Blood of Gods

By Simon A. G. Spencer

Across the galaxy, mysteries deepen and threats increase.

On Utopia, home of the peacekeeping Rashani, anti-neutrality protests teeter on the brink of riots. On the outskirts of the galaxy, the Sun God finds a derelict spaceship that somehow crossed the supposedly-impenetrable Firmament, its purpose still unknown. And on a storm-wracked ju

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brain Lag
• Release date: Feb 9, 2024
• ISBN: 9781998795161

Simon A. G. Spencer

Simon A. G. Spencer is a prolific reader, obsessive gamer, and kaiju enthusiast who specializes in genre-melding science fiction and fantasy. He lives in Toronto. Blood of Gods is his third book.

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Prologue

It was said the Empire brought ruin when it cast its shadow over Miwam, but the truth was that the swamp had been claiming the Hideca homeworld for centuries before any had ever heard the name Bythos. The great inland waterways that had once been vital to trade routes across the planet had silted up or been clogged with pollution, separating the seas and cutting off the submerged cities. Amstreshia, once the crown jewel of Hideca culture, a city of wealth, art, and science, gradually fell into stagnation and then chaos, culminating in its tumble into the infinite darkness of the Tsuromi Abyss. The other great cities fractured and warred amongst themselves, democracies giving way to tyrannies and what had mere decades before been considered outdated tribal feuds. By the time the Bythos Empire arrived to blot out the sun with its warships, Miwam had fallen into the grip of a dark age, in which millennia of history and culture had been washed away, leaving only the songs and poems the land-bound were so fond of to keep tradition alive. By then, some considered being conquered an improvement.

It was only natural that what remained of the Hideca elite resisted. Sub-surface to air weaponry had survived in some form, and that bought them time to fortify before the Darem adapted and deployed their own submersible tools. Dho-zi had memorized a long ballad chronicling the Battle of Grigachi, where the barbarian king Yosho-ki made his stand against the Imperials from behind the fortifications of the eponymous reef. Many stanzas were dedicated to the preparations—the arming of soldiers, the manning of the defences, the king’s inspiring speech to his people—only for the battle to conclude within two quick verses when a torpedo launched from a scout-class micro-sub struck the central column of the reef and wiped out Grigachi’s entire ruling class. With that last bastion of the old, rotten world gone, the Empire was free to remake the Hideca in its image.

But it was too late for Miwam itself. Petty wars had left major bodies of water polluted and uninhabitable, forcing many of the sea-bound off-world to join imperial colonies. The land-bound still clung to their villages, their distance from the seas making them more resilient to their world’s collapse, but now they were beginning to feel the hardships as the rivers, lakes, and streams their settlements depended on had begun to dry up or turn stagnant. The swamp had spread across most of Miwam now, turning once clear, life-giving water a muddy brown.

Land routes were unpleasant and uncomfortable, but had become the norm for the average Hideca who couldn’t afford the expense of air travel. Still, Dho-zi preferred to swim, and had decided it was best to just suck it up and get a little dirty. She dove into the river outside her hovel early in the morning, one tentacle wrapped tightly around a watertight bag which held her belongings, and sped through the murk. The increasingly brown tint of the water could make it hard to navigate, but a pair of goggles and her own better-than-average sight allowed Dho-zi to avoid the detritus that had gathered on the riverbed. She corkscrewed around a mountain of trash sitting in her path—broken food containers and the shredded remains of drysuits—then turned down an offshoot from the main current, following it a couple of miles to its end in a small pond.

She emerged onto the soft, muddy land that ringed the pool, lifted herself onto two tentacles, and strode towards a large rock sitting beneath the canopy of trees overhead. Hideca had muscle where most species had bones, and although they were amphibious, most didn’t have the strength to walk upright on land without the support of an exo-suit. Dho-zi was stronger than most Hideca, and she could go a fair distance on two of her prime tentacles alone. Even with an aquatic race, nature tended towards bipedalism in intelligent creatures, and each of a Hideca’s four prime tentacles ended in a flat, spade-like ‘foot’ that helped distribute her weight. She held her bag between the twin-pronged ‘hands’ of her spare prime appendages, and reached inside for her drysuit. Nudity was a complicated matter for her kind, but it was always smart to wear water-retaining clothing on land to keep hydrated. She slipped the black, elastic drysuit over her sleek form, her prime tentacles slipping through openings in the fabric, while her six secondary tentacles and the cape-like membrane that linked their bases rested overtop the suit. There was still the risk of her extremities drying out, but keeping her body damp would mitigate most of the discomfort.

She took note of her surroundings. A forest: small, secluded. She hadn’t been here before, just followed the directions Gi-wa had given her. She assumed her little brother had chosen this place for its privacy. A shuttle roared high overhead, destined for the imperial spaceport in orbit, but its passengers would never look down on this small patch of Miwam.

She turned her attention to the grey boulder she’d been deliberately ignoring until now, specifically the irregular bulge sitting on its corner. I can see you, little brother.

The bulge shifted and unravelled, the illusion of rocky texture smoothing out and giving way to purple flesh. Gi-wa’s head emerged from the tangle of tentacles, his dark globe-like eyes narrowing peevishly. Little brother; their births had been separated by only a minute, but tradition gave Dho-zi the right to use that title to her heart’s content. Being her twin, Gi-wa was nearly identical to Dho-zi: his nose-less face was dominated by two large, black eyes and a wide, expressive mouth, with six red-fringed external gills protruding from the sides of his bulbous head like ears. Being male, his secondary tentacles were a few inches longer than hers, though he’d lost one a few years back to a school of hornet sharks. He slithered across the damp, mossy ground, coiling up like a spring by her ‘feet’.

