Prologue

The prologue of Moebius

To all artists who long to recapture the imagination of the teenage years.

Prologue

 

The driving minds behind the Tarran conquest gathered in the war room of the Imperial Tower. Generals, Cabinet members, and priests took their seats around the edges of the angular table. A light had blown out, causing the red rim of the obsidian table to look like a glowing portal to an abyss, and the people’s teeth and eyes appear to float in the shadowed voids where their heads were supposed to be. Aventari grumbled with the others about the incompetence of the maintenance crew, but a part of him admired how it made the Imperial leadership look ominous. It was too bad the remaining resisting worlds couldn’t see it.

Htumoc, the meeting’s moderator chosen by rotation, stood up under the remaining light. “We all either know or have suspicions for why we’re here, so let’s get the foundation over with quickly. It has been a year since the Disassembler disappeared, and a significant number of us have expressed a desire to push the conquest forward without him. Since the annexation of Echinea two years ago, Mithra has been taunting us as a strategic location, a repository of resources, and a prominent Resistance base. In addition, their culture is cancerous with meaningless splatters of colors and sculpture and architecture they so perversely call ‘art,’ a rallying symbol of their defiance. Taking it would be a crippling blow to them and a major advantage for us. Therefore, we have two resolutions to vote on today. The first is whether to proceed with taking Mithra. All in favor?”

Thirsty for dominance, the council voted unanimously in favor of the motion.

“Very good,” Htumoc continued. “Our second resolution concerns leadership. With our emperor missing, it is time we choose a surrogate while we wait for his return.”

Here it comes, Aventari thought, his heart beating with the anticipation of triumph.

“As several of us have suggested,” Htumoc said, “our first nominee is Dannel Aventari.”

Aventari stood and smiled, making sure to show his teeth so that people could see it in the dim light. “As Imperial Steward, I pledge to lead our people to victory. We will take Mithra, and continue on to Moebius, to Serelia, and beyond until the entire galaxy is united under the True Culture of Tarran.” He let the implication that he expected the Disassembler would not return and that he would remain de facto emperor speak for itself.

“Are there any other nominations?” Htumoc asked.

“I will be ruler,” an unfamiliar voice said. Behind Htumoc, a very old boy hobbled into the room, dressed in arcane robes and using an ornate jeweled staff as a walking stick. A thick beard sprouted from his chin beneath the wrinkled, faded, dark gray skin of his face.

Councilgirl Avar-Ke stood up abruptly. “How did you get past the guards?” she demanded. “This is a secret government assembly!”

“That is none of your concern,” the old boy said. “All you need to know is that I am the Spellcaster and I am here to take my place as your new Emperor.”

The room was silent, and then burst into laughter. Htumoc grinned at the strange old boy who called himself a spell caster. “It seems you have a thing or two to learn about how this government is run.” He leaned into the boy’s face, looking at his forehead as if he were an object instead of a person. “And you have a thing or two to learn about the True Culture as well.” Htumoc leaned back and smirked, gesturing to the idiot’s face, the moderator’s midnight black hand contrasting with the stranger’s gray visage. “I mean, look at this. Are you even Tantalian?”

Mocking laughter washed through the room. Arms were laid out on the table or stretched up to allow short sleeves to fall and reveal shoulders. General Killetrek straightened her posture, her neckline dropping even lower than usual. The copious amount of midnight Tantalian skin said loudly and clearly, “Look at us. This is why we belong here. Let’s see your claim.”

Htumoc made a shooing motion at the fool. “Scram before I have security come in and shove this stick of yours up your butt.”

The old boy looked up at Htumoc and raised his staff, his yellow eyes tight with pitiful anger. He barked out two guttural words. “Serve me.” And slammed the foot of his staff on the ground.

The crack reverberated through Aventari’s skull like a glacier splitting in two. He couldn’t see. He couldn’t tell if he were upside-down or sideways. Around him, chaos coalesced into cries of surprise. Aventari found himself doubled over the conference table, and straightened up to find the other Council members in disarray some staggering to their feet and others collapsed on the floor. “What just hap---”

Aventari looked up and saw the face of God.

Beneath the halo of the single working light, the Spellcaster stood majestic, eyes shining with craftiness and cunning, jeweled staff of many colors in hand. Before him, Htumoc lay quivering on the ground. Aventari would be a quivering pile too if he were so close to divinity.

“Drucan?” Someone asked in awe. The name of the True God rippled across the room. “Drucan? Drucan?”

“Call me what you will,” God said. “I am the Spellcaster, and this is my empire.”

Yes, Aventari thought. This old boy had been Drucan all along. They had been too blind and drunk in their own gluttony for conquest to see God Himself walk up to them.

Except, why did he come like this, as an old, short, bearded boy? He looked nothing like the depictions of Drucan found everywhere within the Empire.

At this thought, Aventari’s will drained away. What an insignificant question. Spellcaster was worthy to be worshipped, worthy to have his light spread over the galaxy. The details didn’t matter.

