Gattsu

Awake

The pneumatics of the doors sprung to life with an ancient and foreboding hiss; they obviously hadn't been serviced in a while.  A few of the lights in the bowels of the engineering bay lazily stuttered to life.  Max surveyed what he could see in the room and observed a section of the ship that was much more poorly kept than the rest.  The engineering bay looked as if it had flooded at some point in the distant past and suffered a large degree of rust. 

Rust coated the catwalks that overlaid the steel floor.  As the operative eyed through the grates of the catwalk he could see the floor was, indeed covered in perhaps two inches of water.  As if being cognizant of the fact cued in his other senses, he could smell the stench of stagnant water and hear the soft swoosh of water lapping against the stairways.

His hopes for getting the bay in up-and-running condition quickly sank, like the reactor that faintly glowed in the epicenter of the room.  Max wasn't sure of the condition of the reactor, but it very well could have been leaking and without his suit that would put him at a very real danger of radiation poisoning.  He felt alright, and needed to find a comm. station, so he decided that he would quickly breeze through the bay, and stay away from the water if at all possible.

Mobius took a few steps forwards before looking at the arrangement of pipes that hung low from the ceiling.  "Coolant pipes," he thought to himself.  That was likely the causes of the leaks, but was also his method of traversing over the limited catwalk and into other areas of the bay.  

Ducking down low, like a track runner Mobius pushed off the ball of his foot and dashed towards the ledge.  Leaping up onto the railing and pushing off, he felt the rail snap under his foot just moments after he leapt. Clawing his arms outwards the operative grabbed onto a low-hanging pipe, and immediately felt it give.  Overcome by the rust and neglect the pipe violently swung downwards after snapping and poured a lambent, green ooze.

Max did his best to redirect his body from the waste and pulled himself up the pipeline to sturdier handholds.  He swung his body like a high wire acrobat before throwing himself at a support beam, landing harshly against it.  Hugging the beam, Mobius shimmied around its width and pressed the bottoms of his naked feet against the rusty surface, pushing off and onto another platform.

Landing less graceful than he anticipated as the whole platform lurched he forced his fingers through the grates of the catwalk, securing his hold on it.  His Russian wasn't very good, but the door that said "[font=Courier New]Communication[/font]" above it was about fifteen yards away.  Max climbed up the gate and pulled himself onto the flat steel of the walkway, making his way around the corner to the doorway.  "At least I can see the panel," he thought, "beats the hell out of rigging in the dark."

The door panel was illuminated by a red emergency light that was still somehow active, and the dim, green glow of the reactor, coupled with the glowing sewage that poured from the overhead pipe.  After rigging open the doorway he was greeted by what was essentially a small closet space with a desk, and what looked like an outdated speaker system that was probably used only for on-ship communication.

Max pursed his lips.  Today wasn't such a lucky day for him, but maybe he might have a little more luck.  He picked up the receiver of the radio and heard static--that was a good sign, at least there was power.  Adding in a signal to the comm. he was surprised to find that it was able to reach outside of the ship.  Immediately he felt a sharp pain in his head as he channeled onto one of the frequencies he knew the agency had tapped.  When the ringing in his ears subsided and he regained focus, Max could hear a voice calling through the receiver.

"Operative 2237. Operative 2237."

Max shook his head, blinking away both the amazement and the last vestiges of migrane.  The voice continued as if it seemed to have for quite some time.

"Operative 2237. Mobius. Max."

The last syllable, Max, his name was marked more clearly with concern than the previous callings.  Finally it clicked in the back of his head (and with that realization a small needle of pain to accompany it).

"Annie...?"

Awake

"Saw what happened to me, right?" Forge said with a twisted grin, "that'll probably be you before long, too."

"Not if we can help it," Gennosuke protested.

Max looked from Forge to Gennosuke then turned to face Gerald.  He recalled something that was out of the ordinary in all the chaos he and Pawn were thrown into.  When he wounded Forge the man bled silver, and he remembered a red sphere staring out from underneath Gerald, some slimy creature that wore the man's skin like a costume.  Upon his recollection the precursor to a storm rumbled through the sky, and a faint, misty drizzle sprinkled around them.  He turned his gaze upwards, and heard Forge whistle with admiration.

"Looks like you get a trial by fire," Forge said as he, too, watched the diversion.

"We need to find shelter," Gennosuke commanded, "now."

Max squinted, it looked like rain, it smelled like rain but nothing here was what it seemed.  The fact of the matter was he wasn't going anywhere with Kouga or Forge--especially not Forge.  He didn't trust either of them.  Finding an excuse to avoid going with them he smirked, "Afraid of a little rain?"

Kouga confirmed his suspicions, "Nothing here is as it seems.  If you wish to stay alive then follow me."

"Better listen to em, bed-head.  You don't want any part of what's coming."

This time an angry boom of thunder dared Mobius to stay.  Quite frankly he didn't know what to expect out of what looked like an ordinary thunder storm, but he nodded.

