Aetheral Space-Chapter 528 - 0.19: Thousand Year Kingdom

The Prince observed through the eyes of a dying man.

Edgar watched the artificial satellite that hung high in the sky of this nameless planet. A huge spherical automatic, unimaginably big, designed to design the Arcana Automatica, created to create them. It was a mechanism in this world with a clear and vital purpose. Edgar had never met the Eteilla that had created it, but he felt she must have shared his sensibilities.

It would have been so nice to meet someone else who was correct.

"Sir!" cried Eteilla, strolling along the field of blue grass. "What are you doing out here so late? It's cold."

Edgar's dull blue eyes slid over to her. His vision was dim now, unclear, but he could still reason together an approximate idea of what his surroundings looked like.

This planet, for one. A paradise of metal and bark. It was obvious that, once upon a time, this had been a place of industry and production. The surface of the nameless planet was littered with great factories, colossal refineries, storage facilities that stretched up to the sky… all of them abandoned.

Nature had reclaimed the planet, a great forest growing through the steel and stone, moss covering the labours of those long gone. It was enough to make even the rubble seem like something that had naturally formed. Edgar had never been one to judge things on an aesthetic level, but even he had to admit this place was beautiful.

He didn't know for sure, but he suspected that this place had belonged to one of the Gene Tyrants' Origin Strains. Perhaps one of their number had been intrigued by the prospect of mechanical life, created this planet to investigate it… and then, upon rebooting, the nameless world was simply forgotten. The same went for the steward of the planet.

Such a beautiful planet had, until Edgar arrived, boasted a population of one. Perhaps that was the secret to its success.

Eteilla didn't look like Edgar had expected at all. When he'd imagined the creator of the Arcana Automatica, he'd thought of someone like Granba -- built for labour, gruff, an engineer through and through. Instead, Eteilla was like something out of a fairy tale. Her long golden hair, tied into many braids and yet abundant all the same, nearly brushed against the ground as she walked. Her garment -- a simple flowing strip of white fabric -- was far from the oil-stained overalls Edgar had pictured as well. The young woman's blue eyes sparkled like diamonds, inquisitive, as she approached Edgar.

Her pet automatic, the Tower, zipped along beside her as well, letting out beeps and boops of cheer. Edgar didn't know if that was appropriate for a machine, but he was a guest here. Until now, he'd been doing his best to worm into Eteilla's good graces.

It hadn't been particularly difficult. He was the first person Eteilla had ever met, after all, outside of her own mother. Her own mother, who was also Eteilla.

The girl, it seemed, was a particularly unique creation. Her family line reproduced asexually, each 'Eteilla' giving birth to an exact replica of herself and then wasting away once the child was old enough to continue their duties. In truth, the Arcana Automatica had been a collaborative project -- between the previous Eteilla, this one, and the 'Death' they had created to aid in their task.

To a person who had known only one face their entire life, to meet someone new was to fill a void they hadn't known existed. Eteilla had no choice but to trust Edgar. Even his stories of the outside world -- curated of course -- did nothing but to draw her adoration closer. He suspected she had even projected some paternal aspect upon him this last month.

He'd anticipated a fight when he'd arrived here, or at least some sort of struggle, but Eteilla had been overjoyed to see her long-lost Fool return. Her mother had sent out the first wave of the Arcana Automatica to help humanity defeat the Gene Tyrants, and this Eteilla had picked up the torch upon her own ascension. She clearly had some emotional attachment to them. That could be troublesome.

"Mr. Edgar?" Eteilla cocked her head.

Edgar blinked. How long had he been sitting there, lost in thought? That seemed to happen so easily these days. The damage that Azez had done and the effects of natural deterioration… together, they had brought him to the finish line.

He would die tonight.

That was not his thought, he knew that. The Prince had put it there. If the Prince thought so, then it must be true. Edgar had not created it to be as fallible as him.

