Probability, part one of three.

The room was made of metal. Dozens of aides and adjutants hurried through it or sat placidly in desks, working on the everyday minutia of the military bureaucracy. Two men stood in the center: one of them, the High Consul and honorary commander of the ship in which he stood. But it was the other upon whom all eyes were fixed: the Dark Lord, right hand of the Empire, last and greatest of an ancient order.

There was some dispute.

The High Consul Wilhuff slammed his hand down flat on a desk. "You are the last of your kind - the last of an ancient, outmoded religion," he hissed. "Your master has let you run wild, but I am not he. Aboard this ship, I command!"

The Dark Lord curled his fist.

Within Wilhuff's throat, by some inexplicable, freak chance, air molecules ceased to travel.

Wilhuff seemed momentarily unchanged; then his face contorted, and he crumpled. He clawed at the Dark Lord's boots, gasping desperately. His face gained a blue tinge.

The Dark Lord waited; then, as the High Consul rested on the edge of consciousness, he opened his fist. Air flowed into the Consul's lungs, and he began to breathe unsteadily.

The Dark Lord's expression was impossible to see - the truth of whether he was wearied by effort, or saddened by necessity, was trapped beneath the black mask he ever wore.

The High Consul ceded command shortly thereafter.