I feel as though I have rendered a myopic account of the galaxy thus far. And if I continue as I have, further events will lack their proper context. What follows is what I have pieced together from the historical record, of that most memorable of Pa’Zac tournaments held nearly a thousand years ago.

  I shall start with the initial purchase. Less than two months into the Aphelion’s transit from Ghiza VI, the Crustakons sold the breeding arrays to the Rhodeshi. The machines were promptly taken to Rhodon where they were sold again to the Game Wardens, and the Pa’Zac tournament was planned. The next two years were spent preparing the arenas and infrastructure as well as allowing time for the announcement broadcast to travel, hopping along the Relay network. By the time Laerad made his offer, three quarters of the spiral arm had heard of the tournament and had the time to make travel arrangements. I believe the broadcast still carried for up to fifty years more, filtering into the outer edges of space, long after the event’s conclusion.

  By all rights, if any other species was organizing this tournament, the logistical hurdles would have taken a century. But the Rhodeshi do not live for centuries. Their lifespan is limited for a mere hundred and twenty five years. And so, pressed on very short time, they had structured most of their economy around the rapidity of these games.

  Nearly all of it was already there, the ten thousand orbital coliseums, all equipped with expensive 3-D mega-printers, each able to create and deconstruct any battlefield environment the games required. The stands themselves were spaceports, with hundreds of thousands of pleasure cruises booked for viewing. Closer were the palaces, edifices made of gold and the size of arcologies which ringed the arena. They housed the actual game rooms, which in total, entertained about a million players. All of whom would be competing on the same galactic map.

  It is not an easy thing to express the sheer scale of these games. In all, I believe five hundred and ninety-two billion were in personal attendance and another twenty-three trillion watched remotely at various time delays. The means to feed the arriving crowds was itself an interstellar industry, requiring dozens of dedicated agri-worlds.

  Any aspect of these games would require volumes to fully elaborate on. From the permanent cloud of broadcasting satellites, to the continent sized server infrastructure, to the monumental achievement that was Rhodon’s absurdly expansive orbital highways, this was the collective effort of a species who knew no other pastime. And no other species treasured their leisure quite like the Rhodeshi.

  But perhaps the best example, a true wonder of the galaxy, is the massive super-fleet—if something so small as a super-fleet—could be compared to the network of Relays around Rhodon’s star. And even this was not enough to handle the sheer traffic. Rhodon was one of the few worlds that had to maintain permanent fleets repairing the space-time damage from the overuse of Ibis Drives.

  As for our personal involvement, Laerad had been looking for candidates to wear the Carapace Armor for quite some time. It was only by accident, and in those final few months, that he discovered a living, breathing hero of the Fifth Aberrant War. The rest is, as I have laid out from my perspective.

  And finally, for those of you who have studied this era in history, you can find my full research in the appendices of this account. However, I regret to inform you that I may not be able to answer your most pressing question regarding the tournament. I cannot say for certain when the Xurak decided to involve themselves, nor precisely how far they had infiltrated into the Rhodeshi high castes.

  …

  Oberyn had extended many invitations to Amon to attend the banquets taking place before the Pa’Zac tournament. It was only after a generous bribe that Amon acquiesced to one—and only one. Later, I’m surprised Amon accepted at all. I can only surmise that resources on the Aphelion had been so desperate that Amon’s hands were all but tied in the matter. But then again, it might’ve been the singular individual who also happened to be in attendance at that party.

  As for myself, I was brought along as well. And Ingrish, who could not bear to see me alone, reluctantly put on the Phonic-Collar. It limited her abilities by constantly emitting a static noise on her thoughts, preventing her from any telepathy except through touch. She pulled me aside during the party, and we waited in a tall balcony overlooking the hall as Amon was paraded around by one of Oberyn’s attendants. The Game Master himself was strangely nowhere to be found.

  The Looking-Glass Palace itself sat in low orbit around Rhodon. I believe it was originally an observation platform—built by humans no less—as they supervised the development of the Rhodeshi people in the early days of the galaxy. As such, it was one of the very few structures in the Rhodon system not pointed towards the coliseums. Instead, The Palace observed downward, towards the dark grey expanse that was the Rhodon homeworld. I noticed the planet was not dissimilar to the appearance of Ghiza VI, those parts of the Mantza world that was not covered in smog at least. Its twinkling artificial lights reminded me of the depths of Naiad. But there was no such hidden pulse of life on Rhodon.

