TALES MENU

DOGSBODY

DUST AMONG THE STARS

THE STRANGER IN THE ATTIC

Ophir was still coughing from smoke inhalation. Surely his rebreather must have malfunctioned.

Metal-rimed corridors gave way to organic corridors which curved around him as he entered one of the Remora’s cargo-pods. A patch of iridescent slime slithered across an open wound in the wall – the pod trying to fix another broken system.

A treatment chair sat secluded behind a wall of cargo – crates, barrels, urns, tanks. Ophir lay back on the chair and focused on bringing his breathing under control. He slid his hand past a sensor and, above him, an array of lenses whirred to life – an orrery of glass.

He stripped to the waste, revealing a network of scars and tattoos against the backdrop of his skin.

The lenses rattled as they fell in front of one another, short to tall, a set of dominoes primed to fall. Occasionally the lenses stuttered and paused, their mechanics glitching.

Ophir traced the lapis-blue diamond in the centre of his chest. The tattoo glimmered softly.

The lenses retracted and folded away and the cargo-pod was quiet. A screen hovering above Ophir burst to life, words scribbling into being. He frowned as he studied the results.

‘Second opinion,’ he said, and swiped the sensor again.

The room activated in a haphazard flurry once more before tucking everything away. The readouts displayed glowing sigil by sigil, digit by digit, diagnosis by diagnosis.

Ophir slumped back into the chair and placed a hand over his heart.

He wasn’t captain of the Remora, but the people of the ship looked to him for guidance, and this gave him an authority, one he reluctantly used. Hundreds were under his protection, dozens of remnant peoples and civilisations hanging by a thread – the ghosts of worlds and cultures.

Here he was, the great prelate, the link to a higher power that could save them all. Here he was, their great exemplar and protector. Here he was, dying.

* * *

The ship’s sensors picked up a system hidden in the nebula – twin suns and a handful of planets and moons, one moon with abundant resources and inhabitable to the majority of the Remora’s peoples.

On the primary bridge, Ophir addressed the Assembly – those with positions of respect and authority among the diaspora of ships. Lords, captains, pilgrims, rangers, even royalty – titles from countless planets, moons, megastructures, all ways of life.

‘It’s time to lay down roots again,’ said Ophir. ‘I know we’ve had our misfortunes in the past, but the Remora perishes more with each passing rotation. We have one nursery left – creatures from all of your worlds, living, changing, dying together. We must set them free. Must set you free.’

He looked to Skarn and the Assembly.

Skarn shifted a symbiote around his neck – grey sticky fingers flexed and grasped into skin to hold itself in place. ‘Ophir – Prelate – this is not where we all started, but the Remora is our home.’

Ophir noted a close-knit group surrounding Skarn, many of them with scowled expressions.

‘The sea of stars is not a home,’ said Ophir. ‘It’s only the space between.’

‘Why waste resources? Make a scavenger run, no more. We keep moving.’

Discomfort rippled through the Assembly as two of their respected leaders raised voices in argument.

‘Aren’t you tired of the endless void, Skarn?’ asked Ophir.

‘Laying down here is surrendering to Melar,’ said Skarn. ‘She will find us.’

‘We’re far from her agents, at the edge of the galaxy,’ said Ophir. ‘We are hidden here. It’s not surrender, it’s living, it’s embracing life.’ He gestured at the Assembly. ‘Are you not all tired?’

They fell into chatter.

Ophir voxxed to enhance his voice over the disquietude. ‘One more chance. Let’s explore this moon. If I’m wrong about finding a home, let this be my last observance.’

The peoples acknowledged his words, no more argument save one dissenting voice.

‘Each time we’ve set down, Melar’s cabal have found us, and people have died, or joined her,’ said Skarn. ‘We can’t give up this home in the black heart between the stars.’’

* * *

The jungle smouldered yet did not catch fire.

Ophir addressed the dozen crew at the tri-finned shuttle’s landing ramp. ‘I know your faith in me has wavered,’ said Ophir. ‘Even I have my doubts. But I can’t go on like this and I know you can’t either.’ He switched his rebreather on and secured it to his face, but not before he caught a whiff of the moon’s air – a mix of rotting vegetation and actinic smoke. ‘Let us find a silvered arcadium in which to settle.’

