Fever took her, as she lay in her cabin. Her mind roiled; thoughts fragmented, dispersed…

*

Looking out across the plain, vast distances defeating the senses.

“Ocean of Surrender,” she says.

Ikal is surprised. “You know our history well.”

She smiles. “I was born here.”

*

Drifting high above the surface, tiny figures labouring below. Her father’s voice:

“You are crying, child.”

“I am sorry for them.”

“They cannot use your pity. They neither think, nor feel.”

“And yet they live?”

“As they are of use to us. Yes.”

*

Cera, face hot with anger. “Go then. Tell them what we think of their ‘concessions’.”

“The Synod will not tolerate this. Worlds have been razed for less. Only your founder status has kept you safe so far; it will not do so forever.”

“They cannot destroy us.”

“They will find a way.”

*

In the chamber, anxious faces. Anger and resentment crackle; fear pervades.

She rises to speak, falters. Blackness descending, faces crowding.

“Nuncio, what is the matter? Are you ill? Nuncio…”