Member-only story
Final Report
What do lizards think about authoritarianism and genocide?
The diamond structure floated like a glass snowflake. Golden rectangular starships docked near the end of each arm amplified its sparkle. Except for one, where instead of a sleek three-story bar of gold cruiser was parked a rusty chunk of metal: The Brick.
Mr. Verloc looked out the window at the scuzzy stain on his otherwise beautiful station. There was a time when Varan outposts dotted the galaxy like a chain of twinkling stars. He croaked, swallowed the last bit of monkey still stuck in his throat, and climbed down off the trunk of a real redwood, the centerpiece and prize of his office. Overhead lights cycled into dusk and the small troop of lemurs that lived in the higher branches settled down for the evening. Verloc reclined on one of the large flat stones that were his office furniture. The lava rock still held the warmth of the day’s heat lamps and he stretched with delight.
Velasco Verloc was an eleven-thousand-year-old Varan Chameleon and Ambassador to Grandor, a post he held for over a millennium. The house of the Emperor referred to his council on all affairs with galactic ramifications. He was considered the most influential being in the sector, though he spoke with fewer than a dozen people a day. A large lizard measuring three meters from crest to tail, his…