"Were you practicing your Aether?" he croaked, squinting his eyes to get a good look at the girl.

He was sitting in a wheelchair that Eteilla had put together -- his legs had failed him shortly after he'd arrived here. The rest of him would soon follow. For the last thirty days, then, he'd been advising Eteilla on how to unlock her Aether… preparing the unknowing hand to receive the baton.

Frowning, Eteilla lifted two fingers -- and a thin tendril of pale white Aether swam between them. Edgar's dry lips spread into a cracked smile. That would do.

"I've been thinking about people…" Edgar said quietly, his gaze returning to Death in the sky. "...about humans."

Eteilla sat cross-legged on the grass, looking up at him. "What about them?" the young woman asked curiously. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

"Humanity is a wonderful thing," Edgar mused, weakness radiating through every part of his body. "Alone, humans are tiny dots… so small they can't even be seen. But they come together, they build a society, they craft a future… and, if they operate properly, suddenly those few tiny dots, clumped together, become visible no matter how far away they are."

Eteilla slowly nodded, clearly trying to figure out the lesson Edgar was attempting to impart here. She'd be disappointed. These were the ramblings of a dead man.

"There was this man, back in the war," Edgar murmured. "I don't remember his name, but… he had this little book of names. Every time a comrade of his died, he'd write their name down in the book -- so he could remember them, you understand?"

"Right," Eteilla slowly nodded.

"I caught a glimpse of that book at the end of that war…" Edgar smiled fondly. "...by that point, there were so many names that every single page was just pure black."

The Tower let out a mournful trill.

"That's so sad," Eteilla sighed.

Edgar ignored them both. "A black page… I think that's the perfect form for the human race… the perfect shape for this world."

Eteilla's face fell. "Sir, that's…"

"Let me tell you something," Edgar interrupted. If he didn't voice this now, it would forever go unvoiced. For some reason, that notion filled him with dread.

"It's taken me a long time to realize how I feel," he said. "I love humanity…" He closed his eyes gently. "...but I don't think I've ever met a single human that I liked."

Edgar had never been able to recognise his own emotions very well. He identified anger and disappointment by their symptoms, reasoning out their existence by the ripples they left inside his body. Emotion was a purely physical phenomenon.

Perhaps that was why, up until now, he had never been able to identify that crawling at the back of his throat when he looked at another living person. That distaste. Ruri. Zarakhel. Azez. Even his own face in the mirror. Each and every time… he was looking at nothing but wasted potential.

"Sir," Eteilla said gently, getting up and looking down at him. "Are you… feeling alright?"

For a long moment, Edgar said nothing. Then…

"I'm cold," he said, still staring straight up. "Can you have the Tower fetch my coat?"

The Tower chirped in acquiescence, but Eteilla just smiled sadly. "It's much warmer inside, sir," she urged him. "Come on. There's no reason to be outside like this."

"I want to see the stars."

Was that even a lie? Edgar could feel it. Already, his organs were failing him. The delicate machine of the human body had reached the point of inevitable collapse. When he looked up at his last, did he really want it to be at a bare ceiling?

Eteilla sighed, relenting. "I'll stay out here with you, then," she said, as Edgar had known she would. "Tower, get us both some coats, please."

As the two of them looked up at the night sky, the Tower sped off back to Eteilla's compound. It wouldn't be gone long. There wasn't time to waste. But right now, above them and past the shadow of Death, a canopy of twinkling stars was spread out as far as the eye can see.

"How many of those have you been to?" Eteilla asked, resting her head against his shoulder.

"I don't remember," Edgar said truthfully. "Why?"

"I want to see as many as I can," she murmured, the sparkling of the stars reflected in the sparkling of her eyes. "All of them… well, maybe not all… but enough that I don't feel like I missed anything."

Like I missed anything.

Was that what this feeling was? This gnawing inside his chest? At the end of his life, was this dissatisfaction? Was there an error he'd made at some point? When? When had he missed the road to a content end?

