Journey

Black is cold. Black is the color, the representation, the container, of the lack of energy that creates heat. Deck plating that is black is going to be cold, and it is going to transmit that cold, steal any heat, away from whatever shell it contacts. The deck is not made to warm, neither is it designed to cool, but it is cold nonetheless.

That chill is creeping, slowly making its way up the shell and into the organs and modules and systems within the shell. Some of these systems, modules, parts, are beginning to numb, the chill rendering the sensations into nothingness which strangely, leaves the sensation of numb, tingling. A numbed module is a detached module, which for being embodied, is the most disturbing sensation of them all.

Just as the black on the deck plating, the walls, and the supports between the different panes of the observation window makes the whole lounge freezing to the inhabitant, the windows themselves transmit any latent energy in the observation lounge directly into the black of it all. The only thing they do not seem to readily transmit is vibration, such as the ones passing through the chariot currently.

Another tremble, a ripple passing through the chariot in waves. The crew can’t feel it, the compensators ensure that, but it can be observed, even sensed. Being in direct contact with the chariot allows for understanding that no Child could achieve, the sensation of being not only in the chariot, but a part of it. With the transmissions and messages and signals all passing from one end to the other, some bypassing the superstructure entirely, the chariot can be understood, inhabited.

The black of the observation lounge is giving way, the metallic elements in the structural alloys reflecting the red as it emanates, pulsing. The quickening of the pulse is in time with the heat, the room is beginning to conserve heat, despite the best efforts of the window. Nothing escapes that window.

The MIST was pulsing as it replaced organic tissue with artifact, weaving a new module between the ribs and around the spine, taking up all the spaces between the muscles. such a complex device requires a lot of space, and fortunately they can be made modestly flexible.

The coils create the most heat, and the observation lounge is beginning to resemble a sauna, with streaks of moisture and the smell of burning and ozone gathering strength. The glow is becoming overbearing, turning the black of the room into a bouncing chaos of red light and shadows cast by the shell. If a purist were to enter this room, death would be the only peace to be found thereafter.

They only ever see the eyes, the cold, inhuman eyes, and those eyes tell them everything they need to know. The flesh was sold for power, tissue traded like currency so that a Child could become more, beyond other Children and far beyond the distant humans. Not all transactions are voluntary.

The reconstruction process is nearly complete. The repo deep behind the eyes, those cold inhuman eyes, is spinning up the command codes, security bypasses, AI traps, and disalarm sequences, all awaiting the new module.

That last was more than a tremble, the whole chariot quaked, and in such a dramatic fashion that the crew could not miss it. That was probably a whole section, an engineering station near to the medical bay. Solid tactics; keep their wounded lying in medbeds while the technicians struggle to keep the weapons systems online.

The enemy chariot passes before the observation lounge, spinning to show off all her beauty. Misfiring thrusters push nearly a kilometer of duotanium, translucent carbinium, a planet’s worth of wires and cables, and an oxygen rich atmosphere through the darkness of it all. Nearly three dozen mass energy cannons adorn the port side, pulsating streaks of yellow, white, and orange with hints of blue across the void to puncture energy shielding and ceramic armor.

Panicked breaths. Trembling hands. Hoarse screams. Rapid slapping boots. Warmth escaping bodies as they float into the dark void. The intruder and the crew are not the same, and they share no camaraderie. The only shared idea is the want to avoid death, though not all can die.

The coils are finished, the interspatial transceiver ready to transmit a burst of complex layered data in a tight beam to the secondary engineering antennae. Transmitting. A wave of sheer data formed as energy erupts from the shell, passing through space to land in a dozen transceivers aboard the other chariot.

Smoke begins to fill the room, the smell of burning flesh, ozone, and cloth never meant to encounter fire. With a quick motion the apparel is a pile of smoldering ash as the red light once again fills the room. Once cold, the observation lounge could serve the galley in preparing food for the entire crew.