Is everything set? Gi-wa was like that sometimes; to the point, no time for idle talk or even a greeting when he was focused.

Dho-zi gave in to gravity’s weight and dropped to the ground, meeting her brother at eye level. You’re supposed to say hello, little brother. Yes, everything is ready. The exo-suits and everything else is packed. He said we would meet soon, and after that… She raised a tentacle and gave it a slow twirl; the Hidecan equivalent to a shrug. We’ll figure something out.

Gi-wa slithered back towards the boulder, his longer tentacles rippling across the ground to carry him forward. He disappeared behind it for a moment, then re-emerged with two tentacles wrapped around a long, black rifle. He leaned against the grey stone and lifted the rifle into position, his eye narrowing to a dark line as he looked down the scope. Red tree, about eighty kilometres to the left.

Dho-zi slithered close to her brother. Do we have time for this?

He’s not here yet, is He? Gi-wa replied, curtly. Red tree, eighty kilometres to the left. Do you see it?

Dho-zi blew air through her gills and turned her head to follow the rifle’s barrel. I see it. It was a scrawny-looking tree, likely suffering from some kind of disease. Its branches were thin and leafless except for the very ends, which bore a crimson colour.

Gi-wa grunted, lowering his head back to his scope. A second later, there was a sharp bang, and the longest of the tree’s limbs snapped free and fell to the ground. Nailed it, he said, letting the barrel drop.

Glad to see you’re keeping in practice, little brother. They were going to need that precision very soon.

I’m proud that both of you are so eager. The voice was powerful and arresting, but not as startling as it had once been. A silver shimmer had appeared by the pond, a roaring fire in bipedal form. The twins turned to it with inexpressive faces, so unlike the awe they’d reacted with six months before.

Father, Dho-zi said, holding in her enthusiasm. How do you fare?

I am troubled, my dear child, as you well know, answered the shimmer. The death of your brother still hangs heavy on my heart, and his murderer still goes unpunished. Justice must be done.

It will be, Father, the twins spoke in unison. A brother they had never met, killed before they had even known of him. He was a stranger to them, but the blood of their kin had been spilt, and Hidecan tradition demanded vengeance be exacted and their Father’s grief eased.

We are ready, Father, Dho-zi said. We only need the killer’s name.

Very well, said the shimmer, growing in brightness. The wretched mortal who dared to take the life of your brother was a human, Marissa Rhapsody.

Gi-wa jammed another shell into his rifle. Then this Marissa Rhapsody is about to meet with severe misfortune.

Chapter One

War Council

Everyone had statues but him.

He’d felt quite proud of himself when he’d left his mansion dressed in his finest suit, with golden epaulettes on the shoulders, silver buttons, and a silk lining that made it a joy to wear, along with matching dark green pants and a pair of black dress shoes. He’d climbed into the back of his deluxe limo thinking he looked quite dignified, that the closed fist of the Grandir family stitched over his heart would catch the eyes of passing lords and be immediately recognizable. But as the driver skirted along the edge of Augerium’s most elite neighbourhood, Algus couldn’t help but notice the statues.

Everyone had at least one statue on their lawn, and the larger palaces had more. The Darem had dignified tributes to their ancestors, stone antlers that they’d never had in life sprouting from their heads, while the Zulkar had marbled imitations of alien wildlife, as if to complement the tall trees they allowed to grow on their property. Algus might have been a lord, but he didn’t have any statues, did not have room for a statue, could not afford a statue. He’d only just paid off the limo, and lived in dread of the morning when the bill for the suit arrived. The other mansions were bigger too, but that was to be expected from the older noble families.

Fifty years ago, his family had owned statues, too. His father, Archibald, had told him about them when he was reminiscing about his childhood on Quis. Archibald’s father had been the High Lord of Quis, and had owned nearly a quarter of the former human colony. That was before the Kinship had returned to steal back what the Empire had rightfully won, forcing the Grandirs to flee to Augerium and abandon most of their wealth. Now Algus was all that remained, rightful heir to a world he’d only ever known through his father’s stories. But that would change soon.

The limo turned away from the lords’ palaces, rolling down the hill onto Emperor’s Way, where it was immediately snagged in traffic. Here on the main road that made a straight path to the Imperial Palace, the expensive, stately vehicles of nobles were forced to mingle with the plain cars of commoners, while the poor pulled hand-drawn carts between them in shameless attempts to sell things. Algus took one look at the slow-moving lines of vehicles and felt a twinge of frustration, pulling the blinds down over his window. This wouldn’t have happened two decades ago, when Emperor’s Way had been reserved for lords and lords alone.

He checked the time every few minutes as the limo progressed in a series of infrequent lurches and stops. They were making slow but steady progress, yet Algus couldn’t dismiss the feeling that he was going to be late. He’d made sure to leave well ahead of time, but when you drove onto Emperor’s Way, there was no guarantee of when you’d be able to get off. Even worse that he had to see the road to its very end and contend with congestion the entire way. He fidgeted in his seat, occasionally yelling at the driver to hurry up. It did not do to keep the Emperor waiting.

