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Dies Irae- Prologue
Date: 23 November 2006, 9:53 pm
Author's Note: Alright, I did post this already in the Writing Help section, but since I got no response, I'm just gonna assume that you were all stunned into silence by how good it was, ha ha. I hope you enjoy Dies Irae.
It was in the human year 2010 that the last of the American space shuttles was retired. An ever-rising rate of danger had left no successful launches in the last five years, and after over twenty-five deaths, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration cancelled the program entirely and unveiled their new Orion CEV space transport.
It was utterly useless.
Consuming too much fuel, failing in safety tests, and a lack of crew capacity were only three of its myriad problems. NASA effectively lost space exploration the day they tried to launch the Orion.
The vacancy, however, was filled with surprising speed by private companies. Virgin Galactic were instrumental in this; their self-funded high altitude/low-orbit missions with the one-man transport SpaceShipSix and the eight-man cruiser VSS Enterprise made them heroes to the public. Other companies launched their own ships, such as the SpaceX Falcon 12 and the KA K-1 XP. By the year 2045, there were exactly sixty-two companies and organizations on the planet Earth who had sent a human being into orbit.
One such company was SkySight Aerospace. Their ship, the Dies Irae, had completed four launches and recoveries in its lifetime. Capable of holding a crew of twenty-four men and women, it was legendary in the aerospace industry, and even well known to those who did not follow the independent space programs.
Therefore, there was considerable disappointment when it was announced, on June 4, 2045, that the Dies Irae would be making its last flight on July 8. It would then be retired, to make way for the Libera Me.
At 2:15 p.m. precisely on July 8, 2045, the Dies Irae took off from Toronto, on a mission to orbit the moon once and return to Earth by July 16.
At 2:25, SkySight Central received a transmission indicating that the Dies Irae had successfully escaped atmosphere and begun a exit vector that would carry them around the far side of the moon.
At 5:11 a.m. on July 12, SkySight Control began to worry that no further report had come in from their ship. They contemplated contacting the Dies, but since there was not yet an emergency, they immediately discarded the idea.
At 6:58 a.m., the radio operator at SSC, Du-Baek Kim, picked up a faint, garbled transmission from his brother, the Dies Irae's pilot, Chun Sung Kim. Attempting to clean up the transmission, he found that the signal disruption had a curiously regular pattern, almost as though it was artificial. The crew did not seem to know that it was there; indeed, his message was expected and mundane. Chun-Sung reported that their mission had passed the halfway point several hours later than expected due to an emergency situation with their trajectory, but since all functions had since returned to nominal status, he assured SSC that there was nothing to worry about. He advised SkySight that their return time would be roughly 6:00 p.m. on July 16, only a few hours later than expected, and they would most likely be out of contact until then.
At 4:50 p.m. on July 16, SSC assembled a team of management and engineering details to check over the Dies and its crew of twenty-four.
At 6:30 p.m., the sky was still featureless, and SSC began to worry.
At 8:15 p.m., SSC declared an emergency situation, and attempted to contact the Dies Irae.
They received no response. They tried again, but there was nothing. Not even white noise or static greeted SSC's efforts. It was as though the Dies Irae's radio had simply vanished from space.
By 4:00 a.m. the next day, SSC had already organized a private memorial service for the crew.
However, Chun-Sung Kim's brother, Du-Baek, did not attend. He, alone of all the crew's friends and family, refused to acknowledge the obvious truth. He stayed inside SSC headquarters, reviewing what little knowledge they had of the mission log and trying to find some vital, hidden key to his brother's fate.
At 7:30 a.m. on July 12, the Dies Irae had entered the Zone of Exclusion, the region of space was the place where they could not be easily seen by satellites nor heard over the radio. They had been scheduled to exit by 8:05 a.m.
They had entered early in the morning.
But they had never come back out.
Dies Irae- I
Date: 30 November 2006, 8:44 pm
Eighth Age of Reclamation
Covenant Cycle of the Prophets 84483
Rotation 242, Unit 8.0
Patrol Carrier Arcane Wrath
Uninhabited Star System
Covenant Designation Aiya-2814
Wutuf was nothing special to look at, as Unggoy went. Nor was he special in any other way: a short, stocky alien, a ponderous breath tank straining his back. The breath mask covering the lower half of his face was recently polished, shining a bright silver that the dim hallways of the Arcane Wrath did not, unfortunately, call attention to. He was much like any other member of the ship's complement of seven hundred Unggoy.
In fact, he was exactly like any other Unggoy, except the color of his chilled armor and massive methane tank was somewhat different. Several rotations ago, he had been running through the Unggoy barracks when he ran into a golden pillar that seemed to reach to the divine beyond itself.
Picking himself up, he had squeaked in fright. The golden pillar was the leg of a Sangheili Zealot. And not just any Zealot, either. The acclaimed Fleet Master Ara 'Vasunee. Zealots were notoriously brutal to the rank and file, and Wutuf had feared for his life. But the Sangheili had grabbed him by the hand and dragged him to the ship's aft control center, where he had presented Wutuf as "our new Secondary Adjunct Assistant-Major" and made a slightly poetic speech, apparently about the noble death of someone or other. After that, a pair of Kig-Yar, grinning at Wutuf unpleasantly, had flash-painted his armor and breath-tank a lurid red.
Realizing that he had just been promoted, by a Fleet Master, no less, Wutuf had lost his way three times on the way back to the barracks. Trying to enter with his standard-issue key card, the ship's AI had told him that he was no longer rated to enter these barracks. He now lived in a more methane-rich, lower-gravity and far more humid environment along the ship's ventral structure, with other Unggoy bearing red armor.
The problem was that the other Majors he lived with seemed to consider him a substandard replacement for whoever it was that had died, allowing Wutuf to take over his duties. The Minors who had once been his friends either held him in contempt for joining the "Reds" or treated him as they always had before- that is to say, without the slightest hint of the respect due to him. Needless to say, Wutuf was not entirely happy about his promotion.
Without any doubt, however, his patrol route was far, far worse than anything else. His job was to guard and inspect the central core chamber, on the unit, every unit.
The central core chamber terrified him. Unggoy did not like large, vertical distances. They were scared witless by pits of this size. Some Unggoy didn't even like to jump too high. Wutuf was braver than most of his kind, but he could barely walk into the place before his knees started to tremble and his teeth chattered so hard they could be heard through his mask.
All in all, Wutuf was very glad that his responsibility was mostly to fill out the duty rosters. He was the leader of his patrol, and the Assistant Major for the section. The Secondary Adjunct Major was a former friend of his, a bad-tempered Unggoy called Zangwat. He, and all the other Unggoy in the Secondary Adjunct, reported to an old, impatient Kig-Yar Major called Buz. Buz was well-known not to trust Unggoy, and every so often, he would send one of his Kig-Yar Minors to boss around the patrols. Wutuf was mostly glad of this; it meant that he could let the Kig-Yar lead and tremble in peace.