  Most of their species do not live on the planet. Instead, they prefer the Relays around Rhodon’s star. If you asked a Rhodeshi where they consider home, they would answer in orbital altitudes and station names rather than the planet below. For better and worse, they are of a kind that only look upward.

  Returning back to the party, we sat in the central hub of The Looking-Glass Palace, which was once a gigantic control bridge. On the central platform was a circular dais ringed with computers and a holographic table displaying a 3-D map of the planet. This had been converted into the main floor of the banquet with tables and buffets. In concentric trenches around the dais were the command centers of the station. Once filled with tech equipment and administrative staff, these were similarly converted into private booths for conversation and the enjoyment of various substances. And finally, where we sat, were the viewing balconies up above. Once reserved for regular station personnel, they were now a scattered collection of seats for party guests, who for whatever reason, excluded themselves from the main amusements below.

  Ingrish glowered at the Rhodeshi banquet, running her nails along her black gown and looking as though she might murder the aliens down there. For myself, I sat numbly. Ingrish had given me a spiky piece of fruit to eat, but I had set it aside, the taste being too nauseatingly rich. I rested my elbows on the railing, looking out over all the aliens—most of whom were the Rhodeshi elite. But I did see a smattering of colors and shapes from the ultra-wealthy castes of other species.

  “They’re all asking Amon about you,” Ingrish told me. “He’s receiving buy offers.”

  “How?” I asked, wondering how she knew without her abilities.

  “Earpiece,” Ingrish explained. “But I can tell anyway. They’re too polite to stare, but they are all glancing our way.”

  Ingrish raised her arm and made an incredibly rude gesture with her hand. I heard a murmur of distant chuckles and conversation, much too indistinct to make out—even if I could understand the language.

  Ingrish sank back into a chair, crossing her arms. I glanced at her, wishing that I had the same ability she did, that there was somehow someway I could comfort her with the same emotion she often comforted me. She turned my way suddenly, and smiled, lowering her head.

  “We still have a few hours to go before it’s over.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. I am told, unlike most other humans, that I am among the rare few individuals content with nothingness. Or rather, I am one of the few who is content with himself. Whereas most humans need something to engage their attention, I am able to sit for many hours with no such distraction. And I do not believe this trait is due to the insects—at least not directly. The Mantza made no attempt to control how I thought or felt. But to live among the Mantza, to survive among the Mantza, one must be able to divorce yourself from distraction, to strangle those instincts with which thinking beings use to avoid the torture of thought. And I do believe that is why most slaves went mad and committed suicide in their first year.

  But this time, I could not sink into the recesses of my own mind. I noticed movement near the back, and Ingrish yelped as Oberyn suddenly appeared and took a seat next to us.

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  “What are you doing here?” Ingrish asked, gripping my hand.

  “Where else would I be? These are the seats of honor, of course.” Oberyn flashed a smile. “The game has been in play for a while now. You’re about to see the opening gambits.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean,” Ingrish said, uncomfortable.

  Oberyn chuckled. “You’ll see soon enough—I promise. But while we wait, here before you is what separates true talent from the rest. Second-rate players, the kind who would wholly unappreciate a piece such as Amon, they can see only the mechanics. But that’s what makes Rhodeshi games unique. We play the only games in the galaxy where what happens to pieces off the board is just as important as on.”

  Ingrish sneered at the Rhodeshi causing Oberyn to grin wider. “You take offense at my species’ religion?” He looked at her as if she was something of new interest.

  “I think murdering people for entertainment is wrong.” Ingrish crossed her arms.

  “I do not deny that most of the galaxy come to spectate our games for the blood, for the minced flesh and crushed bone. Certainly they come to us to satisfy their most debased appetites, but they are not the reason for our sport. And I think if you set your prejudices aside, you can find what we do here entirely reasonable.”

  Ingrish snorted in disbelief.

