Vilte is clean shaven, an oddity in a culture where all the men have styled facial hair. He makes up for it with a great head of thick auburn locks and very symmetrical features. He moves and speaks like a man much younger than the lines on his face would indicate. He smiles easily and warmly, seemingly without artifice. But his eyes, even while twinkling with affection, are always observing and assessing.

We are in in the chamber of the Dawn Tower. The spiral staircase down to the rest of the palace is too narrow for me. For that reason, palace staff have brought up more chairs for the seemingly never ending numbers of ministers and officials that the Premier had insisted on being there.

There’d been a quick intense huddle between Vilte and his closest advisors when he’d decided to summon them from the main council chamber below. His advisors had clearly not been happy but Vilte had over-ridden them instantly with a single sentence:

“They will share in the fate of the Republic.”

And so the council troop up the narrow stairs to their makeshift chamber. There is a moment of awkwardness when the mortals realises that none of their furniture fit me. A moment that becomes even more awkward after I twist two steel tables into a makeshift chair for myself. The moment passes soon enough as the mortals, all men considerably past their physical prime attempt to work out the seating order without actually elbowing each other in the ribs.

Vilte observes me observing them.

Eventually they settle down. An official introduces them one by one. Of the thirty who have squeezed in to the chamber, as well as their role in the council, a quarter have noble titles of some sort, and three quarters are identified as citizens of great wealth and endeavour. There are no priests.

While I take note of all their names, titles and companies, of the thirty or so, not including Vilte, the only mortals of worth are:

Mr Vicent Leonty, the chief administrator of the council who is instantly recognisable as the guy who actually gets everything done; Lord Salvador Shura, the minister of internal security, a quiet unassuming man. He wins the seating game without trying. He observes Vilte observing me observing the others in the room; Mr Olli Lief, the minister for trade and owner of a mining company. He does not bother to hide his contempt for everyone in the room except Vilte who he respects and Salvador who he is cautious of; and finally Lord Farald Mokosh, the minister for racial purity and health, so far the only mortal who seems to comprehend what is happening. He sits as far away as possible from me, his jaw is set.

The rest are self-important men who have achieved their status through no scant effort or talent of their own and hence are even more satisfied and confident of their own worth. After they have all settled into their seats, they start to look at Vilte with anticipation. They are certain of the outcome. A danger has been turned into an opportunity. More power, perhaps more profit will be coming their way.

“You all got here by revolting against the monarchy” I say before Vilte can speak, “what did you end up doing to them?”

The minister for defence, General Arsonio, a man bedecked with a wide hat and a walrus moustache stands and bows briefly to Vilte.

“If I may, Premier,” he says.

Vilte nods.

“Royalists are like dogs too long accustomed to their master” General Arsonio announces proudly, “So long as there is a member of the royal family alive, they will rally around them. For the future of the Republic, we had no choice but to execute all of them.”

“How did you kill them?”

“Humanely by guillotine of course!”

“Everyone here was a revolutionary?”

“Proudly so! We fought, bled and sacrificed for the liberty of our people.”

“And replaced the monarchy with a single party. Same throne, different name.”

“The party of the people!”

“Great. You will surrender unconditionally for them. I expect a smooth handover, seeing as you’ve done it before.”

The room erupts into a frenzy of outrage and derision. Almost every man competes to outdo the other in expressing their incredulity and rejection. Variations of the following are repeated:

“Ridiculous! We will never submit! The people will revolt to the last man! You cannot capture the spirit of the Republic!”

And so on.

I say nothing through this.

The hubbub continues until General Arsonio has enough, “We know how to handle scum like this,” he shouts and empties his gun point blank into my head.

I look back at him impassively.

“You don’t like watching the news, do you?” I say into the sudden silence that has fallen.

The general lowers his gun.

“I thought it was an elaborate hoax to be honest,” he replies with commendable composure.

A man clears his throat loudly. It is Lord Salvador Shura, the minister for internal security. Salvador embodies the physical ideal of the Republic: tall, thin, very pale with lanky hair so blonde that it is white.

“Gentlemen,” he says, “the entity has no need to hold on to the country, he merely has to keep hold on to reins of power - us. We cannot hurt him. He in turn has demonstrated clearly that he can destroy us. The people have no occupation force to fight, he is an occupation force of one, one that we have not discovered a way of defeating. The important question for us is not if he can gain or hold onto our country, it is what he immediately intends to do it. Premier Vilte, with the heaviest of hearts, I move that we surrender immediately without a council vote.”

