“Brothers, this is a time of great dismay and poor fortune, and we must be strong. The Corpse Emperor’s weakness, damn his rotten bones, has been revealed to the galaxy, and we must be the ones to make the first move. Though we may not have the manpower of other the clans, and we lack the blood money of the avaricious fools in the CCH, we have the strength of will to succeed – the dream where every man and woman has the power to live on their own terms. Follow me, and our new lord Mikhail to the golden lands, and glory will be upon us. Urah!” – Simon Hawke, Lesser lord of the Serrated Imperium clan, 2257. Recorded segment of this rally was later broadcasted between various clanlords who would later defect to the Ten Tools of Triumph.

  The man stood atop an endless ocean of oily black liquid, its reflection a mirror of the golden skies stretching far above and beyond him. Infinite possibilities and endless dreams lingered in every brushstroke of the heavens, shattered images of things to be. He walked, each step sending a single ripple across the expanse in his wake, towards an unknown horizon. The time he spent here often felt like he was visiting another world beyond that of his universe. Another time, another place, one where the stresses of reality were specks of nothingness, pure nihility.

  But why? Why did the fragmented visions not make sense? They had to; that was why he had come here, for years he had trained to see this place for what it was. So why? Was he not worthy? Had the years of challenge not made him a true champion for this place? Of course not, he knew that from the depths of his heart that were he not the one, the only one, meant to understand the confused realm that he would not be able to see as much as he did. It was not a matter of his nature not aligning with the endless sea of darkness below and golden skies above, it was just a matter of time.

  Time.

  The endless judge of all, the constant leash around his neck, the one leash that stood defiant where he had torn away all others. It was just a waiting game, and that he could do. After all, he was the chosen one for this path. That was not to say there were others of import; gods no. He would never reach the final dream on his own, and he certainly did not want to see his work come to fruition alone.

  A disturbance trembled the world. His feet sank into the black oil by an inch. Damn it all. Like the settling of a snow globe after the initial shake, the magic of the dream was fading, the snowflakes falling to the bottom of the glassy sphere. But maybe if he sprinted, could he see more? His wake was no longer a clear circle extending outwards. It had been replaced by a rough wave. He surged forward. Please, more, more. That was all he needed. Another vision, one more hint, please!

  Another quake, his attention on the other world sapped away. Why must he always be so close, and yet so far? A final shake sent him sprawling into the viscous midnight, sinking up to his neck. As he faltered, he reminded himself to adjust the S-Field for the next session. The man felt he could push White Gold’s S-Drive to its limit, despite the potential risk the S-Trance might have on his QIS pattern. If the dream was within grasp, then effort, equipment, and planning would be the solution. That was, aside from waiting until the right moment. The right time.

  Time and power. Or, at least, dedication to his goal. Power was often construed with the motivation to achieve power, and to the man, they may as well have been the same thing. All things were held by those two aspects of the soul. Before he would die, the man knew he would master both. At last, the world faded around him, the distraction becoming truth.

  “My lord! My lord, do you hear me?” Matvey, his second in command said. The loyal officer shook his arm and the dream ended.

  With great reluctance, Mikhail Olegovich, First Blade for the Ten Tools of Triumph and leader of the Dawn Fang military division rose to his feet, stretching his shoulders out. The perfectly black surfaces of his meditation room were lit only by the thin slit of light leaking into the room from the open door. How much time had passed? He had only planned to spend an hour or two in his trance, but if had been longer…

  No matter, the time spent was clearly needed. He was on the cusp of a revelation, and he could taste the success already. All Mikhail needed was to reach out and take it.

  “Sir? Are you alright?” His second asked, his usual neutral face besmirched by the creasing of his soft brow.

  Ah, dear Matvey, always looking out for his him, no matter how many times Mikhail had dragged the two of them into disaster. Becoming the de-facto leader of military for an alien nation had not been in Mikhail’s mind when he departed Titanlock six years prior to attempt the ransoming of an expedition fleet from the CCH, but life was often strange in expressing destiny.