He considered it for a moment -- the idea of just sitting here and letting himself fade away. He already knew he wouldn't see the sunrise. Would it be so bad to disappear while taking in the beauty of the universe? Wouldn't it be better? Wasn't it possible, just possible, to let go of that weight… to let go of that barbed dream… to let go of 'peace and joy for all mankind'?

Edgar considered it, but only for a moment.

Ah… it would be such a waste, though.

Eteilla opened her mouth. "I --"

Edgar lunged.

He was dying, his body failing him, but the infusion he'd mastered over a lifetime was enough for this. Enough to seize hold of the fledgling who'd barely learned any Aether at all and pin her down against the grass. Her wide eyes looked up at him, glistening and terrified.

She didn't understand. She didn't yet understand what an honour this was.

The last moments of Edgar's life were brief images, frames of crisis that swept through his mind during the final struggle -- as blue Aether violated white Aether, forcing the Prince from one host to the other. A scream. A spark. A hand. A whimper. A dream.

Peace and joy for all mankind.

As Edgar blinked, his eyelids were already turning to dust. That, too, was fine. In the last moments of his life, he had finally managed to truly become a mechanism -- and it was only natural to throw away a mechanism that no longer functioned. The baton had left his hands. He was empty and free.

In the last instant, a new image flowed into his mind. Not a memory, but a vision. A parting gift from the Prince -- the future as their plan would leave it. The culmination of the dream.

Ah, Edgar thought. What a wonderful world.

And, without another thought, Edgar's body collapsed into dust and washed over his victim below.

Peace and joy for all mankind…

The Prince observed through the eyes of a broken vessel.

The world was on fire. Rellian, the nearest colony to the nameless planet of the Arcana Automatics, had of course become their first target. In days to come, this period would be known as the Arcana Rampage. To the people of Rellian, it was the end of the world.

And to the Prince… this was a stirring of the petri dish.

The Prince looked on through Eteilla's eyes, and Eteilla looked on through the Empress' eyes. Her mechanical proxy stood atop a hill overlooking the destruction, its impassive features a mask for the real Eteilla's horror back home. Why had she done this? Why had she sent her Arcana to do this? Her thoughts were not her own. Was this real? Was this a dream?

The capitol city of the colony, Rendera, was choked with flame and smoke -- but it was worse than that. The Magician had projected a sea of horrific illusions all throughout the settlement, sights depraved enough to fray at one's sanity with a single glance. The High Priestess's song snapped what remained of it's victims' minds in half, driving them berserk and turning them against each other.

The basic footsoldiers that Death had created -- Swords, Wands, Cups, Pentacles -- filled the sky, directed by the invisible Emperor. Not a single ship would be allowed to escape this place. Even if they wanted to, though, the star ports had already been crushed underfoot by the gargantuan Judgment. There was no escape.

There was no escape from black Temperance, falling from the sky and turning the city against them.

There was no escape from the Hierophant, slaughtering through the ruins with means unopposable.

There was no escape from the Chariot, hunting down individual survivors with unparalleled precision and speed.

Through the false eyes of the Empress, Eteilla beheld the horizon -- and watched as the World, the Arcana Automatic larger than any other, descended. The blood-tinged light was blocked out as its bulk blocked out the sun. It was like a metal cephalopod, its many tentacles -- each the size of a mighty starship -- branching out again and again and again until terminating in individuals tendrils as thin and flexible as single hairs.

Bang.

The World collided with the world, the mere impact enough to finish off what remained of the city. Buildings crumbled, smoke swept through streets -- and the few remaining survivors flew up into the air briefly before smashing back into the ground. All the while, the distant World squirmed and burrowed, eventually disappearing from sight entirely.

With the World's arrival, Rellian was truly doomed. Not just one city, but the entire planet. The World would implant itself within Rellian's core, its many tentacles spreading throughout the crust like a nervous system. The continents would become its limbs, and the oceans its hungry mouths.