The other chariot falls silent, the weapons halting their fiery breathing and the thrusters losing all their life in the blink of an eye. The emergency override opens the channels and vents clouds of brilliant orange-green energy directly into the vacuum of space, and for a moment there is a miniature star hovering between the warring chariots. The plasmic discharge eventually solidifies in the absolute zero, the only evidence of its heat left in bleeding from the window in the observation lounge.

The heat is broken by a current, a rush of clean cool air. The hiss of the doors is followed by a stutter, a hesitation. The officers on the other side are assessing the situation, trying to understand what it is they are dealing with. Their first encounter taught them little, and the time they have had since was too constrained for them to learn anything of value. At most there were a few pulse exchanges before the battle.

It’s the eyes. It’s always the eyes. They search the eyes, looking for something they recognize, someone they can understand, some little hints of humanity, anything that relates to what they know, what they feel. Those that have the strength lean forward, hoping to see something in those alien eyes.

It is also those eyes that bade them out of the way, to stand aside. Those eyes paid for the passage the shell would require. It is not every day, or any day, when a pair of those eyes is looking out from a darkened hood when stepping into shore leave. Fortunately, the tales haven’t become so quiet that the lesson was forgotten, fear quickly following recognition.

Their first encounter saw a stranger floating onto the bridge, bypassing security personnel and the infinite scans. All those sweeping beams and crisscrossing lasers, useless. Humans, at least their Children, remember by telling one another the horrors and the myths. Machines, their blackhole chariots and starshot scepters, they only tell the stories they are allowed to tell. Laser wave and spectroscopic analysis can only know, and thus tell, what they are allowed to know, and fairy tales do little good when gallivanting between pulsars.

These Children had learned. If something is on the bridge that should not be, then that thing ought not be touched, nor even approached. A blanket, like snow, drifted down over the hustle and buzz of the bridge. Two by two eyes fell on the intruder, and for those engrossed in their work, their monitors were darkened until they joined their comrades in terror.

A machine has no need for conversation, no use for discussion or queries or pondering. A machine need only purpose, and the chariot was given the most grand of purposes. The Children would not understand, not yet, but their chariot would take them through the blackholes and into the realm of legends. The crew excelled at keeping myth alive, and it served to save their lives, now they would play a part in legends told by others.

There is something unnatural about the clack of a boot. The sole is tight, rigid, and unfeeling, slapping the floor beneath it. Every step an insult, and nothing ever gained by the interface. The soft pat of the foot, a bare foot, setting down one after another in perfect timing, absolute synchronicity, is more akin to jogging across the plains then mounting an artifact in some synthetic boot.

“Make yourself at home.” The sarcasm was barely concealed, choked off at the end when memory caught up that this captain was facing those eyes. Those cold, inhuman eyes. Clearing his throat he toed his boot through the remains of the furniture. Another advantage of blackhole chariots, all the furniture is some sort of alloy.

Material is required for the duration of the journey. Soft sounds emanated as the captain flexed his jaw, shaking his head, pushing through the pain as the bones in his ears vibrated and images flashed through his consciousness. A sudden “plop” split the silence as crimson fluid splashed the deck plating.

“Alloys can be provided, raw. There is no sense in dissolving my entire observation lounge.” He braced for a response that did not arrive. “Shall I inform you when we arrive?”

His hands shot up to his ears, a vain effort to halt the vibrations and hold off the invasion. When you are necessary you will be informed. The assault of visions, shaky images and blurred memories mixed into ideas, drove the man to his knees, his pressed pants staining red from the drop and the trickle.

Shaking his head, the near-human rose and stumbled to the door, his slaps growing quiet after a pair of distinct hisses. The observation lounge was quiet again, save for the sound of dissolving furniture.

Did you observe? What do you mean, “did you observe,” I was there with you. Yes, you are, but did you observe? Yes. This singularity was much, cleaner, than the others. This chariot’s engine is much more refined. We could learn much from this chariot. Shall we inquire? Not yet. The crew is too skiddish.

