Fractured Future

By Nicholas P. W. Coe

Historically, evolution moves at a slow place, with advances made by incremental steps. Occasionally, however, when circumstances permit, a massive leap catapults a species into a different future.

Now, ten thousand years into such a future, humanity has evolved into a barely recognizable form, with the ability to manifest multiple personal entitieseach with a distinctly different physical identity. The Exiger hegemony has exploited this evolutionary springboard, giving it virtually irresistible military, political, and even social advantage as it seeks the utter subjugation of the galaxy.

Commander Solon Draco lost his parents at ten, and that experience shaped his entire future. As an adult, he dedicates his life to the military. For his own reasons, he chooses to display only one personality, a single-minded drive that has propelled him through the ranks. When Draco learns that the bearer of the genetic leap that founded his race and the Exiger Empire thousands of years ago has discovered a means to eliminate the change, he is dispatched into the past, leading an interstellar battle fleet from an even more distant future to foil this plan.

He knows that if this crucial change is eliminated, he, his whole race, and the future they populate will vanish in an instant.

As adversaries who are millennia apart race against time on a mission that will carry them to the very end of time, everything hangs in the balance. What path will humanity tread into the unknown future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Aug 8, 2012
• ISBN: 9781475922394

Nicholas P. W. Coe

Raised near Oxford, Nicholas Coe obtained his medical degree from London University in the United Kingdom before moving to the United States to do research at Harvard. An endocrine surgeon and surgical educator by profession, he relaxes by playing the violin in a symphony orchestra and composing classical music. He lives in Massachusetts with his wife, Pam, and two cats.

Book preview

Copyright © 2012 by Nicholas P. W. Coe.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

iUniverse books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

iUniverse

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.iuniverse.com

1-800-Authors (1-800-288-4677)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2241-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2240-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4759-2239-4 (ebk)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012908524

