The ability to see where the wind was blowing was a key one in the near-Byzantine political structure of the Poslush Combine. Departments and subdepartments were created on a whim and purged on even less; the only way to get any benefit from them was to be there when they formed and be long gone by the time they collapsed. Of course, the children of the Idrisats, the Oxilini, the Elnadar, the Asterai, they all had safety nets and vast fortunes to cushion their fall and grant them a speedy return to the magistry. Pilum, with his upbringing as a child of a lowly bureaucrat on Poslush, had none of that; he couldn’t afford a single misstep.
Thus, as the spacecraft of the People’s Liberation Army Space Forces appeared in Qato’s orbit, Pilum did what he did best and saw which way the wind was blowing.
Now he was standing in his dress coat in the frigid air surrounding his palace, watching the human shuttle break through the white cloud cover, a red and yellow star with some symbol in the middle proudly emblazoned on each wing. The lander pulled up, firing its downward thrusters to decelerate, then came to a soft stop on the landing pad. Pilum briefly thought about how easy it would’ve been to shoot them down as they came in, but he had heard of what CAST’s forces had done to the Oxilini fleets; nothing said these ones could not bathe them in atomic fire as well. Thus, he and his honor guard simply stood still, tolerating the whipping wind and the hard snowfall as best they could.
The man who stepped out, wearing a fur coat and accompanied by four marines, did not look like the commander of a fleet, but he definitely carried himself like one. Short and scrawny, he wasn’t the sort of individual one would put on the front of a propaganda broadcast, but then again, Pilum had heard many of the same things about Rapier of the Idrisat Brood and, come to think of it, he had never seen Rapier’s face in a film either. “Vice Admiral Hu,” Pilum bowed his head; the men in his guard did the same. Hu looked around, casting his eyes upon the quaint palace that served as Pilum’s home. A mere one hundred meters long by thirty wide and twenty tall, it wasn’t much in comparison to, say, Aralush or Omen, and certainly not Poslush, but it was home.
“Beautiful, beautiful place,” Hu noted, “a bit cold for my liking, but after ten years serving CAST’s hounds in the Middle East, any drop in temperature is welcome, really.”
Pilum wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh; humans had a bizarre sense of humor. “Ah, yes; we heard very early into this war that you had shaken free of your chains. Our congratulations go out to you.” said he. “Oh, don’t pretend you weren’t jumping for joy when you thought your enemy had divided itself for you to conquer.” Hu said, his eyes only half-playful.
“We were fighting a war, of course.” Pilum responded defensively, putting his hands up slightly. “And I don’t fault you for that,” Hu shook his head, “but it’s really rather embarrassing that you fought an enemy, of which half threw down their weapons and the other half split in two, and still lost. So, now, we’re here.”
“We are.” Pilum confirmed.
“You have presented an offer to have your soldiers stand down and allow us to peacefully occupy your demesne, in exchange for retaining a position in government and assuring the safety of your family. Do I recall this correctly?”
“I will admit that some will ignore my orders,” Pilum said, shifting on his feet nervously, “but my intercession would certainly save Chinese and Poslushi lives alike.”
“And good that is; this territory is coming under our possession regardless of the circumstances. In fact, I’m willing and authorized to give you more than you ask for; I’m willing to allow you to retain your post as governor of the Qato territories.” Hu said, smiling.
“You are?” Pilum said, his antennae lifting in excitement.
“Your government will be reorganized into a local cadre of the All-Poslush Communist Party, of which you will be the party secretary. Now, we’ve promised a few things to the Omen People’s Republic, first of which is the return of their old territories, so you’ll have to relocate from Omen, unfortunately, but you will surely find this to be a satisfactory deal.”
Pilum felt a minor surge of frustration from having to pack up and leave, but it was better than his whole brood losing their heads. “Certainly, Vice Admiral. Shall we shake on it?” Pilum suppressed the feeling, putting his hand out.
Hu didn’t respond to the gesture. “I just want you to admit something for me first.”
“Oh?”
Hu’s voice retained its almost jovial tone as he spoke. “I want you to say that the Poslush Combine is an ineffectual, rotten state propped up by capitalist and imperialist exploitation, and that it requires AHINT to bring it to the light of the socialist system.”
