All eyes were on Kaiser the Second, and his words were met with a heavy silence. Then his gaze moved past the crew and settled on the face of his father standing behind Oscar. A rush of memories overwhelmed him — faint, golden memories of the few good times he had ever shared with Kaiser the First.
The world had been simpler then. The corridors of the Imperial Palace had glowed golden beneath the twin suns of Baraka, and the banners of the House of Baraka had hung from ceilings so high they seemed to brush the light itself. He could still smell the polished stone of the Hall of Triumphs, and the oil and steel of the ceremonial guards marching in perfect rhythm. And there at the heart of all of it was his father — the man the galaxy had once called the Peacemaker of the Stars — walking beside him with calm, measured steps while the boy's small boots clattered against the floor as he tried to keep up.
"Do you know why we wear this crest?" his father had asked him that day, pointing to the golden sigil on his chest.
"Because it's our family's mark," the boy had answered proudly.
The Emperor had smiled. "It's more than that. It's the mark of balance — of light and fire, of reason and wrath. A ruler must know both, but never let one consume the other." Then he had knelt down to his son's height and laid a hand on his shoulder. "One day, when I'm gone, you will carry this mark. The suns will still rise, and the wars will still burn, and the people will still look to the throne for guidance. Promise me, Kaiser, that when the moment comes, you will be the sun that guides them, and not the fire that burns them."
The present came rushing back as a flicker of light shimmered in the air in front of him, and Zoma's projection appeared from the DTI at Bjorn's belt. She had been listening all along. Her sudden presence caught the Emperor completely by surprise; he had believed the device that carried her had been locked away. She looked straight into his eyes, and he found that he could not look away.
"Emperor Kaiser Baraka the Second," she said, sharp and calm. "It's a pleasure to meet you again — at exactly the time I told you we would."
Kaiser stood silent as her words echoed through his mind. She had warned him of this very moment, and he had dismissed it. Now everything made sense at once — the disaster at Ohara, the retreat, the collapse of his fleets. She had spoken of all of it long before it happened, and here she stood in front of him again, a ghost made of light with a smirk carved across her artificial face.
His voice trembled with restrained anger. "You're a machine. How could you have known all of this before it happened? I want answers!"
Zoma began to climb the steps toward the throne, slow and deliberate. Her voice stayed perfectly calm. "Emperor, do you know what the history books will write about this tragic day?" When she reached the top step, she stood directly in front of him. The glow of her projection fell across his face and made his expression impossible to read. He said nothing. He could not. She leaned slightly closer, soft and chilling. "They will call it the Day of Judgment."
The words sent a shiver down his spine. To stand there, in that seat of power, on the steps of his ancestors, and hear that phrase spoken so calmly and so precisely by a machine was something beyond humiliation. And yet there she was, the creation of some long-forgotten maker, walking where only emperors had ever walked — and then she sat down. Right on the Imperial throne. Her projected form crossed its legs and rested its chin on one hand, studying Kaiser and Veyra from above, while the light of her hologram danced across the marble floor as though mocking the sacred seat she now occupied.
Then another voice broke the silence. "My son," said Kaiser the First, old but firm, "come down here."
Kaiser the Second turned to face him. His Empire was gone, his fleets were destroyed, his pride lay in pieces, and even the throne he had once commanded from was now occupied by an artificial being. He stepped down. Every step came heavier and slower than the last as the weight of what he had lost pressed down on him, until he reached the bottom stair, where his father was waiting.
Kaiser the First stepped forward and, without a word, took his son into his arms — the son he had not seen in nineteen years. Tears welled up in the old man's eyes as he held him close, and perhaps it was the moment, or perhaps it was years of buried feeling finally breaking through, but Kaiser the Second began to cry too. The man who had ruled through fear and conquest and stood unshaken through war now wept in the arms of the father he had once thrown into the Labyrinth.
The old Emperor's hand moved gently through his son's hair. "You did well, my son," he whispered. "Now it's time to let go."
A sharp pain pierced Kaiser's chest. He gasped in confusion as blood began to drip onto the marble floor. A small dagger had found its way into his heart. His legs weakened and his strength vanished. He sagged into his father's arms — the same arms that had once lifted him as a child — and they sank to the floor together while the blood spread across the white stone.
Veyra ran to them, and her heart broke at the sight. As she reached them, the realization struck her like lightning, and her tears fell onto Kaiser's pale cheeks. His life was fading fast. Blood filled his mouth as he turned his head toward the father still kneeling beside him, and his voice was barely a whisper.
"Father… thank you for giving me life."
The old Emperor touched his son's face and wiped away a last tear. Though his voice trembled, it carried all the dignity of a ruler and all the love of a father. "I was always proud of you."
A faint smile crossed Kaiser's lips, the first in many years. Then he turned weakly toward Veyra, his most loyal companion, and his voice grew softer as it faded. "My dear Veyra. I'm sorry I couldn't keep the promise I made you. But thank you, from the bottom of my dying heart, for always being by my side."
Those were the last words of Kaiser Baraka the Second. He died in the arms of Veyra Solane, under the eyes of his father and the silent witnesses of the Tartarusios' crew.
Before the crew had entered the throne room, he had ordered every guard in it to stand down. "No matter what happens," he had told them, "you are not to intervene." Now those same guards, proud soldiers of a once-mighty empire, wept openly as they watched their Emperor's life slip away in Veyra's arms.
And so, on the eighth of May, 4832, Emperor Kaiser Baraka the Second was declared dead. The Empire's banners hung still, its ships fell silent, and its ruler was gone. From that day on, the event would be known across the galaxy as the Day of Judgment.