The Empire: Book Six of Seeds of a Fallen Empire

  Chapter Twelve

  Concerning the foundation of any empire, a million words might be said once the founding is a fait accompli, and yet the event that directly caused such a founding and even the very founding itself still retain on their side the stultifying powers of mystery and awe, whose influence even the greatest Seynorynaelian critics could not entirely discount.

  The Seynorynaelian Empire, founded in 19,791 L.I.A (years since the city of Ariyal-synai’s founding) was a matter officially settled by the Seynorynaelian and Federation Councils, who, after a very brief meeting, handed over permanent authoritative control to Elder Marankeil, now the Emperor, and to his Vice-Emperor Ornenkai, while space vessels flared and fell hard against the very city dome of Ariyalsynai from the skies far above.

  The Federation Council relinquished power to Marankeil in the heat of an emergency situation, a situation created by a renegade Federation army and fleet under the command of General Capriniar. Capriniar’s renegade army was leading a simultaneous assault against the planet Seynorynael itself and against several local Federation worlds and colonies.

  Even as a clone, Marankeil was no soldier, yet he was a brilliant tactician, and after generations of solidifying and strengthening the power of the Martial Force that he had created, he commanded the absolute loyalty of the Seynorynaelian and Federation legions, aboard space battleships, in the grounded peace-keeping armies, among even the common pilots.

  The rebellious fleet of the disgruntled General Capriniar was defeated in the course of a single Seynorynaelian day; however, to prevent future attacks and to safeguard the planet and Federation from the possibility of free Federation merchants legally acquiring anti-matter weaponry and selling it to the highest bidder, the Council elected not to remove the special powers it had bestowed upon one of its own, Elder Marankeil, in their eyes the oldest and wisest creature in all of the Federation. The decision of the combined Councils, which had to be unanimous, waited for several hours upon the arrival of Elder Ornenkai, who had been difficult to locate and in the end had to be expeditiously shuttled to the Council Building.

  Ornenkai listened quietly as the matter of the coup was relayed to him in all haste; then, as all eyes fell upon him, he cast the final, deciding vote in favor of the emergency action—and with that vote, Marankeil became the Emperor.

  Thus the glorious reign of the Seynorynaelian Empire had begun, and ever after the date was marked by L. I. I. (years since the founding of the Empire).

  In the coming years, historians remarked upon the efforts of the Vice-Emperor Ornenkai to raise the standards of living in the most remote imperial colonies, of his many disappearances to off-worlds and of his magnanimity; the Emperor Marankeil himself could not of course be expected to leave the safety of the planet Seynorynael and its newly established security rings, or the security of his own personal praetorian guard.

  As always, Marankeil kept himself from the public, as though conscious of the fact that distance was a mysterious veil that could be manipulated in his favor, to hide any flaws and incite perpetual curiosity and reverence.

  For a time, he was generally considered a wise, just, and virtuous Emperor, an Emperor concerned with the glory of the Empire and the well-being of its citizens.

  Returning from his off-world efforts, Ornenkai once again fell into the political intrigues of Ariyalsynai and soon became confessor to Marankeil once more, as he had been in the early days of their friendship. Because of this, on a whim, Marankeil refused to let Ornenkai leave the Imperial Palace for many long years.

  Soon Ornenkai began to realize the futility of his own humanitarian efforts across the new Empire; for Marankeil cared only to control everything and everyone and overturned on a mere whim societies and laws Ornenkai had established; after a millennium of imperial rule, Marankeil espoused a belief that people couldn’t rule themselves properly, that before the Empire, they had made bad choices for their lives, choices now magnanimously made for them; and the Empire citizens themselves believed that there would be disorder, chaos, and internal war without the Emperor who had given them unity and order.

  Ornenkai kept silent throughout it all, and survived from one day to the next.

  The officer sat down heavily in a chair in front of the musicians playing alorcheli music in the Seynorynaelian section of the lounge and relaxation center adjacent to the Imperial Science Building. He listened to the soft tones of the alien music and found it calming.

  "Hello, friend, have you returned from the Ephoran front line?" A loud voice interrupted him, and a middle-aged Seynorynaelian man invited himself to sit down next to the officer.