Pilum’s antennae dropped; this was his honor Hu was asking him to give up. “I apologize; I must have misheard–”
“You heard me, Pilum.” Hu wasn’t smiling anymore.
“I cannot just say this; there are things that a Poslushi cannot openly–”
“Pilum, if you don’t say this, the Politburo can’t take the deal,” Hu said, rubbing his fingers together in faux anxiety, “if the Politburo refuses, I can’t guarantee the safety of your family. Think long and hard about what you say next, friend.”
There was a long, long pause.
“The Poslush Combine is a weak, rotten state,” Pilum paused; the words felt like glue in his throat, “propped up by capitalist and imperialist exploitation. It needs AHINT to bring it to the light of the socialist system.”
“Perfect,” Hu said, reaching his hand into his pocket, taking out the audio recorder, and stopping it, “now, I said ineffectual, not weak, but I think the point will get across just fine when we show this on television later.”
“B-but–” Pilum stammered, reaching after him, but Hu was already turning back for the shuttle. “It’s been a pleasure, Pilum! Baibai!” Hu said, waving as he stepped up the loading ramp, his marines in tow. Then, without another word, the shuttle lifted back off the ground and flew right back the way it came, its thrusters igniting into a blue blaze once it was a safe distance up.
Pilum was left below, jaw agape, his own words ringing in his head almost louder than his heartbeat. They would play around him for the rest of his life, and though he would get to be on top for a little while, he surely wouldn’t stay there, not with those words available for all to hear.
So much for seeing where the wind was blowing.
—
The monolithic, pyramidal craft in Pollanide’s orbit dwarfed the largest dreadnoughts the Combine possessed in its fleets with ease. Perhaps a single one could be surrounded, disabled, and slowly pounded into a hulk by Poslushi fleets at immense cost, which was precisely why there wasn’t only one of them cresting the horizon over Khopesh’s palace. The defense platforms that had made the mistake of powering on their weapons had already been scythed apart; those that flew the white flag were rapidly being boarded and cut off from ground control. It was an obvious declaration of war, which made it all the more strange; the Dreamwalker nomads were not ones to engage in such hostility.
“Judge Khopesh!” the messenger cried, bursting into the Tribunal Chambers. “The Dreamwalkers have sent a message! They wish to speak with you!”
Khopesh had heard tales of the wrath of the Dreamwalkers, though they were seldom truly provoked, no matter how much the other races of the galaxy harassed them. Instantly, she made a gesture of affirmation. “Let them speak.”
The messenger nodded, darting back out of the central chamber. A few moments later, the holograph disc in the center of the cylindrical space emitted a long beep, then flickered to life. A stout, duck-billed individual in a flowing robe, wearing a ceremonial spear, regarded Khopesh silently, his head turned slightly away from her to see her better. His fur briefly raised in anticipation, and then he began to speak in the gurgling, guttural tongue of his kind.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
“May the wisdom of the blood be upon you, Judge Khopesh of Pollanide. I am Olse Ulnar Sesoman, First Listener of the war caravel Bluest Rim. We are speaking now because we have become aware of the particular straits your kind finds itself in.” the Dreamwalker stated flatly.
“And?” Khopesh hissed. “Do you wish to gloat in our downfall? The humans will erase your culture as they will ours too, so your enthusiasm is misplaced.”
“If they believe they can conquer us, then they will fit in quite well with the galactic community, and notice that we fly free still.” Olse said, looking down at Khopesh with his beady black eyes. “The Dreamwalkers have faced conquerors and empires far older and far stronger.”
“What do you want?” Khopesh growled, rising from her seat in anger.
The Dreamwalker took a deep breath. “The mother-craft have decided that, in light of your current, disorganized state,” he began, his face forming something as close to a grin as possible, “we will take the opportunity to know your people better in all ways, and do unto you as you would not hesitate to do unto us if so able.”
“Then you admit it,” Khopesh stamped towards the hologram, “you claim to be mere traders, but you were always pillagers and barbarians at heart!”