iUniverse rev. date: 08/02/2012

Contents

1. Storm, Charan System, Orion Sector. May 1st, 13,173, CE-ESTCycle 83 of 278, 9,015

2. Windsor Castle, Earth. March 15th, 3013, Earth Standard Time

3. Windsor Castle, Earth. March 15th, 3013

4. Storm, May 1st, 13,173

5. Windsor Castle, Earth. March 15, 3013

6. Windsor Castle, Earth. March 15, 3013

7. Solace, Lyra System. July 14th, 13,173 Local time data not on line.

8. Windsor Castle, Earth. March 15, 3013

9. Campanile, Polaris B, V, Ursa Minor System. October 29, 27,379

Cycle 69 of 483, 23,917

10. Windsor Castle, Earth. March 15, 3013

11. Campanile. October 29, 27,379

12. Storm. July 23, 13,173

13. Windsor Castle. March 15, 3013

14. Sirius Sector. March 29, 3031

15. Windsor Castle. April 1, 3013

16. Thinkbladder Clinic, Prospect. April 1, 3031

17. Warp shift point:—jx192437984jp/.è@canis*Θ→terra.∋.final/app.

18. Quondam Inc. London. April 2, 3013,

19. The Time Stream—73.098 AUT

20. QUONDAM, Inc. Trans-Temporal Enterprises, 13 Threadneedle Street, London. Inexact Time Designation. ≈ 3000 CE

21. The Time Stream. 77.317 AUT

22. Quondam, Inc. 77.723 AUT

23. The Time Stream. 81.913 AUT

24. Windsor Castle. April 3, 3013

25. Sarena Enclave, Morendo. 96.847—178 AUT

26. Quondam, Inc. Inexact time designation. ≈ 3000 CE.

27. Sarena Enclave, Morendo 96.847—178 AUT.

28. Campanile. October 31, 27,379

29. Morendo, 96.847—179 AUT

30. Morendo, 96.847—179, AUT.

31. Campanile. November 2nd, 27,379

32. Sol III-Human/Agri-Enclave 384, Morendo. 96.847—180 AUT.

33. London. April 4th, 3013

34. Morendo, 96.847—180 AUT.

35. Quondam, Inc. No exact Time designation.

36. Neutral Enclave, Morendo, 96.487—180 AUT

37. Campanile. November 5th, 27,379

38. Neutral Enclave, Morendo. 96.847—180 AUT

39. Quondam, Inc. Exiger Continuum. No Time Designation.

40. Quondam, Inc. London. Thirty First Century.

41. Morendo. In The Mawkli Compound. 96.874—181. AUT.

42. Storm. Charan System, Orion Sector. Negative—573,000.241 years

43. Quondam, Inc. 99.999.999.999—364.23.57 AUT.

44. Campanile. November 6th, 27,379

45. In The Time Stream.

46. Prospect. April 8th, 3013

47. In Sirius Orbit. April 8th. 3013.

48. In the Time Stream

49. The Exiger Fleet, Sirius Orbit. April 9th, 3013.

50. The Exiger Fleet, Sirius Orbit. April 9th, 3013.

51. In Warp. April 10th, 3013.

52. In Warp Space. April 14, 3013.

53. Sigma Draconis. April 11th, 3013.

54. System Sol. April 15th, 3013.

55. Quondam

Epilogue

Endnotes

To my wife Pam and my parents Joan and Stuart.

1

black.jpg

Storm, Charan System, Orion Sector.

May 1st, 13,173, CE-EST*

Cycle 83 of 278, 9,015

On the planet Storm, the third of five forlorn children of the star Charan in the Orion Sector, it was a pretty nice day, as days went. Rain and sleet drove with incessant and unerring fury across the quadrangle of the Naval Academy, smashing against the reinforced glass at the western end. Huge thunder clouds towered into the sky, blocking out both Charan the major sun, and Ito, its red dwarf companion. Charan was a young, angry sun and showered its five charges with a blaze of thermal energy and ionizing radiation. In protest, Storm was shrouded in a thick layer of cloud that reacted violently to the incoming solar assault.

No one who lived on Storm actually liked being there. Forked lightning bolts arced to earth constantly, monsoon rains and sweltering heat in summer and sleet and blizzards in winter made any foray outside a life-threatening venture. Weather related injuries and accidents rarely made the evening news, but were tallied as a simple statistic in the daily reports. So, like so many other places that no one else in their right mind would ever want, Storm had been acquired as an ideal place to site a military training camp. There were very few social distractions.

None of this bothered Commander Solon von Esterhaszy Draco one bit as he strode down the corridor towards the front entrance of the Academy, dressed in a simple black coverall without insignia.

The petty officer on duty snapped to attention and saluted smartly as Draco approached. May I order ground transport for you, Sir? The weather is really . . . . His words trailed off under Draco’s withering glance.

No, Ensign Ben-Highland, Draco replied returning his salute as his neural link fed him the man’s name, it is really quite a nice day out there.

Yes. Sir, the rating replied, saluting again, mentally cursing himself for showing weakness.

Draco smiled wryly to himself at the gaffe. The kid meant well but he would never have let himself get caught like that. Draco’s gaunt, black-clad figure striding across the courtyard in all sorts of terrible weather, his black hair flying in the breeze, compulsively hooking it behind his ears, was a familiar feature to everyone who lived on or near the Campus. But today felt like a good day for a walk in the rain, so he ignored the slip, nodded to the rating, and stepped out of the Academy into the torrential downpour as if he owned both.

In many ways, as Commander and senior officer of the establishment, he did own the Academy, and he loved the fury of the weather that blasted ceaselessly across his adopted home world. Like him, those clouds held a terrible pent up tension, but unlike him, the storms had no need to mute their feral rage. From the moment the rain drenched him to the skin, Draco began to relax, and just for an instant he let the bottled up tension and conflict that usually festered silently in his mind boil up. But once he’d given way to this momentary temptation, he took even greater pleasure in re-establishing the absolute, unwavering governance of his mind, the total control he’d struggled so hard to learn.