Hell. Hell was here, and she had crafted it with her own two hands.

Why? Why had she done this thing? Her thoughts were not her own. Her mind was not her own. But this had to be done. It did? It had to be done. For the sake of peace and joy for all mankind. Did she want that? Yes, she wanted that. Her mind was not her own.

She had to. She had to. She had to.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Eteilla let out a noise, but she wasn't sure whether it was laughter or sobbing.

Peace and joy for all mankind…

The Prince observed through the eyes of an unimportant courier.

Yes, Ian Velt knew he was unimportant, and he took pride in that fact. Importance was a target, notoriety a half-stabbed knife. It was better not to let anyone know your name, and so exist on the margins of the world, where you wouldn't be bothered.

In the wake of the Arcana Rampage, and the devastation it had unleashed upon galactic infrastructure, the services of couriers like Ian had become quite valuable. Where most governments were too busy rebuilding to ferry supplies and messages between colonies, private contractors were now reaping the rewards.

So long as he continued to pay the Great Chain for use of their state-of-the-art lightpoints, Ian could live a pretty cushy life. That was one good thing about being a courier.

The other good thing was that it let him keep an eye on the galaxy. How institutions crumbled… how institutions rebuilt themselves. How refugees flowed, and how planets reacted to them. The ratio of kindness and cruelty that existed within the human soul. All Ian Velt had to do was look, and he would see.

In essence, he was a camera, and he was happy to be one. What he didn't know was that the need for a camera had just about come to an end. Perhaps he would have been less happy if he knew the Prince had already determined how he would best die.

Peace and joy for all mankind…

The Prince observed through the eyes of a cold consort.

"Father," the girl sobbed. "Please."

Zheran Maroe looked impassively down at her from his throne.

He was a tall man, although lanky was perhaps the better word, his long limbs making even his large seat seem just a tad too small. His jet-black hair was tied back into a severe bun, and the traditional regalia of the Supreme's spouse -- gold-specked robes -- hung from his frame. He regarded those below him with dull crimson eyes like dried blood.

What a bother.

His thirteen-year-old daughter, clad all in black, was staring up at him in terror. Her dark hair hung low over her face, her bright red eyes trembling in disbelief as they looked up at him. All the while, she clutched her twin sister, clad in white, tightly and desperately. That girl's eyes, at least, showed a little more acceptance of the situation.

"Ask your mother," he sighed, annoyed at having been called upon.

It went without saying. He found that his children had developed an irritating idea as they'd grown up. They assumed that, just because Zheran loved their mother, that love should somehow extend to them as well. It was the worst kind of entitlement.

Thump.

Renée and Adoré winced as their mother brought the point of her famous greatsword, Per Mutation, down against the ground. Zheran often wondered how his wife could bear to keep hold of a weapon that had destroyed and created her twice, but he supposed she wasn't the sort to let that affect her. She wasn't the sort to let anything affect her.

Helis-Audrey had been eleven years old when she'd first come to the Supremacy.

She and her family had been expelled from Abra-Facade as part of the group of clans known as the Thirteenth Hour. Using their 'heretical' interpretations of Abra-Facadian practices as a justification, many families had been banished from their home world and forced to fend for themselves. Alvashi, Tyra-Sent, Restorossi… when Zheran had looked into the matter himself, he'd come to suspect it had been more about the other Hours wanting to seize their assets, but that was beside the point.

The point was that it had taken Helis-Audrey only four years to go from a homeless refugee to the woman standing before the dead Supreme, bloody blade in hand. Now she had stood in his place for fourty years, the very embodiment of superiority.

Renée and Adoré had inherited their mother's short stature -- she barely came up to most people's chests -- but that was all that she had bestowed upon them. Her stark white hair hung long and loose, the shade a perfect match for the prim white military uniform she wore. A golden cape flowed behind her -- for this was not just any uniform, but the uniform of the Ascendant-General. She was the first to hold the offices of Supreme and Ascendant-General simultaneously, granting her an unprecedented level of direct control over the Supremacy's military. Through a narrow slit in her pale porcelain mask, her golden eyes looked out over her dominion imperiously.

