Alone at his post in the communications center of the Darjeeling Dyson Sphere, Chief Petty Officer Janal listens to the music of the stars. Well, to be more accurate, he is listening to the musical stars while his mind drifts deep into his subconscious. His recent promotion meant more pay, better accommodations, and more leeway for time off, but no one mentioned how boring Long Range Communications Relay was. He might have been daft to take the post without reading the fine print but some of the perks of it outweighed the mind numbing ennui. The best of those benefits, according to Janal, was the proximity he had to Governor General Latika, also known as the most stunning woman on all of Darjeeling.

The creak of wheels finally aroused Janal from his slumber. The squeaking could only come from the tea cart that his best friend, and member of House Genial, pushed on his nightly runs. Chai-walla Salim was a simple sort, on the surface, but if Janal was ever baffled by a maths problem or have issues recollecting some regulation or other, Salim was at his side with help. In a lot of ways, he was a better batman than Janal’s current adjunct, Petty Officer Aya. Aya was a competent NCO, using the loosest of definitions for “competent,” but she was more of a sycophant and was often too afraid to stand up for Janal or correct him when he was failing. He hated that woman with a passion.

“Good evening, Jana,” Salim said jovially, “I see you’re dreaming of the Governor General again.”

“What-?” Janal started, “I have no idea what you are talking about!”

“Tell that to the drool on your lapel,” Salim retorted, “so, a cuppa of something strong? LRCR can be pretty uneventful.”

Janal nods and gratefully takes the saucer and teacup of Salim hands him, “More so than usual, tonight. I don’t know why, on a still uncompleted Dyson Sphere, that we even have a Long Range Communications Relay. We haven’t heard anything from the Empire in millennia. Likely we never will.”

“I guess so,” Salim replied, pouring a cup for himself and setting back in one of the stations comfortable task chairs, “oh, Shiva, it’s no wonder you can fall asleep here! These seats are so comfy!”

“Yes, and if you stay in them long enough,” Janal began, “you get piles.”

“Oh, now that is lewd, even for you, Jana,” Salim cries, “why would you even say that?”

“My apologies, Sala,” Janal answers, “I am thoroughly filled with ennui and my mind has need to lash out.”

“Fair enough,” Salim says, then taking a sip of his drink, he adds, “this is some good chai.”

“You should know; you made it,” Janal says, then something appears on a monitor that hadn’t been there before, “‘special bulletin?’ Is the Governor General going to speak tonight?”

“That’s surprising,” Salim sneers, “a surprise announcement by the Governor General and you’re not prancing about like a silly cadet? The Universe must be in indigo shift…”

“Oh, shut it, Salim,” Janal shoots back before adjusting his position and looking at the monitor with the bulletin on it, “hmm? That is not a prefix codec I recognize…”

“What do you mean?” Salim asks.

“This,” Janal points to a string of alphanumeric characters on the screen, “this is not a Darjeeling prefix. It does not resemble any prefix I have ever seen.”

“It is not my place to tell you how to do your job,” Salim says with trepidation, “but do not answer that. There can be no good from an unknown prefix.”

“I’m answering it anyway…” Janal says, but before he can type in his ident, Salim has his arm clutched tightly.

“Janal, please…” the chai-wallah pleads.

“My friend,” Janal breathes, “if I don’t answer this, I might miss something important. Do you want another macro-arachnid incursion?”

“No,” Salim says, letting go of Janal, “I lost too many family members because of those creatures…”

“Then I must answer,” Janal states, “if only to cure my ennui and relieve the monotony…”

The chief petty officer enters in his ident. The screen shifts colors for a few moments, very slowly moving from through the red spectrum, then yellow, then finally to blue. As the screen reaches the end of the blue hues, a woman’s face, marked as an ancilla by the markings and translucent data flowing across her “skin,” appears.

The colonial capital of Lakshma is quiet and inactive at oh-four-thirty hours.

The streets are free of pedestrian and vehicular traffic, most especially in the vicinity of the Governor-General’s Palace. The only beings awake at this hour are the Palace retainers, specially handpicked Praetorian troops, walking rounds of the planet’s seat of power. Otherwise, the land is a whisper away from being loud. It is at this time that Governor-General Latima is wide awake.

The entertainment she had acquired earlier in the night was less than satisfactory. He had concluded his business with the austere woman many hours ago and was now sleeping of his orgasm. She, on the other hand, was a bundle of nerves drawn taut. Even the droning hum of her *DIICCE, sliding from one page or another of official colonial documentation, could not drown out the constant anxiety she felt. On an otherwise hectic day, a full night’s rest was in order. The news that a recently established mountain outpost had gone dark caused a furor in an otherwise stable (or relatively thought of as so) colony. Yet…

Latima could find no rest. She found herself in a state of alertness that bordered on the obscene. There was little doubt that sleep would claim her this night; the prescribed sleeping draught she regularly consumed was of no help. As rest evaded her, she wondered if the Matron ever had nights like this. Not that she could ask, as the Empire had remained silent for the last twenty-five or so thousand years.

