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  “Interesting,” Professor Hilton said. He adjusted his glasses. “Would anyone like to comment?”

  “I would.” Bobby Clark, a student directly across from Ryan, raised his hand. Ryan knew Bobby Clark all too well. They had butted heads all semester over every subject imaginable. Ryan had heard from another classmate that Bobby was the son of Robert Clark III, a prominent banking executive down in the financial district. Ryan despised the certainty and lack of reservations with which Bobby Clark imbued his arguments.

  “How can you possibly support that stance?” Bobby stared at Ryan contemptuously, allowing the silence in the room to humiliate him. “Let’s say oil is found underneath some random village in an impoverished South American country. The government that owns the land over the oil has the right to ask the people living on the land to move out. Is that not true?”

  “At this point of time in history, yes, that is true in most countries.” Ryan said.

  “Please. At any time in history a controlling power would displace a group of people for the greater good of the nation as a whole.”

  “The greater good is an opinion, and a dangerous one if it’s used to force a group to act against its will,” Ryan said cautiously. “It’s even more dangerous if that group doesn’t have a voice in the government.”

  Bobby rolled his eyes. “Either way, you’re arguing that a specific group of people should be given more rights than another group. If we were given enough notice, no one would get in an uproar if, say, the federal government forced my family in Connecticut to relocate against our will to build a highway. Yet if an indigenous family in South America or Africa or Eastern Russia is forced to move, it suddenly becomes an international human rights issue. That is inequality.”

  “Bobby,” Ryan said. “Your entire world view doesn’t revolve around your local surrounds. Your fundamental metaphysical beliefs—everything you hold true about existence itself—doesn’t depend upon your neighborhood in New Canaan. Many groups’ entire realities revolve around the localities in which they live. To take away their land, which in some cases has belonged to them for thousands of years, would be to execute their very way of life. You in turn murder more than the people themselves, you murder the perspective they brought to the world.”

  “Come on,” Bobby stared at Ryan with condescension. “Like Jennifer said, it’s a simple inevitability that indigenous groups will have to join the global world eventually. There’s no such thing as geographical barriers anymore. The world can only push on their boundaries for so long before the bubble bursts and the industrialized world crashes through. It might be unfortunate, and sad in a romantic sense, but that’s how it is. Why not take the time to foster a viable infrastructure first?”

  The words simple inevitability rang through Ryan’s ears like a hissing gunshot. He opened his mouth in disbelief, staring at his essay on the polished table with anger. “Indigenous groups don’t have to do anything. They are being forced into the global world. And they are being forced by the exact perspective that you are espousing as common sense.”

  Bobby Clark gave a mocking and sardonic chuckle. “My perspective is based in reality, man.”

  “And what, amid your pampered upbringing,” Ryan said, his tone dropping and his gaze turning on Bobby Clark, “would you know of reality?”

  Chapter Five

  The Imperial Council of the Epsilon

  The sharp knife of apocalypse struck without warning, burying itself into the unsuspecting skies of a sun-swept afternoon.

  In the northernmost continent of Anthem, the remote city of Municera abruptly reported massive and inexplicable reports of rioting and hysteria. The limited transmissions that came out of the city were fragmented and unclear. Imperial Army regiments were at once dispatched to restore order to the city of Municera, yet all troops lost radio contact within minutes of their arrival. Powerful reverberations shook through the surrounding lands, reaching miles in every direction. It felt as though the gods themselves were hammering the very world with furious impacts. From a distance, billowing black pillars of smoke could be seen reaching high into the sky above the smoldering city. When the smoke and cloud of ash dispersed in the northern winds, the glimmering skyscrapers that had long been an icon of the elegant Municera had vanished from the skyline. Their steel and glass splendor was replaced with a blanket of alarming ruin. By midafternoon, the once prominent city was nothing more than wreckage against the horizon.

  Most disturbing were the spreading rumors that a number of Imperial First Class soldiers had flown into the chaos of Municera and had yet to return.

  The migration out of the region—an anticipated exodus for which the Imperial Council had quickly prepared—never arrived, and as a disquieting sun set on the remaining cities of the Epsilon empire, the truth became increasingly clear. There were no survivors.

  Municera had been home to seven million Primus.

  As the long shadows of dusk took hold of the devastation in Municera, countless households listened intently to the Imperial media reports. A primal dread filled their thoughts and plunged them into a global panic. Then similar reports began to rise out of the great Twin Cities to the south of Municera. Whatever caused the annihilation was spreading across the world of Anthem.

  Even in that early hour, it was clear the Epsilon empire—and thus the entire Primus race—was under a global attack. From the throne in the capital city of Sejeroreich, Emperor Faris Epsilon summoned a full attendance of the War Council in the early hours of the morning. Every soldier of the Imperial First Class was marshaled to the Sejeroreich barracks. They were ordered to suit up in their armor and prepare for immediate mobilization.

  Most of the battle-hardened and ornately decorated councillors and generals of the High War Council had been awaiting the summons. Others made haste to the palace from far-off lands, rubbing bleary eyes as they soared through the inky star-swept skies of Anthem. Once in Sejeroreich, the great leaders and officials apprehensively made their way into the War Hall, each aware that the forthcoming proceedings would be grim.

