Mologg had been replaced in the Senate, but her continued position as a diplomatic envoy had been endorsed, at least sort of. She had been doing some snooping around, but from what little she seemed able to tell Traan, no other worlds of the Drackmarian Empire seemed interested in seeking out the Cooperative.

So it was Traan's duty to seek them out instead. The secrecy with which the Drackmarian Empire conducted itself made audiences with its secret worlds impossible, at least for now. It had taken some digging, but with Mologg's help the Cooperative had found Morseer, a world even less-galactically-oriented than Drackmar. It was a colony of a species that had been and remained part of the Drackmarian Empire, but little was known beyond that.

The Morseerians, as they were called, had been seen in limited numbers throughout the greater galaxy, though not especially within the traditional seat of the Drackmarian Empire, the Quelii Sector. Mologg, once again, absolutely refused to give Traan any information on the species or their world.

They were taking a Cooperative transport this time, since the world had become known to the greater galaxy. The two sat opposite one another, and Traan wondered if they were going to spend this trip the same as they had the last―testing which was willing to offer more intimate information to the other.

“Tell me about these Ugor.”

Traan's brow furrowed as he searched for what Mologg was talking about. “Oh,” He finally exclaimed, eyes bright with understanding. “The Senate vote? Of course. I'm sorry, I've only heard about it in passing.” He paused for another moment, searching his memory. “Hmm, the Ugor. They're one of the less liked but more pervasive species of the Galaxy. They're vile, cruel, untrustworthy . . . manipulative. Altogether unpleasant beings. But they perform an essential task, and so are largely tolerated.”

“Why do you seek their friendship, if they are so unjust?”

“We sent a task force to their home system,” Traan responded flatly. “We have no interest in being their friends. But the Cooperative is a unique organization, and events have conspired to present us and the Ugors with an opportunity to mutually benefit one another. And besides: wouldn't you rather have a species like the Ugor under the watchful eye of the Cooperative, then free to roam about unchecked, doing as they please and hurting whom they will?”

“Tell me about the Squib.”

Traan sighed. This Drackmarian curiosity was getting somewhat tiring. “Honestly? They're annoying, and while their concept of honesty is . . . more flexible than most species', they are generally a decent people. The problem arises from the fact that―though the Squib are 'good' and the Ugor are 'bad'―the Squib are not automatically the victims and the Ugor are not automatically the aggressors. The Cooperative is involving itself in a conflict that spans the lifetime of nations, and we must conduct ourselves with moderation and fairness. I have the utmost faith in those responsible for this endeavor, and that is all I require.”

“Nations are built by the masses, but they are run by the individuals,” Mologg said dully. "Empires, republics . . . 'cooperatives': it matters not. Those who lead are those who choose, and those who follow are those who bear the consequences. I believe your masses have chosen their individuals well.”

Traan smiled at the lizard. “I believe they have.”





Morseer was not like Drackmar. It possessed several orbital space stations, many of which sported arrays of defensive weapons, but there were no orbital shipyards. There was no interrogation room waiting for Traan and Mologg in orbit; in fact, after identifying themselves, the shuttle and its occupants were allowed to bypass the space stations altogether, landing on the world below in a moment's time.

Tran was forced to equip himself with a rebreather before stepping out into the methane atmosphere of the world beyond the transport. He and Mologg were greeted by a single four-armed Morseerian. The docking bay was secluded from the remainder of the spaceport, apparently intentionally cut off from the world around them. “Greetings,” the Morseerian said in oddly accented Basic, stepping tentatively forward and offering one of its four hands. “I am Administrator Draav of Firstpoint Spaceport. We spoke briefly over the commlink. We have been expecting you.”

“I am Ambassador Traan Shi of the Cooperative of Systems.”

“Mologg of Drackmar.” The Morseerian seemed to twitch nervously when his attention was drawn to the Drackmarian.

“What ever could bring you so far from . . . the homeworld?”

“You know why we are here,” Molog replied simply.

The administrator nodded, though the gesture seemed to be for Traan's benefit. “Please, this way,” He said, gesturing with his upper right hand, then deciding his lower right should follow, then apparently deciding that it should fold itself back across his lower stomach. The Morseerian seemed very nervous, perhaps apprehensive, and it worried Traan slightly, because he had never actually met a Morseerian and wasn't sure how to read them.