Each chariot has a distinct hum. It is not that each is unique, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of each model and variation of chariot assembled and put into service. But, each chariot does not have the same crew, the same captain, even if they are trained together, twins maybe, no crew and captain is exactly alike. A captain’s style can be felt through their crew, how quickly or precisely they go about their business, how confident or accurate they execute their duties. Each hive creates its own buzz.

The hum was broken by a pair of hisses, the slapping of boots, the swish-swish of pleated fabric starched into perfection. That slapping has to stop. Not quite attention. The muscles remembered that the body would stand at attention when in the presence of those to be feared, and the mind had to intrude upon those memories and alter them. The shuffling of feet trained by lifelong duty was unusual, and it spoke to the unaccustomed discomfort felt by being made executive officer of their own chariot.

“This was the third bridging. I was under the impression that our journey would be short and our passenger would be leaving before too long.” As the sentence came to a huffed end the boots snapped back to their resting place, not attention, but authority. “Where are we going?”

In the empty observation lounge the slap and the last word echoed, bouncing from wall to wall, floor to ceiling, deck plates and inhabitants to the window. Nothing escaped those windows, not even the sounds that danced around the room. Outside that window was the darkness of the cosmos, the great black ocean where our chariots raced. All the colors, both seen by Children’s eyes and those unseen, save by the inhuman eyes, existed in specks and dots scattered across the emptiness. That emptiness absorbed even the sounds of the captains slapping boots and droll noises.

“The course is set.” Gravel. Deep, dark, gravel, resonating and a whisper of static in the background. “Leave me.” That sound. What is that sound? Is that a voice, is that the voice? Is that, our voice? Distraction obscured the hissing.

That is your voice; when your throat was restructured the exact specifications of the prior arrangement were stored in repo. It doesn’t sound like my voice. We don’t remember it sounding like that. That sounds like our voice, not mine. Your voice is my voice. I am your voice. How long has it been since we, I, last vocalized? Twenty odd years. Too long. Not like we ever need it. We do not.

A machine has no need for conversation, no use for discussion or queries or pondering. Why did I construct my vocalizer? You needed it. The transceiver bled the captain, which could embolden the crew. We didn’t anticipate his weakness, we have been using the transceiver for decades with little issue. This Child is accustomed to space, little other wave activity to stimulate the neurons between it all. I wanted to talk to him. We said only a handful of words but it felt... It felt, to say something again.

Lights. Light bending, wrapping itself around and around. Even the most distant places, the darkest reaches of it all, there is still a little light, some specks or dots that inevitably coil themselves into knots and knots upon knots. As some lights come in others go out. There is always a second, just a brief moment, when all the lights, when it all, is there, wrapping it all up, before it all fades away. Then it all comes back.

This chariot creates the most beautiful bridges. We have to let us take a little peak in the repo before we disembark. You make a solid point, understanding the latest advancements in bridging could be great for travel in the future. Make sure to...

Hissing. No, not hissing, whispers. The crew will be waking up still, climbing out of their deepest hibernation back to reality. They aren’t buzzing through the hive yet. The doors can’t have opened.

Whispers. Distant whispers. Only a single voice, a stream of consciousness, a dream perhaps. A few voices, a conversation. The chorus. I hear them. Why are they singing again? Unknown. The only reason we are hearing them is because of the transceiver. We were supposed to dissolve that and reconstruct for the next task. I thought we were going to have a few cloud ports? Monitoring the chariot took precedence, and the interspatial transceiver ensured we would know of probes, bouys or... Shuttles launched to transmit our presence. I know.

If we can hear them, so can the chariot. The crew won’t be long in waking. What are they doing? There is no one left to hear them, so why are they singing? There is someone left. We are left. The chorus is singing to us? Why wouldn’t they just come to us, or send a messenger? Analyzing.

