Tyrus shook his head. He did not know. His stomach felt unsettled, his limbs twitchy. He wanted to get away—not to face this any longer. What had he done? My own father. Arion should rightly hate him. A child who would murder his own parent. A Domitrian, through and through. “I will find some other lodging,” he said, “while I wait for the Emperor’s arrival.”
But when he turned away, his father caught his shoulder and swung him back around. “Tyrus.” He tilted up Tyrus’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet, his own dark and unreadable, his skin deeply lined in the red light. “I know why you did this.”
I saw no alternative. Tyrus would not speak those words, though. They seemed to ask for forgiveness, and he did not deserve any.
“I understand,” his father said. “You think you’re going to fix this.”
“Someone has to fix it.” Had the Grandiloquy, had any of the Emperors cared, they might have solved the problem of malignant space centuries before. Instead they had let it fester—and thereby spread. Even the most obscure corner of the Empire was no longer safe. “If it continues—it will never stop on its own, do you understand? But if I become Emperor… if I seek the throne… Father, I can fix it.” This was his true purpose: he knew it in his bones. “And I won’t be like the others who come to power, Father. I won’t forget what I’m meant to do.”
“I know you won’t,” said Arion. “You’re my son.”
“I’m sorry.” His voice broke. Suddenly he felt the full weight of his grief, and he could not breathe. “Dad, I am so sorry!”
His father’s arms were strong and thick, the arms of a worker for whom labor was life. They pulled him tightly against a broad, warm chest. For a brief moment, Tyrus felt once more what it was to be an ordinary child: protected and cherished by someone stronger who wanted only his safety and joy.
But even as he hugged his father back, he knew he would never feel safe again. For the purpose of his existence had been made clear under the bloody light of the malignancy, and there was only one way to achieve it.
He would claim the throne and become the Emperor.
Then he would save the galaxy.
FIFTEEN YEARS LATER
“Wait for it.”
The Emperor Tyrus von Domitrian’s voice was quiet, but it rang over the gathering in the presence chamber.
For the last several weeks, the Chrysanthemum had been traveling in hyperspace. The thousand vessels that had been linked for centuries had disassembled. They moved in tandem to this new star system, far from the destruction of the six-star home of the Domitrians.
Now the Emperor stood before the great windows, gazing out at that distant speck of light that had once been the heart of the Empire. All present knew what had come to pass: the Emperor had somehow created malignant space, unleashed it, and allowed it to tear through his own home system.
Today would mark the culmination of those efforts.
Long-range satellites projected a holographic image into the very center of the presence chamber. It glowed in imposing size amid the gathered Grandiloquy. The image was a live feed of the hypergiant, Hephaestus, the largest and most powerful of those six stars. Malignant space reached for it in ever-multiplying tendrils, stripping away layer after layer of hydrogen.
“Any moment now,” breathed the Emperor, staring entranced out at space.
He stood at a remove from the company of the others. His Grandiloquy exchanged uneasy glances behind his back but dared do nothing more. The security bots linked to the Emperor’s mind were arrayed above the company’s heads, mechanized eyes fixed unblinkingly on all the faces in the chamber, watching for any threats to the Emperor’s person. The Grandiloquy had not yet gauged the extent of their Emperor’s control over the machines.
For some Domitrians, keying into the scepter gave them voice command over the bots in direct sight.
For others, they could peer straight across star systems as though they were machine men themselves, looking through virtual eyes, issuing commands to distant weapons.
The assembled group had no illusions of their Emperor’s mercy. They had assisted him in killing thousands of their political rivals. The most prominent Grandiloquy had choked to death on Resolvent Mist, or been cast into malignant space to die. They’d assisted the Emperor in bringing about the destruction in hopes of gaining more influence and power.
Instead they now stood as virtual prisoners of the security bots overhead, silent and petrified. For their young Emperor had turned into a terror, a creature of unpredictable moods and merciless whims. He was awaiting the catastrophe to come with an air of calm expectation. Even the hint of a smile.
That smile widened as it happened: Hephaestus hemorrhaged the last of its hydrogen.
On the holographic image between them, the vast star abruptly shrank and collapsed inward. A collective cry—a mingling of awe and horror—rose from the observers.
Then the star exploded outward, and in the window beyond the Emperor, a great explosion of light swelled across the blackness.
“There it is!” The Emperor broke into a laugh as Hephaestus went supernova against the vast tapestry of darkness. The vivid explosion fanned larger and larger. Rays of light ballooned outward, the most ferocious of nature’s phenomena lighting up the great void. Pitch darkness lit to blinding light and drowned away the stars, before fading once more.
The Emperor turned to look upon the observers, his form rendered a dark silhouette against the great destruction blooming behind him. He spread his arms expectantly, invitingly.
“Behold,” said the Emperor. “Our triumph.”
For a long, frozen moment, a horrified silence hung in the air. There was no triumph here, just pure destruction.
“You who fear the Excess,” jeered the Emperor, “can you imagine them ever defeating such might? I wielded malignant space. I ignited a supernova. The power over the Cosmos belongs to me now. And my loyal few—to us.”
At last, understanding sank into the assembled Grandiloquy… awe. Then one or two of their number, clever and ambitious, realized the proper response. They began to applaud.
As soon as that first smattering of applause filled the air, more hands joined into a chorus of approval. The Emperor broke into a broad, self-satisfied grin.
As if by instruction, the clapping swelled to wild cheers, to toasts with glasses of wine. The Grandiloquy shouted themselves hoarse in praise of the “most glorious light show” in imperial history. They hailed their young Emperor for this remarkable feat.
The Emperor spoke: “Most Ascendant One, come forth.”
The Vicar Fustian nan Domitrian—an imposter currently pretending to be the Interdict, the highest-ranking member of the Helionic faith—stepped out of the crowd and threw himself to his knees at the Emperor’s feet, pawing forward for his ruler’s knuckles to draw them to his cheeks.
The Interdict would never bow to an Emperor.
But the real Interdict was dead. This was a puppet wearing the face of a holy man, here to speak the words the Emperor wished, and do as the Emperor bade.
“Tell me something,” the Emperor said softly. “The stars reflect the will of our divine Cosmos, do they not?”
“Indeed, they do, Your Supreme Reverence.” Fustian’s voice shook a little.