  Oberyn leaned over, looking down upon the comparatively short Ingrish. “Tell me, don’t Bakke have games as well? Doesn’t your species engage in drama? Don’t you pretend to make war? Don’t you have martial tournaments?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “And more than that, shall we discuss your literature? I am certain if I peek into your culture, I shall find every depiction of every brutality imaginable. So it is with most of the galaxy. In fact, I would say your kind are far more creative. We have Pa’Zac, while you have invented songs, dances, poetry, illustrations, every form of art depicting the exact same thing we do here. And your people consume it no less voraciously than we do. So why is it that you judge us for merely being honest about this instinct, for which you do everything to excuse yourselves of?”

  “That’s different.” Ingrish looked out over the crowd, trying not to pay attention to Oberyn who was staring at her, unblinking.

  “Yes, as long as it’s not someone real getting hurt, correct? To which point, you’ll invent artifical biotics and holo-generated scenes to simulate the real thing as much as possible. You’ll enact these fantasies with every texture, every scent, every small detail. But so as long as it’s not real, right?”

  “What’s your point?” Ingrish asked.

  Oberyn innocently held up his hands. “In you, in every species in the galaxy, is an instinct for meaning. This you call entertainment, but it is no different. You want meaning in everything. You crave it so much that you invent fictional wars, fictional people, to die in the most horrible ways imaginable just to satisfy you—so you can inhabit that meaning. That is the ultimate purpose of our lives, to create meaning from randomness. But your morality forces you to restrain yourself, instead indulging by proxy. And all the while, you crave the meaning that your characters take for granted. You see, that is the purpose of our games. While the rest of the galaxy invents fake people and fake meaning, we do so for real. We take real people and fashion their dull lives into something more. I’m told the translation of my title is Game Master in galactic basic. But that is not accurate. A more proper translation would be Honored Storyteller.”

  I could not help but notice the mania of the Rhodeshi’s explanation. He barely paused for breath. It wasn’t simply that Oberyn was explaining to Ingrish his viewpoint—he was proud of it. And he wanted Ingrish to argue back so that he could talk circles around her further. Or at least, that was the color with which Ingrish translated his words.

  This entire time, she had been so caught up with Oberyn’s rambling that Ingrish didn’t notice she had been translating for me as she held my hand. It had become something of an automatic habit for her, and I am certain, if I had allowed a single thought to cross my mind, she would’ve realized and pulled away.

  Oberyn noticed a change in the crowd, and he pointed his finger. “Knowing this, can you spot the strategy?”

  I silently followed Oberyn’s pointed finger to a newcomer that had just entered the banquet. I do not know what I expected. I had hoped for a moment that this might’ve been the human I saw on Oberyn’s yacht, but I quickly saw it wasn’t. Instead, there was some alien flanked by two guards wearing armor made of shaped bone.

  The alien between the guards wore a thick, leather cloak over a hunched back. Even so, it rivaled the impressive height of the Rhodeshi. I saw gleams of dark metal under the fabric. I strained to see further, but I only caught glimpses of a skeletal frame. And it was only when the newcomer looked up, directly at us, that I saw the hideous metal mask, shaped like an alien skull. The thing had orange eyes. It stared at us for a long second before looking away.

  Oberyn reclined in his chair. “That is General Kairon, a surviving veteran of the Fifth Aberrant War. And a Scythan too. One of the few species that took up arms with humanity.”

  Ingrish sighed bitterly. “I know who he is.”

  “Then do you see it? Our competitors know they cannot kill Amon conventionally. So the game has become a test of will. The Dalfaen have spent considerable expenses buying out the humans from the tournament—they know Amon would break if he was forced to kill his own kind. But can the Hero of Perses bring himself to kill former comrades in arms? To kill one of the few beings in the galaxy who sacrificed everything for humanity? Or will Amon give in, and will he let himself be killed instead? That is the game. That is the story unfolding down there. That is our opponents’ first move.”

  “Then why did you bring Amon here!?” Ingrish snapped at Oberyn, and I saw a dampness on her blindfold, streaming down her cheeks.

  “Because I need to know what he’ll do. Whether he has the stomach for it. But enough talk! Quiet now. I need to concentrate.” Oberyn raised a pair of spectacles and looked on as Admiral Kairon focused on Amon Russ, and the two saw each other.