This opportunity had been a long time coming. Even after the loss of Quis, Algus’ family had served Emperor Bythos faithfully, acting as military commanders. Like his father before him, Algus was now a general, promoted after putting down a Hideca rebellion on some insignificant colony. The later races to join the Empire had a tendency to rebel, for whatever reason. His own race was divided between the Empire and the Kinship, so even a loyal subject such as himself was often scrutinized more harshly for being human. But he’d persevered, and now he’d been invited to the Emperor’s palace. Algus couldn’t be happier. War was here, and he had plans.

After nearly half an hour, the limo disentangled itself from the rabble and pushed on up the hill towards the palace at its peak. The Imperial Palace was suitably large, dwarfing all the noble homes he’d passed on his way there. The walls were a solid grey, draped with yellow banners displaying a crown surrounded by five worlds, one for each race in the Empire. Most of its size came from its width, but three long, thin towers protruded from the sides and centre of the structure like the prongs on the banner’s crown, each peaked by a communications antenna. A tall wall enclosed the palace, and Algus could just make out the tiny shapes of Darem soldiers patrolling on top.

The limo stopped at the front gate, two slabs of solid steel blocking the way, and Algus presented his ID to a heavily armed guard. When the vehicle was waved through, the driver turned them off to the left of the courtyard into a special parking area for lords. The servants had to park in the back.

Algus stepped out of the limo and stretched, then went to meet the guards who were coming to escort him. The Darem, their long-snouted heads reminiscent of grey hairless horses, were polite and gave him the courtesies that befit his station, but there was a hardness to their eyes, a suggestion in their glances that said they would shoot him if he stepped out of line. Not that Algus had any intention of doing such; he was as loyal an Imperial as they came.

As they crossed the courtyard, he couldn’t help but notice its central feature: a fountain, carved in the likeness of His First Imperial Majesty, Olym Bythos, The Righteous Conqueror, Tamer of Primitives. His hands were raised high into the air, water spouting from his palms. His head was adorned with a pair of large antlers, which threatened to unbalance the entire thing while also baffling Algus. The Darem obsession with antlers was a strange quirk he’d never quite grasped; the long, horse-like heads of the Darem had a pair of tiny horn nubs placed between their triangular ears and the long mane of hair that travelled down the length of their necks. They were vestigial, a remnant of some ancient ancestor as tailbones were to humans. But a glance at any depiction of Darem lords past would suggest that their race had carried an unwieldy rack of antlers on their heads until very recently. The fountain had gone for something in the realm of physics, but at least one famous painting of the ancient Olym had what looked like a pair of leafless trees sprouting from his skull. It was hard to say how they’d gotten the crown on his head like that. Algus had asked his father once about why they did it, but Archibald had simply shrugged and replied, For the same reason your grandfather’s painting shows him standing at six feet instead of the five-six he was.

Algus was fortunate enough to have a few inches on his grandfather, thankfully, but he had inherited the Grandir eyes, so dark they could be called black. He wore his brown hair short and matched it with a beard that clung close to the line of his jaw. He’d spent an hour in the bathroom fussing over his appearance, wanting to look the perfect version of himself for His Imperial Majesty.

He went inside through the wide double doors, was marched down a long hall with its plush red carpet and its rows of paintings depicting the many generations of the imperial family—all antlered, of course—and finally reached the throne room at the far end. The palace was built in the tradition of old Darem architecture, with the most important rooms at the back in case of attack. As Algus’ father had told it, such castles had been built on the tops of cliffs, with a sheer drop behind to discourage rear attacks. But the Imperial Palace had come long after that sort of land-based warfare had died out, so it stood on a tall hill with more of the city behind it.

The throne room was twice the size of any room in Algus’ home, with electric lights done up to look like old-fashioned braziers branching out from supporting pillars and hanging from the ceiling, and a floor made of large marble tiles, polished to a shine. There was a rise at the back of the room, an empty pedestal where the imperial throne had stood fifty years ago. Hanging on the wall behind it was another yellow banner with the crown and planets, the most fitting backdrop against which to give imperial decrees.

A long table had been placed in the centre of the room today, lined with empty chairs with a cup set before each one. Two of the seats were occupied, both off to the sides of the head of the table. The figure on the left, a tall reptilian Zulkar, raised his gaunt head at Algus’ entrance, while the Darem opposite him remained slumped in his seat with his snout buried in his folded arms.

Lord Grandir, a pleasure to see you, the Zulkar greeted him in a voice like sandpaper. Please, be seated. His Imperial Majesty has not yet arrived.

But I see his heir is suitably punctual, Algus said, bowing to the sulking Darem. Your Highness, it is an honour to sit in council with you.

Prince Adremmelus Bythos lifted his head, revealing a pair of red, puffy eyes. He was dressed in a fine silk robe lined with white fur, and his grey fingers were home to a set of jewelled rings. His mane had been braided and dyed yellow, its end hanging over one shoulder. He had a pair of small golden antlers attached to his head, as was the style among Darem noblemen, with tiny glittering stones set in the tips. It all would’ve made for an impressive display of wealth and elegance if he hadn’t been visibly hung over.

His Highness blinked bleary eyes at Algus, lines of concentration running from his brow and down his long snout. Who’re you?

Algus bowed again. Algus Grandir, faithful general and High Lord of Quis.

Adremmelus flicked one of his ears. We haven’t held Quis in fifty years.

Indeed, Your Highness, but it is still the Empire’s by right, and things can change, Algus said with confidence. Perhaps he wasn’t being subtle, but it was better to plant the suggestion sooner than later.

