CHAPTER III: ICONESS T’SYLA

UNS Hyperion, Orion-class Heavy Assault Carrier

Sanguid Nebula, uncharted region beyond the Fringe

December 14, 2771

T’Syla watched the curves of steam waft up from the tranquil surface of her tea, clasping the clay cup in her gentle hands. Though a small size and simple shape, it bore engravings of great craft. Taking another sip, she felt the herbs of her homeworld tingle on her tastebuds and quickly rock through her body, the fast acting antitoxins and supplements bringing calm and stillness. She found perfect balance as her knees rested on the handwoven wicker mat beneath her. The flora of her world warmed her insides and supported her from beneath, she found serenity and opened her eyes, ready to glance up at the cold, lifeless projections above her.

T’Syla gazed over the dancing, twinkling specters of the cosmos in the Constellation Chamber. Kneeling in the center of the stark, spartan room, T’Syla indeed felt quite small. She looked to the shimmering moons and verdant green of home, her home, planet Aksanus. Such a reductive term, ‘planet.’ Aksanus was — is — so much more. She is a living, complete creature. A goddess, in truth…but truths of faith were not welcome in the icy realm of space travelers. T’Syla dropped her gaze to the smooth floor, hiding a wince. Hiding from whom, she wondered? One of the few benefits awarded by this barbaric separatist movement she’d cosigned was, at the very least, great respect for her privacy.

The cold blue holograms waved on her soft, iridescent greenish-gray skin, chilling her as her thoughts drifted. She waved a hand, changing the coordinates of the star map. As the view shifted past hundreds of inhabited planets and moons, T’Syla’s calm faltered. These colonizers who bored into worlds across the expanse — who bored into the minds of her people and led them astray. The temerity of these savages to subvert the Sacred Iconess of Aksanus, the destined speaker and oracle of the Mother World’s voice, and take her rightful place away from her before she was even old enough to first commune with Aksanus’ heart. T’Syla let disdain crawl over her as her enemy came into focus: the United Planets Coalition’s precious Core Systems:

The rocky, angular Braxodon, home of the Abrax, meticulous apes that dismissed faith, family and tradition in favor of the sciences. The rolling terrain of Kel Ashradi, home of the Kashar, sharp-edged humanoids with keen minds for politics, always quarreling with their shadowy counterparts, the Ulishar, who dwelt on Kel Ashradi’s moon of Ulyssius. The Ocean Dunes of Ouramos, where the merchant Gex and exploratory fish-men, the Neumerians, called home. And of course, the sight that finally lit the spark of rage in her heart, the capital worlds of Humanity: Nova Sumer, Arturo, Shǎnyào, and the original host of this parasite, Earth, a world no fate could befall that would satisfy her. It was these colonizers who first approached the Aksani under a face of friendship, tempting her people with false promise and indulgence. Their machinations paid off, and before long, the Aksani deposed her family and dissolved the role of the Sacred Icon, as though it could be eradicated with something so provincial as the signing of paper! In the end, it was they who had taken Aksanus away from her.

For now, that is.

"Iconess?" her communicator blipped to life. She looked down from the holograms and realized she’d been clenching her ceremonial cup. "I apologize for interrupting your solace hours, but the rest of the Pact has gathered."

She took another breath and a final sip, chasing off the poisonous emotions the humans had infected her with before she replied, "I am on my way."

She deactivated the star map, reverently packed her tea set away in an engraved wooden box and rolled up the wicker mat, setting both artifacts delicately aside as she strode for the exit.

ADMIRAL JEROME GRAVES SHIFTED HIS COFFE BROWN EYES AROUND, straightening his black and red naval uniform as the remaining Prime Councilors of the Aphelion Pact trickled into the observation deck of his warship, Hyperion. Already assembled were he, Abrax Chief Science Director Izon, Ulishar Senator Menetzio and Prince Rictoté of the Gex.

"How goes your research, Director?" Graves opened to Izon, scribbling a pencil onto an antiquated paper crossword puzzle.

"Slow. Tedious," the Abrax replied flatly.

"Sorry to hear it," Ricoté consoled, retracting the glass on his dome headpiece to expose his small, squid-like body to the air. Graves had seen the more decadent Gex take supplements to survive dehydration like this as a means to ‘exfoliate.’