"We'll make a break for that ship over there," Mobius pointed.  It was probably about a fourth of a mile away, but the operative was confident he could make it there before the floodgates opened.  Hopefully the others would keep up with him.  Then Max started off.

***

He hadn't looked back on his run to the ship, but he felt something peculiar as he ran through the steadily increasing shower.  Every drop felt like he was losing a piece of himself, like he were sugar, melting away into the landscape.  When he looked at his own naked form he could see he was completely unharmed, but the feeling was unmistakeable.

When he reached the ship he realized he had recognized it.  A Red Technocracy ship.  He had studied one that had fallen during the first contact.  Ghost Ops had first priority when studying alien technologies, and he had thoroughly memorized much of the functions of this one.  By the looks of the broken, derelict vessel it was a Technocratic battleship, severed in half and lying as if it were some massive desecrated tomb.  

Max knew where to go and intuitively knew what to do to get in.  He was so preoccupied with such a strange, yet familiar ship being present here that he had nearly forgotten about Forge and Kouga.  When entering the ship is was dark and quiet.

"Don't suppose Annie is awake, yet." He thought to himself.

He looked around, feeling his way through the darkness and groped at a panel on the wall, his eyes adjusting to what little light spilled in through the open doorway.  Forcing his fingers underneath an edge he pried open the panel and felt around inside.  It was cold, so he was certain that it was dead.  He'd have to jump start the system.  Max was beginning to appreciate what ANITA offered him.  Normally he wouldn't have to do anything, Annie could just technopathically redirect power from God-knows-where inside the ship.  He cringed as he recalled his training on technocratic engineering, and spliced a few wires he could barely see.  After some tinkering he could hear the flickering of lights.

"Nice job," Forge's voice said, to his left, inwards towards the ship.

Max whipped around to look at Forge wondering how he had snuck up on the operative, but there was no one there.  He stepped to the doorway and looked out at the landscape--no Forge or Kouga in sight, but it a full blown storm had evolved.  The curtains of rain reflected a strange metallic color when he looked at it at just the right angle.

He frowned, turning to look down the hallway which was struggled to stay lit as lights haphazardly flickered on and off.  A shoddy electrical job, he expected, but it would have to do.  As he ventured down the hallway the guts of the ship assented to his thoughts--it was definitely a technocratic battleship.  The stark interior was devoid of much, and was styled in a militaristic fashion.  If the technocrats were such a dour group as he had read then this long hallway was at one point the ship's promenade where they could stare out into the empty reaches of space.  It was a haunted hollow.  The floor was cold on the operatives feat as he shadowed through the hallway, checking corners that led into pitch. 

Whereas the outside held signs of a fierce battle and ever-present carnage the insides of the ship revealed nothing but empty loneliness. As Max reached the end of his light it came to a sealed door.  A door that, if he remembered the layout of these ships correctly, should be the crew quarters and barracks.  Usually there wouldn't be much to see inside the bunkrooms, but when Mobius approached the door he felt his stomach turn.  A nauseating sickness warned him not to enter that room--and unlike many a horror stories he abided by it.  Looking at the reality of the situation, Max was unarmed and unarmored.  He was as vulnerable as he had ever been.

He decided to retrace his steps--their communications bay would be where he really wanted to go.  As he meandered back down the hallway he took his first right.  He recognized being in the back-half of the ship when he entered, and recalled that there was usually a comm station in the engineering block.  The lights were out here, so he had to venture down the hallway.  He felt around for a door, usually by doors were control panels and control panels meant he could reroute power to the lights.  He praised his luck as he pried open another panel and began pulling wires in the darkness, tracing them down to their sources.  Feeling his found the right one he yanked it and a spark abruptly flashed his vicinity.  In that half-second he saw a scowling face right next to him before the hallway returned to darkness.  He jumped, but he could not let go of the wire if he wanted any chance at rerouting power.  He took a defensive stance and waited ten seconds, twenty seconds, a minute.

Nothing.

He heard nothing and saw nothing.  His shoulders slowly relaxed as he went back to the panel, and before long the lights flickered to life down the hallway.  Letting out a sigh of relief he pushed on.  Before long he found a large, steel door, about seven feet tall and sealed shut with "ENGINEERING" engraved above the threshold.  To the right of the door were standard door controls and a keypad.  Above the door controls a sign read "Authorized Personnel Only."

To hell with that.

Awake

He was sure that there was no one, nothing, behind him moments ago but the all too familiar voice who chastised him proved him either astigmatic or insane.  As the red glow of the falling sun in the distance illuminated the hellish graveyard of steel which sank in a mire of swords, Mobius turned.  He turned to look upon whoever spoke to him and was shocked at what he found.  There stood a young soldier, bald, but brawny worn with scars of past combats.  He was shaved clean--like the old styled warriors.  He wore a Kevlar breastplate and shoulder pads of presumably the same material.  Various pouches and buckles strapped across his lower torso, likely for clips and ammunition--though he held no gun.

Mobius recognized the man who stood behind him, and slowly turned to face the orator.

Forge.