Right. Adremmelus’ lower lip drooped down, revealing a row of large, square teeth. Chancellor, wake me when my father arrives, and please keep your voices down until then. Then he lowered his head onto his arms and began to snore.

As you wish, Your Highness, answered the Zulkar, Chancellor Traek Protram. With his straight-backed posture and black suit, he had a strongly butler-like air about him, as if he was not only incapable of improper actions, but could not even conceive of them. Emperor Dymus should be here shortly, Lord Grandir.

Algus took a seat near the foot of the table. Much as he’d like to sit further up, Darem were incredibly strict about hierarchy and did not react well to any act they perceived as a challenge to their position. I see quite a few empty seats. Is no one else joining us?

Protram held his clawed hands folded on the table, his head raised high on his long neck. Many of our generals are off-world at the moment—this war has come as a bit of a surprise to all of us. They will be briefed later, but you have been selected for the first strike.

Algus liked the sound of that. That is quite the honour, chancellor.

Protram’s expression did not change, his yellow eyes hardly seeming to see him. Do not thank me. It was Princess Nylia’s decision.

Oh, Traek dear, the way you say my name sends shivers down my spine⁠—so dull and lifeless. Say it again, please.

The princess had slipped into the room without a sound, her heeled shoes not so much as clicking as she approached the table. As with her brother, Princess Nylia was prone to express her position through her clothing and accessories; her fingers bore so many rings that Algus couldn’t see how she could bend them, and each nail was a long, purple-painted talon. Her dress was purple as well, made in the Darem style with slits on the sides to accommodate the species’ wide hips. A large emerald hugged her throat, and lines of makeup stretched from the corners of her eyes and halfway down her snout like purple tears. She smiled when Algus stood to bow, patting him on the shoulder before moving on to her brother.

Another party, Adrem? She sounded more amused than upset. My goodness, how will you ever rule the Empire when you wake up every morning like this?

Adremmelus grunted, opening his eyes a fraction to glare up at his sister. Save it, please. We both know Father will outlive the both of us.

Nylia rolled her eyes and took her seat beside him. Still, you could at least try to act like a prince.

A minute later, and everyone was on their feet again as His Imperial Majesty Dymus Bythos was wheeled into the room on his throne. The Emperor was two hundred years old, about fifty more than the average Darem lifespan, thanks to extensive and expensive medical procedures. The hair of his mane was frayed and scattered with plenty of bald patches, while the flesh of his face hung loosely on his skull. His grey limbs were thin and bony, and he was still dressed in his nightrobe, which seemed about three sizes too big for him. A long black trunk was attached to the end of his snout, coiling around the back of the tall throne to the oxygen tanks concealed there. The Phal slave pushing his chair; female, thickset, hairy, and de-quilled; moved him to the head of the table, the Emperor’s ever-bloodshot eyes sweeping over all of them as they bowed. He made a dismissive gesture with his gnarled hand, wordlessly commanding them to be seated. The slave knelt by the throne’s left arm, reading the medical readouts on the screen there, then nodded and removed herself from their view.

Bythos turned his eyes towards the Chancellor at his right side and opened his palm impatiently.

Soon, Your Greatness, Protram assured him in his grating voice. We are still awaiting General Shramgore.

Algus snorted with disdain. He knew the name, if not the man himself. By what right does a commoner keep the rightful ruler of the galaxy waiting? Perhaps we should carry on without him, Your Greatness.

That would be unwise, Lord Grandir, Protram replied in a mild tone. His Greatness loathes repetition, so let us only discuss this once, hm? Give the man a minute.

It took five minutes, but when Shramgore arrived, there could be no doubt of who he was. Dusog were by far the ugliest species in the Empire, if not the whole galaxy, and Krikel Shramgore was a model specimen. His pale skin was splotched with brown and pulled tight across his hairless head, giving his face a ghastly resemblance to a skull, his cheekbones protruding at sharp angles. He had no chin to speak of. A set of large, sharp protruding teeth formed a cage around his mouth, while a pair of squinting, four-lidded eyes surveyed the room; both relics of his race’s subterranean past. Two sets of horrendously long black claws hung at his sides as he shuffled into the room. He’d dressed his hunched form in a dark blue military uniform much like Algus’ own, only his was adorned with five shining medals instead of a lordly sigil.

He came to the foot of the table, bowing hurriedly to each of them. Your Greatness, Your Highnesses, chancellor, my lord—please forgive my tardiness. My daughter gave birth to a litter of six this morning, and I needed to be there for them.

Algus pictured six squirming pale things with Shramgore’s face and shuddered. Emperor Bythos merely shrugged, and the chancellor translated: That’s quite all right, General, but please do not make a habit of it. Be seated, and we can begin.

Algus bumped his chair a few inches away as Shramgore took the seat beside him. If he’d had his way, he would’ve been sitting up closer to the royal family, not at the foot of the table like a commoner. He supposed he would have to bear it for now, until he’d proven himself to the Emperor.

Protram took a long moment to clear his throat before proceeding. Now, as I’m sure you have all heard, the Aquila Alliance recently declared war on our great Empire, and the Kinship has announced their intent to support them.

Adremmelus lifted his head as if it weighed several tons, gnawing on his upper lip. Remind me how this happened, would you? The details seem to have slipped my mind.

That’s what happens when you wash out your skull with wine every night, Nylia said quietly. Her brother didn’t seem to hear.

Of course, Your Highness, Protram replied. Around six months ago, negotiations between the Alliance and the Kinship were interrupted by an attack from a group of Zulkar under the command of a fellow known as Vrakk Shodus.