Her accolades were arranged as medals in neat rows across her chest, and they were many. There was no achievement this woman had not reached for, no glory she had not achieved. As far as Zheran was concerned, she was a Supreme among Supremes. When she willed it, the world moved.

And right now, she willed it.

Her golden eyes regarded her two daughters.

"I will not brook insubordination," she said sharply. "Did you not hear me the first time?"

"Maman," Adoré said haltingly. "Perhaps -- perhaps if Renée could get some more training in so it'd be a more even --"

"No."

Adoré swallowed. She'd always been the better one at negotiating with their mother, but right now even she must have realized that was a hopeless prospect. Even if the Supreme had wanted to back down -- and Zheran had never known that to be true -- she could no longer do so.

They had all assembled here in the throne room, after all. The top echelons of the military, the Supreme's personal guard, the head Ministers of the Body. Gathered in two long lines -- a corridor of bodies from the door to the thrones -- they had all been summoned to see it.

To see the selection of their new Supreme Heir.

"I will say it only one more time," the Supreme said coldly. "The two of you will fight. No surrender will be accepted. Whoever survives will be my Heir. Should both of you disgrace yourselves, I will simply consider new children. Am I understood?"

This was not tough love. Zheran wasn't sure exactly why, especially since this wasn't the version of the Supreme who had actually given birth to them, but Helis-Audrey looked at her daughters with active contempt. Perhaps she resented them for having such a comfortable youth in comparison to her own. Whatever the case, she would indulge that hatred now.

Most likely, Renée would kill Adoré, and become the Supreme Heir. Adoré would let her sister win, after all -- and then her sister would one day become a broken Supreme, forever haunted by the shade of her mother.

The Prince, watching from within the gloomy man named Zheran Maroe, made no moves to stop this. A broken Supreme must have been exactly what it was looking for. As the two sisters turned to each other, sickles held in trembling hands, Zheran simply sighed.

When he'd received the Prince, he hadn't expected to spend so much time just sitting around and watching.

Oh well. Just from looking at his daughters, he knew there were worse lives. He'd made sure of that.

Peace and joy for all mankind…

The Prince observed through the eyes of one about to die.

The fist came down.

Once.

As the impact came down -- unimaginably strong, a car crash packed into human knuckles -- Zoe resisted the urge to retaliate. The murderous instincts she'd been cursed with as an Iminant raged within her blood.

Kill him, it whispered. Kill him. Kill him!

Mereloco was so close, within reach as he raised his fist once again. She could do it. She could kill him, even now, even after taking that first hit.

Yes, her blood begged. Do it.

A single scratch from her Killing Engine, from the claws beneath her nails, would be enough. Even if it didn't kill her attacker, it would certainly incapacitate him. It would all be so easy.

Yes. Too easy. That was why Zoe stayed her hand.

Twice.

The fist came down again, and Zoe's vision became a chaotic swirl of malformed images. The carpets blended into the floor and the floor blended into the walls, all of it tinged red by the blood pouring over her eyes. She tried to breathe in and instead sprayed more blood out. If this wound wasn't fatal, it was right on the verge.

Her Iminant blood wasn't the only thing screaming at her.

She could feel it, too, the Prince -- the advisor she'd been tricked into taking on, all those years ago. The wise man who'd come to her planet, who'd told her she was chosen, who'd died so she could seize his burden. After so long, she had to wonder. Had he known why he was doing the things he did? Or had the Prince steered him as a puppet, ignorant to his ignorance, as it had tried to do with her?

She needed to kill him. Her dying here was an unacceptable outcome. In order to avoid that, she needed to use her Killing Engine.

