Omnitempus / the Quenar Affair: Troyuan Chronicles...Book Seven

© 2013 ERNEST VELON. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 03/27/2018

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1005-7 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-1004-0 (e)

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CONTENTS

Foreword

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty One

Chapter Twenty Two

Chapter Twenty Three

Chapter Twenty Four

Chapter Twenty Five

Chapter Twenty Six

Chapter Twenty Seven

Chapter Twenty Eight

Chapter Twenty Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty One

Chapter Thirty Two

Chapter Thirty Three

Chapter Thirty Four

Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Six

Chapter Thirty Seven

Chapter Thirty Eight

Chapter Thirty Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty One

Chapter Forty Two

Chapter Forty Three

Chapter Forty Four

Other Works By This Author

About The Author

FOREWORD

I almost was killed!

That unruly mob of locals and their friends, uneducated and hot headed, almost stoned me to an early death. What a fool I was to agree to their Leader’s demands. I should have heeded my wife’s advice and remained at my diggings than get involved with their madness. A sorry sort I’ve become relenting from social intercourse and forgetting the warning wisdom about the village yokels! But what was done was done.

They came at me about an Agel ago asking to officiate at a debate amongst their religious leaders. As the most learned person in the whole area of Larentia I consented, more of a tweaking of my ego than commonsense, at that time. What I encountered was more of an inquisition than a debate of learned prelates. Their quaint beliefs, splintered and gone off in twenty different directions since ten millennia of time, have reached a climax of utter division. After so many thousands of years they gathered here, on Amazia, a planet once the center of all things great and glorious, to argue a compromise of unity on the nature of the Tezeea. The passage of time has not been kind to these simple folk. All manner of thinkers, great and small, have corrupted the basic religion, some believing in a true revelation, others to promote their own credit grasping agendas. Each adding and subtracting to the rituals, the dogma and the text, until what was basic and simple became confused and lost. So, here I sat, listened and tried to discern order from chaos from three thousand wagging throats of the insane. The senseless babble forced me to think on my own, to guide their tiny minds in a different direction.

What I did was to present each with a copy of the basic lesson of historical truth.

My studies uncovered the long lost journals of Alack Troyus and his escapades in a faraway galaxy. The Young Man was coming into his own as compiled talents started to give him an edge. A strong body with a keen mind, to challenge the evils in his golden age, seems so remote and dream-like today. His remarkable Affair on Quenar where this entire madness had begun, and the lonely Prophet and the people he tried to enlighten. Yes, the fool I am! I thought by giving these madmen the document that began it all, that created the focal point so long ago…a gift by the God of Time, would give then insight and a course to unity and compromise. But, like all good intentions, this one backfired and now I find myself hiding in an outhouse!

It’s the basic smell of my own latrine that brought me back to simple sanity.

Ernest Velon

Larentia, 03/13/9833 UC.

PROLOGUE

"Who would have guessed, in the twentieth year of His Glory’s reign, the peace of an entire Galactic Dominion would be shattered. Like a pane of silicon glass, clear and unblemished, broken by a sudden malevolent blow. To those happy, prosperous people of faraway Playsaria, who are enjoying the fruits and blessings of the famed Pax Amaziana, that shattering unveiled a sudden monstrous design. Without notice, seething tentacles unraveled from a central pit causing the strangulation of so many fine comrades. A sickening malignancy, striking at the very heart of what people cherish as decent, swept down like a wave of churning death. Planetary systems, nameless and innocent, teeming with the bounty of their father’s efforts, are torn apart like a piece of meat in a pair of ravenous jaws. Desperate populations, wallowing in the ruins of their worst nightmares, witnessed horrors surged up from the abysmal depths of chaos, engulfing all.

Only a sane mind would recoil in anguish, crying out for justice in the emptiness.

My first mission began one year ago, or was it longer? I’m not certain anymore. The rapid pace of events, so sudden distorted my perception, twisting the norms beyond space and time. What seemed a few weeks in transition became almost an eternity, the stuff cold horror is stripped from. The layering of reality became an onion, one peel of skin removed, a festering sore felt, and another beckoned. Too finally sink into the depths of one’s dark soul, a center core where no one dares to peek. So, it is here, at the tip of desolation, a tale of wonder, of pain, of corruption, of heroic deeds, and the future of the Amazian Empire, that the tapestry of hidden revelations is cast aside."

Private Journals of Alack Troyus, 2065 UC.

CHAPTER ONE

Therefore into the breech of glory I shall lead you! For some the worst, for others the best, but for all…a change in drama. Edvard Matson, the Traitor, on the eve of the Second Dedidictatorial War, in 2038 UC.

The klaxons whaled as First Officer Darvel seized the arm grips of his command chair almost falling as he sat on the bridge. A vast jolt rattled the immense bulk of the Amazian Star Cruiser Preacts, sending helm personnel swinging in their console seats and red lights blazing on every board. Darvel dashed over to the engineering console studying the weird readings as other crewmen attempted to analyze the force striking the star ship. The Sensor officer reported all external systems are now off line, some form of jamming energy field sucking the life from their home. But it is the panicking yell from the forward helmsman that Darvel attention leaped.