  The strength of the Epsilon empire had long been forged by solitary physical prowess—the power of the individual. Most clashes of wills or issues of contention were reconciled by the strength of the fist. Court through combat. It was commonplace for physical altercations to break out in the midst of a Council session. Sometimes the combatants would have the decency to take their struggle out of the palace, sometimes not. It was said that more people were killed in the War Hall than had constructed feasible battle strategies. Inevitably the final decision agreed upon by the High War Council was to throw tactics aside and meet any challenge head on with the might of Sejero blood. Throughout the history of the Epsilon empire, it had never proven to be a failing resolution. Sejero strength ruled over all, for nothing else could hope to match such infinite power.

  Yet everyone entering the hall knew the War Council meeting that predawn would be different. The danger remained a mystery, their aggressors unknown. The Epsilon had faced an attack on their own planet of Anthem. Imperial First Class soldiers—the gods of the Primus race—had flown into the inexplicable madness of Municera and never returned.

  The justification for the High War Council’s fears was great. Armageddon was a constant truth that weighed heavily upon Primus history. They had faced it before, the near destruction of Anthem and the obliteration of their existence. It had been two thousand years ago, the day the skies turned black and Anthem was nearly lost to the unthinkable technologies of the Zergos. Already it felt eerily similar to the beginnings of the Zergos invasion of old. The mystery, the totality, the abruptness—it rang all too similar to the first days of their race’s near extinction so long ago.

  But no one was bold enough to turn that apprehension into words just yet.

  The Imperial War Hall was a lavishly decorated and expansive pantheon in the center of the great palace of Sejeroreich, the home to the seat of the Epsilon. Vast marble pillars stret
ched high over the cold stone floor, with ornate paintings barely visible on the cathedral ceiling in the lofty distance. Enormous works of art were carved deep into the walls. Each individual scene portrayed a particular victory in the Epsilon empire’s early history. Celebrated legends of courage and glory came to life on the hard stone. Magnificent renditions of ancient men and women, the first Sejero warriors, cast their eternal gaze on the War Council. The stone faces were the visages of ancestors in whose mighty strength waylaid their people’s annihilation and reforged Anthem from the ashes. They were the faces of the first Sejero sons and daughters, the gods of their race, who rose amid the fires of extinction and cast off the cold and brutal Zergos with nothing but their fists.

  A circle of chairs was assembled in the center of the palatial hall, each seat adorned with intricate carvings on the legs and armrests. Inlaid into the backrests of each chair were the various sigils of the Royal families. The throne of the emperor was twice the size of the other chairs, and inlaid with the sigil of the empire itself, that of house Epsilon.

  As the generals and councillors made their way into the hall, their conversation was quiet and troubled. What did they know? Which Imperial First Class warriors had departed to defend Municera and not returned? But most importantly, who or what was the enemy?

  A number of rumors had begun to circulate, each as unlikely as the next. Many spoke of a biological attack. One described a virus that turned Primus berserk, causing them to kill one another with rabid insanity. Another told of a foreign power that had descended from a distant and unknown planet to destroy them. The only certainty about their enemy was there was no certainty at all.

  Once the entire War Council was assembled, Emperor Faris Epsilon entered the hall accompanied by the enormous heights and broad shoulders of his Royal Guard. A son of the purest Sejero family lineage, Emperor Faris was shorter than many of the unnaturally gargantuan generals and soldiers that made up the War Council’s ranks. Nevertheless, he commanded their respect. Though lacking in size, the Sejero blood of the few remaining Royal families ran pure—and potent. Such uncouth qualities as height and bulky muscle were no match for the inherent Sejero virility of a Royal child, whose lineage could be traced to the first Sejero warriors.

  Emperor Faris had a muscular frame and a thick graying beard hanging from his aging features. Small scars were visible on his face and arms, old wounds from his prime years long healed over. A giant ring gleamed on his left hand. The Blood Ring of the Epsilon. Through generations, the illustrious Blood Ring had been bequeathed from father to son since the very beginning of the Epsilon line, an heirloom from the first Sejero titan that had started the Epsilon lineage. The Blood Ring was worn as a signifying adornment like a crown. It boasted an enormous and exquisitely cut deep-red diamond. The intense red hue of the Blood Ring symbolized the purity of the Epsilon family’s Sejero bloodline. Precious few families in modern times could claim such pure heritage, dating back to the same faces staring eternally down at them from the stone walls.

  The councillors and generals stood and saluted Emperor Faris with a thundering hail. He returned their salute and proceeded to his throne, making his way across the circle in wide strides. An aura of anxiety exuded from him, and the sound of his boots on the floor echoed in the tense silence that descended upon the hall.

  All eyes shifted uneasily to the vacant seat beside Emperor Faris as their leader sat on his throne. To his right, the opulent seat of Emperor Faris’s only son was empty. Subtle concerned glances were exchanged between the highest-ranking generals. The absence of the powerful Prince Vengelis Epsilon was worrying. They would need his strength in this hour.