“I was not finished,” Olse cut her off, “our demand is such: you will deactivate your surface-to-orbit defenses, mobilize your troops, and face our warriors on the field of battle. We will vanquish you, then collect our restitution for the countless Dreamwalker lives lost to your violence, gather your mates and your children into our arms, and return to the stars to continue our voyage.”
“You want me to allow you to rape this planet.” Khopesh took a step back, her mandibles clenched in disgust. “And what if I refuse?”
“Then we shall destroy your weapons emplacements, fortifications, armies, infrastructure, and centers of government from orbit, and then proceed as previously stated, along with placing this planet under our stewardship for the rest of your war. It would be far less honorable for our warriors and far, far more devastating for your people. Be sensible; indulge us this much.”
Khopesh closed her eyes, antennae folding back against her neck, then spat on the ground, stamping on it with her boot. “That is what I think of your false dichotomy. Begone from my sight.”
“Very well,” Olse bowed, “we have chosen to be merciful; you shall have one hour to prepare your forces and evacuate yourself before we begin our bombardment. May our journeys never cross paths again. Goodbye.”
With that, the image flickered and faded away. Khopesh waited in silence for a moment, then called, “Messenger!”
“Your orders, ma’am?” the courier said, rushing in. Khopesh had a hollow look in her eyes as she spoke. “Mobilize every troop we have and direct them to save as many people as possible; the Dreamwalkers are going to raid us. Order that the evacuation lines be opened.”
“Yes, ma’am; I shall ensure that your personal evacuation carriage is–”
“No,” Khopesh bowed her head, “I’m not coming; there’s nothing left for me. Take my family, then the tribunal staff, then anyone who shows up. I don’t care who they are; just take them to safety.”
The messenger stared at her blankly. “But, ma’am–”
“I have given you an order!” Khopesh roared. The messenger backed away in fear, then saluted and ran off. Khopesh sank back into her throne. A sob escaped her mouth; she didn’t want to die, not at all, but what was the point of living if it wasn’t under the Poslushi sun? She had been born, lived, and killed in its name; she had ordered the extermination of an entire species for its stability. She was a monster and she knew it, but she was a loyal monster nonetheless. Without a High Judge to serve, her life would be pointless anyway.
The Tribunal Chambers weren’t buried deep enough to survive orbital bombardment; they would be the first to go. Thus, the people of Obralaka who lived inside the blast radius were screaming away from it in underground mag-rail lines. Not all of them would survive, but maybe some of them would. Maybe someone would live long enough to continue Khopesh’s legacy where she had failed.
Khopesh exhaled, laid back, and closed her eyes as Pollanide began to burn.
—
Why didn’t the news stop coming?
Why, when Katana’s empire was already crumbling, did fortune choose to hurt her more?
“The Asterai Reclamation Society, as they so address themselves, has declared its independent dominion over the coreward sectors of the Combine and begun military operations against foreign occupiers in the...” said the communications array; they had long since given up on having an attendant announce all new developments.
“The Squireworlds have unilaterally declared themselves to be aligned with the Ultra-Ancestralist movement that arose in the wake of the death of rebel leader Macuahuitl of the Elnadar Brood. Revering the Venerable Ancestor as a deity of sorts, they have declared that they will not obey Poslush ‘until a time in which the nation returns to its roots as...’”
“With the loss of contact with Aralush and Pollanide, the Magister of Plenty has announced her intent to retool Poslush ritual agricultural sites to provide food crops in the absence of imports from...”
Katana stood from her throne, breathing heavily. “Turn the array off,” she commanded, her voice ragged and almost desperate.
“Your Dominance, are you feeling–?” the court physician began.
“I said to turn it off!” Katana howled. She could barely recognize the sound of her own voice. Why were her hands shaking so badly? Why was the room so cold and why was she so burning hot?
Cautiously, the physician approached the array and unplugged it. “If it shall alleviate your stress, Your Dominance.” he bowed. He sounded so calm and yet the smell of fear was caked into every atom of the palace. It was as though the universe was ending, like the bounds of space could fold at any moment and deliver the forces of humanity to Poslush with knives gleaming. Katana, in her despair, tried to remember simpler times to ground herself, and remember simpler times she did.