The ship is dipping…nose down! Angle of decline…over forty-five…getting worse!

Call the Captain!

Mister Darvel! What have you done with my ship! Screamed Rampart into his device as a wave of static increased.

Only two Agels (100 days) ago, Rampart complained to Darvel of the boredom patrolling the Regent of Galashia. A routine passage from solar system to solar system, normal and uneventful, not what Rampart expected from the Imperial Space Fleet and a fast career of promotions. The standard call from Platica came, capital of the Dominion of Playsaria (NGC-6946), to investigate a strange ‘glitch’ appearing in the Regent’s interstellar communication’s network. The orders mentioned the energy source had risen to a ‘burst’, disrupting not only high-end Cosmic Ray frequencies but also even the neutrino multi-particle bands. Such is enough to cause the Minister of Communications to demand an immediate investigation as complaints from broadcasters pored into his office. Advertisers had their precious nonsense interrupted. Thus, detached from the fleet the SSC072, Preacts zigzagged her way to the lonely bottom of Galashia, an utter no man’s land of dust bowls and primitive ancient dying worlds.

After achieving orbit around Quenar, the origins of the steady ‘burst’, Rampart updated his logs and sent them to Platica. Pinpointing the source of the intense energy emission, along an unused frequency bordering on the psychic lengths of the mind’s alpha and beta waves, Rampart joined an armed shuttle to the surface after scanners also detected a single humanoid form in the sandy dry desert.

Engineer Andros yelled, All power systems negated, main engines offline!

The panicking voice of the helmsman came on top, orbital velocity decaying, the ship is entering the upper atmosphere!

More klaxons screamed!

Get my ship out’a here! Rampart pushed his way to the distant body. Full Burners! Use blasting power! A loud blast of static and Rampart is yelling into a useless device.

From the surface, on an unending plain of dust and dried crumpled rock, the five-man shuttle crew listened unbelievingly to the chaos above. Into that light brownish horizon up to a bluish cloudless sky, a gleaming sparkle of red appeared. Their eyes strained to see the flaming red comet as Rampart of the shuttle team heard only a rising deafening thunder from above. Another sound, a dull faraway groan cascading upon it, grew to a titanic roar. The sudden darkening shadow brought all faces up to the colossal mass. A desperate chill swept the empty dusty plain as an immense disk of molten debris crashed with tidal waves of sand obliterating the five shocked men, and what was the SSC Preacts. After the dust and geological shocks ended a great crumpled scarred half disk and tubular debris added a strange ornament to the Great Flatness.

And a tiny humanoid wept on a nearby hill as to what he had done.

CHAPTER TWO

All concepts should be questioned. If they are right and true, they will stand the test of logics. Senator Civius Proctor, on Governance in 2021 UC.

Fresh from the Service Guard Academy on Platica, Sevuro, a medium built young man in his early thirties, carefully followed the gathering crowds. His first assignment found him on Quenar, an obscured planet deep at the tip of Galashia, Playsaria’s southern most Regents, and the poorest. At first Sevuro is honored to receive the special investigative mission from Service Captain Simon personally. A mission to secretly watch and record the activities of a local religious leader and his followers, noting their varied travels and recording their sermons with the anxious public. He dressed in the local garb of the Quenarian peasant, a brown dusty robe of heavy uncomfortable hemp weave. Sandals of Cordu leather with hobnails beneath, inner tunic with belt and traveling pouch, so thieves or robbers cannot see what he is carrying.

Simon’s orders are explicit, watch and report a very easy job.

Concealing his new toy, the famous SSG’s Calcomp, Sevuro enjoyed recording the sermons, getting secret close-ups of the Nine Nemas, their leader; even various interviews from those whose lives the Preacher changed. During his tenure a strange ‘sewer seeress’, named Ryath appeared and added to the early excitement. What he did not expect is the constant riots and social violence caused by instigators from the great Temple of Kymar. Servants of the local religion, who discredit the Preacher at every moment, declaring his ministry scams and bunko artists to the people of Quenar. Also, the great press of mobs, who are now following this new upstart, continued to grow around the Sargess City fertile basin. So, the hot blistering days under the cruel Quenarian sun, the dryness beyond the Plateau of Cheryen, made Sevuro think twice about his early enthusiasm. A fresh mental attitude that waned after the first Agel, and by the second, he is ready to give his fancy toy back to the SSG Captain.

But Simon never told him of the other two investigators who failed to return.