This rotation was one such occasion. The Kig-Yar in command was an irritable, foul-smelling Minor called Kuk. As usual, he was ignoring the Unggoy unless they spoke. If they did, he stared at them until they cowered under his penetrating stare. If they didn't, he paid them no heed, never speaking to them, merely fulfilling the patrol route.
The other three Unggoy were a trio of Minors whose names Wutuf always mixed up. They were lower-ranking than he was, of course, but they, like many of their rank, treated him with disrespect bordering on insubordination. They knew the patrol better than he did, however, and when they were all being run ragged for the Kig-Yar's amusement, he tried to at least sympathize with them.
It was now that Wutuf was attempting to do such a thing.
"So, what your name?" he asked one of them, attempting to be conversational while still whispering.
The Minor glared at him. "Me tell you already! Leave me alone, Red!"
Wutuf glared right back. "I not "Red"! Major Wutuf to you!"
The Minor ignored him.
Wutuf, however, was not going to let the matter rest. "Major Wutuf! I be promoted by Snagh- Sahng- by big scary Zealots! You show respect! You just Minor!"
Continuing his argument, he failed to notice that Kuk had stopped, and walked right into him.
Kuk's head swiveled to face the Unggoy, a trait left over from his avian ancestors. "Have a problem, gas-sucker?"
Petrified, Wutuf shook his head. The Minors snickered.
Kuk's body turned to face them. "You have a problem, midgets?"
They shook their heads. Now it was Wutuf's turn to snicker.
"Shut up!" the Kig-Yar snarled at him.
It was at this point that something in Wutuf broke. Technically, being a low-caste Major, he outranked a low-caste Minor. In theory, he could order Kuk around as he pleased. Of course, he never did, because ordering a Kig-Yar to do something usually meant death unless you were a Sangheili. It was the most flagrant violation of rules in the Covenant, but nobody ever did anything about it.
"You shut up!" he snapped, pointing a finger at the Kig-Yar. "You just Minor! I Major Wutuf! Patrol leader, so you shut up and do what I say!"
There was an ominous clicking sound as Kuk eased his plasma pistol free of his belt. "So, Major, what do you...order me...to do?"
"Give me gun!" Wutuf said sharply. He was very much surprised that the Kig-Yar hadn't killed him right off.
Shrugging, Kuk dropped the pistol. Wutuf picked it up, and as he did so, he saw a brief, silvery gleam vanish behind the Kig-Yar's back.
"Knife, too!" he ordered angrily.
Kuk smiled. He gave Wutuf the knife.
In his stomach.
Major Wutuf reeled for a second as the jagged blade tore through his body. Then he fell, a sad bundle of red-armored flesh leaking pale blue blood.
Kuk slowly rolled the body to the edge of the core and tipped it over the edge. Wutuf fell with more grace than he had ever had in life, his arms slowly cutting the thin air until he faded from sight in the machinery at the core pit's bottom.
The Kig-Yar turned to face the other three Unggoy. "Anybody else want to be patrol leader?"
Delicately reaching a long finger down to the floor, he brought some of the cold, stinking blood to his mouth, and licked it off with a look of deep pleasure.
The three Unggoy looked at each other briefly before answering in tandem, "No, Excellency!"
July 8, 2045
6:52 a.m., Toronto Standard Time
Superorbital Space Vehicle SSS Dies Irae
Sol System, Far Side of Luna
The Dies Irae was not running smoothly.
This mission was the last one that she would undertake, and Mission Commander Chun-Sung Kim was definitely glad of that right now. The Day, as the less intellectual crew members called her, was fading fast. Her computers were outdated, her engines used substandard fuel sources, and in general, Kim wasn't sure that the Day could survive another mission. He was not, for that matter, sure that she could survive this one.
"Goddamn management," he muttered, running a hand through his neatly clipped dark hair. "Has to have a big send-off for us. It wouldn't do to just let this poor old ship take her goddamn final rest in the junkpile where she belongs. Oh no. We have to have a goddamn last voyage, for the press. The public likes heroics. Well, heroics only work in Hollywood. This piece of shit has about as much heroics left in her as a rat's ass."
"Yeah, this was a goddamn stupid idea," agreed the mission pilot, a young ex-Air Force pilot named Ian Bryant. "But hey, whatcha gonna do? Folks need heroes, man. It gives 'em hope for their goddamn pathetic lives. They're down there, living out their days as white-collar prisoners, and we're as close to the stars as some will ever get. Come on, man, see it from their point of view."
Kim stared at Bryant, disconcerted. "You just-"
"Yeah?" Ian said.
"You just said more than ten words in a row," Kim mumbled.
Bryant put a hand over his heart in mock agony. "Oh, shit, man, that burned. Ouch."
"What are you two babbling about now?" came a deep voice from the back of the cockpit. Markus Stern was the ship's designer and mechanic, the only man who had been on all four of the Day's missions.
"We're not babbling. We're discussing," Kim retorted.
"Well, don't curse too much. The Day may think you're insulting her and fall apart to just to spite you," Stern lectured jokingly. "Have you sent the call to SSC yet?"
"Thanks for reminding me," said Kim. He turned around in his chair, letting the zero-gravity turn him slowly. "Cass! Give me the SSC main channel up here!"
"Coming your way!" Cass shouted back. Cass Richards was the ship's second officer after himself and Bryant. She was a small and unauspicious-looking black woman from Akron. She was also, as it turned out, a former Green Beret. Kim had seen her hit moving targets with a pistol at two hundred feet, and he knew that this woman was probably the most dangerous person on board. She was also a zero-gee expert; after Stern, she was the most experienced member of the crew when it came to spaceflight.
Kim sighed and picked up the headset. This was going to be a long mission.
Covenant Cycle of the Prophets 84483
Rotation 242, Unit 12.6
Patrol Carrier Arcane Wrath
Slipspace
The Arcane Wrath's core chamber was silent. By this point, every patrol had finished its route and was enjoying its downtime before the next patrol.
Wutuf's corpse lay at the core chamber's bottom, a deep knife wound in his chest no longer bubbling out blood. His back was broken. Staring up at the massive blue beam of the core with glazed eyes, his body lay sprawled on a tritium containment and processing belt.
The Covenant fusion reactors required enormous quantities of gaseous hydrogen-3 to function properly. Since tritium was rather difficult to contain, it was processed by an on-board containment center and bound into electromagnetic shells that could be fed into the ship's drive cores at a rapid rate. When in slipspace, the rate at which tritium was absorbed into the drives was positively alarming.
Wutuf's body was none the better for being encased in argon anions, and it definitely was not tritium.
The Covenant drive cores were astonishingly delicate. Almost any input besides hydrogen-3 gas would most likely cause the reactor to malfunction.
Wutuf's body moved quickly along the grav-belt.