Forgive me, lord chancellor, but I am not familiar with the Shodus family, Algus said. There were probably many noble families he didn’t know, but he made a habit of keeping up with the most powerful houses.

There isn’t one, Protram replied with a touch of disdain. Shodus was a title from Zulis’ primitive past, before the Empire brought our people enlightenment. This ‘Shodus’ was a bastard child of a minor house—a nobody. He worked for Imperial Intelligence for many years, until he and a good number of his subordinates vanished into pirate space and took imperial resources with them. Why Intelligence did not address this treason in their ranks, I cannot say—probably incompetence. Regardless, he made his move, killing a popular Aquilan diplomat and taking the other negotiators prisoner.

Shramgore folded his hands together, clicking his long claws. I think I see his plan. He hoped to deceive both nations and turn them against each other, destroy any hope of partnership between them, maybe even spark a war. A clever scheme, but far too underhanded for my taste. It is unbecoming of a lord, illegitimate or not.

Algus wasn’t so sure of that, but he kept his mouth shut to avoid appearing impertinent. Anything that got their enemies fighting each other would be an advantage to the Empire. Any lord would’ve seen that.

Protram continued. Whatever his intentions, Shodus failed. His prisoners had friends, and he was tracked down by several Rashani and a band of mercenaries. The diplomats were rescued, the truth revealed, and he allegedly met his end at the hands of a common gladiator.

But—but wait, Adremmelus stammered. What does this have to do with us? This Zulkar was acting on his own.

The Aquila seem to see things differently, Your Highness. Protram’s expression was eerily still as he spoke. They were imperial citizens, making use of imperial resources, and that is enough to rekindle these fools’ ire against us. We are responsible, they say, as if it is His Greatness’ duty to care about every bastard with a swelled head. Like it or not, the Aquila are set on war.

And we shall give them war, Algus asserted, seizing on a pause in the chancellor’s droning. I recommend we begin with a strike at Quis. It was ours half a century ago, and the people are probably clamouring for the Empire’s return. Let us give them that, and demonstrate that what was once the Empire’s is always the Empire’s.

Shramgore clicked his claws again. As I heard it in my studies, it was the people clamouring for democracy that allowed the Kinship to uproot imperial power on Quis, my lord, but perhaps that has changed over the years. Regardless, the Aquila are our primary foe, and Quis is a planet with limited tactical value.

Algus choked back a bark of rage. How dare he! Quis had been the centre of human power in the Empire, a new homeworld for those who’d had enough of the Kinship and its lies of fairness and equality. What would a commoner dirt-dweller know about it? If they hadn’t been in the presence of the imperial family, he would’ve shouted the Dusog down.

We have already selected a target, Protram interrupted, pre-empting Algus’ outrage. There is an inhabited planet sitting on the edge of Alliance territory, though they’ve laid no claim to the world itself. Tashwa, they call it, the home of a primitive race sorely in need of enlightenment.

A heavy silence fell over the room as everyone considered the meaning of what Protram was saying. It had been nearly two hundred years since the Empire had conquered Miwam, before the current Emperor had taken the throne, and since then their mission, the enlightenment of the entire galaxy, had been put on hold as they turned their focus towards fighting their greater enemies. Primitive races could not fight against the might of the Empire, and would quickly accept their guidance.

Your Greatness, you do me a great honour. The words slipped off Algus’ tongue without a thought. To be the conqueror of a new race would cement his name in history and engrave his likeness beside the Empire’s greatest heroes. He hadn’t come into the palace expecting to be given such an opportunity.

Bythos made no sign of recognition, just closed his eyes. He might have fallen asleep. It was Protram who answered, as usual.

Yes, but it is not a matter to be taken lightly. Conquering these primitives will not just add to our empire, but it may demoralize the Aquila. We hope that seizing such a victory early on will bring the Alliance asking for terms of peace, before this war costs us anything valuable.

When will I go? Algus asked. He would’ve happily jumped aboard a battleship right now if they asked.

Within the month, Protram answered. We’ve already sent a few lesser ships out to scout. You will both be assigned to an Eclipse-class battleship with a full crew to take the planet.

Algus’ train of thought screeched to a halt. Pardon me, but did you say ‘both’?

Protram nodded his head slowly. Yes, of course. General Shramgore will be leading the conquest of Tashwa, with you as support.

As quickly as his excitement had built, it was gone. An assistant. He was an assistant to a commoner. His dreams of greatness flushed from his mind. Who had ever heard of the man who supported the great conqueror? When he looked around the table, he saw a smirk on Nylia’s long face, and he thought he heard something like a chuckle from the Emperor.

Shramgore rose to his feet and bowed again. We shall not fail you, Your Greatness. Tashwa shall be yours. Algus mimicked him, mindlessly repeating what he’d said.

The Emperor was first to be removed when the council concluded, followed swiftly by his son. Protram wasted a few more words reminding the generals of the importance of this meeting, then left the room with his long strides. Shramgore begged their pardons, telling them he wished to get back to his grandchildren, and departed, leaving only Algus and Princess Nylia. Algus didn’t even want to think about moving. His legs felt like lead, his enthusiasm for his work depleted.

Things not going as you’d hoped? Princess Nylia was at his side without a sound, eyes narrowed with amusement.

Algus started from his seat, bowing again. Forgive me, Your Highness. It’s just that I… He trailed off. Would the Princess really care what he felt?