Like all Exigers, Draco had been born with multiple personalities, his Otherselves, each with the ability to completely alter his physical form, appearance and even clothing in the instant of the change, but he had chosen, despite all the touted advantages, to keep the same personality and physical appearance at all times. In the form he had embraced he was tall and gangly and wore his black hair shoulder length, framing his angular face. He had a fearsome aquiline nose with dark, brooding eyes, topped by beetling eyebrows, and thin sardonic lips. He’d always rather relished his saturnine visage, feeling it reflected his selected character and inspired order, if not outright fear, among his junior officers. On formal occasions calling for full military attire he would wear his dress uniform, but otherwise he always wore the same utilitarian black coveralls.

Over the thousands of years since his race had evolved from its human ancestors, this amazing capability to change personalities as well as identities had given them irresistible political, social and military advantage. The unique edge in any negotiation or political wrangling made any such interactions very interesting—in the worst Chinese curse way—for opponents who could never be certain from one moment to the next with whom they were dealing. In the halls of power, the Exigers’ ability to marshal the strongest member of the Otherself panoply for the task put their mere single personality adversaries at a significant disadvantage.

It had also been realized eons ago that even with astounding advances in technology, that most wars were still fought on the ground against local militia or guerilla forces. Blowing up planets was an effective way to subdue opponents but did not leave much in the way of useful real estate or potential taxpayers. Enemy warriors could easily hide from high-tech search or surveillance devices by blending in with the rest of the inhabitants, so in the end it came down to ground troops and hand-to-hand combat, and in this respect the Exigers were virtually invincible. To the open mouthed (if they had one) consternation of any adversaries, a wounded Exiger soldier would instantaneously blink to another personality and back, and even the gravest of injuries would be healed in the process. At this point the dumbfounded opponent could easily be subdued, fatally if necessary.

With these phenomenal advantages the Exigers had risen to supremacy in intergalactic society within mere generations of the initial mutation, eclipsing their single-personality, human predecessors in just a few hundred years. Other non-human races were subjugated where necessary to incorporate them into the Empire. Exigers were immensely proud of the genetic changes that made them unique, even deriving their name from their amazing abilities. The genetic modification had become capitalized as The Gift, affording it almost religious sanctity and their motto, E Unibus Plurum, (From One, Come Many,) had been modified from that of one of the ancient nation-states on Earth. In contradistinction to an integer which represented a whole number, an Exiger was many individuals combined into one physical entity although the term individual had very different meanings in Exiger society.

Any undesirable personalities that could not be controlled were eliminated with nano-robotic surgery. A personality does not have a neuro-physiologic location, but the neural pathways it travels can be mapped while that personality is active, and then nano-bots can be sent to infiltrate the pathways and those circuits can then be sequentially restricted until the remnant is isolated in a neural limbo and its signal eliminated.

Socially, the Exigers were butterflies, switching and changing personalities at the merest whim. They also loved to spice up interactions of all kinds with the use of living prosthetics which substantially augmented their already exotic socio-political scene. Yet within Exiger society everyone knew at any given instant exactly who everyone else was within a local social radius. True personal privacy had not existed for thousands of years before the Exigers made an appearance. As the early Exiger society grew and matured, it had been realized that a recognition capability within their social system was critical, given both the vast constellation of personalities possible and the widespread use of living human tissue prosthetics. And the increasingly popular use of wildly bizarre, bio-engineered xeno-prosthetics also contributed to the problem. To that end, immediately after birth each infant had its own unique, genome-coded, nano-fibrillar neural matrix pattern imprinted into the skin of its hands, arms, and shoulders, as well as around its eyes and ears, not to mention other tactical places on its body. This pattern then broadcast signals in a variety of frequencies for several meters into the immediate environment to identify that individual. Each person still had the ability to vary their own signal strength from up to fifty kilometers, when it could only be detected by the most sensitive instruments, down to less than a meter. In addition, as individuals achieved distinction, the signal could be modified appropriately. In this way a newly assigned officer would instantly know Draco’s rank. Although the Exigers could change an almost infinite number of other variables, they always had the original constant baseline genetic template. Since the more wildly inclined could replace up to ninety five percent of their bodies with prosthetic arrays or devices, all individuals also had the code imprinted over the base of the hind brain, that crucial area of the brain stem that no human or Exiger can live without.

