[short story] The End

[Publius]

The God-King of All Furanas sits erect atop his white khayl-charger, the elaborate layers of his Summer Dress vestments carefully draped over his slight frame like so many layers of colorful tissue; each fold, each layer has a precisely defined meaning, governed by the Book of the Twelve Arts. No less than is fitting for the living god and absolute ruler of the Potency of the Furanas, the largest and greatest power in the Region.

Beneath the finery, he trembles. It is well that his outer glories should be so arranged; it is unthinkable that he should be seen to tremble in public. All the commoners see is the slight tightening of the gilt liturgical gloves on the reins of his charger. They do not see the trembling, frail little man inside. They do not see the shame gnawing at his guts.

But there is no choice, he knows. The terms of surrender were generous, far more generous than the Potency had any right to expect, given the disastrous turn the war had taken since the rout at Isk Triani. Honor had demanded that Old Panirawi resign in disgrace, but there had been no one to take his place at the head of the Low Table. Say rather, there had been no one able to take his place. The terms were good for Furana. That was his duty, to see to the welfare of his people. He was, after all, their god.

It was in his name that they'd marched, in his name that they'd sacrificed, in his name that they'd died. It's only right that he should bear this burden, he tells himself. It does nothing to assuage the deep mortification he feels. In twenty thousand years, nothing of the kind has even been contemplated....

But in twenty thousand years, the Sacred Chrysanthemum has never faced such appalling losses. In twenty thousand years, his forebears have never faced the prospect of the total annihilation of the Potency itself. It is his first and most precious duty to pass the continuity of his line, that his benevolence may continue to shine upon his people. And so it is that he broke all precedent and spoke to the Low Table in his own voice, declaring that the Potency of the Furanas would accept the terms of surrender, disgraceful as they were.

He sits now, atop his mighty charger, staring down the long line of soldiers on either side of the causeway. They are his Life Guards, dressed in the splendid colors of the Summer Court. A dazzling array of the proudest army in the whole Region; the Life Guards of the Sacred Chrysanthemum are the envy of all who behold them, both elite soldiers and living works of art. A pity, the God-King reflects bitterly, that all the pretty toy soldiers availed the Potency nothing in the late war.

The day is overcast, baleful. Fitting, in the God-King's opinion. Still, the Book of the Twelve Arts must be respected, and the canopy is held above his head, shading him from the invisible suns. It is just as well that his ancestors should not see what he must do.

"May the Holy One favor his servant by acknowledging that it is the time so appointed," said his attendant quietly. It is forbidden for one so low-born to address the God-King directly.

"The Holy One so favors his servant," says his Interlocutor and Head of the Low Table, the Djinry of the First Grade i Furimasuru; the Imperials, in their mindless fetish for dull conformity, kept calling him the God-King's 'Prime Minister.'

At that, they begin their long advance down the causeway, the senior among his servants mounted on smaller, black khayl-steeds, each dressed in the full finery of the Summer Dress, bedecked in all the regalia of their courtly ranks and state offices. i Furimasuru leads; the Princes of the Hosts follow, and then the magistrates of the Low Table. Lastly, alone -- as always -- comes the God-King himself.

They proceed at a delicate pace, so as not to disturb their vestments. The protocol officer has assured his court master of the ceremonies that this is acceptable to the Imperials. They have no desire to inconvenience the God-King and his Cabinet -- again, with their thoughtless use of secular terminology, as though the Low Table were really comparable to something so profane -- , the man had explained with surprising candor; the Empire wants only to humiliate them.

The God-King's thoughts turn to the manual the protocol officer had thoughtfully provided, covering the ceremony in detail. He thinks particularly of the passages helpfully highlighted, regarding the baton. "Symbol of the most excellent majesty of The Throne, the baton represents the direct and personal authority of His Imperial Majesty The Galactic Emperor," it had explained. "The baton stands in loco cathedrae, and is vested with the full powers of a personal emissary of The Throne; he who bears the baton serves only as the vehicle by which its authority is asserted within the lawful scope of his responsibility."

It is a concept he finds easy to accept. It is not the man who presides at the surrender; rather, it is his brother in order and puissance, this Galactic Emperor, who is present in this baton. It is the totality of the power and glory of all humanity, inherent in the sovereign master of countless billions of stars and worlds. In a way, it is the universe itself. Yes. In this way he can stomach what is to come.

