The Turquoise Queen, page 9
part #1 of Coalition Series
The room was tall. Its seven mighty columns arched upwards, holding a dome so far up it would remain unseen from below, were it not for the many bright lights. Lights that peeled back the abyssal gloom to reveal, upon the curved walls, depicted in high relief murals, the long history of his kind. Each unique, and molded in pure gold. Images rendered with the talent of a genius, and the extreme attention to detail of a fanatic.
The largest of these by far stood above and behind the throne. In it, a Sencris swam upwards, triumphant, towards the ocean surface. In his outstretched hand, he held an orb. Thin streaks of metal surrounded the object, a means of depicting its radiance. These same streaks formed a halo around the figure's head, symbolizing his divine nature. Yet the face was left blank, for he was said to have worn many faces during the many tides of his life. In the image, a crowd of other Sencris followed him up. Clad in armor, or rich garments, some half-naked. Wielding lances and tools diverse. It did not take closer inspection to know they, too, were triumphant and hopeful. It was all over their faces and gestures, the artist had seen to that.
Beneath such an imposing scene, weighed down by responsibility and power, the man appeared tiny. Under the watchful eyes fixated upon him, seven times seven figures surrounding him from all sides, the man appeared humble.
To his left stood a mural far smaller than the first, yet still the second largest. In it, a woman emerged from the ruins of this very building, or from an earlier version of it. The contorted metal and scorched rubble were as well sculpted as all else, though probably by more reluctant hands. The woman was dressed in the clothes and ornaments of a high priestess. Clutched in both her hands, as a frail newborn, a shard of the orb seen intact in the first panel. The same light rays emanated from it. Three other priestesses looked up at her, faces filled with surprise or joy or both.
The seven times seven awaited. Men and women who had seen the passage of thousands of tides. They were dressed as the figure in the second panel. White fabric wrapped tight around the body, as most Sencris clothes, so as to not interfere with hydrodynamics. Golden, ornate shoulder pads and sonar caps, like a soldier's. Bare fins. They had climbed the many steps of the priesthood. Because they were cunning. Or because they had the right friends. Or because enough of the people loved them. Highest among the denizens of this holiest of places, they were the Sankhron Ree.
The man looked around, sensing his audience. Stern, obedient yet vaguely menacing. He had once belonged to their ranks. Until the previous emperor died of old age.
The likeness of Flameridrail's predecessor was not in any of the murals. He knew this because he had occupied this vast chamber for nearly two centuries now. He had memorized the finest details of each mural, of the history behind them, of who and what they depicted. And the late emperor was not in any of them. Because he'd gotten some things right, yet had not accomplished any feats worthy of remembrance. Because he'd made mistakes, yet none so catastrophic as to serve as a cautionary tale. His rule had been long, and stable, and moderately prosperous, and dull.
Then he'd died. After the funeral rites, the Sankhron Ree had gathered within this very room. A few of them had declared their intentions to become the new ruler. As multitudes amassed outside the Cathedral's gates, they had argued. Factions had formed among their ranks, each with an ideology and course of action to justify its existence.
Votes had been held, then made moot by inconclusive results. For days the priests had fought with words, stopping only to eat and rest. And even as they ate, they had plotted moves or forged alliances.
So it had been until, from the last round of votes, a victorious candidate had emerged. In a ceremony watched by tens of billions, they had clothed him in the ceremonial armor. They had placed the Shard of the Eye of Sankhron upon his hand, that it may impart to him its knowledge. He had seen and heard nothing then, when he held the Shard. No whispers of wisdom or vast image of the cosmos had poured out of the small crystal. But he'd feigned epiphany all the same, with rehearsed ease. For the benefit of the masses, as all his predecessors had. Then he'd sat on the throne, and the crowds and his peers had all shouted his name.
Thus Flameridrail the Third had been crowned Rageris, after the first emperor. Crowned heir to Sankhron, the holy savior and founder of their civilization. Emperor of all that lies above and beneath the waves, which he knew to be an arrogant, painful delusion. For while his people had, once, ruled nearly the entire galaxy, now they commanded only a fraction of its inhabited worlds.