Draco had been born on Earth and had spent a solitary childhood with aloof, distant parents who expected their child to be seen when appropriate and never heard from unless spoken to. His other personalities were poorly developed at best, never having had much opportunity, or frankly any wish, to be a part of his bleak, loveless life.

His parents died in a freak accident when he was ten, so Draco had been sent to live with an uncle and his family who neither wanted nor needed him and made both readily apparent. When he was sixteen he escaped by enrolling in the Exiger Federation Intergalactic Navy as an Ensign. Life in the military had seemed like paradise by comparison to his prior existence. Being ordered around and yelled at for no apparent reason was better by far than the interminable, resentful silence that had permeated his life since his parents had died. Almost instinctively he fell into the rigorous routine of the military life until he received special commendation and a scholarship to officer training.

Unlike the rest of his race, however, Draco hated the ability to become a completely different person at any time. His parents had rarely if ever exhibited any other personalities, and he wondered if his dislike of his birthright Gift was genetic, but others in Exiger society occasionally also mirrored his thoughts. A particularly flamboyant politician who called himself The Cartemouche had built his highly successful career by never using another personality, although ironically his use of grotesque or even freakish prosthetics was far wilder than any pedestrian alternative representations his Otherselves might have possessed.

Yet to Draco no Exiger was ever a truly complete person, the kind of complex, multifaceted individual he had read about in history and seen in other societies, where each person had to deal with his or her own issues and there was no instant opt-out mechanism. The natural human temptation to drop a problem into someone else’s lap had been magnified a thousand fold as Exiger society blossomed because of the ready availability of other scapegoats in the form of the Otherselves. Exigers never lived through the crashing agonies of creativity where that incessant, driving force could simply not be delegated to someone else or another personality; no Exiger ever suffered against impossible odds or fought and struggled for greater things; no one ever persisted in the agony of creation despite appalling personal adversity. Instead they ran from conflicts or questions in their personal and creative lives, never stopping long enough to find any real answers. They had no really great artists, musicians, inventers or truly innovative thinkers or inventors. To be sure, there were occasionally those who did persist in perfecting a creative inspiration and their works were recognized and acknowledged by the public in general. But no Exiger ever cut off a body part or died in a garret struggling to find that spark, that genius of thought or creation that eluded everyone else. As a result, they were a race of enormously successful and incredibly powerful entities who ended up scavenging the genius of history and other races to fill the void in the greatness that, in Draco’s mind, truly could have been theirs with some concerted self-discipline. The sort of self-control that he had struggled so hard to learn.

Draco had made his decision many years before. As the quality of his life in the Navy improved, his Otherselves had shown renewed interest in participating. In secret, he had mastered mind control techniques to subdue his other personalities and had never allowed one of them to take over control. The internal tensions and turmoil were enormous, but, as far as he was concerned, it was well worth it. His success as he matured had been nothing short of phenomenal. He was the youngest graduate of the Starfleet Academy in its long and honorable history and now, at thirty, its youngest Commander, although even that honor was in his mind only a stepping stone for the future.

