The temporary meeting chamber for the League delegates had originally been the home of the first Viceroy, Bovko Manresa. Before the Titans had taken over the weak Old Empire, Manresa had built the mansion on then-isolated Salusa Secundus as a way of celebrating wealth garnered from his planetary land dealings. Later, when refugee humans began arriving, driven out by the cruel rule of the Twenty Titans, the big house had become a meeting hall, with chairs and a lectern set up in the grand ballroom, as they were today.

Months ago, within hours of the cymek attack, Viceroy Butler had stood on a pile of rubble beneath the broken central dome of the Hall of Parliament. While the poisonous dust settled in the streets and fires still blazed in damaged buildings, he had vowed to repair the venerable old facility that had served the League for centuries.

The governmental edifice was more than just a building: It was hallowed ground on which legendary leaders had debated great ideas and formulated plans against the machines. The damage to the roof and upper floors was severe, but the basic structure remained sound. Just like the human spirit it represented.

It was a frosty morning outside, with fog on the windows. Leaves on the hills had begun to turn lovely autumn shades of yellow, orange, and brown. Serena and the representatives came inside the temporary meeting hall, still clinging to their coats.

She gazed at the walls of the crowded old ballroom, at paintings of long-dead leaders and depictions of past victories. She wondered what the future would bring, and what her place might be in it. She wanted so badly to do something, to help in the great crusade of humankind.

Most of her life she had been an activist, always willing to get her hands dirty, to assist in aiding the victims of other tragedies such as natural disasters or machine attacks. Even during pleasant times, she had joined the work crews of harvesters to pick grapes from the Butler estate vineyards or olives from the gnarled groves.

She took a seat in the first row, then watched as her soft-featured father made his way across the wood parquet floor to the antique lectern. Viceroy Butler was followed by a monk in a red-velvet tunic carrying a large plexiplaz container that held a living human brain in viscous electrafluid. The monk lovingly placed the container on an ornate table beside the lectern, then stood beside it.

From her front-row seat, Serena saw the pinkish gray tissue undulate slightly within the pale-blue life-support liquid. Separated from the senses and distractions of the physical world for more than a millennium, stimulated by constant intense contemplation, the female Cogitor’s once-human brain had grown larger than its original size.

“The Cogitor Kwyna does not often leave the City of Introspection,” Viceroy Butler said, sounding both formal and excited. “But in these times we require the best thoughts and advice. If any mind can understand the thinking machines, it will be Kwyna’s.”

These esoteric disembodied philosophers were seen so infrequently that many League representatives did not understand how they managed to communicate. Compounding the mystery that surrounded them, Cogitors rarely said much, choosing instead to marshall their energies and contribute only the most important thoughts.

“The Cogitor’s Secondary will speak for Kwyna,” the Viceroy said, “if she has any insights to offer.”

Beside the brain canister, the red-robed monk removed the sealed lid, exposing the agitated viscous fluid. Blinking his round eyes rapidly, he stared into the tank. Slowly, the monk slid one naked hand into the soup, immersing his fingers. He closed his eyes, drawing deep breaths, as he tentatively touched the convoluted brain. His brows furrowed with concentration and acceptance as the electrafluid soaked into his pores, linking the Cogitor with the Secondary’s neural system, using him as an extension in much the same way cymeks used artificial mechanical bodies.

“I understand nothing,” said the monk in a strange, distant voice. Serena knew that was the first principle the Cogitors adopted, and the contemplative brains spent centuries in deep study, adding to that sense of nothingness.

Centuries before the original Titans, a group of spiritual humans had enjoyed studying philosophy and discussing esoteric issues, but too many frailties and temptations of the flesh inhibited their ability to concentrate. In the ennui of the Old Empire, these metaphysical scholars had been the first to have their brains installed in life-support systems. Freed of biological constraints, they spent all their time learning and thinking. Each Cogitor wanted to study the entirety of human philosophy, bringing together the ingredients to understand the universe. They lived in ivory towers and contemplated, rarely bothering to note the superficial relationships and events of the mundane world.

Kwyna, the two-thousand-year-old Cogitor who resided in Salusa’s City of Introspection, claimed to be politically neutral. “I am ready to interact,” she announced through the monk, who stared with glazed eyes at the assembly. “You may begin.”

With intense blue eyes, Viceroy Butler gazed around the packed ballroom, pausing to look at a number of faces, including Serena’s. “My friends, we have always lived under the threat of annihilation, and now I must ask every one of you to devote your time, energies, and money to our cause.”

He gave tribute to the tens of thousands of Salusans who had died in the cymek onslaught, along with fifty-one visiting dignitaries. “The Salusan Militia remains on full alert here, and messenger ships have been dispatched to all League Worlds, warning them of the danger. We can only hope that no other planets were attacked.”