From that tide on, these forty-nine priests were his peers no longer. He lifted himself from the throne, free-floating above it. He spoke to the group he had summoned to his presence, whose combined power may exceed his, whose approval he sought.
"My brothers and sisters!" He spread his thick arms, as if to embrace the encircling priests. "Too long have we been denied our birthright! Too many who should be our subjects live in defiance of our law. I say no more! We shall reclaim even the furthest stars! Under my rule, Senchrien's dominion shall span the galaxy as it did before, as was commanded by Sankhron!"
He made a battle cry of the name, raised both fists, then waited. He had their full attention, yet their expressions remained unchanged, but for a hint of curiosity. That sort of boisterous talk may have some small effect on the masses. In this hall, however, before the members of the Ree, it was a mere formality. They had heard it, and spouted it themselves, too many times.
Flameridrail knew these people all too well. He'd enjoyed or suffered their company for a long time. He could point out, among them, the true zealots, who dreamt of restoring the Empire to its former glory, who praised Sankhron even when no one was watching. They were the ones whose faces changed the most when listening to his words. These would follow him, as long as he dangled that promise before them, made them believe it was possible.
He could also point out the pragmatists, who desired to expand their commercial interests, to acquire new markets or sources of intellect and labor. Who wished to have new populations and resource troves to exploit, for the benefit of the Sencris people and, most importantly, their own. These would weigh the costs and potential benefits of warfare with great care. They would follow only if the result of that equation was found deemed satisfying. The majority of those present fell in this category.
Even here, in the innermost sanctum, there existed a few true pacifists, who believed none of the above reasons could justify another attack against their neighboring civilizations. The Rageris had no hope of swaying these. But they were vastly outnumbered, so he did not have to.
Finally, there were the opportunists, whose only concern was their own well being. These did not trouble him. They'd do whatever the majority did, out of fear of losing their position and power. Not a lot of these present either. The many challenges of priesthood, which increased in difficulty as one climbed the ranks, tended to weed out people who were too self-interested, or too fond of comfort and an easy life.
So he changed the tune, proceeding to the specifics. With the press of a button, a holographic projection expanded to fill the vast space. A detailed map of the galaxy. In it were depicted a series of fleet movements, supply lines, time frames and so forth. A detailed plan for galactic domination, spanning the next one hundred and four tides.
This work was not his alone. The emperor had consulted with top strategists, with the highest ranking officers in his military, with viceroys and businesspeople. All had contributed to the project, and assured him that it was viable. All this he explained to his former peers of the Ree, as he sought their approval.
Strictly speaking, he did not need it. They'd voted him into power and were, thus, subject to his unquestionable rule as heir to Sankhron and Rageris. Still, history showed that it would be unwise to make such a decisive move without their blessing.
So he explained it all. He meant to conquer Sharizinar first and, with it, the only known natural reserve of krimensali. This would deprive their old foes of the most critical resource of all, when it came to interstellar warfare. In time, the very transit cores of spaceships would begin to crumble from overuse. Once the natural crystals ran out, they'd be forced to rely on the brittle synthetic version for both power generation and interstellar transit. In one decisive move, all their enemies would be crippled.
At first, stars were shown humming in a myriad of sonic textures. One pitch for Sencris domains, another, higher one for the Actonertalics. A third one for the Raiacs and Tcheerazeens, and many more for the others.
Then, in a few sudden fleet moves, the Sharizinar system, and several others, switched to the low imperial hum. Afterwards, as the carefully elaborated war map showed, came a slow, methodic conquest of Earth, Irlestria, Nill, and all other worlds once ruled by Senchrien. He kept turning a dial, to indicate the passage of time. Point after point of light changed pitch, the method of such change explained by simulated confrontations. Until, in the end, more than half the galaxy's spiral arms had that triumphant Sencris hum.
