The Sterling Strop was honored to be in charge of this historic battle.

No one had expected the Giant to return to his home base, much less with the Conqueror, but for all practical purposes, they were constrained. They were unwilling to damage their own territory, nor would they expose themselves to the triple gas. The Conqueror hid in a bunker. The Giant hid in clouds. Even the Shapeshifter and the Imposter were gone, hiding away. The enemies were nothing but cowards.

So the Torth Empire had to prevail here.

Nobody could thwart the gods. A lot of Torth believed that. Therefore, it was a good bet.

A drone buzzed past a nearby Rosy Rank and decapitated him with a blast.

Oof. Someone had illegally programmed local machines to obey a governance key.

A blaster cannon fired, taking down a Torth-controlled transport. The Sterling Strop glimpsed more carnage in his mental news feed. Explosions thundered as Torth-piloted transports got shot down.

Blood-soaked pain and mayhem bloomed in the Megacosm, shared and re-shared by millions of distant voyeurs.

 The Conqueror (that criminal) must be in control.

  Shouldn’t We surrender?

   Shouldn’t We teleport away?

His orbiters churned with doubt. You are outmatched, many of them whispered inside his mind.

 You did well (you almost took over the Conqueror’s stronghold!),

  but you cannot defeat the Conqueror.

   Abort this mission, the Torth Majority urged the Sterling Strop.

    Leave.

     You (and your champion peers) are too important for Us to lose.

That was probably good advice.

Yet it was tentative; a suggestion rather than a command from the Majority. A strong minority of Torth wanted the Sterling Strop to proceed.

And he was not ready to give up and flee.

The Sterling Strop swaggered through the oceanside city beneath its gas giant sky. Runaway slaves hid from him or fled. No doubt they were ashamed of their own inferior, servile nature. They were no threat at all.

Mere vandalism had put a dent in the Conqueror’s forces. It was plain to see. The enemies were a menace in news feeds, but up close? They were truly nothing but a band of runaway slaves. Almost all of their equipment and supplies were stolen from the Torth Empire.

The Sterling Strop was worthy of the scimitar sheathed on his armored back. He knew it. That was why the Majority had elected him to lead this battle. The Death Architect had commissioned fewer than five hundred of these precious, uniquely engineered ionic blades, and they were only granted to the most powerful champions in the Torth military. The Sterling Strop was in the same league as the disgraced Former Commander.

Except he would do better than she ever had. He was smarter, more determined, and he had youthful vigor. Many Torth knew that he would make a solid Commander of All Living—

 !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  !?!?!!?!!?!?!?

The Megacosm swirled with shocked perplexity.

The Sterling Strop halted in his steps. He reprioritized his attention, immersing himself fully in the Megacosm.

The Twins!?!?!?!

Torth on various worlds and space stations prodded their comrades. Ever more Torth joined the Megacosm, jolted awake by excited neighbors.

Everyone was powerfully curious about why the Twins had dared to ascend into the Megacosm. What did they wish to share?

 Have they (the Twins) ransacked the secret laboratories of the Conqueror?

  Are the Twins actually returning to Us?

   With useful military secrets?

    Yay!

The Sterling Strop went into orbit around the girl Twin’s mind, and then the boy Twin, skating past both, carried along by the Majority. His invasion of Freedomland might amount to just another lost battle. Defeats had a predictable outcome now: Captured Rosies and Servants would be turned into zombified minions.

So he craved good news, or at least solid new information.

??????????????????

Once the audience was huge and thunderous—not just billions, but trillions—the Twins began to impart their message.

The freedom-lovers, the girl Twin thought.

 Those whom you have wrongly labeled as enemies, the boy Twin clarified.

Are creators—

 —not destroyers.

The huge minds of the Twins were so alike that they were like mirrored gas giants, one with an optimistic tilt and one with a pessimistic rolling rotation. Both shone with sincerity.

The freedom-lovers are authors, artists, explorers,

 guided and inspired by a polymath (Thomas the Conqueror).

The Twins plainly believed the propaganda they were spouting.

Had they been hopelessly spoiled by forbidden pleasures? It seemed that the enemies—maybe not the Conqueror, since he’d been absent, but Kessa the Wise?—had turned them into pliable pets.

How tawdry, the Majority whispered.

Yet the largest minds in the Megacosm sharpened with interest. The Geodesic Flux, the Rind Topographer, and even a few immature super-geniuses … all of those who were awake immediately screened their reactions behind random trivia.

Their embarrassment was obvious. They were clearly hiding illegal emotions and thoughts.

The Sterling Strop glared into the distance, down a ramp and into a plaza where runaway slaves gawked at the explosion-filled sky. He drew his scimitar just so he could hold a weapon. Champions such as himself ought to execute the Empire’s remaining super-geniuses before they could betray civilization.

Instead of answering all of the derogatory criticism aimed their way, the Twins shared their firsthand experiences as penitents. They replayed quiet mornings in each other’s company. They had an ease of working which they had never known before, without fear or impediments.