Mr Lief raises his hand.

“I reluctantly second the motion. Please, Premier, exercise your executive powers, surrender immediately.”

The Premier scans the room, frowning. The rest of the mortals begin pounding on the table, alternating between chanting coward and demanding a vote. The Premier chews on a lip considering his options before gesturing for quiet.

“Thank you, Lord Shura, Mr Lief. I accept the motion but will put it to vote with the addendum that I will not be bound to the results one way or the other. Before I call for a vote, is there anyone who would like to argue for the opposing case?”

More abuse is hurled at Salvador and Olli.

In the corner, Mokosh, the minister for racial purity and health, covers his face.

“I will take that as a no and go straight to the vote. Supporting the motion?” The Premier asks.

Three hands go up, Salvador, Olli and Mokosh.

“Opposing the motion?”

Twenty seven hands go up: the rest of the cabinet, not including those who cannot vote: Leonty.

I teleport a thin disc out of each of the twenty seven mens’ necks. I excise their neck at an angle so that their heads fall forward onto their laps. All but one bounce off their chairs to roll under the table. Those men liked to sit with their legs wide apart.

The chamber fills with the spray and smell of blood.

-Ding-

Murders (this quest): Humans: 28

For the first time, Vilte’s composure cracks utterly. His mouth opens and shuts in horrified astonishment. Olli throws up. Vicent curls up in a corner, his hands clasped over his face. Mokosh stares grimly ahead, his fists clenched. Salvador is unperturbed, his face remains carefully composed, his eyes are fixed on me.

“The ayes have it,” I say, “Premier, what’s your call?”

Vilte stands.

“You … animal,” he shouts, unwisely slamming his fists on to the table as it is covered in pools of blood. Some of it splashes up into his mouth. Retching with disgust, Vilte begins to rail and curse, his eyes wild and frenzied.

He only stops when I cause a shallow line of flesh to part on his neck. He clasps it with one hand, trembling, the light of reason returning into his eyes.

“I promised someone earlier, one of your loyal citizens, to ask if you’d die for your people. Looks like a yes. Good for you.”

Olli is alarmed. He reaches to Vilte and pulls at his shoulder.

“Oh, come off it, Vilte,” Olli pleads, “they were greedy, entitled, unprincipled fools. You know it and I know it. How often have you complained to me about their short sightedness, their obstructionism, their constant jockeying for advantage, for ever more wealth?”

He pats through his pockets, until he finds a handkerchief which he offers to Vilte.

“Here,” he says kindly, “clean some of that blood off, you’ll feel better.”

Vilte takes the handkerchief.

“Most of them were our friends, Olli. All of them fought for the revolution!” Vilte shouts and then ineffectually starts wiping at his face.

“You’re beginning to piss me off, Vilte. You have 3 seconds to make up your mind,” I growl.

“Vilte, you can only make a difference to this monster’s rule if you live to do it!” Olli shouts, “Please, I beg you. Do not be a fool!”

Vilte considers Olli’s words, his jaw working.

“Fine! As my last act as Premier of the Republic, I surrender unconditionally.”

I get off my chair and stand at my full height, towering over the mortals.

“I accept.” I reply, my aura rippling out. The mortals in the room shudder, falling onto their knees.

“You’ll call me Dominus or Master,” I say to them, tamping down my aura.

Vilte gets off his knees, fury radiating from every line in his body.

“What do you want from us, Dominus?” He grates out.

“I want you to finish your job. How did someone put it? Liberating everyone for the glory of the Great Republic.” I say.

Vilte blinks in confusion for a second.

“You can’t actually mean to free the slaves, Dominus,” he gasps.

“What he means to say, Dominus,” Olli steps in, “is abolitionist is not the first word that comes to mind when in your deadly presence.”

“The opposite if anything,” Mokosh mutters to himself.

“Mokosh,” I call out, “who is the worst abolitionist you can think of?”

“Irena Omosis!” Mokosh blurts out before anyone can stop him. He clasps a hand to his mouth, his eyes wide in horror as he realises what he has done.

-ding-

>User Parameter Discovered: [Perfect Target Acquisition]

You are able to unerringly locate any target from the smallest amount of information. So long as the target is in your universe, you can find them. You can acquire any number of targets. Targets are permanently acquired until you release them. You may reacquire any target just as easily. They can run but they cant hide!

>: Dominus, you are using the basic command-line text interface. Initialise avatar? [y/N]

:_

Irena Osmosis is four hundred kilometres to the south. I teleport her into the chamber.