It is when the miracles began that Sevuro started to take his job seriously again. Here is something out of the ordinary and beyond his limited medical training. The joyful screams of fools and wild dancing after a broken leg is healed or a blind person regained sight by mere touch, peaked Sevuro’s curiosity. A great weeping of ignorant family members after their child, who was born a cripple, can walk upright by the simple wave of a finger. The annoying shouting of the stupid after a deadly spreading infection on a teenager is able to throw off the disease and walk away full of health, after spittle and mud is applied. All this Sevuro recorded. His concealed device hidden under his smelly robes, the sensors in the belt digitizing image, with audio and bio levels, a full metabolic reading for those who know about medical sciences. However the Preacher is able to do such things the physician guys at Sargess City Medical Center can explain and disclaim authenticity.

Sevuro is even able to get close enough for bio scans of the Preacher, leader of this weird little group of religious upstarts and desert misfits.

On the day before his mission is over, Sevuro made one more jab at getting another astounding act. Feeling his torment is almost concluded, he knew the medical authorities at Sargess would discover the Preacher’s fraudulent practices, denouncing the entire ministry as a sham. Life is hard on this wretched Class C dust bowl, all wealth is held by the government, the merchants and the Kymar Council, and very little trickles down to these socially low-income mobs. These poor wretches clinging too a form of living salvation, immediately seize upon any type of diversion. Any glimmer of deliverance from the iron heel of Prolator Spartus, motivates them to seek the weird and believe in the absurd. The Governor’s spiked boots are chains hanging over their necks as a dark cloud. Like a fisherman playing a dangerous game, dangled tidbits of self government, prosperity for all, a better life, as a madman’s promise. In the end, the same rotting stench continued to exist, nothing changes in Sargess City, nothing, only the size of the vermin.

They came from the mud shanties in droves, from the stinking villages, to the shores of one of the few natural bodies of water on Quenar, the Quindime Sea. A body of fresh water sixty square Sectals, rich in the tiny Sqenema fish, used by all surrounding habitats as a main staple. On the shores the press of people became so great, the Nemas and the Preacher, had to board a Proa fishing boat. Standing up in the bow, the Teacher addressed the throng several hundred Illos from the shore.

Sevuro activated his Calcomp, recording the sermon, hearing the clear voice of Stonis Gcaul echo over the lapping greenish blue waves. But, this one is different. The Preacher did not speak about his usual ideals of hope, patience and hard work, to achieve some form of inner salvation, but lashed out at the corruption at hand. His normally gentle green eyes now had thunder and fire, a virtual fusillade chastising the greed of the doctors, who milk the welfare system. Who double bill the Prolator’s regime in the name of the poor, and finance their lavish life styles so they can have the finest of things. His tall sun burnt figure, resplendent in the blue robes of purity, added insult to further injury, accusing the Kymar Goula as partaking in the corruption. Like parasites further draining a decaying body, they to suck and squirm, feeding off the system. But theirs is not a welfare material corruption, but a religious enslavement of the human spirit.

The sermon ended with the usual words of hope, faith and hard work to achieve a salvation that leads to inner happiness. Exhausted, Gcaul sat down as the Proa hoisted the three corner sail, starting on a journey across the cool calm waters of the inland sea.

Sevuro, pushing and shoving his way to a creaking collapsing wharf of rotting hemp, wanted to follow. Such a new force in subject matter, he is seized with obsession. Confronting a fisherman who owns a small one-man version of the Proa, paid him thirty Wedni, the local ancient currency too rent it. Sevuro pushed the small boat from the pier and made a mad dash after the diminishing Proa.

Almost near the large fresh water lake’s center, Sevuro lost the triangular sail as a mist began to form. From the greenish waters this unusual fog arose and completely engulfed the tiny craft. Sevuro stopped rowing. He yanked out his Calcomp, set the bio scanners for full long range sweep, and tried to locate his prey. Nothing, the Calcomp, with expanders, has a range of two Sectals (a mile and a half), no way can they vanish so quickly. As the mist became thick, an engulfing wall of flowing hands, a foul smelling yellowish hue rolled around the boat, carrying a rotten egg odor.

A cold dampness shot through his frame, realizing it is fear.

Sevuro paused as something splashed ahead. An uncanny sucking noise filled the heavy yellowish mist, making the boat move forward by it self. As Sevuro started to panic, jerking his eyes in jagged movements, a great grayish mass bubbled up. A huge plum of greenish black watery slime overshadowed. A sudden abnormal rocking, the boat is seized. Sevuro fell back. The coldness froze his tongue. A pulsing effort to scream, wind left his lungs, only to emerge as a hiss. Sevuro’s training took over and fumbled yanking out his ray pistol. He fired. A brilliant lance of photonic energy cut the mist, passing through the ugly phantom’s bulbous head.

The boat shuddered. A massive heaviness pushed it down. Frozen in heart stopping fear, Sevuro sank beneath the waves. Only a tiny whirlpool remained. Then the water’s stilled, clarity returned and the uncanny fog slowly rolled away.

CHAPTER THREE

If you take too much, you end up with very little or nothing at all. Lizyonite saying, credited to the Exalted Balham, Sac Kurso, of Pygia IV.

