Audit Servitor Supervisor #19 crouched beneath his desk, his portable media display projecting against the backdrop of the shadowy floor a hologram of his favorite soap opera. The scene was deep space; an unnamed vessel, an unnamed crew, an unnamed purpose. In it, the hero, a war-hardened soldier, was mysteriously being granted permission to depart from his military responsibilities to pursue other, unnamed, affairs. Was it personal or business; love, lust, espionage, or something more sinister; was his sickly mother finally at death’s door; or had his evil twin resurfaced? Such important matters would, ASS-19 hoped, be divulged in the next installment of [i]Black Skies At Night[/i].

A tap to the door interrupted his musings; rather, it startled him such that he struck his head against the bottom of his desk.

[I] “Ouch! What is it?” [/i] he emerged, rubbing his pate.

[i]Sir, there is ineluctable evidence of misprision at the highest echelons of our penal system,[/i] JAS-397 had rehearsed before her reflection an hour prior. In her hand she held round two, a folio, presently more innuendo than indictment, that nevertheless injected vim into her cyclic drudgery. Apprehension built, but she recalled what she nostalgically referred to as round one—an acme of fortitude wherein, after six hours outside her supervisor’s office, she boldly knocked, gained admittance, and thereafter convinced her supervisor of the merits of a site-side investigation at Gereza Prison Compound.

Her fellow servitors marveled at her unfathomable aplomb!

She tightened her grip on the crimson-bound folio. O, the manifold infractions unearthed by Model §3 and Ophidian! Blurry pictures of what looked like Silexies and his toady Sinclair. Audio files brimming with vague, noise-riddled exchanges between the two. A konul guard’s incoherent confessions, begging, and protestations were transcribed! Yet now, standing in ASS-19’s presence, she barely murmured, [I] “New information, Sir,” [/i] and set the folio on his desk.

[center]  . . . [/center]

Each moment of his history he carried with pride; every title and creed, including those now out of vogue and particularly the honor of Xo’Xan. As such, Plango’s bald contempt wore on Ec-shavar’s patience. Surely his former protégé came for a higher purpose than flinging insults; probably he was embroiled in the attempt on his life, however tenuous his role in the matter.

Ec-shavar turned to face Plango and made ready his riposte, but was interrupted.

Events below were coming to a head. He glanced down and beheld the many demonstrations already prepared. Those works presented seemed crude tokens when contrasted with what he knew existed on the holy planet, but he recognized the widow’s mite. This was the best Q’ab was able to offer. Overlooking the many works celebrating his rule, ego elevated the importance of these honors and his need to observe such above political sparring. That in mind, he adjourned the exchange with a slight gesture.

First of the presenters to catch his notice, Xo’pil danced cyclically around his sculpture as the pieces of its shroud shattered to the floor. The wa’ali’s insolent prattling and tautological rhetoric surely tore the jester’s veil and cast the tatters of his future at the feet of his momentarily bemused patron, but unease for the rest of the gala mounted. When the eye manifested, through the spiritual entwining of their empathic organs, Ec-shavar felt Plango’s bemusement suddenly decay.

This, quite shockingly, was not a product of Plango’s instruction.

[I] “No mere wa’ali, but a saprifit of an order unseen since the demise of the Hez-Karaz,” [/i] articulated Ec-shavar in measured tones, knowing full-well the heretical sect was still active on Cizra Su-lahn; [I] “in that respect, the pet has surpassed its master.” [/i]

To that, Plango did not reply. It was, perhaps, unnecessary, for they both witnessed the same act of hubris; moreover, as Ec-shavar for that small moment exposed to Plango his bond, they shared an acrid understanding. 

Even so, the matter demanded public annotation.

[I] “No place is free of spies. It falls to you to destroy your creature, unless you prefer a sankull’s embrace once news of this reaches the Av’sti.” [/i]

The words straddled that emotion-bereft line where they became both threat and advice, for history and circumstance conspired to intermingle his role in the moment as an adversary and former mentor. As for the rest of the gala, there followed a stillness chilled by the occasional howl of disbelief, for the sculpture’s impact on lesser races imposed on them a trance while those of greater fortitude were nevertheless stunned into silence or despair. 

After a while, Plango replied, [I] “I shall drag him before the Av’sti myself whence leaves the next transport homeward.” [/i]

It was a bold declaration; one Ec-shavar respected even as it attacked his legitimacy as governor.

[center] . . . [/center]

Fashionably late, Eti strode into the gala behind his Q’ush guide. 

The scene rather failed his expectations. Oh, the settings were quite elegant, the architecture divine, and the decorations extravagant. The problem was the people. Some attendees seemed ill, others cried openly, many more stood still as statues with masks of horror etched on their faces. An arachnid alien locked in an array of mechanical contraptions sparked and twitched into a corner while raving simian was hauled out by a massive glass kukul.

Eti’s blinked away his shock and instead followed the path of his Q’ush guide, who presently was ascending the balcony where Ec-shavar and his Cizran guest held court. It was always difficult to read a Cizran, but the governor struck him as rather calm despite of the emotional chaos churning below. He didn’t know the other well enough to speculate.

[I] “I have been instructed to present to you this token,” [/i] he heard the Q’ush utter while its elegant frame curved downward in a deep bow. 

After the obligatory delay, it stood, although its head remained lowered in respect. Then it withdrew the japa mala from the lantern and presented it to Ec-shavar. 

[i] “It is from Potan Mul.” [/i]

Eti heard the Kantencan artisans, still in the lantern, catch their breath. The work was finished, but they were no doubt uncertain whether it would suffice. Worse, to have it presented so unabashedly to the governor of their world, who unbelievably stood within arm’s length of them, was a situation for which they were not prepared.

There was a shriek as the Q’ush was backhanded over the balcony, artisans and all, where he landed in a heap of ruptured scale and spilled vitae. The words of the [I]Ci’zaria su-to Tóth[/I] clattered downward, untouched by Ec-shavar, who abruptly turned and left.

[center] . . . [/center]

Waiting to board the shuttle, Eti couldn’t be happier that Q’ab and Ganoaxavori were almost behind him. In minutes, the enslaver implanted in his skull would be removed. He could see the same golem that implanted the device just outside the bay doors. At his side was Ulu’gol, whom he had met in the aftermath of the gala and who, armed with a new set of gravi-stabilizers, was likewise pleased to escape what he called an accursed planet.

Soon, Eti would be back on Cizra Su-lahn.