The command center was too far away to feel the explosion, but all at once, the lights, holopanels and heating systems went out.
Fleet Master Ara 'Vasunee turned to Ship Master Korus 'Sanhajee. The Fleet Master's voice was murderous. "I will assume, Korus, that what just happened to this ship was purely intentional and designed to demonstrate this carrier's wondrous abilities."
'Sanjahee exhaled slowly. His breath lingered visibly in the rapidly cooling air. As he inhaled, the ship's systems came back on. He brightened, turning to 'Vasunee.
The Supreme Commander of the Fleet of Benevolent Grandeur was stonefaced.
'Sanjahee turned away, embarrassed, and barked to the Operations controller, "What is our status?"
The lower-ranking Zealot frowned. "It appears, Excellencies, that our reactor lost power for approximately one one-hundredth of a unit, from 12.63 to 12.64. Temporarily, we dropped out of slipspace, lost all main systems, and lowered our shields. However, all systems have returned to normal and our slipspace vector has been re-established. I will endeavor to secure a report on the cause of the power failure as soon as possible."
The Ship Master glanced at the engineering station. The Zealot standing there scratched his mandibles in perplexity. "It seems that there were two explosions, Excellencies. Firstly, at 12.602, some foreign substance was induced into the drive core, causing a system failure. Then, at approximately 12.6381, there was a large outrush of atmosphere to the periphery of the core chamber. It is almost as though- but of course I do not wish to waste your time with speculation, Excellencies."
'Vasunee frowned. "What is it almost like, warrior?"
Hesitantly, the Engineering Officer turned towards the Fleet Master. "It is almost as though we came out of slipspace...on top of something.
'Vasunee inhaled sharply. Nodding to the two Special Operatives assigned to guard him, he grabbed the Engineering Officer by the shoulder. "You and I are going to go to the core chamber. I want to see this for myself."
The four Sangheili exited the room at a pace which 'Sanjahee thought was perhaps a little faster than was reasonable.
July 8, 2045
7:33 a.m., Toronto Standard Time
Orbital Vehicle SSS Dies Irae
Unknown Location
Chun-Sung Kim was never entirely sure what precisely happened, but three things stuck in his mind years afterward. A flash of lavender light, so bright he could see it even through his reflexively closed eyelids. A rushing sound, like a tornado, but with electrical crackles surrounding it. And a vast, flameless explosion.
He opened his eyes slowly. The Day looked like hell; well, more so than usual.
He felt very weak and tired, and the back of his head was wet and ached horribly. He pulled himself up, and a rush of pain and dizziness washed over him. Half-turning to see what he had hit, he saw the main control panel, twisted almost beyond recognition. The edges were bowed out, and one of them was already crusting with dried blood.
Taking a deep breath, he remembered his crew. Raising his voice, he shouted, "Everybody okay?"
He winced and clashed his teeth together and the pain shouting caused him, and then winced again over the pain clashing his teeth caused him. He heard Bryant cursing weakly next to him. He glanced over to the pilot. The young man was sitting in his seat, blood staining his short, platinum-blond hair. His arm was crushed and twisted; the main flight computer had smashed it against the control board.
"God damn!" he heard one of his crew, Head Mechanic Tom Pugh, shout. "What in hell was that?"
"I have no idea," Stern shouted back. "But I know what it wasn't. We didn't hit anything."
"Oh yeah?" Pugh snapped. "Tell that to my goddamn shoulder."
Stern came into view, standing up, trapped between the bulkhead and the ruins of his chair. "We can't have hit anything," he explained patiently, "because whatever happened pushed us toward the outside of the ship. Something may have exploded. I had better check."
Other crew members were becoming audible. "Fuck!" snarled someone that could possibly have been Cass. "Somebody get this goddamn aquarium off my arm."
"Yeah, yeah, calm down," one of the engineers mumbled, rather tightly, as through something was lying across his throat.
"Don't tell me to calm down," Cass growled. "You having trouble with that hose, little boy?"
"Oh, piss off," he rejoined.
"Shut up, everyone!" Kim barked, regardless of pain. "Everyone, just- just shut up."
Everyone shut up.
"Okay," Kim groaned, "we have no goddamn idea what happened, we have no goddamn idea where the hell we are, and we have absolutely no goddamn idea what the fuck is going on. Now, let's get sorted out. Who here is not injured or mobile?"
Five voices answered him. He recognized one as Stern's.
"All right," Kim said slowly. "You all help the others get free, unless you're too badly hurt. If you can't help, come up here into the cockpit."
Pugh entered immediately. Kim looked at his shoulder. It was indeed badly broken, with jagged tips of bone poking almost through the skin. Kim whistled. "Better get Doctor Hasek to look at that, Tom. And get some rest."
Pugh shook his head dismissively. "Shoulder's fine, sir. It's just- well, this place has gravity. And a breathable atmosphere, for that matter."
Kim cocked his head.
Pugh shrugged, and picked up a scrap of metal. He let it go. Both their eyes followed it as it hit the deck and bounced slightly.
Kim coughed painfully. "How do you know about the atmosphere, Tom?"
Using his uninjured arm, Pugh pointed out the front window of the ship.
Kim followed his gaze.
The window was broken. Shards of shatter-resistant, reinforced glass littered the floor; one was even lodged in his arm. But beyond that...
Kim, Pugh, Bryant and Stern all stared silently at the vast, purple cavern and the glowing central beam of blue light.
Cass walked into the cockpit. "Sir, we've got pretty much everyone up and- whoa."
They stared out the tear in the ship silently.
After a moment, Cass's whisper cut the silence.
"Where the hell are we?"
Dies Irae- II
Date: 14 December 2006, 8:07 pm
Covenant Cycle of the Prophets 84483
Rotation 242, Unit 12.7
Patrol Carrier Arcane Wrath
Slipspace
Ara 'Vasunee was beginning to be worried.
He was not, by nature, the type of Sangheili who constantly worried. A thousand cycles of watching the suffering and occasional deaths of the warriors in his fleet had dulled him. He never worried. He only planned.
But now he was worried.
He scowled and swung around to the Huragok which was fiddling anxiously with the door's control panel. "Have you opened it yet?" he asked, fighting to keep his voice level.
It turned around and gave him a admonishment in the form of a chitter. He took that to mean a no, and turned around again.
He had been pacing outside this door for the last tenth of a unit while the Huragok tried to open the main door into the control chamber. The Huragok had tried every relay and changed every circuit; he had even used his top-level access code, the one he used to report to the Hierarchs. All in vain, it seemed, for the door simply would not open.
He turned around again. "Well?" he snarled at the Huragok, his patience rapidly fraying.
It turned to face him- at least, he supposed it was facing him- and gave another one of its breathy whistles.
"What is it saying?" he asked the smaller of the two Operatives, exasperated, as it turned back to its work.
"No, obviously," came a gloomy voice from down the hall.
