SeptStar

by Blaze Ward

  Daniel wondered if he was the last person alive who could read Ovanii love letters without resorting to a computer to haphazardly guess at translations and miss the idioms that made their art so poignant.

  So painful.

  Because there were no Ovanii left in the galaxy but him.

  He opened his eyes and found himself on the bridge of Windrunner again. Three others stared intently at him, mouths agape and eyes huge.

  He found that he was crying, but that was acceptable. It just meant that he would need to find some Anndaing scholars and revive the language. Translate the dramas and poetry first, so that others could learn the words and build some positive memories of those ancient marauders, lost so long ago that they were nearly forgotten, save for the terrible tools of war they had perfected once.

  “Are you okay?” Joane asked quietly.

  “There are no more Ovanii,” Daniel replied quietly. “I asked all my ghosts. Every single one of them was there. That was the first time that had ever happened.”

  “And the tears?” she continued.

  “We are going to go break the Sept,” he said bluntly. “In that, we were united.”

  Joane had been inside his head enough to understand the power of that statement. She paled under that dark skin, almost turning umber and gray. The others knew less, but perhaps that drove a greater fear.

  “And now?” Raja asked tentatively.

  “Ogrorspoxu,” he said simply. “We need to see a shark about buying a warship.”

  Ishtan

  Forty

  Hadi felt the Ishtan calling him. It was a polite thing, almost like a knock at the door, except that it was in his mind. He acknowledged the pulse of energy and contemplated his office. Some paperwork that needed reviewing, mostly reports from various department heads about current statuses of things and future needs, but the sorts of details that an aspbad had to focus on daily.

  Nothing that could not wait, and no meetings in the next few hours.

  He rose and exited his office, heading around the curve to the door that separated the Sept Empire from the Ishtan homeworld, at least in his mind.

  Entering, he found the four as usual, reclined on their couches and waiting for him. Hadi took his accustomed chair and studied them.

  They had an excitement about them today. He could not put his finger on any one detail, but they moved with greater energy, perhaps. The three eyes seemed to glow as they focused on him.

  Daniel Lémieux has arrived, they sang in harmony in his mind. He is at his destination. Kathra Omezi has joined him.

  Hadi paused, slightly offset by those words.

  “Was she not before?” he asked, perhaps a bit more sharply than he had planned to.

  Correct, Hadi Rostami. They have orbited different stars ere now, but have reunited.

  Hadi waited a moment before exploding. He needed these allies to complete his mission. Without them, he might visit a million stars and never catch another hint of Kathra Omezi and her so-called tribe. Such was the depths of the galaxy in which she might hide, once she passed beyond the Free Worlds.

  “I understood that we sought to destroy them both,” Hadi said carefully.

  He is far more dangerous, they announced. Without the scion of Urid-Varg, the woman is just a simple human that does not represent a threat to the galaxy.

  Hadi caught a glimpse into the mind of their combined entity as they spoke. An ideogram, for lack of a better term to describe it, showing the chef superimposed over a mad god intent on wreaking destruction on the entirety of the galaxy. Kathra Omezi was just a footnote, comparatively.

  “She is part of the deal,” he reminded them carefully. “Her destruction is why the naupati was willing to put this ship at your disposal.”

  And so she shall die, they replied. But the chef must be utterly crushed. With him gone, we might provide you with the tools to seek her yourself, Hadi Rostami.

  He caught a second ideogram now. Himself, with a second image superimposed.

  They could alter him to give him that sensitivity? Would he still be human at that point?

  It would not be coded into your genetic structure, Hadi Rostami, they supplied the answer. After seven of your years, it would fade completely as your cellular existence overwrites itself.

  “But for those seven years?” he started to ask, petering out of words.

  You would be more than human, they confirmed. Not enough to be a threat to galactic order, though.

  Hadi quailed at the image of galactic order as they envisioned it.

  In their minds’ eyes, the Sept empire was a grain of sand washed up temporarily on a beach. Poised briefly, as it were, before the tide swept it out again.

  And so it is, Hadi Rostami, they agreed. Nothing more. All of Urid-Varg’s empires were longer-lasting and more powerful. The Sept will remain a thing for perhaps another few hundred years before it splinters.

  “How can you know that?” he gasped.

  You contain that knowledge yourself. Only a few of your so-called human empires lasted more than a few generations. Other houses will rise and challenge the beings that make up the Sept. Byzantium would have absorbed them. Chin as well. The Sept cannot.

  The Sept cannot.

  Hadi felt his own doom inscribed with those words.

  The Sept cannot.

  Nothing he did would matter in the grand scheme of things. Even in the smaller scheme of his generation.

  SeptStar could destroy the Mbaysey without any survivors and it would not change one thing about the future of the Sept Empire itself. Hadi could be turned into a demigod, and nothing would save the Sept itself from falling.

  Thus you do not present a risk, were we to do this thing.

  “How long have you planned it?” he asked, breathless with the immense implications.

  Was this was nihilism tasted like, this coppery hue at the back of his throat? Or was it fear?

  It has been an option since we encountered Amirin Pasdar, they answered. Such was his personal ambition that he might have wrestled the Sept away from its current lords, but you convinced him to regain his humanity instead.