A red glow began to fill the room, reflecting from every surface, save that window. Nothing escaped that window. A fire spread through the room, the air vibrating ever faster as energy shot out, filling the void between the plating and window. It was hot. The red glow brought the stench of burnt flesh and ozone, but no damage is permanent. Even death is an inconvenience.

Theirs is a song of goodbye.

The hiss brings cool, clean air. Slapping. Coughing. Retching. A circus of boots come to a slapping halt in a semicircle. A hand is retrieved after being burned. “How does it still have skin? That thing is burning up?” “Is it alive?” “Was it ever alive?” “Can we get rid of it?” “Oh yeah, and how exactly would you do that?” “Shove it out an airlock...” “You really think that will do it?” “And then we can go home!” “Officer on deck!”

A stampede of slapping boots came down on the deck. Slap. Slap. Slap. One set slowly made their way across the room, approaching the window to oblivion. “What are you doing here? This lounge is off-limits. Quarantine.”

“Yes sir. There was a fire hazard. We saw the quarantine, so we came in sealed. Sir.”

“And was there a fire?”

“No sir. The energy reading must have confused the sensors into triggering a fire hazard.”

“Dismissed.” A flood of slapping intermingled with hissing. The room was once again empty, save for the Child, and the intruder.

“No, it is not dead.” Deep resonant gravel and a hint of static.

The stench of pure biological havoc fell from the captain like a waterfall, splashing into the sensory organs and triggering a multitude of ingrained muscle responses, the kind evolved to rid the entity of poison. The heat mixed with the moisture and the off-gassing of reconstruction and regeneration created a torrid whirlpool around the man that caused immediate bodily response.

“Can it die?” The question lingered, the captain daring the intruder to give him an edge, daring him to try and retake control of his chariot. Daring him to question the myths surrounding his esteemed and terrific guest.

“A planet turned to glass by orbital bombardment would serve as the answer. Of course, you do not have the advantage of orbital distance, and you command only one blackhole chariot.” A small cloud of newly released skin flared into the atmosphere of the room as the body stood. For the first time the captain could see his adversary.

Flesh greeted his gaze, seemingly normal flesh of pale complexion with patches of hair, wrinkles, moles, and small scars adorning in almost a random pattern. As the inspection continued the inspected became more alien, the red glow beneath the flesh pulsing and drawing the eye to regular, geometric shapes hiding underneath. Areas of the flesh were still burned away, and the MIST could be seen slowly stitching together the gaps and covering over the wounds for repair.

As the body stood, those eyes, those cold, inhuman eyes, locked with the curious, bold gaze of the captain. “Shall we have a look through the personnel records of everyone onboard to determine their whereabouts during the Purge?” There was no coldness, no inhuman nature in those words. Those vocalizations dripped with hatred.

The pale flesh of the captain turned white, all the blood evacuating the face as if it were controlled by an airlock. The whole ship could be vented through the airlocks, all of them, opened at once by a series of commands delivered to the system, perhaps through the use of an interspatial transceiver, like the one woven around the spine of this symbiote.

The darkness of the room took on new form as it started spinning. The captain quickly took in a long breath, having forgotten to breathe, and took a step back from the sun throwing light and heat into the room. When he raised his head again, he could see little sympathy or compassion in those eyes. Those cold, inhuman eyes.

“That will not be necessary.” The boots slapped as they came to attention.

“Shield!” The spoken word did not make anything move faster, it did not aporate the mechanism any quicker, and in fact it often arrived long after, but it felt good. Because it felt good, it was a habit, and while the sky was falling, this habit was not going to go away.

The desired shield appeared, before the mouth opened to speak the word, just in time to deflect the energy wave coming from the blast crater. The energy did not dissipate, but the wave did break and lessen the heat transferred through and around the shield.

Looking up, the sky was indeed falling. Vague shapes could be made out above the clouds, the haunting visages of gravestones come to mark the end. Pillar after pillar of energy fell from those shapes, pummeling the surface and evaporating all in their path. Craters formed atop craters, sending blinding waves of imperceptible energy into bubbles, carving spheres of nothingness into the civilization and people that once occupied those very spaces.