'Vasunee turned so quickly that the casual observer might have thought he had been shot. A slightly stooped Sangheili in ornate white armor was staring at him. He did not recognize the voice, but as he looked more closely, he saw the blind, age-clouded eyes and the dull skin beneath the armor. Whoever this was, he was old. Very, very old.
"Leave us," 'Vasunee muttered to the two Operatives. The obeyed in silence.
'Vasunee almost asked the newcomer who he was, but he did not dare to. If a Sangheili could maintain his position as a High Councilor at such an advanced age, he was very good. If blind.
The Councilor stepped slowly down the hall with a surprisingly fast, light gait. "Do you know me still, Fleet Master?"
'Vasunee cocked his head slightly. Now that he came to think of it, the voice was more familiar than he'd first thought. One of the Councilors. Not important enough for him to remember the name, but outspoken enough for him to know the voice...
The Councilor offered his hand. Surprised that the old one could judge distance so well, he grasped it and knelt in reverence.
"It's 'Sankrithee," the Councilor said shortly as 'Vasunee rose.
"Excuse me, Excellency?" 'Vasunee asked politely.
"My name," repeated the blind Sangheili patiently, "is Vura 'Sankrithee."
The Fleet Master inhaled slightly as he recognized the name. 'Sankrithee was no legend, but he was still quite well-known for his exploits, and his age. He had led the Fleet of Purifying Flame for over six thousand cycles before becoming the Clan Krith Councilor, if 'Vasunee remembered correctly.
And now he was here.
'Vasunee paused to reflect on that glorious fact for a few seconds before he began to consider the impossibility of it. An old, blind Sangheili couldn't hide on a warship, and they had been in Slipspace quite some time.
"Are you wondering how I got aboard?" 'Sankrithee asked dryly.
'Vasunee opened his mouth to respectfully deny it, but changed his mind. "N- Yes, Excellency. If you do not mind my saying it...it should have been impossible."
'Sankrithee waved dismissively. "Not impossible. Not even difficult, for my pilot."
"Your pilot, Excellency?"
The shimmer of an active camouflage dropping filled the air, and the biggest Sangheili that 'Vasunee had ever seen stepped into view.
"My pilot," 'Sankrithee said with a smile. "Leni 'Samallee."
'Vasunee wondered if the Councilor was trying to intimidate him. If he was, it was working. 'Samallee was enormous, easily five ggoya in height. In other words, as tall as a Lekgolo. Probably far more deadly, too. Muscles corded along the primary soleic junctures on his legs, and his eyes sparked with a fierceness that was only slightly tempered by the vacant, almost childlike smile on his face.
"We make an excellent pair, don't we?" 'Sankrithee asked rhetorically. "The sighted fool leads the blinded fool. Anyway, to answer your question, we brought a Seraph into the slipstream at your last known coordinates and followed your exit vector."
'Vasunee nodded understandingly, but his mind was still full of questions. How had the Seraph caught up to them? In theory, it should still have been chasing them; a Seraph's engines simply were not as powerful as a carrier's. How 'Sankrithee had even found them was a mystery to him.
The old Councilor chuckled at the Zealot's silence. "We caught up to you by way of simple physical laws. It is perfectly simple, if somewhat disorienting, to travel through slipspace at higher speeds by way of gravitational polarity shifts."
'Vasunee cocked his head. He had never heard of the idea, but it was going against the fundamental precepts imposed by Forerunner technology on slipspace travel.
Cautiously, he pronounced, "That is something that the Hierarchs might judge as heresy, Excellency. If I might advise you on the subject-"
'Sankrithee waved his hand, silencing his compatriot. "Heresy is a relatively recent idea for the Covenant, Fleet Master. The Prophet of Mercy did not introduce our current definition of it, but one could be forgiven for thinking so. When he ascended to lead the Hierarchs in...let me see...the year 80143, as I recall, he based many of his central teachings on those of the reformer Gahoun 'Anthree and the Prophet of Silence. Among them is a very literal interpretation of use when it comes to holy relics. As well as several other things, this has led to our current use of slipspace: no creative use. To do so is heresy...and the punishment, if not the crime, is enough to dissuade most of the potential wrongdoers."
Ara 'Vasunee blinked. He had not expected the Councilor to elaborate so greatly on the subject. "You remember this, Excellency?"
'Sankrithee was silent. After a moment, he spoke, his tone more forceful. "So. You wish to open the door. The door does not open, even to the Huragok. But it will open to me."
The Zealot laughed inwardly. Whether it was arrogance or confidence- or a combination of the two- that made 'Sankrithee so sure that he could open the door, it would certainly provide him with some entertainment.
The Councilor turned, his pale eyes landing their blind stare on 'Samallee. "Move the door."
July 8, 2045
0801 Hours, Military GMT
Orbital Vehicle SSS Dies Irae
(LOCATION: UNKNOWN???)
Stern punched the bulkhead and cursed loudly. The Day was not only out of commission, but utterly FUBAR. Their systems were inactive, main power was offline, and their computers were completely dead.
It wasn't this that rankled him. He'd dealt with worse problems, but most of them were on the ground, with a team of scientists to help him out and a laboratory to run various tests in. And every one of them, he knew more or less what the hell the problem was.
Rubbing his bruised knuckles, he swore again. The ship was dead, and there was no goddamn reason for it.
A scratched, bleeding hand reached through the small opening to the remainder of the Day, soon followed by the rest of Chun-Sung Kim. The commander grinned weakly at Stern. "Who was it telling me not to swear at the ship a few minutes ago?"
Stern frowned. "I was, obviously. But you didn't pay attention, and now look what you've done," he joked halfheartedly.
"Figuring the ship is already fucked up as badly as it can be?"
Stern nodded, and turned away from the bulkhead. The main computer stared back at him darkly.
"On," he ordered it.
Nothing happened.
Turning back to Kim, he shrugged hopelessly. Kim stepped forward, his brows knit. "Computer. Lockdown cancellation. Restore main power, code MCCK-1051."
The computer mocked him with its dead screen.
"You have reached tech support; please hold," came Pugh's slightly accented drawl from behind them. The head mechanic squeezed between the two men and tapped the computer's screen. Drawing his foot back, he kicked the console hard.
There was a slight hum as the computer came online.
"Son of a bitch," Stern mumbled.
Pugh pulled a cigarette out of his uniform and lit it with a smirk. "Works every time," he muttered to himself.
Stern sat on the tangled remains of an ergonomic-support chair and cleared his throat. "Computer. User Markus Stern, code MSMS-2311. Restore main power."
A pulsing blue status bar appeared on the screen. It began to fill slowly, then froze. The computer spoke in a monotonous male voice.
"Apologies, Doctor Stern. Main power cannot be restored at this time. Error type: externally induced core failure. Please try again later."
