story

Most people, born by chance, live life pursuing identity and purpose. Not Vertel. Designed to fill a specific role – that of a legislative diplomat – everything from his career, to his interests, to his personality was planned since before his conception. "How restrictive!" you might think. But Vertel, subject to his meticulous biological programming, finds the whole situation gratifying.

In other words, he is a normal High Terran of the External Affairs caste. His people are a subset of humanity, subject to accelerated evolution, designed to act as custodians for the human race. Purely by accident, they are also all potent reality warpers. Though they are universally feared for this power, their general reclusiveness, lawfulness, and predictability keeps hostilities toward them relatively low. For millennia they have been accepted, not so much with open arms as with a professional handshake, as legal citizens of intergalactic society.

It was this society Vertel would come to hate, and protect.

We could be helping so much more. Every time his tutor told him, decline that request, send back that proposal, keep silent on that issue, that was the thought Vertel returned to.

Perhaps it was rebellion, perhaps it was just Vertel's nature, but either way he knew what he wanted. A world of universal peace and understanding, where every kingdom coexisted in mutual support and harmony. The self-interest of his own people, though he sympathized with it, was tiring. But if they could put it aside for just a second, if even just one of them could put it aside for just a second, they with their vast powers could change the universe for good. Thoughts many would dismiss as feel-good idealism and naive fantasy, to Vertel, felt very attainable.

First: diagnose the problem. By Vertel's reckoning, much of the world's strife was an issue of insufficient resources. The civil war on Korren: over sulphur. The Xantaniphal revolts: over food. The Lam and Nux blood feud: over yents and stents. Whenever such issues were raised, every eye in the room exerted a silent pressure. "Why aren't you fixing this, Terran?". Indeed, conjuring sulphur or food or stents was a trivial prospect. Then when everyone had what they needed, of course they'd no longer fight over what they already had. From that platform of stability, diplomatic relations between everyone would be far more cordial.

What the world needed was not a singular Terran to answer every request, but some way to indefinitely generate for people the resources they needed. It would be far less stress, and not an imposition of the Terran people upon foreign kingdoms. They would choose of their own will whether and what to take, whenever they wanted.

He would call it Cornucopia. It would be his magnum opus.

While making stents or sulphur or any other independent object was easy, Cornucopia would take time. Calibrating such a complex invention required mastery in reality manipulation that, as a teenager, Vertel simply didn't have yet. But with discipline and study, he would undoubtedly reach the level of proficiency he needed. Leaving Cornucopia on the backburner as a long-term project, Vertel focused on fulfilling the orders tasked to him by his many superiors and comprehensively researching every foreign culture and people he could.

It was thrilling, learning about and meeting the inhabitants of these varied worlds. Everyone had their idiosyncrasies – some of which he didn't immediately understand, but nonetheless appreciated simply for existing. Who was he to judge, after all. Terrans were just as idiosyncratic as anyone, with their bouting and their aggression and their psychoses. Besides that, variety was the spice of life, or some holy manifestation of the One. A treasure conferred by existence herself, just as living was. On that, he was certain.

Over the years, he climbed steadily up his caste's social ladder. With more authorities, he could meet more people, secure more influence, and spread support of his project to more and more civilizations. Soon he had amassed a small circle of collaborators – or as he liked to think of them, friends, invested in his work. With their feedback and testing of his prototypes, things were coming together. He was excited!

He was also being influenced. His climb up the ladder became more of a warpath as he sought the authorities that would let him sway certain political issues in his friends' favour. It was easier than he anticipated. All that work with advanced concepts for the Cornucopia had given him an edge on his peers. And if his friends didn't quite return the favours – if they forgot to vote how they had promised to, or kept silent when pressure fell on him, or perhaps said some insensitive things when he seemed not to be listening, then, well. Everyone made mistakes.

Nevermind it. He was almost ready to present his prototype invention to the Council of Judiciaries. He giddily explained his plans for the presentation to his tutor, who wished him luck with a commiserating smile.

Their feedback blindsided him. "How do you propose to regulate this?"

What?

The point was that it wasn't regulated. Anyone could get what they needed anytime. But the Judiciaries kept firm. Revisions, they demanded.

Alright, okay, that was a setback. But he could understand it. Sort of. Not really. But he could tweak it and look for more feedback. He'd get it right eventually.

Not two days later, the Cornucopia went missing.

Fifty thousand hyperion bombs pelted the planet Umestos, until the mantle bled into the stratosphere.

It had been one of Vertel's friends.

He was a spy for the Tislin military. They had been campaigning against Umestos for decades. Casualties numbered in the billions.

