The Nemesis

by S. J. Kincaid

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  In memory of Jan Whyllson,

  who lived a life dedicated to her art

  and showed me that was a possibility

  The strongest poison ever known came from Caesar’s laurel crown.

  —WILLIAM BLAKE

  AT NIGHT, the sky ignited in stark crimson. It forewarned of the threat approaching them from space.

  Few in the galaxy had heard of Anagnoresis, a small planet on the frontier of the Empire. Its nearby patch of malignant space had been growing slowly, unnoticed for decades. That malignancy was the forgotten, glowing gravestone of a long-ago vessel that had been lost while trying to enter hyperspace.

  The start of the rupture had been small, a virtual splinter. It would have remained there forgotten if not for the existence of Eros.

  Eros was a gas giant that had sheltered Anagnoresis from incoming asteroids. Over the course of three hundred years, it swept around the Anagnoresian star—until its orbit rammed it straight into that pinprick malignancy.

  Eros’s clouds swallowed the hint of light, and like that, the malignant space seemed to vanish.

  Until weeks passed, and then the light swelled from within Eros’s clouds, steadily devouring more and more of the gas giant’s atmosphere. Within months, there no longer was a planet called Eros. In its place spread a massive and vibrant band of white and purple light—the gravestone of a gas giant, expanding with every second that slipped past.

  On Anagnoresis, the tiny population of human settlers gathered to survey the new light in their skies. Distorted by atmosphere, the vibrant ribbon resembled a small moon or an asteroid. The locals were anxious—but they did not yet know to be afraid.

  The boy noticed only after the malignant space swelled into a secondary sun in the sky of Anagnoresis, one that lit the night.

  He was the only one on the entire planet who knew the truth: they were already doomed.

  * * *

  The citizenry of Anagnoresis had never faced a crisis of such proportions. They didn’t properly fear it because they didn’t understand what it was. Their response was misdirected. Without Eros, they worried about asteroids and comets. They gathered together to organize a new defense grid to protect Anagnoresis’s skies from astral assault.

  Secrecy was necessary. They’d heard stories of decadent Domitrian Emperors who used any pretense to strip planets from their citizenry and gift them to favored sycophants. So they agreed not to speak of the strange happenings in nearby space. “We’ll deal with it on our own. The Empire can’t learn of it, or it will be used against us.”

  They didn’t know that among their number was one of the very Domitrians they feared. Tyrus Domitrian had sought refuge on Anagnoresis. He’d planned to escape his true identity and become just another eight-year-old among the Excess.

  It had felt at first like a game—a deadly game, but a game regardless. How to become invisible, here, at the edge of the known universe? He had studied the mannerisms and speech of the local populace. Had learned to slur his consonants and mimic the lilting rhythms of Anagnoresian speech. The people here were gentle, not like any he’d known on the Chrysanthemum. He learned how to fake gentleness like theirs, and in faking it, he discovered that it actually existed within him; it had existed there all along. He could be a good kid like any other. He could play games, and think of small matters, and worry about nothing under the safe guardianship of his father.

  It had seemed a wonder to the heir to the galactic throne: that life could be so simple, and so kind.

  Until today, when he had realized what it was that he saw in the sky.

  Malignant space!

  He tried to explain to his father, Arion, why this was a catastrophe. “Your Viceroy clearly knows nothing of it,” he said. In his fear, he sounded like himself for the first time in months, his accent that of the Grandiloquy, the vocabulary of space dwellers infiltrating his speech. “Father, he’s afraid an asteroid might hit us? He’s insane! Don’t you see, that’s the least of our worries! That anomaly will keep growing until there’s no escaping it. We have to leave this planet. Speak to him. He must order an evacuation.”

  Growing up at the center of the Empire, Tyrus had taken for granted that those near him had the power to effect change. But his father, Arion, was not a Domitrian. He was a mere worker, a mechanic who maintained the service bots for local mining machines. He’d been chosen arbitrarily by Tyrus’s mother for her child’s DNA.

  He’d taken Tyrus in anyway and had done his best to understand the boy. But now, confronted by his son’s demand for action, Arion was reminded of the difference between their worlds. Arion knew he had no power to issue orders. Nor would he wish to have such power. Unlike his son, he had no clear view of what should be done. He trusted the judgment of his rulers, that they knew more than he did and could be expected to act in the best interests of all.

  But he saw his son’s anxiety and wanted to relieve it. “There is an entire committee of experts with the Viceroy at this very moment,” he told Tyrus, “and I promise you they’re working on a way to save us. They know what they’re dealing with.”

  “How can they possibly?”

  “Tyrus,” Arion said firmly, “remember which of us is the adult here.”

  “But…” Tyrus’s voice faded.

  Arion caught Tyrus’s chin. It was a trespass none would dare do to an heir to the throne, but to Arion, he was a child. Tyrus found it more comforting than he should. His father held his eyes firmly. “Think about this: you’re a smart boy, you grew up in space. You’re seeing that malignant space through our atmosphere. Don’t you see how that changes things? The clouds distort the light. It’s not as close as it looks.”