Fabulon, a tiny blessed world in upper Galashia, swam in a vast sea of periphery star swarms. Fabulon, the paradise planet of the star Festula, basks in the yellow white luminance within the habitation zone of her solar system. Fabulon, once the ancient center of the old Confederation of Merchant Warlords called ‘Comatodes’, is the political, economical capital of the Regent of Galashia. Even before the Amazian conquest in 2037, her Comatode leaders sought the easy edge for profit and power. Now, basking in the light of prosperity, the moonless world sucks all wealth to her area. Seated upon her small throne of banking and commerce ties, the leaders of Fabulon add to the prosperity of the upper crust of the Galashions, lining their deep pockets with credits.

Fabula City, the main hub of seventeen million, sprawling in spidery legs covering thousands of Sectals, resounds to the beat of the Regent’s wealth. At the far end of Comatode Eleshion Park, on a direct line across from the Obelisk of Civeron, stands the multi pile of new and old architecture, the refurbished skyscraper, Hall of Guldar Tower. On the three hundred and thirtieth floor, a ‘garden in the clouds’ penthouse, adorned with looted treasures from the far corners of the Regent, a conference room held ten harmless looking humanoids.

Behind heavy doors with ornate bas-reliefs, security screens, the ten captains of Galashian industry congregate twice annually. Descendants from the old Comatode families twenty five years ago, they are the wielders of power at the far end of the Dominion. They go about their business in obscurity, avoiding the limelight of the Novians (Medias), all-powerful Ogres controlling the prime industries throughout the Regent. Even elected Senitiumor (senator) Boralion, a puppet from the power brokers, has denied the existence of any fragments of the old families when questioned on Amazia.

Levandus, the Grand Guldar of the Hall of Ten, forced himself up at the head of the Decagon. Ponderous, blood-veined hands supporting a heavy well manicured torso in silk whites and sarongs of dark purple. A round humanoid head, lacking hair except on the forehead, sharp purple eyes above a one nostril nose, tight lips contained above a square chin enveloped by layers of jowls. Concealed mikes sent his rumbling voice across the fine paneled room.

Most noble Kanons of Galashia, greetings and profitable expectations to one and all! This being the final transaction of the Decagon Guldar for the fiscal cycle, I now entertained an ending with a bang, fellow Guldars. Levandus pontificated on the year’s profits, then brought up the old Comatode prophecy his father told him. His talk became a mumble about the one who will make Galashia great and powerful again. The story is ‘old-hat,’ everyone had heard it before a dozen times, in a dozen tongues and from a dozen cultures. None paid him much attention until he gestured to the fellow next to him.

The strange Fellow now caught their curious eyes. ‘Who is he? How did he get in here? What does he want?’ They all thought at once.

A small dark skinned Man of swarthy facial features, a dull red suit similar to the Amazian Nehru, piercing black eyes of dagger intensity, a face filled with a forced smile masking his real intentions, surmised eyeing each Guldar. ‘Such stuffed fools….they are mine. They sit upon their separate thrones of industry waiting to be slaughtered at my feast. Most attained power by birthright, family ties and climbing the backs of the worthy. Fat lazy fools, just look at their smug expressions…soon I’ll have my agents in their midst, the game of Baku begins here, and this bigger fool on my left will get me in too move my pieces…and begin the dagger’s thrust.’

We are standing at a junction, fellow Decagons, a crossroad to even more sumptuous deals for the coming fiscal cycle. Looking back, I behold the gains attained over the decades since the coming of Amazian power, and I see limitations for the next decades. We have used various accounting methods to hide losses, created false fronts, inflated stock prices and even spun false pictures of our future prospectus. We have milked and nursed and cultivated the markets within this Regent to the end of our gains. The Balance Sheet of the Guldar now stands at the junction I am speaking about. We have gone as far as we can under the current laws and regulations. Levandus paused, allowing his practical speech to sink in. Amazian trade laws, stellar auditors and investment scrutiny are the barriers I speak of. The junction between the past and future can be stated as shorter profits and quicker returns are the norms we face.

‘Good…’ thought the dark skinned Fellow with straight across eyebrows, ‘they are taking the bait. These plump pigeons are beasts of burdens going to my stockade. I know I shall do good here…they are as children of want, just dangle the candy and they shall enter my store and be consumed.’

Levandus now placed his hand on the man’s shoulders.

With this in mind, we can chart a new course around these barriers and areas locked from us. The man on my right is from faraway allies and businessmen who extend a hand of help, who will give us lanterns to markets and sources of income denied by the Amazian regulatory acts. I present to you Anos Quintrus of the Altairian Hegemony and the Intergalactic Commerce Exchange.