The political aftermath was disastrous. While the worst penalties fell on the Tislin, an outcry for justice against the creators of the war device resounded through the cosmos. Vertel was terrified, for himself initially, then for his tutor when he stepped in to take the blame. Calls came for execution, for imprisonment, for the expulsion of Terrans from the council. For now, the sentence was pending on the judiciaries.

What just happened. Nothing made sense. Why had that happened? Why had his friend– –behaved so strangely? He'd been acting on a superior's orders, right? He hadn't had any choice, right? He never did get to know the answer.

What could Vertel do to put this right? Nothing. Nothing, he realized. That was the domain of the court.

His supporters abandoned him. Over time, he found many had exploited the Cornucopia in similar fashions, drawing from it tons of rare and illicit materials, money, and luxury goods. Arrests hit many in his circle. "He forced me to use it." "He gave these to me to keep a dagger over my head." "He told me this was legal. He lied to me." The Cornucopia, forty years of his life's passion, was destroyed.

It didn't matter. He could make a new one, he knew how. Though some frail part of him still hoped for recovery of the project, rationally, he knew. It was over.

He returned to his quarters, ready for his kin to castigate him too. It was what he deserved. For– for...

What had been his mistake?, he wondered.

Weeping in his sibling's embrace, who did not castigate, who understood, understood exactly what he had intended, understood exactly his confusion, and wept for him too, he realized. He knew.

He'd assumed everyone, fundamentally, was Terran.

It was like a fog had lifted. Looking back on his thousands of hours of cultural research, he wondered, why had he ever found this endearing? Why had he dismissed these tendencies as quirks?

The Thrax, who parasitized their hosts down to the soul. The Uyanids, who feasted on their overflowing broods of children. The Infrit, whose home planet was lost to pollution, and whose host planet now suffered the same. Renowned blackmailers, the Coreti. Vengeance-sworn of the Red Empire. Sex-crazed Jerls. Dead planets. Wet bones. "Why aren't you fixing this, Terran?" But further: "Don't you dare go touching this, Terran."

Surely these were the same terms by which his people were regarded. Psychotic Terran. World-killer, Terran. Pushy Terran. Stingy Terran. Self-righteous Terran. Robotic Terran. Terran Terran Terran Terran Terran.

Struck by curiosity, Vertel delved the history of the one society he'd neglected to study: his own.

He was not the first, or even second to invent a Cornucopia. The most recent attempt had been 3000 years ago. The judiciaries had scrapped the project for fear of destabilizing the world economies. Numb, Vertel checked the presiding judge of that era. She was a Coreti. With that reasoning, of course it was a Coreti. He was disgusted at himself for the thought.

The ruling came. As compensation for the destruction of Umestos, and the death of eight billion citizens, the High Terran people were to donate eight Low Terrans to the Coreti.

Why? he wanted to scream. What does that serve? Who is that helping? The Coreti would sell them to who-knows-who and they'd use them for god-knows-what and as a legal donation nobody could lift a finger if something went wrong. It was the worst, most traumatizing, most career-destroying sentence they could have ruled. Practically an execution, too. Historically, those who complied to it didn't last to the end of the year. And still the public complained: Only eight?!

Fuck this.

Fuck this, the thought echoed, again and again, like a mantra. Streaks of white seared his vision while the rage boiled his skull. If only he could shred that judiciary bitch, all into fine streaks of wriggling meat, and all the outraged public, all of them into puddles of blood. Then they'd know the weight of their impertinence. He knew these desires weren't like him. But that was the sin of his nature. Like everyone else, he'd indulge it. For a moment.

He wracked his brain for a solution. Of all his studies and research, was there anything he could use to escape this, any critical advice to pass on to his tutor? With the sentence already finalized, their options were few to none. His tutor had no ideas either. Only one frail plan to request an appeal. Absolutely desperate. Leniency wouldn't come.

Well.

Well, there was one thing.

One thing Vertel could do.

But it was going to be risky, and pretty nuts.

He bouted his tutor for the mantle of High Executor, and won.

It was not a throwaway battle. None of his previous bouts could compare.

He stood before the judiciaries, bearing the charges for Umestos as High Executor, but entitled to his own trial as his own person. Proceedings were reset. Everyone rolled their eyes. Those Terrans had whipped out a stall tactic.

He pled guilty by way of functional ignorance, invoking a right to Atonement by Learned Compassion.

Now those eyes shot open. At least, from the people who knew what it was. Learned Compassion was an old ruling, used chiefly when Thenix, the Many from One, was still a warfaring scourge on the cosmos. Possessing one inherited consciousness, but many unthinking, unfeeling slave bodies, the gravity of the death of an individual had not naturally clicked for her. Learned Compassion was the plea to suffer in equal measure the crime committed on the victim, and survive to comprehend the sin. Over time, eventually, it worked, and she learned.

