“Ye’ve backed yeself to the edge!” Obin’s massive jaw drops as the heavy laugh flows through the opened dam. “Marks.” A hand, the one free of a quickly emptying cup, pokes through the bright lines of white and blue to create the ship’s route. “Sheller. Target.”

As the slender ship in white speeds across the field of battle in a nosedive, Obin beams with pride and anticipation. His eyes scan the area, then rescan, and finally release as his finger confirms the end position of his ship and the commands given. Spinning in an expertly executed maneuver, the projected pilot turns back with a barrage of neo-rounds into the backside of a Sheller. Shields down for the sector, Thomat stares with even emotions into the grid of white bars and blue space.

“Ye hate to see it.” Obin laughs as he pulls away. “Tact, lad. Are you not the Dominax’s Hand and Gavel? White in yer blood?”

Thomat watches his Sheller be split up the back by rows of glowing teeth puncturing a metal beast’s hide. As the black ship shatters, the Hand and Gavel watches how the debris spreads out as per the usual process of the game.

“He’s a fine judge of my people and person.” Simora plops a chunk of ice into three glasses from the dark edge of his study. He looks down the hall of his sanctuary toward a lit space of workstations, computers, and half-finished projects. Sighing to himself, he turns back toward the dark room where the seventh game of Galaxia begins with first blood drawn. “No one else would come to Icarus.”

“Ha!” Obin points through the blue and white grid with a meaty finger as he takes one of the offered glasses from Simora, “Tact, lad! Have ye been honing your Tempering?”

“He’s quite lively.” Simora leans in to comment on the General as Thomat takes the glass without looking.

“Thank you, Dominax.” Thomat’s attention remains fixated on the projected grid.

Turning back to Obin, Simora sees the General’s hand wave over the glass. A band of metal over his wrist blinks with a small green light. Without returning his gaze, Obin reponds, “Cannae be too careful. It’s not you, Simora.”

“I should expect not.” Simora’s eyes look over the man once as if swooshing a brush of multicolored paint in a magical display of creativity. “You’re cautious. That and your perceptiveness are the reason you’ve gained the titles and position you have.”

“Black Shield White Emblem. Dark Star!” He lifts the glass toward Thomat. “You’ll have my position someday! Work that Tact, and none would deny you!”

“You’d forgo the ascension of your own children to the position?” Simora calls back as he returns for his own glass (as well as depositing Obin’s finished one). Taking it from the counter, he glances to the side where the caped figure of his metallic father stands as proud sentinel over the study. A small grin spreads in confirmation that the true game has just begun. “You’ve plenty of choices.”

“Aye.” Obin nods with pursed lips as he waits for Thomat’s move. “Forty-seven to be exact. The ladies do love a good war story. Hard to deny them all. Pracilla likes the extra attention, too.”

Simora turns to see the man’s massive form straightened with pride. Though his belly swells in the black uniform he wears, Obin’s extremely wide shoulders and square chin beam with the rising glory of an eagle preparing to take flight. Noting this sureness of the man’s energy, he thinks, He could easy be one of the predators here, and the Ravagers would note him as a myth upon their walls.

“Pracilla?” Simora adds the information to his calculations. A noble lady of memory seen in darker lighting. No matter how small the fact, it can be added as a brick to the grander structure. The imagery fills his mind, and he clicks his tongue at the instinctual reaction of humanity. “Scandalous. A queen of Gremeta Beta swelling the ranks of concubines for her king.”

Booming with laughter, the General leans back with his drink nearly emptied. “Let the people talk their envies away! I sire generals and militants! A new generation of conquerors brewed right here!” A vulgar act, none willing nor able to correct him, to display his unchallenged goals. “I’d not damn any of my children to the life of a Dark Star. Damned behind stacks of ledgers, screens, and prismaslate? No.” The square jaw drops for the final swig of the glass. “There are wars to wage!

“You! Hand and Gavel!” The empty glass swings up, “I can tell yer mind splits in two. Prismaslate and battle mix as fine as these drinks!”