They enjoyed strange and intriguing conversations with a runaway slave, Varktezo. His wacky ideas had them both thinking more creatively than they ever had before.

They’d had a conversation with Kessa the Wise. That runaway actually regarded them with friendly respect, instead of despising them, as might be expected.

And there was music.

The boy Twin played a symphony inside his mind. It did not come from any runaway slave or any primitive civilization. He had composed the music himself.

He had concretized his symphony in reality using a synthetic audio compilation program, which the girl Twin had written herself.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?

The Majority recoiled. Music was forbidden.

This was not a small faux pas. This was not contained to one neighborhood in some minor city. Trillions of Torth, throughout the galaxy, were exposed to the melody.

And it stirred illegal emotions, which many Torth would rather not experience. Yet they all shared it.

Hope.

Ephemeral wistfulness.

Sublime happiness.

Exploration.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

Wonderment.

Adventure.

Camaraderie.

Discovery.

Stop, the Majority begged the boy Twin.

 STOP.

  STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP STOP!!!!!!!!!!!!

Despite their protestations, a large minority of Torth must yearn for more of the music—because they kept listening.

The Sterling Strop was one of those. He rarely used tranquility meshes, but he was familiar with their mood suppressing effects. Music did the opposite. It was more like a suggestion rather than an imposition, but it did enhance his mood.

Imagery unfolded throughout the Megacosm, inspired or evoked by the music.

Every emotion had so much variation. So much nuance. Far from being primitive grunts, or bestial whistling, music seemed infinitely textured. Was it a new frontier?

An unexplored frontier?

The girl Twin added an undercurrent of additional music, uplifted by the backdrop of her partner’s auditory symphony. Emotions are a branch of cognitive science. The girl Twin addressed the entire Torth Majority. That which You, in Your infinite ignorance, eschew as illegal—forbidden—is actually the path to creativity, innovation, and enlightenment.

Scientists throughout the Torth Empire exchanged comments, debating the merits of her supposition.

Could it be that emotions are a branch (an unexplored branch) of My field of expertise? a renowned neuroscientist wondered.

Could be, a bitter super-genius commented. The Torth Majority forbids so many sciences. (Bioengineering) (Artificial intelligence) (Superluminal research) Why not emotions, too?

And music, the governor of a major hub city chimed in.

I think the Twins have proven it, a brave anthropologist concluded. There is a lot more to learn about love and friendship than anyone wants to admit.

More Torth agreed. Not just super-geniuses, not just scientists, not just high ranks, but also their admirers.

Billions of admirers.

The Sterling Strop recoiled from the debates, yet opinions flowed all around him, even from his own orbiters.

 There is nuance to emotions which We (neuroscientists) fail to acknowledge.

  We (Torth) are entirely too focused on a narrow subset of emotions (fear and hatred).

   Why not love?

    Why does the Torth Empire outlaw so many good things?

     Shouldn’t the Majority reconsider their restrictive laws?

A well-respected Indigo Blue Rank radiated anger. I don’t want to live the rest of My life in obeisance to stupid, meaningless, constrictive laws.

Other scientists rallied to him. Yeah!

 I’m sick of constraints!

  Me too!

The mental simulation of music coming from the Twins gained a strident undertone, as if to underscore the shifting mood of the Megacosm. A subversive counter opinion whispered just beneath the Majority’s STOP protestations, so manifold that it was impossible to repress or ignore.

We (Torth) ought to reconsider ancient laws.

 Reconsider what is forbidden.

  Reconsider.

A quandary shook the Megacosm.

The Sterling Strop experienced it as if the universe was wrenching apart. The Megacosm was as infinite as space, but it had become so riddled with doubts, its cohesion was in jeopardy.

The Majority—the eternal, omnipotent Majority—writhed, as if it might cleave into two separate halves.

??? !!! ??? !!! ??? !!!

 !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ????

Amidst the chaos, one of the elder super-geniuses, a twelve-year-old known as the Rind Topographer, drew an audience by renouncing her godhood.

Tell the Conqueror, she urged the Twins. I am done being an idiot (a Torth). I surrender. I beg the Conqueror to save Me!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Even as her treachery shocked the Majority, hundreds of her orbiters followed suit.

Save Us.

 We quit being Torth.

  WE ARE PENITENTS!!!

They bowed to their slaves.

They peeled off their blaster gloves, and either tossed them down a garbage chute, or handed them to a slave.

They spoke out loud, many with rusty, whispery voices that had not been used since infancy. “I am no longer Torth. I am penitent.”

The anguish of the Majority worsened. Indecision gripped the Megacosm, causing seizures everywhere.

!!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!! ???? !!!!

STOP! Half the Majority interjected what they believed was reason and rationality into madness. The forbidden sciences were forbidden for good reasons. Emotions were degrading and dangerous. Civilization needed to reject nonsense.

A mature super-genius, the Geodesic Flux, mentally threw down all of those arguments. The difference between right and wrong is obvious (to Me), he thought. I am tired of pretending otherwise (to survive). I loath self-deception. Enough of it! I am joining My better colleagues (the pioneers) (the Conqueror and the Upward Governess and the Twins and the Rind Topographer and even the Colossal Failure), even if it means My death.