"Apology undue," Izon answered, turning slightly.

Izon was hard for most to read, Graves recalled, with Abrax facial features being so fixed and controlled. But he’d been around enough of them to pick out little tells, usually in body language. Izon’s subtle rotation typified genuine confusion, a desire to educate. Reasonable, Graves thought, for a former professor such as Izon.

“The tedium demands attention,” Izon continued, “I am never more alive," he said, flat and machine-like.

Menetzio chuckled, tying his long silver hair into a formal topknot. "How I envy the Abrax," he threw his legs over the arm of his seat, "You could give them dish duty on a lunar tug stop and they’d want to pay you."

"At least they are problem solvers," a mechanized voice came from the far side of the briefing room. The other Councilors glanced up as the Scandar military leader, Consul Calgasus, marched in, sporting spotless ornate black plate armor and a billowing crimson cape.

"Consul," Graves nodded.

"Admiral," Calgasus nodded back, his beady yellow eyes the only expressive part of his face, the rest concealed beneath an apparatus that served both as a ventilator for his oxygen-intolerant lungs, and a speech synthesizer for his pincered mouth. The Scandar were humanoid in shape, but their hard exoskeletons and bony, barbed tails hinted towards their scorpion-like ancestry.

Graves made a note to possibly change the meeting place in the future; many of these leaders were accustomed to grand arenas or forums from which they could make proclamations. Graves’ observation deck — not small by any means — was not their comfort zone. The four took their places in the U-shaped chair arrangement with Graves, surrounded by transparent alloy walls that let them see the dark reds and purples of the Sanguid Nebula on all sides. Literally, as though it revolved around them.

Little things make guests feel important.

None could be more incensed by a more conservative sense of space than the final Prime Councilor making her entrance: Iconess T’Syla. The others stood as she entered, not bowing as she would’ve been accustomed to, but showing a measure of respect nonetheless. Graves watched as she made her way to the apex of the seats, a hand-carved throne in place of a common chair. Graves remembered the man hours it took to bring the ancestral seat onto this deck, the day still gave him migraines.

Despite the obvious disdain she displayed for the Admiral and his human crew, he noted with irony that of all species, Aksani and humans were among the most remarkably similar. T’Syla and her holy guard, the Kohuātil, for instance, bore nigh-indistinguishable features from humans. There were obvious distinctions; their skin was smoother, iridescent and greenish-gray, their bodies much lithe and willowy, wide shoulders sloping into a narrow waist with elongated limbs and digits, but they essentially looked like stretched out humans. Despite an obvious similar evolution, T’Syla looked more comfortable with every other Prime Councilor than the Admiral.

Graves waved off his security as the Iconess’ Kohuātil holy guard, accompanied her through the threshold. This violated his policy of bringing personal soldiers into Council meetings, but he hoped overlooking it might placate the Iconess. The seven Aksani warriors were draped in ceremonial habits of animal hides, beads and long feather capes, hair braided in tight coils and obsidian-edged weapons at their side, ready for a form of combat centuries out of date.

Though separated by culture, creed and even evolution, Graves took comfort in the Council’s shared colors. From his own naval uniform to Calgasus’ armor, Ricoté’s exosuit, Izon’s lab attire, Menetzio’s silk tunic and cravat and even T’Syla’s regal cloak and traditional garb, they all bore the same pattern: black with a single crimson stripe, from the right clavicle down to the waist. A bold swath of color in an ocean of sameness, a stand against the smothering dark.

No matter where they came from, they were all Aphelion Pact.

"What brings us here today?" T’Syla demanded.

Graves set down his puzzle, drew a collapsible digipad and charted a few commands. It displayed large holograms in the center space between their seats. The gold particles formed a video feed from a scout ship among the stars, looking over a scattering of charred metal and debris, then a distant projection of the Eobaria System, a solar cluster of three planets in the Fringe: the shining Jawhara, the plump, arable Parvati, and in the distance, the massive red gas giant Kastagir.

"At 0800 hours, an attack on the United Planets was carried out. A Coalition vessel on the outskirts of the Eobaria System was destroyed."

