Agent Victor
an excerpt

Victor's shuttle departed the Villenawi transport for the surface of Obidron Del Caspic. After landing in a dirt clearing in the forest, as per the co-ordinates he had been given, Victor disembarked and began to make his way along the dirt track that led from the clearing. Two miles later, after a slight bend in the track and over a small hill, the Great Temple came into view, its white stonework glistening in the morning sunlight. Colourful birds skwarked loudly among the treetops, and climbing mammals swung this way and that, whooping and chortling.
Victor now stood at the foot of the Temple, humbled by its sheer size, and started to make his way up the two hundred steps up the side of the enormous ziggurat that led to the doorway at the top, which from this distance looked far too small for any human to enter. He had to stop half-way up for a rest, and, after taking a drink of water, continued his way to the top.
Once at the top, the doorway in front of him revealed itself, as expected, to be perfectly large enough for a human to enter. Indeed, it could easily have admitted three humans standing on top of each other. The doors were open, and so he made his way inside the large but unlit chamber.
“Welcome, traveller,” said a voice.
Occupying a large stone chair in the centre of the room was a slender figure in a long white robe, his head so large as to give the impression the body beneath might have difficulty supporting it. The face that adorned the head took up a mere third of the area it had been given, squished into the bottom of the upturned egg-shape as if it were the sand in an hourglass that had only 20 minutes left to go. Victor estimated that if the figure bothered to stand, it would reveal itself to be at least 8 feet tall. This was an Obididan, and it was a humbling experience indeed. No human had spoken face-to-face with an Obididan for well over a million years, before humans had become space-faring.
“Good morning. I am Victor,” Victor introduced himself, bowing respectfully, and feeling a little bit weak at the knees.
“Ah. Victor the Trinquaxi,” responded the Obididan.
“I come from Xlantelantin.”
“You look like a Trinquaxi,” said the Obididan, “and you are speaking Trinquaxi. I know that much, because I am also replying to you in Trinquaxi.”
“I am Trinquaxi by descent,” explained Victor, “Xlantelantan by birth.”
“Very well, Victor of Xlantelantin. What do you seek?”
“Are you the High Priest?”
“No...” the Obididan elongated the 'o' as if he were posing a riddle to a small child.
“Is the High Priest here?” asked Victor.
“No...”
“Are you waiting for the High Priest?”
“No...”
Victor struggled to think what to ask next. It would be rather troublesome if his excursion turned out to be in vain. The Obididan broke the silence.
“I am waiting,” he said. “for you to answer my question.”
“Your question?”
“What do you seek?”
Victor felt a little silly, and got the distinct impression this was some sort of test. “I seek the High Priest.”
“There is no High Priest,” replied the Obididan, “only me.”
“Then may I ask,” enquired Victor, “who you are?”
“Yes,” came the reply, “you may.”
Victor looked down at some pebbles just inside the doorway, as if they would give him some clues. Is this the way they always play?
“Who are you?” he finally asked.
“I am the Temple Guardian.”
“And to whom do you answer?”
The Obididan leaned forwards in his seat, hands on the arm rests, his silver-white skin glistening in the rays of sun that shone in through the open doorway. “Any who ask.”
This could prove to be a very long day, thought Victor.
“I wish to speak,” announced Victor, attempting to adopt an authoritative manner, “with your highest elder, your most wise.”
“Ha! Haha!” cackled the Temple Guardian. “I will do. Indeed, any of us will do. Any monk in the courtyard could most likely answer anything you could think of to ask. We are all wise here, I think you will find. You do what you humans are prone to do. You always ask too deep, never content with what is in front of your own eyes. Do not dismiss me off-hand just because I am the first you meet. Please, come.”
The Guardian stood, and walked with cat-like grace towards a closed door at the back of the room. The door opened, and they passed through a sequence of identical dimly-lit rooms until they reached a large chamber at the end. The room was lit by a domed skylight in the ceiling, beneath which was a circle of upholstered stone seats. The Guardian chose one, and beckoned to Victor to sit in the next one, which he did.
“Now.” said the Guardian, “what is it that troubles you?”
Victor sighed. Where to start?
“I have come in search of knowledge. Specifically, knowledge of history. You are an ancient race, and have experienced a great deal. My people need to know about the Dalomori.”
“The Dalomori? Oh yes, old friends, old friends. Of a sort. You know, the sort you never really got on with, but when you think back, you get all nostalgic and wish for the old times again?”
“And the Grey Men.”