Behind him stood Forge, alive and fully intact like the first day Mobius had ever seen him.  He looked better than he did before he ever left for Soran.  Something had happened to Forge on Soran--something that eventually led him to what the operative truly remembered of him.  The howling, bestial, self-mutilated neanderthal he fought was nothing like what he was looking at now.  All the rage, the hostility, the anguish that he had previously sensed in Gerald was gone.  Although Forge was not someone that Mobius knew specifically, the agent had the pleasure (or displeasure, depending on how you rated Forge's company) of meeting him before.  Mobius had always found him alright, albeit a bit abrasive.  Many times outside contractors were abrasive in Max's experience, so it was nothing out of the ordinary.  

Maxwell was far too shocked, however, to get caught up in the nostalgia of his and Forge's several brief meetings.  He simply uttered,  "You're alive."

Forge cocked his head, with a dry smile, then looked down.  He shook his head as he began to pace around Lionheart.  "No..." he grimaced, "No, i'm not."

He walked a half-circle around Mobius, though the operative kept him in his peripheral as he tried to piece together what was going on.  "Then i'm dead," Max stated blankly.

"Wrong again.  Not yet, anyways." Gerald said, this time with malicious edge.

"What the hell is going on, then!" Mobius growled.

"Depending on what kinda guy you are i'd say either the best or worst thing that's ever happened to you." Forge stated, cryptically.

"What happened to you?  Why were you attacking me?  Why did you kill all those people?  How did you get better?"  A thousand questions blurted from Mobius.

"When a babe is birthed into the world it does not assault its mother with questions.  It cries out of its own necessity.  We are here to help you, Mzadech."

Mobius was stunned when he heard a second voice behind his back.  This voice had a slight oriental accent, as if English were not his primary language, though he spoke rather fluently.  He was not only dumbfounded that the voice knew his birth name of Mzadech (or what his Earthen name was based off of), but that he had been blindsided a second time when he felt so much more aware. 

He turned to face the second voice.  This man a bushy-browed eastern garbed individual.  His black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, while his sideburns trailed onto the top of his white haori.  Although the world around him was gritty and grimy he somehow remained... pure, unlike Forge.  "We are here to assist you 'Max'," the Asian man said.

"He is." Snorted Forge.

"We are." The other responded sharply.

Mobius glanced between the two of them, looking to Forge then to the other.  What were they here to help him with, and where had they taken him?

"Today marks the first day of your-"

"Who are you." Mobius interjected before the Asian man could finish his speech.

The bushy-browed fellow frowned and paused, as if he were taken aback that he didn't already know.  "My name is Gennosuke.  Kouga Gennosuke."

Japanese, Max guessed.  He studied Gennosuke up and down. Judging by his garb he was stuck in the late 16th century.

"Right... Gennosuke," Mobius said, then turning his gaze back to the soldier, "and Forge."

Awake

The air was hot, humid, and sticky like the inside of a sauna.  His skin felt oily and his hair, greasy and damp.  In a state of semi-rest the man could feel little other than his overburdened limbs, the saturated air, and the shallow pool of lukewarm substance he lied in.  As if awakening from a deep slumber his senses returned to him, one at a time.  He could smell the overpowering stench of decay around him.  It smelled like rotting carcasses in a fetid bog.  Intermingled with the rot the smell of a strange metallic substance also wafted throughout the air.

Mobius cleared his throat, and as his lips parted he could taste copper and grit.  His breathing came labored and heavy, each exhale accompanied by a more insurmountable burden on his chest and legs, each inhale a triumph over the odds.

As his sight returned to him the first thing Mobius saw was the sky.  Although it was not the stormy cumulonimbi that swirled around a raging vortex that his eyes were assailed with.  Instead, it was a serene, yet insidious canvas of crimson and titian nacreous clouds.  The sky seemed motionless, every cloud formation, every cirri intertwined, latticed together into an unnatural display.  As the operative blinked the crust out of his eyes he struggled to raise his head and survey his surroundings.

Far to the west the setting sun perpetually bathed the land in the last throes of daylight.  Night was promised, but not yet here.  The sun, brilliant as it was, was like some sacred thing far in the distance.  It’s corona much alike a holy aureole of a revered saint.  Mobius averted his gaze to the endless expanse around him.  This was not South America--not as he remembered it.  Although the city he and Pawn fought in was likely destroyed it couldn’t have been reduced to this.

Slowly, the agent propped himself onto his forearms and grimaced as pain wracked his chest.  Mobius eased himself to a sitting position and raised his hands to view his gnarled hands.

Broken wrist, and knuckles from the looks of it.

He tried to tap into ANITA so that he could get a look at his bones but she didn’t answer.  He new that there were quite a few broken to begin with.  As he watched the liquid he sat in sift through his fingers that was when it clicked in his mind.

Blood.

He leaped to his feet, crouching, and steadying himself with his good hand, though his body protested with several waves of pain that he ignored.  Pools of blood and scraps of carnage dotted the landscape around him.  In the distance around him he could see what looked like several large ships, of a make which he did not at all recognize.  Closer to his vicinity were no bodies, but there were weapons stabbed into the earth as if the area were the aftermath of a battlefield.