  Hadi swallowed past a tongue suddenly too big.

  Could Amirin have truly conquered the Sept itself, given whatever mental powers the Ishtan might have blessed or cursed him with?

  The probability lies beyond the fourth standard deviation, the voices spoke in his mind. Nothing measurable would have changed, save that the Sept itself would have fractured for a generation. Perhaps he could have built something better in its place, but that is a low-probability outcome, given human nature as we have seen it.

  Broken the Sept Empire? Brought it down in pieces?

  Affirmative, Hadi Rostami.

  “What will he do now, without those powers?”

  He will attempt the same, but the probabilities of success are lower, they answered. Your success in ending the existence of the Mbaysey will increase his chances by perhaps as much as seven percent, but your failure would not materially damage his standing enough to prevent his attempt.

  Hadi let the enormity of the thing wash over him. This might be the opposite of nihilism, whatever an expert might call it. He had wondered if pursuing Kathra Omezi bore any value.

  It both did and did not, in ways that his mind raced furiously to calculate.

  Amirin was going to attempt to make himself emperor. Somehow. Hadi could see that. It had quietly been present in their relationship as long as he had known the man.

  Ambition. Not married to an understanding of power far beyond what humans were capable of.

  Hadi Rostami could have powers no human had ever been granted, save for a chef from Genarde. He could assist Amirin, or thwart him.

  Correct, they observed. Stopping Amirin Pasdar from succeeding extends the current span of the Sept Empire to perhaps three hundred years before the cultural probabilities render estimation random. Assisting him guarantees their immediate fall, with the opportunity t
o create something else that might last longer.

  Or it might also fail within your lifetime.

  How much did he wish to replace the Sept with some other dream? Hadi was unsure. But he was a scholar and a bureaucrat, not a fire-breathing warrior intent on scribing his name into the face of a mountain for all to read.

  And on that pedestal such words appeared:

  My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

  Look on my works, ye Mighty, and know despair!

  Nothing besides the stumps of two legs remained.

  The words of the unknown, ancient poet were there in his head now, a memorial to futility.

  But he also had the opportunity to destroy Kathra Omezi, somehow. To fulfill that dream that had driven not only Amirin, but also himself.

  If the Mbaysey were successful in fleeing Sept law, others would be emboldened. If they instead saw that no depth of light-years might protect them from Sept justice, they would remain behind, unwilling, perhaps, to risk their culture and existence.

  Certainly, the Mbaysey would be erased from history, except as an example. A warning to future generations of either the Sept, or the thing that he would help Amirin Pasdar create.

  Hadi found peace within himself. The chef would need to be destroyed, but his allies would be ready to depart at that moment. He would need them to transform him, somehow, into the thing that could continue the quest to destroy the Mbaysey afterwards.

  It cannot be undone, Hadi Rostami, they reminded him.

  Truth, but he would have seven years to use such power to change the galaxy. Longer if a scientist could figure out how it was done and replicate it.

  They cannot. We will assure that no successor to Urid-Varg ever rises, even as we assist you now.

  He nodded, withholding judgment until he emerged from whatever chrysalis was about to engulf him.

  He felt the four minds focus on him now, probing deeper than they ever had.

  Hadi screamed in mind-ending agony.

  Forty-One

  Kathra was reminded today of Morgan, the Trademaster In Residence at Kanus, but only as a scale against which to compare, with Crence Miray at the other end.

  Physically, Wyll Koobitz was an unimpressive Anndaing. He lacked that physical presence that Crence had and Morgan did not, but possessed something else instead. A charisma, perhaps, that calm determination that would make him stand out in any crowd of sharks, even bigger ones.

  His skin wasn’t as dark as Crence’s, but his eyes were brighter, seated across the table in a dark green jacket and lighter green shirt. The shark on his left, Obaj Gendrah, had a similar look and fashion, even a similarity about his person. They might look like brothers, but Wyll was the elder, and Obaj was obviously the younger.

  Kathra had brought Stina Carte, Spectre Sixteen, with her today. All of the comitatus was one, but Stina was the only Anglo currently serving, a brunette with straight hair and skin so golden it was almost painful to look at.

  The green eyes probably made her appear like only a related alien species, if you had only known the Africans from Tazo ere now. Certainly, she was not that different from A’Alhakoth, save in height and round pupils.

  It was a quiet statement for Wyll.

  See how many species, how many cultures might rally to my flag?

  She was sure he’d read reports of her arrival and activities at Kanus before she came here.

  Kathra sipped her tea and enjoyed a scone that Daniel might have made, if he was stuck in an alien marketplace at dawn and was expecting hungry comitatus women to descend on him soon.

  But it was also tasty. Daniel had taught someone how to mix these ingredients and make the result palatable to both human and Anndaing.

  Small talk had been general and vague, following Anndaing cultural mores that sought to chat for politeness’s sake before getting down to the serious business.

  They almost reminded her of the Sept in that, except for the parts that she actually liked.

  Koobitz put his mug of tea down and studied her now. The tea was also a human thing. Kathra found it bland and a little bitter, but Wyll Koobitz had explained that Joane had drank it thus and proclaimed it acceptable.