  “Of course, deary. Is it time already?” Mikhail flashed his usual ferocious grin as he stood up in a svelte motion,

  “Afraid so. As per your request, he’s been left on the call for about five minutes. How long do you wish to keep him waiting?”

  “Hmm, let’s take our time getting ready. Dear old Jii-Xaar doesn’t have anything better to do anyways.”

  Exiting to his private chambers, furnished in blues and golds, the black door leading to the meditation chamber was a dark eyesore compared to the otherwise bright and coloured room.

  White stone made up the walls and floor of the room, the surfaces covered in intricate murals and engravings of history and myth. A dozen Cambiar servants skittered about the room, tidying and preparing for Mikhail’s arrival. Artificial sunlight streamed through a glass pane embedded in the ceiling, designating a point on the floor for him to stand. Across one wall of the luxury chamber was a completely unfitting shelf full of knick-knacks he had begun accruing, a nasty habit he had picked up whilst preparing for his infiltration into Henry and Huell years before. Since having become a pillar of the Ten-Tri leadership after his dramatic escape from Fifth Spoke, the Out-Han ship at the centre of the New Horizons Incident, he had done his best to persuade and invite those with similar goals to the growing faction, but even after all of Mikhail’s efforts the Cambiar still vastly outnumbered the humans within the empire.

  Standing in the middle of the room, Matvey being the only other human, he held his arms to the sides as the Cambiar attendants moved around him. Holding out various garments and clothes, he let them bicker and decide on which one suited best. The Ten-Tri had taken to him well, almost… too well. It appeared that Mikhail had fit the bill for some old prophecy the nation had spawned soon after its founding. The Ten-Tri were one of ten or so smaller nations that had formed from the dissolution of the unnamed unified Cambiar empire, the one which all Cambiar used to be a part of. The nameless goliath of the galaxy had not survived the aliens undergoing an awakening of sorts, their full faculties being brought on out of the blue in an event known as The Great Awakening.

  Prophecy or not, the Ten-Tri had been looking for a strong military leader and Mikhail had been more than willing to take the helm. So far, some thirty clans from Heaven’s Doctrine had split away to join him, though others had gotten cold feet and instead had joined the Separatist groups in the civil war. Though a safer option on paper, the fate of those in the Separatists would not be safe should the Corpse Emperor win his civil war. Of course, Mikhail could already see that it was likely the old fool would succeed, but not without concessions. Such was part of the joys of knowing the possible future.

  But that was not Mikhail’s concern. The time had come for the next hand of the Dawn Fang to be played. The Tylas were a difficult obstacle – a far cry from the overwhelmingly amiable Cambiar. Incorporating the Tylas, even if it was only a small part of their population, was on the ‘to do’ list he had been working on since joining the Ten-Tri and becoming aware of the race. That small list, once only consisting of simply of wrenching Heaven’s Doctrine from the cold, dead hands of the Corpse Emperor, had burgeoned exponentially. Now, there was untold amounts of alien life beyond the stars, increasing tension between all major powers in the galaxy, and the small matter of S-Drives holding secrets of prescience.

  It had been during his time with the Out-Han, and all that fun he had there, that he came to his new understanding of the universe. There was… something… within the Schr?dinger-Drives, something that allowed him to tap into both an accurate short-term and more dynamic long-term sense of providence. It had taken the work of a half dozen Keepers fiddling about with S-Drives that Mikhail had uncovered the beginnings of such a secret. Working with his new Cambiar allies, he had made frustratingly little progress on the mysterious machines and their underlying mechanisms. Still, he had time.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  Finally, his servants had come to the agreement that he should wear an open chested robe, as they felt it was symbolise strength to the pious Tylas he was to talk to. That, and it was fun to have a reason to walk around with his nipples out. Heh. If Mikhail knew anything about his chances of persuading the strange, floating aliens to his worldview, it would be either by incorporating their religion, or destroying it. He would make that decision based on how the next five minutes went.

  They passed through the smooth hallways of the ship, Cambiar organics mixed with human mass-produced materials marking the walls around him. White Gold’s retrofitting had been well worth incorporating the alien’s technology, as it gave him increased control over whatever changes he desired from his personal craft. The zoo he added the year before was an excellent use of Cambiar bio-manipulation.