"The Eobaria System?" Menetzio rolled his eyes, "The Skyfield will hold its breath as they draw up a strongly worded letter."

"What relevance?" Izon agreed, terse words and sentence fragments often the most his rapid mind would allow while it multitasked. "Not privy to any incursions."

"We have not made any," Calgasus confirmed.

"Do they suspect us?" Ricoté questioned, tentacles curling uneasily at the paranoia of his trade empire being exposed.

"No," Menetzio assured, "All our informants say the Pact is seldom a subject of conversation."

"Because we are an afterthought," T’Syla grumbled.

"A status I am keen to maintain, Iconess," Menetzio defended.

"Then there is nothing to confer, is there?" T’Syla snapped back, "What concern is one imperialist warship being destroyed when we did not do it?"

Graves leaned forward, knotting his fingers. "That is where the problem starts," he paused, "We did do this."

A commotion washed over the Council, Menetzio sitting upright, Calgasus and T’Syla standing to challenge.

"Why was I not informed?" T’Syla demanded.

Graves met her accusatory glance with false sincerity, "As you’ve often requested Iconess, I didn’t want to disturb your solace until we had something concrete."

Her eyes flashed with hatred, but Ricoté’s interjection prevented further argument. "Who would do this without our consent??"

"Consent is an anchor," a hissing, formless voice sliced through the air. "It drags us to the sea floor, as our enemy sails in the sun."

Graves’ head fell into his hand, embarrassed as the voice jumped in. Calgasus stood with grim familiarity. “…Thrayades,” he said, "…Show yourself."

T’SYLA DIDN’T LET IT SHOW, BUT HER HEART JUMPED SLIGHTLY AT THE mention of him. The name "Thrayades" wasn’t tossed around lightly. She glimpsed at Calgasus, who shifted from foot to foot, as if nervous to confront the voice of his comrade. The Scandar prided themselves on warfare, and even among them, Thrayades was a horror story.

The Scandar all Scandar feared.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Holographic particles swirled to materialize the figure of Domitor Thrayades, Master of the Fleet of Slain Stars. It looked as though he could be right there in the flesh, were it not for the faint hue outlining him. If anything, it added to his haunting mystique as Scandar’s Ghost of War.

Chiseled shoulders atop a lithe yet thick frame, encased in heavy and well-worn black and red armor, leading up to a thick, plated breathing apparatus protruding from a red cowl and half-cape.

"My requisitions were going unanswered. I was beginning to worry you had lost my signal. It seems this was the most direct way to call for a conference."

"I hope that’s your approximation of a joke," Prince Ricoté now stood as well. "You commit an act of war without our permission, what, to gain an audience? Are you starved for attention, Domitor?"

Thrayades fixed his resting baneful expression on the Gex. "Suddenly so brave, little squid. Where is this fire when I am there in the flesh?" He stalked towards Ricoté, even the specter of his form pushing the Prince back a step. "For a race without spines, I suppose you show great courage. But while you suckle at your family fortune, I stave off our collapse."

Taken aback, T’Syla watched Admiral Graves rise as well, "Quite a serious assertion, Domitor," he folded his arms, "Based on what facts?"

"Call it not assertion, Admiral," the Ghost of War replied. “Call it certainty."

"Domitor," Menetzio raised his hands, ever the soother of tensions. "Perhaps if you enlightened us as to why you committed such an attack, we could get on even footing."

"They ventured into our operating territory."

"False," Izon interrupted, until now pensively listening. "Our border ends well before the Eobaria System."

"In the past," Thrayades turned, "But I have made small expeditions recently. Thus far harmless, and kept us from bleeding resources. My ships have guarded small clusters of the Wonari Asteroid Belt to let the Prince’s vassals mine for ore, beneath the watch of the United Planets. In effect, I have done both the Senator’s duty and the Prince’s, yet here I am, answering to them," he dripped with contempt.

Ricoté and Menetzio both went to respond, but the words caught in their throats as the other Councilors looked on them with judgment. If the Domitor could do both of their jobs, why did they have seats at the table over him?

"I made a habit of observing the Eobaria System from a safe distance, until they encroached into my territory…I believe as an act of…providence.”

"Elaborate," Izon demanded dubiously.