  "You're a Captain, I see," the man nodded knowingly, indicating the insignia on the officer's left breastplate, a swirling design surrounding the engraved letters of the officer's name. "Captain Lethar-wúd." He read the words slowly and smiled. The Captain gave a slight nod and then turned away.

  "So, you've returned from the Ephor territory?" The stranger persisted. "Any word on how much longer the latest war will last?"

  The Captain could see that the man was not going to leave him alone until he got an answer, and set down his drink.

  "The Ephors are still resisting. I can't say how long it will take the Empire to quell their rebellion, but they do appear to be weakening."

  "Yes. I heard that the Mirelion returned this morning from the Ephor system—from galaxy group two beyond the Great Cluster—with news of an impending victory. Your ship?"

  "Yes. You know, the Ephors would never have attempted to defy the Empire if we weren't already at war. They only took advantage of our vulnerability—we can’t fight the Lhrekvidamyl, Kaelri, and the Ephors at the same time, and Emperor Marankeil refuses to dispatch the Imperial Fleet with the threat of revolutionary groups appearing in Arialsynai."

  "There has been much talk of them while your fleet was away." The stranger admitted. "The city is alive with rumors that there are revolutionaries who would change the past and destroy Seynorynael if they could—and with the centipede star gates so carefully monitored, it seems that some of them have even attempted the dangerous rotating black hole gates to reach a point in the past before Selesta existed and the technology of the ancients was discovered."

  The Captain appeared shocked, and then composed himself. "Obviously the revolutionaries failed," he said at last.

  "Yes—it is said that they might have been lost in time, but others think it more likely that they perished in the black holes. They did not know how to withstand the forces within the event horizon. But it seems that the Ephors have begun to pose a stronger threat to the Empire. I have heard that the Ephors are again a very strong and violent people. Surely they have made a difficult enemy, as they once did in ancient history before their planet’s cessation to the Empire," the stranger observed.

  "Hmmm," Captain Lethar-wúd nodded. "A cruel, monstrous race, who treated their own colonies far worse back in ancient days than the Empire ever treated them. If you ask me, the Empire would be better off without the Ephors. We can never trust the Ephor worlds again, especially if they were to gain their independence. Besides—they aren't true humanoids. They aren't a brother race."

  But they are living beings. The stranger looked at the Captain, his eyes narrowed. "You seem to believe in the First Race Theory," he commented.

  Lethar-wúd turned around in surprise, quick to respond, but the older man looked harmless. "I suppose I still do. It isn't a crime—yet," the Captain shrugged.

  "But Emperor Marankeil doesn’t support the theory any more. I'm surprised that you would disagree—seeing that by maintaining your own opinion, you might be putting your position in jeopardy."

  "Perhaps," the Captain nodded and took a sip of his drink. He was not certain what the stranger's motives were, but he was certain that the man would not get far with any threats.

  "Rumor has it that the last man who claimed to be Hinev change
d his mind about the First Race Theory." The stranger said. "He knew he was wrong when they found our ancient ancestors—the creatures frozen in the glaciers of the north—"

  "I believe you are mistaken.” The Captain argued. “The Hinev pretender only claimed that neither the Seynorynaelians nor any other race was the "first race", even though we might be the ancient race's closest descendants. As for our primitive ancestors, they could very well have been used as genetic material for the advanced race that came to our world. And pretender or not, the man made a lot of sense in my opinion. Now, if you don't mind telling me, I'd like to know the reason for this little game of yours."

  "Don’t worry, I didn’t set out to ruin you.” Said the stranger.

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “It disturbs me to see our people forgetting the ties of friendship between the ancient Federation planets.” The stranger went on.

  “Friendship is overrated.”

  “I disagree.” The stranger shook his head. “And I also believe that they are our brothers, but our people can’t live with that idea and still subjugate others—so they must reject the teachings of the past, and the First Race Theory as well."

  "You aren't a scientist, are you?" the Captain mused, contemplating the strange man's words. As he spoke, Lethar-wúd had begun to see a depth in the man he had first perceived as a simpleton.