Clapping followed as a smiling confident Quintrus stood giving bows of respect. ‘I shall be a Sevian Parasite growing in their bellies waiting for my time.’ And he took the center Decagon position. I’ve journeyed over twenty eight Cosmo Years and offer the Regina’s accords. There are amongst you who believe you’ve gained much since the twenty five standard years. Much in the way of free trade, no intergalactic tariff barriers, self-choice within your own organizations, your company is your company. But, on the other side you sacrificed your accountability to the Amazian bureaucracy. You find your markets are restricted to the Regent. You discover your products and services are hindered by fair-policy regulations, and you now find you are at the whims of ministers from faraway Platica. What have you really gained, Sirs?

Our gains are much, retorted Arydom of Tremont Holdings, the leading banking consortium in Galashia. Granted, we have now reached the point of saturation in this Regent and would like to go beyond, become competitive in the surrounding markets. But, most of us, I feel, are a little lazy about this. We are content to consolidate and continue to exploit the diminishing opportunities here, in Galashia. Seeking new sources of revenue beyond, is, a very long-term commitment, of negotiations, of lobbying, of who can buy whom to get a foothold over there. I honestly believe, and I feel I can speak for the rest of us, we prefer to stay in our own fields to thrash out a long term deal by pressure politics.

Quintrus grinned inside, ‘now to twist the fool’s words…’ Folding his dainty hands about him, he seemed to grow in stature. It is easy, very easy to take the road of least resistance, good Sirs of business. Yesterday we worked hard to build, today we are enjoying the fruits of our labors, and tomorrow our children shall bathe in the luxury of your achievements. The key word here, Gentlemen, is children. Today, you have reached this point, but what will your predecessors say when they face the Amazian Trade and Embargo regulations? They will sit here, in these very seats, condemning you for your conservatism, for not pushing forward, for not opening those elusive markets. Quintrus paused for effect, I offer you my own distribution networks, outlined by my own representatives, allowing you to push forever and onward!

As he hit a higher note, a small data disk rose from a hidden slot in front of each member of the Decagon.

How much further? asked Cervo removing the small red disk. She is the Magnatar of Maxam Metallic, mistress of ninety percent of Galashia’s mining and fabrication industries. We can’t ship to Platica and other Regents because we will under sell the competition. We can’t build foundries in the next Regent because we pay our laborers a lower rate than the going rate in that Regent. Those upstarts on Platica don’t want any of us to become too big, they’re afraid of total monopoly consortiums. How are you going to break down these barriers?

A real partner with real dreams, smiled Quintrus turning on his charm, My distribution network adjusts details for each of your specific needs, he held up the disk, will circumvent any restrictions by creating a central base of operations, a ‘platform’ beyond the periphery in the Outerverse, whereby will act as a clearing house and trading platform. From here, all goods and services will be centralized and offered from numerous franchises, keeping your names from the public eye, in the major cities of every Regent throughout the Dominion of Playsaria.

And what are your motives, Sir? Asked Manners of SyroTeck Diy Riylance, the largest research and testing conglomerate in the Regent. He lit up a large Sweetstick without filtering devices, to the annoyance of the others.

Quintrus pushed the first cloud aside, wiggling his tiny fingers in a careless way, Exactly the point. My interests are a small percentage of sales from the franchises that will handle your goods and services. Everything is broken down on my statistical analysis sheet on my disk. What I need from all of you is the materials to build the platform. If you carefully go over the presentation and the diagrams in private, the cost will not be much if many hands are adding to the diligence.

And once done, Sir, added Si Augest, Primodar of Galashia’s plasmatomic energy consortium, will we be able to open markets in the General (Local) Group?

I like a man with ambitions. We prefer to call that the ‘untouched markets’, and if your referring to the Allistar Economic Exchanges, then the same strategy can be used. The key is a base of operations where K-L Containers can be loaded and unloaded in secrecy, an economic base that can bypass Newport, sending your goods to retailers in the General Group. Gentleman, we can discuss this in details a week from here, review my proposal, all your questions will be answered. My representatives can be reached through Mr. Levandus if you have any serious doubts.

A secret platform in the Outerverse? Repeated Gy Neric, Senadar of the largest store chain in the Regent called Nufo’s. If we build this place…out there…and allow you to set up the vast number of franchise offices…over there…within other Regents major commercial centers, then those…in there…to say the SSG, instigated by the Ministry of Business and Labor from Platica…up there…investigates where the products and services are coming from? If we…in here…offer goods and services at a discount, this could backfire…everywhere…and we’ll all be running away…from here.

Neric, began Levandus assuming control of the Decagon, we are not cut throat Folagars (Lizyonites), you yourself avoided price wars knowing the foolish waste of long term debt. Common sense, Gentlemen, use common sense and fair dealings, by volume the profits will accumulate. With that we can buy up our own stock increasing our equity. For decades we have been trying to raise the standards of the common folk in Galashia, the poorest of the Regents, now we have the means, and it shall succeed under their fat bloated noses!

