And they talked. And as they talked, the tribes listened. They listened and they wondered, and they were filled with awe and reverence for these strange, graceful beings with their words of unity and progress.

And the gates of Fio’taun opened, so the legend went, and the tribes met unarmed for the first time, and their leaders were seated at a mighty round table named Chia’Gor. And the Auns talked until the spokesmen of the tribes summoned the courage to participate. And slowly, so gradually that even the fiery plains tribes were gently coaxed into harmony, the tau’va was born.

And so it had remained. The Aun’chia’gor had become a sensible paradigm for the meeting of the castes: wherever the five aspect pathways of the race were represented its simple procedures were rigidly observed. The table was a ring— a halo of artfully decorated materials, each appropriate to a single caste. The four “elemental” classes each occupied a quarter of the ring’s boundary, a single speaker surrounded by lesser aides and advisors.

Tyra took his place at the centre of the air caste segment, a polished, voidlike swathe of dark tinted moriin-resin, filled with icy impurities and glimmering nebulae of coloured dyes, and nodded to each of the other top ranking delegates in turn.

To his left, rigidly composed as if fresh from the parade-ground, Shas’o Udas drummed his fingers on the fire caste tabletop segment, a rough-hewn conglomerate of ruby and amber, and pursed his lips. Two shas’vres stood to attention on either side of him.

To Tyra’s right sat the vessel’s earth caste representatives, squat and wide with flat, open faces and bulky, simple clothing. At their centre was Fio’el Boran, clutching a data wafer in his extraordinary artificial arm, traceries of silver and gold decorating its eight-fingered hand. His aides whispered to one another, lowly, uncomfortable in such formalised society. Their segment of the table was perhaps the most stunning of all: a single block of juntaa-stone, inscribed with an astonishing filigree of flowing patterns and mandalas.

And directly opposite Tyra, seated comfortably and chatting affably with her equally at ease assistants, was Por’el T’au Yis’ten, the vessel’s foremost water caste diplomat. Her group wore simple but colourful robes that turned their corner of the room into a riot of shades and hues. Elegant jewellery adorned their necks and wrists and domed pol hats were arranged at jaunty angles atop their braided locks of hair. As if in direct contrast to their gaudy appearance, their section of the table was a simple block of silver dusted j’kaara, perfect mirrors on every surface. Tyra thought it most appropriate: the Por were renowned for their ability to adapt to any situation, reflecting and imitating those around them.

The Aun’el, of course, was central.

Alone in the barren space between the arc segments of the table, lit from above by a single light drone, Aun’el T’au Ko’vash devoured the attention of every individual and returned it in kind: a glowing beacon of certainty and assurance that calmed every nerve and soothed every impatience. He took small steps as he talked, turning from group to group, showing as much consideration to one caste as any other. His staff of office, a delicately ornamented honour blade set upon a tall cane of fio’tak, tapped out a rhythm as he moved, giving his words a metered, songlike rituality.

“...would certainly seem their attempts to slow our progress have failed,” he was saying, “Path be praised. Nonetheless, let us not celebrate nor shield ourselves from the enormity of what the gue’la have undertaken this rotaa.” The Aun swivelled in his spot, ancient gaze settling upon the rigid fire caste quarter of the room. “Shas’o, if you would begin?”

O’Udas nodded brusquely, rising to his feet and clearing his throat.

“Honoured tau’fann,” he began, using the age-old address for members of alternate castes, and half-bowing. This episode has cost us dearly.

“We estimate thirty per cent losses amongst the line troops. There’s a full cadre at least, maybe two, still tied up on the planet. The further we move from orbit, the harder it becomes to retrieve them.”

The Aun nodded thoughtfully.

“Still,” the general went on, rubbing his calloused knuckles. “We’ve brought the boarding crisis under control and the power core is secure. A near thing, by all accounts, but we’re stronger for it.

“I’ve compiled a status paradigm with the assistance of the AI, taking into account the strength and deployment of our resources. With your permission, tau’fann, I should like to propose a retaliatory strike within the d—”

Por’el Yis’ten scoffed loudly, rolling her eyes. Tyra, watching her exaggerated performance with interest, reminded himself of the flamboyant reputation of the water caste, traditionally a point of enmity with the characteristically austere fire caste.

“El’Yis’ten?” the ethereal purred, turning to face her. “You wish to comment?”

She slouched upright and tossed her hair braids over her shoulder. Tyra had to admit that her beauty — legendary throughout the ship — was enough to drive any male to consider breaking caste. He quashed the thought with an embarrassed cough, wondering vaguely when his next summons from the Propagation Department would arrive. The Fio’os back on T’au, preoccupied with “optimum genetic compatibility”, orchestrated inter-caste couplings without prejudice or emotion, but still... Tyra found himself musing enviously upon which lucky por’el male would discover his name beside that of El’Yis’ten on the summons form. He snapped himself from the reverie with a guilty wince as she began to speak.

“Retaliation seems a little... premature, tau’fann,” she trilled, smiling warmly. “I’d never attempt, of course, to counsel the honoured shas’o in his duty—”

“Huh,” O’Udas grunted, a little too loud.

“But the arithmetic seems comprehensive. The gue’la fleet is, how can I put this? Extensive. We are but a single — damaged — warship.”

“Then how,” O’Udas interjected, “do you propose to dissuade them from chasing us all the way back to the spacedock at Rann? A pleasant chat over a cup of j’hal nectar?”

“As it happens,” El’Yis’ten returned, “we have been attempting to contact the gue’la vessels. Is it not said that ‘no enemy is beyond the reason of the tau’va’?”

The Aun’el dipped his head in her direction, clearly gratified by her knowledge of the sio’t. “There are some who might disagree,” he said with a nod, “but the gue’la are not fools. They are, perhaps, ignorant — even shortsighted — but we must strive to forgive them their faults. They are the product of their history, not of their choice. We must attempt not to hate them.”

“Tell me, Por’el. Have your entreaties achieved any success?”

Yis’ten appeared to deflate, all of her cocksure confidence deserting her in the face of the ethereal’s attention.

“No, Aun’el. Our hails are either ignored or returned with viral data streams. Nothing threatening to our systems, of course, but hardly a diplomatic victory. I’m confident that if I can converse with ranking personnel rather than the machine constructs manning the comms I could make some headway.”

“Mm.” The Aun’el pursed his lips. “Ifs and buts, Por’el. Ifs and buts.” He swivelled in his spot again, turning to the Fio caste.

“El’Boran?” he invited. “Anything to report?”

The engineer took a final glance at his data wafer and stood, obviously uncomfortable at the attention. His voice was a characteristic earth caste burr.

“Yes...” he said, scratching at his chin. “The damage to the power stack seems minimal, despite everything. I’ve sent a crew down to find out what the gue’la were up to in there. Nothing major, we don’t think.”

“Full speed?” the Aun’el asked, tilting his head.

“Two decs. Maybe three. As for the ship... I’d say we’re probably structurally sound — no more breaches — provided we can dry dock in, oh, two rotaa, maximum?”