  "What—me, a scientist?" the stranger echoed. "Let's say that I am a historian, and that the lore of the ancients interests me."

  "Then I would call you a friend. The Mirelion leaves in three days, but until then, friend, I would greatly value hearing a historian's stories, stories an officer doesn’t often get to hear. Perhaps they might be useful."

  "Then, I would be delighted."

  "Would you join me for a drink tomorrow?" The Captain asked, rising in his chair.

  "You have to report in?" The stranger asked, and Lethar-wúd nodded. "Very well, then, tomorrow—we’ll meet here again, if that’s all right," he suggested.

  “As long as you buy me a drink.” Lethar-wúd laughed, and the historian watched him leave.

  A few minutes later, the man left the lounge.

  I can’t fight much longer, he thought to himself. What can one man do to fight the majority? What can one man do to fight the reality and the truth an entire world has decided to create?

  And the more he struggled to fight against tyranny, the more he investigated and acted in the name of the common good, the more he strangled his own identity. Yes, he knew, he was slowly killing himself.

  As he walked down the pedestrian thoroughfare to a neighboring building, he turned the corner and into a shadowed area. A brief spark of light enveloped him, dispelling the illusion that had surrounded his features.

  He turned back into the street and saw his dark, no longer very exotic features mutely reflected in a silver panel of the cosmopolitan city Arialsynai; this image, unchanged for thousands of years, haunted him, while he struggled to remember what the being he had been had thought on that day so long ago when the serum froze his body in time.

  Who was this man staring back at him?

  He quickly shifted the reflected image to another; he took on the form of a stranger, satisfied that this would keep Jerekkil and Undina from watching him.

  "What's going on?" A voice interrupted the maintenance crew and android workers who were busy making final checks on the space cruiser in a large holding bay of Arialsynai's ninth astroport. The leader looked up and cast a glance at the Martial Force guards on duty, who stood before the disembarkation ramp to ensure that the ship's passengers were detained on board until departure. Then he looked at the stranger who had spoken, a Seynorynaelian hybrid man with piercing violet eyes.

  "This area is off limits—"

  "Why are those people on board that ship not allowed to leave? They aren't political prisoners." The stranger's resonant voice was so authoritative that the technician almost answered him.

  "The Emperor wants—wait a minute, how did you know that there were people on board? This is a cargo ship," the man blinked.

  "Where is the ship going?" The man asked, but the technician bit his lower lip and didn't answer. The stranger sighed.

  Too easy... Nepheria, is it?

  "So, why is Marankeil sending these people to Nepheria?" The stranger asked, and the man's mouth dropped open.

  But the technician didn't know.

  Hinev shrugged and left the man to his work, and decided to approach the guards instead.

  "Step back, sir," one of the guards warned, but Hinev wasn't interested in them, and he didn't need to get very close.

  As Hinev pulled his thoughts from the nearest guard's mind, he shuddered, genuinely affected by the knowledge he had gained.

  Marankeil had grown tired of watching the proto-telepaths, possibly because he had been convinced that a would-be assassin might hide among them. Now he had decided to send them into exile—to keep them from acting in any way in protest against the Empire. One transport had already been sent to Goeur. Marankeil had given the last remnant of the proto-telepath colonies a choice—those who did not seem to be of any threat could either leave the planet immediately or face prison and a possible execution.

  Those lucky enough to be given a choice had gone to Goeur until the quota of new colonists had been met. The less fortunate would be sent to Nepheria, with a brief stop on Tarcricor to undergo the genetic alteration that would allow them to withstand the aquatic environment and join the thriving colony there. Marankeil had no fear of them, but they would prove useful in stimulating the productivity of the sea mining on Nepheria.

  As Hinev watched the technicians, despair clouded his reason. He could do nothing for the people on board without causing them harm, but they were his people, descendants of the Firien settlement where he had once lived, where he had been born. Deep in his heart, he wanted to scream, to vent his frustration, but his mind curtailed even the slightest inclination to vehement behavior.