Stern blinked in surprise. Externally induced core failures were the rarest error types that the computer could recognize. The Day had been designed with redundancy in mind, and not many things could completely drain the power from the outside. It usually took something like a military grade broadcast jammer to make any difference in power flow.
Kim frowned and tapped his fingers on his chin. "Computer, what is the status of the backup power cells?"
The computer worked for about a second and said, "Secondary self contained power cells are non-functional at this time."
Kim's frown deepened. "Charge them."
The computer froze up again. "Apologies, Commander Kim. Secondary power cannot be restored at this time. Error type: externally indu-"
"All right, all right, I get it," Kim snapped. "Shut up."
Stern turned to the Korean. "The computer said the backups were offline. Externally induced power failure? That shouldn't be possible. The shielding on those things is standard for a megaton-yield nuclear warhead. Nothing was supposed to penetrate that kind of armor. I tested it myself." He sounded faintly irritated, as though whatever had damaged the ship had given him some kind of personal offense.
Kim buried his face in his hands, running his fingers through his hair. "Goddamnit, Markus, I don't care what you have to do. Pick the goddamn computer apart. Use intrusion tools, or overrides, or something. Use a fucking sledgehammer if you have to. And when you do, tear the goddamn thing to bits and rerout everything- life support, power boosts, whatever- to manual. Until then, I'm going to get some sleep. I suggest you tell everyone else to do the same."
Stern wanted to protest- this was among the most secure non military computer systems known to man, after all- but past experience told him that you did not argue with Chun-Sung Kim. Especially when he was tired.
Covenant Cycle of the Prophets 84483
Rotation 242, Unit 12.72
Patrol Carrier Arcane Wrath
Slipspace
What Ara 'Vasunee witnessed next, he scarcely believed. But it convinced him once and for all that there was no creature in all the Covenant equal in strength to Leni 'Samallee.
The big Sangheili gave a wide grin, and rubbed his hands on his pale blue armor. Tensing and stretching his arms, he advanced to the door and slammed his fist into it with incredible force. The reinforced alloy deformed, a fist imprinted deep into it. 'Samallee, a look of intense concentration on his face, jabbed his fingers into the dent, punching a small hole through the outer layer.
'Vasunee turned to the Councilor. "He is very strong to pierce the armor, but not strong enough. A Lekgolo pair cannot force a sealed door working together. Surely he is not stronger than they."
'Sankrithee silenced the Zealot with a wave of his hand and wordlessly pointed back to 'Samallee.
The big stealth-trooper dug his hands into the armor layer, and pulled outwards. The Huragok squealed in indignation, and moved quickly away from the control panel. Not a moment too soon, either; a second later, 'Samallee gave a growl of irritation. He had accidentally pulled off a strip of the door's plating and rammed his elbow into the door controls, crushing them.
As 'Vasunee stared, lost for words, the big Sangheili whimpered and left his task to rub his abraded, bleeding elbow. 'Sankrithee, realizing that the noise of tearing metal had ceased, frowned and barked sharply at 'Samallee, "No! Door!"
The big Sangheili's mandibles wobbled like he was a child.
"Door!" shouted 'Sankrithee angrily.
'Samallee turned back to the door, angrily glaring at it. A growl, so deep it made the Fleet Master's bones throb, emanated from the depths of 'Samallee's chest.
Drawing his fists back, the stealth warrior smashed both clenched hands into the door. It buckled like a cheap toy and a hole nearly a ggoya across opened at the door's center.
'Vasunee's mandibles dropped apart in surprise. 'Samallee struck again, and then again. On the third strike, his fists went clean through the separated door panels. He pulled them free, tearing away strips of metal embedded into his arms.
The Fleet Master stared in horror at the long strips of razor-edged metal fixed into 'Samallee, surrounded by a gruesome upwell of torn tissue and violet blood. 'Samallee himself was standing still, a happy smile on his face, oblivious to the ghastly injuries he had sustained. Only when the blood started to drip heavily and bead on the floor did the cyan-armored Sangheili wake from his stupor. He retreated into a corner, eyes fixed on the blood, wide with terror. He whimpered inarticulately and balled up in shock.
'Sankrithee paid him no heed. Stepping through the wreckage of the door, careful not to stumble on the twisted metal, he entered the core chamber.
The Councilor could not properly see what was before him. His eyes barely functioned even in full light. In the dim, cavernous room, everything was the same dead, depthless grey.
But what his armor's heat-sensing lenses picked up was enough to make the Councilor drop his dignity long enough to gasp.
He turned around. Catching 'Vasunee with surprising strength, he turned the Zealot back into the hallway.
"You are to seal off this corridor...no, this entire sector. And vacate one of the medical rooms. You are to position your command staff there, and then join them yourself."
'Vasunee frowned. "With respect, Excellency, I do not think that I should leave yet. I presume you wish to transport something in secret, but I do not believe that either 'Samallee, or, with respect, you, will be able to do so."
'Sankrithee shook his head. "Luckily, I have more than one servant at my disposal. At the moment, as a matter of fact, I have one on call."
The Zealot looked around, skeptically. 'Sankrithee could not have seen the gesture, but he guessed 'Vasunee's mind. "You doubt me, I see."
The Fleet Master looked again. "Forgive me, Excellency, but there is no one here. Is it possible that you are mista-"
"My other servant," the Councilor interrupted him, "is everywhere. He sees where I am blind and hears where I am deaf. He is my Hand. The Silver Hand. He knows your mind better than you do. He knows this ship far better than you do. It is possible that this is why he had evaded you thus far. Look up."
'Vasunee looked straight up, and had to lock his jaw to keep from shouting in surprise.
The Silver Hand's cold and immeasurably deep eyes stared back into his like only the void of space ever had.
July 8, 2045
1208 Hours, Military GMT
Orbital Vehicle SSS Dies Irae
(LOCATION: UNKNOWN???)
Markus Stern woke up for the third time. The computer's shrill bleat was far more effective than any alarm clock. He glanced at the screen. LOCKOUT PROTOCOL ACTIVATED, it read. Stern swore.
He had sat in front of the computer for four hours, using every trick he knew to try and unlock the damn thing. The only progress he had made was convincing the computer to shut down its voice program about two hours back. Which was actually a big step up from the vocal error messages.
He leaned back, thinking of something else to try. Apart from actually tearing the computer apart and resetting it manually, there wasn't much else he could do. The manual reset might not even work; the computer hadn't been designed to be opened up and fixed.
He started slightly; someone was standing next to him. It was Pugh.
The mechanic smelled very strongly of smoke and freeze-dried coffee. Stern smiled amusedly at Pugh; it was obvious that there was somebody else on board whose sleep was not all well.
"Have you tried feedbacking the main input/output circuits?" Pugh asked tiredly. "Always used to work on the military models when we stole guns from the UN bases."
Stern frowned. "I didn't know you were a rebel," he said slowly.