  “Is that… is it true?” Tyrus was desperate to believe him.

  “You see the same thing at sunrise, don’t you? The light is everywhere, not just in one spot. The atmosphere amplifies and spreads it. Same thing is happening here. We have far more time than you think.”

  Later, Tyrus would hate himself for the hope that had shivered up within him. He’d wanted so desperately to believe his father’s claims.

  And so he did. He put his trust in this beautiful idea that there was someone else who held answers, who would act on them, who would protect them all. He wanted to have faith that other people could be right.

  Two days later he awoke early to a distant buzzing sound that had disturbed the morning birds into noisy protest. Tyrus peered out the window to see supply transports launching themselves back up into the clouds. Later he learned that their captains had been bribed into keeping the star system’s secrets. A mandatory evacuation still seemed the worst outcome of all to the people of Anagnoresis.

  When Tyrus heard those whispers, he could not help but think, If we had a chance to survive, we lost it when those ships left.

  He forced away his doubts. They did not return until the worst way doubts can come—far too late.

  * * *

  Anagnoresis was supposed to be safe.

  His mother had implored him to find his way there if anything happened to her.

  “Leave the Empire. Leave the sun-scorned throne. You do not want it,” she’d told Tyrus, again and again. “Our family is radioactive. The power we hold will cost you your soul. Swear to me that if anything happens, you will flee. Never
return to the Chrysanthemum.”

  “I will. I swear it, Mother.”

  Tyrus found his father and vowed never to return to the Empire.

  At the time, he meant that vow. He meant it until malignant space invaded the sky, until the night when he could no longer sleep because the crimson glow grew so bright it flooded his dreams. He pulled on his coat and strode out into the red-stained night.

  The air was chill. His breath made pink-tinted clouds, and his boots crunched over dying grass. Overhead, the bloody wound of malignant space glowered and pulsed. As he stared into it, he saw the truth.

  They were doomed.

  He’d been lying to himself.

  His father, the local government—they were fools, and their assurances were worth nothing. This planet was doomed. Soon, Tyrus knew with a cold certainty. We missed our escape window with the transports.

  Only one person could save the inhabitants of this planet now.

  He swallowed and made himself look away from the heavens, down to the living world. A soft, cold breeze was brushing through the trees, carrying with it the smells of soil and sap, of fragrant blossoms and things that could die.

  His uncle, the Emperor Randevald von Domitrian, could save this planet. But who would ask him to do so?

  He believed Tyrus to be dead. That was important; that was good. Only this year, at the age of nine, had Tyrus discovered how good it was to be an ordinary boy—not the Emperor’s heir, but a simple child of no importance. An ordinary child obeyed and was guided by his elders. In return, he was given the freedom to explore, to make mistakes, to ask questions, to play. An ordinary child fell asleep without fear and woke up carefree.

  But an ordinary child could not ask the Emperor to save a planet.

  Tyrus made himself sit on the scratchy grass, which was something he’d had to work up the courage to do when first he lived on Anagnoresis. The space dweller in him had always recoiled at the thought of the microorganisms and bacteria within natural fauna. Now he made himself lie down and stare into the bloody ribbon overhead. His awareness of the skin-crawling dirt and vegetation faded as he remained there, his gaze trained up. His eyes burned and watered, but he did not let himself blink.

  I have only been pretending to be ordinary, he thought. For he could not obey or believe his elders. His father and the government had told him not to worry. But Tyrus knew more than all of them. They were the ones misguided here.

  Father. Arion was a mere worker. If the Domitrians learned Tyrus was alive, they would have no mercy on an Excess man who had interfered in their affairs by daring to hide a Domitrian from them.

  This planet’s survival would come at the cost of his father’s life.

  At daybreak his heart felt weighted by stone, but he had reached no decision. And so the next night, and several nights thereafter, he walked through the blood-tinted darkness. His thoughts cast about for clarity, for the right decision, which he no longer believed any adult could provide him.

  Until a night came when Tyrus at last made the decision the people on Anagnoresis refused to make for themselves.

  That sixth night, Arion discovered his absence and found him lying again in the long grass.

  Tyrus made to rise, but Arion surprised him by taking a seat beside him. “What’s been keeping you awake, Tyrus?”

  Tyrus noticed that Arion had not looked up. He never looked up overlong. Once, Tyrus might have called this an example of his father’s optimism, but now it seemed deeply childish.

  And so, he did not apologize. He did not put on the local accent, or adopt the sheepish, slouched posture of an ordinary boy caught breaking curfew by his dad. Tyrus the Excess had been such a comfortable skin to wear. He could not afford to be that person anymore.

  Now, once more, he was a Domitrian.

  He met Arion’s eyes. “I’m done with having a bedtime, Father.”

  “I see,” his father mumbled.

  The red-hued light deepened the lines in Arion’s brow. And Tyrus felt something in himself soften and yearn—a weakness he could not afford. But it did creep into his voice, lending it that gentleness he had learned on this planet over the last year, which no Domitrian should rightfully possess. “I have not been playacting your son these last months,” he said slowly, “or attempting to deceive you. I… I wished to be Tyrus of Anagnoresis.”

