“The authorities in astronomical chronology made their calculations and announced their expert results. The authorities in pottery took the results of the specialists’ computation as a firm base on which to build. Authorities in the history of art, religion, philology, and history in general followed. Difficulties were swept away. Thus there came into existence an elaborate entrenched system, rooted in fallacy, that bears very little resemblance to the real past.” ~Mortals in Amnesia: Vol VI: The Test of Time, by Yman Veli’kosyk

“What do you mean he was exsanguinated?!” asked Ulm-Aaa-Janzikek of the Historical Council. “Why wasn’t this information made public two years ago at the time of death?”

Janzikek was a reptilian Tiss’shar and one of the rare Isk-ar albinos. Known for his seminal work, Minds and Perceptions: A Comparative Study of Persuasive Techniques During the Galactic Civil War, he was also one of the Historical Council’s most perspicacious… and tenacious members.?

“Chandrilan authorities are not accustomed to crimes of that sort,” Voren Na’al replied. As Archivist Emeritus of the Historical Society and one of the leading members of the Historical Council, Na’al was to serve as an impartial moderator on the matter of releasing the late Arhul Hextrophon’s final work to the public, though many questioned that impartiality. As a younger man, he had been Hextrophon’s protégé, and they had remained friends over the years. “That Hextrophon had been a Major, Executive Secretary, and Master Historian for Alliance High Command meant that both Galactic Alliance and Chandrilan security forces were involved. With each wanting a clean field in which to investigate, it was decided to keep the media out for a time. Then came the Swarm War, and we found ourselves facing more immediate concerns.”

“This information, while unpleasant, changes nothing,” Abric Hanapen complained. A long-standing member of the Council, the Velmoc had complained long and loud several times already. “By his own admission, Hextrophon’s final years were spent on a ghost hunt, travelling to strange galactic corners in search of fairy tales. There’s no telling what enemies he might have made. I see no correlation between the manner of his death and any so-called ‘prophetic’ component in his writings.”

“Then you’re blind!” Mungo Baobab spat. “If you read the journal, as you claimed, you’d see that the manner of death is exactly as Hextrophon wrote would occur. Or are you purposely trying to obfuscate the facts?”

“Mr. Baobab,” cautioned long-time Council member Donn Gulek, Chief Historian of the Kellmer Institute of Galactic History. “I’m certain we don’t need to remind you that as an honorary member, you were asked here to observe and provide testimony—not lob accusations against voting members of the Council.”

With the decorum borne from decades in the intergalactic art and antiquities, the elderly but still energetic Baobab proferred an apology. His wife, Auren, squeezed his hand and gave him a private smile. She knew that her husband was at that moment kicking himself for having retired from active participation on the Council. It had been a?necessary evil caused by the stress they’d unvaryingly caused. He’d had an easier time on Roon fighting Governor Koong.

Na’al sympathized. For all their purported civility, the Council could behave like wild neks at times, and so far, at least half had bared their fangs. If this was how the Senate debated, it was a wonder anything got accomplished…

Only two hours into the second day of debate, and the Council remained more divided than ever, with neither side making much headway. Everyone was supposed to have read the controversial journal in question, colloquially titled different things by different people. Some called it The Cosmic Wars of Ancient Skyriver, The Last Days of Arhul Hextrophon, or Supernatural Encounters, but most simply called it “Hextrophon’s Manuscript.” Na’al surmised that the majority hadn’t actually read it and knew of it only by hearsay and whatever sensational or exaggerated reports were told to them by the few that had. Given that the galaxy had become tantalized by the secrets of the mysterious journal, no doubt fueled by the newsnets’ charges of “suppression” on the part of the Council, not to mention the recent Killik activity (one of the ancient races that the document touched on) and the revelation of Hextrophon’s murder. It had become a matter that could no longer be ignored or delayed.