Coming from Vertel, it sounded like a nonsense plea. Of course he had the capacity to understand destroying a planet was bad. Though he would also argue he hadn't the capacity to understand why trusting everyone had been wrong. But he wasn't banking on sense or argument.

"Rain upon me fifty thousand hyperion bombs so I can understand the gravity of my mistake." It was enmity bait. It was showmanship.

Three quarters farcical, but one quarter intrigued, the head judge ruled: eight billion bombs.

What atrocious math, Vertel secretly grinned.

Eight billion deaths to eight billion bombs was still nothing compared to eight living Terrans.

When the last fire curled off his ashes, and his body reformed into flesh, his baptism into the seat of High Executor was complete. He was changed.

Stricter. Less tolerant. More dominant. More snide. Less cheerful. His old personality emerged only in private, around his own people. Still it took some decades for his last wisps of faith to fade, but pattern by pattern, failure by failure, betrayal by betrayal, he came not only to hate these outsiders, but to consign his old dream as a very impossible, very naively Terran idea.

The duties of his new seat were immense. All his free time previously devoted to the Cornucopia now went directly to work and more work: treaties here, meetings there, court dealings, legislative conferences, organize this, organize that, terran monitoring, caste management. The work itself was refreshing. He was living, as he'd vowed, to his greatest potential. All the foreigners he had to deal with were not. Many times, he wished they may burn.

Time passed. He soon settled into his unique style of governance, navigating the political waters with spite and guile. Decades passed. The fuss about Umestos faded as generations changed and memories disappeared. Even the judiciaries came and went, bound by their shorter lifespans. The newcomers learned quickly the sting of his fearsome court reputation. A century passed. Albeit with bumps and hiccups, everything had become routine. His seniority became established. Episodes worth great concern happened, but nothing as bad as Umestos.

Two hundred years passed, uncontested.

A once-in-a-decade event then occurred. A new High Terran was born.

Usually a cause for celebration, reception on this one was tepid. In defiance of the AI incubating him, he had emerged more than a month premature. The impacts this could have on his personality, or programming, as yet were unknown. Debates unfolded throughout the hatcheries on whether or not to cull him. But High Executor Arael read his soul and claimed, there was no need for concern. For Vertel's two cents, he trusted Arael's judgement.

His name was Caph Camellia. In a little over a decade, he would become the new High Executor of Human Relations. Compared to the ordeal Vertel went though to get his seat, the ease with which Camellia ascended was, frankly, concerning. What would Vertel have been like as a leader if he had ascended before Umestos happened? Probably, foolhardy and stubborn. Camellia had strong leanings towards those traits, certainly, but unlike Vertel back then, his judgement was rarely wrong.

Then perhaps I oughtn't worry so much. With that thought, Vertel pushed his misgivings aside.

But only twenty years later, Camellia vindicated his fears.

After his first encounter with xenophiles, Camellia proposed to exterminate all nonhuman life from existence. Vertel truly, completely, more than anyone else, understood where he was coming from.

His research was impeccable. Cases he could cite, innumerable. He rattled off the unquestionable benefits of his plan to all who would debate him, until they, swayed by keen logic and passionate emotion, let their trepidations fade. Voices of fervent support and cordial nonchalance grew common. Truly, Vertel could admire his charisma.

The problem with all this was that Camellia's plan was fundamentally wrong.

It wasn't anything Vertel could articulate. It wasn't even rational. It was just this sense of, incontrovertible doom, every time he looked over the stars and imagined them – all of them – empty.

Life was a fleeting gift. Individuality even more so. He once called variety a manifestation of the One, and even now, he still believed that. After all, it was in respect to natural creche that a Coreti was a Coreti, or that an Infrit spread filth, or that a Terran loved humans. For how he might hate it, that was the will of the creation manifest, in peoples, in kingdoms, in laws, all crude and imperfect and abstracted from the source, but still connected. So perhaps in some perverted way he still believed in harmony. And respect for that law, that harmony, that source, were the threads of Vertel's lifeline. Thank you for letting me exist. Thank you for letting me be me. I'll obey you to my best. He couldn't ignore it.

Vertel suspected, for Camellia, that sentiment was closer to, "I know, I know, I'm welcome you could have me!" And though he never voiced it, he wondered if the thought ever played in Camellia's mind. "So then my birth is also the will of creation? Is my will then not the will of creation? Am I not her perfect hand and hammer? I act as instinct commands me, Vertiel."