The Viceroy then called upon Tio Holtzman, recently arrived after nearly a month in transit from his laboratories on Poritrin. “Savant Holtzman, we are anxious to hear your assessment of the new defenses.”

Holtzman had been eager to inspect his orbital scrambler fields, to see how they might be modified and improved. On Poritrin, the flamboyant nobleman Niko Bludd funded the Savant’s research. Given his past accomplishments, League members always held out the hope that Holtzman would pull some other miracle out of his pocket.

Slight of body, Holtzman moved with grace and an enormous stage presence, wearing clean and stylish robes. The iron gray hair that hung to his shoulders was square-cut, framing a narrow face. A man of immense confidence and ego, he loved to speak to important dignitaries in the Parliament, but now he appeared uncharacteristically troubled. In truth, the inventor could not bring himself to admit a mistake. Unquestionably, his scrambler network had failed. The cymeks had broken through! What would he say to these people who had relied on him?

Reaching the speaking platform, the great man cleared his throat and looked around, glancing oddly at the imposing presence of the Cogitor and the looming attendant monk. This was a most delicate matter. How could he shift the blame from himself?

The scientist used his best voice. “In warfare, whenever one side makes a technological breakthrough, the other attempts to top it. We recently witnessed this with my atmospheric scrambler fields. Had they not been installed here, the full thinking machine fleet would have laid waste to Salusa. Unfortunately, I did not factor in the unique abilities of the cymeks. They found a chink in the armor and penetrated it.”

No one had accused him of lax work or poor planning, but this was the closest Holtzman would come to admitting that he had overlooked a major flaw. “Now it is our turn to surpass the machines with a new concept. I hope to be inspired by this tragedy, pushing my creativity to its limits.” He then stalled and looked embarrassed, even endearing. “I’ll be working on that, as soon as I get back to Poritrin. I hope to have a surprise for you very soon.”

A tall, statuesque woman glided toward the lectern, drawing attention to herself. “Perhaps I have a suggestion.” She had pale eyebrows, white hair, and luminous skin that made her seem ethereal, but charged with power.

“Let us hear from the women of Rossak. I gladly yield to Zufa Cenva.” Looking relieved, Holtzman hurried back to his seat and slumped into it.

The pale woman carried an air of mystery about her; she wore glowing jewelry on a black, diaphanous gown that revealed much of her perfect body. Pausing at the Cogitor’s life-support case, Zufa Cenva peered inside at the enlarged brain. Her brow furrowed as she concentrated, and as she did so, the brain itself seemed to vibrate; the electrafluid swirled, bubbles formed. Alarmed, the devout attendant monk withdrew his hand from the liquid.

The tall woman relaxed, satisfied, and stepped to the podium. “Because of oddities in our environment, many of the females born on Rossak exhibit enhanced telepathic abilities.” Indeed, the powerful Sorceresses of the dense, barely habitable jungles had parlayed their mental quirks into political influence. Rossak men exhibited no such telepathic enhancements.

“The League of Nobles was formed a thousand years ago for our mutual defense, first against the Titans and then against Omnius. Since then, we have barricaded ourselves, trying to protect our worlds from the enemy.” Her eyes flashed like highly polished stones. “We need to rethink this strategy. Perhaps it is time for us to take the offensive against the Synchronized Worlds. Otherwise, Omnius and his minions will never leave us alone.”

The League representatives muttered at this, looking fearful, especially after the devastation Zimia had just endured. The Viceroy was first to respond. “That is a bit premature, Madame Cenva. I’m not sure we have the capability.”

“We barely survived the last attack!” a man shouted. “And we had only a handful of cymeks to contend with.”

Manion Butler looked deeply concerned. “Confronting Omnius would be a suicide mission. What weapons would we use?”

In response, the imposing woman squared her shoulders and spread her hands, while closing her eyes and concentrating. Although Zufa was known to have extrasensory powers, she had never before displayed them in Parliament. Her milky pale skin seemed to heat up with an inner light. The air in the enclosed chamber stirred, and static electricity crackled around the assemblage, making hair stand on end.

Lightning flickered at her fingertips, as if she were holding a barely contained thunderstorm inside herself. Her own white hair coiled and writhed like snakes. When Zufa’s eyes opened again, a dazzling energy seemed ready to shoot out of them, as if the universe lived behind her pupils.

Gasps echoed through the delegates. Serena’s skin crawled and her scalp tingled, as if a thousand poisonous spiders skittered over her mind. In her preservation tank, the Cogitor Kwyna churned.

Then Zufa relaxed, throttling back the chain reaction of mental energy. Letting out a long, cold breath, the Sorceress smiled grimly at the startled onlookers. “We have a weapon.”