Draco had often wondered about his own particular personality. He knew and cared almost nothing about the wishes and desires of his Otherselves, but was puzzled why his particular personality had become the dominant entity. Although he was generally reclusive, he was not depressed, antisocial, surly or withdrawn. He just preferred his own company. He was goal oriented and ambitious but success did not give him pleasure, it was merely the gratifying result of honest effort. Nothing really gave him pleasure and he’d wondered from time to time if his emotions were frozen. He had heard about such cases but in the end dismissed the idea as fanciful, not something that pertained to him or why he was the way he was. He believed he had loved his Mother and Father, but that memory was too painful to visit and whenever the thought crossed his mind he immediately diverted his attention elsewhere. He’d finally decided he was just who he was, and if the rest of the world didn’t like it, that was simply too bad. And right now there was a perfectly good rainstorm to enjoy.

Today’s storm on its namesake planet was particularly violent, but not unusual for those that occurred around the vernal equinox. Draco relished the sting of the hail and the ozone-laced smell of the rain as he headed across the quadrangle towards his lodgings and ignored the fact that he was instantly soaking wet. He savored the fetid aroma of wet, decaying vegetation from the forest beyond the compound. It was a pleasant change from the hermetic, surgically cleansed, air conditioned environment in which he lived most of the time.

It was not a long walk to his apartment, but it was one that would have been considered foolhardy at best and frankly suicidal by most of the inhabitants of Storm. Quite apart from the rain, this was the sort of storm that the indigenous life forms found most appealing. The planet had never evolved any large animal species, or, if it had, they had probably been drowned, hailed to death or electrocuted. Plants abounded, however. Many were motile and a good number of these were carnivorous. Their usual fare was the abundant insect life, but the larger ones in particular had unfortunately developed quite a taste for the early human settlers, a partiality they naturally extended to the current inhabitants of Storm. When the early settlers, a reclusive human sect fleeing some perceived or real threat the details of which had been lost, arrived on the planet about nine thousand local years ago, they had cataloged all the plants and had noted almost incidentally that those larger motile forms actually had a small focus of what appeared to be human genetic code within their genome. That of course was impossible, but later study confirmed that the same DNA evidence was present in plant fossils hundreds of thousands of years old. The colony ultimately failed and the planet was abandoned and remained uninhabited until the Exiger military took over. The factoid had been found in the settlers’ archives and filed for further study.

Then, about seventy five years ago, a graduate of the Storm Academy, Colonel Lakshmi Patel and her brigade of Exiger troops had been deployed to a world called Sorrento, the fourth planet of the sun Albion, in the Micah System. The indigenous life form on Sorrento, a hive-like society of creatures that looked like centipedes with prehensile forelimbs, had developed technology sufficiently advanced to allow them to begin exploration beyond their local planetary system. They had so far been intransigent to the Exigers’ eminently reasonable requests to incorporate them into the Empire so Colonel Patel and her troops had been dispatched to persuade them otherwise. She asked her unit’s bio-engineering team to develop fully enclosed, body-supporting prosthetic arrays derived from one of Storm’s largest motile plants to facilitate her insurgency and in the process the development team had rediscovering that clearly identifiable fragment of the human genome. They also noted, however, that it was not only human code, but specifically Exiger genetic code. Colonel Patel’s incentive formulation had been based on the physical nature of the Sorrentoans and the carnivorous preferences of the plant life on Storm she had observed while she was at the Academy. After the initial prototypes had proven phenomenally effective, her requisition for similar arrays for all her battalions had been accommodated and the campaign was successful. Sorrento was a hot, jungle world with cities thinly spread out within the lush tropical forest. The squads of troops rampaging through Sorrentoan jungle thinly disguised as ravenous plants with a particular taste for insectoid life forms engendered utter horror in the local populace and eventually mass panic. Once the Hive Queen had seen them in action, the Sorrentoan capitulation to the Exiger demands was immediate. The genetic factoid ended up once again being flagged and forwarded to the archives.