They followed the alien out of the docking area, though a network of corridors that seemed expressly designed to deny them access to anything but the blank walls. “First Governor Cryus wishes to meet with you. We will arrive at the Grand Conference Hall shortly.”

The hallway ended in a fairly large room, blocked on one end by a retractable door. In the center sat a waiting speeder, which the administrator beckoned them into. The windows were tinted very dark, making anything more than a few meters away totally unidentifiable. A similar screen separated the back passenger compartment from the barely-visible Morseerian driver.

They were whisked away in total silence, arriving a moment later in a similar, sealed room. Down a long corridor, around a few corners, and then the first signs of life. Maybe half a dozen or so Morseerians and a lone Drackmarian caught Traan's eye as he walked past an intersecting corridor. They were at the far end of the hallway, and he was past it almost before he had thought to look down it. They came to a stop before large sliding doors, which opened immediately to let them in.

They stepped into a fairly spacious office, where a lone Morseerian sat at an odd looking two-part desk, his four arms working on various tasks while his eyes moved about independently of one another. He stopped as they approached, focusing on the trio. “Ahh, our friends from the Cooperative,” The Morseerian said, approximating the amused tone of a human's voice fairly well.

“Is it not your duty to discern if we are friend?” Mologg stated coldly, glaring unkindly at the Morseerian.

“Sit, sit!” The First Governor exclaimed, gesturing with all four arms at as many chairs, despite the fact that there were only three visitors present. “I'm sure Administrator Draav rushed you here as quickly as possible. He loves the outsiders; just doesn't know what to do with them when they actually show up! Hah!” The obviously artificial laugh was somewhat piercing to Traan's ears.

“So,” The governor continued, pressing a button that caused a portion of his desk to collapse in on itself, clearing their view of one another. “What brings you here?”

“We are seeking the friendship of the Morseerian people,” Traan said, which was mostly honest.

“I come to uphold the basest tenets of our people,” Mologg said simply, a line that Traan remembered her using at Draconis Secundus, which made him wonder if the Morseerians knew about Draconis Secundus . . .

“Ahh, I see. Understand this: we are not Drackmarians. We do not play at their question/answer games. We do not look for one dimensional answers. Tell me why you are here.”

Traan tried again. “We are here because the people of Drackmar believe―and have convinced us to believe―that the Cooperative and the Drackmarian Empire have more to gain through unity and friendship than we could possibly obtain independently. We seek only the opportunity to know who you are, and to show you who we are.”

“No,” The Governor said flatly, catching everyone by surprise.

Of greater surprise, was who was first to respond. Administrator Draav jumped to his feet, flailing all four of his arms madly. “Governor, you must not do this! Consider the―”

“Draav!” The governor's exclamation shut the other Morseerian up. “Get out. Now.” His voice had taken on a tone not easily replicated by most humans, and it was clear to Traan that this was what a Basic-speaking Morseerian sounded like when truly angry.

The door closed behind the administrator and the governor returned immediately to his more civil tone. “Now where were we, hmm?”

Mologg was hissing. She obviously had no stomach for the way the Morseerians conducted themselves.

“Ah, yes,” The governor continued, ignoring Mologg. “I believe I was at: no.”

“You will hear us,” Mologg said, her tone threatening.

“I will hear the Cooperative,” Governor Cryus retorted. “You,” He pointed with two arms at Mologg, “are a Drackmarian nationalist passing off your own personal feelings as the divine will of the Empire. You,” He pointed the two arms at Traan, “are a word-chooser who has scripted and rehearsed those things which you know a good, loyal Drackmarian wants to hear. If you wish any respect from the people of Morseer, send us those who truly speak for your people. Send us your Overseer.”

Traan rose slightly in his seat. “The Overseer has duties within the Cooperative that only he―”

“You will leave now,” The governor said, pressing a button that opened the door. The administrator was standing just beyond, and started forward as the door opened, but the governor waved him away with a single hand, returning the others to work.

“I really must protest,” Traan said in the most cordial tone he could work up.

“Protest as you leave,” The Morseerian leader replied, his focus turning fully to his work.

Mologg let out a new sort of growl, then stood and motioned for Traan to follow.