The crew spilled out all around him from the ramp.

Ophir picked up his antique rifle. It was still functional. They’d encountered threats before on other worlds. Better weapons lay on board the Remora, and all in better working order than this rifle. But there was something about the weapon that spoke personally to him. The perfect balance, the comfort of the grip. He liked the whine of it warming up. The sights were off a little, and it had a slow trigger-to-fire response, but Ophir had learned to work with it.

‘Now that is something else,’ said Callistro.

Ophir descended from the shuttle and watched in awe as the near-sun and the far-sun created a distant golden shimmer. He paused as he took in a tranquil moment, breathed in slowly. He let out a sigh of relief.

The comms crackled. ‘I’m on high,’ said Zeldan Crax. A vapour trail streaked up from the shuttle’s landing site and across the sky as the Caladoran Ranger made his scouting run. ‘Jungle, jungle… more jungle.’

‘Noted,’ said Ophir. He voxxed to the advance party: ‘Fan out. Let’s see what this place throws at us.’ It was heating up quickly, but their envirosuits would adapt.

‘Still slinging that about,’ said Callistro.

Ophir raised his rifle and smiled. ‘It’s my lucky charm.’

Vegetation overran everywhere around them. Hunched trees, grotesquely hooked bushes, grasping shrubs – all shivering and steaming. The air was a heat haze.

Ophir crouched by a plant with ruby oblong fruits flecked with green blotches. He stabbed a sensor spike into it. ‘Readings are coming up good,’ he said over comms. ‘They’re edible – to most of us.’

* * *

The Assembly pored over days’ worth of scans Ophir had brought back from the moon, which they’d designated Fulcrum-8.

The peoples sat scattered around the situation room’s crescent table made of an ancient wood from a planet nobody could remember. The room curved like a crucible, it’s various controls splattered across its walls like strange art from a lost civilisation.

The Assembly deliberated and discussed for hours.

Skarn’s suit creaked as they stood and moved over to the holoscreen at the far end of the room. ‘Prelate,’ they said.

Ophir turned. Skarn increased the volume on their voicebox. ‘Assembly, please!’ They indicated an awaiting communique on one panel. ‘It’s a broad-beam signal.’

Skarn cast the communication into view and the room fell silent.

‘This is Navigator Severin.’

The woman framed the holoscreen view as if she were a giant. Behind her, workers scurried around sundry ship controls. Their bridge stood vast and glorious, a golden vaulted hall with towering pillars.

Severin wore a wimple, with formidable triangular folds spread out like wings above and to either side of her face. A mantle inlaid with intricate writing wreathed her body. She advanced towards the view as she spoke.

‘My message is to the inhabitants of the Remora. The empress welcomes the chance for your ship of survivors to become part of her Galactic Empire. The galaxy is strong together in this time of hardship—’ The message cut out and Severin flicked back into her original position and the message repeated over.

A squat, feathered dominus from the Assembly launched from his seat and bellowed in three languages as he glided towards one of the scaly, monolithic landgraves. The landgrave bobbed, shook her head, and shoved the dominus away with trunk-like arms.

Ophir noted as Skarn clicked softly to several of the symbiotes that had moved out from under the suit to stare at the holo.

Lord Nyxis said, ‘This message is everywhere. The ametrine radiation discorporates any communication signal. We shouldn’t even be receiving it.’

The dominus panted as he glared at the landgrave, then at the Assembly. ‘I feel we should start considering entering into discourse with Galactic Throne,’ he said.

‘No,’ said Ophir. ‘Don’t respond. Give them nothing.’ Ophir felt as if someone were pressing down on his shoulders. He breath rasped as he struggled to stand.

‘Nyxis, manage the Assembly,’ he said, and left.

* * *

Ophir watched over the altar.

‘Well, my friend,’ he said. ‘Is it time for me to ask another favour?’

The altar hummed, the lightfibres flickered. Chapel was hungry.

‘The Assembly is growing weary,’ he said. ‘Void, I’m weary.’