“He would make a fine Dark Star.” Simora takes his place on a chair to the side and between the two men of White training. He hands over a second glass; already prepared for the General. “Only after he’s helped me complete my conquest of Icarus Alpha, of course. I’d not lose my Deep Root because you shrug off your duties.”

As they both laugh together, Obin points toward his opponent. “Conquest? Is that what yer doing? Taking on the Ravagers and beasts, plants and world! I fight a war against man, and ye take on an entire planet!” Obin’s shoulders curve back to include the Dominax. “And shrug my duties? I’d unload it entirely! Cast off like a mound of dirt.”

“Then you’d consider such a future?” Simora’s eyes playfully stare over the even liquid in his glass as he sips carefully.

“Eh?” Both Obin and Thomat’s eyes turn on the planet’s leader. “Ye’d scheme for yer men as well?”

“Scheme? Of course.” Simora clicks his tongue at the burn of his alcohol.

Obin’s massive form leans back into the chair as he settles himself with a tone unfamiliar to Thomat. A true tone, a loose of control, and the revelation that the giant man’s jolliness cannot survive in the harsh environment of politics. “Then why tell me, Simora? Ye’re no fool, boy. Never thought you were. Even as a wee lad, ye’d stared at me with eyes like some ancient soul. So, speak plainly of yer plans.”

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“You are capable of some Eclipse, then?” Simora nods. In an unfazed response, he continues while ignoring the scanning eyes of Thomat. “Quick to the point, Obin. I respect you, and I understand schemes are not the way to your patronage.”

“Patronage?” Obin’s jaw tightens as he scans the much smaller Simora.

“Yes. I’d have you tout the successes, once finalized, of Thomat upon Icarus Alpha. Once completed here, the Ravagers and Civilized brought to commonality beneath my banner and law, much of his time will be spent playing a game with far less worthy opponents.” Simora motions to Galaxia. He still hasn’t made his next move. Good. Wait. “Instead, he could be playing with you and yours. A head of a beast armed to the teeth by your own brood.

“Unstoppable, truly. A monster with the tactician of Icarus Alpha’s conquest, the warriors of Obin Nephire’s loins, and the full forces of the Black families at their whims.” Simora does not gloat. He does not lean into the conversation or smile as if he’s uncovered some magical answer to life. He merely stares forward at the man who dwarfs him. A man that, were the rule of nature enforced, would own the lad. The man that stares at him with emotions plain on his face. So his Eclipse isn’t well practiced.

“Full forces of the Blacks?” Obin’s eyes do glance about. Tact obvious in his expression, Simora begins to fill in the answers he knows are to come.

“You’re concerned of recordings. No need. This is my private sanctum, and there are no recordings allowed here unless specifically dictated by me. System.” The robotic features do not answer. “I have specifically blacked out the programs in this room for our conversation here.”

“That’s why ye mixed my drinks.” Obin lifts his empty glass.

“Of course.” Simora, leaning forward, takes the glass from the man and places it on a small table beside him. “And I will continue to do so; no matter your answer. Whether you answer me now or need time, I believe you a man of honor who’ll not keep me waiting forever. I want neither robot, drone, fareye, android or any other device recalling what’s offered here. There’s no device capable of overcoming my protocols and contingencies.” He points upward to the unseen machines all working together to restrain all other devices within the area. Not going into the specifics, Simora’s programming has left certain systems online—including the Galaxia game he knew they’d both encourage of each other. “You’re a master of Tact, General.

“Thomat is quite skilled in it as well. I know not all the capabilities of the Tempering, but I’m willing to wager that Thomat possesses genes enough to epitomize the Emblem for the White.”

“He’s not of Black.”

“Are you?” Simora’s head cocks gently to Obin’s grunt of disapproval. “You, Pious Enigma, gained that title for your avoiding of the Black Umbra in the Far-Reach Conflict. I’d not go so far as to say you lack the Umbra, but your refusal to use the skills was a deceitful move of the Black within itself. By not lying, by not hiding truths within truths within feints within truths, you caught your enemy off-guard.”