Thrayades clasped his long, clawed hands behind his back. "Councilors, we brought ourselves together under a single commonality: the United Planets have eroded our ways of life. Appropriated them to harvest capital and political acumen. Whole cultures cast out as barbaric in order to advance a sanctimonious agenda. They claim they’re built on mutual respect, but the beholders of their great vision are so very selective. They suppressed the cultures of countless worlds to ease the anxieties of a coddled, privileged mass. We have stood in silence for years, crawling by on their scraps…" He went on, circling the holograms of the Eobaria System like a shark. "But time has been kind to us. The United Planets grow bloated and decadent, while we have learned to move unseen and speak unheard. Now we have a force not to be taken lightly, and we dwell beyond the United Planets’ wandering eyes. We are in the perfect position to strike."

"Are you suggesting we declare war on hundreds of worlds sworn to allegiance in times of conflict?" Menetzio simplified, "That would be suicide. Perhaps that’s an agreeable circumstance for a Scandar, but the rest of us quite like having our heads on our shoulders."

Thrayades glanced sharply at Menetzio, a snarl cutting through his apparatus. "A war of conventional means would be…ill advised," his synthesizer said above his natural growl, "But we need not be open with our intent," he hissed, his tail rising behind his shoulder, "The clever predator lies in wait. Strikes swiftly. Poisons their prey."

"Surprise attack," Graves deduced, "If any system were to get the United Planets’ attention and pressure them into hearing us, the Eobaria System is among the best."

"It has no military strongholds," Calgasus disagreed, "Jawhara is a diplomacy world at best."

"The United Planets are more fragile than they portray," Thrayades raised to his kinsman. "They sit on a delicate balance of resources, with thousands of settlements to coordinate and provide for. Those scales can be tipped. Perhaps even toppled."

"And if our hand is shown, the United Forces will crush us," Prince Ricoté countered, "We did not form this alliance to start a war. Even if we could afford one, what bargaining power do we have if the United Planets fall? What benefits or restitution could we demand from a Skyfield in shambles? I question the basis of your motives, Domitor."

This was typical, T’Syla noted, of a Gex. Their merchant guilds dissolved their wishy-washy parliament generations ago, but they inherited the same reticence, only countenanced by economic incentive. Despite his cowardice, Ricoté was among the boldest of his kind by simply aligning himself with the Aphelion Pact, but she found his uses beyond bankrolling and bookkeeping quite limited.

Silence hung after the Prince’s accusation, then the hologram of the Domitor moved towards T’Syla.

"Iconess," he implored. The tone of his translator failed to communicate the pleading in his body language. Thrayades knew he was losing the room. "Your predecessors were gods, guided billions along the path to enlightenment…what do they say of you now? Are you a fading memory? Will the Last Icon of Aksanus be a footnote in someone else’s history? Will the next generation of Aksani even know your name?"

This was enough. She’d been patiently absorbing the debate, but now she rose from her throne and stared into Thrayades’ narrow pupils.

"You are right, Domitor," she conceded.

"Iconess, you—" Ricoté started, but a raised hand from T’Syla silenced him.

"Why are we here?" She demanded, joining Thrayades on the floor before the Councilors. "Why did we form this Pact? I know why I am here. My people have been robbed of me, of the word I bring from my world’s heart. Robbed of their heritage, and told they’re better for it. I am here to rescue my people from cultural genocide, and the United Planets will not let me. You all agreed to serve in this union, and I remember each of your reasons:" she pressed, moving to each Councilor. Gazing up at Prince Ricoté, "You said you wanted more out of your life than stagnant wealth. Your chance is staring you in the face. I know there is a great instinct to fear that leap, but life does not give chances forever…" she went over to Izon, "You have vision and desires that your people deem criminal, but I accepted — no, welcomed them," she glanced to Menetzio, "Your world is a constant scramble for power, yet you stand a giant among your kind. You had dreams beyond securing another term in office. Now comes your moment to truly stand for something. Will you stall while history is watching you? And you, Consul," she went on with passion and zeal, "You and the Domitor saw the tamed pet the United Planets made your proud warrior race into. You begged us to help return your home to glory…"

Skipping over Graves, T’Syla reclaimed her spot at the apex of the seating arrangement. "We forged our union with few common interests, but only one that mattered: the United Planets have left us with nothing, and told us to be grateful," she spread her arms. "Here we stand, rightful architects of entire civilizations. Told we are inferior, driven to the edge of all that’s known, only for the crime of valuing our ways of life," she extended a hand to Thrayades. "Our finest warrior stands before us, ready to strike at the degenerative roots of colonization…I will stand by him."