The mirror-like surface of the altar reflected Ophir’s broken, red-rimmed eyes. Under his beard, he appeared more emaciated than he last remembered.

‘To ask is to feed a bit more of myself to you,’ said Ophir. ‘And I don’t have much left.’

The altar fell silent.

Ophir drew in a deep breath and said, ‘This is what I ask: Stop Melar from finding us. Prevent her entry, anything. Give us this reprieve.’

He placed a hand on the altar and plucked and drew the darkened fetter into himself.

* * *

They orbited Fulcrum-8 for a week while they deliberated on a final decision. The landing site grew into a small settlement.

The communique from outside the nebula repeated endlessly but, one rotation, to everyone’s astonishment, it changed.

‘This is Navigator Severin. My message is to the inhabitants of the Remora. We request confirmation of your location and desire to become one with Empress Melar’s dominion.’

Severin’s features stayed sharp and cool. Ophir felt an iciness about her, projecting from the holo. Skarn watched on impassively as Severin began to espouse the glory of Melar.

‘Who…?’ The Assembly in the situation room looked around in confusion.

‘Don’t listen!’ said Ophir. ‘It’s all mind games.’

Ophir noticed a figure in the background of the holoscreen view – not bridge crew, but not Empress Melar either. It was one of her tyrannical cabal, those few perched at Melar’s side at the heart of Galactic Throne. A nightmarish figure, tall, imposing, standing silently and with her hands clasped. An angular faceplate covered her eyes and mouth. Her deep purple dress and headtail cowl segmented around her shape like she were some armoured ophidian creature.

Navigator Severin said, ‘Melar welcomes all into her embrace. We will nurture you and protect you from a crumbling galaxy.’

The figure behind Severin inclined her head slightly.

Ophir’s heart raced. Many of the Assembly turned pale, some sweating. He stood and addressed them. ‘Do not give away our position. The nebula can hide us. Melar can’t find us here. We can make our settlement work.’

Skarn also rose, as did other Assembly members. They shifted around the table, splitting into two groups – consolidating at convex and concave sides.

‘If we stay, the moon will claim lives,’ said Skarn. ‘It’s happened before. It’s just a matter of time.’

‘Countless species are now lost. Creatures from your homeworlds,’ said Ophir. ‘There’s no stopping the Remora’s decline. When it falls apart, we’re all gone to the void.’

‘Where else is there to go? Why take risks?’ said Skarn. ‘Dominus, you understand. Melar can protect us.’

The dominus began to speak, but Ophir felt blood rush to his face, and raised his voice. ‘You want us to give ourselves over to the tyrant who destroyed our homes, ruined our civilisations, killed our gods?’

‘The Galactic Throne is the only thing of meaning left,’ said Skarn, with flecks of spittle spraying. The words echoed – in low and high pitches – as Skarn’s symbiotes also expressed their meaning. ‘Melar dominates. She is all that is left. There’s no choice remaining to us.’

There were mutterings amongst the Assembly, more and more saying their previous quiet out loud.

‘With space so limitless,’ said Ophir, ‘have you ever considered why Melar pursues us in particular?’

None answered, or seemed to have heard his question.

The Assembly turned against itself as the room escalated into enraged shouting. Lord Nyxis poked a finger into a landgrave’s chest. The dominus waved his fists in the air.

Severin was no longer on the holoscreen. She stood next to Ophir and he could see through her as if she were a spectre. ‘This is Navigator Severin,’ she whispered into his ear, projecting right there on the bridge. She looked directly at Ophir and reached out to him with a hand covered in silver and gold.

The Assembly pointed at the holoscreen and around the room as if Severin were in all places at once. People twitched as if seeing hidden spirits. Skarn closed their eyes, breathing steadily, harmonious in the storm.

‘Captains, lords, please—’ Ophir tried to calm them down.

No-one listened.

Navigator Severin repeated her communique on loop. Her lips moved into a smug, victorious curl.

He was running out of options. Dissenters be damned, he would be the one to guide the ship. ‘Listen!’ and ‘Peace!’ and ‘I think we should—’ A hot flashing buzz seared the room.

