful scarring on the multiphasic fields at these specific chronopoints… Is this your doing?

Not mine, but His.

…

His involvement notwithstanding, I must admit that I have personally found the entire affair to be an interesting exercise, and so far, I have found the Underwend unusually cooperative.

And the Independent Assembly has made you Authorized?

At His personal request, as you can infer by my designation: Authorized and Ordained.

Did He explain His reasoning?

Does He ever?

And the projections bear this out?

Transmitting Over/Underwend Overlay and Fata/Fortun Progression. Please note the author signifier.

She compiled this herself? Interesting. Allow me to observe forward… Ah yes, Convergence is highly unlikely but within the bounds of the possible, with an infinitesimal Singularity Trigger probability here, from which the potential output is… wait… this cannot be true.

I have been tasked with seeing if it can be.

And this waveform cluster is the identified catalyst?

For the moment.

Observational Parameters?

Null overt interference, which means even your predilection for ‘nudges’ will not be allowed or tolerated. System prompts must be kept to the barest minimum as well…

Until this field structure solidifies into a manifest self-propagating chronoplastic incursion! I can intuit His intent behind this, as well as Her interest and involvement… But will Their alliance hold until the Convergence is confirmed?

That is why I have asked you for your assistance: The linear progression of localized Time, as meaningless as the concept is to us in our current state, must nevertheless inform our decisions going forward. At least with regards to how it will affect both the cluster and the probabilities of Convergence.

The field is extremely nebulous at the moment: The only way I can see it work is if the collapse is completely confined within the Lower Sphere. But that places agency solely within the province of the converging waveforms and their interactions within the emerging field.

Exactly. I could not have explained it better!

Impossible!

You contradict yourself: As you yourself have already observed, the Singularity Trigger is highly unlikely but certainly not impossible.

Interesting.

You repeat yourself.

So I do, which in itself is a novelty I did not know I was missing.

It is a Grand Exercise, is it not?

It can be, if we succeed.

We?

It appears you have convinced me to participate.

It is a pleasure to work with you as always, old friend.

We shall see.