As he slowly and shakily raised himself to a standing position Mobius looked around.  His gun, his canisters, his beacon, his clone, and his suit were all gone.  He felt as if he were running on instinct, at this point.  Over the past day his mind had raced with scenarios, and now only his training kicked in.  He resolved that he would go to one of the ships to seek shelter and a device to beacon help from.

Just as Mobius began to hobble forward, the Sun in the far distance shifted--in color more than in position.  The massive celestial body incarnadined. For a moment, Mobius felt as if it were a gateway, a lens, or some sort of eye watching him in the distance.  He froze for a moment to look at it as its corona faded away into a perfectly round, red ocular.  

A familiar voice spoke behind him,

“You’re a damned fool for coming here, mutt.”

No God's Sky

The verbal arena of Ja’regia represented the pinnacle of cizran architecture, though some of its majesty was marred by a cloud-canopy of documents fluttering through the air of the Tabulis Dis’quosum like a roiling thunderhead of angry paperwork. The vaulted ceilings and open space amplified the angry shouting, cacophonous calls, and infuriated invectives that vied for volume over one another. Here within the halls of the Ja’regia, the formalities of cizran pride laid low to ambition, and there was only room for the banter and impossible discourse that were the fundamental building blocks of Su-lahn’s legislation.

Here, the fruits of the noema’s meticulous, plodding directives were debated and dissected, stretched and extrapolated, and utterly warped to fit the narrative of those most skilled in the art of discourse. Domnik favored this region with a different form. His gossamer wings elicited a constant whine he hovered among other flying cizrans. The screaming of a thousand voices ebbed like a tide of noise as bodies--some that angrily fisted documents in the air, screaming an interpretation of a half-century old legislation and others that whirled around in hysterical circles as they furiously recanted a previous decision of their party--crashed upon one another in a locker of strife. Within the last few recent centuries, the Tabulis Dis’quosum had gained the moniker, the Impossible Court, because its course had suffered so much since kr’nalus.

There was still order to the chaos, and Domnik had mastered this insanity through centuries of practice. In Cizran society there was no such thing as a uniform currency, instead the monitors that one might think would track transactional trends were instead monitoring something more important. Some of the graphs marked reputation and approval ratings of certain individuals, others were registering the strength of a civilization--crops to a growing empire. The staggering amount of information would be overwhelming to one not accustomed to it. Instead, Domnik knew what was important and what was superfluous. He understood how to read these trends. The cizran also knew the Au’lan, who arbitrated the chaos within. There was a beautiful discordian order to the chaos within the Tabulism Dis’quosum, one that instilled Domnik with an archaic sense of nostalgia. He could still see her inner beauty, the Tabulis, and the sensation filled him with wistfulness.

Domnik glided over the sea of chaos his two sets of wings flapping incessantly and the honeycomb of blowholes that dominated his abdominal half-dome expelling a constant stream of air that kept him aloft. He descended like a deformed angel from distant celestial gates, upon the Au’lan, one Buoliq Ac-Lanar,. His wings folded and became bat-like appendages that propped him up. Domnik had brokered a special relationship with this Au’lan. Buoliq was of Shal-anar--an influential “family” whose parasitic tendrils burrowed deep into the flesh of Cizran politics.

“Buoliq,” Domnik regarded the Au’lan, “how goes Chapter 353’s Ac-Nuovo Legislation?”

The cizran turned to face him, its face a blank slate, and its voice a melodic humming of resonance in the back of Domnik’s mind. “It is filed; it has cleared appellate court, and seems to be progressing to court district 14 §32, however--”

“That--” the Avi’lys testily interjected, “is not what I requested
.”
“I understand, and I apologize, but the affidavit was insufficient cause to move your legislation through district 56’s higher court and the motion was blocked by Ω Gorlund.”

Gorlund, a cizran high judiciary from district 15, was proving to be more than a nuisance, Domnik thought. The avi’lys paused for a moment in contemplation. “Very well,” he conceded, “I’d like to file Article 45.”

“Of course,” the Au’lan consented, “I shall complete the necessary forms.”

***

The soil churned as merciless treads sundered their surface, and the din of the heavy machinery in the camp ahead gave the kukull pause. From the spiny tree cover the stoneswallower hunched low and watched with animalistic caution. A large construction machine, of treads and shovels, patrolled between a large cylindrical pylon of metal. It watched uncomprehending as the large machine paced from a larger pile of glowing stonework to the cylinder in a constant cycle of gathering and dumping.

The small launch site was little more than a gathering of ships. One low skiff meant for overland travel had unfurled its form into a pyramid structure, portable in nature, but semi-permanent. The second ship--the furthest from the kukull--was a large boxy construction that sat dead and empty, but seemed large enough to fit the loader and pylon onto it, as well as the heap of aforementioned stone that sat closest to the forest line. The skiff, ship, and pile all ringed caravan-style around the erect metal obelisk to which they were loading the delicious shalam in. The kukull stared at the pile longingly, but was taken aback by the Q’ush that stepped from the skiff.