“There is not enough chai in all of Lakshmi to bring me to sleep tonight,” Latima confessed to the walls of her chambers, “I am awake and whole world is asleep, comfortable in the darkness that comes with the moons. It is indeed true that there shall be no rest for the wicked.”

A yawn stifled, belaying how exhausted the Governor-General truly was, escaped her lips. She would shake her head, in hope that the cogs associated with her sleep cycle would loosen enough to start turning, if not for the fact that her partner in bed was still slumbering. Neither was the option of leaving the bed, for her paramour of the night was nestled betwixt her legs and any shuffling my rouse him. (If she heard any more of the Proletariat man’s ramblings about his self-importance, she would find herself sorely tempted to summarily execute him. She might wring some sedition charges at a later, more convenient time.)

Latima was on the verge of giving up the farce of a good night’s sleep tonight when her P-HAT flashed a Priority Alpha message. The sender was someone in Long Range Communications Relay, an ill used station on the local Dyson Sphere. She had unsuccessfully tried to get the Colonial Congress to appropriate the necessary resources to complete the Sphere, so the Colony could properly begin launching expedition sorties into the local star system, but to no avail. And now, a message from The Sphere of great import. Tapping the message, she saw the face of the junior night watch commander, a young man she knew she had not attempted to bring in her bed chambers.

A moment hesitation followed the message prompt and then the young man spoke: “Governor-General, this is LRCR, Second Lieutenant Janal reporting. At approximately oh-three-thirty hours, a bulletin out of the Darjeeling prefix beamed in. The codec was unknown, but I answered, in the chance that it was another system’s Sphere reporting macro-arachnid activity. The bulletin was not a macro alert, but a relayed message from an ancilla- reportedly from Terra Firmé. I was given a passphrase to repeat to you: Phoenix Down. I am unsure what it means, but I was instructed to say thus by the ancilla The Hand That Mourns.”

The message could not have been clearer. “Phoenix Down” was a message from House Majestic, indicating that contact was requested immediately. Latima wasted no time, jumping from her bed, slipping into her battle dress uniform and sending a ping back to The Sphere. A moment later, The Sphere pinged back and handsome Lt. Janal was on the screen once more.

“G-Governor-Gen- General, good evening!”

“Not as good as I would prefer,” The Governor-General replied, “but this message you sent is utmost concern as of five minutes ago.”

“Understood, Governor-General,” Lt. Janal said, “I still have Hand That Mourns on the comm. Would you like me to patch you in?”

“Yes, Lieutenant, patch me in immediately,” Latika stated, “and give this communique the highest utmost encryption. There is not telling who might be listening in.”

“Aye, ma’am,” Janal replied, “encryption is already in progress with the stream, ma’am. Beta category, five-point-one-two terabyte encrypt. No latency currently detected.”

“Excellent, lieutenant, I’ll- wait, 5.12terabyte encrypt? Are you serious?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Janal answered, “straight from- hold on- straight from Solis Array.”

“That’s nearly four times our nominal encryption ratio…” Latika stated, “Ugh, I have not enough sleep for technical details. Patch me in, now.”

“You are live, Governor-General,” Janal said after a few moments and then visage of an ancilla filled Latika’s P-HAT screen.

“Good morn to you, Governor General,” the ancilla spoke, “I am The Hand That Mourns. Am I to assume you received the ‘Phoenix Down’ passphrase?”

“You are correct,” Latika said, “am I to assume that, after more than twenty-five millennia of silence, The Terran Empire is finally contacting the poor, old Darjeeling Colony?”

“You are partially correct,” Hand That Mourned answered, “more aptly, the sole current member of the Terran Provincial Commonwealth has tasked me with making contact with your people. There is much work to be done and a great deal of questions that must be answered.”

“A single member?” Latika asked, “That hardly seems enough to convene a Quorum or run the Empire.”

“It must stand for now,” Hand That Mourned replied, “For other members are otherwise- indisposed. As it is now, The Archmage of the Empire holds court.”

“The Archmage-?” Latika wondered, “There- there hasn’t been an Archmage in nearly a galaxy’s age…”

“Indeed,” Hand says, “House Endymion has been Returned, Acclimated, and Reclaimed. Soon, the follies of an older age shall naught but bones, to usher in a new Empire. A fresh start, if you will.”

“Understood, Mistress Hand. I stand waiting in position to receive orders,” Latika stated, “what is required of the colony under my command?”