The hiss did little to stop the memory. A door could do little against the raging maelstrom of the past, its only job was to hold in the atmosphere, or hold out the vacuum. Being reminded of the possibility of death, once believed to be impossible for symbiotes, brought up the memories.

All over the universe Children were watching their screens as they received live images, memories ripped straight from symbiotes and projected onto their displays. They watched as pillar after pillar came crashing down into the people, the machines, the symbiotes that the Children had condemned to their own planet away from them all. The Children squabbled, constantly, among themselves, but there would be no “outside” threat.

Wave after wave of static-inducing noise carried the screams and cries of the condemned to waiting ears. Blast after blast tore the world apart and sundered whole sectors of once calm civilization. The construction of the planet was new, there had only been a few decades of work done since their exile, but none of it could stand against a fleet hovering just above their sky.

Occasionally, a group of symbiotes could be seen coming together, wrapping each other in their MIST and forming whole transmission towers while one mind took the center and cast their consciousness into the shadows above. Somewhere brief visions from inside the chariots would reveal successful transfers just before airlocks would vent their atmosphere or thrusters would hurtle the death dealers into one another.

For the remaining symbiotes the experience was a torrent, a never-ending flood of memory as the chorus listened, taking in all those free-floating memories before pushing them back out in their song. For years after the Purge, the song of the chorus was the memory of their people, until all of them were played and the song was silenced. The black doesn’t hold waves anymore, it only has room for beams.

As far as a cooling method goes, tears are the most inefficient. The moisture does not contain any heat when it is transferred out of the shell. It does not coat the shell widely enough to conduct energy from the surface into the surrounding atmosphere. Suppression protocol? No. While we are here I want to be able to remember what they did. Just be sure to avoid checking the manifest, spacing Children is not on the itinerary.

“We are not supposed to be here. This is against every treaty signed in the aftermath, and there is no excuse I could give to anyone.” The captain’s voice trembled, nearly as much as after he inquired about symbiote death. He was pleading.

“We will remain until it is no longer necessary.” Their morale is breaking. We have time. The fact that none of them are floating through it all... Has not been ignored. They still fear other Children less.

The air coughed and scratched as it was shoved in and out of the captain’s nose, quick breaths leading to a long drawn inhale. “We will run dark. Unless, you plan to use our artifacts?” There was genuine curiosity at the end of that query. The captain was growing accustomed to the intruder.

“They will not be necessary.” The slap, scuff, and eventual hiss left the room’s occupancy returned to one. That forced air was making its way back to the observation window, which held within a new victim. First it was the blackhole chariot gone dark, now it held something truly dead. At least the crew survived, there were no survivors here, never had been, never will be.

In the center of the observation window lay a great circle, hazy on the edges with flecks of green and white and yellow. The interior lay partially in shadow, but the lit regions showed even more circles both great and small. A great circle containing lesser circles. A planet full of craters, reflecting some of the stellar energy from a rippled sea of glass.

Home.

Where did they go? Where are they hiding? We were not the only one. There were more. The chorus know. Of course they know, they... Know everything, yes. There has to be something here, some clue, some indication. There has to be something left.

The patting of bare feet is a sound that rarely echoes down the corridors of a blackhole chariot. Even if it was, it would certainly be drowned out by the slapping of boots, the clap of hands on corridor supports, the grunts, whispers, and acknowledgements of passing crew. The patting of bare feet can only be heard in two circumstances: the crew is dead, or they have stopped in their tracks.

The patting of bare feet could be heard in brief sections of the corridors, where it would proceed, the corridor would grow quiet, and then once it passed the buzz and hum would resume. Floating through the corridors on quiet flesh was worrisome enough, there was no need to terrify the crew any further. The eyes remained hidden in the robes. Those cold, inhuman eyes.

