I’m in bed. Tara is in my arms.
Ah, the morning is going downhill from here, I can feel it. I knew that I’d get to this point from my first moment, when I looked into the mirror and saw my own handsome reflection. I could see my luck shining back at me; I could see it decay.
I had been brought into existence with a very specific purpose in mind. My brother, Wynne, can influence probability. Something a shade different was needed. Cüinn had used a pathfinder to run an analysis of the Draco Dwarf looking for the shortest, safest wormhole routes from the Domha’vei. A galaxy, even a dwarf one, is a large place. He’d found thousands.
While I have Wynne’s sensitivity to probability, I can only see it, with the same clear and cynical vision that my other brother, Driscoll, uses to make his incisive artworks. It was left to me to find the best path, the one with the highest probability of success. But in the moment of my emanation, I also saw that my own luck was at its apex. In the weeks since then, I’ve avoided mirrors. Fortunately, my tactile senses are acute enough that I can tell without looking if my hair is properly styled.
That inaugural morning, when I exited the bathroom, I saw my wife for the first time, and understood the nature of my luck. My eyes were blinded; I was intoxicated by her scent. “You’re Ace,” she said, “the one I chose.” It was a strange way of choosing indeed, wandering around Hurley’s dream. “You’re very handsome.” She took my hand, leading me into the bedroom of our luxurious suite on Eirelantra. I could see out the balcony, through the open space of the Grand Atrium to the ring of towers at the edge of the dome. They glittered in improbable spires, as if spun glass had been scattered, freezing in mid-flow.
She pulled me into the rich down of the bed. There are people who would kill for my luck; I understand why.
But today it hits bottom. Sure enough, there’s a knock at the door. I want to ignore it. Tara is still asleep. I can hear what’s going on outside. Lady Lorma is trying to dissuade our visitors from coming into our chambers, but our visitors won’t be stopped. That’s because one of them is Lilith, Cillian’s daughter, and she’s never listened to anyone about anything.
I kiss Tara’s brow. “Ash?” she murmurs.
“We have company,” I say quietly.
Lilith barges in. She’s a beautiful girl, thin and tough, with raven hair and pale skin. She’s wearing brown contact lenses that disguise her Cu’enashti eyes. A strange affectation – at first, it was a disguise she used when she was being manipulated by Esau St. John. But she kept it after hearing the Cantor denounce her and her father. It was a clear statement that she wanted nothing more to do with the Cu’endhari.
“Thoughtful wants to talk to you,” she says. “It’s important.”
“It must be,” I say, “for you to come to Eirelantra. You could’ve messaged us.”
“I’m afraid not,” says a voice emitting from a small datapad which hangs from a cord around Lilith’s neck. “I couldn’t chance the message being intercepted, and, as you will see, I would have had to come here anyway.”
The messenger is Thoughtful 45, a close friend of Lucius and fellow nuncio to the Combine of Advanced Sentients. Thoughtful’s people, the Quicknodes, are a species of extremely sophisticated synthetic intelligences. Through a very odd combination of circumstances, Thoughtful had ended up becoming Lilith’s Chosen, the purpose and focal point for her life, just as Tara is mine.
“I’m sorry,” Thoughtful continues. “We haven’t been introduced. Are you new?”
“Ace. I’m a Goliath emanation. I’m helping out with the colonial project.”
Tara yawns and stretches. “So what’s so important?”
Thoughtful’s touchscreen flickers a bit. It is an awkward pause. Then he says, “You see, I was talking with Poklok-kinniped – you know, we go way back, a few million rotations – ze knew me when I was Thoughtful 6.1! And I, well, I told zir about what you’d seen in Galaxy 43, and ze told zir old friend Matek Lopen *click* Bar Treven *click* Sanis Poltra and before you know it, the story got back to the SongLuminants…”
“I see.” Yes, we’d had intimations before that data security was not a priority to Thoughtful.
“The Southern Coriolis Directorate called an emergency meeting of the Combine to discuss it.”
“Ugh,” says Tara, “I guess we’d better call Captain Suzanna. Lucius knows I’m going with him this time, right?”