The Obididan's face fell. Grey Men is, of course, not their official title, but the old Guardian nevertheless knew exactly what Victor was referring to.
“The Grey Men, as you call them, were a menace. Spiritual carrion-eaters. The Dalomori knew them well.”
“I have been reading, amongst other things, the Zalagerian books of the Oracles. They seem to mention the Dalomori. But how did the Barajh-Alh know of the Dalomori? Were they ever on Zalager? And what were they doing there?”
“Oh yes, the Dalomori were in all sorts of places. As for how the Barajh-Alh knew about events that happened more than a million years before they developed the capacity of language – a mutual friend. Someone you have met, several times.”
Socious? Thought Victor, did he himself inspire the Books of the Oracles? And how many other works of prophecy?
The Guardian continued. “What I am about to tell you is not in any Book of the Oracles. It was, at one time. It has been edited out since. No Barajh-Alh wants to know what it used to say. They were not the firstborn of Zalager.”
“Not the firstborn?”
“No. There was another sentient race on Zalager, two million years ago. The ancestors of the Barajh-Alh were at that time the equivalent of your dogs. Tamed, domesticated, the pets and workmates of the ruling civilisation. The predecessors of the Barajh-Alh were the Vrast-Vrouga's best friend. And what became of the Vrast-Vrouga? The Dalomori wiped them out. Every last bit. Destroyed. Obliterated.”
“Why?” Victor was shocked.
“Because they were decadent! The only bit they left... you may have heard of it... the so-called 'Cathedral' at Agrath Tep. Cathedral! How unfitting. A cathedral to wealth! It was a casino and luxury hotel. All the richest, most influential Vrast-Vrouga were there, for it was festival time, and they were busy gorging themselves and putting gemstones on spinning wheels when the destroyers arrived. They didn't even know until the next morning, when they woke up and discovered everything else was gone. They all died of starvation within a month, despite being on a planet blooming with life and energy; they were just too decadent to know what to do with it, or so self-important they flat-out refused to do it. Their 'dogs', on the other hand, they knew exactly what to do. No Barajh-Alh wants to know they are the descendants of the dogs of a decadent people, and so, that part of Oracles was declared heresy, and burned. None of it remains.”
“They wiped out an entire people, simply because they were decadent?”
“Ha! Hahaha!” laughed the Guardian, a sinister sort of laugh. “They wiped out half the galaxy! Oh yes! And we let them!”
Victor could barely contain his astonishment. Morbid though it was – and how he wished he did not believe a word of it – it was all beginning to sink in, to fit together. And the Grey Men! As if the Guardian could read minds, he spoke again:
“The Grey Men, as you call them. Decadence is their feast. The turmoil of a people thrown into an artificial existence, where nothing seems to make any sense anymore. Not knowing what to believe or who to turn to, everyone turns to either hedonism or depression, or both, depending on their means. The difference is academic. The Grey Men are there to suck out the very life force of every individual not at the top of the pile. They tried it with the Dalomori, and it didn't work.”
“Why not?”
“Because tyranny is their nature! To live under the iron fist of an autocratic state that denies the individual – that is their very Utopia! When they are bored they demand more work, not less. They are the very polar opposite of decadent. The only way the Grey Men ever got a hold is when they tried to seed a revolution, which of course the state put down mercilessly.”
“Oh...” Victor suddenly went pale.
“The Dalomori swept across the Galaxy, annihilating every single decadent culture they came across. Until they got to us. Obidida was having a terrible time back home at that point. The core territories were in a state of social unrest and the Confederacy was forced to shrink back to the mere third of the galaxy it now occupies. The Grey Men disappeared, we know not to where, but before they did, they planted some 'seeds', scattered here and there. A species they found, in some other galaxy, that fitted their needs perfectly. They're something of a contradiction in nature. They love nothing more than to subjugate others, and yet they hate nothing more than being subjugated themselves. What a perfect find! A sheep that spawns its own shepherds! A fruit that not only distributes itself liberally about the galaxy, but prepares itself for the dinner table!”
“Humans?”
The Guardian smiled a wry smile, and bowed his head low, as if in respect. “We were watching you, in the old days. We tried to enlighten your ancestors, teach them peace. But we had to leave, when they were barely civilised. They will be back, the Grey Men, to reap their crop, when it is ready. And it will not pass the Dalomori by.”
“They are back,” uttered Victor, with sheer dread in his voice.

Victor's shuttle lifted off from the capital world of the Obidron, and, unusually for Victor, he let it make its own way back to the orbitting Villenawi transport on autopilot.