  Emperor Faris took a long breath, resting his arms on his throne and regarding the many trusted faces of his councillors and generals.

  “This is what we know.” The Emperor’s voice was deep, and carried easily across the hall. “Municera has fallen. There seem to be no survivors. Whatever happened, it was efficient and deadly. The latest intelligence out of the Twin Cities leads us to believe that the citizens and local Imperial soldiers have all fallen there as well. We have reason to believe the attack did not originate from any nonnative force.”

  A wave of relief passed across the faces of the hall. Behind their stalwart facades there had been an unmistakable fear of the worst—the unknown. Emperor Faris allowed that heartening knowledge to sink in before continuing. Anything that originated within their world could be stopped by a power from their world.

  “None of our satellites or radar systems have detected any recent inorganic or organic entity entering into Anthem’s atmosphere.” Emperor Faris looked to each intent gaze in turn. “Meaning whatever this attack is, it originated here on Anthem.”

  “My lord,” General Barlow, one of the most decorated generals around the circle interrupted Emperor Faris. The decorum of the moment was evidently lost on him. “Only we have the power to destroy cities in the manner we have witnessed today. The kind of power we have seen only resides in Sejero blood. I have heard talk of some sort of sickness, an insanity of sorts that is turning our people mad. Is there truth to this?”

  “Unlikely,” said Councillor Harken without looking up, his chin resting on his outstretched fingers and his eyes lost in concentration. Councillor Harken was the head of scientific research, and the intelligence in his voice resonated in stark contrast to the misinformed conjectures of General Barlow. “The speed at which the attacks spread, and the degree of total devastation caused, each rule out biological possibilities. All civilians living in the lands between Municera and the Twin Cities remain unharmed. This means the attack is moving directly from city to city, intentionally bypassing sparsely populated areas. It’s impossible for a microorganism to jump locations in this fashion. No. The attacks are directed and intelligent.”

  “The pattern of the attack leads us to believe the assault we are seeing is consciously controlled. We are being attacked by someone, not something,” Emperor Faris said.

  General Barlow shook his gigantic head and sighed with aggravation. “Doesn’t anyone recognize this strategy? The attack resembles the procedure we use when invading new systems. To me the pattern of attack is indicative of a powerful group of soldiers that are limited in numbers.”

  “I agree with Barlow,” said Councillor Maudlan. “Hit a city. Hit it hard and fast. Fly straight to the next city and repeat. It is directly following our invasion protocols. The main goal of our first attack on new systems is always to cause confusion so the enemy doesn’t know what is attacking them. If you ask me, that is exactly what’s happening here. We have to act immediately and reinforce the Twin Cities with everything we have before this attack is allowed to spread further.”

  Grunts of agreement filled the hall.

  “I’ll tell you what I think.” General Portid, the largest and most decorated general of the circle stood to his full eight feet. A large scar ran across his face and a scruffy brown moustache hung below his bulbous nose. Being the most powerful man in the room, save for the emperor, the War Council grew quiet out of respect. “There is only one logical source behind this assault or invasion or whatever the hell we want to call it. Emperor Faris said just now that nothing has recently entered Anthem atmosphere. Is that correct?”

  Emperor Faris nodded.

  “Then to me it is clear,” General Portid said. “The attackers are Primus. We have all agreed that only beings with the power of the Sejero could inflict this kind of carnage. The attack must be some unusually powerful group of separatists that have slipped under Imperial radar until now. Separatists aiming to rouse panic in the heart of the empire’s populace. That is the only possible explanation. Only Primus can cause this kind of destruction!” His expression hardened as he looked to the other councillors, the passion rising in his voice. “And there is no reason to sit idly and talk as these terrorists continue this rampage. I say we mobilize the Imperial First Class and end this today!”

  His fervor was met
with resounding encouragement from other military personnel around the circle.

  Councillor Harken lifted his chin from his hands and stood. “I do believe you are right General Portid. The Imperial First Class should be sent to action. However, we may know more about the nature of this attack than you all are currently aware of. I think it’s time to play the recording, my lord.”

  Everyone straightened and looked to Emperor Faris, their faces incredulous.

  “What recording?” General Portid angrily vocalized the consensus of the room.

  Beyond the tall, slender windows of the hall, a foreboding violet daybreak ascended silently into the black skies over the rooftops and skyscrapers of Sejeroreich. The low sun, a shadowy and alien effigy of its noon form, lingered behind a veil of motionless dark clouds on the horizon. Emperor Faris’s face was grave. “Yes, I believe it is time you are all made aware of what we know. There is something that must be seen. We believe it is directly related to the attacks. A private feed was connected to our network from a research and development facility in Municera. We had been following the progress of scientists working on a long-term multifield project. Much of their work is too complex to delve into, but Pral Nerol was exploring a new technology.”

  Everyone in the ring of seats shifted anxiously. Pral Nerol was a name known by all. He was a brilliant scientist and inventor. A year never passed without Pral Nerol releasing a breakthrough technology of some kind. What had Pral Nerol created this time?

  “From what I understand,” Emperor Faris continued. “The research and development has been ongoing for a number of years now. Councillor Harken, perhaps you could enlighten us?”