Long Live the Wizard

The morning sun played on the lush gardens and lawns of Syntrophax. Birds swooped among palace spires that dotted the city: palaces of the Commerce Families. Many shone golden, reflecting the sun, while others sparkled with the precious gem windows that adorned them. A deep rumble accompanied by mounds of soft, white exhaust clouds sounded to the north of the city as one of the far orbit shuttles stormed into the sky laden with the rich fabrics, spices, and geodes collected on this and other worlds. The port was distant enough from the city to not disturb the inhabitants of Syntrophax, and close enough for the traders to oversee their operations with the jealous eyes of a sculptor still working out the details of his final masterpiece.

Bells gonged, and the streets suddenly filled in the port side of the city. Men, women and children in various shades of plain uniforms emerged into the fresh air, smiling, carrying the implements of their work. Some boarded waiting buses while others began working in their immediate surroundings. Half the buses streamed north toward the port, while the other half of the bus fleet crept into the southern side like children trying not to wake the parents. The passengers bounded off the buses at their various stops, beaming and waving to one another, quick-stepping to their appointed places, where they would cook and clean for the Families, tend to their children, and bring every blessing they could into the lives of those who gave them so much.

From the balcony of the sky-scraping tower in the middle of Syntrophax, a lean, tanned elder in flowing silk breeches and tunic surveyed the scene with searching eyes.

“The minions are at their work. All appears normal,” he said, turning toward the interior. “How is our master controller this morning?”

The woman in the sturdy, white linen smock looked up from her cupped palms where figures and diagrams displayed in three-dimensional space. “He is dying,” she answered.

The elder scoffed. “Yes, Elda. We know he is dying. What we need to know is, how long do we have? Can we predict what will happen when he is dead?”

Elda shook her head for the hundredth time while shaking her hands to dissipate the holographs. “We do not and cannot know. Chancellor Dargen, the Bandaloran race is nearly unknown and on the edge of extinction. We may have the last one here. That we found one trained as a wizard is unimaginable.”

The chancellor shook his own head and worked his fists into each other. “Will any more minions be receiving the Mark? Can he program more before the end? Of course not, I understand. It may possibly be of no use, anyway.”

Two shuttles lifted off together toward the North. Moments later, a third joined them.

“The Families are preparing for the worse. They’re getting as much into transit as they can,” the chancellor noted. “As for the minions themselves, we are preparing for the worse. I’m not sure we’ve even imagined all the possibilities when the end arrives, but all we can do is prepare. Even now, control may be slipping.”

A serene girl in her mid-teens wearing Government Service livery entered with a tray of beverages for the chancellor and doctor. Maribel. Her slender, curving figure had gained the chancellor’s attention enough to have her reassigned to his office. She set the tray down on a low table, and looked to the chancellor.

“May I do any more to please you, chancellor?” she asked, hands clasped in front of her. He searched her eyes. Had there been a tone in her voice?

“Not now, Maribel,” he grumbled. “Be about your duties.”

She bowed at the waste, rising to smile and make eye contact before backing out of the room.

“Elda, if…when…our Bandaloran dies, how soon will we know?”

“His nurse will inform me the instant his status changes. The Tower will be the first to know, and hence, you will be among the first.”

“And who is with the nurse?” Chancellor Dargen asked, sensing judgment had long ago been lulled into a sleepy, shallow remnant when it came to the Menial Business of Syntrophax.

“The nurse is checked every half hour, and is assisted by Medical Services minions as needed,” Elda replied.

Maribel entered the office again, carrying a covered tray. The chancellor fixated on her this time. It was three full hours before their usual midday meal.

“My chancellor, a treat,” she explained.

Dargen turned to Elda, who turned away and flicked her fingers to awaken her holograph. She turned the data left, then over, now back again, wiping through data and searching the charts. He could feel a rumble building under his feet as he watched her quick hands, eyes wide open in anticipation. A blast ripped from the North, what might have been the most shuttles he had ever heard lift off at once before.

Turning again to Maribel, he shouted, “What are you about, girl?”

Maribel smiled pleasantly, lifting the cover off of the tray. Below the lid came the silent, screaming face of the Bandaloran’s nurse. Lifting a seafood fork off of the tray, Maribel dug it into the skull, plucking out the right eye, which emerged with a loud, sucking sound. “A treat for you, my chancellor.”

The port to the North had reached an incredible crescendo. He rushed out to the balcony. Voices screamed over the hot air. A fire burst a window of one spire, flinging burning cloth and small bodies out into the emptiness surrounding the dizzying heights of some of the more affluent palaces. Instinct made him duck. The smell of burnt pork caught in his throat as he watched the creature like a little doll freefall, wheeling lazy circles, performing mid-air somersaults.

The port to the North disappeared under black smoke and three distinct mushroom clouds. Waves of heat and fire raced toward Syntrophax, consuming the North side– the homes of the minions – and would soon make the South side with its palaces look the mirror image. The chancellor stood erect, white knuckles clenching the balcony's ornate railing. A scream did not leave his open mouth as tears made rivulets down his cheeks.

Maribel stepped out onto the balcony with the chancellor. He turned to her, his fine silk tunic whispering as it fluttered in the breezes made by the fires. She offered the skewered eye to him, her placid face hidden by a new mask of loathing. “Long live the wizard.”