The starport administrator led them back down the long corridor, looking more disappointed than either of the Cooperative representatives. “What was that all about?” Traan asked, increasing his pace slightly to get beside the administrator. Mologg growled in dissent, but Traan waved absently at her. “No more of your sill rules; he was right.” He turned back to the administrator. “What was that all about?”

“I assume the First Governor knows something that I do not,” The Morseerian said.

“And?”

“What he asks you is a problem?”

“Yes.”

Mologg growled once more, this time rushing to the other side of the Morseerian. He looked nervously at her exposed fangs, then turned reluctantly back to Traan. “Perhaps that is the test: to sacrifice for the favor of Morseer. Of course, such thinking is very Drackmarian in nature, and though we are faithful and loyal members of the Empire, we are not―as the First Governor stated―Drackmarians.”

Morseer orbit

Most people didn't know what to think of Smarts. Even people like Traan, who had known him for as long as he had been a part of the galaxy weren't sure how to relate to him sometimes. They certainly didn't understand the complexity of his personality, something he himself had trouble grasping from time to time. He had devoted himself to this idea of a “Cooperative,” to this concept of a para-government founded on the free, open, and willful cooperation of its peoples, cultures, and sub-governments. He had allowed hard, cold, analytical nature to turn a concept cultivated in the midst of personal discovery into a science project of a cosmic scale, the ideological fanaticism still very present, but the heart and soul of the thing reduced to sheer numbers and equations.

And now he stood prepared to be judged by a people who showed no real interest in the Cooperative or its goals. He had stepped out in an odd sort of faith, casting off the computational cowl that had left him bound firmly in Varn's orbit, and coming to this far off world to test what he was really made of. Do I have a soul?

The Morseerian shuttle landed in the docking bay, two of the odd-looking aliens stepping out a moment later. They both stood in place, apparently unsure what to do, although one of them seemed to be handling the situation considerably better than the other, who was twitching nervously and continued turning his head to get a more thorough view of the empty docking bay.

Three silver-plaited and unarmed B1 battle droids appeared through a nearby doorway, ushering the Morseerians in. They didn't go far, just down the corridor to a small meeting room that had been equipped with a large holoprojector. With Beta still in the far-off West, Smarts had decided to use his latest avatar, the holographic static-man whom he created through a combination of simply holo-techniques.

It appeared in an instant, startling one of the aliens and apparently amusing the other. “Greetings,” Smarts said in a rather casual tone. “I believe you know me as the Overseer?”

“Indeed,” The more composed of the two responded.

“I want you to know that this is simply a title, imposed upon me by those who seek to quantify me. What is your designation? What is your function? What is your origin? What is your purpose? These are questions that cannot truly be answered, and therefore should not be asked. I took upon myself the name of 'Smarts,' the name given to the project that gave me life, but that choice was arbitrary and insubstantial. Others needed something to 'call' me, and so I gave them a name that would suit their narrow understanding.

“But in truth: I have no name, I have no identity. I have no static symbol with which to express myself. The droids that I employ to serve as avatars, the image you now focus on, the very ship that you are within: they could all be done away with, and I would remain. What does that make me? Does that somehow separate me from other life-forms of the galaxy, from other sapiens? Does it somehow make me unworthy of asking the very questions that they, too, ask? Am I somehow . . . insubstantial, when compared to their static, defined existence? I would never suppose to be superior to a being simply because I can reason faster; I just can't understand why that being would choose to believe itself superior to me, simply because they cannot understand me.”

“Well, that's very interesting,” The one Smarts knew to be First Governor Cryus said lightly, tilting his head slightly. “But none of that really matters. We'll save our existentialism for another day, shall we? You are the Overseer; I am the governor; this,” He gestured to the other Morseerian, “is Administrator Draav, the skittery little fellow whom your previous delegation first met.” He folded both sets of hands and set them on the table, one on top of the other. “What you are is of no concern to me; what you represent is all that matters.