For protection against these most unusual insurgents the Academy on Storm had mounted an outer perimeter defense barrier which served to keep most of the marauding flora at bay. But in case of penetration by inclement plant life, the security perimeter had been reinforced by a transition zone around the central compound which was patrolled by Yaks. These unlikely creatures had been imported from Earth two or three thousand years ago by an entrepreneur whose scheme to develop the planet’s mineral wealth in parallel with the military occupation was eventually thwarted by the inclement weather. How he had planned to use the yaks in his enterprise had been lost to history, but remarkably they had prospered where his plans floundered and today the yaks could probably be best described as the only truly happy occupants of the planet. They were simply too big to be devoured by the predatory vegetation, they were almost immune to the incessant precipitation, both liquid and solid, and were rarely the victim of lightning strikes. It was noted purely serendipitously that their intensely oily coat acted both as an insulator and a conduit, arcing any errant voltage directly down the voluminous, shaggy coat to the ground. Best of all, however, they had demonstrated a distinct liking for the local vegetation, which avoided them at all costs.

Draco’s lodgings were close to the barrier on the inner edge of the transition zone and he paused for a moment to watch as one of the Yaks lumbered in pursuit of a scrawny bush that had broken through the outer boundary. It was no contest and the Yak enjoyed a tasty morsel, lightly sautéed by a small lightning bolt that arced through the shrub as the Yak pinned it down. The plant squealed briefly before disappearing into the Yak’s capacious interior.

Draco smiled to himself. By now his black hair was plastered flat against his head and his clothes clung to his arms and legs as he stood watching the Yak. But that was the way life was, only the hardy survived. He’d always liked the Yaks. They were considered ugly and they certainly did have a very resilient, rancid odor about them, but they were immensely successful. He liked the idea that something ugly, smelly and generally disliked could be so necessary for the survival of the colony. He slicked his hair back from his eyes.

As Draco climbed the steps to his apartment, several lightning bolts simultaneously sizzled to earth nearby and he jumped involuntarily. Cursing his momentary weakness, he shrugged off the shiver of fear and turned to stare angrily up at the sky defying this world to dare strike him. The rain and lightning continued unabated, ignoring the temptation.

His apartment, like almost all structures on Storm, was tunneled into the side of a hill. Buildings that presented a profile to the heavens usually did not last too long. The apartment recognized his implant signal and the door slid open. He stripped off his wet clothes and threw them into the recycle unit as the airflow in the unit strategically adjusted itself to dry him quickly. He toweled his hair dry, combed it through, and within moments he was dry and warm, erasing the last few shards of unease from the close lightening strikes.

The interior of his apartment revealed everything about Draco. It was a pleasant, spacious apartment, a lodging that suitably matched his status in the Academy, but like Draco it was frozen in that state with no hint of his personal touch or any sense of individuality or feeling. It was a nice place to live, nothing else. A faint cry for pity filtered out of his subconscious, but was easily quelled. His Otherselves rarely stirred these days. He called for some hot Earl Grey tea and a clean set of coveralls from the dispenser.

He was just reaching for the fresh clothing when he heard a sudden rushing sound behind him. He spun round, heart pounding, then froze, open mouthed.

Hanging in mid-air in the center of his room was a glowing circle of coruscating light that pulsed and whirred with a frightful, strident energy. In seconds it grew larger and then a stranger stepped out of the fiery portal and into Draco’s room. He took a moment to find his balance and catch his breath, and then held out his hand. The portal shrank and receded into the corner of the room.

Greetings. I am C’Nar. You are Draco.

It was not a question.

It took all Draco’s strength not to show the fear that would have overwhelmed one less disciplined. But in an instant he banished the terror, closed his mouth and drew himself up to his full height, his hands by his sides.

Yes, he replied curtly. I am Draco. Now please leave immediately.

Peace, my friend, the stranger said, still holding out his hand.

I am not your friend.

Look, I’ve come a very long way and I don’t feel like arguing. Put on some clothes, and I’ll explain. When you learn what I have to say, I think you might even want to consider me at least an acquaintance, C’Nar said, letting his arm drop to his side.