  His father let out a short, almost soundless laugh. Not unkind, but somehow despairing. “And I wished it for you. Tyrus, before you do anything rash, think—”

  “I owe you my gratitude,” Tyrus cut in. “I have never known peace as I knew it here. But…” He let the Grandiloquy accent slip into the local vowels, into the cadence and rhythm that his father would best hear. “Oh, Dad, don’t you see?” He pointed upward. “That’s going to devour us! Malignant space does not shrink. It will not be willed away if you close your eyes. It will decimate this star system. Every single person on this planet will die—unless they escape. And time is running out.”

  Arion’s jaw squared. “You want to contact your uncle.”

  “Want? No. But must—yes.” Tyrus exhaled. “And I’ve already done it.”

  Silence.

  He made himself say it: “He knows where I am. That I live.”

  Arion reached out to grope at the grass, like a drunkard seeking some handhold for balance. “He’ll come for you.”

  Tyrus tried to swallow. His throat felt so tight. “Yes. There was—there was no time to delay. Do you see? If the planet is to be saved, action must be taken now.”

  Another beat of silence. “And the transports left,” Arion said dully.

  Tyrus had examined his options time and again. There was no other route. And yet the guilt still struck. It pierced him through.

  “Yes,” he said flatly. “The transports are gone and won’t return for months. He’ll be here well before that.”

  And so he will kill you. And it will have been my fault.

  Arion took a ragged breath and staggered to his feet. Tyrus did not move—but discovered that at some point he had drawn his own knees to his chest, as though bracing himself against something.

  His father had every cause to rage at him.

  “Here,” Arion said, and when Tyrus blinked to clear his vision, he saw that Arion had offered a hand to him.

  Taking it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

  Arion pulled him up to his feet, then let go. Tyrus stood shivering. The night air felt so much colder than it had minutes ago. For the planet, he thought, but could not make himself say. For the planet’s sake, I had to—

  “You go back there,” said Arion softly, “and you’re right back in the thick of it. You’ll be in the same danger that you left behind.”

  The prick of tears alarmed Tyrus. He never cried. He would not cry now.

  But he had expected his father to worry for himself. Instead, Arion’s fears were for his son.

  Shame thickened his voice. “Of course. I’ve no doubt my grandmother will try to kill me, just as she did my mother. Perhaps I’ll manage to kill her first.”

  Others might have scoffed at these words from a nine-year-old. Arion knew him better. “Perhaps you will,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause, and for the first time in Tyrus’s viewing, he looked up toward the malignancy, studying it. “How long do we have?”

  Tyrus shook his head. He did not know. His stomach felt unsettled, his limbs twitchy. He wanted to get away—not to face this any longer. What had he done? My own father. Arion should rightly hate him. A child who would murder his own parent. A Domitrian, through and through. “I will find some other lodging,” he said, “while I wait for the Emperor’s arrival.”

  But when he turned away, his father caught his shoulder and swung him back around. “Tyrus.” He tilted up Tyrus’s chin, forcing their eyes to meet, his own dark and unreadable, his skin deeply lined in the red light. “I know why you did this.”

  I saw no alternative. Tyrus would not speak those words, thou
gh. They seemed to ask for forgiveness, and he did not deserve any.

  “I understand,” his father said. “You think you’re going to fix this.”

  “Someone has to fix it.” Had the Grandiloquy, had any of the Emperors cared, they might have solved the problem of malignant space centuries before. Instead they had let it fester—and thereby spread. Even the most obscure corner of the Empire was no longer safe. “If it continues—it will never stop on its own, do you understand? But if I become Emperor… if I seek the throne… Father, I can fix it.” This was his true purpose: he knew it in his bones. “And I won’t be like the others who come to power, Father. I won’t forget what I’m meant to do.”

  “I know you won’t,” said Arion. “You’re my son.”

  “I’m sorry.” His voice broke. Suddenly he felt the full weight of his grief, and he could not breathe. “Dad, I am so sorry!”

  His father’s arms were strong and thick, the arms of a worker for whom labor was life. They pulled him tightly against a broad, warm chest. For a brief moment, Tyrus felt once more what it was to be an ordinary child: protected and cherished by someone stronger who wanted only his safety and joy.

  But even as he hugged his father back, he knew he would never feel safe again. For the purpose of his existence had been made clear under the bloody light of the malignancy, and there was only one way to achieve it.

  He would claim the throne and become the Emperor.

  Then he would save the galaxy.

  FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

  “Wait for it.”

  The Emperor Tyrus von Domitrian’s voice was quiet, but it rang over the gathering in the presence chamber.

  For the last several weeks, the Chrysanthemum had been traveling in hyperspace. The thousand vessels that had been linked for centuries had disassembled. They moved in tandem to this new star system, far from the destruction of the six-star home of the Domitrians.

  Now the Emperor stood before the great windows, gazing out at that distant speck of light that had once been the heart of the Empire. All present knew what had come to pass: the Emperor had somehow created malignant space, unleashed it, and allowed it to tear through his own home system.