“He says,” I continued, “that when He died He left, and existed only in His universe for a few moments, but He still remembered this one. He understands now that in His universe He’s always had the memories of His life in this one as Jehovah Mason, but without being born and experiencing time He couldn’t understand before how to sort those memories linearly, they were just thoughts and opinions to Him, not a continuity. Now that He’s had a chance to pass in and out of this universe and time again, He recognizes the memories for what they are. He’s always had them… well, there is no ‘always’ without time, but they’re part of Him, His Personality, His Self. He says those memories helped form the judgments He used in making His Own Universe. He says living here is what taught Him how to make it different there, better, richer. He used to think it was cruel making Him live here, but He sees now it was the only way This Universe’s God could find to reach out and share the example of His Creation, so Jehovah could respond and grow. The beginning of their Great Conversation. He says… He…” I groped for words to do His feelings justice, but how could I? Imagine yourself a child born blind and deaf, who has spent all your life in pain, but you realize now that that pain, that burn, that stab in the dark that has never let up, was the only means a desperate kinsman could find to prove that you are not alone. I don’t understand why it must be so hard for Gods to reach Each Other. Perhaps because Each is omnipotent within the perimeter of Its Own Mind, and reaching Another requires conceiving something outside One’s Self, not easy when there are no senses, no external world, no hands driven by instinct to grope and reach out, and no ‘out.’ Whatever it takes for Utopia to make First Contact across the sea of stars, a thousand years’ research, a thousand years frozen in flight, a thousand thousand lives, it will still be an expansion of the infant’s first grope toward what lies beyond its reach; this was harder. “He says He’ll return the favor if He can.”

The Emperor did not have time for metaphysics. “What will you do now, Fili?”

This was, for once, easy. “He doesn’t know. While He was in His universe He remembered His whole life, before and after His first death, but here He remembers only the past.”

His father frowned. “I meant, what do you intend to do?”

“He says He will accept the powers offered Him,” I answered, “and face His enemy. He says Sniper must…” I choked. “Sniper must die.”

You will not be surprised, reader, to find His mother beaming with delight to hear her Masterpiece’s defect—His fear of killing—finally corrected. Are you surprised to learn that His Imperial father smiled too? You should not be. He who wears that black sleeve, he who limps still from the cruel testing enforced by his predecessor, knows that certain strengths are necessary in a ruler.