It would have been so tempting to think of those as her own thoughts, but no. Zoe knew she wasn't the sort to give up on her own soul so easily. If she died here, then she would die. If she lived here, she would live.

But, no matter what, she would not raise her hand against another.

Peace and joy for all mankind…

The Prince observed through the eyes of a living legend.

The room had been quite nice at first, all things considered. It was hardly a penthouse suite, but Angela Marroway had found herself some nice real estate on Meldra Prime -- an apartment right at the top of one of the pillars that linked the planet's upper and lower stratum. That had been thanks to her 'inheritance', of course. The profits of multiple lifetimes were not something to be scoffed at.

Now, though, that apartment couldn't be described as anything but a battlefield. Every piece of furniture had been smashed to splinters. Smoke drifted from the burning curtains -- not the result of being hit by an attack, but rather just being too close to one. The videograph hanging from the wall, lopsided, now displayed nothing but flickering nonsense colours.

It had definitely seen better days.

The puppet that had wrought this destruction slowly landed, its black wooden feet thumping against the ground. Its face, an almost insectoid mass of blades and points, regarded its defeated foe with mild curiosity. The Spear of Stillness -- the core around which it had been constructed -- protruded from its chest, projecting its ability outwards.

That had been the key to victory. The Spears of Stillness had been made to deal with opponents like this, after all.

The girl lay broken at the far end of the ravaged apartment, her limbs splintered, her organs crushed. With the Spear in play, the natural regeneration she would have enjoyed had been taken out of play. With wheezing breaths, she forced her head up.

Angela Marroway, AKA Delilah Trimbault, AKA Resha Ptyl, AKA Madame Rook, AKA Margarethe the Tenderheart. The last of the Gene Tyrants. It hadn't been easy to corner her, even with the guidance of the Prince.

Ludwig Lanark, the man called Nebula One, observed her through the eyes of his wooden puppet -- while he sat half a galaxy away, back on Serendipity, making breakfast.

"If it's any consolation," he said, voice drifting through the hole in the center of his puppet's face. "I think you did fairly well for yourself. You managed to sneak in centuries more life than the rest of your kind."

Margarethe snorted, smirking bitterly. "There's that, yep…" she rasped. "...but I really didn't think I'd ever see you again, Edgar…"

Ludwig paused, a piece of toast halfway to his mouth.

"You've misunderstood how it works," the puppeteer said. "It's not that I have a copy of Edgar's consciousness residing inside my mind. It's more like I'm reading the guide that he wrote, and I'm writing in it as I go as well."

Margarethe narrowed her eyes, one limp arm flopped over her chest. "And that guide tells you to kill me?"

"Not at all," the puppet raised a bladed arm, pointing it between Margarethe's eyes. "Reboot. Now."

The effect of the Spear of Stillness was retracted, the ability to change returning to Margarethe's body. She didn't make use of it to regenerate, though. She knew that the moment she did, Ludwig would simply reactivate the Armament and attack.

So, she said nothing.

"It's disadvantageous to have an experienced Gene Tyrant running around," Ludwig explained. "But it's advantageous to have an inexperienced Gene Tyrant running around. Reboot, and I'll let you live."

"You realize… that's basically dying anyway…?"

"That's fine. You can have your own way of seeing things. Just do it."

A bloody grin of defiance parted Margarethe's lips. Even with her broken teeth, it was quite the sight. If I'm going to die, I'm going to die spoiling your plan. It sent that sort of naïve message. Very cool.

"No," she shook her head. "No, I don't think I --'

"Johnny Werson," Ludwig said casually.

Her smile dropped.

Ludwig continued: "You and him had a thing briefly, didn't you? A few years back? You didn't let it go any further because you were worried about… well, something like this." The puppet went to scratch its nose, only to lower its hand when it realized it had no such thing. "He's playing pool at a beachside bar on Plados right now. He's doing pretty well, you know? In general, I mean, not just at pool."