I don’t like the risk…in here, Neric held up Quintus’s disk, yes…we are contained, reaching a limitation…here...but…

That’s the real bite, the Risk. You yourself Gy, complained your warehouses have inventory surpluses; your stores are not selling enough. Items on your shelves are gathering dust and that does not generate profit. The tax code charges for unused inventories over a specific time. Let the surplus go to the new retailers, let them worry about the tax and inventory assessments, it’s beyond us. Levandus thrusts a finger at Cervo, You Madam, are still trying to find a place to sell off your stockyards of recyclable scrap materials. The market here is now saturated, construction is at a low point, and you have enormous depots in raw materials filling up continental sized lots on dead moons. Such raw materials are the backbone of new profits. Your costs of delivery are none as they will pay to buy up your product. He gave Digus, the Pharamar of Galashia’s largest pharmaceutical franchise an intense look, Those U-Vonic extracts, colorless and odorless, a plethora of products for the common man, they block your drug introductions. The Medical Association’s control over the natural ones outside our Regent has your hands tied. You can’t move your drugs, especially the expensive ones with the side effects, into their sales and welfare system as a generic brand. That stuff is perishable, a short shelf life and you’re stuck with a terrible write-off. But many foreign nations have no laws and testing facilities. Just offer the miracle and they will grab it, regardless of the side effects. Levandus extended both arms in a pleading, almost jovial manner, Gentlemen of the Guldar, we have salvation right before our eyes and we see it not! Let’s adjourn and seriously study Mr. Quintus’s proposal.

I am not over anxious we have gone as far as we can. Began Arydom with finality, and to be squeezed in like squirming rats while just beyond our Regent are open markets for the taking, but to sneak and crawl in dim places like some villain in a Videofonic thriller, is not my way of doing business. He stood gathering his items together. I’m sorry, my father taught me never make a quick credit if it’s done in hast, then you stumble and it’ll cost you far more to correct the mistake. I prefer long term, not short term. Good profits, Sirs.

Levandus, who motioned to the others to remain, intercepted Arydom by the concealed exit. The mega investment banker put his lumbering paws around Arydom whispering a sweet song in his ears. He leveled the field, reminding Arydom of all the new loans and leases he holds. The efforts by Tremont to fabricate her balance sheet, keeping the shareholders content, in the current depressed areas of Galashia. Then, brought up the past of how Arydom’s father secretly intrigued with Amazia’s enemies. How he gathered the other Comatodes to seize the initiative in the Revolt of 2038, and tear asunder the Treaty of Delipalous. To add salt to the wound culminated in petty nuances about Arydom’s family and further scandals that can bring down a mighty trading house.

When done, Levandus carefully returned Arydom to his seat like a good disciplined schoolboy. The Master of the Decagon set up a series of exclusive closed meetings with Quintrus and his people.

CHAPTER FOUR

The movement of time is relative to our biological clock. Doctor E. Soton, from his lectures on relative species and their habitats.

Since the Shaking of the World, the old stories were told in the ruins of lost cities by wanderers and looters. These stories passed into the sands of Quenar and became only a whisper of past events. The shifting granules hid the secrets of the whispering wind, giving rise to myths, spoken by the caravan masters, who struggled against the elements to bridge the gap of trade. Commerce prevailed through the primitive ages and the lore became full legends with characters and events. As certain refugees huddled in darkness, channeling what few resources existed for survival, the legends spawned stories, which became epics and odysseys.

From a tidbit here, a myth there, an assumed revelation over there, came the story of a man who, in ages past, went from shanty to shanty with a bell, calling forth the people to prayer. As he addressed his followers, performing miracles and great feats of faith, a creature from the foul sewers emerged. From fairytales fabricated to tame disobedient children, to the light of reality, came the Beast of Argess almost devouring the humble man with the bell. Darkness fell upon the tumbled stones and bent girders of the makeshift square. The shadow of a great bird with leathery wings, talons of sharp bone and a long maw with gleaming teeth, descended from on high. It swallowed up the Beast of Argess and left the man with the Bell, thankful and alive.

From that moment in antiquity, the Kymarian faith began. Heaped in a soup of nasty rituals too please the ever growing population of Sargess City, those who sought power gained it. In time the Great Temple of Kymar, built from the surrounding rubble, as the lost sciences of masonry and engineering are re-discovered, rose to a massive complex. With open market, hovels for merchants and tax men, dominated the center of the growing city. Missionaries are sent out by the ruling council, called the Goula, as they learned to control the heathen masses. This brought greater power and terrible greed from expanding wealth. Corruption soon became a steadfast pillar as the people are wrung dry to serve the needs of the Temple elite. With just so much superstitions and fear, plus a little charity and compassion, a balance is achieved. This slavery stench arose from the great Temple every Holy Day, not of burning sacrifices, but of untold secret oppression.