The party has reached the end of the Life Guards, but not yet reached the end of the causeway. Instead, the positions on either side are now filled by the ugly white plasteel of the Empire's unsightly Marines. Though they stand with admirable military smartness, they look pathetically plain standing next to his Life Guards, soulless, lifeless white-and-black automata, their nouveau-brutalisme a stark contrast to the majesty of his finest soldiers. But then, it is not the Life Guards who are accepting the Imperials' surrender -- but vice versa. The triumph of mass-production conformity over glorious art and artifice. The first great casualty of the war was culture.

The party at last reaches the end of the causeway, to the stage erected by the Imperials for the purpose. The Interlocutor and the other magistrates dismount, and proceed forward. A few short speeches are read. The official flimsis are presented and signed with the appropriate ceremonial. The God-King remains in his saddle, erect and uninterested.

His eyes wander to the bemedalled Imperial presiding over the whole ceremony, who stands similarly removed from the quotidian details of the surrender, hands clasped behind him. The man is dressed in the Imperials' dazzling Full Dress Whites, his chest covered in an impressive swathe of decorations, a sword dangling at his side. Rather than the cloth caps favored by his men, he wears the combination cap with its gilt chinstrap and gold frotting on the visor. He cuts an impressive figure, one suitable for the occasion. Everything about him smacks of the Old Money of the Core Worlds.

The time is come. The God-King dismounts, and slowly ascends the stage. To his credit, he sees the Imperial look away, refusing to look down on the God-King as he climbs the stairs.

The man approaches, and brings his heels together with a sharp snap, then offers a short bow. "Your Divine and Royal Majesty," he says to the God-King directly, ignoring the Interlocutor, "I am High Admiral Josef Powellyne, Commander-in-Chief Ninth Imperial Starfleet."

"I am the Alina and Tirana, God-King of All Furanas, Who Sits Amidst The Sacred Chrysanthemum," says the God-King in his high-pitched voice. The Imperial is the first man not born of the Inner First Caste to have ever been addressed by him directly, and the first Outsider to have ever heard his voice.

He nods, and without prompting one of his men appears by his side, holding a gleaming black box. His flag lieutenant opens the box without flourish, and there, resting inside the box on a bed of dark red ghali-velvet, is the baton.

It is inscribed in beautiful High Galactic lettering, "The symbol of peace, the terror of war." The God-King knows from the manual that the baton does not normally receive this kind of formal treatment. Those entitled to carry it almost invariably do, with no ceremony at all; there is even a more casual variant, the interim-baton, for use with less formal uniforms. But for the purposes of this ceremony, it is treated as befits its rank, the personal emissary of The Throne.

The Imperial reaches out and takes hold of the baton, gripping it tightly in his white leather glove and holding it out before him, almost as if he is offering it to the God-King.

The God-King can feel his stomach turn and can hear his ancestors groan as he leans forward and kisses the end of the baton. And he feels the full weight of twenty thousand years as he bends his knee and -- blasphemy of blasphemies! -- he kneels.

The Imperial waits until he is sure the God-King's knee has touched the ground. He waits until everyone sees that the God-King kneels before the rod. He waits until the horror of the moment is forever etched into the souls of all who see it. And then he raises the baton into the air, and he shouts, "Above your head and mine!"

It is over.

The Potency of the Furanas has surrendered. The God-King has knelt before his new master.

The Empire is victorious on all fronts.

[The Grim Squeaker]

Nice. . Very, very nice story, loved it.
Minor nitpick, there should be a capital I, like so in:

the Djinry of the First Grade i Furimasuru

Unless it's intentional

[Publius]

Nice. . Very, very nice story, loved it.
Minor nitpick, there should be a capital I, like so in:

the Djinry of the First Grade i Furimasuru

Unless it's intentional

i Furimasuru is the man's name. It is not capitalized, even when beginning a sentence.

[Chris OFarrell]

I have no idea who this race is, if its a culture you just made up on the spur of the moment. But this was an awesome fic.

All nice and dignified...then you can almost hear Palpitine cackle at the end

[phongn]

i Furimasuru is the man's name. It is not capitalized, even when beginning a sentence.

As annoying as it is, doesn't the capitalized first-letter of a sentence override the specific capitalization of proper nouns? Though I suppose that might be another minor humiliation the Empire imposes on the Sacred Chrysanthemum.

I have no idea who this race is, if its a culture you just made up on the spur of the moment. But this was an awesome fic.

I'm pretty sure it's original, though the inspiration is obvious.