“Where and when is the meeting?” I ask.
“In ten minutes,” says Thoughtful. “Here. The Southern Coriolis Directorate thought that it might be best to talk to Ashtara directly instead of having to work through Lucius. Can we use the High Council Chambers?”
“Sure,” says Tara. “I guess we won’t have to call Suzanna after all. I suppose that you can handle it, Ace. Just tell the Combine that you don’t want Tucana anymore, and that they should quarantine the whole galaxy because it’s full of soul-sucking centipedes. I’m taking a bath.”
My eyes follow her as she leaves the room. It’s a sort of sunset, and my heart is moved by its melancholy beauty. “I’ll get dressed,” I say. “Are the others already here?”
“Marty is already in chambers, not that anyone would notice.” Marty is a sentient subatomic particle who works part-time for PLOT/Twist, a division of our secret police. He’s the best espionage agent we’ve ever had, basically because he’s too small to be detected. “The SCD is just going to borrow the body of Ambassador Bllllllllllllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrmm since he’s already on the station. The other Floatfish will be here shortly, and the remaining members are arriving together, on an Ateher *hissclick* Masock ship.”
Sure enough, I get a message almost immediately from Admiral Naveeta. “Your Highness, there’s a ship approaching Eirelantra – I’ve never seen anything like it before. It’s requesting diplomatic status.”
“It’s an envoy. I’m expecting it. Please provide an honor guard to escort our guests to the High Council Chambers – and don’t be surprised by anything you see.”
I might as well have said “Don’t let gravity affect your orbit.” By the time I make my way to the chambers, the whole building is crowded with gawkers. The hovercart bearing a slightly glowing rock is all but ignored, since humans are unaware that Poklok-kinniped’s people, the StoneStolids, are sentient minerals. The people are busy gaping at the other two nuncios – High Chancellor Matek Lopen *click* Bar Treven *click* Sanis Poltra *clickclick*, who looks like a cross between a human and a praying mantis, and the nameless representative of the nameless people that Suzanna had named the ELFF – Empathic Light Flicker Fairies. I don’t know if the reactions are more stunned at the grotesque Matek Lopen or awed by the ephemeral loveliness of the ELFF.
I am intercepted by Ta’al Erich, Tara’s ex-brother-in-law and royal Volparnian pain-in-the-ass. “This is the Combine of Sentients, isn’t it? Meeting here?”
I nod.
“Then don’t you think you ought to notify the High Council?”
“I’m sorry, but this is a private conference,” says Thoughtful. “Maybe after we finish the important business, we can have a meet and greet.”
Lilith shoves her way past the crowd; I follow. I can hear the hum of media push microcams. Soon, everyone in the Domha’vei will have seen the members of the Combine. I make a mental note to tell Tara to finish the edit of her book of prophecies. There is no harm in releasing that information now.
Once inside the chambers, the nuncios greet each other formally. Bllllllllllllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrmm/SCD welcomes the invisible Twist. “I hear that you solved your particle decay problem,” he says. “Congratulations, Marty.” Then he swishes a bit in my direction. “And to you as well, Ashtara. You’ve managed to earn the eternal gratitude of the Twist, and also to arrange a political marriage between your daughter and the Quicknode nuncio. You’re coming along quite well in the universe.”
“It sounds so opportunistic when you put it that way,” I murmur. I want to deny it, say he’s reading manipulation into nothing but happenstance. But then again – did the Mover have it all planned?
There is a series of hisses and clicks from the High Chancellor. “She says that you look somewhat different from the last time she saw you,” translates Thoughtful.
“Oh, I’m Ace, a different emanation. I could get Lucius, if you’d like.”
“The last time she saw you, you were using the body of Captain Suzanna Noviik,” says Fllllllrrrrrrrrt, the leader of the school of Floatfish nuncios. “So it would be rather pointless.”
More clicks and hisses. “She says she likes this body better,” Thoughtful adds. “She finds it more appetizing.”
“Thanks,” I reply, a little nervously.
“Well, enough of the pleasantries,” interrupts Bllllllllllllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrmm/SCD. “We came here to see Ashtara. I have two very important things to ask him about. First, how’s the planning going for the Floatfish anniversary bash?”
