Some people still treated the Former Commander with respect. She wondered why.

She chewed an antacid tablet while the Megacosm wailed and writhed around her. None of today’s battles had gone as well as they were supposed to. Perhaps there would have been a decisive victory if she had been in charge?

Instead, she sat in a luxury suite like a fat, useless Blue Rank.

We should have won, the Majority moaned.

 Instead, We have lost.

  It is as if We are led by idiots—

   —instead of super-geniuses!

This latest round of defeats could not be blamed on the Former Commander. Everyone was clear on that, at least. Torth champions who could teleport were in limited supply. She never would have wasted champions on a flimsy, throwaway strategy.

The raids had actually given sneaky skeptics an opportunity to pack camping supplies and flee from civilization. They’d vanished while the Torth Majority was focused on multiple battlefronts.

The Former Commander did not approve of draft dodgers. Sure, she understood why her fellow champions wished to avoid military duty. The Giant might as well be invincible when he wore space armor. Any battlefield that included him was a death sentence. And the Conqueror, now…

It was getting more and more difficult to think of the enemy mastermind as merely the Betrayer. He had taken too much territory, and he had enslaved too many Torth. No one wanted to face that monster in person. Not even in battle. Not even the champions.

But none of Our rogues will actually join the Conqueror, millions of Torth tried to assure each other.

 Surely not.

  Even Our renegade champions (Rosies and Servants) wouldn’t dare—

   —to go near the mind-twisting Conqueror.

The Former Commander silently agreed with that sentiment. No one sane would join the enemies. Spies existed amongst the so-called penitent populations in enemy strongholds, and they would report any rogue traitors and attempt to assassinate them.

Exiting the Torth Empire was harder than ever.

And it was more illegal than ever. The Majority had ratified new laws when the boy Twin (escaped) disappeared: No one was permitted to travel from one star system to another without military approval. Spaceports were locked down. Any non-military streamships or starships must follow pre-approved routes. Everyone was under surveillance.

That ought to prevent rogue and renegade breakaways.

Even so, no one could fully control the most elite military ranks. The Former Commander supposed that she could ghost to Earth right now, if she wished. She could teleport from planet to planet.

She was just wise enough to remain loyal to the greatest civilization that had ever existed.

Perhaps some of her traitorous colleagues were cavorting on the playground of Earth right now? If so, they would need to stay secretive and hope that the Giant never found out about their illegal activities. She hoped they were miserable, having to put up with disgusting human cultures.

Why???

Hundreds of millions, and then billions, of Torth hurled that question at the Empire’s remaining super-geniuses.

Why (why) why are We losing???

 What can We do to stop hemorrhaging champions and super-geniuses?

  How can We hold onto Our glorious cities and planets?

Junior super-geniuses emanated shame, although they were not at fault. Not really. They were mere cogs in the machinery of the Empire. The Majority wanted them to obey the Lone Twin and the Death Architect, and so they had.

I have a suggestion, the Geodesic Flux tentatively announced.

His inner audience sharpened with interest. At age twelve, the Geodesic Flux was mentally ripened. Perhaps he ought to be promoted to replace the two girls at the top?

Reflective surfaces confuse clairvoyance, he pointed out. We ought to establish rotating crystal-chrome surfaces in deep space, along obvious routes to Reject-20 (the planet which the Conqueror has established as his home base). That should aid Us in deterring and regulating interstellar teleportation.

Another super-genius, the Rind Topographer, endorsed that idea. Yes, she thought. Let’s set cosmic traps. Lace them with inhibitor cannons. That might even stop the Giant and the Imposter from flitting around.

At least it could slow them down for a while, the Geodesic Flux agreed. And it should help to prevent more Our own champions from going renegade.

The Majority roared in approval. At least some of the mutant brains were thinking, unlike the failures at the top.

FAILURES! the masses screamed at the eldest super-geniuses.

 YOU FAILED!

The Lone Twin’s response seemed to hold an emptiness. She cared not a whit for other people’s uncontrolled anger and disillusionment. You asked for a new weapon. I gave You a new weapon.