Pugh chuckled. "Not officially, anyway. I was with Frieden. You know, the neo-fascist bunch out of Hamburg? I smuggled goods for them for a couple years. Stopped in '39, though. I wanted a chance to work on this shit. You've heard of Frieden, right?" he added, seeing the blank look on Stern's face. "You're German. Come on, you must at least know who they are. They made a big stir by nominating a presidential candidate back in the U.S. election in 2036..."
Stern's frown did not diminish. "Yes, I've heard of the Frieden," he said very quietly.
Pugh shrugged and lit another cigarette.
Stern rubbed his eyes and turned away from the computer. "I'll have to ask Chun-Sung," he muttered. "I have no idea if this piece of shit can survive what I'd have to do to it, and I designed it."
Pugh blew out a long trail of smoke. There was a loud, hacking cough.
"What the fuck?" Pugh mumbled. He stuck out his hand at chest level, directly in front of him.
He gave only the slightest of grunts as something lifted him bodily and flung him the length of the room.
Stern turned with a speed that would have surprised anybody, but whatever was there was far faster. Stern's fist wildly flailed through thin air. He overbalanced, and something grabbed him by the hair and slammed his head into the floor. He did not move. Over his body, a pale, tall shadow seemed to hover for a second before quickly dissolving into a ripple in the darkness, a trick of the twilight.
Dies Irae- III
Date: 26 January 2007, 1:37 am
Covenant Cycle of the Prophets 84483
Rotation 243, Unit 1.2
Patrol Carrier Arcane Wrath
Covenant Empire Border System Hesha-661
'Vasunee choked down his fourth glass of liquor and shivered. More from the memory that still burned beneath his skull than the drink.
He stared into the pale liquid, watching his reflection shimmer and float surreally. He tried desperately not to look at his eyes, but his gaze was inexorably drawn to them.
They were deep green, almost gray, slightly bloodshot and watery due to the potency of the drink. The drink, as it happened, was also greenish, although very much lighter than the eyes. He turned the glass so that more light fell on it, and shivered again. "Heat, full," he ordered the room's computer.
He started to sweat slightly, but he kept shivering.
He poured himself another drink.
After his seventh glass it occurred to him that it might not be particularly wise to become this intoxicated while involved in the critical matters he had inadvertently become a part of.
He poured himself an eighth glass, mulling the idea, then drained it. Absently, he poured himself a ninth, and drank that one too, still pondering.
As he poured the tenth measure into the glass, he discarded the idea.
It took him six more glasses before he dropped the decanter in mid pour and sprawled onto the table-top, slipping into a nightmare-laden sleep that completely failed to relax him.
Chun-Sung Kim awoke to a nightmare of his own.
He was naked, totally sealed in what appeared to be a block of pale green ice. Not that appearances were entirely reliable at this point, because it felt very much like he was in a hot shower. He could feel the individual water droplets. The illusion was so strong that he looked to see if his skin was red.
Abruptly, he realized he did not have enough room to turn his head. If he moved his head an inch to the left, his ear ran into what felt exactly like very cold ballistics gel.
A second later, he realized that it was gel. Not ballistics gel, but similar in consistency and frigid in temperature. The illusion shattered into a million pieces, ricocheting around the inside of his mind. His teeth chattered; the stuff was cold enough to turn his skin blue. He strained his neck against the substance to see if it was. It looked blue, but then everything else he could see did. Then again, there wasn't much besides his own skin that he could see. The gel wasn't opaque to light, but it was pretty damn close.
It wasn't opaque to oxygen, either; although his tiny head space should quickly have filled with carbon dioxide, it was clean air. It smelled recycled, however, and had an odd, pungent odor to it.
So breathing wasn't a problem, and presumably temperature wasn't either. That left food as his main necessity. Doubtless he had been fine asleep, but awake, he would need to get out and get fed sooner or later. Not to mention dressed.
All of a sudden, he remembered everything. He had been on Dies Irae, but if his surroundings were anything to judge by, he wasn't there anymore. And yet he had gone to sleep there. So, logically, someone had brought him here...and sealed him in freezing cold gel. An odd method of storage, to be sure. And not one he had ever heard of. For the first time, he realized that it might not be human in origin. But in that case, whatever had suddenly appeared around them had also been produced by...
Aliens? The thought was ludicrous. Aliens could not be hiding on the far side of the moon. If there were aliens, they were very far away from Earth. And yet this gel was not in the least familiar to him.
His instincts took over. Every cheap piece of sci-fi literature and every space b-movie he had ever seen came back to him. Always one lost astronaut- or whatever- locked in a deadly, outmatched struggle with some monstrous xenomorphic form of life.
Ridiculously, his subconscious jumped to the conclusion that he was in a meat locker, waiting to be some alien's macabre feast, and he struggled against the gel. It was too heavy, and furthermore, it was molded to his skin. He had no strength to do anything, and no room to do it in.
Suddenly, there was a clacking sound as of footsteps. Something seemed wrong. The sounds, he realized, were too far apart to be human. It looked like the alien was coming to claim his Fourth of July barbecue a few days late. He listened harder until he became absorbed in the faint, identical sounds. Which was why he was so surprised when a pair of enormous, four fingered hands punctured the gel, grabbed his arms, and dragged him forcibly into a sitting position.
The light was blinding to him, although it was fairly dim and purple in color. His vision blurred, and he flopped sideways, slipping back into the gel.
The hands returned. Taking him by the throat, they shook him like a ragdoll, jolting his suddenly aching skull. With a tremendous effort, he twisted to the side and fell four feet to the smooth, cool floor. He pulled himself into a corner, instinctively seeking refuge. He balled into a fetal position, the deck cold against his skin, and looked around the room.
The light was still painfully bright, but now an impossibly large shadow had partially blocked it out, sparing his eyes. The room's furthest wall was a solid bank of flickering computer screens, all of which had something or other scrolling across them. The room's door was blocked by a shimmering, translucent blue membrane of some kind. It looked like an energy field.
He tried to cover his eyes, protecting them from the light. The hands quickly came away as he felt a thick, rough layer of stubble beneath them.
"What time is it?" he asked, his speech slurred through tired lips.
A voice so deep it made his skeleton vibrate answered him.
"The four thousand, four hundred and eighty-third cycle of the Eighth Age of Reclamation."
Eighth Age of Reclamation
Covenant Cycle of the Prophets 84483
Rotation 301, Unit 6.3
Covenant Core System Besk-931
Covenant Holy City Humble Piety
Goran Kur 'Sablikhee watched the creature in the corner slowly collapse into a huddle against the wall. Its mind was presumably overtaxed by the sudden rush of experiences cutting through it, and he could hardly blame it. 'Sankrithee had hardly treated it well, kidnapping them and slapping them into biostatic gel without letting them wake up. Forcing a match with the neural patterns of sleep can cause some undesirable effects, including, but not limited to, hallucination, erroneous sensory perceptions, dementia, and paranoid psychosis, when the subject awakens, he recalled from a treatise he had written. He had seen all of those symptoms, and others, too, far worse. Some he had never seen before. Some, nobody had ever seen before. And, although frail in body, these aliens seemed fairly similar to Sangheili. He shook his head and turned to 'Sankrithee.
