“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.”
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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.”