He'd have no rebuttal but ad hominem. You are a megalomaniac.

But Vertel could hold his tongue. Though he noted the weak, practically baseless crux of Vertel's objections, Camellia didn't dismiss them. It seemed he was trying to understand. But somewhere, just fell short. He remained unconvinced. Vertel, listening to his own arguments, wasn't sure he himself was convinced, either.

For the gravity of these debates, Vertel's mundane work still chugged along with precedence. Organize this. Organize that. Breathless, one of his subordinates came sprinting to him with a missive. Urgent business. He had to see this. Vertel emptied the recordings from the envelope.

He'd rather not recount what was depicted on those tapes.

Though he'd considered himself well-trained at restraining himself, having taken numerous cases like this, this one was the worst.

Honestly, he didn't remember it too well, nor much of anything that happened in that hour. Just an incandescent blur pulsing in his head. When he came to, he stood before a broken planet, great fragments of its crust sloughing off into space and burning into dust. He recognized this place. Cautenlla. Yes, it had been set on Cautenlla...

What had he just done.

It's Umestos again, he realized. And also, I can plead insanity for this.

Quick as he could, Vertel remotely scanned all the reputable news sources he knew of for information. Details were sparse, but rumours were already flowing of some, radical faction, guerilla movements. It really was Umestos again. Just this time, Vertel himself had been the bomb. His teeth chattered. He'd mutilate whoever did this all through the courts.

Before he could do anything, a wave of pressure washed over him. A crimson light permeated the firmament. This was Camellia – the feeling of Camellia's soul, radiating from galaxies away – far more intense than usual, and furious.

He was demanding, Enough!

It was happening. He was doing it.

In the short seconds before the end of the world, Vertel called for a bout.

Because this was going to be risky, and a little nuts.

Two pertinent facts about Camellia: one, he was a prodigy torturer. As such, his bouts ended quickly. Two, he strictly obeyed Terran hierarchies. He was normal in that respect.

Stalling Camellia with a bout, subjecting oneself to his tortures, upon tortures, upon tortures, upon tortures, was insanity. But as he swiftly assembled the legislative council and remotely called a new bill to motion, that had indeed become Vertel's lot. But he could do this. He just had to endure.

Endure. Endure. Endure. Endure. God. Endure. Please let it end. God please. Endure. Let it end. God please let it end dear god please ENDURE let it end god let it end please got let it end please god let it end god please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it endure end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god endure let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end please dear god let it end please god let it end endure please god please let it end please dear god let it end dear god let it end please dear god let it end god dear god please let it end end please let it end god please let it end

Approved, announced the minister.

I give, announced Vertel. The pain eased away in a rush of euphoria. Camellia knelt down to hold him. Exhausted, giddy, triumphant, Vertel continued: Now you stand down, my vassal.

Enter, instated by intergalactic mandate, Head Engineer of BQ-0758 Kinesis Interplanetary Energy Core, Caph Camellia. Loyal subordinate of landlord, suzerain, core-runner, Kinetic Overseer, Zubenelgenubi Verticillaster. A somewhat restless and lackadaisical employee.

Well he'd best get used to that designation. He'd be wearing it and living on this dismal rock for as long as these genocidal fantasies of his continued. And maybe choosing Kinesis as the planet to install him on had been harsh. But forgive Vertel's bitterness. He'd been in considerable pain when he decided this.

It had been a gamble on whether Camellia would condescend to this servitude or not. Far be him to defy his superior's orders, Vertel supposed, even if Camellia was technically, technically, still the superior in this situation, no, well, he was subordinate here, in this context, even if he was, yes, technically superior, but

His head hurt when he thought about it too much. Urges pounded at him to annul the stupid mandate immediately, forfeit control of Kinesis immediately, because, well, no, no no no that wasn't, wouldn't let that happen.

Once again Vertel marvelled at the perfection of his directives. How they could empower him, and keep him sane through eight billion bombs, but unravel him over just one stupid authority conflict. It was like his soul was vomiting, that kind of absolute unnaturalness.

Any second he wasn't working, his mind drifted to Camellia. Wonder what Camellia was doing. Was he obeying his orders. He should be. But what if he wasn't. He didn't HAVE to. He was superior but was he obeying his orders. He should be. But what if he wasn't what if what if Vertel just, beat that little brat. How about that. Subjugated him. How about that. Bouted him. How about that. Bouted him. Bouted him bouted him bouted him bouted him bouted him bouted him bouted him bouted him bout him bout him bout him bout him bout him bout him

One torture session later, one failed bout later, Vertel retreated to his quarters in misery. The usual endorphin rush from losing a bout wasn't coming, as the authority conflict had not been resolved. It was just straight back to irritation and unease. So the cycle repeated, again, and again, and again, and again.