"You should not have taken them while they slept," he reprimanded the Councilor. "You should not, for that matter, have taken them at all. Strange aliens from undeveloped civilizations are none of your business, far less mine."
It was a sharp comment, and lacked any sort of honorative form, but 'Sankrithee did not notice the aberration. Nor would he have taken action. Gora 'Sablikhee was already indispensable; his unrivaled medical skill and long friendship with the Councilor made him immune to punishment. With the added title of -n Kur, or Mighty Aid, not even the Prophet hierarchs would harm him. As the n'Kur, the chief physician and scientist of the Covenant, he was the holder of a position which combined mystic, personal doctor, and charlatan.
He was also, out of a debt to 'Sankrithee more than any religious conviction, was a member of the borderline heretical sect known as Perfection in Singularity. A florid name, to be sure, for a florid cult. 'Sankrithee, although few knew it, had founded the cult some fifty thousand years ago as a front for his less legal activities. It was said by the few non cult residents of the worldship that each lay brother of the cult was a trained assassin to do 'Sankrithee's bidding and protect him if necessary.
'Sablikhee snorted. The old Councilor was quite capable of defending himself, and even if he hadn't been, 'Samallee could have protected him better than anybody else.
In fact, there was only one Sangheili who had ever lived that could have taken on 'Sankrithee, and he worked for the Councilor. 'Sablikhee shivered, even as he thought of the Silver Hand.
'Sankrithee spoke slowly, his words measured, as though he were about to lose control of his temper. "But they are my business, Goran, because Ash-Utaris of the Void has brought them to me."
"You don't believe in Ash-Utaris," 'Sablikhee said flatly. "Nor do you believe in Ash-Ichar, Ash-Voris, Ash-Runyn, Ash-Geien, or any of the other Gods of the Rings."
"Call it fate, then," the Councilor continued, unperturbed. At any rate, the choice is made. They are my business now. As such, they are your business, also, for you are still my friend and ally. Not to mention, you are sworn in service to me, so you have no choice but to stand by me on this."
The younger Sangheili polished his viridian armor, if only to give himself a few seconds to think. Many had this problem of not knowing what to say when they were confronted by 'Sankrithee. Even those who had known him for a long time. "It is not a question of my allegiance, Vura. It is a question of safety. These aliens were placed in bioshock while asleep. Their neural patterns may not be normal, or even recognizable, when they wake."
The Councilor tapped his fingers against his mandibles, and his milky eyes seemed to gleam from within. "Fascinating. This would in fact rewrite their waking neural patterns? How strange, and how astonishingly similar to the Flood infection process. I presume the technologies are related?"
'Sablikhee shrugged uncertainly. "I could analyze it, of course. Bioshock membranes are grown from protist DNA, of course, so there's nothing to suggest that they are unrelated. An interesting theory. Unfortunately, to put it to the test, I would need a living, or at least very freshly killed Flood specimen. And since you have so far failed to secure this-"
'Sankrithee snarled, an uncharacteristic display of anger for the usually calm Councilor. "Do not presume, Goran, that you may reprimand me for my unwillingness to indulge your penchant for specimen collection. You are like one of the Governors of Contrition sometimes, always searching for virtue in the things of our Lords."
The n'Kur said nothing, but the tips of his mandibles paled, and the scales around his eyes contracted in a minute and subtle display of anger. He stared at the Councilor for some time before gestured at the huddled alien. "What do you want me to do with it?"
'Sankrithee turned and headed for the door of the room, but not before telling him, "Standard medical test. Wake him up afterward; we do not know what sort of interplanetary-contact myths this alien culture might have. Then send him to me."
Goran frowned. "Are you sure it is wise for me to simply hand him over to you?"
The Councilor nodded. "You are correct. I will send the Hand for him."
'Sablikhee resisted the urge to chuckle hysterically. The Hand was going to make the first ever major societal contact with this species. The Silver Hand.
It would be a wonder if they came back with their sanity. A meeting with the Hand could do that to most people.
Dies Irae- IV
Date: 17 May 2007, 9:53 pm
Eighth Age of Reclamation
Covenant Cycle of the Prophets 84483
Rotation 301, Unit 8.2
Covenant Core System Besk-931
Covenant Holy City Humble Piety
There had been a time when the Silver Hand had been on first-name terms with Goran Kur 'Sablikhee.
These times, however, had ended roughly twenty thousand cycles ago, in the Ages of Conflict. This was when the Silver Hand had lost his name.
He couldn't remember it now. The Sangheili body was extremely resilient, but the mind less so. Some things, however, were forgotten because nobody wanted to remember them.
The Silver Hand's original name was one such thing.
He made no noise as he stalked through Humble Piety's corridors. The worldship was usually bustling with life, no matter the time of rotation, but the crowds had a habit of avoiding the Silver Hand. Most people did.
Goran Kur 'Sablikhee, however, was not such a person.
The n'kur was at the other end of the corridor, walking towards him. He did not slow his pace, nor did he acknowledge the Hand's presence at all.
In fact, it was only when the Hand stood still, blocking his path, that 'Sablikhee came to a halt and spoke, his voice mocking yet calm.
"Doing chores for the Master, Hand?"
The Hand could have sensed the slight and taken offense once. Now, he nodded slightly and gestured at the body that 'Sablikhee had slung over his shoulder. "That is the outsider, is it not?"
"It is," 'Sablikhee said.
"You will give it to me," the Hand said, his voice without the slightest trace of inflection.
'Sablikhee did not move.
"Did you not hear?" the Hand asked blithely.
'Sablikhee's eyes narrowed briefly, and he looked like he was about to refuse outright, but then he shrugged, unslung the unconscious alien from his shoulder, and carefully released it to the Hand's grip. "So be it," he said. "Remember, Hand, you are to treat him—and the other aliens—with the utmost respect. Treat them as you would treat your own offspring."
The Hand's odor became a bit more musky, indicating that he, for some reason, found this funny. "Of course, n'Kur. As I would treat my own offspring."
If 'Sablikhee had not known better, he would have said the Hand was smiling.
When Chun-Sung Kim awoke again, he realized that he was very cold. He also realized that he was sitting in a long, high-ceilinged room with the other members of his crew, who seemed to be still unconscious. He also realized that there was an alien staring him in the face.
He screamed, a half-choked sound that made no sense and was too quickly chopped away by his throat, and scrambled back. The alien was hideous, a birdlike monster, smaller and slighter than him. Repulsive growths marked its dirty, scale-like skin. It cocked its head slightly and made a hissing trill. It stepped towards him.