  It was at this moment I broke my silence. “Who is he?” I asked Ingrish.

  She glanced down at me, nearly jumping in her seat. But then quickly realizing that nothing could be done to take back what had been said, she bitterly groaned. “The Scythans were part of the opening assaults on the oncoming Aberrant Fleet. The Aberrants then diverted their forces to destroy their worlds first as an example to the rest of the galaxy. Amon was there in the initial engagements before humanity had to retreat.”

  “But what did Oberyn mean? Everything?” I waved my hand at the General. “Is that why he looks like…?” I lost the word, but Ingrish understood anyway.

  “No. General Kairon was taken prisoner during the war. The Aberrants… they do awful things. What you see down there is what they had to do to put him back together again.”

  The hunched, disfigured General did not speak to a single Rhodeshi in the banquet, though some attempted to converse with him. With an arm that was part flesh and part metal, he shoved the guests aside. The Rhodeshi down below thought this was amusing, but they parted all the same. In just a few moments, General Kairon stood towering over the already tall Amon Russ.

  Ingrish bowed her head, and I knew she was wondering whether it would do me any good to hear the conversation. She translated anyway.

  “I had to see if it was really you. So, they got you too, didn’t they?” Amon spoke, and I saw him cross his arms.

  “This is not personal, Amon.” Ingrish captured the rasping cadence of the General. “I am here for my species, same as you, I imagine.”

  “It doesn’t have to be this way.” Amon lowered his voice. “If humanity can be brought back—”

  “You couldn’t save us the first time!” General Kairon suddenly exclaimed, and then, letting the shock of the outburst settle, he spoke again. “I am not here to argue with you, Amon. Only to pay respects.”

  “You can’t kill me, Kairon. We both know it. You would only be wasting your life.” Amon threatened.

  Kairon threw his head back and howled with skin-crawling laughter. “You think I have come all this way for my life?” The General looked down upon the smaller man. “The Rhodeshi think I’m the best chance at beating you, but we both know what’s going to happen in that arena. It makes no difference to me. My contract only stipulates that I don’t hold back. No, Amon. I have come here for my death.”

  “You’re trying to commit suicide?” Amon asked in horror.

  Again, Kairon laughed. He raised his arm to the Rhodeshi. “These people. They provide a wonderful service. A death that means something. That is something very rare for men like us, Amon. You know it. You thought about it too, haven’t you? How you shouldn’t have survived the war?”

  With great reluctance, Amon responded. “Every day, but—”

  “Then don’t torture yourself over me, my friend. My killer. Let these fools have their circus, and let me have rest.”

  “I’m not going to kill you, Kairon. Not in a thousand years.” Amon’s voice cracked with anger.

  “I’m not going to give you that choice,” the General responded. With one great motion, Kairon slowly bowed to Amon. His great frame was such that the two faced each other at eye level. Ingrish clenched my hand tightly, and a silence fell over the hall. I glanced around confused, not understanding the import of the gesture.

  The holy moment, Kairon’s attempt at one anyway, was broken too soon by a clapping hand. Oberyn wildly clapped at the bow, giving a standing ovation. The Rhodeshi who were Oberyn’s allies—or those who had bet on Oberyn at the gambling tables—swiftly began clapping as well. Meanwhile, other sets of eyes looked on, patient and plotting.

  In the chorus of deafening applause, the General’s mask twitched, and he suddenly rose again. Orange eyes swept over the crowds in utter disgust. Finally, the General looked up at us again. The metal hand pointed towards us—towards me—and he shouted loud enough for the room to hear. “Da su’uun va’ri? Ecce maal!”

  General Kairon bowed again, and the room became very quiet. I was frozen, unable to comprehend or react. I looked to Ingrish, but she was as shocked as the rest of them. The once amused Rhodeshi were all silent at the General. Whatever he said so profoundly angered the room that not a soul breathed as the General knelt to me and me alone. And then, rising with fury, the General left the banquet hall with his two guards, and all eyes followed.

  Oberyn was the only one still himself, grinning from ear to mottled ear.

  “What did he say?” I asked Ingrish.

  Ingrish glanced at me. “In polite language?” she slowly said. “See that child over there? I recognize him too, and I see no other equal in this room.”