He spoke out loud to his nearest slaves, who looked disbelieving and confused. “The Torth Empire has wronged you. I no longer want to be a Torth.”

His orbiters followed suit.

Tens of millions of Torth, on various cities on various planets, abased themselves before their slaves.

Loyal Torth rushed to stop their traitorous neighbors. Blasts and death screams resounded throughout the Megacosm. Minds winked out, either to escape the mental chaos, or because they had been shot to death.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 !!!!!!!! ( ) !!!!!!!!!!!!! ( ) !!!!!!!!!

  !!!!!!!!!!! ( ) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ( ) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The Sterling Strop barely realized that he had fallen to his knees. He’d dropped his scimitar and put his hands over his head, trying to shield his naked mind.

But it was futile.

The Majority was no longer paying attention to him or to his little battle. He was nothing. He was a leaf in a storm, a pebble orbiting a gas giant. He didn’t matter at all.

All modesty was gone. Millions of Torth conveyed the stray thoughts of penitents and deviants, since no one was certain about laws or propriety any longer. Many Torth were no longer even sure if they wanted to be Torth.

A few million glommed onto the mind of some random penitent known as the Pink Screwdriver, because she offered forbidden stuff.

I’ve enjoyed all kinds of forbidden pleasures. The Pink Screwdriver milked the anticipation. The way she shamelessly manipulated her audience into begging for more, she might as well be a primitive storyteller, tugging at people’s savage emotions.

??????????????????

Billions of Torth piled into orbit around her.

I had sex, the Pink Screwdriver finally revealed.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Her audience demanded details. Was sex as disgusting as primitives made it look? Was sex actually fun? Or was it just as exhausting as exercise?

It was spectacular. There were fireworks at the end, inside and outside. The Pink Screwdriver replayed a memory.

A visceral, emotion-laden memory, rife with sweat and obscene intimacy, and a shuddering orgasm, on top of a shockingly recognizable person.

THE CONQUEROR??????????!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!?????????

The Sterling Strop leaned over and vomited. He banged his forehead against the ground and didn’t care about the humiliating pose. A bilious spew erupted out of his mouth.

He couldn’t stop himself from soaking up the vicarious memory of sex with the Conqueror.

She had liked it.

No, he shouldn’t.

He couldn’t handle this.

That monstrous, smug, bony little super-genius looked healthier than ever. He even felt (ughhh) healthy.

So it’s not all bad, the Pink Screwdriver concluded.

Extra shock waves slammed through the Megacosm after that disgustingly (sexy) shameless penitent dropped out.

!!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 !!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!

  !!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! * !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

A bunch of Torth backed away. A minority quorum formed, in distant settlements and on far away starships.

We won’t bow before someone as uncouth as the Conqueror, thousands of disparate groups agreed.

 We will not be enslaved by his runaway slave minions.

  Nor will We obey the constricting Majority.

  Farewell, suckers!

   We are ON OUR OWN!

And they quit listening to reason.

Twenty thousand Torth on NovaView Colony Starship went rogue. They ejected unwanted audience members and severed themselves from the Megacosm. Only a few individuals on that starship continued to allow outsiders into their minds.

Isolated scientific stations and explorers likewise supported the anarchical madness. They had no desire to murder penitents, or to become penitents. They dropped out of the Megacosm as if godhood itself was toxic.

* !!! * !!!! * !!! ( ) !! * !!!!!! * !! ( ) !!!!! * !!!!! ( ) !!!!! * !!!!!!!! * ( ) * !!!!!!!! *

The Sterling Strop heard explosions and screaming in the distance.

His cohorts were being slaughtered by drones and by runaways. Yet he could not wrench himself away from the Megacosm. The sounds of mayhem in his vicinity were meaningless imitations of a much more significant battle taking place in the minds and hearts of every wakeful Torth.

The Megacosm was full of wannabe penitents.

Far from begging for a rescue, these new penitents bragged about friendships they planned to make and families they wanted to have.

!

 !

  !

   !

    !

     !

The Sterling Strop peeled off his blaster glove, curled inward, and wept.

Civilization felt like a twisted parody of itself. Smart discourse was gone. Insightful discussion threads no longer existed. Anyone who quested for knowledge—who sought recordings, or facts—fell off a metaphorical cliff.

There were no facts.

There was no verifiable history.

The pillars of knowledge were vanishing, and all the discussions and fields of study which they used to support … all of that was in ruins.

Anyone who asked questions about love or friendship or art or speech or music was shot.

Anyone who made inquiries about certain branches of cognitive science was likely to get shot.

How could anyone champion a Majority that no longer existed?

The Sterling Strop might as well declare himself a penitent and kneel to former slaves. Maybe the Conqueror would have mercy and allow him to become a soldier, instead of turning him into a mindless zombie?

Maybe there was a future somewhere in the galaxy.

He wept.