“First off,” Hand That Mourns began, “how many of your colony are members of the tribe Proletariat?”

“If my recollection is correct, roughly 150,000 members of House Proletariat exist here on Lakshmi.”

“I see,” Hand replies, “well, your first orders are, to arouse all of your colony’s residents, save for those in Tribe Proletariat.”

“May I ask why?” Latima asks.

“The Proletariat Tribe has been expunged from The Ecumene,” Hands answers, “they must answer for their crimes.”

“Crimes?”

“Yes, Governor-General, Tribe Proletariat has committed felonies most egregious,” Hand explained, “the chief of these is Sedition Against The Empire.”

“These- these are serious charges,” Latika states, “wherein is the proof of their perfidy?”

“I shall show you,” Hand says, “but I regret to inform you that those charges will make for heavy reading, as their sins are most atrocious…”

At oh-eight-hundred hours, the entire populace of Colony Lakshmi had gathered in colonial center square. Half a billion souls, the majority of which were either House Hephaestus or House Praetorian, stood ready as they waited. A general assembly was called in the dead of night, awaking families from sound slumbers and barracked soldiers to ready state on only a few hours of sleep. The Governor-General and a young second lieutenant were standing at the assembly podium, neither looking especially alert. The Governor-General appeared as to have not slept in the last thirty-six hours, for she chugged down a mug nearly three times her size of her hand; the contents steamed, suggesting either a very strong tea or maybe a potent carafe of coffee.

Noticeably absent from the throng were the colony’s legislators and administrators. No one was sure why they were excluded from the proceedings. It was but one of the irregularities of this hastily called assembly. Thankfully, the crowd didn’t have to wait long for the Governor-General to speak. She rose from her seat, the only non-gilt chair on the podium, and stood front-center, as to address her people.

“Good morning, everyone,” Latika said, “I know that this is a rather unusual occurrence, so I don’t blame you for being less than alert at this hour. Although, given the weight of the information that thrust upon me much early in the morning, I dare report to you all is of paramount importance. So, I’ll try to brief and get to the heart of the matter:

“The Terran Empire we once knew is gone-” she said, then waited a few minutes to insure the murmuring of the throng subsided, “I know this comes as a shock to many of you. It was as unbelievable for me last night as it is to you this morning. Yet, I digress…

“At approximately oh-three-thirty hundred hours, The Colony of Lakshmi was contacted by a remnant of the Terran Empire. This remnant, a man who says he is of the long lost house of Endymion- yes, yes, I know, I hadn’t heard of it until last night, but if you’ll allow me to explain.

“This Imperial Remnant, who will be in contact with us shortly, has a message for all of us,” Latima explained, “the Empire as we know fell. This is why we have faced 25,000 years or so of isolation from our cradle world and government. The Empire was razed and it’s historical records purged from Terra Firmé; what remained of our nation fled from our cradle world and resettled on Terra Firma, a holding world. Since The Fall, the remaining citizens of the Empire have lived, and died, on Terra Firma, yet all records of their- our, great civilization were erased. They have thrived on Terra Firma but with no knowledge of the precursors and as such are as ignorant of our nation as the Plezio were of humanity. Now, one of the refugees, totally unlearned of his peoples heritage, has come back to Terra Firmé; he settled down on the planet of our birth and has made contact with an ancilla based off of an ancient House Apollo member.

“This ancilla has the entire written record of the Empire and has been teaching this Remnant about our society. It is also been discovered that he is last living descendant of the last Archmage of the Empire, Edwin Ambrose. For those who are confused, the Empire once boasted of a house of magic, that kept the Empire in equilibrium for almost all it’s million year existence. Then, sometime in the last 26,000 years, all of House Endymion died out- or so it is claimed. There is evidence that House- sorry, Tribe Proletariat is responsible for murdering every last member of House Endymion.

“If you were wondering why our brothers and sisters of that ‘house’ are not present with us, now you may begin to understand. The former house of Proletariat has been expunged from the Empire, for the high crimes of sedition, conspiracy against The Matron, conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy against an Imperial House, extortion, bribery, coercion, embezzlement, multitudinous war crimes, and racketeering. Currently, all members of the Proletariat Tribe are being confined to quarters until further orders can be given.

“You may ask, ‘Why act against Proletariat now when their crimes have been in the past?’ I wish I could tell you that was true, but alas, the Proletariat have acted not just against The Empire, but against all of us here on Darjeeling. They have found ways of preventing us from completing the Dyson Sphere, have funneled resources and matérial to secret projects all across the colony, eliminated any who have ferreted out their deeds. This is but the beginning of their chicanery here. House Intelligentsia has been busy parsing through the record, discovering discrepancies hither and thither on the Colonial Register. Every inconsistency bears the mark of Ho- Tribe Proletariat.