"Now I ask, do I have the Sankhron Ree's approval to move forward? Shall we reclaim dominion over this galaxy?"
Again the boisterous language. This time, however, it did not fall on deaf ears. A solitary fist was raised. A priestess, one of the zealots. Then two more. Then half a dozen, and this time, some of them belonged to the group which the Rageris had classified as the pragmatists. The numbers checked out. They saw not only the merit, but the logic of his design. Many more followed, until, at last, the opportunists raised their hands, while the zealots began to shout their approval. That was when Flameridrail knew he had won.
Then he looked into their faces. There, he saw the hint of a threat. For this was not the first time he had stood before the Ree, promising to restore the glory and fortune of old. Every single one of them was old enough to remember the great war. They remembered watching him stand in that far away landing platform, in the snows and chill of Takltlima.
Clad in golden armor, with dreadnoughts and cruisers far overhead, he'd politely greeted the gray, slender enemies in their dark suits. With mobs cursing his very existence all around. The Ree had studied these recordings, and seen the defeat in both Flameridrail's and the Actonertalics' faces. They had extracted lessons of their own from the snows of Takltlima, lessons they expected their monarch to have learned as well.
They raised their hands, shouted out their favorable verdict. Yet their gaze told a different tale. It informed the Rageris that this was his second chance, and that there would not be a third. Gravely, he nodded his understanding, giving them leave to return to their own affairs.
One by one, the Sankhron Ree exited the throne room. As they passed the front gate, the emperor's attention was drawn to yet another mural. This one was tiny if compared to the others, and it was easy to understand why. It, unlike most of the others, showed not victory or renaissance, but abject defeat.
For an incoming visitor, it would be easy to miss it entirely. It stood right beside the throne room's main gate, so that someone entering would have to turn around to get a good look at it. Visitors rarely did that. In front of them were images of triumph rendered in glorious detail, the throne, maybe even the Rageris himself. Why would they turn back?
The emperor, on the other hand, while sitting on the throne, had it squarely within his field of view at all times.
It depicted Rageris the fifth, last ruler of the First Empire. He was seen thrusting with a lance at his enemy, to no avail. Around him, the Cathedral of the Abyss crumbled. Thin tendrils pierced his chest and side like sinuous needles. Above, to the right, his attacker. Not an Aquatic or Irlestur though. These tentacles came from a different category of creature. They grew forth from impossible directions, or attached themselves to a twisting, amorphous body, alien to any species gazing upon it. And there were eyes all around, sprouting even from the collapsing walls.
Looking at it, Flameridrail felt, as any observer would feel, the artist's dread and awe of the thing he'd depicted. The scourge. The destroyer of worlds. Ultimate bane of the First Empire, gold-frozen in her final moment of wrath. He remembered the forty-nine faces then, how they'd judged him. He looked at his doomed predecessor, and knew a similar fate awaited him, should this latest enterprise of his fail.
Another task lay ahead. As he had convinced the topmost elite, he must now persuade the common people. It was not more or less difficult per say, just different.
The Rageris emerged from the main gate, alone. Snipers and security officers watched his every move, inconspicuous, from a distance. A small army of them, all as trained and skilled as could be. But, to a careless observer, he appeared to be alone.
The Cathedral was the only major structure in the area, but for a few, far smaller nearby facilities dedicated to servicing the priesthood and its other occupants. Massive twin towers supported the building, each perched on one side of the Holy Abyss. Between the towers, a gleaming golden arc, covered in turrets that pointed both towards the ocean surface and the bottomless dark below. Suspended atop the arc, the Cathedral's innermost sanctum, towards which every person in the gathered crowds wished to flow.
They were packed tight, as a school of fish larger than any nature could, unassisted, produce. Tails waving slow and rhythmic, keeping them firm in place. All had been summoned to this place by the same promise. That the Rageris was to make a public appearance, and a historic announcement. Many had traveled for hours to be there. Some had come from other star systems. He was their spiritual guide and their ruler.
