[i]One[/i]—rough basalt chilled his snout as he adorned his mask, hewn to resemble a ferocious ursine grin, its teeth variegated with the pigments of alien blood. Equally cold, a cloak of silver-drenched linen, embellished with the emblem of the Cizran empire, cascaded down his spine and concealed six of his eight legs. These unnecessary accouterments were symbols of his rank and reminders of his purpose.

Ten kilometers of sculpted and kilned phenakos pierced the expanse betwixt bridge and admiralty lounge; a shaft, translucent, with an insatiable appetite for cosmic rays to transmute to mellow radiance. In mirrored elegance, a pair of stairs cascaded from the hall’s caudal wall to the floor. Only he, the admiral, dared darken those stairs. 

[i]Two[/i]—for him, the trek across the hall to the bridge was another ritual of equal importance to donning his mask. As he strode in unhurried majesty, he recited the names of those whose souls brought the [i]Dira Var-sha[/i] thus far while his tails absently whisked up metal shavings and fomented a scintillating coma. Traversing the grand parade hall was to swim a sea of light. Even so, it shown imperfectly, tainted by ebon motes. Suspended in the hall at irregular intervals, these were the basalt sarcophagi that held, in perpetual slumber, the dreadnought's most valuable cargo. Dubbed sankuls by the priesthood, these coffins severed the his kin’s heretics and criminals from the spiritual well, siphoned their vitality, and secreted away their potency  to propel gigatons of mass throughout the vastness of space in defiance of all scientific knowledge. Unlike konuls, sankuls existed for that exclusive purpose and, once exhausted, were abandoned, with untold ancient others, to the Cloud of Ghot.

This was not lost on Nenegin for, in brutal symmetry with his mask, the sankuls both reaffirmed the cost of galactic imperialism and embodied a wicked omen of his potential future.

He ascended into the bridge.

[i]Three[/i]—[I] “Behold Nenegin zar-Taliļ! razer of armies; subjugator of societies; conqueror of the outer worlds and House of Ar Laac, seat of the naked star; vanquisher of the Zanifeen, our adversaries from the dawn of Ghot; and  keeper of Kilamara, Chandoo, Perallis, and beyond,” [/i] boasted his herald in the third and final ritual affirming his role and duty.

[I] “Report,” [/i] Nenegin demanded.

[I] “Exogenous conditions recently manifested that threaten indigenous population cultivation for konul extraction. Aredemos attempting to intervene, but the outcome remains uncertain.” [/i]

Nenegin mulled over the situation.

[I] “Pin-point extract primary disruptive elements to holoportal confinement and transport Aredemos to our temple at Mount Initãra,” [/i] Nenegin ordered, [I] “Then proceed with partial konul engagement and displacement to restore planet-wide spiritual homogeneity. Lastly, strike the locus of corruption with a kinetic bombardment—one rod only.” [/i]

Nenegin turned and left. 

He knew, without needing to see it evidenced, that his orders were instantly and precisely obeyed; that, even as he approached the scientific isolation chamber to assess the prisoners, it revealed Kirri, Lysander, and Kaan; that Aredemos awaited his projection at Mount Initãra; that the whole of Kilamara slept, sapped by the konul of the strength to incite conflict or foment rebellion—at least those who did not perish, for Kilamarans already infirm and those weakened by Kaan’s corruption and Aredemos’ subsequent destruction of their fire stones were  drained of vitality by the konul to the point of death. Eventually, the stolen life force, purged of taint, would be returned to the world, and they would awake. With absolute certainty, he knew that no more did aberrations such as liches or hellseeds exist on a single world in his domain; of such things, only a ball of plasma—an incoherent chaos of disconnected atoms bereft of physical and metaphysical properties—a kilometer in diameter remained, centered on the strike-point of a kinetic bombardment that struck the planet while traveling at a significant percentage of [i]c[/i].

The imbroglio was unquestionably and absolutely over.

As he entered isolation, the guards, already at attention, kowtowed in deference to his position. The lieutenant amongst them reported, [I] “Admiral Nenegin, translocation is complete, although it appears to have malfunctioned. We collected only two prisoners; the third inexplicably recomposed as, uh, tome. All are secured in separate haloportals.” [/i]

Nenegin gave a slight nod in acknowledgment. The haloportals were similar to the confinement chambers in Gareza, with the notable addition of carried perception. This allowed them to collect specimens none-the-wiser, study them, and then return them from whence they came. The specimen never knew they were in another world, much less that that their world was under the dominion of an alien race. It lent the process a queer degree of scientific purity. As far as Kirri and Lysander knew, they remained, suddenly alone, on Kilamara. As for the book, well, that was another matter. Such dark arcana was beyond his ken, but he knew of another Cizran who specialized in such lore. After a moment, he opined,  [I] “Translocation does not fail, Lieutenant, ” [/i] then, ship wide, [I] “once the konul deployment is complete, we return to Cizra Su-lahn.” [/i]

[center] . . .[/center]

The temple at Mount Initãra was no shelter, but a monument devised to inspire reverence and awe. Spires, with viscera that churned as a dense fog, criss-crossed haphazardly overhead, allowing starlight to pass through uninhibited. Here, nature was embraced, rather than withheld, and the patter of rain on stone, and the taste of frost, and the scent of unmarred air all presided. Older than Aredemos himself, it nevertheless was, to the Kilamarans, his sanctuary, evidenced by sundry offerings littered around the threshold of the hewn stairs ten-thousand meters below.

[I] “Aredemos, for your might the denizens of this world revere you as a god—such is my might to yours. Moreover, not merely am I, as likewise are you, accountable for the spiritual and cultural maturation of this world, but manifold others. Thus, if you fail—if your people fail—so, too, do I, in part, fail, and that will not be tolerated,” [/i] Nenegin said.

Translucent and nigh immaterial, he circled Aredemos, his frame twice as large, nematocists searching on strands that protruded from beneath his ivory, feather-like scales and hungrily arcing sapphire sparks.

He continued, [I] “In this recent conflict, your indecision and inadequacy forced my hand. I, who create and preserve, was compelled to destroy. Attain vigilance that it may not so be again and do well in the remembrance that even mightier beings preside above us in judgment of our actions. Know also that your people slumber, for it is my will that their souls are cleansed of the taint of foreign planes, and my will that they awaken pure.” [/i]