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.
This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
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.