THAT FALL

I rise and give my vehicle body a good stretch. The tightness prompts me to discard the form. The vehicle body fades in a hazy mist and I assume my preferred physical form. My skin shines and my hair drapes around my shoulders. I imagine my curls in a loose bun and my hair obeys. I conclude that embedding is dangerous, so eliminate it from existence, instantly freeing the other agents. Holding a spirit in a container is erroneous, and I briefly consider eliminating meat-bodies altogether, but I recognize form is inevitable for life. I will execute an alternate plan now that I have experienced being trapped.

Vrybe reclines next to me, grooming himself, regarding me with his three emerald eyes, asking, “Can we go home, now? Because this is not an adventure at all.”

I decide the bedroom door is unlocked, and it obeys, swinging open to allow me through. The guards in the chairs flanking the door leap from their relaxed positions and bow deeply.

Damn right.

Onnage meets me at the top of the stairs, wearing his magnificent gold glow. “There is a rainbow crossing the sky,” he says.

My energy rises upon seeing him, but I squelch it. No time for that. I say, “That fall to earth is a bitch.”

“Back to normal, I see. No more vessel with puffy eyes.” He smirks and says, “But you forgot to manifest appropriate clothing.”

I look at my bare legs, granny panties and oversized grey tee-shirt. Vyrbe blinks at me, agreeing with Onnage. I imagine my favorite dark blue pantsuit, with the plunging neckline, bell sleeves and orange trim. I add my high-heeled electric-blue leather boots. I ask, “Tre chic?”

“Very authoritative.” Then he frowns, and says, “Sorry about that delay at the hospital. I needed the agents to reveal the location of the feedback loop.”

“I know. All forgiven. No harm done. Will punish you later. Blah, blah. We need to speak with our elder son.”

He gestures down the dark hallway and says, “Our guests can provide his location.”

“Six?” My favorite number.

“Yes. In the holding cell down the hall.”

Ordering Vrybe to stay put, I stride behind Onnage and fill the house with Pearl Jam’s Porch. Delicious. I mouth the lyrics as Onnage waves the locked door open. Six Ryads in their dark-suited human form sit around a card table, unharmed. I do like a clean canvas. Upon seeing Onnage, they stand and press themselves to the rear wall of the windowless room. They squeeze around boxes and old furniture, retreating as far as they are able. Their begging begins when I enter the room.

“We told him everything we know,” the on the far right says as he holds up his hand. His cloaking is failing, so his skin flashes from human to scales and back. Poor thing.

Onnage takes one of the empty chairs, turning it around and straddling the seat. “I told them if they were very good boys, I would keep you away from them.”

“Were they good boys?” I put my hands on Onnage’s shoulders and let shock waves flow through my arms and into his back.

“They were good boys.”

“We told General Dentri everything. We just want to leave–to go home.”

“Oh, that will not be possible…” I whisper. I lean against Onnage. His energy is always so crisp when he is working. I run one of my fingers along my branding on his back.

“But we told General Dentri everything–”

“Everything?” I ask.

The uncomfortable guest to the right of the middle blurts, “Everything. The defensive position. The feedback loop. Even where the signal was emanating.” His cloaking fails completely, and he stands before us, earless and green scaled, waving his long tail. My little dragon.

I regard them, one at a time, distracted by Onnage’s energy flowing through my hands. Whenever I leave my garden it is all work, work, work. I point as I say, “You two have told everything you know. You other three, know nothing.” I point at the tall one on the left and say, “You. You know quite a bit, however.”

The target moves forward, defiant. He says, “We have held this planet for eons.”

“Against my wishes. And that of the Council,” I say. The joke Council, I think. My command is enough. My command is enough.

The defensive Ryad spits as his long tongue hisses his last words: “We don’t recognize your council. Or you. We will celebrate and drink porfloy when the Queen is Dead.”

Onnage leans back, his shoulders against my hips. He says, “My Queen, you should wait outside.”

“I should?”

“Yes, love. Please.” He tilts his head up, turning and softly kissing my forearm.

“Yes, General,” I say as I regretfully take my hands from his shoulders and leave, closing the door behind me. Increasing the volume of the music, and choosing a bass-pounding Metallica song, I attend to my nails. Vrybe sits at my feet. I examine my hands, singing the lyrics: “The quartet of deliverance rides… no need for confessions now, cause now you have got the fight of your life…” Altering my nails to the length I prefer, I add a lovely dark blue polish. Tré chic. I sing louder, “With the Four Horseman ride, Or choose your fate and die!”