  In order to feel, he submerged his thoughts into his past, and found the past of many others, imprinted into his memory. As he pulled away, he felt the memories tempting him to forget himself, for the life of Fynals Hinev had never been easy. Hinev wondered if the day would come when his own conscious would be subverted by the others, but for now he only found his thoughts slightly muddled when he dipped into the pool of recollections.

  The alien man, nerves on edge and attuned to every sound and sight around him, hurried right past her in the corridor without even seeing her. She crouched there by the cold stretch of silver wall, her breathing strained, but he wouldn’t have heard her had she shouted or seen her if she had jumped out in front of him. She was invisible to him because her mind had sent him a suggestion that nothing was there; she was invisible to everything but the security recorders, and she knew how to take care of them with a current of electromagnetic waves.

  This particular unfinished section of the new Imperial Palace was empty but for the occasional Martial Force sentry patrolling the dim corridors, but they only nodded to the alien man and continued down the corridor.

  Hurbef was, for all intents and purposes, a guard himself.

  Hurbef had assaulted one of the guards on the perimeter of Arialsynai and stolen his purple and green habiliments. Word of the single guard's disappearance was not likely to reach the newly constructed Imperial Palace for a while, with all that was going on, especially as Hurbef masqueraded in his stead. Hurbef and his comrades had picked the perfect moment to strike, and had perhaps as much as two days to complete their mission.

  The guards did not seem to find it unusual that Hurbef kept his helmet on, with the visor down to conceal his identity; Hurbef’s guard had been an alien himself, and spoke through a translation unit. In truth, it was next to impossible to gain access to the Empire Council Building and Imperial Palace through the main entrance without proper
identification, but Hurbef hadn’t risked it. He had bypassed the outer perimeter of the Palace and entered the building through an underground water pipe.

  Hurbef was not alone, either. His leader, Marek, and the rest of their revolutionary team had been monitoring the cycling schedule carefully for a week in order to gain access to the building before the water was redirected through the pipe Hurbef had taken into the Palace.

  Hurbef had cut a hole through the pipe where it intersected the atmospheric filtration system and temporarily resealed the pipe to keep from attracting any attention. From there, he had squeezed his way through the atmospheric system and into the interior of the building, where he found a utilities station to clean up and change into the uniform in his sack.

  Hurbef was not a true humanoid, but a Yular native. He knew he could survive an hour or so if directly exposed to the Seynorynaelian atmosphere, if he were caught and exposed to that atmosphere, but after a while harmful nitrogen bubbles would begin to form in his bloodstream.

  Hurbef went from one level to another, unaware of his shadow companion. His purpose was highly dangerous, highly risky, yet he knew that he had to gather as much information about the council itself, future council meetings, and most importantly, where the Main Terminus might be found—all without attracting the attention of any of the Elders in Marankeil’s Advisory Council. If Hurbef were discovered and his mind interrogated, the Yular revolution would fail.

  When Hurbef stepped from the elevation device on one of the last floors, he met the wary gazes of two Martial Force officers and knew he had found the level where the mind memory of Marankeil was stored, in the Main Terminus which was now under the Imperial Palace.

  Now he could return with the news, so that the others could join him in the assault on the Emperor.

  Without speaking, Hurbef shrugged, feigning that he had mistakenly come to the wrong floor, and pressed the automatic ascent button for the ground level. He only hoped the guards did not find it suspicious that he had not spoken the command aloud.

  But there were no guards waiting to meet him on the ground floor. Hurbef sighed inwardly and prepared himself to pass the sentries who guarded passage in and out of the building.

  "Step forward for identification." One of the guards told a woman entering the guards’ gate of the Imperial Palace to lean forward into the eye-scanning device. After doing so, she displayed her identification card, in case she had somehow been cloned—only authorized personnel could pass both tests and know the code given every day for entry on the following one.

  Leaving should have been far easier than gaining entry. But as Hurbef walked past the guards, one of them stopped him.

  "Hey, friend, you forgot your salute," he laughed, but as Hurbef hesitated, the guard grew suspicious. "Wait a minute—submit identification card, please." He said, and Hurbef almost panicked. Now he had to accept that his mission and the Yular cause was over.

  He took a deep breath, conscious of the taste of precious air.