You feel that you should be leading this conquest, Nylia finished for him. You think it a slight that a great lord from a loyal family such as yourself should have to share your glory with a jumped-up commoner. Do I have the gist of it?

Well, yes, Algus answered.

Nylia reached back behind her head, tucking a stray lock of pink-dyed hair back into her mane. Names count for a lot, certainly, but ability is worth more than a big house and a fancy sigil. This war will win Shramgore a lordship, I guarantee. He has proven himself in twice as many battles as you, and with far less casualties. He is the perfect man for this task.

I understand, Princess, Algus lied. It’s just I wished for, well, more.

Nylia placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a kindly squeeze. Oh, you’ll get it.

Algus frowned. What do you mean, Your Highness?

Nylia’s lips parted in a toothy smile. Protram and my father think of this war as a nuisance, something to be over and done with quickly. I see an opportunity, as should you. Why fear the combined forces of the Alliance and the Kinship? We are the greatest power the galaxy has ever seen!

I agree, Your Highness, Algus replied.

So prove it, Nylia said, tightening her grip on his shoulder, her long nails digging in ever so slightly. Show our enemies the might of the Empire. Tashwa is not enough—we must cut a piece from both their hides if we are to put fear back into them. We can only benefit from a longer war, for every victory means another world added to the Empire.

Algus started again, grasping her meaning, and Nylia grinned. You understand, then. I promise you—ensure this war continues, and you will have Quis.

Chapter Two

The Forge Deus

Five months ago…

A powerful vibration had been running through the Chariot for the last hour, and Sorin worked the controls in an effort to keep the vessel stable. The Aether, what mortals called hyperspace, was always in motion, a stream of primal energy flowing in every direction at once; how smooth the journey through it went depended on the current he steered the Chariot into. This one was strong and swift, pulling Sorin down its course at high speeds. The faster currents expedited his journey, but the risks were twofold: at this speed, he needed to be certain of where to breach if he didn’t want to overshoot his target, and any sudden change in the current might destroy the Chariot entirely. Dying would be most unwelcome, especially now that he had a mission.

Sitting in a storage closet at the back of the Chariot was something that shouldn’t be there, or anywhere. It was a machine, insect-like in shape and made of a strange metal as black as starless space. It matched no technology that existed in the Syr galaxy, and it was only one piece of a greater whole. Although the galaxy was surrounded by the Firmament, a powerful Deus-built barrier that prevented entry from both normal space and the Aether, an entire vessel had somehow penetrated it. The intrusion had destroyed the ship and left only a derelict wreck, but its mere presence had already had a significant impact on mortal affairs. Would the war between the Alliance and the Empire have happened if Vrakk Shodus hadn’t found the vessel first? At least two pieces of intruder technology had been taken from the wreck: Sorin’s own prize, and a strange, casket-like object that was currently in the possession of the Rashani and thus out of his reach.

He guessed that the machine was some sort of remotely-operated maintenance drone, cut off from its controllers over a century ago, but its purpose was only a secondary concern. What interested Sorin was the material it was made from and how it worked. It seemed to be a sympathetic metal of some sort, like the Lucidite found on Utopia, but its properties seemed different, and his own knowledge on the subject was limited. Fortunately, he knew an expert. Unfortunately, they hadn’t spoken in centuries.

Deus could hold grudges for a long time. Sorin’s mother, Gelia, had been murdered a thousand years ago, but he still held a strong enmity towards his father for simply being an accomplice in her death. His kind had forgotten many things, but feuds seemed to run through their veins like ichor. But this particular disagreement had been born in the flames of grief and emotional strain, and he hoped that enough time had passed for both their heads to cool.

His navigation system warned him that he was nearing his destination, so he switched off the Aether drive and tipped back the steering yoke. One last, powerful tremor passed through the Chariot as it breached back into normal space, the bright energy stream replaced by a dark void outside the clear dome above his head. A wide-range scan of the sector revealed that he was sitting on the edge of an asteroid belt surrounding a star and two planets. Neither was inhabited, Sorin recalled, but the conditions on the second world were favourable for life.

He steered into the belt, keeping an eye on the navigation system. One asteroid out of thousands—as good a home as any for a reclusive Deus, but it made visiting difficult. All space-rocks looked the same to him, but the Chariot’s computers would detect signs of any occupants within the belt. An array of holographic shapes hung in the air before him, his own ship a golden blip moving among them. After an hour’s search, one of those spheres began to glow, and he adjusted his course to intercept it.

To his own eyes, the asteroid was unremarkable; a massive piece of rock about the size of a mortal city block, pockmarked from collisions with its neighbours and lacking any recognizable shape. It was the perfect hiding spot, and a marvellous work of craftsmanship.

He flew a quick loop around the asteroid, wondering how to proceed. Did she know he was here? She had set up sensors to detect Aether breaches, but that didn’t mean she would still be checking them after all these years. It had been a long time since Deus had regularly visited each other. He sighed, staring apprehensively at the holographic display as he considered what sort of message he should send. Video would be polite and proper, but he didn’t have the courage to show his face just yet.

He set up the console to record and leaned forward in his seat. Ulenne, this is Sorin. I… have something for you to look at.

He hit send, then leaned back and closed his eyes. There were a hundred things he could have said, but he’d chosen the safe option. He could have poured out his soul into that message for hours, but instead he’d given a distant, impersonal and, most of all, brief communication. He told himself that anything important he had to say to Ulenne he could say in person, but the truth was that this reunion had been worrying at his nerves for the last week, and he was a little frightened now that it was time.