  “My lord, Rexia Thylanos gives his personal thanks to you,” Matvey said, briskly matching pace with Mikhail’s excited power walking.

  “What for?” Mikhail smirked and raised an eyebrow.

  “For you unyielding dedication to the Ten-Tri, and for… he used a certain term, my lord.”

  “Which was?”

  “He… wished to give you a title, sir. I… I think this matter requires more delicate surroundings.”

  Mikhail knew what the Rexia was trying to offer him, as had many others in the highest council of the empire, but he wanted to keep the Ten-Tri waiting. Six years felt too short. No matter how far he had come, he wished to wait until after the IGS before their gifts were bestowed. Still, he knew that sooner or later, the Ten Tools of Triumph would have a new leader, and he would be absolutely fabulous. Now, it was time to set up the punchline, even if no one would get it later.

  “Matvey, can you hear that?”

  “Sir?”

  “The that phone that’s ringing?”

  “I… don’t hear it, my lord. Are yo-“

  “Ah, bah bah!” Mikhail interrupted. “It’s for later. Give it… say… a few weeks after the Symposium, perhaps?”

  He laughed to himself at Matvey only looked more confused. Mikhail found himself considering the best strengths of the Tylas should some of them join. If humanity was ruled by its ability to designate those as ‘others’ and ‘same’, and to fight with tooth and nail against the former and to defend valiantly the latter, then the Cambiar were crowned by their ability to fit and adapt to any situation. Whilst that did apply literally, with their variable XNA structure allowing for all manner of changes to their biology, they were easily molded to the whims of man. Notably, the Corpse Emperor had seen this when he had contacted the Ten-Tri some years before anyone else. If only he knew the power he had wasted by seeing not as an opportunity to gain an ally, but as a paranoid threat to his rule. Dumbass.

  The Tylas, however, were not as malleable as the Cambiar or categorically restricted in their view of the world. Their real value, perhaps, was in their stubbornness to change at all. Once a Tylas had a particular mindset, it was near impossible to shift it. At least, not without logical arguments and overwhelming evidence. Appealing to emotions seemed to be a dead end based on his few interactions with Jii-Xaar so far. But when, not if, the race of floating aliens joined the Ten-Tri, hoo boy, that was when the fun could begin. The sheer concept of incorporating a third race into the nation would be the first step in becoming a real interspecies power the rest of the galaxy couldn’t ignore. He would stand as a bulwark against the rest of the threats of the galaxy as a protector of all races. Especially the fuckable ones. Hell, everything was fuckable if you tried hard enough.

  Doing his best to undo the work of his attendants’ efforts to neaten his flowing hair, Mikhail freed his silverly locks from the knotted bun it had been restrained within. A select portion of the entourage that followed him through the centre hall where his warriors trained in arenas below, and into the comms room, seemed to approve of the wild flare he had given himself, nodding their little elongated heads in approval. At first, it had been difficult to instil a real sense of individuality in the aliens – their natural reaction was to simply mimic and copy those around them. It was only after years of hard work that his own men from the Broken Fang, the clan Mikhail had once been part of, had integrated the value of ‘disagreement’ into the adaptable species.

  It seemed that his dream of creating a less speciesist Heaven’s Doctrine was still a long way off. So, alas, no dramatic duels to the death over spilt milk or someone ‘courting death’ by looking funny at someone’s wife had occurred yet. How disappointing. Even if it was going slowly, the Cambiar were forming their own opinions. That was good, great even. In his empire, the will of the individual would stand above all else. That was the one rule he had learnt from the universe after nearly two decades of being a tool for his clan, a hiltless blade his father and twin siblings had set on rival Doctrine clans.

  Finally, in the centre of the circular comms room to the fore of White Gold, he was able to see his target. Mikhail strode forwards until he was looking upwards at the advanced holographic display that cast a deep blue hue across the otherwise lightless chamber. The image was made of beads of light that had been reduced to a fraction of their usual speed that bounced between precisely cut prisms to create a 3D image. The advanced display was one of the few pieces of Tylas technology he had acquired so far, and had been purchased through proxy buyers from a fool on the edges of Kral-Thul. ‘Lord’ Berhltine as he called himself. That wretch, that thief was to be pondered another day.