Without taking his eyes off C’Nar, Draco reached for the coveralls which were waiting in the dispenser. He stepped into the legs, slipped his arms into the sleeves and the unit sealed its tabs and fitted itself to him in a matter of seconds. While waiting for the coveralls to close into place he took the opportunity to study his visitor. The stranger, who had no implant signal that Draco could detect, was clad in dishdasha-like flowing white robes that Draco had seen worn by those who lived on hot desert worlds, but without the keffiyeh, the sun shading scarf. He had lanky brown hair, a straggly beard and his long thin fingers twisted constantly at his robes as if to straighten them, even though they needed no adjustment. At his waist on the left side under his clothing was a distinct bulge. Draco had no idea what it was—maybe he had a tumor or something—but he was reasonably certain it was not a weapon because it was simply not accessible for use as such given the clothing choice.

OK, now what?

Are you willing to listen? A strange smile tugged at the corners of C’Nar’s thin lips. It seemed unnatural.

I would remind you that you are in my private quarters without an invitation, and you are rapidly approaching the point where my hospitality and courtesy are exceeded and I will be forced to kick your ugly butt out of here.

An uncharacteristic qualm of misgiving struggled its way into Draco’s consciousness. He didn’t have a weapon anywhere in the apartment. But he had won the Orion sector martial arts contest over some very creditable opponents several years before, so maybe his hands could be weapons enough.

As if to placate Draco, C’Nar sat down and relaxed back with both arms resting on either side of the back of the sofa.

Don’t get comfortable. You’re not staying, Draco snapped.

Despite his irritation at this unwanted intrusion, Draco still could not sense any aggression. If C’Nar would make some sort of offensive move it would certainly justify a more aggressive approach to facilitate his removal.

I’m not going to, you know.

What? Draco jumped. Could the man read his mind!? It was not unknown, but it was uncommon.

No, I can’t. Suddenly C’Nar looked terribly tired and his face sagged, looking many years older. It’s your body language that gives you away, he sighed. You’re tensed up tight as a drum, I’ve invaded your space, and you think I’m going to attack you. And since you’re generally not a happy soul at the best of times, you hope I will. It doesn’t take a genius to figure you out, you know. C’Nar paused, eyeing Draco with that same odd smile, waiting. When Draco still did not respond, he added, Will you at least back off for a few moments and let me explain?

I would prefer that you to leave now! Draco replied stiffly.

C’Nar sighed and got to his feet. Aren’t you even a little bit curious? he asked tiredly, glancing back over his shoulder to glowing circle of light which still hovered in the corner.

It suddenly hit Draco like a sledge hammer that he had lost control of the situation. A stranger had indeed invaded his space and he had reacted to the threat instead of responding in a calculated, controlled fashion. What was finally seeping around the closed edges of his mind was that either this was a trick of monumentally sophisticated proportions or he was in the same room as some unbelievably advanced technology and a most unusual visitor. He needed to get over his anger and think.

I want to talk to you about your future, C’Nar murmured, sensing the sea change in Draco’s attitude. May I have some of that tea, and will you please just listen?

Grudgingly Draco served the requested beverage, but stayed standing, leaning back against a short bar counter that jutted out from the food dispenser.

C’Nar sat forward on the edge of the couch, took a few sips and then cradling his cup on his knee, looked up at Draco and said, We have a problem. And before Draco could interrupt again, he continued, I have traveled here from about fifteen thousand years in the future where we have what you might call a ‘situation,’ and we need your help. What is at stake here is the very existence of our race.

2

black.jpg

Windsor Castle, Earth. March 15th, 3013,

Earth Standard Time

G et out! Palimbray IV, Emperor of the known galaxy and everything beyond, thundered. You’re an obscenity. A mutant! If you think I would ever , ever, let you marry my daughter, you are sorely mistaken. Now get out of my sight! Get out of my court! Get out of my galaxy!

