022. Threshold

Biting winds swept snow through the valleys of Andar Prime, up to the Threshold of the Ninth Plane. The monastery had recently been refitted for guests, air thick with the scent of fresh timber and fixtures still free of dust. As a temporary home, Ambassador Tiller’s spartan suite left much to be desired, but the views were incredible.

Sipping lukewarm coffee, Tiller reviewed the intelligence on his counterparts. He was surprised to see Prince Aster, envoy from the Empire of the Queil, in attendance. The blustering royal was seventh in line at best, but the Queils were fierce rivals in expansion and they rarely negotiated. Gossip hadn’t revealed what they sought.

The Iniir Protectorate had a delegation; galactically, they were small fry, but recent Conglomerate encroachments had understandably caused concern. After the Tyriss disaster they had enough leverage to be irritants. Likewise, the Eldori, Dothroi and Rimbalan Bloc were minor civilisations protecting their own interests. They didn’t have the resources or inclination to acquire territory.

That left the Ele. Arriving last night with barely a word, they claimed dominion over vast galactic expanses, but nobody here had ever encountered them. If this was a con, it was highly audacious. The masked and robed Ele were impossible to read, and Tiller’s own intelligence came up short. He would have to tread carefully.

Setting down the files, Tiller checked his reflection in his pocket mirror. In minutes, he would represent the Conglomerate before the galaxy for the very first time. No pressure.