“Aye. And I’d taken all the planets I’d warred on.” Obin’s stature remains curved and ready, as any soldier would, for what might come. His eyes scan each movement—the Tact still obvious. “And ye’d add to the legend by means of Icarus Alpha. Securing my lineage by Thomat’s betrothal to one of my princesses.” Obin nods his head to Thomat though the eyes continue to dance about the study. “Promising a rule for generations at the least, we also breed two families of White along with opportunity for developing the Black. Though,” the eyes narrow, “yer plan limits my family’s probability of Umbra for another generation or two.”

“A small sacrifice, yes.” Simora looks to Thomat; still dumbfounded by what’s occurring. “Keep up, Thomat. I’d not have you fall behind. Baralas is a lower family, a Obnatus Pallide, which your Nephire patronage and breeding will rise. There are also his years to consider. A cousin, a male of Nephire’s clan will then marry the offspring produced by our dealings. Thomat will ensure a female is first born.”

“S-Sire.”

“Not done, Thomat. Your Tempering is capable of such things, and I know you’re a fast learner.” Simora turns back to Obin. “And you’ve already questioned the full force of the Black. I see how your Tact draws you back to that question. Pining after the node of truth within the Black’s lies. As I stated, I will not lie to you. Truth is just as powerful a weapon among the Black, and it would be a disrespect not befitting my promises of the future. A stain.”

“Then ye mean to retake the head of the Noctlin clan.” Obin says it aloud. Knowing this will force truth and action should the recordings and computers not truly be off or limited. Obin’s face still shines brightly with true emotion—anticipation held with delight of what myths might be born of such actions.

“You’ve discovered me then.” Simora nods. “My father’s birthright. Wrongs righted.” His mind travels to the statue behind him. A metallic rendering of a man denied much for the promise of love. “If my plan works,” the golden eyes of the Dominax begin to dazzle at the prospect. A hunter seeking his prey yet to enter the predestined path, “I may yet avoid bloodshed. I want to know that I have the blessings of the Pious Enigma.”

“I didn’t just arrive early by chance, did I?” Obin’s unnaturally square jaw opens wide with humor. “Aye. Ye’ve been schemin’ alright. A fine showing of Black. And ye’ve made a fine argument for the headin’ of me clan.” The voice slips back into a heavier slur of an alien dialect. “Aye. Ye’ve got me patronage.” The giant’s shoulders slump forward as he narrows his eyes. “On two conditions.”

“First, you’d like my honest numbers of exports and to have first choice of goods sold to your domains. Truth will be yours, but our trading must remain level among the Dark Stars. You will retain advantage over all others not of our committee. Secondly, you’d like to see that Thomat is worthy.”

“Aye, ye ancient soul. Or are ye a devil?” A booming laugh confirms the joke. Obin straightens himself and tugs on his uniform to ensure it covers his massive gut. “I’d see one game of clear, decisive victory.” He turns to the Deep Root. “Yer master paints ye a masterpiece of a future, lad. Far above the worth of yer station, in my opinion. Can ye show ye deserve it?”

Thomat, swallowing back all the tension of the darkened room, tugs at his own uniform. His hand glances over the two emblems upon his breasts. A White hammer upon a silver background, and the other the Blue tree twisting in mythical might to survive in the vastness of the Black Shield.

Meeting the Dark Star’s eyes, the Hand and Gavel nods with absolute certainty. “As the Amelioration has birthed a new planet, I too have been reborn here.” His eyes turn to Simora. The aged man, yet fiery as the youngest of the planet’s military forces, burns with a passion noted within the lineages of White. “I will not waste this opportunity.”

“Good. Then make your move.” Simora points to the grid of blue and white with a smile tucked devilishly behind his lips. New passions and doorways. He’ll fight tooth and nail now. No more holding back against a superior. Redirecting that vigilance from my person to his own goals. Thomat never took more than twenty-seven seconds to make a move in the last two years of playing.

“Of course.” Thomat reaches into the grid with a smile cracking the face of the militant. “Mothership.” His movement places the strongest piece into the center of his forces. “Bolster.” Meeting eyes with the Dark Star, the two share a spark seen often between equals. “Your move, General.”