The projector exploded and sagged into melted glass and the holo imploded.

Skarn staggered. One of the Assembly close to Ophir looked down at her laser pistol, shocked that she’d fired it.

‘No, don’t!’ yelled Ophir.

But people drew more weapons and backed towards the exits.

Laserfire erupted. In the chaos, someone grabbed Skarn and carried them away through an open door.

Lord Nyxis crashed into the bulkhead near Ophir, a burn spot through both temples.

Ophir slammed the close button and the door irised shut, shielding him from the laser blasts.

* * *

Firefights ran throughout the Remora, chaotic and violent. Each skirmish lasted only moments, and with weapons that should never have been used within the confines of the ship. Dozens dead, more injured and dying. Entire ship modules rent and exposed to the deep cold of space.

There were bodies in the corridors outside the sacred module, supporters who’d died to prevent Skarn’s people from taking Chapel.

Ophir had with him those he trusted most.

He watched on a portable holoscreen as the one of the megaship’s modules separated from the Remora. The green-black bioformed hull glinted in Fulcrum-8’s two suns. The module disengaged, turned sharply and twisted away, desperate to escape the growing conflict.

The stardust moths speckled the walls of the chamber.

Ophir studied his collection of people. Unseen to the others, wisps of luminescent shadow reached out from the altar, and Ophir wasn’t sure whether to admonish the god in the machine or not.

Grim silence spread across the chamber. Some looked with curious and fearful expressions at the altar.

Ophir resisted the growing whispers from the altar and gestured for the envoys to report.

Callistro raised a shaky hand. ‘Modules have been sealed off, with some keeping an eye on how the conflict plays out.’

Other envoys started answering: ‘We’ve taken most of the portside decks.’

‘It’s impossible to move about the ship.’

‘No-one’s shooting the runners yet.’

‘Skarn’s supporters control the stutterdrives, the primary bridge, the central decks.’

Ophir opened transmission to all who could receive.

‘This is Prelate Ophir Zisk,’ he said. ‘I have brought the Remora through difficult times. Skarn would have you live under Melar’s domination. We have the landers and it is with regret that I leave you. We are settling ships on the moon below. Without Chapel, there’ll be little holding the Remora together. You’ll be on your own.’

He closed the comms. ‘Overstar, help us,’ he said. Ophir made a star invocation and nodded to his envoys to spread the message. He slumped in the chair. ‘Skarn’s people will fight us on the moon, or fly off in a dying starship.’

* * *

Ophir shuttled Chapel down to the moon’s surface. There, it could power and run an entire colony, even the whole moon’s worth of settlements eventually.

They landed the trapezoid-shaped module safeguarding the altar onto a lander bodged together from spare parts, a bulky tripod to stabilise its weight.

The module whined with power. Cables spread from it like the vines of the jungle surrounding them.

Eventually, three ships appeared on the distant horizon, three fiery birds ripping through the upper atmosphere.

Ophir’s supporters fortified positions amidst the budding settlement. Dozens of his people armed themselves and took positions on top of barricades surrounding Chapel.

From his high-vantage position, Ophir said to Callistro, ‘They’ll be coming for Chapel. Was I wrong? Should we give it to them? Maybe they’ll be safer under Melar.’

Callistro grimaced. ‘Bring us light, from the dark,’ she said. ‘Isn’t that what you say? I can’t stand to not feel the sunlight anymore.’ She reached a hand towards the suns, removed her glove, made the sign of the Overstar.

The shuttles roared overhead to land in the nearby jungle.

Ophir inhaled, closed his eyes. ‘What right do I have to keep this divinity here?’ Former compatriots, friends, allies – they would all be pouring out from the shuttles, advancing through the trees, approaching with grim intent.

‘No, you’re right,’ said Ophir. He stood tall. ‘This is what we choose. We will not give everything up to Empress Melar.’

Laserbolts sizzled through the jungle. Plasmafire superheated the air about them. One barrier, constructed from a dismantled spaceship, glowed superhot and burst apart in a spray of liquid metal, consuming a dozen people in the explosion.