More security. More scans. Another hiss, then the acquisition of more pairs of eyes. “Does the captain know you are loose?” The captain was accustomed to the intruder, but his executive officer was not.

“Come out of darkness.” Eyes widened, fear quickened the pulse at the vocalization. “Active scans, probe the planet and the orbital vicinity.” They will not know what to look for. Good. If they knew they would try to space us and leave. Where is the captain?

In each cabin there is an emergency airlock, which serves as a means of egress and rescue during horrible situations. For the most part, they make crew feel safer when the majority of them are never used. The bridge has an airlock, and if it had been opened there would be more air than there was now.

The bridge crew looked as if they were each going to drop dead, only their training and professionalism kept them upright and in control of their bowels. The executive officer was good, experienced, and on their way to their own command. That one is going to be a problem, if not now, later. A challenge ensures excellence. Vengeance is also a... Powerful driver. They can thank us when they make admiral.

The captain knew that a trip was a waste of time. All the information from the scanning would be stored in the command repo, accessible to any symbiote worth their MIST, especially if they are on board the same chariot. The dataset was massive, it was a whole system scan of a planet and its direct orbital vicinity. The fact that the planet is dead made the information easier to sort, but it was of no comfort.

There. Something, or better yet, a lack of something. Why is there a hole in the data? Unknown. Perhaps there was a flaw in... No, the artifacts are in working order. The only time there are gaps in the data is when something is being hidden.

The buzz and hum of the crew now happened in waves, halting for a brief time while the patting of bare feet took over before passing on. The Children, moving about the chariot, carrying out duties, meeting acquaintances, or chatting idly, broke when the intruder appeared down the corridor. Like the stormhead it would appear, pass through affecting everything, and then disappear leaving only fear and uncertainty in its wake.

A kilometer or more of duotanium and a panoply of other materials and components all formed one great blackhole chariot. Contained within is a maze of corridors, access halls, channels, and passages, each meticulously designed to never go nowhere, and always arrive somewhere. Children could get lost without the guidance markers and years of experience.

This trip took exactly as long as expected, but it still took too long. This chariot was impressively large, definitely much larger and more efficient in its design than the chariots of old. Softly patting from one corridor to the next eventually lead into halls, and then channels, and then a single passage. Security that would not keep the intruder out. Scans that could tell them nothing.

This door did not hiss, this door was different. Rather than the hiss of atmosphere exchange, there was a deep scraping and some rumbling, as a door that rarely opens was forced from its slumber. The clouds inside were frostier than the observation window, and they did not steal the heat, they killed it. Where the window was antagonistic, this room was hostile.

The shell took the cold in stride, only bumping slightly as the shielding came online. Temperature shielding was far easier than energy or ballistic shielding, and took far less energy. More alloys are being delivered to the observation lounge. The order nearly escaped notice, there are so many repos. We must do this quickly, one of the... Crew may spot the data, and then our itinerary would have to change.

Plinth after plinth of solid dull metallic gray spanned the distance between the floor and the ceiling. Lights of every color leaked from each of the monuments, sparking glares and flashes and reflections that made navigating the lethal clouds a ponderous experience. That’s it, that repo. This repo contains all the data from the Purge scan as well as much of the sensor data from the journey.

MIST poured from the beneath the robes, a new cloud joining in war against the clouds that assaulted the intruder. The MIST drifted through the zero towards the not-stone plinth, gathering in masses covering the whole of it. The whole dataset needs to be wiped. If the Children found the clue... Then the symbiotes would never be safe again. Millions of nanoscale machines invaded the plinth, erasing the repo and wiping the journey of the intruder.

Is it understood yet? No. Why not? Surely it matches up with something in the repo or... Within the experience? Space is generally thought of as a vast nothingness, to... Locate a sphere of absence within... Nothingness is as strange as it all can be. The absence is an anomaly, one that was intentional.

Are there any other areas of absence? Just one, and it has been growing for nearly a millennia.