The universe cares nothing for our petty notions of dominion.
As it was since the beginning, when my own species was first born in the cradle of an active galaxy suddenly gone quiet, and soon afterward matured, grew old and died out, the blessed release of extinction of a doomed species past its time. That galaxy had collided with another, merging its central black hole with that of the other and irradiating all life bearing worlds.
Curiously, that was what gave rise to the world of the Suthidruu ancestral species, what would resemble nothing so much as a worm, but raised through selective breeding and genetic manipulation to the status of fully sapient life, given mind, given purpose, for they were allowed none other than what was bestowed on them by their creator. And that would be me. But I can see...and the things I have seen!
To me, the universe from beginning to end is a static block with which I may replay or preview what I wish to see by extending my awareness. But my actions in the present can only preserve the future, not change it, and the inexorable wheels of causality would grind ever onward.
There is the matter of my childer, the Suthidruu…My first creations…The Suthidruu became psychotic, possibly a mistake in encoding their genome, though they loved us, their masters, and all the Civilization’s people. But lately that love has taken a nasty turn for new member races. The Suthidruu at times disregarded direct orders, expunging the newcomers for minor offenses, rather than merely overseeing non-lethal punishment.
Epiphany, they call it. I call it a failure of parental oversight…my own. I call it madness.
The Nine have long since parted ways, our empire split by our planet-shattering personality conflicts. Only I know, can accept, what is to come with a species not to exist for billions of cycles to come.
This, my masterwork, eclipsing the Suthidruu, even the younger Tathladi, and of all of my other projects, this would be my gift to this species of the future to come. I proudly hold up my work to drink in the light of the work chamber while it fissions, the one becomes two, and the two become four, each of which hums with the raw energies of hyperspace, waiting for instructions from their King and creator. Sensing their readiness, I direct my hyperdimensional thought pathways toward them and say, “Listen closely, my craftwork, record and obey all that I tell you…”
I fade out, waking up, as real-space translation is complete, and never hear the words my dream-self says. I’m no longer dreaming I’m that…thing? At least I’m not waking up screaming this time.