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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Patire sighs as she turns the Elder, leading him farther into the garden (a hurried pace without panic), and explains, “Blud Kiss has, even after the changes granted by the Dominax, taken the lives of many. It’s peculiar in how it spreads, seeds, and grows, but we do know the violence it’s capable of. Best to remove it now before children or pets are lured in by the pretty petals and clenched in an iron maiden.” She whispers to herself, “It wasn’t there yesterday.”

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

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

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

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

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

Patire’s throat bulges with the weight of the atmosphere. She can feel her exolung tug at her nostrils, the humidity sticking to the thick strands of her hair, and the Dark Star’s eyes scanning like a lighthouse’s beam across the harbor. As if the full force of the beam might burn her skin, she speaks plainly as to not arouse the wrath of the lighthouse. “Aba kites. Prorp wings. Lesser epols.” She nods with delight. “Three fearsome predators of Icarus Alpha.”

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“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 Santuary, Whispers, and Inspire combined into something grander, creates the perfect potion for the soul’s consecration.

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

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

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