Kim looked about for something he could use as a weapon, but there didn't seem to be anything. Even worse, there was nowhere to run. There was only one door, probably locked, and some kind of barrier made of blue light obstructed it.
He jumped at the creature, wrestling it to the ground. It was surprisingly lightweight, almost fragile. He tried to strike it in the stomach, to drive the wind out of it, but he was weaker than he thought, and his punch became a halfhearted slap to the skull.
The creature, despite its flimsy appearance, was quite strong. It lashed out with its claws, and scored a deep hit on his left bicep. Three parallel lines of oozing blood. From the stinging sensation, it seemed entirely possible that the claws had some kind of toxin on them.
Panic gave him strength. He screamed incoherently and charged the alien. It raised its claws, trying to hit him in the eyes, but he lowered his head, striking it a direct blow to the chest. The alien was lifted off its feet, hitting the wall. The breath whooshed audibly out of its skinny chest. It hit the wall at a bit of an angle and slid down.
Kim wiped his mouth, hoping that there wasn't much blood coming out of it.
The alien rose. It had something in its hand. It didn't look like a gun, but Kim didn't want to be on the receiving end of anything that glowed that brightly.
He flung himself to the side. The air behind him sizzled, and a blob of green light hit the wall to his right.
The alien snarled and aimed again.
A human hand grabbed the back of its head. The alien squawked in panic, but the grip was too strong for it to dislodge. It brought up its energy gun.
Then the back of its head twisted to the side for a second and exploded in a starburst of violet blood. Pugh let the limp corpse fall and spat on it.
Kim rolled on to his back. "What did you do?"
Pugh swallowed. Kim noticed that his voice lost a lot of its Southern accent when he was agitated. In fact, Pugh sounded almost British. "I squeezed the base of the skull until the sides caved in. Easy."
"Where the hell did you learn how to do that?" Kim groaned.
He never heard Pugh's answer. Next to him, Bryant woke up and scratched his head. His eyes snapped to the splatter of blood on the floor. "Holy shit, boss. I miss something while I was out?"
Even as he spoke, the door slid open. Light bloomed out of the opening, pure white, so bright that they had to look away.
And then a shadow blocked out the light.
It was hard to tell what exactly it was, but it looked more or less human. Except it was wasp-waisted, hunched...and easily ten feet tall.
The Silver Hand walked through the door, flanked by a pair of Minor Domo warriors. One bent to check the Kig-Yar. "It is dead, Hand. The skull is crushed."
The Hand shook his head in disbelief. "They killed an armed Kig-Yar by crushing its skull? After sixty rotations in bioshock? By Ash-Ilios, if only the others are this dangerous...tell the Master. Immediately."
The Minor saluted. "Of course, Hand. And, well..."
The Hand cut him off impatiently. "You wish to know if they will be punished? They, outsiders, infidels, daring to raise their hand against a holy warrior of the sacred Covenant?"
The Minor nodded, grateful that the Hand understood his meaning, yet unwilling to look the Hand in the face.
The Hand came closer to smiling than any other living being had ever seen him do. "If you ever threaten these infidels, Minor, it is you who will be punished. I will see to it. I will carry it out."
"But surely 'Sankrithee would never sanction-"
"Let me tell you, 'Allikkee," the other Minor put it nervously, "that 'Sankrithee would never even know. And if he did, it would scarcely matter. The Hand is very valuable to him."
The younger Minor muttered something sullenly. Though he stubbornly refused to smile, the Hand's mandibles crept open in delight. "You are valuable? Tell me, Minor, can you crush your enemies into singularities simply by thinking about it?"
The Minor shook his head.
"Then perhaps you are not so valuable as you seem to believe," the Hand said calmly.
Kim looked at the giant aliens arguing in their barking, snarling language. The two ones in blue armor seemed to be cowed by the tall one, the one whose armor shone from within with a silver light. They spoke to him quietly, never looking at his face.
The silver one turned, and Kim saw his eyes. They were very strange: flat, dead-looking, black and liquid. A small swirl of gray-white in the center of each eye seemed to be a pupil. There were other things to see: the thick gray scales, the four jaws with no chin, the strange horse-like legs and hooves. But the eyes sucked you in. Somehow they were almost pleasant to look into, like you could fall asleep by staring into them. Hypnotic, almost.
It dropped into a crouch besides him. Even in a squat, it was still over five feet tall, and it could probably kill him anyway.
He cleared his throat. "Um. Hello? Hello?"
"Yeah, because of course they know English, dumbass," Pugh said with a laugh. Kim noted that Pugh's accent was quickly re-asserting itself. "This ain't Star Trek."
"Pugh, shut up," Kim whispered, turning away from the alien. "I have to try and communicate. I don't want to start a war because I insulted his goddamn mother by mistake."
"So stop fuckin' talking!" Pugh snapped. "The more you say, the more likely you are to say something wrong." He mimicked Kim in a singsong voice. "Hello? Hello?"
"Be quiet, please," the alien intoned in a smooth bass. "I'd rather you didn't try to insult one another anymore. You will have to get along with one another for quite some time. Follow me. Now. No talking."
Kim glared at Pugh. The mechanic shrugged. "Hey, you didn't think they spoke English either."
"No talking," the alien said, more firmly. "Wake the others up."
Kim thought about asking why, but the alien's sheer bulk made him think better of it. "Pugh, Bryant, help me out here, will you?"
The two nodded and started to shake the remainder of the crew awake. Kim took a quick head count. It looked as though all twenty-four were still there. And it certainly seemed that they were all in perfect health. He glanced at Pugh, surprised.
"Your arm. Wasn't it broken?"
"Hey, boss. I'm a hell of a lot more surprised than you are."
"No talking," the alien said yet again, this time with what sounded like an impatient edge to its voice. "Now. You have all woken?"
The crew of Dies Irae nodded tiredly as one person, many of them seeming almost drowsy. "Good," the alien said. "You will follow me. All of you. You will walk in three lines of eight each. You will be silent and orderly. You will not attempt to escape or deviate from your course. If you violate any of these rules, you will be killed. Do I make my meaning clear?"
The crew nodded again. "Good," said the alien. "Move, now. On your feet."
The crew obeyed, organizing themselves slowly into three lines. What else was there to do?
The Unggoy was freshly killed; it was still dribbling lukewarm cyan blood from the gaping tears around its body. Only the whip-like tentacles of the gibbering thing that ran around the perimeter of the room could have inflicted such an awful wound.
'Sankrithee sighed and turned away from the force field. His pet project was getting close to completion, but it was still, clinically speaking, a failure. It required a tremendous amount of food; throwing in condemned offenders every two hours was barely enough to satisfy it. Nonetheless, it was nearing completion.
Soon, Goran would see that they didn't need to procure a specimen. They could make their own.
'Sankrithee nearly smiled, but then put the thought from his mind.
He had guests to greet.
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