For the first time in history the Empire found itself fighting an enemy it could not defeat. Since its founding some fourteen thousand years ago back in the murky annals of time, its gradual conquest of the entire galaxy seemed inexorable.
Not that there were many enemies to defeat during the Expansion Era: the dreams of non-human sentient lifeforms in the galaxy remained unfulfilled. What they conquered were empty worlds—uninhabited star systems by the countless billions. Not many were deemed even remotely suitable for human habitation, and ever fewer were actually terra-formed and colonised.
When the spirit of discovery faded and humanity had conquered a better part of the four major arms of the Milky Way, they turned their attention inward and began the inevitable struggle to keep the Empire together. Their new enemy was itself, but no matter how many systems revolted, there were always periods of peace. Some even lasted across generations.
At least that sort of enemy is at least able to be defeated. You can find its weaknesses, chip away at its forces, meet it on a battlefield where at least you can find common ground in humanity. Above all, that sort of enemy can be understood.
This new one—it could not be. It was not human, nor was it guided by human logic. It had no human weaknesses, no chinks in the armour to chip away at.
Battles were not fought; they were lost. The enemy striked by an unknown weapon, a blink, and entire ships, navies, would disappear into the void. No human power could ever achieve such things.
The enemy could not be seen nor detected, and left no traces behind. In their wake there remained just an empty void and a missing army, millions of unaccounted for soldiers and ships. Nothing mankind had ever experienced could match this sort of incomprehensible power.
It began at the fringes of the Empire, and moved its way in. Patrols at first along the far borders disappearing one by one, which everyone played down as sheer accidents. Then, whole planet outposts. Suspicion, but not overly much for high command. Why should there be anything to worry about? Humanity had never encountered a real, sentient, enemy.
Then entire planets, star systems, went dark. Abruptly, without warning, communications stopped, and no one sent out to investigate ever returned. Only then did the Empire began to waken to its senses and its complacency—but it was too late. Their unseen enemy had already formed an enclosure about the galaxy, and was now drawing the net tighter.
All of humanity's combined intellect and technologies—quasi-stellar reactors, warp drives and curvature guns, every last drop of it—amounted to nothing. For the enemy was silent and invisible like an unlawful demon unchained from the depths of hell. They had no navies, no ships, no communications, no supply lines. No soldiers to capture, no intelligence to gather. Only a wavefront of inescapable destruction.
The Empire found itself on death throes, fighting an enemy it could not see nor touch.
Their greatest struggles were like throwing a pebble into the ocean. No, not even that, for at least that produces a ripple. Less, much less. Like trying to stop a planet's rotation with your own two hands placed upon the ground.
At the culmination of the final efforts, the Empire began an ambitious plan to salvage themselves from ruin.
——
"Have you ever heard of Chaos Theory, Princep?" One of the Councillors asked, his voice sounding hollow in the vast, unoccupied spaces of the Council room. The lights were all off as well, and the little natural light that seeped in through the windows cast the room in a dim grayness.
Gedding and thought for a moment before answering. "I cannot say I have, Councillor."
Benches lined both walls too, though not a single soul was sat in attention. In the middle a space had been cleared for a long table, and there two Council members were addressing Gedding. There were in total meant to be nine of them, but only two were in attendance now. Each of the Councillors were old, too old to be fighting but too valuable to be neglected, and it was hard to tell their genders apart. All of them were bald and completely smooth of any facial hair. A matter of tradition, apparently.
Gedding could not recognise a the two of the Councillors across him either, despite conferring with the Council only some half-year previously. Have the old ones died already?
The Councillor seemed to expect his answer. "You might know it by other names: Entropology, the Order-Disorder Postulate, the Laws of Dynamic Systems, Psychohistory…Not one sound familiar?"
Gedding shook his head, somewhat impatiently. "No."
The rest of the population had already been mobilised for the final defense of Achros, the Imperial capital of the Empire. Non-military had been evacuated long ago. Even the power had been redirected to the effort, powering shields, ships, and the likes, leaving even the Council room in shadows.
And as the Princep of War, the general in charge of the whole enterprise, he must be on the front fighting and directing. Not only as a matter of duty and of strategy, but of morale as well. He would be the one most sorely missed if this meeting dragged on.
Gedding tapped his fingers on the table. "Now, if you would kindly excuse me, I have a battle to direct."
"Do not be so impatient, Princep. Hear us out. I can assure you that what we have to say bears indelible importance." Another Councillor spoke up. Gedding could tell it was a woman by the inflection in her voice.
"About this so-called 'Chaos Theory'? Well can it help us win this war?" Gedding said sarcastically. Humanity had already tried everything in its now sorely depleted arsenal, and not one had worked against that unstoppable Dark Wave.
The Councillors suddenly nodded gravely.
"Yes, yes, indeed we believe it can." The man, who had first spoken to Gedding, stated.
"Councillors, I mean no offense, but I have heard that assertion all too often. The concentrated gamma laser, the black hole bomb; it all ended the same way. No weapon we have currently has ever worked." Gedding sighed.
The Councillor smiled the smile of a crooked businessman who knew he had finally trapped his victim.
"Ah, that is where our proposal differs."
He looked to Gedding, who motioned in turn for him to keep speaking.
"You see, let me introduce you to the Zeroth Law of Chaos: small changes in the state of the past can have an enormous impact on the state of the future."
Gedding frowned. "Of course it does, that's just common sense right? I fail to see how that's even remotely relevant."
"But what if we can change the past?"
"You can't. I can't. Nobody can. It's utterly impossible. With all due respect Councillor, the greatest and brightest minds of the Empire have tried to time travel backwards for a few thousand years with no hints of success, and I doubt that we'll have success in the few days until the Empire is wiped out completely!"