Blood dribbled down Margarethe's chin as she looked at him, her vision wavering. "You're bluffing," she finally spat.

"I'm not. You know my ability. I have my puppets already positioned across the galaxy, ready to pay visits to all your old pals. Did you know that Lucky Oran's descendants still all live on the same star-station? Maybe not so lucky after all."

Margarethe twitched.

"The Galderni sisters -- did you know Hana is sick? Juli is with her in the hospital right now. They're having a very sweet conversation. I'm behind the curtain, listening in."

Margarethe swallowed.

"Trepia del Renideigh. Elysia Flamingo. The XK6 Expedition Team. That little shop you used to like, where they did the cupcakes. I don't even have to lift a finger, but I'll do it to make a point."

A wooden finger hovered in the air.

"If I lower this, I'll pay all of them a visit at once. I'll show them the same kind of treatment I showed you. Only… between you and me, I don't think they'll be as durable."

Margarethe's face twisted in anguish. These were names and places from this lifetime and lifetimes gone, precious things that she thought had safely vanished into the mists of time. And here they were, being held over the pit, at the mercy of a thing from nearly nine-hundred years ago.

Edgar… I should have killed you back then, shouldn't I…?

It would have been kinder.

Margarethe said something.

"You're going to have to speak up, sweetheart," Ludwig said. "These are wooden ears, you know."

"I said fine," Margarethe repeated, louder, her voice as dull as her gaze.

"Fantastic."

Gritting her teeth, Margarethe glared up at the wooden figure. "How do you stand it?" she spat.

"Stand what?"

"The puppet it's turned you into."

"Oh. Why, I stand that just fine." Back home, Ludwig narrowed his eyes in contentment as he looked up at the ceiling. "After all… I'm the hero who's going to save the world."

Margarethe slowly shook her head, face twisted by a mixture of disgust and pity. Truly, this man understood nothing.

She didn't give any last words. She knew that Ludwig Lanark would not care to remember them, and she refused to give the Prince anything more of her to devour. Instead, she simply closed her eyes -- lids already rippling like liquid -- and let out a long sigh.

Ludwig watched with mild interest as Margarethe's body collapsed into a sphere of quivering meat -- but before the reboot could complete, he had his puppet pick up the ball in one hand. It wouldn't do for the new Gene Tyrant to wake up here. Angela Marroway had a life, after all, a life linked to this apartment. If the new Tyrant investigated this place, they'd surely be able to reconstruct their old life from the evidence.

So, instead, the puppet's puppet hurled the sphere of birth into the distant city below…

…and the being that would one day call itself Marie Hazzard disappeared from sight.

Peace and joy for all mankind…

The Prince observed through the eyes of a severed head.

The world around it was amber, and the world around that amber was black. Dragan Hadrien had been worn down and captured as anticipated. Even now, his body consisted only of a severed head, suspended in a cube generated by the ability of Zephyr Pandershi.

The man called Niain lifted up the cube, looking into the uncomprehending eyes of his prize. Here, in the in-between of the Lovers' transit, this would seem a victory.

"I've waited a long time for this."

Niain smiled.

"My Supreme. My Prince."

The smile spread out into a grin.

"My Panacea."

Very soon, they would arrive at their final destination.

Nehr Mut. Zephyr Pandershi. Dragan Hadrien. Niain. Panacea. Per Mutation. The Axel Alexander. The Lovers. Angra Mainyu and Ahura Mazda. Bruno del Sed. The Body. Marie Hazzard. The Supremacy and the Unified Alliance of Planets. Ruth Blaine.

All of the pieces were now one step away from their final configuration. The Prince's predictive abilities, sharpened over a thousand years until they were all but precognition, analyzed the possible paths ahead and confirmed they all now led to the same conclusion. The result was now inevitable.

Peace and joy for all mankind…

…in nine days, seventeen hours, six minutes, and fourty-three seconds.

END OF ARC 0