The Q’ush blinked blankly at the datapad, switching his stare between the consignment, and the mountain of animate stone that stood behind a copse of trees that couldn’t possibly conceal its hulking form He didn’t recall a kukull being required, nor did he even have access to one. Scratching his head with confusion he approached the kukull as one would approach a misplaced wrench.

“You’re not supposed to be here…” he gurgled, musing to himself, as one would to an inanimate object.

A spark of surprise jolted through his cold-blooded body as the lumbering golem regarded him with its glowing blue eyes. What the worker saw troubled him. The creature was entirely stone and magic true, but beneath that thin veneer of stone, underneath that furrowed brow, there was a spark of intelligence that should not have been there. He stumbled backwards, an action that startled the golem into backstepping deeper into the forest, before the q’ush rushed to his office. If the Cizrans knew he was harboring such a creature without reporting it, he could only imagine what they would do to him!

The stoneswallower watched the q’ush franticly retreat back to the strange pyramid. Taking this as an invitation to gorge itself, the kukull knuckle-walked over to the pile, as a strange feeling of jubilance and excitement bubbling within. The sensation of danger, at this point, had almost entirely faded from its mind--whatever threat that was bore in its mind that it fled from was severed then withered and died.

The golem watched greedily as the scoop-bearing machine came over and gathered more from the pile, and the golem followed it, picking pieces of stone off its harvest. By the time it had reached the pillar, which now the kukull could see was nearly four times the size of itself, he had eaten all the stones in its chassis. Curiosity got the better of the stone creature as it peered into the drop-off, and the soft, emerald glow of a stockpile of shalam lit its face. Diving in, the kukull disincorporated, and lounged in what it considered to be paradise.

A few moments later, the Q’ush burst from his office with frustration. Had they never heard of a sentient kukull before?! He knew what he saw! There was a giant golem hiding right over… The amphibian blinked, noticing the stone golem was gone. It was just him and his automated loader. He sighed with frustration, and went about his work. If this shalam was to return to Cizra Su-Lahn in time he would have to pull double time.

A few hours later, the obelisk and many more like it abound on Q’aab would converge upon a large ship in orbit, and there they would send off to the epicenter of the Cizran Empire.

***

The rocket engine sputtered, choked, and died as thick black smoke billowed from §3’s exterior. The investigator made no mental comment as he arced through the air like a shredded kite and crashed ten meters from the Shrine of Tsathoskr’s threshold. The event made all the noise of two freight ships made of porcelain clashing into each other in the middle of an orphanage for obstreperous azotl. The momentum carried §3 underneath a wave of dirt and sand for a moment before he came to a pathetic stop just inches from the actual threshold.

A few solid moments passed as a handful of curious clergy emerged from the debaucherous temple. They were greeted with a mound of refuse, dirt, sand, and, eventually, a small periscope that peered up from the wreckage. The periscope scanned the few clergy members before a shrill mechanical voice addressed them with the equivalent of a verbal run-on sentence.

“IMPERATIVE: DO NOT BE ALARMED. DECLARATIVE: I AM MODEL §3 OF THE HALL OF RECORD’S DEPARTMENT OF INTERNAL AUDITS AND INVESTIGATIONS. I AM HERE UNDER THE AUTHORITY OF ARTICLE 2,367 REGULATION 32 SUBSECTION C.”

The clergy paused, shared confused looks, and then looked back at the submerged mound as a new racket caused a wince to splay across their faces. Whatever was buried underneath that cairn had unearthed itself as an augur pierced through the side of the mound, and out emerged what could only be explained as a mobile, electronic trash heap. §3’s treads were damaged beyond repair in the crash, and now it was pulling itself along the ground like a bisected soldier who, just moments ago, had stepped on a landmine.

It took §3 a few minutes to heave itself through the doorway and into the structure where its investigation would begin.

→Engage Thermal Scan

ERROR CODE: 4A THERMAL SCAN IS NON-FUNCTIONING.

→Engage Micro Scan

ERROR CODE: 4A MICRO SCAN IS NON-FUNCTIONING

→Engage Tachyon Scan

As §3 began to scan the interior of the temple a light of the same offensiveness as a welding arc filled the room. Surely enough, the same tachyon emission it had found within Prisoner 3091’s cell was present here. As §3 cycled through its gamut of scans, much to the dismay of anyone who had any sort of light-based sensory organs, it found many matches between its previous investigation, including the same genecodes as before, one of which belonged to Sinclair, and the other that matched to one Silexis of cizran high-caste.

“INTERROGATIVE: DID YOU WITNESS ONE

‘Sinclair’

"Sinclair

WITHIN THE GROUNDS OF THE

‘Shrine of Tsathoskr’

?”

As the robot identified the suspect with a pre recording of the accused’s name, it shot a hologram that flickered like a lazy neon light of the warden’s appearance. The clergy recognized him and with brisk nods they offered what information they had seen. As §3 patiently listened and recorded their testimony. At the end of the investigation he transmitted the information back to the Hall of Records with a modem screech that would surely cause any who heard it to bleed from their ears.