When Flameridrail the Third crossed the gates, they roared. Not any word in particular, just a compound ultrasonic shockwave that made the water shimmer. For a long moment, he stopped to hear it, to feel the vibration on his scales. The adoration was intoxicating. Enough to distract from the crushing responsibilities that came attached to it, from how quickly it could turn to hate.
Then, with reluctance, he started waving his hands at them, placating. A while later it took effect. The roar died down to a few sporadic shouts, then to near total silence.
To the crowd, he repeated the most inspiring bits of his previous speech. The same ones that'd had no effect on the Ree, because they were like him. The priests knew very well the backstage of that act, so it'd had no effect on them.
The crowd swimming around the Cathedral was different. They worshiped him. Not the whole Empire, or even the whole planet's population worshiped him. These people, however, the ones that had traveled, who'd spent hours packed tight, uncomfortable, just for a glimpse of him, they did. So he spared them the technicalities, the explanations of strategy and logistics. There'd be plenty of time for that later. For now, he stuck to the rousing speech.
In which he accused the others, the aliens, of rejecting and mocking Sankhron's law. He vowed to conquer the galaxy, to restore the Sencris to their rightful place in the cosmic order. He promised riches, power, glory.
The eldest among the masses looked wary of these promises. They too remembered seeing Flameridrail stand in the snow, in his encounter suit, making amends with the Actonertalics. The very young, for in Senchrien less than two centuries equals youth, did not remember. So they cheered. They all did, in the end, young and old. For those who remembered resented, and wished to set it all right. And those who did not looked forward to reaping all the glory and power promised to them. In the end, after some persuasion, they all raised their hands and cried for victory. The new Sencris expansion had begun.
Staring at the Sun
A weary Irlestur sensors technician sat at a console. Hir chubby tentacles lazily moved from taking notes, to adjusting a parameter or two on the screen, to taking more notes. Hir eyes wandered from screen to screen. To a bigger screen. It showed several images of a sun, each in a distinct wavelength.
A warm, medium sized sun. The type in whose orbits one may find a cozy habitable planet. Indeed there was one, right in the middle of its temperate zone. A gas giant, with a lush green moon under its shade. The name of that moon, as given by the most prosperous and numerous tribe of its inhabitants, was Zalooridar.
The technician, and a crew of other Irlestur, had been tasked with carefully monitoring that star. Their ship, an aging long-range explorer, had been parked at the gas giant's L1 point for many days. Its curvy, bluish silver hull bore the tiny scars of prolonged exposure to cosmic rays and countless micro-impacts. The aperture of its transit core was minuscule, capable of generating a field just big enough to encompass it whole.
The mission had seemed exciting due to the secrecy surrounding it. Among the crew, there were rumors of many more like it, but nothing confirmed. No one knew who had actually commissioned it. Their orders had come from the science division of the Irlestria government. Beyond that, however, the chain of command became more and more obscured by redaction and encryption. All that gave it an air of adventure.
The task itself though, as the technician had discovered over the past days, was repetitive and dull. Stare at the consoles, register the readings. Pass the results along for further analysis. Repeat. Still shi carried it out with diligence, for it must be of great importance, to be so wrapped in mystery.
"Anything new?" The data analyst asked.
For the first few rounds in that chair, the technician wouldn't have had enough knowledge to answer. Hir job was to collect data, not interpret it. But, with repetition, shi'd picked up on some tells. What graphic spikes raised hir colleague's brow, what numbers caused hir to slither faster back to hir station.
"I don't think so," shi replied, handing over an evening's worth of notes.
Then shi lifted hir bulbous body, waving to another approaching Irlestur. Hir night shift replacement. Despite being in the same boat for so long, the two barely knew each other, as they were seldom awake at the same time.
Through a short, very narrow corridor, shi slithered to hir quarters. A crammed chamber, its bulkheads lined with storage compartments for clothes and other personal belongings. A round, shallow pool took up half the space. The size of a bed, and it served as such. The air, like in the rest of the ship, was thick with moisture, emulating the environments of Irlestria most welcoming to its inhabitants.