  Then slowly, he began to reach into his pocket for the laser beam gun he had taken with the clothes, when suddenly, the guard turned around, as though he had forgotten Hurbef's existence.

  Hurbef stared in shock and stood still several moments longer.

  Meanwhile, the woman entered the building, and the guards returned to their on-duty stance, completely ignoring Hurbef. Hurbef moved down the broad, blue stone inlaid white steps of the Imperial Palace, letting his foot fall as loudly as possible, as though testing his luck, but the guards took no further notice of him.

  Was this a miracle?!

  Hurbef walked across the empty courtyard, through the tranquillity of the guarded Imperial Forum and into the diplomats’ access area, then turned the corner of the Arboretum, and headed past the partitioned access of the Elder’s Forum. With this action, he passed into the unrestricted areas of Arialsynai, where both pedestrian, transport, and overhead shuttle traffic resumed and the general noise level rose substantially; he passed through the milling, noisome crowds of pedestrians catching transports and changing from one moving pathway to another, then found a quiet spot behind the small, nearest public arboretum and waited for Marek to find him. Suddenly a woman's voice interrupted him.

  "Drop your weapon," she said.

  Hurbef turned around in mute surprise. He was an elite soldier of Yular. How could he have made a mistake in determining that he had not been followed by any of the Imperial guards?

  "Who... who are you?" He asked in accented Seynorynaelian.

  "My name is Selerael," the woman answered in Yular, her face hidden by a helmet as she regarded the weapon at his side. Suddenly, the gun raised itself into mid-air, and floated over to the strange woman's outstretched hand.

  Hurbef blinked in surprise. Marek was not going to believe him when he explained what happened to the gun.

  The woman stayed by him until the others arrived at the rendezvous spot, attired as Seynorynaelian guards.

  "Ah, Hurbef, how is the security—" Marek's voice broke off as he fully rounded the corner of the contained arboretum and noticed Hurbef's previously hidden companion. "Who are you?" he asked suspiciously, but at the same time his voice was demanding.

  "All I can tell you is that her name is Selerael—she won't say why she followed me," Hurbef spoke in Yular.

  "Stop, Iganoghchi," Marek warned, noticing the subtle movement of the soldier behind and to the right of him. He knew that the young woman proposed rushing the stranger through her body movement, but Marek shook his head. "We'll deal with her another way. Do you think she would have left Hurbef alive or let him speak to us if she didn't intend to treat with us? We would have had no way of knowing that she was even here before we arrived. She could have done anything—even called the real city guards."

  Selerael regarded Marek several moments, struck by the man's insight and intelligence. Because the Yular had lived in primitive hillside dwellings they had been regarded as evolutionary inferiors by the Empire since their discovery thirty-one years ago. But they had merely been a young civilization, with little time to develop their unknown potential. And they were not necessarily, to her mind, inferior beings.

  "What do you intend with us, stranger?" Marek asked boldly. She sensed that he and his people were proud and noble despite the terrible way that they had been treated by the Empire; she knew now more than ever that she had to stop them.

  "I can’t let you carry out your mission," Selerael answered as directly as Marek had asked. Marek looked about briefly to ensure that there was no one listening to this odd meeting.

  "What reason would you have to interfere?” he asked when he was sure they were more or less alone in the remote location they had chosen as the rendezvous site. “And how do you know what we are planning to do?" Marek continued, unperturbed by Selerael's statement.

  "I interfere for the same reason that your friends have returned in time—I want to destroy the Council and the Emperor—myself."

  Marek's eyes widened behind his clear atmosphere mask. "I will listen to your explanation," he offered.

  "I followed your man, Hurbef, from the moment he entered the Palace," Selerael began. Marek's eyes darted to Hurbef, but Hurbef appeared confused.

  "Is that true, Hurbef? Why did you let her follow you?" Marek asked.

  "I—I didn't notice anyone—I tell you she wasn't there!" Hurbef protested.

  "It is true, he had no idea I was there," Selerael said. "That I will explain, but first let us withdraw to my dwelling—we’ll be noticed here if we remain much longer, and even the other guards may ask to see your military identification cards."