She took a breath and planted a foot on the step of her throne, making her look like she were leading a seafaring voyage, or posing over a fallen foe. She raised her hands, beckoning the other Councilors. "…Will you stand by me now?"

All that could be heard was the gentle hum of the Hyperion’s engines. T’Syla waited, maintaining her pose with confidence as Thrayades folded his arms expectantly.

"I will, Iconess," Admiral Graves’ deep voice echoed as he stood. T’Syla’s eyes flicked uncertainly at him. Though she had a longstanding distaste for him, Graves was well regarded among the Pact, as his assets largely kept them afloat.

"As will I," Izon agreed flatly, joining Graves.

"Calgasus of Scandar is yours to command, Iconess," said the Consul.

With some reluctance, Ricoté and Menetzio rose as well. Pride swelling in her chest, the Iconess laid her palms on her hips, reveling in the faith she’d accrued. "Coil in the shadows for now, Domitor," she grinned at Thrayades, "Our day in the sun will come.”

QELKAN WATCHED THE LAST OF THE PRIME COUNCILORS OF THE PACT empty out of the observation deck before silently checking with his fellow Kohuātil lining the hallway. They each regarded their Taloned Will with subtle nods. He deferentially broke eye contact with any Councilors, but did so with a precise turn of his head, so they had a clear view of the ornate tattoo of a bird of prey’s profile along the side of his half-shorn head, the marker of his status.

The Taloned Will of the Iconess was perhaps not the most powerful person in every room, but at all times, they must be the most dangerous. While the other Kohuātil wore battle helms in the visage of a raptor’s head with their faces emerging from the beaks, their master’s head was always to be exposed. His mark was the only shield he needed.

When Iconess T’Syla finally came for the exit after the last Councilor, Qelkan glanced sharply at his Envoy, Xotl, who nodded and took point out the door. The Iconess passed Qelkan and he fell instep behind her shoulder. With a curt hand motion from the Taloned Will, the remaining five Kohuātil swiftly folded into formation behind them, creating a narrow V-formation, the Envoy taking point a few paces ahead, followed by the Iconess, flanked by her Taloned Will to the right and his apprentice Sworn Lakoya on her left, each of them bearing their flat, prismatic blade-edged clubs at their sides. The four remaining Kohuātil behind them, Otar, Kulak, Tuaria and Kaona, walked with their shovel headed spears in-hand, the eight foot staffs ending in similar blade-edged heads. Qelkan glanced over each of his warriors, then at Xotl up ahead, proud to see their discipline maintained even through these long stretches without combat.

They followed the Iconess down the harsh 90-degree corridors of the human ship. Once alone, Qelkan dared speak. “Worldheart’s Blessing, Iconess,” he praised in their native tongue, “Your word has finally gotten through to the outsiders.”

“So it would seem,” she replied dubiously.

“You are unsettled, Great One?”

The Iconess subtly scanned her surroundings as she reached the doors to her quarters. Qelkan immediately gave a hand signal for his warriors to do the same. They nonverbally confirmed what the Taloned Will already knew: they were not followed. Certainly surveilled by the ship’s cameras, but not followed. The Iconess hesitated, then nodded. Tuaria and Kaona watched their back, while Qelkan and Lakoya forced the sealed doors apart. The Iconess strode inside and the Kohuātil each trickled in behind.

ORDINARILY, T’SYLA WOULD NEVER CROSS THE THRESHOLD OF HER quarters without a brief prayer of affirmation, but today she strode in without a word. The Kohuātil hesitated at the sight, but with a gesture from Qelkan, they followed suit. She placed her prayer mat and tea set on her mantle with numerous other Aksani relics, and slowly paced pack and forth.

After a moment, Qelkan took a curious step. “Iconess? Is this not a time to rejoice?”

“At first glance, yes,” she answered, finger resting under her chin.