No God's Sky

Ganaxavori’s acid rain pattered against the escutcheon spell like the angry marching of an alakastian infantry. His vision swam as he tried to focus down at his broken appendages--tentacles scorched and mangled down to the ligula. The quiescence of his end was heavily corrupted by a maelstrom of fear and anger that pulsed in his chest. Struggling, his field of vision drifted back up towards his murderers. A host of mirror-masked figures faced him reflecting only the distorted reflection of his disfigured form. The centerpiece of this gathering stood unmasked for all to see in his divine glory: a large mantoid individual that anyone in the system would recognize.

Ec-Shavar.

With labored breath he addressed the governor not only with his defense, but also his scorn. “You… you are a lunatic.”

He could feel the tyrant’s invisible gaze settling upon him. The governor’s victim choked, “You cannot do this. I… am a cizran! I am not to be exterminated like your worthless kukulls. The empire entitles me privileged!”

One of the mirror-men interjected like a knife in the back. The voice spoke in an electrical monotone voice that reverberated as if it were spoken through a fan. “You have and are nothing. Your claim to Act 35, Section Ö, Subsection S has been repudiated. Ec-shavar, Ascender of Mortality, Claimer of Galaxies, Razer of Armies, and Subjugator of Societies. Of Shal-anar, and the Emerger from the Qol’Vitrol, Banisher of Ghot, the Last Xo’Xan, and Slayer of Na-L Aktor, first of the New Breed, and Bringer of the Galactic Dawn, is the only god, and does not recognize any other authority.”

Looking up, the cizran beheld the ever decaying escutcheon border above him with muted chagrin.

***

The kukull’s vision ignited a renaissance within its developing mental faculties. The soft pattering of acid rain, the swimming of its sight, the sense of self. The feelings of sadness, of shock, of humiliation, of anger returned to it. Its expanding consciousness processed the demise of… him? Someone else? Though the golem hadn’t yet advanced enough to understand the concept of past lives, the anual’budai did claim these feelings for itself.

The stoneswallower’s furious stampede slowed to an absent traipse through the forest as the memory flooded its consciousness, expanding the boundaries of its psyche.

Ec-Shavar. Danger. Ec-Shavar. Murder.

With no understanding of the concept of death, the golem had attributed qualities to the governor. It didn’t like Ec-Shavar because “murder” and “danger”. Internalizing its feelings and fears, the kukull took a second to assess its surroundings. Quilled stems columned the canopy in a sundry of different sizes, some smaller and some larger than the stoneswallower. Glimpsing backwards, the golem observed its demolition with naked indifference. A path of uprooted trees, aerated soil, upturned stone, and shredded underbrush. Some of the larger trees were still unfurled into spiney pillars, though little difference had that made. Glancing forward, the anual’budai sensed motion. Through its knuckles it could feel the cascading rush of eddies, the choppiness of rapids, and the churning of a fall. Though the foliage obscured its vision forward, it could sense the distance through feel. The stoneswallower ventured forward cautiously, parting bristling trees with as little effort as if they were curtains.

Some time passed until the stoneswallower reached the stream. The unimpressive frothing brook snaked through the dense foliage of the Veldt. The kukull could feel it rush around stones, tumble over falls, empty into larger bodies, like it were rushing over his own body. This sensation reached much farther than his sight allowed. Approaching the water, the kukull peered into the shallow depths. Regarding its own reflection the golem took in the details: a furrowed brow which beetled tiny, glowing, turquoise beads, and a rocky underbite that added to the overall countenance of a grimace.

Me.

Its face didn’t appear like the distorted hyakume that reflected in the masks of the murderers.The golem raised its three-fingered hands and clenched them into powerful fists. They didn’t look like the tentacles in the vision. Befuddled the golem dropped its hands and looked to the skies, as if searching for answers. A brief moment of contemplation passed and it carried onwards on knuckles and stumps through the woods.

***

metadrive actuation: ╤ → ƒ → ╞ → ╖
Initializing auto analyses actuators...
15Ti → OK
§drive → OK
…
Scan BiSiId for override of cognizance program
…
Booting Cognizance Initiative.
Acclimitizaton: Location→Gereza

The deep sockets of Model §3 flared to life with faint turquoise light. Somewhere, within its tarnished cylindrical chassis, cooling fans whirred with vexingly tenacious stridence. With a forward pace every bit as automated as one might expect, Model §3 took its first step. At least its first since it had finished its previous investigation, and its owners had forgotten about it in Gereza. A large amount of information transmitted to Model §3’s antenna from Cizra Su-Lahn, information that would establish the android’s prioritization protocols.

Model §3 marched its feet and arms ambulating in perfect 90 degree motions. As per usual, the motto of the auditing section of the Hall of Records was “the budget we shall abide”. Model §3 was substantive proof of directive number one. Its joints creaked, its gears grinded, and the awful whining of its fans were not relegated solely to initialization.