“Your ambassador and his puppet Drackmarian came here with the intention of winning us over through what must have been a carefully laid-out plan that would appeal to our Imperiality and demand that we get in line, or risk the freedom of the oh-so-lauded 'Drackmarian Way.' Unfortunately for them, we are not Drackmarians. We have offered the Empire an alternative viewpoint for . . .” He paused for a moment, apparently trying to decide if he was about to cross some invisible line, “millennia.” Apparently not, or maybe he just didn't care. “We are valued for our prudence, though we often draw the ire of our Drackmarian brothers due to our lack of fervent and blind patriotism. This is the Morseerian way, and you would do good to understand it if you ever hope of gaining anything from us. The Empire may hold the Drackmarian name, but its continuation is due to the both of our peoples.

“It is only because of our commitment to our Drackmarian brothers that I have allowed you here at all,” The First Governor continued sternly, making the point that this was not hyperbole. “With the fewest of exceptions, we are a very private people, and as such have remained beyond the gaze of the galaxy. Tell me what you could possibly offer that would draw us into the maelstrom that is the 'civilized' galaxy?”

The holoimage, which had been waiting idly, finally sprung into action. “The Cooperative―”

“No!” All four of the governor's fists came smashing down on the table. “You! Tell me something! You. You. YOU! Be heard! Stop spewing dogma, and tell-me-something!”

Really? This is prudent?

“I didn't bring you here so you could continue where your ambassador left off. I brought you here because you are every bit of the Cooperative that you represent. Stop telling me what men with lofty titles wish you to say, and tell me what you have seen! Tell me what you know!”

Smarts still wasn't seeing it. The Morseerian wasn't snarling, but that was about all that separated him from his Drackmarian “brothers.” Smarts was struggling to try to find what he was missing; he knew there was something he wasn't seeing, something well beyond the numbers.

“The galaxy is burning,” He began, deciding to give the Morseerians what they wanted while he continued to work out this puzzle. “We pretend that it isn't, but it is so very much on fire. I have no certainties to offer you, and while I do hold the numbers―the probabilities―within my mind, this much is sure: there is no hope, if those who can will not defy the flames. You are not Drackmarians, but you are servants of the Empire; use your prudence and weigh the―”

That's it. Of course.

“Yes?” The Governor prodded, several seconds having gone by.

“You're afraid,” Smarts said quietly.

“What?”

“You are terrified . . . of everything, of everyone. You have been for years, centuries. Perhaps since you first joined the Dracmarians.”

“What are you going on about, machine?”

“You fear what is beyond. Beyond the orbits of your worlds, beyond the darkness of space, beyond that line that separates one species from the other, beyond the borders of the Drackmarian Empire. You are terrified of all those things that go 'bump' in the night. Maybe you don't want to be, maybe you don't even understand how true it is, but you are terrified, and it is true. Even now you are afraid, sitting there oh-so-bold, staring me down; you are afraid.”

The Morseerian stared at the holoimage for several seconds more, refusing to move, although Smarts' words had obviously gotten to the administrator, who was fidgeting so badly he looked like he was about to fall over, convulsing. “Enough of this,” He said finally, standing to his feet and making for the door.

“We cannot hide forever,” Smarts continued, his disembodied voice chasing the two Morseerians down the corridor. “Make a stand with those who will stand with you, while there are still those left who can stand with you.” He didn't seem to be reaching the aliens. “You joined the Empire. The Morseerians and Drackmarians now call one another 'brothers;' you have forged a bond that neither of your peoples will ever sunder, no matter the cost . . . no matter the loss. The galaxy is burning! How long before the fires reach this world? Help us, before there is nothing left . . .”

The two Morseerians climbed onto their shuttle and lifted off, vectoring straight for their home.

Varn

The door slid open unexpectedly and a B2 super battle droid stood squarely in the doorway. Mologg leveled a blaster rifle at the machine, the weapon appearing in a fraction of a second from a source unknown. The relatively large weapon looked small in her hands, but she wielded it expertly, and the droid made no aggressive moves. “I need you to tell me about the Morseerians.” The battle droid's vocoder was not sophisticated enough to properly convey Smarts' voice.

Mologg's features shifted uncertainly. “Overseer?”

Beta was gone and Gamma was the only droid on-hand to use, but Smarts didn't have time to explain that. “I have no time. If you truly believe, then tell me.”

Through the battle droid's military photoreceptors, Smarts could read the turmoil on the Drackmarian's face as she fought to reconcile her personal view of her duties to the Drackmarian Empire with the ever-growing faith she had found in the Cooperative.