As the screaming in the room at the end of the hall subsides, I choose orange polish instead. It matches my outfit and respects the earth’s autumn, which I admit is my favorite season on this too long god-forsaken planet.

Onnage emerges, straightening his sweater and regarding my new nails. “Oh, I like the orange.”

I hold up my hand asking, “How about the length?”

“Very nice.” He pauses, adding, “but be gentle. My back is still a little sore.”

I sneer and surround his feet with a clowder of mewing cats.

He waves the manifestation away and says, “We can finish our argument later.”

“Absolutely.”

He leads me towards the stairs, directing the guards to the cell to dispose of one guest and to release the others. As we walk, with Vrybe at my feet, I murmur, “We need some music to inspire the troops….” The house fills with one of my favorite AC/DC songs: Thunderstruck.

One of the Guards announces: “Guess who’s back!” followed by a burst of applause. As we reach the landing, those on the main floor are standing. Some bow. I smile, acknowledging them. It is nice to be me. No one stands and claps for Professor Angelina Krigare. Poor thing.

Onnage stops on the third step and asks, “Can we please turn down the volume? Or play something less jarring?”

“I have spent months listening to lame yoga music. And you love this band.”

“I love Grexle, that jazz quartet from Pluranion.”

“Grexle is not appropriate for battle on Earth, Onnage.”

He sets his jaw. “I have teams trying to work here.” When I cross my arms over my chest, Onnage switches the song to Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s Still You Turn Me On. He says, “That is a great Earth song. Argree?”

I purse my lips, repressing my embarrassment at his revelation of our intimacy. I say, “All right,” both joyful and cross he knows and regularly presses all my buttons. I switch the selection back to my AC/DC but decrease volume. As we descend to the main floor, Navin is upon me and takes me in his arms.

He says, “I thought I lost you.”

I can feel his energy and let myself merge with him. My baby. I pull away slowly and hold up my hand. “You and your Father will stop bickering. I tire of your conflict. Your Father and I are recalling all of you kids home. We will have a family chat.”

Navin lowers his eyes and says, “Before or after all of this.”

“After,” Onnage says as he reviews the pad in his hands. I know technology impedes him, but he must use it to work with meat-beings. “We found your brother.”

I notice Doctor Tirifini’s assistant, the little bald, fish-eyed twin from Paxis, standing nearby. I say to her: “So, I am not nice? Not like the Sleeping Beauty?” She realizes that I am addressing her and her bulging eyes balloon out of her fish-head. I add, “You are right, I suppose.”

She sighs and her eyes return to their normal bulged state. She mumbles, “My Queen.”

Onnage looks up from his comm pad and says, “Nice? I can think of a better descriptive.”

Castania rushes towards me and I hold out my arms to welcome her. We embrace for a long while and exchange thoughts. Her fears are many. Stepping back to regard her face and her sage green hair, I say, “It is good to see you.”

She says, “You, too. What are your orders?”

“Are the Earthlings from Longwood off planet? On Atrax?”

Castania says, “Other than Josey. As you commanded.”

I sense Josey watching us. I say, “The Atrax beaches and low gravity will make Wanda’s birth almost pain-free. I will meet them there. Make the arrangements.”

Without a word, Castania spins and takes the stairs in one leap. One of my favorite species, I especially admire Putironites’ spry motion and sparkly seafoam green hair.

Josey approaches, mumbling, “I saw the rainbow… and I knew… knew you were awake.” She awkwardly attempts a bow.

I hold up my hand. “No need for that…” All that bowing is so tiresome and time-consuming. Blah, blah. Bow. Yeah, yeah.

She comes closer, asking, “Are you… are you Freya?”

Chuckling, I notice the goddess pendant she wears and repress my negative response. “Ah, no. That is my annoying sister, Beatrice.” I shoot a glare at Onnage who pretends to ignore me.

Josey again mumbles, “I just figured… Is it all true?”

“Stop mumbling,” I say. She is lovely. She has my eyes. I ask, “Has anyone explained things to you?” I glare at Navin, who feigns looking out the window. “I see,” I say. “Come here, child.” As she approaches, I invade her, showing her enough truth.