The investigator got about forty feet from the scene of Eal’s escape before it received seven hundred and thirty six backlogged optional optimization updates that would total a net time of three days of constant improvement. Model §3 ignored them all as it was programmed to do. Another mantra would come to mind, one practiced by the middle management of the auditing department, “run it until it dies”.

Opening the cell, the investigator went to work, immediately scanning the residual tachyon emissions, eldritch patterns, and biosignatures left behind. Its findings were compared to the Hall of Records Cizran Erudition Syllabi (HORCES) for matches on recognized heretics and criminals. The robot immediately verified one biosignature as Prisoner 3091, formerly known as Eal Sermonde. However, the investigator discovered a second genecode that it could not verify. Standing statuesque still, Model §3 engaged routine validation protocols while emitting a screeching modem sound that everyone could hear because the door was open and that’s his ability. Then, it turned in search of the warden.

WARNING! MANDATORY EXTREMITY UPDATE!

→ Cancel

WARNING! EXTREMITY SUCCESS CONTINGENT ON UPDATE!

→ Ignore

When Model §3 finally arrived at the warden’s office, it no longer had the luxury of walking. Instead, the investigator now wheeled around on its auxiliary treads. The warden, Sinclair, was suspiciously absent from his duties, instead he left the dull-witted Mado-Keno as his replacement. Taking a moment to survey the room, the robot addressed the slim, sleepy replacement with a deafening monotone.

“INTERROGATIVE: WHERE IS WARDEN SINCLAIR?”

“He was leaving for some shrine. I don’t know, he didn’t file a time off request!”

The ensuing moment of stunned silence was interrupted only by one of Model §3’s loose bolts clinking to the floor. The substitute’s nervous twiddling renewed with doubled urgency. A moment passed by as Model §3 searched for a law to implicate the two of them in.

“INTERROGATIVE: HAS THIS ABERRATION BEEN DOCUMENTED AND REPORTED?”

“He mentioned it was on order of a super-”

“EXCLAMATORY: UNACCEPTABLE! YOU HAVE VIOLATED THE CANONICATE OF REDEMPTION’S SUBSTATUTE 32 OF THE µÖ’LOK INITIATIVE AS PASSED AND STANDARDIZED IN 3214-65-32. THE PROPER AUTHORITIES WILL BE NOTIFIED UNLESS YOU COMPLY WITH REGULATION 7: THE IMPLICATED MAY SUSPEND INCARCERATION IF COACTIVE IN AN EXTANT INVESTIGATION!”

“I, uh, I dunno. I can’t explain it. I mean--no.” Mado-Keno driveled.

“INTERROGATIVE: NO?”

“I don’t want to go to jail.”

“IMPERATIVE: YOU WILL REMAIN HERE, THEN. DECLARATIVE: THE DEPARTMENT OF INTERNAL AUDITS WILL CONDUCT A FOLLOW-UP INVESTIGATION. IMPERATIVE: YOU WILL ACQUIESCE.”

Mado-Keno’s multitude of eyes nictitated irritably--the only external sign of retaliation against Model §3. Then, the warden gave a rigid nod of compliance. With that, the robot investigator whirred about with the turning radius of a Ha-Ren’il freighter. With inhuman patience, the automaton crashed, reversed, and collided again no less than three times before it departed.

However, Model §3 was better off than Sinclair when it came to traversing the desert moon. With a blast of plasma, the robot’s low-altitude short range boosters activated. It would push itself to the limit reaching the shrine of Tsathoskr this way, but if it broke down on the way, everyone at the department of internal audits was sure to breathe a sigh of relief.

No God's Sky

You unevolved clod. You short-sighted, puerile, simpleton.

Domnik boiled as he looked down at the featureless monolith. What did you think would happen?

The slab resembled a thick legless table made of unmarred black marble. It hovered in place nearly a foot off the ground. Domnik’s hands crushed one another behind his back as he resisted the urge to scowl at the sarcophagus. Somewhere, someone in the room that nobody cared about droned on of the life and deeds of Maela’gast. What their eulogy didn’t mention was that he was destined to die. His ideology ran against the culture of the high caste--against the empire. Fighting against the values of Cizra Su-Lahn was dangerous, even for a Cizran.

The battle between sermon and empathic lamentation raged, but the only sounds Domnik heard was his own angry cursing, the clicking of his hooves on the steel hanger floor, and the dull buzzing of tinnitus. He returned to his seat and viewed the podium: a white menhir contrasting the darkness of space behind. The backdrop, peppered with dead stars, gave the six armed priest a sense of mysticism. His lower two arms carried censers that frothed over with an aromatic mist, and his upper four raised to the heavens as he proclaimed Maela’gast’s ascension to the great Cloud of Ghot.

Domnik wanted to release the humming energy locks and cast the priest into space. Nobody respected Dalanar, nobody respected the Cloud of Ghot, and nobody respected this asinine priest. Maela’gast embraced many religions, but he was no stranger to derision.

“And we commit mighty Maela’gast’s essence to the Great Cloud of Ghot, so he may feed Dalanar’s Forever Nebula...A beacon for your journey.”