  Several hours later, the team of Yulare sat on ancient high-backed chairs inside the cool inner parlor of a small dwelling, a dwelling located in one of the bordering towns that lay many units south of the great dome of Arialsynai. They declined the decanters of refreshment, Selerael offered them, swee
t, clear spirits with a scent of spices and several other sweet cakes and fruits. There was business to discuss, and they wanted nothing more than to hear it. So, Selerael sat down to explain the information Marek and his team were impatient to hear—how she had known their intentions without being informed of them and why she would help them, who were strangers to her.

  Selerael sat across Marek at the clear, crystalline table at the center of the wide parlored room, and withdrew the atmospheric helmet that obscured her identity. A bird chirped sweetly outside the wide, open colonnade, rustling in bushes that lined the provincial dwelling, and a breeze stirred. As Selerael shook her head to clear the static from her hair, Marek's green eyes, intent upon her face, widened in abrupt surprise.

  "It's you!" he shouted, rising.

  The others turned to stare at him questioningly.

  "I remember you!” Marek continued, oblivious to them, in tones of growing excitement that might not have been well-intentioned. “You came to Yular when I was only a boy. You and your friends met my father the leader of the great city of Gribbio and told him of your world above and beyond the skies...”

  The others began looking at her, but she kept a straight face.

  “I thought you were sent by the divine spirit, until I learned of what the Empire would do—now I see at least why you were able to follow Hurbef." Marek shook his head vigorously.

  "Who is she, Marek?" Hurbef asked, curious as to the answer, but more intrigued by the unusual reaction she had instilled in Marek.

  Marek stared hard at Selerael as if expecting her to answer the question herself.

  The revolutionary team didn’t understand Marek because they had come from the future and he had not. They had returned in time from several thousand years in the future of Yular to stop the Empire, but they had wanted to choose a leader who understood how to act and get through the security of the present that was their past, so they had chosen the son of the last Yular leader to guide them—Marek.

  When they spoke of the future to Marek and showed him the proof they had brought, the trust and faith instilled in his heart by the explorers from Seynorynael turned to bitterness and resolution. Thus Marek had decided to help the Yular revolutionaries. The Empire had promised many things to the Yular with words meaningless as wind, but it was a Federation the Seynorynaelian explorers had described which brought Yulare representatives to Seynorynael in good faith, only to find that the Federation was no more.

  "I was only a child when you played with me and told me stories of your home world," Marek continued after a silence, ignoring Hurbef's question. "Why do you tell us you are Selerael, when I know who you are—you are Alessia, and you betrayed me and all of my people!" Marek's voice had a sharp edge to it, and the others feared what he might do if this strange woman moved or denied his words. He glared at her, his body taut as a wire, as though he might spring at her to do her harm at any second.

  The other Yulare didn’t know that Marek held himself still for good reason. The others had never seen any of Hinev's explorers, as Marek had. He knew the folly in assaulting one, for he had seen the consequences first-hand. That alone kept him from attacking her, had he let his hot temper get the best of him.

  "I’m sorry for what you’ve suffered." Selerael responded in a low voice, shaking her head solemnly. "But I’m not who you think I am. I’m not Alessia. Alessia is my mother."

  "Your mother?" Marek echoed, visibly affected by this news; his eyes betrayed a fresh notion of doubt.

  Selerael looked away to the right, her gaze falling on a mural painted on the wall, of a starship that crashed in the sea.

  “Don’t blame Hinev’s explorers.” She added, with a bare hint of unhappiness.

  “Oh, and why not?” Marek demanded.

  “Because they never meant for your people to be enslaved.” She replied. “As they continue on their voyage, they still don’t know what goes on here. They still believe that they are bringing the Federation's prosperity to the galaxies. They don’t yet know about the formation of the Empire.”

  “And what do I care what they think?” Marek tossed his proud head.

  “I suppose you have no reason to.” Selerael admitted. “But understand me very carefully—there have been others who have attempted to do what you are doing now, and they’ve all failed.”

  "Then you can understand what we want.” Marek shrugged, trying not to be affected by the alarming gravity of her manner. “You said before that you hoped to destroy the Council—so why not join us?”