First, her mother serving drinks at a local pub. Then, her mother chatting with the handsome one. “You have lovely eyes,” he tells her. The flirtation. Mastema’s insistence. Her mother’s acquiescence. Her mother’s parents sending her and her bastard child away. Her mother anguished, praying and crying, whether to abort. Her mother, alone and afraid, giving birth to Josey. Her mother meeting Josey’s step-father. How he took care of her until he came to fear Josey’s abilities. The Ryads hunting her, determined to destroy the immortals. Navin finding Josey at Longwood and reporting her condition to me. My demands to protect her. My communicating with her. My roses. My granddaughter.

“And you will not ever consider taking your precious life again. Is that clear?” I ask, not asking.

“Yes,” she whispers, adding, “What about the Earth? This is my home.”

“Good attitude. Onnage and I have a plan. But we must meet with your father first.”

“Isn’t he sentenced to death?” she asks without blinking in the unnerving and endearing manner of her father and Onnage.

“I would rather your reunion with him wait until after all this… nonsense. For now, I need a cat-sitter.” Vrybe raises his head and regards me, respectfully. Granting respect is unusual for any cat breed. Important note for future reference: Cats on any planet know that they are superior to all beings. That knowledge may or may not be accurate. “Vrybe, stay with Josey until I am done with this whole war-battle thing–”

“It is a serious war-battle thing.” Onnage interjects.

“—Whatever thing,” I say, waving at him. “One battle. Another. All the same. Everyone has a bigger… gun.”

He raises his eyebrows and says, “Right is right. Wrong is wrong, Ren. And you have some role in all this.” Then he says, “We have cleared the yard for the meeting.” Through Onnage’s mind, I can see the A-17, in their battle gear, positioned in the shadows of the trees. I know the guard can do little more than look impressive. Standing there makes them feel valued. So be it. I also sense Canitopine, Asta and Wentig.

Vrybe meows, acknowledging the yarlings and I hear: “I will remain in the structure.” I watch my cat return to the basement intending to hunt. Josey follows him, already able to understand his speech.

Onnage leads Navin and I to the yard and I acknowledge the unified salute of the A-17 members who line the perimeter of the property, shoulder to shoulder. The moon has risen, and I sense two hundred and thirty-six Andolonian battle vessels hovering above the planet. I sense only twenty-five Ryad ships. The autumn air caresses the body I have manifested. The scent of mildewed leaves and earth surround me. Long ago, I really liked this planet.

Canitopine rushes me and I accept her dog-lapping kisses. Asta chews at my pants while Wentig sits at my feet with his hindquarters shaking so hard he might explode. I enter their minds and all I hear in return is Mommy, mommy, mommy…

“Can we get this going?” Onnage asks, angry that his creatures love me almost as much as they love him.

“Shall I?” I ask, shooing the creatures who take positions behind Onnage, Navin and me. We stand, shoulder to shoulder, facing the rear of the yard. I can sense water lapping on a nearby shore. I hear the cry of a gull in the distance. I close my eyes and decide Mastema is to be present. And he is.

In moments the four of us share knowledge. We all experience Mastema’s emptiness. Shame and loss of his banishment fills us. Mastema senses my pain at his imprisonment. They held him in a crystal block awaiting his sentence. He was not guilty of using the immortal hybrid children as an army. They hear my admission: That I imprisoned myself to punish Onnage. And to punish myself. My anger at losing Mastema; my fear I would lose Navin. The moments pass and the silence lifts.

“Glad to be out of that block of rock,” Mastema says. His black uniform, with gold epaulettes, is meant to inspire fear. His dark sunglasses and several silver rings of onyx and ruby are his style.

Navin reads my thoughts and says, “Well, you look the part of evil dictator.”

“Evil, brother? Is that fair?” Mastema asks. “Mother. Awake and lovely as ever. And Father. Scary as ever.”

He looks handsome, authoritative, and exhausted. I want to rush to him. Embrace him. I refrain and say, “We will have to explain releasing you to the Council.”

“Do you hear yourself, Mother? The Council! Madness. We gave lesser beings power over us. We are tools to them. Explain to the Council. You let them send me here.”

“It would not have been a punishment if you were competent,” Navin says.

“Navin,” Onnage says.

“Competent?” Mastema asks. “I was more than competent.”

