Prologue
As if it were an incomplete puzzle, everything seemed so clear and without reasonable doubt. Still, War Commander Torceran couldn't help but consider that even the smallest missing piece would turn the entire image upon its head and cause every concept woven within to crumble into dust. He paced the room, scraping uncertain hooves across a familiar patch of crushed grass and contemplating every piece of detail that he had. He did what he could to imagine those missing pieces like a mathematician sculpting a lifetime's work on a messy chalkboard with the most tentative of solutions.
((War Commander,)) spoke Ammarumor Horvallack. ((It's dangerous. I caution you that the Andal council may well see this as a threat not only to the alliance in question but all others. You threaten the integrity and loyalty of our people, or so it would seem to anybody outside of the military bubble.))
War Commander Torceran-Ehlar-Alaxalim stopped his pacing for the moment and looked down to the Ammarumor, his intimidating figure a striking contrast to the fragile-bodied politician. ((Integrity? Loyalty? The council of Andal, and indeed the Cross-Galactic Council, will understand that what I plan is in our own best interest, first and foremost. Not only that, but our enemies will not stop at us. The savages will pose a threat to any race, whether governed by the Cross-Galactic Council or not. You cannot cure a deadly plague with a weak antidote. You fight the merciless without mercy.))
The Ammarumor sighed, knowing that he would not defeat Torceran's stubbornness on this occasion. He spoke into the holographic computer system before him, the delicately worded plan destined to be stored away for only the eyes of the knowing.
((War Commander Torceran-Ehlar-Alaxalim, you will sign your name to this document?))
He had begun pacing again. Cold and stubborn as he was, he still felt nauseous deep down inside when a peeking stalk eye dashed over the plan that he had formulated. But this was what he'd been trained for: Tough decisions. There was never going to be an easy solution. There had never been. War was a terrible thing, and he knew that very well. He fought for his people, he felt for his people, and he killed for his people. That was what mattered.
((I sign my name, War Commander Torceran-Ehlar-Alaxalim, to this document. May the stars grant us the luck we need,)) he uttered with the confidence of his loyalty. ((Ammarumor Horvallack, do you approve of this course of action?))
((I do, War Commander.))
Horvallack entered the voice clips into the computer system to be tied forever to the document. Torceran retained his composure until Horvallack left the room to spread the news among a small few. The doubts remained deep within, the missing pieces of the puzzle still relentlessly tugging at his rock-solid ego.
He could see the picture so clearly, but those small, seemingly insignificant little holes were like gaping caverns in his dreams that night.
He knew the damage they could do, what they had already done. An entire empire had neglected those gaps before, and now the Yeerks were little more than history.
He vowed that he would not make the same mistake, but despite all his years of experience, his cunning, and his intellect, somehow he couldn't quite convince himself.