How could I have misjudged so badly . . .

The Morseerian shuttle was still on its way back to the planet. Smarts still had a chance. The vessel's powerful communications towers flared to life, their technology decades old but the brute force they possessed still impressive. He jammed nearby space's comm traffic with the sheer force of his own declaration; he would be heard.

“I know you,” He began, the simple words sweeping across the world below, demanding to be heard. “The day will come when we all must face our fears; I have nothing to offer that can reassure your tortured souls, but I yet retain the will to stand with you when that day comes. The Galaxy is ready for you, and your perpetual self-exile has proven you to be ready for it. We all possess our secret evils, but it is in silence and shadow that they are allowed to fester and grow. You need not fight your battles alone, whether they be battles of flesh, or of soul. Do not turn me away, simply for fear of your own past.”

The Morseerian shuttle had broken through the planet's atmosphere, lining up for a landing at the spaceport despite the inability to effectively communicate. As Smarts shut down his powerful comm arrays, however, the shuttle broke from its approach run, curving back toward space.

“I swear to you that none beyond the Empire know of your past, save me,” Smarts stated apologetically only a moment later, the two Morseerians now back in his docking bay. “You have my word that I will speak nothing of this to outsiders.”

“What do you want, machine?” Smarts wasn't sure what the alien's tone suggested, but it seemed threatless enough to give him some hope.

“I want to offer you something that every species deserves: absolution from the sins of the past.”

“What power do you have to offer such a thing,” The Morseerian leader said sullenly, turning defeatedly back to his shuttle.

“I have accepted the Ryn and the Onyxians. I have extended a hand in friendship to the Ugor, of all species. I have bridged the gap between Bugs and Men, between methane and oxygen. I have united the ocean-dwelling Varn and their land-bound would-be invaders. I have sacrificed my right arm to save the far-off souls of the planet Dac. If ever you will meet a being qualified to heal your wounds, then I am that being.

“I have struggled to establish my individuality, to prove my sapience, to deny what others would seek to call me. But you were right: I am the Cooperative. It is my purpose, and it is the sum of my being. I am not a person . . . I am an idea. One that stretches beyond the borders of nations and the orbits of worlds. What right do I have to offer you redemption? Hah! What right do you have to reject such an offer, when it is made by one such as I?

“You have proven yourselves to possess the will to obtain redemption, you have simply exerted that will in a continued effort to punish yourselves. Allow us to embrace you as brothers, in spirit and in truth. We are waiting.”

The Morseerian had frozen in place just outside of his shuttle, standing as if he were unable to move himself forward. “We killed them all; down to the last child. Our brothers . . . gone.”

The grief-laden declaration hung in the air, neither of them willing to speak and break the sense of mourning that had filled the docking bay. “Yet Drackmar took you in,” Smarts said finally, shattering the silence. “They have long-since healed the wounds of war, but they could not heal those wounds that run so deep. Embrace us now, brothers, and together we all will find redemption. For ourselves, and for those who have gone before.”

The Morseerian snapped out of his trance, staring across the docking bay, straight at the pinpoint photoreceptor Smarts was using to watch them. “Can mercy truly run so deep?”

The seconds stretched out as Smarts stared at the being before him. Even with the secret knowledge that Mologg had entrusted to him, he knew that there was so much more to these Morseerians. They hurt with an intensity that he could not understand. But he did not need to: “Yes.” He said it simply, and the one word brought a relief to the Morseerian that was just as intensely incomprehensible. He had sworn himself to these people, and no matter the lengths, he would give them the peace that they so deserved. “It does,” He added, all but sealing the fate of the Morseerians.





Varn


“It is done.”

Apprehension gave way to disbelief. Mologg's eyes grew as she grasped what the machine was saying. “How?”

“They are ready,” Smarts said simply.

The Morseerian delegation arrived quietly. There was no fanfare, no marches, not even any media. Their admission into the Cooperative had been conducted in near-total secrecy, so as to shield the species from an unnecessary and overwhelming burst of social interaction. They were applauded politely and ignorantly by the Senate as they took their seats for the first time, sitting directly to the left of their Drackmarian friends.