“Driscoll’s handling it,” I answer. “He’s renowned throughout the galaxy for planning spectacular parties.”
“Good, good. Second, is there any truth to the rumor that you saw the Great Dread?”
“By the Great Dread, are you referring to tentacled centipedes capable of living directly in space, which seem to be composed of half-matter, half-energy?”
There is a murmur amongst the nuncios.
“In Galaxy 43, the Tucana Dwarf Cluster?” Bllllllllllllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrmm/SCD presses. I nod.
The ELFF begins to cry. It is like a shower of rain drenching the little flowers with dew, and I feel as though my heart will break.
“I think we definitely have to declare the place off-limits,” I venture.
“It’s not that easy,” said Bllllllllllllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrmm/SCD. “You don’t know the Great Dread. Sooner or later, they’ll come here. It’s quite possible that Galaxy 43 seems so burnt out because they’ve eaten everything worth having. That’s their pattern. When they’re done with a galaxy, they move on to the next one.”
“A galaxy is a big place,” I said. “Won’t it take a while…”
The ELFF swirls in the air, doing a melancholy dance of indescribable beauty. “She says that while the Great Dread can subsist on stars, it’s the equivalent of bread and water. They like more delicate morsels. Like the consciousness of sentient beings.”
“Oh,” I say.
“I’ll bet that there’s no sentient life left in 43 at all,” comments Hrrrrrrrrrrrgh, another member of the Floatfish delegation.
“Do you know what would happen if we let them reach this galaxy?” asks Bllllllllllllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrmm /SCD. “When they get to Sealeesh, my whole species will be quaffed like a carbonated soda. Then they’ll go for the Twist. As they decay, the Great Dread will consume all the datons, except for the lucky immortals of PLOT/Twist. Then, the Dread might go looking elsewhere, in another of our member galaxies. The StoneStolids are easy pickings. They’re electrochemical in nature, and they can’t exactly run away.”
From zir place on the hovercart, Poklok-kinniped emits a ripple of murky-colored energy which looks very much like a shudder.
“When they’ve cherry-picked the delicacies, they’ll turn their attention to the ones who will fight back like the Brrrrrrrrrrrrvvbh, the Ateher *hissclick* Masock and the – you know.” He flicks a fin at the ELFF. “On the way, they’ll probably gulp down humanity as a side-snack. And you know who will be left?”
He floats in the direction of Lilith and Thoughtful 45. “That’s right. It’s doubtful they’ll bother with the Quicknodes since their power source is so enormously energy efficient. It would be like getting the little bits of juicy meat out of the legs of a crawfish. And the Nau’gsh are made of nul-energy – that is, indigestible.”
“It would stand to reason then,” says Thoughtful, “that the Quicknodes and the Nau’gsh should be at the forefront of the coming struggle.”
“Now wait a minute,” I protest, “Tara…”
“Exactly,” says Bllllllllllllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrmm/SCD. “Of course, the full power of all Advanced Sentient civilizations is at your disposal for technical support.”
I know what my mouth is trying to do. My mouth is trying to say “No.” But it doesn’t move. My arms move. I am spreading my arms over my head.
For just a few seconds, I experience the excruciating feeling of my skin boiling away. And then the Mover is floating several feet above the floor of the council chamber.
There is a collective gasp. “So this is what he really is,” murmurs Fllllllrrrrrrrrt.
“Pretty impressive, huh?” says Marty. “I’ve already seen him do that a number of times.”
The ELFF gestures. The Mover reaches out, touching her gently upon the forehead. She gracefully pirouettes to Bllllllllllllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrmm/SCD and nods.
The Mover descends, folding his arms.
I have been replaced. In my stead is a big man of compact muscularity. His hair is closely cropped; he wears a military uniform and a pair of shadehuds.
He salutes. “Admiral Cillian Whelan,” he says.
“Ah,” says Bllllllllllllllllllllrrrrrrrrrrrmm/SCD, “the emanation who erased the Microbials.”
“You mentioned something about technical support,” says Cillian. “Well, we’re going to need it.”