Ulenne’s reply came in the form of a simple, wordless signal, telling the Chariot’s navigation system where the entrance into her home was. Sorin didn’t need it; he might not have known where to find Ulenne’s dwelling, but he remembered how to get in. He brought the Chariot around to an inconspicuous nub on one side of the asteroid that split open to allow him in, and set down on a flat metal surface, a wide hangar that was mostly empty.

He climbed out of the Chariot and found himself standing beneath a swarm of constellations. An impressive feat; the walls of the structure were a clever illusion, displaying the rocky mass of an asteroid to the galaxy while allowing a clear view of the outside. Ulenne had always liked a workshop with a view.

He set his sabatons on the floor and stepped away from the Chariot. He’d dressed in his most impressive outfit: a suit of golden armour that Ulenne had forged for him long ago, its helmet tipped with curving prongs like stylized rays of a sun, complemented by the crimson blade sheathed at his waist. He hoped she would appreciate the care he’d put into keeping it in good condition for so long.

There were two other ships besides his own. Ulenne’s own Chariot, coloured a more subtle copper next to Sorin’s gold, was parked nearby. He was pleased to see it free of dust, unlike the one his reclusive brother Lutus kept, because it meant that Ulenne was still using it and hadn’t fallen into the same habits of solitude that many Deus—Sorin included—had developed.

The other ship hid beneath a black tarp in the far corner of the hangar. A single red, curved wing protruded from beneath the covering, and Sorin approached in a trance of old memories. Was it the same ship? He hoped not, but when he lifted the corner of the tarp to have a look, he recognized the crimson hull immediately. Ulenne had upgraded the damned thing since he’d last seen it; those propulsion cylinders on the side were new, and the whole thing had a freshly polished sheen to it.

What do you think? a voice asked behind him.

Sorin dropped the tarp and turned, slowly, bracing himself. Ulenne stood behind him, two bronze-coloured, well-muscled arms folded under her chest. Another arm branched off from either shoulder, their hands idly fiddling with a broken tool. Her hair was a green-tinted black and tied back in a bun, which suggested she’d been working. This was corroborated by her attire; a simple pair of shorts and a shirt that exposed the sculpt of her limbs and midriff, all covered in a sheen of sweat. Her large, dark purple eyes were narrowed slightly.

Ulenne, hello. He hadn’t a clue how to greet her after so long. It looks, um, different. You’re still working on it?

Not right now, Ulenne replied, briefly holding the tool in her hands up to her face. I take a look at her from time to time, give her a scrubbing, replace or upgrade parts, maybe give her a go every few decades, then set her aside when I hit another stumbling block. Is there a battle going on that I’m not aware of?

Sorin paused, uncomprehending, then noticed the way her eyes slid up and down his armour. Oh, no. Not yet, at least.

Ulenne allowed herself a small smirk. How very ominous. Anyway, I haven’t been pursuing ship-making as passionately as I used to. What I’ve been trying to do is possible, I’m sure, but even Deus science has its limits. Give it another couple of millennia.

Her tone was calm and somewhat friendly, but the look in her eyes was just as defiant as it had been last time, and it rankled Sorin. He kept a hold on his frustration; they’d had this talk before. I think it will be much longer than that, but I’m not here to debate that.

Good, Ulenne said. That’s probably for the best.

Sorin nodded. It’s been awhile, hasn’t it?

Ulenne’s smirk gave way to a pout. I expected you to come back sooner.

He gave a shrug to mask his guilt. I’m here now.

I was thinking the day after you left, not centuries later.

I thought we both needed time to ourselves. He had no good explanation for his self-imposed exile after their last meeting, but neither did she, or Fulmus, or any of the others. In the wake of Gelia’s death, his father Zantir’s imprisonment, and Lutus’ fall from grace, the bonds that had held the Deus together had just seemed to dissolve. The sense of hope and camaraderie that had held them together for the millions of years following the Tyrant War had died with their leader, and the pantheon had gone their separate, aimless ways. He and Ulenne, a couple for nearly seven millennia by that point, had tried to remain together, but his commitment to Lutus and his commands had led to them seeing each other less and less, until their final meeting had driven them apart for good. He’d planned to return, except that other, less painful tasks had always gotten in the way.

Ulenne strode over to Sorin’s Chariot, eyeing a spot on the side where the hull was warped and discoloured. What did this?

I flew into the path of a torpedo. Sorin was still a little embarrassed at how rashly he’d acted to protect Fulmus’ daughter, though he didn’t regret it.

Ulenne gave him a questioning look, then shrugged. So you’ve been having fun without me. Well, I’ve been busy too.

Sorin smiled, fond memories of better days filling his head. Maybe we should catch up.

Ulenne refolded her arms. Maybe. You said you had something for me? An apology gift?

You could think of it that way. He knew her well enough to know how she’d take his strange discovery. It’s in the Chariot. There’s quite a story about how I found it, but I can’t be sure what it is. I don’t think it’s from our galaxy.

Ulenne’s stern expression faltered, her eyes widening with interest. Well, don’t keep me waiting—bring it out!

Sorin climbed back into the Chariot and hauled the machine out. He’d found it in zero gravity, so he stumbled a little trying to lift it now that there was weight. The limbs were tucked up against the body, which made it convenient to carry, at least. When he placed it on the floor with a grunt, Ulenne came running and dropped onto her knees next to it. She ran a finger over its carapace, no longer hiding her awe.