What was wrong with him? It was as if Spellcaster had, well, cast a spell. He, Dannel Aventari, was a Councilboy of the Tarran Empire. He had to maintain his status and lead responsibly. At the thought, the bottom dropped out of his stomach and icy tendrils slithered around his heart. He was definitely being manipulated. A pattern appeared in his mind: question Spellcaster’s legitimacy, and he would be left feeling shame and hopelessness.

He slammed his fist on the table. “Show us,” he demanded. “There are images of Drucan in every home, on every street. In statues, paintings, stained glass windows, everywhere. If you are He, show us your true form!”

Spellcaster glanced at him and waved as if brushing away a fly. “Inconsequential.”

“No.” The word was barely audible on Aventari’s lips. How could he be so self-important as to question His Majesty’s legitimacy? It was shameful. Sinful.

No. This manipulation could not be allowed. Aventari forced through the wall of black fog in his mind and said, “No. You must prove yourself or you are nothing more than a pretender.” He strode forward, drawing a knife from his belt.

“Aventari, stop,” Htumoc said, holding up his hand.

“I will not let this nobody control us,” Aventari said without slowing. “Can’t you see? He’s manipulating us somehow. Conditioning us to foll---”

Htumoc shoved him away. “Don’t be an idiot. Spellcaster may not be Drucan, but he’s clearly Drucan’s representative, come to lead the Empire to victory.”

“Hail Spellcaster!” Someone said. Others took up the chant. “Hail Spellcaster! Hail Spellcaster!”

Aventari looked around at the boys and girls. Though they’d had their differences, these people had dedicated their lives to serving and spreading the True Culture. They had banded together and led the Empire to victory after victory in the name of Tarran. And here they stood, chanting the name of some wizard. And the worst part was, Aventari wanted to join them. He wanted to sing this boy’s praise and lead the fleets of the Empire in his name. Spellcaster was light and true life, and the mere thought of resisting sent cold waves of shame and despair through his body.

In his heart he knew it was wrong, but in his mind he knew it was right. So he lunged at Spellcaster, knife in hand. This abominable nightmare would end right now.

Something slammed into Aventari’s chest, stopping him before he got close enough to make Spellcaster flinch. Aventari looked down to see a hand holding something against him. Something looked wrong. It was . . . What was he holding?

“I’m sorry,” Htumoc said, “you chose wrongly.” He withdrew the object from Aventari’s chest. It was a knife handle. Attached to a knife. That had been stabbed inside of him. No wonder it had looked wrong.

Removing the blade felt like a rug burn on his insides, and with it came a fountain of blood. Aventari clapped his hand over his chest and looked at Htumoc, his ally, who had worked with him, pulled strings for him, to get him into the position of Imperial Steward. Now turned completely against him with just a tramp of a staff.

Aventari tried one last time to reach Spellcaster with his own knife, but his wound made it hard for him to move his arm. Either that, or Spellcaster’s spell caused him to hold back. Either way, he never made contact, and a dozen more blades pierced his back, from the hands of the other members of the assembly.

He fell to his stomach amid cries of “Hail Spellcaster! Hail Spellcaster!” And as his life oozed out and pooled around him on the floor, Aventari felt at peace. He had done his duty, but he had failed. Spellcaster had triumphed. And perhaps that was how it was meant to be.

And Aventari slipped away into the great unknown beyond life, unaware of the horror that was about to descend upon his beloved Empire.

 

Synopsis of MoebiusQuest

(because I don't want to put you through it before getting to this book)

 

MoebiusQuest is the story of three teenage adventurers on a quest through the galaxy, seeking the seven elemental medallions to eradicate a disease that is causing animals and people to behave aggressively all over the known galaxy.

The main characters are Conner and Oliver Iansmith, cousins from an island nation on the planet Moebius, and Mara Kraine, who lives in a cavern city on the planet Proserpine, which has multi-decade-long planet-wide winters. By the end of the book, Oliver and Mara hook up.

They have three rivals searching for the elemental medallions, Durgna, Senna, and Bloar (who is only mentioned by name once), who claim to represent the nation of Tarran on the planet Tantalus. But the Tarran government claims to know nothing about them.

At the climax of the book, the rivals get all of the elemental medallions, and use them to free their overlord, the Disassembler, from a magical prison. The Disassembler is a tall demonic alien of unknown origin, whose head is separate from his body. During a chaotic final battle, Conner defeats him by cutting off his head with a bladed tennis racket. They then use the elemental medallions to cure the pandemic. The medallions, their destiny fulfilled, fly off into hyperspace to go back in time and become their past selves. While everyone is distracted, the rivals escape, taking the still-living Disassembler’s head with them.

 

Worldbuilding notes:

 

The people of this universe are not humans, but yumans. Yumans mature emotionally in a way differently from humans, leading to a social system where it is totally acceptable for the people gallivanting across the galaxy and having adventures to save everyone are teenagers.

There are many mysteries in the galaxy, which are often attributed to a super-advanced civilization called the Raquon, although little is known about them.