Since the coming of the Amazian Prolators, who were suppose to teach the people democracy, the Temple of Kymar is well entrenched keeping all uneducated and in ignorance. Each Prolator was bought out, or assassinated, and now the worst, the most malleable is Spartus. With control of the world from Sargess City, through the Great Temple, the Goula pulls the strings of the Prolator. Only in far off Mercerdum, the only other fertile place on the planet is the strangling noose of Kymar the Terrible about to break.

Seven slumped robed figures in black, cloaked heads held low from the sky, upholding the tradition, entered the wide multi-post and lintel porch of the Temple. Through a hidden side door, used by the crafty mechanics running the mystical machines that played on the superstitious, they descended down. Under each arm a heavy leather pouch of tablets weighted, their footsteps echoing amongst some massive statue hanging in the black depths of the Temple’s sanctum. For a moment, the coldness entered their heavy woolen Alba’s, but each is accustomed to the dreary atmosphere of the holy of holies.

A jagged metal riveted door with an embossed ‘key’ symbol loomed ahead. Halting, the lead figure rapped four times with his bony knuckles, sending a loud banging down into a hall on the other side. A voice asked in a lost dialect, who stands without? The answer came as a mumble, those who seek. Another line is drawn, too seek and sow what? Lips moved under the dark hood, the living and the dead. Then, as a sacred word is chanted, it is followed by a rap in rhythmic beat. A moment of terrible gloomy silence ensured, then the creaking of oiled machinery as the door slowly opened.

The Great Hall of Ru-Faga, lit by numerous electric lamps resembling ancient fire pots, stretched before the seven figures as they entered. A long heavy table, shaped like a wing in flight, they approached and stood by their assigned seats. One figure, large and ponderous, in black and gold chamois, with dragons and mystical symbols in neat array along the hems, beckoned to them. Behind him, spreading out is an altar of amber stone with pointed horns on each end, a gigantic black book rested within.

The seven, with pious motions, carefully remove their hoods revealing pointed hair buns. They intone together, We come afar to reveal ourselves, and show what has been hidden.

The Headman, with flat features and a scarred face resembling a lacerated melon, motioned for them to be seated. A plate of rare Delmin, of gold with silver scrollwork, is passed around holding raw red meat and a jeweled goblet of heavy blood wine. Each cloaked figure took a piece and a careful sip, declaring in humility, from a phrase whose meaning is long forgotten. The chalice returned to the rotund leader of the Goula, who took the final piece and sip, intoning. Kymar has blessed us with his presents, now allow his messenger, the spirit Jinus, take our words and deposit His wisdom within.

Blessed is the Holy Master, En Lyn, who is our eyes and ears. They mumbled.

Blessed are my Servants, who are sacred before Kymar the Terrible.

UEMN! Their shout echoed amongst the arched stonework of the hall.

Begin, my worthy Servants. En Lyn fell into his throne with the winged demons, whose tongues crawled along the sides ending up as handles for the rings of his fingers to grasp.

A tall skinny robed figure with sunken eyes stood, bending to the others, reported the rebate credits from Spartus finally arrived and are deposited within the Temple accounts. We have filed claims with the Doctor Associations for further credits, charges for drops of medicine than full vials, falsifying our work amongst the poor, extending only a third of our supplies. Republican Security will reimburse us for the full three quarters, Brothers. Again, another good year…But, he hesitated eyeing En Lyn, who frowned forcing the Priest to continue. A fall off of supplicants has begun in the Falcon’s Ward, the poorest of the City’s sectors. Many claim they refuse assistance and are receiving it from a new source, which they refuse to tell us. But, it’s only a fad, not serious…not yet…

En Lyn continued to eye a heavy-set Priest in fancy tabard beneath his humble robes, making agitated movements to speak out of turn. Very well, Falitos, keep a keen eye.

Another Priest stood. While on the subject, membership in the Sands of Succor, are down, the last two meetings of the Volunteer Army is below previous numbers. Some have told us they refuse to serve a false God. En Lyn’s ponderous black eyes opened wide, only saying the words I heard, Holy Master.

Could the Sewer Seeress be the cause of this? asked Mentorin, a secular scribe.

No, she is but amusement for the mobs on holy days, let her be.

The anxious Priest from far off Mercerdum continued to peak En Lyn’s attention. Find out why and who, Sagamon, I want names…

There’s only one you should know! yelled the anxious Fellow.

Begin Batlegose, your foaming at the mouth is annoying me.

Most Holy Master and Servant of Kymar, as you know I’ve just journeyed from Mercerdum, where I was ousted! A hush filled the dusty hall, the terrible day of Kymar’s retribution is at hand, and it shall strike those in Mercerdum! O’Most noble and holy Goula, we have been driven out by the Suma Lord, church lands seized and all accounts confiscated. Even Demetus is scrambling to close arrears. We barely escaped with our lives and a few trinkets from the mobs. Mercerdum is lost…we are damned!

How can this have happened? asked another robed Figure, at the last meeting you gave a glorious account of progress and much water revenue from the great aqueduct.