Quelkan waved the rest of the Kohuātil away. They filed into another wing of her suite, and he closed the door. “…What is wrong, T’Syla?”

T’Syla looked up at him, chiseled features and grim visage opening up for her, his dark eyes reflecting the light like two suns. He was quite handsome, she remembered through her strategizing. She sighed quickly and approached him, exhaling some of her stress as she pulled him into a kiss. She then broke the kiss and resumed pacing, track of thought unbroken. “Graves. That is what troubles me.”

Qelkan grimaced slightly. “Iconess, I pray you never again kiss me while thinking of Admiral Graves.”

“No, tukra,” she brushed off with the Aksani term for both ‘handsome’ and ‘stupid,’ “Graves is the commander of all Aphelion military forces. How could Thrayades get this far without him knowing?”

“He knew of it somewhat, didn’t he?” Qelkan raised, “He knew the Imperialists’ border had been breached and one of their ships destroyed.”

“And his manner was undisturbed,” T’Syla countered. “Thrayades committed an act of war and Graves was not alarmed. He did not feel slighted by the overstepping of his position. Thrayades made a mockery of his authority, and then I brought the rest of the Councilors to action. This should have been a humiliating lapse in duty for Graves, why do I feel he had the triumphant last word?”

Qelkan saw where she was going. “You think Graves and Thrayades are in this together?”

She chewed her cheek. “Thrayades’ hunger has made the other Councilors wary of him. He longs for a war, but so does Graves. The human just hides it better. The other Councilors trust him, for some foolish reason.”

“Because he is reliable and well connected,” Qelkan challenged, “You may dislike him Iconess, but you cannot deny his utility.”

She grunted. “The fact remains: Graves is above suspicion for an underhanded strategy like this, but Thrayades is not. If the Domitor is the face of defiance, and it is too late to stop him, then Graves plays the hero by taking the helm of the inevitable conflict.”

“You think Graves wants an all-out war?”

“No. As you say, he is more intelligent than I care to give credit. He knows we cannot fight the Imperialists in the open…but he does want it someday. For now, he is securing power in the Pact. Putting himself at the center.”

“But Iconess, he just let you take credit for uniting the Council.”

“In case this gambit fails,” she pointed. “If the Domitor fails, then blame is cast upon him and me, and Graves salvages the Pact from the ashes!”

Qelkan fell silent, brow narrowing. She could see his hand tense, longing for his weapon. “I can be in Graves’ quarters within the hour.”

“No,” she cut off. “I long to see his end, but that would only confirm what the others say about us. I’ll not have the children of Aksanus consigned to history as savages.”

“What would you have us do, then?”

T’Syla clasped her hands behind her back. “What word have you from the Unseen?”

“Akla?” Qelkan paused, suddenly uneasy to continue his report. “He went aground after relaying his intelligence,” he inhaled, an unexpected weight overcoming his next words. “The rumors were true. The installation is called Stalg.”

The word ‘Stalg’ left his lips like a curse. The existence of the fabled abandoned mine asteroid clearly unsettled him, but T’Syla couldn’t be concerned with his scruples right now. “Send him to the Eobaria System. I want him informing on Thrayades within the day.”

“Yes, Iconess.”

She looked upward, through the web-like skylight over her quarters. The Sanguid Nebula tinted the Skyfield red, a bloody stain at the heart of its starry promise. Appropriate, she thought. There would be no turning back from what she said next.

“And you will go to Stalg. I cannot afford to wait any longer.”

The order rocked Qelkan back on his heels. “Uh…I…are you certain?”

“Yes. Our foe is human, and a clever one. There is no better weapon against humans than what lies within Stalg.”

“I…T’Syla, please, just think on this. I do not trust—”

She closed the distance between them. “Do you trust me?”

The question startled him, he backed away and knelt in genuflection. “Always and forever, Iconess, I only meant—”

She bent over and took Qelkan’s chin in her hand, gently forcing him to meet her eyes. “I am Aksanus. I am the Land. I know the path laid out before us, and I know what we need. See it done, my beloved.”

Qelkan swallowed and steeled himself. “At once, Iconess.”

He tried to lower his head, but once more she pulled his chin up and kissed him.