Zeldan Crax rocketed into the sky, and the Caladoran Ranger began communicating enemy positions. He fired stray shots beneath him.

Ophir hung the star talisman around the barrel of his antique rifle. It twisted and glittered in the light of the suns.

He took aim, then fired into one of Skarn’s people. The magnetic disc flew lazily across the combat zone and ripped through his target’s chest and through another combatant a few metres behind.

Callistro observed the fighting from Ophir’s side. ‘Summon the sonics,’ she ordered. ‘Now!’ Communicators burst into noise in several languages. ‘Climbers, north barricade. Two targets…’

Ophir set up his next shot, roaming the scope across the battleground. Target locks focused in on a lone individual in an atmospheric containment suit. Before Ophir could fire, the individual cut down one of Ophir’s supporters with a fuseblade. One stab through the chest, the next attack decapitating its victim.

Those two crew members had endured the Halkeem Occupation together – the only survivors to escape.

Ophir cycled the rifle up and fired; the target exploded into a cloud of gore.

The fighting shifted into close-quarters, from gunfire to blades, hands, fists and claws in a crush of bodies.

It seemed like hours of fighting. Ophir rocked on his feet. He surveyed the settlement in ruins below.

A woman in a silver jumpsuit rocketed above the platform using a damaged jetpack. Blue flames spurted staccato as she wobbled mid-air and shot at Ophir.

He took a step back and braced for the superheated impact. A crossfire from below lanced through the jetpacked attacker. The blast strayed wildly, and she spiralled and crashed into a barricade below.

‘Skarn’s people are losing momentum,’ said Callistro. Her envoy jumpsuit was faded and burnt through from laserfire in several patches.

Ophir stayed in silence for several moments, counting his blessings. He watched one remaining sun blink through the steam and smoke.

He peered upwards, estimating where the Remora would be in orbit.

‘Prelate?’ said Callistro.

‘Hmm,’ said Ophir, lost in thought.

‘What now?’

‘Skarn. I have to deal with Skarn. Then I can convince the remnants to make landfall. And only then can I guide them home.’

Callistro said, ‘Prelate, light the path forward.’

‘Skarn’s supporters are broken, too few now,’ said Ophir. ‘But if they return, keep Chapel safe at all costs. I’ll be back for all of you.’

* * *

Ophir’s shuttle docked at the port underwing. He gathered supporters as he went, pushing further and further into Skarn’s territory. He ordered breaching equipment from one of the armouries to break into the primary bridge.

‘Get that door open!’ said Ophir. ‘Now!’

The bulkhead door exploded inwards. Ophir hobbled through the smoke after his people. Guns pointed everywhere.

Skarn loomed by the command chairs. ‘Order your people to drop their weapons,’ they said, and nodded towards the holoscreens.

One showed Fulcrum-8 in stark view. Others showed readouts and views of the Remora. Ophir noted several activated stutterdrives. One holo still had Severin’s communique on loop.

‘You’re going to abandon your people?’ said Ophir.

Skarn smiled dispassionately.

The bridge lingered in a frozen moment.

Something shifted underneath Skarn’s suit. ‘You hoarded Chapel to yourself. You could have kept us living among the stars. You could have put a stop to Melar. You failed.’

‘I stole Chapel from Melar, kept it safe,’ snapped Ophir. ‘All you’ve done is cast dissent among the Remora. You broke them, scattered them. You’re no guide, no saviour.’

‘Tell your supporters to leave before it’s too late,’ said Skarn.

Ophir raised his rifle and pulled the trigger. Skarn’s eyes bulged in the second between the antique rifle cycling up and firing. They cocked their head slightly to one side.

The disc breached the muzzle and flung across the bridge. It was a sloppy shot from an inaccurate weapon, but still the side of Skarn’s face disintegrated and they toppled to the deck. The disc embedded itself into a control panel on the other side of the bridge.

The stutterdrives powered up and the Remora shuddered and finished its orientation towards the moon.

‘Shut it down!’ Ophir shouted.

The drive modules fully engaged, ready to scream across the great gulf of space. The ship shuddered and groaned monstrously.