Shame upon us, Brother Evradin, while we were concerned over our lotteries and gambling, a viper came amongst us and over turned the scales. He came to our parlors, kicked over the tables of Wedni, His followers overpowered us, and when arrested, havoc wrought a greater calamity.

Surely the authorities, who have protected you, came to your rescue?

It use to be that simple, Brother Evradin, but He dinned with the Suma Lord, cast an evil spell upon him, twisted his mind, and the next day, we are driven out! What I am wearing is all we could gather…

Surly Brother, began another shocked Face contemplating his thought, the children work houses and juvenile factories…are unchanged?"

The Orphan Day laborer programs are all gone…

Gone? Where did they go? Back to the streets? asked Evradin.

No! To a school to learn…to read…and write…and do math…and art…

But who runs the machinery? asked another from the feeble lighted table.

More shame upon us…criminals! Prisoners! Thieves…are doing penance from the prisons and dungeons of the Suma Lord…

More silence circled the winged table, gloomy shocked heads not moving.

En Lyn made a rumble from deep in his throat, and the name of this wretched perjurer who dares to seize sacred treasurers?

There is only one simple name I have, a lonely desert person from this area, who has swept us from Mercerdum by a single word in a single day!

If you’re referring to the Teacher around the Quindime Sea, added Sagamon grinning, and his cult of misfits, we can do what was done ten years ago with the upstart from Femi. I allowed that cult to grow, flourish, gain power, and then taxed them. If they wanted to worship a new God, they must pay a worship tax. After that, and much revenue, that group died out. Do the same with this fellow, we can use the money.

More shame upon us! If only you knew! This one isn’t so fooled, Brother. I challenged him and he tore me apart, saying vanity of vanities, moldy and full of worms am I. His eyes can dig into you and twist your mind around. I have seen him do this to my close advisers. Stonis Gcaul, the Sacred One…The Tazeea…

How dare you use that name before this assembly! shouted another Figure leaping up and gesturing wildly, Its blasphemy to even utter it in this Holy of Holies! No one can lay claim to the unspeakable!

Unspeakable! If you spent more time with you’re congregation than in the brothels! We would not have to hear that blasphemous name.

Such slander will not go unpunished! You have disgraced us all!

As the Goula erupted in pandemonium, only En Lyn sat as a great lump of thinking flesh, feeling the seriousness of a new danger arising. His thoughts turned towards the Rordian, the great Black Book of Kymar on the altar behind him. As some of the robed brothers began pushing another in their verbal frenzy, En Lyn’s attention focused too the sheets of embossed gold leaf. To gain the position of Holy Master he poisoned the old fool Apaponta, who knew how to read the ancient written words. He reasoned Apaponta had a secret ‘logos’, a concealed codebook of words enabling him to read the Black Book. But, that old buzzard fooled even En Lyn, no such diary existed, he had it all in his head, as did his successor going back into the distant past. Apaponta knew the key to the prophecies, he knew what to say and conjure up a solution. But En Lyn kept them guessing. All these years he guided the Goula, making the Temple the center of power on Quenar, reading false passages, mumbling his way through prayers and falsely interpreting the ancient rituals to please his current political whims.

Something new stirred, something only the writings can explain, can give a solution, and he cannot read a single letter of the saving text.

CHAPTER FIVE

From this dust you tread underfoot, and the ten obscured spirits of chaos, I shall draw forth your redeemer! Seminian Book of Life, ‘The Path to Matriand, the Goddess.’

Bring on your best and those shall I cast aside! Thundered the operatic singer dressed as Arathon, spirit of Amazia, in the Triportanian opera ‘Dass Victunes!’ A darkened figure, Aharon, the essence of evil, slinked away to hide. The Pre-Evil age’s most renowned cultural piece became the lantern that charged the Amazian spirit against the Shutons and forged the stellar power Amazia. From this single sphere marched the race that has conquered the scattered humanoid races. She has mingled security with equality to cement the Alien peoples into the mightiest political entity since the Great Krill.

Amazia, sought after in dark dreams by some as a heaven from oppression. Amazia, seen from afar by those who envision a mythical paradise related to their own lore of bless. Amazia, conceived by the ignorant, be they crawl on all fours and waggle their private parts to entice a mate, as home of the Gods. Amazia, the key vault too the financial axis of the Known Universe (the Local Group), where bankers and merchants look for trends and the easy flow of commercial profits. Amazia, the velvet glove over a fist of stone, whose mighty galactic armies protect the borders, uphold the Code of Dwitinton and are a boon to those who suffer natural calamities. Amazia, a single pristine world basking in the fleeting wisp of grandeur and dominion-ship! Amazia, upholding freedom and prosperity at her apex of supreme power, as a single eye watches all.

Hub and axel of the grinding machine of law, order and power, the gleaming Capital Area on Amazia dots the middle part of the Newlon Basin. In a low depression surrounded by three hills, once shrouded a crumbling edifice and encompassing wall, arose the very center of the Imperium two hundred years ago. In