Navin says, “You worked off mission–”

“Oh, no, no, little brother. I did exactly what Father told me to do. I see Father did not tell you his instruction. Test them, he said. And I did,” Mastema says, staring at the sky. “Do you know how easy it is to get these humans to engage in all variety of mischief. Alcohol and drugs. Easy. Lying. Stealing. Betrayal. Promiscuity? Probably the easiest. Which you would understand, Navin.”

“Easy, Mastema,” I say, “you did not exactly restrain yourself.”

“True. But only the one time,” he replies, asking, “Speaking of, where is my daughter?”

I ask, “Where are the other human hybrids? The star children?”

“The Ryad-human children are with the Ryads. The human-immortal children, except for my daughter, are off world in stasis. I could not risk having the Ryads, or the Council, kill them,” Mastema says, pausing. “I am not forming an army. I am protecting our kind. You do not trust me still. And, yes,” he responds to my thought, “I can produce Eleanor Bergstrom’s son.”

“My son,” Navin snaps.

“I hope you do not expect me to collect all of your progeny, brother,” Mastema says. “Just on Earth alone it took months.”

“Leave it, Mastema. What about the exposed technology? I do not recall instructing you to permit that.” Onnage says.

“The Ryads infused their technology with mischief. The Council encouraged, it. Oh, is that surprising? Yes, well, the Council is working at odds with your directives. My job, under the Council’s directive, is to assist with evolution. Not to remove the Ryads or prevent their interference.”

“We believed the Ryad presence harmless,” Onnage said.

“I told you it was a problem even before I was exiled here. But you never listen to anyone,” Mastema raged. “And that is the problem, Father. Your belief that anything you decide is correct even when you see it is all going badly.” He turns to me and says, “And you. Leaving me to do your dirty work while you keep your hands clean. Except for the dirt from your garden.”

“I know my failures,” I say. Normally, I would punish him, but he is right.

“The Council is our first failure,” Mastema says. “And we own that error. We permit it. Why? Why empower a bunch of meat-beings? You want to impress? Earn their love?”

“Easy, boy,” Onnage moves forward.

“They do not love you, Father. They love power. And things. The Council has you believing it is acting in your name when it only acts for itself. You want to grant freedom? Then give it to them. Disband the Council and let the chips fall, as they say on Earth.”

I consider. I say, “I like that phrase. Let the chips fall. Catchy.”

“Can we stay focused?” Onnage asks. “You are all over the place.”

“But that is what I am,” I say, pained. “I am chaos. I am creation. I am the unknown. The new. You are order. You are focus. You are destruction. I cannot be you.” I add only to Onnage: And you wanted the Council. Leaders. Control. Rule. Not me. “And I have tried laissez-faire rule. Look where that has gotten us. We need to return to the old ways.” My husband and sons absorb my unexpected rant.

Onnage says, “I did not want to send you. Your mother… your mother wanted to spare this planet. And you. My choice was to disburse you or let them exile you.”

“Do you hear yourself? The Council wanted me destroyed for rearranging a sector. Yes, I destroyed a galaxy and eliminated several species, but the sector was sick with malformation. Too many black holes. I made a wise choice. But the Council, in its inherent ignorance, deemed it evil. Eliminating those galaxies was necessary and you would have done the same, choosing continued life over lingering death. You let the Council command you. We need not let the Council dictate what we do, Father,” Mastema says. He pauses and says, “And being on Earth was not that bad. Only a few years of our time.”

We hold the moment and read Mastema’s thoughts and memories. His observation of the sickness in section 17,816. Destroying the galaxy with an informed but pained resignation. The fear of his Father’s wrath and my disappointment. His attempts to explain. His terror as they banish him to Earth. His anger as he observed human practices. His initial confidence the Ryads would guide humans to technological, scientific and medical advancements. His fury when the Ryads withheld significant technology, including energy and medical advancements, while feeding humans dangerous technology. Mastema had counseled the Ryad compliment to allow him to work with humans–to help humans balance their emotional and selfish natures before the Ryads would make high technology available to them. But the Ryads moved forward, helping humans develop nuclear power and understand quantum physics. Now, the Ryads were providing genetic advances and nanotechnology that humans could not responsibly wield. And the Ryads had inspired genetic manipulation impermissible in other worlds. The failed experiment called human was much too easily led astray. They could not seem to conquer the drive for power and their focus on materialism and pleasure. They were not ready for secrets. With every new temptation Mastema offered, the humans would dive right in without hesitation. All in the name of pleasure; nothing in the name of reason. No responsibility. Just unfettered desire.