The gardens surrounding the greatest palace of the Combine were vast and verdant, and Katana loved to run for hours and hours through them when she was a larva, accompanied by her brothers and the children of the other high broods of Poslush. The bright, smiling Sun overhead and the distant hum of the capital city around it was calming; it felt like the universe was something put there for her to play in and enjoy, not the cold and hostile place she now knew it to be. At the end of every day was her favorite nanny calling her back inside to groom herself and prepare for the night’s studies.
One day, as she returned from her bath, she stumbled into the throne room, where her mother sat officiating some minor deal with another brood. “Katana, my littlest star, what brings you here?” said she, picking Katana up and placing her safely on her knee.
“Your Dominance, if it does not trouble you...” the representative said, holding up his tablet.
“You have my approval,” Sabre replied, waving him away. Then, she turned back to Katana, her antennae raised expectantly.
“Tata,” Katana said, cocking her head to the side, “why must the Sun go down? I want to play in the field!”
“Oh, Katana,” Sabre laid a tender hand on her daughter’s head, gently stroking her antennae, “it’s the nature of the Sun to set, little star. Playtime can’t last forever; there must be studies. One day, you’ll sit on this throne, and you must know all there is to know so that you can guide this nation as only our family can.”
“But I don’t want to study,” Katana whined, “I want to go to the garden!”
Sabre bowed her head in concession. “That’s okay to want, but you should remember that studies won't last forever either. Soon, the night will end, the Sun will return, and you can play to your heart’s content in the garden.”
“When I’m the High Judge, I’m gonna tell the Sun to stay where it is!” Katana declared triumphantly. “It’ll be playtime for everyone, forever!”
“Oh, Katana, truly you’ve the soul of our ancestor!” Sabre laughed, embracing Katana. “I never could convince that old Sun to stop in his tracks, but once you’re on this throne, I don’t doubt for a second that you will! You’ll bring light and beauty to this empire, little star. I know it.”
The next day, as the dusk neared once more and the Sun hovered over the horizon, Katana ran after it, commanding it, as loudly as she could, to stop in its tracks, to return to its position at the top of the sky and stay there until it burned out. Of course, the Sun didn’t listen.
Now, she was running after the Sun once more, its golden disk that was meant to shine down on all Poslushi sputtering and fading into the dark. She cried out plaintively, begging for it to stop, not even to turn back, but simply to stop, to give her time to figure out how to turn back the clock, and it was not listening. The garden was overgrown, and the brambles clawed at her, but she ran anyways, still demanding that the Sun halt, and it gave no response as it finally disappeared forever behind the crooked teeth of the city’s buildings. The night was so cold, and the fruits of the garden’s trees tasted like bitter ashes.
The ancestors were watching her. Sunsword’s eyes were fixed upon her with fury for destroying that which she had given her life to create. Perched upon the throne that never should have been hers, the baleful eyes of High Judges past set her soul alight. Maybe she would’ve been able to soldier on, to shove the spirits away and persevere, but her mother was among them. “Tata,” Katana gasped, “Tata, don’t leave me here! I need you!”
“Your Dominance, are you alright? You’re having an episode; you need to breathe!” the court physician stepped forward, hands outstretched, but Katana could not hear him.
Sabre only turned her face away, her antennae weighed down by shame at what she had created. Katana was meant to propel the Combine into a golden age, and she had failed. The empire was crumbling. The dynasty would be cast down into the gutter. The Sun was gone.
All at once, every fiber of her being cried out in agony, and Katana screamed, she screamed, she screamed, on and on and on. Her attendants backed away in fear, but she paid them no heed, howling like an animal, pounding her fists on her throne until her hands bled and she had left dents in the metal. By the time she stopped screaming, she was coughing up blood, her throat was so raw. All energy and will sapped from her body, she collapsed back into her seat, sobbing feebly and grabbing at specters only she could see. “Tata, don’t abandon me! I’m not strong enough to do this without you; I’m not strong at all!”
“No, Tata, don’t listen to them; don’t leave me behind. Please, please, don’t leave me behind.”