“Greetings, brothers,” Mologg said solemnly, having been allowed to sit with the Drackmarian representatives for this special occasion.

“We know what you've done, Mologg,” Charal Draav said warily. The spaceport Administrator had been granted one of the Morseerians' junior seats.

“Tell the First Governor that this Cooperative can change even a stubborn Drackmarian,” She shot back, reaching across the divider to give the Morseerian a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“You can tell him yourself; he is here.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

The Morseerian tilted his head. “I believe he wishes to address the Cooperative Senate.”

Mologg's eyes widened in shock, but Dravv waved away her concern with two hands. “He knows full-well the rules, Mologg. Have a little faith in your Morseerian brother.”

“Always,” She said kindly, turning as a member of the Combined Council introduced the First Governor.

First Governor Cryus of Morseer stepped forward slowly, taking in the overly large room with his people's independently moving eyes. “Good people of the Cooperative,” He began, aware that he was being broadcast throughout Cooperative space. “I am First Governor Shakah Cryus of Morseer, an ally of Drackmar and a friend of your Overseer. Mine is a quiet race, secluded from the expansive galaxy and content―for a time―to remain as such. But the mercy of your hands and the clarity of your souls has prompted us to embrace you all as brothers. We now step out of the darkness with which we have concealed ourselves and into the light of this―our Cooperative.

“I ask only that you give us the time we need to adjust to such an incredible change, and more appropriately acclimate ourselves to the society you have worked so hard to build. We have much to offer one another, and I look forward to the journey we have set before us.”

The Morseerian paused for a moment, taking one last look around the large Senate chamber. “Thank you, and may here be a land where peace reigns, and hatred has no home.” The Senate burst once more into applause, and the Morseerian excused himself from the central podium.

“Welcome to the Cooperative,” The voice of the Overseer boomed. “May the media hounds be stoned for their uncouth disruption of your honorable and peaceful way of life.” The senate laughed politely, but the Overseer had made himself clear. The Morseerians were not toys to be exploited for the Cooperative's curious fancy.

It would seem that Smarts had come to embrace his place in the galaxy as the beating heart and fervent soul of the Cooperative of Systems, and the voice of those who had found themselves without one.

The Overseer had managed to coax a number of the senate members into taking a tour of Morseer as an odd sort of gesture of acceptance.

The planet's population was made up entirely of Morseerians and Drackmarians, with an almost perfectly proportional distribution of wealth and employment between the two peoples: approximately six-to-one, for those who cared to count. It was amazing to see how perfectly the two species functioned together, despite their vastly different social priorities and personalities.

The two species truly had become “brothers,” kind and generous to one another, friendly and understanding―apparently beyond reason, many times. The Morseerians expressed an almost jovial desire to mimic Dracmarians' stereotypical traits, often drawing threatening outbursts from the proud and sage race, which only further fueled the four-armed aliens' efforts.

But the more the Overseer watched in silence, the more began to understand. He didn't consider it spying: using the Amorris senator's diplomatic badge to conceal the tiny observation droid . . . just checking. He had guarded Mologg's entrusted words faithfully, but there was still much that he knew he was missing, and he had to have the full picture if he hoped to help these people.

For so much time to have passed, there had to be a reason for the Morseerians' continued grief and self-loathing. This much was sure, however; the Drackmarians had offered themselves to the Morseerians as a sort of bulwark against their own demons, allowing the disheartened people to lean upon them and their unwavering strength. Smarts was sure that the Morseerians' odd sense of humor and pathological devotion to Drackmar stemmed directly from their darker past.

The tour passed by factories and gardens (sprouting methane-dependent flora, of course), offices and the occasional Drackmarian-crewed defense installation, but the buildings and layout of the Morseerian city didn't interest the tiny eye buried in the senator's pocket; it was the people. They remained his commitment, as always. He would solve this riddle; he would give these people relief from their nightmares. He would save Morseer, and all of its people.

“But this isn't your homeworld, right?”

The Morseerian guide froze, turning reluctantly to the questioner as he interlaced the fingers of his upper set of hands. “We have long since passed out of our ancestral home's sight. Drackmar is the homeworld now.” The shadow of―shame?―passed unnoticed by the senators, but the Overseer's tiny eye saw all. There was so much more to this mystery.