Years passed.
One night, Rā stood on a low hill outside the town, gazing at the settlement below. Except for a few small bonfires, the place was mostly swallowed by darkness. An indescribable feeling tugged at him.
"How do you think we've progressed these last few years?" he asked.
Malcador paused, then shook his head lightly. "Poorly. But there's nothing we can do about it."
Terra's condition could not be described with a single word. Ninety-nine point nine percent of the planet lacked any usable resources. This town, striving for peaceful development, had virtually no capital to begin with. The soil yielded no ore and barely supported plant life—agriculture was a dead concept.
Even this town, relatively better off than many nearby settlements, had to scrape together fuel for nightly watchfires from dwindling supplies. In ancient times, during famines, people might gnaw on roots or tree bark to survive; now, finding even dry straw to eat was a desperate struggle.
Under such sterility, no amount of willpower would bring rapid change. The people of Terra were uniformly impoverished—an affliction that could only be described with one emphatic word: dire.
Rā nodded in agreement with Malcador.
"It's true. Even when we do everything we can to inspire people to labor, the returns simply aren't proportional to the effort."
He sighed, the weight of it heavy. "This cannot continue. We need more hands and more resources. Only by gathering every usable asset and organizing them properly can we escape this trap."
"Terra is a scatter of loose sand. Scant resources are split and split again. Internal strife, infighting, mutated beasts and mutated people—these threats never stop."
"After long thought, I realize I must adjust my own approach to fit reality. Old methods won't suffice."
Malcador's hesitation at the next words vanished and was replaced by elation. "You've decided to show yourself openly at last?"
Years earlier Malcador had privately proposed Rā take the leadership outright. In his view, Rā's abilities and standing far exceeded his own. Rā was the only one fit to govern the town and ultimately lead humanity's revival.
Rā had resisted. Immortals, he argued, inevitably ossify society. An undying ruler, however enlightened, risks solidifying class structures and encouraging deification—turning leaders into cults and stifling progress. Religion, Rā had long held, was a failed social mechanism whose hazards outweighed its benefits.
Malcador believed differently: these were desperate times. Ordinary humans could not shoulder a civilization's rebirth; only an undying, tireless figure with boundless energy and knowledge—someone like Rā—could do it.
Their views had clashed repeatedly. Now, seeing Rā's shift, Malcador rejoiced.
Rā spoke quietly, "I simply realized some of my old beliefs no longer fit the present circumstances."
People must adapt to their environment. In earlier crises, Rā had always been confident he could preserve the vitality of humanity. Over long ages, some of his views had calcified into dogma. Repeated attempts to follow those old tenets taught him this time was different: conventional approaches would not work. He, too, needed to change.
He looked toward the moon, visible not far from Terra, and felt the burden of his task. Conditions there might be even worse. His responsibilities were heavy.
"My gene experiments are nearing completion. The final product is still some way off, but producing serviceable fighters by modifying ordinary humans is no longer difficult. When they're ready, I want you to train them in basic combat skills."
Malcador answered immediately, "Yes."
Then he offered an idea. "Since you'll step into the open, we could run a campaign to rally the people — to win hearts and minds. With your presence, that won't be hard."
Rā considered it and agreed. "Do it, but be careful. I want people to see me as a leader, not a deity. Religious fanaticism may grant cohesion early on, but over time it becomes a stubborn tumor that chokes progress."
Fanatical followers bring cohesion, he knew, but excessive zeal suppresses innovation and critical thinking. Rā had proved that across millennia. Malcador—educated in the Golden Age and disdainful of false gods—agreed. Gods were, in his view, merely powerful lifeforms; not even divine beings could so easily outmatch the combined might of billions of fleets.
What Malcador did not know was that one of those ancient authors of the "holy texts" now stood before him—watching, amused by his contempt.
...
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