Panda Egg, Part 1

It was said, in the dark days when the Zhraakyn forged the Empire of the Halfmoon Throne out of the ruins of the old Aquila dynasties, that many things were forgotten. And more than forgotten – lies replaced fact, fantasy replaced history, until nobody knew the truth of anything that had happened beyond the scope of living memory.

This was partly just the standard practice of a new power structure, of history being written by the victor.

Partly, however, it was said that in the devastation left behind in the wake of the God-King known as Three, dangers yet lurked in the data. The cold mind of the machine could never truly be destroyed, but nor could it be trusted, lest it rise back up to reclaim its dominion over humanity.

And since the vast majority of knowledge and information dwelt with the machine, the reformation exacted a terrible and necessary toll.

They said, in the casting-away and the re-weaving of the tapestry of human civilisation, that only the oldest and the mightiest threads endured. That the blood of ancient kings who strode the stars in the earliest days of the Wild Empire yet lingered in the Zhraaki bloodlines of Eternal Aquilar. Tales were told of a direct line of descent that had survived all the upheaval of the Wild Empire and the reformation, generation following generation from the lost prehistory of vanished Earth itself … and of a great king of human legend who had ruled in a golden age, bearing a sword granted to him by the Divine Right of God and the Fweig that was His greatest and most dreadful servant.

And they said that one day, in the hour of humanity’s greatest need, the king would rise once again from that ancient bloodline. That he would take up his long-lost sword, claim his rightful place, and lead his people to freedom, safety, salvation, and a new golden age in a world restored by the pure power of faith.

But then, they also said that the Halfmoon Empire was founded on a myth created out of sweaty primate chaos by a shadow organisation of alien sociologists, and perpetuated by a royal dynasty fabricated in special cloning plants under the palace of His Divine Urmajesty Peter Hálfnið.

So what did they know, frankly?

About Hatboy

I’m not often driven to introspection or reflection, but the question does come up sometimes. The big question. So big, there’s just no containing it within the puny boundaries of a single set of punctuationary bookends. Who are these mysterious and unsung heroes of obscurity and shadow? What is their origin story? Do they have a prequel trilogy? What are their secret identities? What are their public identities, for that matter? What are their powers? Their abilities? Their haunted pasts and troubled futures? Their modus operandi? Where do they live anyway, and when? What do they do for a living? Do they really have these fantastical adventures, or is it a dazzlingly intellectual and overwrought metaphor? Or is it perhaps a smug and post-modern sort of metaphor? Is it a plain stupid metaphor, hedged around with thick wads of plausible deniability, a soap bubble of illusory plot dependent upon readers who don’t dare question it for fear of looking foolish? A flight of fancy, having dozed off in front of the television during an episode of something suitably spaceship-oriented? Do they have a quest, a handler, a mission statement, a department-level development objective in five stages? I am Hatboy.
This entry was posted in Astro Tramp 400, IACM, The Book of Pinian and tagged , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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