I AM PEN

Constellation: Scutum

"Our ancestors warned us we were looking at ghosts. That the heavens were merely phantoms reaching out to us from the void, their bodies long forgotten."

~Mazie Alcora

Virgo System

Constellation Scutum

(5,871 Light Years later)

     There's no atmosphere on the other side. The landscape is sterile; every footfall echoes, sounding foreign further off. The ground is littered with mounds of bone-white dust. Ahead, the top of a massive Light-Breaker dominates the horizon. The lower half is awash in millions of magenta and purple lights. Some pulse, some flicker. Others are steady, marking places of residence, not external sensors or weapons systems. Where the ship peaks above the horizon, the blinding red light of Scuti ricochets off the ship's shields, making the whole thing painful to look at. I ignore the temptation, keep my head down, and let my eyes adjust to the darkness.

     The Chariot is the pride of the Dusk-Bringer fleet. At the bow, the earth is piled up ten kilometers high. I'm thankful. A stone's throw from the front of the ship is the light side, where beyond lies a wall of flame and raining stone so terrible it makes my ass pucker. Six-thousand-degree heat scours that side of this world like a blow torch. Thanks to the ship's shields, I feel no heat, but I take little solace in knowing that this dueling world sits far from the red supergiant.

     Near the ship's base, two low-caste Dusk-Bringers stand ready to escort me. The pair hide their grey, bald, oblong-shaped heads beneath robes, leaving only their skeletal-looking faces visible. The one nearest me gestures; I follow them, watching their gangly limbs sway as we walk.

     Entering the ship, all three of us step onto a nearby Grav-ramp. As the ramp ascends, I can feel the teether of a mental bond being weaved carefully around me. The telepaths don't address me directly and wouldn't dare to enter my mind, but thanks to my gift, I catch every word they share.

     Both seem anxious. The one on my left is far less cautious about being overheard. They whisper about The Entity and exchange rumors about new mergers within the band. I listen carefully as we ascend, pretending to count the flickering of lights demarking the ships' levels. At level six hundred, the teether snaps. Both go silent.

     Above, a hole the size of the Grav-ramp opens. As we enter the cavernous space, the lift halts, and locks slam into place. Overhead, an army of low-caste Greys skitter around like ants toiling over the ship's controls. Lower down, thousands of cathedral-style benches flank the cosmic seat of the emperor. I freeze, push back my cowl, and kneel before the throne just as a bolt of light discharges into the ground and recoils like a scorned child. The emperor remains unmoved, uncaring, or indifferent; I'll never know.

     A mage shuffles around the giant throne, his gray skin so cracked and covered in dust it resembles paper. He leans heavily upon his staff as he announces my arrival, then withdraws. The cathedral grows hushed, and for a moment, all that can be heard is the distant roil of star-fire rumbling through the ship's hull.

     Before me sits the benefactors of my toil. The headstream for the river of blood I have spilled. I can feel the Great Shaw's gaze bore into me. Feel the familiar weight of fate, measured, coiled, and made flesh. I have only ever glimpsed his outline through downcast eyes and seen the spikes that erupt from his head in hidden glances. The crown and him are one. More spikes erupt from the tops of his shoulders, protrusions grown, not gifted. He resembles the greys in form but is far taller, with rippling bi-colored skin of onyx and crushed diamond.