An echo was missing. Her counterpart was absent.

The boy Twin’s continued absence was … well, it was improbable.

Military dreadnoughts and cargo carriers patrolled the outer rims of every hub solar system, thanks to the war. They would notice any lone scientific vessel. The boy Twin was alone in space, without any supporters or allies. His ship had limited supplies. If he was traveling slow, avoiding temporal jumps—and he must be—then he was bound to starve.

So where was he?

Conjectures eddied within the quieter pools of the Megacosm. What unconventional routes might he take?

But the roaring Majority had no interest in unproven theories about a wayward super-genius. They figured he would be found and executed. Their focus was all on the untrustworthy leaders of the Torth Empire.

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WE WANT SMART LEADERSHIP!

 WE WANT IT NOW!

  BETTER LEADER BETTER LEADER BETTER LEADER!

   WE NEED A REAL COMMANDER OF ALL LIVING THINGS!

The Former Commander surveyed the masses. Her political detractors had dragged the horned shroud from her bony shoulders.

If only she could see a worthy successor to her former office.

Apparently the Majority felt the same way, because the mantle remained stashed in a chest. Everyone ignored the contenders who dared to claim it.

Accusations of incompetence pummeled the Death Architect. She could not invoke any more authority than the Majority had already vested in her. When the enormous audience began to reach peak froth, like a cresting tidal wave, the little girl delivered a simple response.

We won.

She was so smug. So confident.

???????????????? Her orbiters twisted into uncontrolled spins, contorting with questions and discussions.

The Former Commander inwardly admitted that the Death Architect might have a flair for dramatic messaging. Perhaps the child was as socially savvy as the Upward Governess used to be.

You (Majority) are not thinking long-term, like I am. The Death Architect mentally folded her babylike hands. The enemies barely skated through this attack. They lost more warriors today than We lost champions. And they did not have nearly so many to start with.

There was merit to that assertion. The Torth Empire, indeed, still had tens of thousands of champions who were capable of teleportation.

Even so…

Shouldn’t We have held off on this attack? the Rind Topographer wondered. Shouldn’t We have waited until We could surprise the enemies with a more perfected version of the gaseous inhibitor?

Right, the Geodesic Flux agreed. Surely it wouldn’t take long to refine the current version, to make it wholly invisible and undetectable?

The Lone Twin was so uninterested in the conversation, she exited the Megacosm.

Perhaps she was hiding humiliation? After all, she and her boy Twin counterpart had invented the pink gas. It was their responsibility. Clearly, they had failed to work hard enough at making it undetectable.

The Former Commander found that she didn’t care. She did not particularly relish the idea of an improved inhibitor gas.

Battles were going to entail full spacesuits, thanks to the Twins. Air tanks. Helmets. What a pain. That much armor was uncomfortable even for superior beings with musculoskeletal enhancements.

The Former Commander surreptitiously took a low grade painkiller.

Her aged body seemed to be wearing down. Nothing worked the way it should anymore. Her spine, her joints, her bowels … she had begun to carry pills at all times, plagued by digestive problems. The ailments seemed physical, but she had learned enough about humans to suspect that her symptoms were indicative of a psychological condition which was common amongst lower species.

Stress.

How embarrassing.

The Death Architect seemed untroubled by such maladies. She must be enjoying the stash of NAI-13 which the Former Commander had privately delivered to her. She remained tranquil.

And she milked the impression she had made, waiting for the Majority discussions to peak and fall off.

Then she went on. The Conqueror has foolishly bitten off more than he can chew. He cannot defend the amount of territory which he purports to have conquered. Our inhibitor gas has effectively removed some of his greatest (allies) weapons: His albino warriors. And also: The Shapeshifter.

That was true. The Majority swirled with relief.

Except…

What about his zombified hordes? a champion demanded to know.

Exactly! another piped up. The Conqueror is unbeatable! He makes his own armies out of Our military ranks!

The protests piled into another crescendo.

It is too late to stop the Conqueror!