  Kathra could see teasing that woman later about how Anndaing culture was going to adjust to one woman’s odd indulgences.

  “It is my hope that Daniel and Joane will return soon,” the shark said simply. “Flight times are always iffy, and I don’t know how long they planned to be at their destination, but they could have been back as early as yesterday.”

  “Where are they, Ambassador?” Kathra asked bluntly.

  She had no proof that they hadn’t been killed at some point, despite the tea and scones.

  Koobitz turned deadly serious. She’d been around plenty of Anndaing over the last few weeks to understand the change that came into his eyes and the set of his hammer.

  He turned to Gendrah and fixed that shark with a terrible glare.

  Kathra hadn’t pried too much, but she had the impression that the younger cousin reported to a different member of the Board of Directors from Koobitz, making him something of a friendly spy, perhaps sent here to make sure that Koobitz stayed within bounds.

  Gendrah nodded, whatever message passed between the two in that look.

  “We have sent Daniel and Joane to a secret naval repository, Commander,” he said quietly.

  “Why?”

  “Daniel was inquiring about the Ovanii,” Koobitz continued, perhaps a shade uncomfortable. “Their history as wanderers, much like the Mbaysey. Their culture. Their memory, if you will.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “He found a book at Thrabo and translated it, placing it roughly in this sector of space, but thousands of years ago, if he did the math correctly.”

  “He did, although how such a thing got to the Free Worlds is probably an epic tale unto itself,” Koobitz nodded. “My best guess, based on what Daniel told us, is that an Ovanii ship escaped at the end and ended up closer to your sectors eventually.”

  “Escaped?” Kathra perked up and stared at this diplomat with shark teeth.

  “The Ovanii threatened the entire Anndaing in their time,” he replied succinctly. “Thousands of warships traveling in roving packs. Raiders. Marauders. Vikings, to use the term Daniel had for them. It was sufficient threat for the Merchants Guild to summon our fleets together.”

  “Was it now?” Kathra asked, tilting her head a little to study his body language. She didn’t have Daniel’s tools, nor his experience with so many members of the species as he would have had flying here, but she was the Commander of the Mbaysey.

  She had other experience.

  “The Call to Armada resulted in a fleet sufficient to break the Ovanii as a people, Kathra Omezi,” he said flatly, possibly threatening her and the Tribal Squadron, but doing so in a polite-enough manner. “When they surrendered, as an alternative to being annihilated as a species, we took all of their ships and stored them against future need.”

  “What happened to the Ovanii afterwards?” Kathra asked.

  “We set them down on worlds well outside of our current colonies, dropped them to the early metals age, and watched them like terrible angels from above for a few centuries,” he replied, eyes bulging a little to focus on her.

  That much body language she understood. Stina was an afterthought, as was Gendrah. This was just the two of them.

  “And after a few centuries?” Kathra asked.

  “They reverted into true barbarism, as we had expected,” Koobitz answered. “On most of their worlds the population simply died out as they fought each other rather than outsiders. On others, they forgot everything except legends of coming from the sky. They had forgotten us, so we left them in peace.”

  “Are they still there, or have they died out now?” Kathra leaned forward and placed both elbows on the table.

  Koobitz smiled genuinely now. It had an edge of embarrassment and perhaps pain to it.

  “We decided to s
end a ship to find out, when Daniel arrived,” he said. “That vessel is not scheduled to return for another seventeen days at this point. That’s how far away we settled the Ovanii when we decided to accept their parole.”

  “Why did you not scatter them onto your own worlds and absorb them?” Kathra turned and stared at Gendrah now, including him in something that might be classified as a crime against an entire species, depending on how one approached the ethics.

  “The ancient records are unclear,” Gendrah spoke up now. “We think that they rejected such an option as an affront to their warrior culture, and chose a different path instead.”

  “Barbaric continuity instead of passive absorption into the superior culture?” Kathra focused some of her ire on the two sharks. “Has Daniel told you about Tazo?”

  Koobitz actually licked his lips before speaking, which was a mannerism she hadn’t seen in one of the Anndaing before now.

  How close to some Anndaing cultural nightmare were the Mbaysey, then? How much did the Tribal Squadron bring back unpleasant memories of the very Ovanii Daniel had stumbled across and wanted to research?

  “Joane actually was the one who spoke of Tazo, Commander,” Koobitz said quietly after a moment. “She gave us an abbreviated history of the Mbaysey, including the ClanStars and the escape that culminated in Daniel joining you originally, plus a highly-sanitized explanation of what has happened since you encountered the being known as Urid-Varg.”

  “Did Daniel tell you that I killed that salaud myself?”

  “Yes.” Koobitz was wary now. “But not until after it had modified Daniel in ways he has not explained, except that he speaks and reads many dead languages that humans should have never encountered.”

  “Urid-Varg is destroyed,” Kathra announced flatly. “Daniel is incapable of becoming him.”

  “How can you be sure?” Gendrah asked now, some delicate emotion under his tones that she could not identify. Fear perhaps? Or wonder? “What has he done that gives you the confidence that another Destroyer can never rise in his place?”