The manuscript could be released by any one of Hextrophon’s supporters, and several publishing houses had expressed interest in distributing it, but given his reputation, that would be a sign of rejection on the part of the Council itself, which would be taken to mean they deemed the work spurious; an ignominious fate for he who’d been one of the most celebrated members of the Council. On the other hand, the Council could publish it, but any individual member had the right to forego their personal affidavit or the official attestation of their university. This was not uncommon, of course, as historians frequently disagreed, but in this case—with so large a number of members against the work—many would undoubtedly withhold their avouchment and publicly disavow it, which would give the impression that Na’al and his companions were playing favorites and, in effect, render the work spurious.

Perhaps worse was the perception, however true, that the Historical Society was divided and ineffectual; this at a time when the yet tumultuous Galactic Federation of Free Alliances funded them with growing circumspection while ever louder voices urged its privatization. That would prove disastrous. No one had forgotten COMPNOR and the chilling effect that organization had had on knowledge and truth. This would be no different, giving private and corporate backers with personal, political, and financial agendas undue influence over policy and publication decisions.

As if that wasn’t going on already, Na’al thought sourly. Various scholars and universities claimed impartiality, but anyone with open eyes knew it was more complicated than that. Academics and chancellors made speeches about integrity, but were no less susceptible to credit chips, power, and prestige than anyone else. Another challenge was the institutional bias that had crept in over the years, creating an environment of homogeneous thought, intellectual conformity, and deference to hierarchical power structures.

“I will never accept as fact a supernatural premise for the foundation of sapient life!” Hanapen pontificated dramatically to the resounding approval of his supporters.

“No one is asking that you do,” responded Tchaka Marshall, Senior Professor of Kalla University, nephew of the famous Roundtree scholar, Rekkon, and a renowned historian in his own right, “merely that you allow others to have the opportunity to decide for themselves whether there is merit in this work. Suppressing his writings is not the way to ensure that everyone goes along with your conclusions.”

“The majority of us have already decided,” retorted Dee Savyest, the ruffled Head of Research at the Mrlsst Trade and Science Academy. “This is a waste of time!”

“I have to agree,” Reina Solov stated in her usual, matter-of-fact way. “I’m not sure I understand why we continue to debate this.” Professor of Archaeology at the University of Byblos, and one of the more moderate members of the Council, Solov’s specialty was ancient cultures. Unlike Hextrophon, however, she had taken a decidedly drier approach to the subject as she had to most aspects of her life. “The war may have prevented inquiry into this material until now, but if not for the requests of Archivist Emeritus Na’al—and the fact that Hextrophon’s name is attached to it—we all know the journal would have been relegated to the SDs long before.”

The Spurious Directories, or SD files, were repositories for ideas that had been deemed erroneous, and included wild assertions, unsupported hypotheses, and disproven theories. Many came from non-members, media figures, fringe academicians, and pseudoscientists, but there were a significant number of older suppositions and conclusions that had once been accepted as fact by historians in the distant past. That the SD files were kept at all was a minor miracle, but the Historical Council of prior years had been more open to alternate possibilities than those in authority today.

Solov had a point, Na’al had to admit. But just thinking that felt like betrayal. The fact of the matter was that it was simply too bizarre. Historian Palob Godalhi had privately confessed to him that he felt the same way, and if it came down to a vote, as it likely would, he’d have to vote against publication by the Council. It’s not that he didn’t believe Hextrophon. He believed that he believed it—he just couldn’t accept his conclusions, leaving the most reasonable deduction that Arhul was in severe psychological distress due to the nature of his work.

Savyest now tried to appear reasonable. What came across instead was condescension: “Hextrophon was, no doubt, a legend in his time,” offered the azure-faced avian, “and a colleague and friend to many of us, but we cannot ignore centuries of cultural studies in favor of a fantastic myth replete with a pantheon of gods and demons who present unsubstantiated threats to the galaxy. The galaxy has enough real problems without resurrecting fables from the distant past.”