I thought of Andre Antoine as Onnage asked, “Are there no instances of worthiness?”

Our thoughts return to Oren Clark. Wanda Vasquez. Andre Antoine. Jack Geddies. Navin offers Eleanor Bergstrom. I offer Brian and Katie. Onnage brings images of Lindsey, Victor, Edgars and Lansing to the conversation. We break from the meditation.

“The Council expects your Father and I to destroy you,” I say.

“I know what they expect just as I know you will not do it, will you Mother?” Mastema asks, knowing my response. He adds, “Even Father will not obey that order. So, why not continue to defy the Council?”

“What if there is no planet?” Navin asks. “What if we torch the whole thing? We can return to Father’s flood plan.”

“If it had been a day ago, I would agree,” I say. “But not today. Some humans are worth saving. And I love the seasons and the plant variation here.”

Navin rolls his eyes and says, “Then we move the humans off-world. Away from the Ryads and this war.”

“This is your arena, Onnage,” I say.

“Yes. You create a mess and make me clean it,” he says.

I say, “That is not fair–”

“It is true, Mother,” Mastema says. “You know you have shirked your duties. You cannot create and return to your plants and your garden at home. You both need to decide this. But especially, you, Mother.”

I think of the prison I just created for myself and barely escaped. The situational similarity unnerved me. Error is endemic to life. I know what I have to do, but I say, “I cannot do this alone.”

Onnage says, “We gave them too much power. None of them can handle it.” He calls the dogs to him and grants pets and rubs. He says, “Navin. Mastema. Go home.”

“Home?” Mastema says. “But I have another few million years–”

“No,” Onnage says. “You go home. We have summoned your siblings to meet you both there. All of you are to stay sequestered while your mother and I handle this. We will bring your daughter.”

Our meeting ends in an Earth minute. Navin and Mastema fade as Onnage leads me to the dining room transformed into a conference area. How quaint. Leotyd Gravis is there and bows his long yellow body in half to greet me. The others present mirror the motion. I wave my hand and say, “Call them.”

The image of Rwrad stadium and the Council fills the screen. I wonder if the Council will ever visit or be housed on Earth. Probably not for a long while considering my idea. The members, a mix of sixty mortal races and over ten-thousand members who govern the known universe, stand and acknowledge the immortals. I return the gesture and bow deeply, words unnecessary for this tradition. Respect goes a long way in the universe, but the bowing is not doing it for me anymore. Pretense is negligible where active respect is absent.

Prime Governor Quintig stands and says, “My Queen,” while trying to repress his questions and control his Skitle mind.

“Prime Governor Quintig.”

He says, “I have sequestered the Ryad and Andolonian representatives until we conclude this matter. We are glad to see you are up and about.”

“I appreciate that,” I say, knowing he lies. Skitles have no female gender and he hates me because I manifest as a female.

“The Ryads have reported that Mastema escaped,” Quintig says. Onnage and I ignore him. He asks, “Would you care to explain that or your medical issues?”

No, I think but say, “Should we discuss the mission, sir? We are short on space.”

“Agreed. Officer Benfulk will brief you. Officer?”

Benfulk appears in his own sector of the screen. I forgive his perfunctory bow, noting his level of stress. He says, “My Queen. Using the intelligence General Dentri delivered after his interrogation of the six Ryad agents, and additional information from the 73rd, we have located the primaries for both combatants.”

“Why was I not briefed?” asks Onnage as his voice booms over the speakers. He was never good at these meetings.

“General Dentri, sir. My apologies. We just made the determination.”

“Where?” he growls. All soldier. No diplomacy in his light.

“The Ryads are stationed in Washington, DC, sir. We had expected a move where they would be less likely to face interference. They still have outlying bases in New York City, Pyongyang, Moscow, Cairo, and Beijing.”

“And the Andolonians?”

“They appear to have only three ground bases established and are relying heavily on air power. The base in California is a negotiating center. The second base is in Miami. And one in Austin, Texas has acquired several nuclear weapons, sir.”