At the last possible moment, the drives disengaged from the ship and ripped towards Fulcrum-8. One drive module skimmed off the moon’s atmosphere, a bouncing ball of flame spinning away into space.

The other cracked the moon.

Ophir’s heart crashed into his chest.

His voice hoarse in the comms: ‘Colony, can you hear me? Evacuate—’

Fulcrum-8 began to break slowly and silently.

Static crackled and ebbed and flowed with voices. ‘Prelate… *fzzt*… felt impact… can see… no … the ground… *fzzt*…’

‘Prep shuttles!’ Ophir yelled at the people on the bridge. ‘We have to save them!’

‘*fzzt*’

Ophir reached Skarn’s body. The symbiotes were keeping their host body alive for a few moments longer, but the damage was too catastrophic.

‘*fzzt*’

Skarn chuckled with half a mouth and they gargled on blood. A thick, sluglike symbiote slithered onto Skarn’s throat and spoke, ‘Give yourself to Melar. Empress protect us—’

Like a crew abandoning ship, Skarn’s symbiotes scrambled for nearby bodies. Ophir felt a cool sensation on his skin as a green amoeboid oozed up his arm and settled around his shoulder.

Skarn’s body became a husk.

‘I can stop this, Chapel can stop this.’ Ophir ran for the nearest shuttlebay.

* * *

The scoutship plummeted towards Fulcrum-8, engine-fire trailing behind. Nearby shuttles manoeuvred to avoid crashing into one another. Ophir was thrown around the pilot’s seat.

A chunk of rock drifted outwards from the moon and clipped a shuttle alongside Ophir and both fell away into blazing metal.

‘*fzzt*’

A dull red glow deep within Fulcrum-8 broiled as fragments of the moon pushed lazily away from the surface.

Ophir’s comms crackled. His hand bled from clutching the talisman around his neck. ‘Chapel?’ he said. ‘Chapel, do you hear me?’

‘*fzzt*’

He veered the scoutship around like an angry insect. Another shuttle spiralled away into the growing rubble. ‘I’m coming.’

‘*fzzt*’

The heat shields flared brightly as he descended and breached the upper atmosphere.

On the horizon, in the eye of destruction, the settlement somehow remained intact. Chapel sat unconcerned by the chaos around it. Rocks and vegetation lifted into the air in a haunting, slow explosion.

Ophir felt a familiar presence probing his very essence. ‘Old friend, please…’ he said. He coughed forcefully.

Sling-shotted upwards, one of the shuttles from the settlement burst through the dust and smoke, attempting to flee, but was swallowed by a cloud of debris.

Ophir’s scoutship stopped shuddering. Earth plumed up around him in gargantuan columns.

Had Skarn been right? Could he have done more? Or had he become so full of his own importance after taking the escapees under his wing?

‘*fzzt*’

The static resolved into shaky breathing, a sob, then a voice. ‘Prelate.’ Ophir could hear Callistro’s fear. ‘Can you get us out of here?’

‘I’m here,’ said Ophir. ‘I’m not far now.’

‘Did… did we deserve this?’

‘No,’ said Ophir, rasping. He felt as though he were being consumed from within and without. ‘None of you did. I failed you.’

‘Is Melar coming?—’ The comms cut out.

Ophir shook his head. ‘No, no, no.’ There was blood all over the shuttle’s controls. He raised a hand – the talisman had broken from its chain, embedded in his palm. What use were his invocations now?

Melar didn’t have to come for them, he’d done all of this himself.

He felt the vastness of Chapel watching him carefully. Serpentine shadows reached out from the impossible distance – an offering, restoration.

‘Whatever it takes, Chapel,’ said Ophir. He closed his eyes and slumped into his seat

The trapezoid shell around Chapel began to shed away, unfurling like a glorious flower. Sigils burned themselves into being, suspended amidst the soot-filled air.

There was always a cost to using the god in the machine, and he’d been paying for years.

‘Take everything, and save them.’

Chapel pulsed white, dark, whiter, darker, whitest, darkest.

First, came the infinity of white. Then came the tethers. Then, Ophir’s salvation.