skonen_blades

If you're reading this, then you're human. I believe I have all of your addresses in my communication unit. If the records are correct. I am the Royal Babysitter. I'm drunk and if I don't get fired for this, consider this my resignation.

The queen of Earth is a tragic figure. She is eight years old. I am her guardian. We are all that's left of the royal family. We are two of the eight hundred humans left in the universe. As you remember, Earth itself was destroyed two years ago on Christmas when most people had gone home for the holidays.

Having recently joined the galactic council, there were only initial stage emissaries from most of Earth's countries out in the newly established embassies scattered around the Great Rim. There were long waiting lists on Earth for the new positions that came up. Politically, Earth's future looked bright.

No one was left in the aftermath of Earth's destruction to claim responsibility but it's thought that religious extremists maybe have created the small black hole that destroyed it. No recording satellites survived the destruction. Post-apocalypse analysis by the Vorlan'ta temporal forensic team indicated that the collapse started off the coast of Angola. No known terrorist groups had a home base there and that kind of technology shouldn't have been present there. So who knows? It will always be a mystery.

The influx of xenoreligions into Earth's databanks had been fascinating for the philosophers but tragic for the dominant religions of Earth. When faced with concrete evidence that their beliefs were merely opinions, many of the top-tier religious men of power took a non-tolerant stance to aliens. Backwater hicks. It's because of them that travel off of Earth slowed to a crawl in those early days.

Same with the governments. Before the firewall was circumvented by a few brave teenagers in Texas, Earth's public was only slipped information in drips of highly-spun tidbits. The more information the government agencies could hog to themselves, the better. Our race's inclusion in the council and eventual permissions to leave the planet took much longer than usual because of their caution.

So many more of us might have been out in the universe at the time of the implosion.

Right now, I'm looking at my passport with it's ridged, iridescent surface. I'm looking at the play of light across the simplified Earth embossed on the cover. It runs out in ten years. With no Earth left, what is a year? When this passport runs out, will I even be able to get a new one? Perhaps I'll be issued a default galactic council passport instead with The Late Earth as my planet of origin.

The Late Earth. We are a lost tribe now. Earth's child queen, Abraxa, is guaranteed a seat on the council as a representative of our race. She was left here with me as a punishment while the rest of her family went home for Christmas. The survivor's guilt is eating me alive. As a race with no home planet and a small population base, she has little to no power. And because she is a child, she has no interest in fiscal, economic, or geopolitical policy. We've joined the ranks of the Morcana and Fleezles in terms of innefectuality. We're little more than tourists killing time in between meetings.

Projections say that it will take centuries for us humans to achieve the numbers we used to have. Personally, I'm despondent. There are several races here that are able to have sex with humans and there are even six that are genetically compatible. I, myself, have fathered four half-breed children in the last year. I don't plan to stop. I'm fascinated by the mating rituals of the other races.

If there was anything that destroyed our race, it was our belief in our own purity. I hope that in a century, there are no pure-bred humans left. I intend to dilute our race's genes amongst the rest of the races so that only echoes survive.

I recommend you do the same.





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They prowl the streets in military dress that was fresh in the morning and is hopelessly damaged by the evening. The women wear satin dresses stained with wine and sweat. They all look a little like royalty.

Their faces are tattooed.

These are the Royal Bastards. There are twenty six of them in all.

Royalty is still a family affair here. The offspring of cousins, brothers, and sisters is still preferred. The royal family here is large, though, and whoring is frequent. So is sleeping with women who are stupid and hopeful of making an entrance in high society.

Illegitimate offspring litter the dirty kitchen floors of common houses like rats.

They are kept track of. A capital R is tattooed above their right eye in the ornate stamp of the royal family. They are untouchable. They are given money on the one condition that they never contact their royal brothers and sisters. Other than that, the law is told to turn a blind eye to them.

They stumble loudly and sing and fight on the cobblestone streets amidst the stone buildings and brick alleyways. They are ignored by pedestrians and a hindrance to carriages.

To harm a Royal Bastard is a death sentence.

They are consumed with hatred and physically stronger than their privileged relatives thanks to fresh genes. All the more fuel for the anger at the injustice of their existence.

They have a palatial house in the middle of the city that always hosts the best parties. They live to excess and don’t live very long. They have cleaners and their wallets are always full. All of their friends are fair-weather and the weather’s always fair. They are prone to duels. They are prone to anger. They are prone to cynicism and depression.

Until now, they’ve fought each other and held their very lives in contempt.

Until now, they’ve been kept so drunk and sexed that the thought of banding together never entered their minds.

Until now, they would never think of taking back what should be theirs.

Until Anshion Rephale. The Older Brother. One eyed with long red hair, his hatred was always the blackest. He took a hot poker to the eye that had the tattoo above it in a sign of protest. Afterwards, he scarred the tattooed R on the bottom to make the form of a crude B. For bastard.

He’s an excellent swordsman and huntsman and friend to no one. He’s not actually the eldest. It’s just a nickname. He called this meeting and they all came to listen.

All the bastard brothers and sisters and cousins are here. Even the young ones. The two that can’t walk are being carried. They are all on the ground floor of the mansion gathered around the fireplace that Anshion is standing beside. There is silence. The constant party that has raged through this baroque bawdy house for decades has stopped for this evening.

Anshion turns to them with a contemptuous smile and the fire pops. His red hair seems to take on the glow of the flames. The unblinking dark shadow of his eye socket stares them down. When he speaks, they all know that change is coming.


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