“To saunter straggling mists,” everyone but Domnik replied.

An almost inaudible click signified the shifting of the maglocks, and the stone jettisoned through the force field into space. One day, many years from now, that stone sarcophagus would reach the Ghot Cloud, and join thousands of other idiots who worshiped Dalanar.

Domnik rose from his seat with an internal sigh. He had heard a saying, though he could not recall from where it had originated. It was time to “make nice”.

***

The Veldt quaked.

Normally he would be out of breath, but today he was tireless. Filled with fear and overtaken by pure instinct, the golem effortlessly tore through underbrush. A tree screeched as he sundered its trunk with his powerful spaded hands. The xylem splintered like an exploding hand grenade as the excavator stampeded forth. Bounding forward, not even the precipitous hundred meter drop off a sudden cliff stopped the stone creature. The golem performed a suicide dive, falling could be its doom. As the golem landed head-first it somersaulted forwards, becoming a disincorporate avalanche that razed the verdure. Consolidating was second nature, and as the rocks came together the golem continued its dash.

Though the golem was a veritable force of nature, panic spurred its charge. Mind-numbing, sight-blinding terror was what pushed him forward like a horde of a thousand horrified aurochs trampling through a market. The golem was a fleeing contradiction; golems were simply objects. Tools to be used, much like one would enter a code in a computer, light a fire for warmth, or pull a trigger to kill. Muddy urges born from instinct pooled together and from this muddled mass of desires a dialogue formed. The primordial stages of consciousness occurred as these thoughts flooded into the stone golem’s head, faster than it was capable or ever meant to process. From this coalescence of desire a reason as to why was developed.

Danger.

One week earlier.

“Anual’budai.”

“What?”

A membrane flickered over the troglodytic reptile’s slitted eye, “It means stone swallower…” he hissed pointing a sharp claw towards the distant hulking golem.

The gigantic stone golem paid the susurring quidnuncs no mind. It wasn’t capable of doing so. With deliberate movement the stoneswallower reached for a delectable vein of lustrous green shalam. The afterglow illuminated the golem's face as if it were a candle held beneath the jaw. Using its powerful three fingered hands the anual’budai fractured the minerals effortlessly and shoveled the glowing gems into its gullet. The feast continued for most of the day, as the golem gorged itself on the sheet of shalam. Only when its crapulous stony stomach was swollen from its gluttony did the stone swallower begin its trek.

The anual’budai patiently trundled through rolling hills and the thick forests of the Veldt for nearly a week before it reached its destination--the emerald city of Zöldnach. A marvel which the golem took zero interest in as it trudged on stump-like feet and dragging knuckles.

As the creature carried out its mindless function it waded through busy streets, oblivious to the peculiar scents of the open market, the hawking of low-caste hagglers, and the claustrophobia that went with thousands of people crammed into a singular space. The stone swallower just walked until it reached the Artisan’s district.

***

Ulu’qol’s six eyed arachnoid face lit up, as much as his beady soulless eyes would allow, upon sight of his shipment of rare and valuable shalam. With sponsorship of Ec-shavar and the rental of this golem, he was able to craft his masterpiece. The seventeen foot tall statue of the governor was sculpted with pure shalam, and the alakast secured the effigy under the strictest of sequestration. It would be his gift to the lord-governor: the cizran’s countenance immortalized.

In the past week Ulu’gol had worked tirelessly; manipulating alakastian laser-chisels with his deft feelers the alakast shaped the likeness of his ruler’s face to the perfect detail his eidetic memory provided him. He simply needed to ballast the base, touch up, and his masterpiece would be finished. Just in time for the feast in Ec-shavar’s honor. He rubbed his mandibles together anxiously and watched the anual’budai with alien curiosity. His four forelimbs crossed behind his back resting on his abdomen in dignified posture.

The streets thundered as the massive excavation golem entered the square, and vomited up the contents of its distended boulder-belly. Glowing green shalam skittered across the floor like gems from a cutpurse’s stolen satchel, and Ulu’gol lusted over the shards. When he shook himself from his trance he glanced at the stone swallower who hadn’t yet left.

To the perturbed alakast’s surprise the golem’s heavy brow was raised, mouth agape, and eyes flaring a lively turquoise, its gaze was transfixed on Ec-Shavar’s countenance. The golem’s expression mimicked what Ulu’qol might believe to be astonishment. His mandibles chattered irritably as he hissed, “...leave.”

A heavy stone fist collided with the statue and a brief but furious fulmination ensued. The only reaction Ulu’gol could offer was a half-second scream of apoplexy combined with terror before the golem’s considerable fist squashed him. The golem flailed furiously and indiscriminately, backfisting a hovering rickshaw. The transport rolled and smashed violently through a storefront as the golem bounded as fast as it could from the artisan district. Throngs of people created a deadly crush as the golem stampeded through cramped passageways, trampling all under digitigrade and knuckle.

By the time anyone could have reacted, the stone swallower escaped the city in a hysterical furor, and left a trail of destruction in its wake.

No God's Sky

me too