If there was punishment for defying nature, this was surely it. For someone who fancied himself humble and loyal to her will, Vertel was doing a spectacular job of insulting her.

Camellia was flagging too. He was bored. He was listless. But no matter how much time passed, that STUPID STUBBORN EGO-OBSESSED FREAK LITTLE FREAK BORN WRONG PREMATURE MONSTER couldn't give up his STUPID WRONG BAD MURDER IDEAS because he was STUPID AND BAD AND WRONG. well no he loved camellia camellia was smart and good and JUST AN ABSOLUTE MENACE ON EXISTENCE WHO SHOULDN'T HAVE BEEN BORN.

Even Vertel didn't know how he was holding himself together.

He wanted to go home.

A thought occurred to him one day. At some point, though these decades of work and camellia and stress and CAMELLIA, he had gotten old.

Really old. Most all of his contemporaries and elders had passed. And what was he, 380? So he only had 20 years left, give or take. Closer to 10, accounting for dementia. If he didn't die first, someone would catch him slipping and claim his seat as High Executor.

While some part of him awaited that day, the rest of him wondered. Would that be the end then? Could anyone else bear the psychological strain of pinning Camellia for another three hundred years, if that was what it took? Would anyone else even want to? He still had no solid reasoning for why he believed this job to be so important. Just that, stupid, nonsensical feeling, on whose altar he'd been torturing himself and Camellia for some seventy, eighty years now.

Maybe he'd been the stubborn one. All this preaching about laws and natural order, maybe it had all been rationalization. Maybe it truly had been the universe's will for Camellia to be born and embark on his warpath.

But whenever his thoughts drifted in this manner, that feeling returned, and with it, conviction. Camellia was wrong. He was toying with things far beyond his station. But if he was truly doing so right by creation, Vertel quietly wished, could she please, please, just aid or affirm him?

A visitor came to his office. It was Godsworn.

Or as she'd more crudely come to be known, Lisbet. She had been one of Vertel's stranger rescues, a human manufactured specifically as a host for a Thrax, though he'd intervened before the soul merge could consume her. Some years had passed since then, but from what Vertel had heard, she'd recovered fine and was more or less normal.

Since then, she'd embarked on a pilgrimage. Like Vertel, the brutality she'd seen across the galaxies had touched her. Unlike Vertel, it hadn't jaded her. She brimmed with purpose, and believed he could help her.

What she wanted was the end of suffering. All suffering.

With his heart pulsing hot and tongue quick on his teeth, he told her: Camellia could.

He'd like to think it wasn't manipulation.

He explained everything he could to her, every scrap of information he could to bolster an informed decision. Camellia would undoubtedly give her anything she asked. The second she landed on Kinesis, her will would overpower his completely. Lisbet saw no problem with this. If she could make him stop wanting to hurt, and start wanting to help, that was a good thing. She wouldn't force him if he didn't want to. But if her talking to him made him want to, well, that was the same as convincing anyone of anything. Put in those simple terms, Vertel found he agreed.

This was the kind of purpose Camellia's talents always should've been put towards. With an easy conscience, he arranged Lisbet's visit to Kinesis.

Flipping through the pages of a freshly-drafted proposal, Vertel contemplated. Repealing the Camellia mandate would be a harder sell than establishing it had been, but he could manage it. Worst case, he could forfeit Kinesis. It wouldn't matter who owned it soon, anyway.

Strange to think this ordeal would be over. For everyone.

What scheme would Camellia come up with, he wondered. Excited. And goodness, when had he last felt that? But Camellia excelled in all his works. With just enough feedback to rein in his crazier ideas, Vertel was sure that, be he alive to see it or not, whatever Camellia would create in his remaining three hundred years would be beautiful. At least Vertel still had a decade to slip in his two cents.

A decade.

Through the glass roof of his quarters, the constellations shone. Aries, Perseus, Auriga, Orion. In them pooled the light of the One. Vertel folded his hands behind him and craned his head back, as he often did.

Vertel had failed. Camellia would succeed. If that was Terran pushiness, self-righteousness, naivety, condescension, he found, he didn't mind. If everyone else rejected this, he found he didn't mind. Even if no one else wanted it – he found, he didn't mind. Law, life, nature, will, difference, and peace. Maybe there was still that sliver, in defiance of all Vertel knew, that could prove all these treasures were not incompatible, and the world was not a cruel place.

Starlight glowed on his face. Vertel closed his eyes. I'm sorry. I hope I've done right by you.

That was Vertel's last thought, as a well of warm light crashed around him – and stopped.