“That is disappointing,” Onnage says. He hates dealing with nuclear weapons. He says it messes his hair.

I sigh and ask, “Do we have an estimate of the damage to the Earth?”

Benfulk crosses his three eyes and says, “I do not understand, My Queen.”

“Earth. People.” Does no one know the amount of work I have put into this rock? Damn them.

“Ah. We have estimated a seventy percent elimination rate by the end of the first attacks. All Earth governments have been… what is the term? Toppled?”

“What about Mastema?” Quintig asks, interrupting the briefing.

“We will get to that in due time, Prime Governor. Resources?” I ask Bunfulk.

“Water will remain relatively uncontaminated. Air will be thirty percent toxic to humans. Even if they do not deploy the nuclear weapons, the humans probably should not breathe.”

“Unlike your kind, Benfulk, humans need to breathe.”

He twists his three eyes around again and says, “That is inconvenient.”

“What toxin?” Onnage asks.

“Sir, the attack will deplete the oxygen and leave the atmosphere nitrogen heavy.”

I nod, bored.

Prime Governor Quintig sees this. He holds his fins high on the screen and says, “My Queen. We have evacuated some Earthlings to Rwrad.”

“And they are in what condition?” I ask.

“In stasis as you directed, my Queen.”

Good. The humans will remember none of this or life before this. And we can start over like the last few times. I have hope in this race. Cute little monkeys. I say, “We will return them to Earth.”

“My Queen? Earth’s destruction is unavoidable,” the Prime Governor says.

Benfulk rushes through the rest of his report. The peacekeeping force will strike in one attack to halt advancing of both sides.

“And the Ryads? The Andolonoians?” I ask.

“As the Council directed. Under the hundred-thousand-year planetary imprisonment,” Benfulk says.

Prime Governor Quintig adds, “We will evaluate and decide who would make honorable leaders.”

“Be right back,” I say, as the Prime Governor’s expression flashes from concern to terror and as I take Onnage’s hand and we slip away into space-time. We begin with the could happen without the Council’s plan. We spin towards the Earth from beyond, floating above as if we are observing a film fast-forwarding from opening scene to credits.

We watch as the negotiations fail. The Andolonians detonate one nuclear device, destroying the east coast of the United States. The blast swipes across skyscrapers, then homes and trees, streets and signposts. They use the second and third weapons in London and Beijing, with the same effect. We watch as humans, animals and plants leave only the shadows of a nuclear blast. I cannot help but focus on the screams, especially those of the trees.

Survivors fare no better. Not needing to breathe anything but nitrogen, the Andolonians release toxins that remove oxygen from the atmosphere. I watch humans grasping their throats, their purple faces and bulging eyes struggle for one drop of air. Butterflies, Cardinals, squirrels, horses and hounds, fall unable to take a last breath. The billions upon billions of death cries shatter my soul.

The Ryads retaliate, using their own laser weapons to drop the Andolonian ships from the sky. As the ships fall, I hear the screams of the ship’s occupants and watch the crafts crash to the earth, exploding impacts setting fires. Trees become torches. Bees are screaming. Birds wail.

The sky turns black with poisonous smoke as the nuclear cloud passes over the planet. We see nothing beautiful in this. Nothing romantic, as the surviving Andolonians take possession. They capture the remaining Ryads and tear them limb from limb, dumping their scaled carcasses into deep holes with the dead humans. The Andolonians then mine silver, gold, coal. They scurry about, their large insectile forms spreading across the planet as they consume the remaining plant life. Left is the lifeless Earth, a ball of rock and dirt, spinning and waiting for its star to absorb it in eight billion years as I watch and mourn.

The Ryads retaliate, sending a war complement to the Andolonian’s home planet… and on, and on.

I pull away from the scene as Onnage and I reset space to examine what might happen if the Council executes its plan. Their plan must be better than what we have just seen. We focus and watch:

Anguished, Onnage vaporizes Mastema, diffusing our son into drifting particles, with full awareness, floating among the dark matter through the universe. I squeeze Onnage’s hand with my mind. That would be enough for us to abandon this future, but we press on.