“In the coming months, there shall be a significant shift of resources and personnel in effort to complete the construction of our Dyson Sphere. Shortly thereafter, we shall begin building shipyards and docking facilities for pangalactic travel-”

A swell of applause and joyous cries rang out from the assembled. So loud was the cacophony, that the Sect. General waited until the din died down enough for her voice to carry over it.

“I can understand your enthusiasm, truly, I do. And in the coming months, we will be restart our efforts to map this sector of the Galaxy, and in turn, begin a drive to reconnect with our Imperial home. That said, there is much work to be done between then and now. As the common axiom here so states, ‘the tiger never sleeps, when there is prey about.’ It is my hope that we all will endeavor to put forth our highest effort in achieving this goal. And now, it is my honor to introduce you to the guest of the hour. Please bring your ears and eyes to the holostage,” Latima motioned to the empty part of the dias that held dancing lights, reflective panels, and pylons of beam emitters behind her, “to The Archmage of the Terran Empire, Steven Edwin Ambrose.”

The crowd quieted immediately as the holostage began to generate the form of a young man, hardly thirty annuals old if the image was untampered with, wearing a set of robes like none on Darjeeling had seen before. The sigil of gibbous moon laid atop a larger crescent moon, with the star Polaris crowning the pair of satellites sat upon his left breast. No one living on Darjeeling had seen such sigil. The layered clothes hung loose in the younglings lanky frame, impressing on the populace of Darjeeling that his clothes were too large for him. Than he began to speak, and any doubt as to his age, bearing, or demeanor was laid to rest.

“Good morning, Darjeeling,” the young man said, “I- I am your brand spanking new Archmage… And I gotta tell you, it nice to finally see some human faces.

“No doubt, your Secretary-General has told you everything that’s been going on in the last few hours. The base treachery of your fellows must be a blow- I’m still having issues assessing just how much outrage I should feel given how badly Tribe Proletariat inflicted not just The Empire, but to humanity as a whole. I don’t know about you all, but as I started learning of our history, I began to feel resentful of the life that had been stolen from me… I would like to believe that was affront laid solely on me, but after making contact with your world, and others like it, I’m finding that the quill and coin crowd are equal opportunity bastards.

“Now, I’m not going to waste your precious time waxing bellicose on Tribe Proletariat. Especially when there’s more important matters to attend. So, I’ll cut to the chase. As of this moment, Darjeeling, and your lovely capitol city of Lakshma, have been an independent colony, well away from The Empire and any decrees issued from there. This of course means that your people are light years away and thus any news from Terra Firmé comes to you long after the fact. That flaw has been corrected, thanks to some new firmware and the reactivation of several Dyson Sphere relays in adjacent star systems.

“This is why I’m making the effort to place this call- broadcast- damn it, what in the Hell is this transmission called, anyway?”

A new voice, one only three people on Darjeeling have heard previously, answered.

“It is a holocasting, Archmage,” the voice said, “and you will need to be brief. Luna’s Moon is moving out of alignment in five minutes, eighteen seconds.”

“Gotcha, Hand,” the new Archmage says, then addressing the crowd, “right, brief it is. As a stand alone colony, you have managed to fare rather well without Imperial guidance. As it stands, there isn’t much of an Empire to guide you. That said, should your people choose to return to the bosom of your matronly nation, I will do my damnedest to allocate resources and material to do what you desperately need to do. Albeit, even if you decide against that, I will endeavor to send what I can while I can. So I am putting this to the people of Darjeeling: would you rather remain an independent colony or return to guidance of the Terran Empire, thus paying tribute to the Matron and the Twelve Houses?”

“We will need to make our decision with alacrity,” Latima said, “our window with you is now half over. So, lords and ladies of Lakshma, what say you? Stand alone among the stars or return to the bosom of Terra Firmé?”

The DIICCE units of nearly three million Lakshma citizens flashed on, as a tally was made. In seconds, the tally was completed, allowing the Secretary-General to record the results and codify them.

“The vote,” Latima stated, “is unanimously in favor of Rejoining The Empire. So say you all?”

In chorus, the citizens of Darjeeling replied, “SO SAY WE ALL.”

“So it written and so decided,” Latima said, “Archmage?”

“So shall it be done,” The Archmage replied, “I’ll be calling again soon. Until then, my Heart, Mind, and Soul are with you.”

He then performed a salute, touching the knuckles of his right fist to his forehead, then down to his heart, and then to his lips.

The populace repeated the gesture, saying, “AND OURS ARE WITH YOU, ALSO.”

*DIICCE= Digital Inventory, Information, Currency, and Communication Exchange