“Myths and fables!” bellowed renowned Senior Anthropologist Mammon Hoole. “I cannot decide whether this body is supercilious or just senseless!” Hoole did not easily become agitated. He held a reputation of being able to maintain an even temper in the face of beasts, younglings, and marauding monsters, but when it came to the intractability of the Council, he found his patience stretched past its breaking point. “Science does?not have gatekeepers. It does not shunt aside questions or challenges to the status quo, nor does it rigidly adhere to established ideas if new evidence sheds clearer light on a matter. Our field should be free of dogma. We are not priests proclaiming incontrovertible truths, nor worshipers at the altar of consensus. This scorn of anything outside of the established consensus, which is a century and a half old, has long been crushing curiosity and stifling inquiry. How soon we’ve forgotten the many scientific proofs that were later found to be in error due to faulty, theoretical foundations or inaccurate interpretations of data. If Hextrophon is seen as a heretic now, well… good for him! We should all endeavor to follow his example and question the foundations of our teachings! But I see that many of you have no interest in investigating his claims—only dismissing them!”

“If someone is going to overthrow the established models,” Gulek replied calmly, “then the burden of proof falls on him to provide sufficient evidence, and I, for one, don’t believe he does. If you want to stake your reputation on a weird holothriller with unsupported conjectures, that’s your business, but it doesn’t make us biased to reject it.”

“Except that I know all of you,” Hoole countered, “and the complacency that has taken over. Hextrophon is hardly the first to have asserted ‘unsupported conjectures,’ or have you already forgotten Doctor Bowen? Assuming he is still held in high regard by the Obroan Institute, then you know he believed the Celestials created, and I quote, ‘Not just our galaxy, but, indeed, our entire universe… They engineered the Hyperspace barrier that surrounds our galaxy, either to protect themselves against invasion or to prevent the return of beings they had exiled from this galaxy. Perhaps both.’”

Hanapen, Savyest, the majority of Lekua University, and most of the members of the Obroan Institute—all staunchly conservative—stirred uncomfortably in their seats at the reminder of Bowen’s problematic quote. It hadn’t escaped Hoole’s notice that a number of them had published or were preparing for publication their own systemizations of Pre-Republic history, which were not only countered but wholly overthrown by the conclusions of the far more well-known, and well-liked, Hextrophon.

“Yes, but he ascribed that group to the Rakata,” interjected Professor Roi Tenne from the Obroan Institute, one of the more hyperpartisan members of that body.

“Who were also at one time regarded as a myth!” Hoole countered. “It doesn’t matter who the Celestials might be identified with as much as the fact that a respected man of science once asserted the idea that they engineered our universe! Hextrophon has simply uncovered an older race that better fits the patterns of evidence.”

“Or returned to a discarded view that science has since overturned,” Janzikek countered over the rising tumult. “And this evidence you speak of presents your own race as having been genetically bred as monsters and spies! Really, Hoole, I’m surprised at you.”

“Truth must come before foolish pride.” Hoole was forced to roar over the noise of the crowd. “And ancestry has nothing to do with anything—or would you condemn the Skywalkers for the blood that flows through their veins?!”

Janzikek snorted at what he considered a cheap shot, but it silenced most, if only for a moment. Hoole was seated alongside his wife, Hectia Ruluth-Hoole. In their section also sat her best friend, Odon Grimar, a Devaronian geologist, along with several who had?personally known Hextrophon or respected him, and a number of younger colleagues who knew him only by reputation. While many of these agreed with his findings because they harmonized with their own discoveries, most did so privately.

Taking advantage of the opening, Hectia stood up from her seat. At just over one and a half meters, she was considerably shorter than her husband but no less fearless. “Look, I may not have a pod in this race like some of you, but I’m a scientist myself and have spent years in your company. All my husband and I are asking is that you keep your minds open and don’t be afraid to take a stand. This is not the Empire.” Hoole looked proudly at his wife. He had fallen in love with her for her forthrightness and magnanimity of spirit; when it came to clear matters of right and wrong, she suffered no fools.

Her appeal had been made to those too afraid to speak up. Hectia and Mammon had discussed their frustrations the prior night over a hot cup of ola tea and keela. While some of the newer members chafed at the Council’s unyielding rigidity in the face of anything that deviated from traditional thinking, they were also afraid of the repurcussions of honesty. Even some of the older members had grown cautious. That meant that Hextrophon’s opponents had the advantage. They could be openly committed to their worldview, as it drew upon the systemic body of work that had been developed over the decades, while those on the other side, fearful of exclusion, would pragmatically wait until a consensus was reached before going along with whatever the majority decided.