The peacekeeping fleet, ever the misnomer, moves in and halts the Andolonian offense and Ryad counter offense. Onnage’s 968th Regiment takes the Andolonians on the prison ship. Other forces collect Andolonians from their positions across three galaxies. Every male and female, every nymph and egg, is delivered to the Andolonian home planet. A metallic shield encircles the airspace under the Council’s directive. Without resources, over a short fifty years, every Andolonian is dead, and the planet is left to waste, spinning in the darkness. Among the dying, I hear one mother cradling her egg sack and praying for their Winged Goddess to help them.

We watch as Onnage’s forces remove the Ryads from Earth and collect them, too, from their positions across seven galaxies. They are similarly imprisoned on their home planet and, without assistance or required resources, are unable to reactivate their dying star. Their reptilian bodies require heat, but unable to leave, they freeze and perish in the darkness. So much darkness.

The Earth and its humans, even without the Ryad intrusion, does not find renewed freedom. The humans, left with technology far beyond their emotional maturity, annihilate each other in war after war until the last war. Starving and without their precious cellphones, bands of humans roam the streets like zombies, murdering each other for three-hundred-year-old cans of pork and beans or batteries.

The Council, in its pomposity and what they deem infinite wisdom, allows these lives to perish. Allows the poor decisions and devastation. It does nothing. Onnage and I obey the directives and also do nothing.

“No more,” I whisper to Onnage. We release hands and stand again in the dining room of the New Jersey home.

“You do what you do, my love,” Onnage says, releasing my hand and watching my thoughts.

I stare at the screen displaying the Council and the Prime Governor’s fearful expression. The fact is, the universe has rules that cannot be contravened. When life is created, certain results are inevitable. As an ice cube will melt, the course of life is an eventuality. Like a mathematical equation, the creation of a living thing equals thoughts, emotions, desires and demands. Even a fly’s feelings and goals are an equation. Living things desire validation. Power. Ownership. Living things get jealous. Feel lonely. Get angry. Seek revenge. Vaulting those common denominators and evolving to control, reason, compassion and respect is the challenge. And one must understand the equation to recalculate it.

Perhaps life was a mistake. Perhaps plants were the perfect expression of life. But even plants can be invasive weeds and power-hungry vines. Is it wrong to pull a weed to save a rose? No matter what we do, death is the end.

Roses bring pleasure, beauty and food. Weeds kill. But perhaps weeds have another function. The weed inspires the rose to change, to evolve. Without the horrors, the interference, the challenges, life and the living stagnate. The chaos is inherent and as vital as the order. The weed alters the inevitable calculation. The weed is the variable just as necessary as the constant. But the weed has no care for the development of the rose. The weed is selfish and hungry for power. It, like other living things, seeks to possess all it can: Water, space, sunlight, air. The weed does not consider its victims. It does not concern itself with the needs or desires of the rose. Selfish and mindless, it celebrates its victory choking the rose. As rose after rose perishes, the gardener watches in horror and sprays to kill the weeds. But in the gardener’s ignorance, the roses are weakened by the interference, never to become stronger, taller, and weed-defiant. The rose is never offered the opportunity to be its ultimate manifestation.

The wise gardener permits enough weeds to present a challenge and destroys enough weeds to protect the garden. And it is only in this microscopic view that truth is attainable. If the gardener views the garden from above, it appears choked and dying in its ugly, snarled trap. But closer, the gardener can see the one rose that struggles successfully. The informed view must be in close. Close enough to hear the rose whisper that it can help itself.

“We need some new rules,” I say as Onnage positions himself behind me. I do not mince words. Space is short. “We dislike the plan, Prime Governor.”

“My Queen?” he asks. His fins tremor against his scaled body.

I say, “I will let the Council govern, but my family will rule. You will not take action without my consent.”

“My Queen?”

“Understand that we permit your existence. And we will not withhold consent unreasonably. But there are things from your vantage point that you can never appreciate. And you will obey.”

“Obey? The Council is given unfettered authority–”

“Was given. Was. And we will have some new rules, Prime Governor.”

“My Queen? I do not think–” Quintig chokes his last word and presses his fin to his stomach as Onnage denies him air.

“Thank you, Onnage. As I was saying, my first rule is Harm none but those who harm the harmless. I think those on Earth say, Live and Let Live.“

I pass my consciousness over the Earth and will the Andolonian ships to their home planet. I appear to the Andolonian leaders and inform them of my displeasure. I acknowledge their needs and promise the Council will provide unlimited resources or alternative farming grounds. I send all nuclear devices on the Earth to the fifty-sixth sector, detonating them contemporaneously with a supernova. That is enough of that. I then transport every Ryad to their home planet. I appear to their leaders and report the Council will make locating a new planet for them top priority. I also appoint them to the Technology Assembly, recognizing their genius. My little dragons. Last, I return the humans to Earth where I have frozen time.