  Putting on his best grin, Mikhail looked up at the flicking image of an exaggeratedly large Tylas as it scowled down at the group. In terms of raw physical features, it was difficult to discern specific Tylas apart. Frankly, Mikhail found it impossible to tell which sex they were; his first time flirting with such an individual of the species had gone rather awkward due for that reason. Though the image in front of him was tinted an azure tone, the excessive layers of pure white robes that cascaded across the alien’s form were clear to see. The High Speaker had taken the effort to adorn himself with numerous additional accessories, small bangles and the like, that highlighted his supposed importance in the Baraldian religion.

  “You are late,” Jii-Xaar said, his natural ghostly voice was translated into an excessively gruff one that didn’t fit the gentle look the alien race had going for it.

  “Ah, High Speaker! So good to see you!” Mikhail gave an exaggerated bow to the jellyfish pope. “Apologies for the delay. I think I saw a bird out a window. Took me a while to remember birds can’t breathe in a vacuum; such a shame.”

  “Forget your paltry attempts at humour, human. We have little to discuss, but I am already counting the seconds I waste on you. Make this quick.”

  “As you wish. Ready to make your final offer?”

  “It is you who will accept the offerings of the Heralds. Know your place, interloper.”

  The only place this Tylas would end up would be if he kept this up would be the end of Cassaria. Instinctively, Mikhail’s hand flexed for his beloved high-frequency blade, but found the sheath missing from its usual spot. Hellfire, getting that sword back would be the second most important thing after dealing with Kral’Thul and the Heralds.

  “Fine. What do you want from us, and what do you get?” Mikhail had already seen enough visions to approximate the alien’s desire.

  “Simply what we spoke of before. You arrive during this foolish gathering the corporations have organised, take what you desire in the designated time frame using the landing codes I will send you, and leave. Focus your attacks on Urestior – destruction of the human structures will not suit our needs. Note that Scorching Dominant Aveo-Dos has made it clear that he will be willing to use the full might of Barald’s will against any opposers during this event, and ten minutes will be the most I can grant you.”

  “Well, that part sounds great to me,” Mikhail lied. He had no interest in ransacking the alien settlement. Instead, it was what the overly zealous kite was trying to hide that intrigued him. “But I can’t help but fail to see why you of all people would want us to hurt, destroy even, your dear followers?”

  “Barald works in many ways. To retain the unity of our people, we cannot let primitive intruders infect us the way you have the four-legged ones. If painting the true image of your savagery requires the loss of some lives, that is a price I am sure the Lord would be willing to take.”

  Mikhail doubted any god would be so willing to have their followers die for such a weak reason, but he mentally digressed the point.

  “I understand. I suppose I’ll avoid your house, then?” Mikhail gave a feral grin.

  “Do not joke about such things, monkey. As I clearly marked on the documents, our holy sector of the city is to be avoided. I have sent through the codes that will make you blind to the city’s turrets. Make your time count and leave. May it be the last the Heralds see of your people.”

  “You never know. We are unpredictable.” Mikhail disconnected the call.

  The hologram disappeared. As staff filled the room, making comm connections and preparing messages to other ships in the fleet, Mikhail turned and left the room. As he did, he couldn’t help but let his internal giggling slip out.

  “Sir?” Matvey asked.

  The giggling grew, stirring within him until it bubbled out with increasing strength. As he reached the training hall, transmitting a request for his tech-manager to switch out his current cybernetics for recreational usage with his combat loadout, he began to howl with laughter.

  “Oh, Matvey, this is going to be as sweet as cherry pie!”

  As Matvey and the other staff looked on perplexed, all Mikhail could do was cackle in victory. Jii-Xaar had no clue what he had just given authorized. It was only a few months before the party could begin, and Jii-Xaar had designated himself the guest of honour.

  And Mikhail would happily give him a night to remember.