“I see this has become open-mic night,” groused Hanapen. Hectia rolled her eyes but otherwise ignored him. “You’re a botanist, not a historian. I am not sure you are qualified to speak on these matters.”

“Let her speak, Hanapen,” Na’al reprimanded. He knew Abric to be curmudgeonly, but never as mean-spirited or ill-mannered as he’d been of late. He wondered if Velmocs went through midlife crises like some Humans did.

“We understand Mammon’s position,” Janzikek said in a conciliatory tone. “It’s hardly subtle, though the way you say it is far nicer. You could learn a lot from her, Hoole!”

“Don’t I know it?!” Hoole bellowed. The attendees laughed, a rare moment of levity.

Inspired by Hoole’s anthropological studies, Hectia and her Valkyrie team had formed shortly after university. Utilizing Imperial grants, they traveled to undiscovered and newly discovered planets to study their ecosystems in the hopes of conserving them before they were colonized or exploited. They na?vely believe the Empire supported their research out of the same love of discovery and knowledge. When they discovered otherwise, they stopped accepting grants and turned independent. This proved no easy transition. To fund private research, they started selling interesting or unique natural items—minerals, gems, and plants—after studying and cataloguing them. Tragically, Odon’s sister, Lorol, had misguided loyalties and resented the loss of a stable income, arguing that the Imperial Land-Management Programme was within their legal rights to do as they saw fit. When the crew of the Valkyrie went off to assist Hoole and the Arrandas, whom they’d met on one of their excursions, and their Bothan engineer, Hird Sohor, announced that she was leaving to join her cousins in the Alliance, Lorol turned them in. Biology illustrator Jippil Fiss was killed and Odon and Hectia were forced into hiding.

“I won’t deny that when Mammon first introduced me to Hextrophon’s manuscript, I was taken aback.” There had been considerable discussion the previous day as to whether or not it should be disqualified on the grounds that it wasn’t structured in the rigorous way that was customary for academic papers. “I couldn’t see how he’d have known the private thoughts and conversations of people who had been dead for aeons…” She got a hearty assent from the opposition. “Graf-Well calls it the ‘third-person omniscient narrator,’ but I was a bit unnerved by it, thinking, maybe he had gone a little mad. But then it occurred to me: what is the most commonly uncovered literary form?” She didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Several shouted it. “That’s right. Biographies, histories, and stories. We are a storytelling people. Right now, on my datapad, I can pull up Darth Maul’s journal or Han Solo’s for that matter. Take away all the rituals and spells and what are holocrons but journals? We have personal diaries of Anakin Skywalker and the lover of the Despot Queen of Shikaakwa. And we didn’t even know of their existence until years after the New Republic was established.”

The Emperor’s restrictions had prevented the publication of anything outside of Imperial-sanctioned propaganda. This created a backlog of material that libraries around the galaxy could not make public and had to be kept hidden in case of a surprise Imperial inspection. With the fall of Palpatine, it took decades to catalogue and digitally collate these collections so that they were accessible. Some of this work had already been done in secret, but the rush to release material pertaining to the Clone Wars and rise of the Empire led to several seemingly conflicting accounts that were still being untangled.

“Datapads don’t last forever,” Tenne pointed out. “Even if we accept that Hextrophon came upon an ancient supercomputer known as the Keeper—”

“He didn’t make her up,” Hoole countered. “She’s the largest repository of knowledge in the galaxy—even greater than Mistress Mnemos. She’d likely have had tens of thousands of stories in her databanks.”

“That doesn’t make them true, and I’m not certain why you think it appropriate to lecture us,” Savyest griped, never good at reading a room. “You are free to believe in whatever invisible, flying monsters you want, but this body’s reputation is at stake!”

“You are a most vexing bird, Savyest!” Hoole grumbled. “Is it our reputation that you’re worried about? Or your own prestige, grants, and holobook sales! Times like these make me think we were better off under the Empire. Kept us honest!”

But that only started another uproar.