Gedding, in his building annoyance, found himself unwittingly stood up and out of his chair, ready to leave. "Now, if you'll excuse me."
"Princep." The Councillor said suddenly. "Take a seat."
Gedding turned back around but remained standing behind his chair. A slight smile remained on the Councillor's lips. "You do not know the entire picture, Princep. It is not your fault, as very few know the whole truth. Perhaps it is only the two of us before you who do."
"What truth? Why would I, the Princep of War, not know it?"
The Councillor leaned in. "That time travel to the past is possible."
Gedding could only answer with a stunned silence. The Councillor's following words he could only vaguely sense, and the only thought that ran through his mind was the fact that perhaps now mankind had a shot at victory. Change the past, change the future.
"The two of us are scientists, Princep, and have devoted ourselves to establishing a complete, practical Theory of Chaos. We have spent almost four thousand years on it, working in utter isolation, setting up computers the size of planets to run calculations lasting for hundreds of years at a time, then zipping away at relativistic speeds. Four thousand years, and we have the barest groundwork of a grand theory. A theory that can explain everything in the universe through the mechanisms of chaos!
"But, then the Dark Wave arrived, and we were recalled. We have run out of time, General, and now I can only hope that what we have discovered so far is enough to ensure the survival of humanity. The only way we can beat the impossible is with the impossible.
"We will be sending you back in time."
Gedding tried to make his mind calm a little, but still felt a throbbing giddiness in his chest. Anticipation. Hope, perhaps.
The other Councillor cut in. "General, surely you have heard about how all humanity once originated from a single planet?"
Gedding mutely nodded.
"The history is accurate, General, and we will be sending you back then, to a world before the Empire, before humanity had become a space-faring species. That is your final assignment. The struggles you will face will be immense-"
"Why me?" Gedding blurted out, then, realising his lapse in etiquette, hurriedly followed on. "I'm sure there are men more qualified, more knowledgeable than me. Why not yourself? You must know the ins and outs of changing the past better than me."
"We are all old, General, and either way, we are thinking men, not fighting men. Our part is done. We made chaos a theory. You need to make it a weapon. You will be able to see the path to victory better than us, what conditions need to be changed in the past and what not. Then, simply put the ball into motion. The past determines-"
"-the future." Gedding interrupted. "I get it. But what about causality? The grandfather paradox?"
The Councillor smiled and leaned back.
"We have pieced together a single fact that lends us our complete confidence in you. Your travel to the past, should you chose to accept your mission, will be a rather special event in time. We call it a temporal anchor point. This means that no matter what happens, this event will always occur. In fact, the universe will force it to happen. Even if you kill your ancestors your consciousness will still be born somehow and sent back through the loop.
"General, it seems that fate smiles upon us kindly. It has gifted us a chance at survival, because there lies a power to alter the inevitable course of history right in front of us.
"However, I must warn you that this is both a blessing and a curse. The fact that such an anchor point exists means that you will be trapped in an endless loop with. You will have to continually be sent back to the past, and ensure that the Naxian threat does not eventuate each and every time. Infinitely many times perhaps. I do not know of a way to escape such a loop. It is your choice to make.
Gedding's expression hardened. "Is this our only hope?"
"Even I admit that it's quite a long shot and a gamble, but the payoff is enormous. Do you agree with our plan?"
Gedding fell silent, and the Councillors similarly waited silently for an answer. Gedding knew his answer already in his heart—to a soldier, there is no higher calling than his own duty. He fiddled with the coats of his uniform.
He accepted.
——
The Councillors all stood, and directed Gedding off one of the wings of the Council room.
Inside, there was only a laboratory bench with two strange metal clumps on it.
The Councillor silently conducted Gedding to the two metal objects. Gedding, now closer, could identify one of them.
"A positive curvature field projector." Gedding said, and he received an affirmative nod in return. "And this...?"
He picked the other one up and weighed it in his hand. It was fit just barely into his palm, was not overly hefty, and shaped like a lopsided balloon. He did not recognise it at all.
"That is the fruit of our efforts." The Councillor said proudly. He turned away to tap away at a control panel on the other side of the bench.
"What is it?"
"A second heart." The Councillor didn't look up from the screen. "Hold it against your chest. It might be painful but bear with it."
Gedding did so, and the metal heart seemed to turn into a silvery metal just as it came into contact with his uniform and melded into his chest. A burst of sharp warmth emanated from where it had entered his body, not exactly painful but certainly uncomfortable. That sensation soon disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and he felt no different.
"What does it do?" Gedding said.
"That will allow you to control the powers of chaos. Whatever that means we have absolutely no idea. But you'll figure that out, Princep. Pick up the curvature projector. It's slightly modified. Once you activate it, you will be sent off to the past."
Gedding retrieved it. Two plates of metal between which a negative energy density would be produced, bending space outwards, and which was one half of the curvature drives which powered spaceships. It was much smaller than any other projector he had ever seen, and there was a little button off the side.
He looked up at the Councillor. The old man smiled, this time genially, with eyes of respect. He backed away from the control panel, and regarded Gedding.
"I admire you, Gedding. Not many men are man enough to sign themselves off to a struggle to which there is no end and no escape. Should you succeed, I think to no other human being in history would so much be owed by all of humanity."
The Councillor saluted Gedding.
"Princep, when you are ready."
"You are wrong about one thing, Councillor. There is an end. An old military maxim puts it well. There is always an end—when we achieve complete and absolute victory."
Gedding activated the projector, and with a strange burst of darkness, the world around him twisted and fell apart. And with another burst of light, a new world came to meet his eyes.