  “Join you?” she said, turning to him again.

  “Yes.” Marek nodded. “If your abilities are the same as Hinev's explorers, then you could be a great help to our cause. If you know of the Empire's future atrocities, I can’t believe you won’t help us in our cause if we ask for your assistance.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Yet if you won’t,” Marek continued, narrowing his eyes on her, “how do we know that you aren't working for the Empire to stop us?"

  Hurbef swallowed, his throat tight; the others, suddenly tense, waited and listened, glancing between Marek and Selerael.

  "I do intend to stop you," Selerael said stonily, meeting Marek's eyes.

  There was a faint scuffling sound as the Yulare abruptly reached for their weapons, but Marek motioned them to stop.

  "Explain yourself," he warned.

  "I know that you intend to destroy the Main Terminus and erase the memories of Marankeil's mechanized unit and that of the back-up in the underground vault.” Selerael returned.

  Marek’s eyes flickered imperceptibly, as he processed the fact that she knew of their plans and could therefore be a threat to them.

  “I saw your group yesterday outside the new Imperial Palace,” Selerael continued, “where half of you intend to find and murder the living Marankeil clone at the same moment, obliterating his existence before he can re-implant his memories into another mechanized unit."

  "Yes, that is our plan," Marek conceded, glaring at her.

  "I also know that you’ll fail,” Selerael said in a cold tone. “There is a back-up mechanized unit on Maerus' third moon and a clone traveling to Goeur.” At this, Marek’s eyes darted anxiously to the outer walls of the room and then back to Selerael. “I’ve been watching the Council for more years than you know,” she told him, “waiting for the moment when all of the Council might be assembled together. Until they are, there is no point in trying to destroy them piece by piece—person by person,” she added, checking herself and amending her clinical statement.

  “What do you mean?” Marek bit out, bristling under her unconcerned self-assurance, even though she showed no sign of taking pleasure in what she told him.

  "Even if you should manage to succeed here without being detected beforehand, Marankeil's mechanized back-up will return and re-implant the memories, and he will discover who it was that attempted to eliminate him.” She explained. “And be assured, he will retaliate. You will instead ensure the destruction of your own planet and all of your people. You might as well detonate the bomb that will destroy Yular yourself."

  Marek said nothing. Hurbef's pain was clear on his drawn, lined face. The news was not merely disheartening to the would-be revolutionaries. They had sacrificed their lives for nothing—they would have to live in the past, unable to act, to fulfill their mission.

  "I’m sorry to be the one to tell you all of this," Selerael said after several moments, and the Yulare, whose gazes had fallen low, down to the crystalline table, looked up expectantly.

  "However, I will destroy the council one day,” she said, a dark edge to her voice that stirred their hearts. “And I will destroy the Emperor Marankeil. In the new future, the galaxies will again be free to grow on their own."

  "But, how? How can you accomplish that in one lifetime?" Hurbef said, skeptical.

  “
Yes, I’ve asked myself the same thing many times,” she laughed. “But I can do it. I will do it.”

  “Whoever you truly are, I salute your bravery—” Marek began.

  She stared at him, interrupting what else he was about to say with a cold, distant expression. He stared back at her, as a fine crease formed between her fair brows.

  Selerael shrugged.

  “I see I’ve upset you,” Marek said tentatively.

  “No,” she replied, suddenly laughing, suddenly herself again.

  “Yes,” he said carefully. “Well then, I was about to say that I salute your bravery, but I can’t see how you would be capable of bringing down the Empire on your own.”

  “You mean after all you’ve seen, you still don’t believe I have enough power to thwart the Emperor?” she said; Marek found her stained laughter disconcerting.

  “No, I believe you have power enough, though why you haven’t acted yet against the Emperor is all at once something I can’t quite figure out. I mean that I don’t see why you should want to do it, why you feel it is your destiny. You are Seynorynaelian. Why should you wish to destroy an Empire of your own people, you who have only to gain by your planet’s prosperity?”

  “If I told you why, I think you wouldn’t believe me.” She said.

  “Please tell us, then.” Hurbef interjected. Marek turned to him, and Hurbef shrugged apologetically.