This is—what is this? She nearly flattened herself against the floor to get a look at the machine’s underside. This metal isn’t like anything I’ve seen before. She touched her forehead, grasping for something that wasn’t there. Left my goggles in the workshop. Well, that’s where the rest of my tools are too. Come on, pick it up and follow me. Tell me everything on the way.

Sorin obeyed wordlessly, smiling to himself. Whatever tension there still was between them, she hadn’t changed so much that he didn’t know how to excite her anymore.

* * *

He set the machine down on the worktable that Ulenne directed him to, then took a look around the workshop while she went to get her tools. It was a massive room, possibly bigger than the hangar, but Ulenne had still managed to clutter it up. Countless half-finished projects had been shoved carelessly onto towering shelves, a catalogue of mysterious devices that probably would’ve served their purpose adequately, but lacked the innovative flair that Ulenne always pursued with her creations. Larger pieces, mostly ship frames and dissected engines, hung from wires attached to the transparent ceiling, obscuring but not eliminating the view outside.

Ulenne returned, a toolkit under one arm and a pair of goggles wrapped around her forehead. She hardly seemed to notice Sorin as she pushed past and set the kit on the table. When she lowered the goggles over her eyes, the lenses began to rotate, focusing in as they ran an analysis of the machine. Her lips were curved in a giddy smile, and Sorin pretended not to hear her whispering to herself.

As I thought—this metal doesn’t match any known alloy in the Syr galaxy, she said aloud, presumably for Sorin to hear. No flaws, no seams—this thing is a work of art. Are you sure this was caught in an Aether accident?

Sorin cleared his throat; he always felt a little anxious when she grilled him like this. Yes. The vessel I found it in had been pulled apart like many ships during a bad breaching. I guess the hull must have shielded this from the brunt of the damage.

Ulenne turned her head towards him, the lenses twisting back and forth. "An entire ship—I still can’t process that. An entire ship of this? I need to see it. You should have brought it with you."

He couldn’t help but laugh. It was nearly as big as this asteroid. What could I have done, tethered it to the Chariot and hauled it all the way here? Start small—I’ll give you the coordinates so you can see it for yourself, but that might take years to investigate.

Ulenne nodded. "Right, right. Even a cursory look at this thing here tells me I might need a few months to unlock its secrets. She flipped the machine onto its back with embarrassing ease and began to unfold its jointed limbs. It almost looks like an insect, or maybe a crustacean. Interesting design choice. What purpose do you think it served?"

A maintenance drone, maybe. You know these things better than I.

Well, I haven’t a clue in this case. Ulenne tapped a finger against her lip as she ogled the machine’s underside. There’s no sign of any damage that would’ve caused it to cease operation. Maybe it’s out of fuel. I’m going to need to run some tests, open it up.

I won’t keep you, said Sorin, reluctantly. I’ve no pressing business at the moment, so I won’t be far. Contact me when you find something—Lutus worries there might be more intruders.

All Lutus does is worry, Ulenne grumbled, reaching into her toolbox.

Sorin lingered a little longer, disappointed. He’d known talking to Ulenne again would be uncomfortable, but this seemed like so much less than he’d hoped for. All through the journey here, he’d imagined countless ways their reunion might play out: tearful embraces and apologies, furious shouting and insults, strong emotions shared between two Deus who’d once cared for each other. Yet all there was now was a long, awkward silence and the nagging feeling that he should say something, but no clear idea as to what. He turned to go.

Goodbye, Sorin, Ulenne called over her shoulder. Give your brother my regards.

I will, if I see him, Sorin answered. I’ve also been in contact with Fulmus lately. That one is… quite the tale.

Tell me about it sometime, Ulenne said mildly. Are you thinking about piecing the pantheon back together?

Sorin was stunned. No, that wasn’t my intention. I don’t know if that’s even possible anymore. No one trusts Lutus.

Forget Lutus, Ulenne said, not taking her eyes from her tinkering. You could do it. The others would follow you, I think. I would.

An old, familiar warmth bubbled up inside him, but it was tempered by an uneasy cooling in his middle. I’ll think about it. Who knows what we may have to do if there are more intrusions?

Chapter Three

A Diplomatic Mission

The orbital spaceport saw tens of thousands of passengers walk through its gates every day, but today it felt as though they’d all come in at once. A mob had gathered around Gate E, and it took a ring of burly Phal guards to keep them from clogging the hall. They were a varied mix of people—human, Phal, and Dwin—and they were mostly reporters, shoving cameras and recording devices in the faces of anyone foolish enough to draw close. One young woman ducked beneath the reach of one of the guards and made a dash for the end of the hall, only to be grabbed by two pairs of hairy hands and be firmly but harmlessly dragged back to join the rest of the crowd. It was a necessary precaution; one wrong step could create an interplanetary incident.

Arc watched the crowd with a curious but unconcerned eye. He was in an optimistic mood today, and the size of the crowd seemed more like a good omen than a security risk. People wanted to see what happened here today. He couldn’t have said that six months ago.

He stood at the other end of the hall, at the back of a small group of politicians. There were a couple of Assemblymen from each of the Kinship’s native species, the three heads of Kinship Military Command, and the Prime Minister of Aegis, Elizabeth Torwin. Next to them, Arc felt pretty out of place. He might dress like them in his neat, dark suit, but he was bulkier than all but the Phal in the group, and the scar across his face was rather unique. Still, he felt privileged to be there to welcome the Aquila visitors.

This had been a long time coming,