 He isn’t going to fall for an inhibitor trap now that he knows what the damnable pink gas looks like!

  What can We do?

   WHAT CAN WE DO?

Certainty loomed in the Death Architect’s mind, as blatant as a volcano looming out of a tranquil sea. I am not worried.

She was so influential, her certainty dragged everyone else along.

Trillions of Torth yearned for someone to put their faith in. They wanted someone smart to solve their problems. And why not? The Megacosm was a storm-tossed disaster these days. No one had yet volunteered to join the Conqueror, no matter how many times he extended his horrid invitation … yet whenever the Giant conquered a city, hundreds or even thousands of Torth refused to flee.

They knelt instead.

They knelt to the Conqueror.

The kneelers assured everyone in the Megacosm that it was only a pretense to fool the enemies. They wished to serve the Majority as spies. Never mind the fact that the enemies did not permit penitents to work near anyone of importance, so spying was all but futile. And there were far more voluntary “spies” than could ever be needed.

The kneelers seemed earnest. How could they lie to fellow mind readers?

It was enough to make one wonder if a lot of Torth were somehow deceiving themselves.

The Former Commander chewed another antacid tablet.

The inhibitor gas is only the first in a series of new weapon rollouts, the Death Architect assured the masses. The Conqueror can no longer utilize his warriors or the Shapeshifter in battle. Next, We shall remove the Giant. And then I shall remove the Conqueror himself.

Many Torth had to admit that this sounded promising.

Was it possible to get so specific with targeting?

Yes, the Death Architect assured the skeptics. I shall release these (future) weapons when the timing is right. Timing is crucial.

No one could argue with that.

And the Majority knew better than to dig for details. Secrecy was important these days. The Imposter might be listening.

You are All doing well, the Death Architect thought with rock-solid confidence. For now, it is imperative that You follow My simple strategies. I want the enemies to get used to a new paradigm. I want to change Our approach from defensive to offensive.

She threw that suggestion into the galactic population like someone casting a fishing line. It made ripples.

??? The Majority was listening.

Instead of ceding territory, the Death Architect thought, We will attack. Even when it costs Us. Even when We lose champions. Let’s not keep gifting the Conqueror with enough leisure time to create whatever he feels like creating.

The Former Commander stiffened.

But the Majority ate up the directive like fools. It was easy for them to cheer, since only military ranks were obligated to go into battle. Most telepaths would remain safe in outposts that were unlikely to be targeted. Even high ranks, such as governors, would avoid combat. They did not have to worry about facing the Giant in battle, or being zombified by the Conqueror.

Our civilians can help, the Death Architect suggested, perhaps because she sensed silence from the military segment of the population. We should make a habit of sabotage. Destroy transports, streamships, factories. Destroy facilities which the enemies fail to guard well enough.

The masses cheered.

Force the enemies to huddle in the cities which they have stolen from Us, the Death Architect went on. Make them afraid to leave safety. Just make it a habit. No big goals. Simply harry their outskirts.

Torth agreed. Let’s sow fear, they told each other.

The Majority buzzed with renewed faith in their child leader. They didn’t exactly trust the little girl, but they trusted her more than, say, the lone Twin. Or the Unsung Spur. Or the Prying Point, or any of the pundits who were constantly vying to win over the Majority.

We will win. The Death Architect radiated certainty. It is impossible for My plans to fail.

That much confidence from a galactic leader was extremely reassuring. Throughout the galaxy, Torth resumed their workouts at private gymnasiums, or they resumed sipping nectar smoothies, or whatever else they normally did.

Just place all Your trust and faith in Me, the Death Architect reiterated, her mood unchanging.

Many Torth found her steady tranquility to be soothing. Perhaps the serene super-genius was truly a once-in-an-eon hero? She had, after all, bested the Upward Governess.

She is smart, many Torth assured each other.

 Yes. Perhaps We are fortunate to live in such a memorable era?

  Yes. This is quite a time in which to be alive.

   Life will (easily) return to normal routines, once We win.

Yes, the Death Architect assured everyone. It will all be over soon.