  “For family honor, is it?” Marek guessed. “Yet you said your mother did nothing in violation of her own conscience, so—”

  “No, it isn’t that.”

  “Then you are a philanthropist? A rescuer—”

  She balked, rising so abruptly in her chair that it threatened to crash back to the floor.

  “No, I’m not exactly a philanthropist.” She said, shaking her head staunchly. “I have a destiny, as I said, a destiny which calls upon me to end the Seynorynaelian Empire, and whether or not I choose to fulfill that role has nothing to do with my own honor or aspirations of nobility.”

  “Why then? You say I won’t believe you—”

  “I chose to follow my destiny—because I swore to end the Empire, one day, long ago.”

  Marek was silent. “I don’t understand.” He finally said, but he didn’t laugh.

  “Well, I linger on, waiting to fulfill this role I was born to play in order to preserve the future possibilities dormant in the universe. I’m here because I believe in the dream of a better world in the future, but I can’t let you destroy the empire because—frankly you don’t deserve to change the past. No one has that right. You can only do what you can do. You can’t eradicate the free will of others to choose to follow their fate. Instead, I will wait, and then I will end the evil reign of Marankeil.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “Ah,” she said. “That’s why you won’t succeed.”

  “No, I mean—how can you live long enough to destroy the Empire entirely? I do believe in excellence and goodness, as you seem to do, and we of Yular do not act in order to be perceived well in the eyes of our fellows but to follow our own minds and hearts. I understand the desire to fulfill actions which can make a positive impact on the world, for that is our only immortality. I just don’t understand how you plan to survive—”

  “Marek, I am already more than forty thousand years old.” Selerael said, staring at him, dissolving the veil she always kept drawn over her eyes.

  Marek stared into them only a moment and did not ask his question again.

  Marek and the others remained at her dwelling several days, when Selerael found Marek in her holo-room under a projection of a Yular twilight in the mountains.

  "You can’t stay here in this time," she said, sitting beside him on the lounge panel. "If the Council ever discovers your presence here, they will interrogate your thoughts.”

  “We won’t let them—”

  “They’ll find you.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “I care about you. But I can’t let you go now. If you do, Marankeil might learn of me through you. He’ll know that Alessia had a daughter, and that she seeks to destroy him. He’ll never let his guard down long enough for me to accomplish that end."

  Marek nodded, waiting to hear Selerael's suggestion.

  “You’re not giving us a choice about this, are you?”

  “No.”

  “So, how did you plan to help us?”

  "I have a small centipede gate capable ship, hidden on a slope far to the north of Kerrai. I hid it there many thousands of years ago in anticipation of such an event. It has none of the time checks programmed into its systems for the gate monitor to recognize, so you can journey to the far future through the star gates and if I am successful, escape the Empire's control.

  "I must only secure one promise from you first, that you will never tell your stories to anyone, and that you won’t influence the lives of other worlds, that you won’t use my ship to create your own tyrannical regime on some other planet, or ever interfere with the natural evolution of any species you encounter."

  Marek listened and pondered her words a moment.

  "For myself and for my comrades, I swear it." He replied, and nodded once, firmly.

  "Good.” She agreed. “I’m glad that’s your decision. Because I’m not going to let you remember any of this, except for your oath."

  “As long as you fulfill your promise to us, I can think of no better reward for all of us.” Marek returned with a bare smile.

  “You can’t?”

  “No, I can’t. For I have never known peace in my adult life, but I remember a dream of it in my youth, a dream we came here to restore to life again. The others have never known what it is not to live in fear, not to be denied rights and comfort when one is weary in soul or in body. If you can give them a dream to cherish and ease their hearts, we will leave you, and leave the future in your hands. For if there is nothing more that we can do, and know that it is hard for us to accept this—if there is nothing we frail mortal beings can do to stop an immortal Emperor, then I thank you for removing the burden of guilt from us. I only wish—”

  “Yes?”

  “I only wish I could do the same for you.”

  Entre tard et trop tard, il y a, par la grace de Dieu, une distance incommensurable. The difference between late and too late is, by God's mercy, immeasurable.

  —Mme Swetchine