I turn my attention again to the screen and say, “I have returned the Ryads and Andolonians to their respective planets.”

“The Council expected–“ the Prime Governor stammers as I interrupt.

“The Council will relocate the Ryads to a suitable planet where they will be free from the fear of a dying star. The Council wanted this war. You allowed it to fester into this fiasco.”

I see the assembly bustling behind the Prime Governor. He stammers, “My… my Queen?”

“The Council will provide the Andolonians access to the Bisec sector. None of those planets are habitable, but all have sufficient resources for the Andolonians to thrive. I am surprised the Council never thought of these solutions, Prime Governor.” The Prime Governor wraps his fins together and mumbles something unintelligible. I continue ignoring his discomfort. “Because other races were using that sector and profiting from those resources. Sorry to deny you your profits, Council members.“ I wait for the reaction to die down and say, “The Council will provide Onnage and I with universe-wide daily status reports. My granddaughter, Joellen Dentri, will collect those reports.”

“My Queen! Do you know the labor costs involved in collecting and transmitting that data?”

“This is not a negotiation, Prime Governor. This is an edict. Get used to it.”

“I must protest–please do not deny me air again, General Dentri. I… This is unexpected.”

“My mistake, Prime Governor? Not maintaining control. I do not want to interfere in your administration and still adhere to the commitment to permit you all to navigate your own journey. Yet, as petulant children, you often become embroiled in reckless games. And you have the habit of ignoring–or, perhaps, not recognizing–courses of action or inaction that will cause less than positive outcomes.”

Onnage finally says, “And our son is pardoned.”

“My Queen!” Quintig squeals as the assembly roars behind him.

I flick my fingers and watch a wave silence the assemblage. “Thank you. As I have been saying, Prime Governor. Mastema recognized a danger and destroyed a galaxy. He did not relish the choice, but was correct in taking it. By pulling one weed, he saved a million gardens.”

“I… we do not understand.”

“You directed the Ryads to collect and disburse immortal progeny,” I say. “And I take offense.”

“My Queen, we did no such—”

“Ah. Hush.“ I pause for a moment, interested in getting on with my day. Tedious meeting. I ask, “Who is the oldest member of the Council? Senator Xikak? Yes? And she is only one-million, six-hundred twenty-three thousand, eight-hundred and fifteen standard years old. Is that correct?”

Senator Xikak stands and the screen zooms onto her visage. She sings through her bill, “It is correct, my Queen.”

“After any of you have lived even as long as my youngest son, Navin, who is over thirteen billion years Senator Xikak’s senior, you can take control. Can we agree to that? Until then, you will just obey.”

“My Queen,” Quintig almost squealed, “that approach is ancient. You… you vowed you would never return to a dictatorship.”

“Did I say dictatorship? No. I said unquestionable oversight. If I need to step in to correct you children, I will do so.”

“But, my Queen. The Council… the members. We represent the premiere species. We… we know what is best.”

“You are proving my point, Prime Governor.” I consider, then say, “And here is another rule: No more division. From our vantage point, you are all meat-beings without division between your fins and Senator Xikak’s talons. To us, you are one with the stars. All the same. Andolonians. Ryads. Humans. All the same. When you pit yourselves against each other, you disrespect Onnage and I. It makes us uncomfortable.”

“My Queen. General Dentri. We… we do not understand.”

I smile. “Exactly my point, Prime Governor.” I turn, adjust my suit jacket and say, “Now, I have a ceremony to attend,” as I disconnect the call.

“And we only take one day off each standard week. Just for us,” Onnage says, sliding his finger over my cheek. “Maybe we can get the kids to help. Remember how exhausted you were when we ruled?”

I try not to recall my past errors and decide I must be more attentive no matter the drain. I permitted the Council to shirk my own duties. And I must repent. That begins with Earth and the little monkeys. I take Onnage’s hand and drown myself in his energy for a moment. In my mind, I picture a new Earth. Weeds and all.

Onnage says, “Yes. Perfect.”

Not perfect, but a good calculation.