The Emperor’s voice echoed through the ancient courtroom of Windsor Castle, bouncing off the stone walls that had stood now for almost two thousand years. The faded tapestries and darkened portraits that draped those walls were no strangers to this sort of invective, but served now more to disguise thirty first century technology embedded in the walls behind, than to deaden the discord.

You cannot do that! Savarin exclaimed angrily to his father, striving to stay civil. He squared his shoulders, conscious of his best friend, Shade, the object of the Emperor’s vicious tirade, standing next to him.

Please, Whip, this is my battle, Shade whispered. His stomach churned as he felt his world implode. How could the Emperor have found out?

No! We are partners in this and always have been. He’s my father!

If you two don’t mind, I . . . can do whatever I wish, the Emperor snarled his voice like fingernails on a blackboard. And you, Savarin, get out of my sight as well, you damned traitor. You knew of this abomination all along and you, my own son, said nothing. Nothing! And you did nothing to keep him away from my daughter! Your own sister! Get out!

Listening with triumphant delight to this interchange, the Emperor’s eldest son, Palimbray V, slouched in his seat to the right of the Imperial throne, exaltation oozing from every pore of his blubber-bound body. Although he was the rightful heir, he had always feared his youngest brother’s quick mind, and suspected him of harboring ambitions to the throne. But this was perfect. The little snot was dead in the water.

To the Emperor’s left sat his second son, Santanna Pugo, his face consumed by a befuddled expression through which trickled rivulets of sweat. He was not what would generally be described as the brightest spark in the court.

Sod you, then, I will, Whip, as Savarin preferred to be known, replied. He spun on his heel and strode from the throne room, his severe black clothing, and dark flowing hair a stark contrast to the more flamboyant and colorful fashions of the Imperial court. I hope you drown in your own shit, his voice floated back from the antechamber.

The Emperor’s lips thinned, but he said nothing. The gloating grin on the face of his heir apparent grew wider.

The Imperial Guard, stationed at strategic locations to protect the Emperor and his sons, had been solicitously patient during this family squabble, but they had a duty to do and could only tolerate a certain degree of discourtesy. A family spat was one thing, but threatening the Emperor and making reference to his bodily functions was quite another matter. At a signal from the Captain of the Guard, a squad positioned near the entrance to the chamber set off with righteous purpose in pursuit of the malefactor. But their ambitious zeal was immediately cut short by a curt wave of the Emperor’s hand. This was indeed a family matter.

Shade was left alone to bear the brunt of the Emperor’s fury. He stood with his head bowed feeling as though his life had ended. He had gone over his request so carefully and had dared to think everything was in place and perfect. He had dressed for the occasion with simple elegance: pale beige pants tucked into fine calf length brown leather boots with a matching leather vest over a pale maroon silk shirt, a studied contrast to the garish colors worn by most of the Emperor’s attendants whose dress was more reminiscent of courtly dress in the middle ages than the thirty first century.

Shade (a name he preferred to his given name, Trewellard Milagro Trevelyan, born of his father’s Cornish heritage and his mother’s Latino romanticism) was paralyzed by this catastrophic turn of events. He had had no inkling that what Whip liked to call ‘his little problem’ was now apparently public knowledge. He had come here today simply to ask a father for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Unfortunately, that father also happened to be The August Lord Palimbray IV, God Emperor Divine of the Galaxy and Omnipotent Ruler of All Creation, and to complete his full title there was a whole lot of other nonsense Shade could never remember. Celantra was the youngest of the Emperor’s children, and his only daughter.

Shade jumped as the Emperor snarled, Well, are you leaving or do I have to throw you out on your sorry, mutated ass? He sank back on his antique ebony throne, his face drawn and tired.

Shade quickly looked away, unable to bear the loathing in the Emperor’s eyes. This was a man he had known since childhood,