"What a waste of time," the green soldier growled to himself as he opened a can of mystery meat. Whether it was beef, chicken, pork, horse, or turtle, the young trooper could care less; it was sustenance and flavor was irrelevant. "Why are we in this dump? All for some madman's superstition?"
He dragged his knees to his chest, the night air chilling him and the carcass of the great ship that crashed in the Aberstax Plains. His rump was numb against the cold floor as he shoveled the slop into his mouth with a soft, metal spoon that he chipped off the side of the can.
Torn and twisted structures surrounded him: the ceilings and walls of the ship bent from impact, frayed wires, and the pipes, or framework, stood uncovered and unprotected, looking like some lifeless forest.
That is all this place is, lifeless, thought the freezing trooper as he hugged himself to brace for a cold breeze, both of living and whatever imaginary beyond the foolish worshippers of Gio believe.
As far as he could tell, it was rare to find anyone that believed God of the Ten Suns. Only a handful full people on this planet, perhaps. It was a dying belief, with Gio's glorious temples wasting away in deserted towns and worshippers and even priests forgetting the most fundamental chants and prayers.
The young trooper scratched his head, his nails raking through his black hair, as he tried to remember at least five of the ten suns. He couldn't. And he didn't care. There was no place for such fear in fantasy in this world.
Yet here his unit was, fully armed and thickly dressed, looking for ghosts an hour before midnight.
Something heavy and metal fell and crashed some distance away. The soldier in green jumped and cursed out loud. He picked up his gun, a LARS with a pale green finish, and aimed it at the doorway. When nothing but the whispering winds greeted him, he sighed and sat back down to finish his dinner. He placed his assault rifle back down on the worn bed that occupied the room, this particular part of the vessel being the sleeping quarters, most like. This place is lifeless, he lectured himself, nothing living, or—
Screaming came from somewhere down the hallway. The trooper tossed his can aside and lifted his rifle. Carefully he made his way down the hall, the flashlight on his gun piercing the darkness.
He arrived at the location of the screams. The source of the wailings was Number 413. His blood dyed his already red uniform a darker shade where he had been savagely clawed. Several troopers of his unit had arrived before him to investigate the gruesome scene.
"636," a fellow unit member, Number 024, acknowledged him in flat tones.. He was the same rank as him, therefore his uniform was green as well.
They all had names, though in the force they referred to each other in a numerical fashion. When he was a civilian, his name was Fons Kavier. No one had called him by his birth name since he joined. Nevertheless, he had become accustomed to being called Number 636.
"Who could have done this?" Fons asked, lowering his weapon.
"Perhaps some wild animal," guessed Number 112, a thin but strong young woman.
"You know of an animal that could do this to a man?" Number 988, a man with a shaved head with perpetually mirthless eyes asked without scorn.
"A wolf," the woman explained "one tainted by Decipherod Industries."
"Mutated wildlife has been a problem in these parts," Number 988 conceded.
Number 413's body convulsed and life jolted back into his body, cutting the emotionless conversation short.
"413," Number 636 called out, "Inform us of what caused you harm."
"It hurts so damn much!" Number 413 said through gritted teeth, "It's ... it's inside me ... burning me up."
Number 636 was taken aback by 413's display of emotion.
"You must inform us of the threat," Number 988 stated.
Number 413's face filled with fear as he shook his head. He began to laugh like a man who'd lost his wits, his joy unstifled by the painful inferno in his belly. "No spirits," he uttered between breaths, "no gods or goddesses, no wraiths, ogres, demons, monsters ... "
The cuts on 413's chest and belly widened, the edges of the gashes starting to smoke and glow red hot.
"Inform us of the threat, 413," 112 demanded, unable to hide the shakiness in her voice as she saw the man's wounds illuminated the small room they stood in.493Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡZ8bPPbLtt4
"Idiots!" 413 shouted joyfully.493Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡkv6EupnSWc
"Explain," said 988 laconically, who too was taken by the bizarre display.
"You. Us. Everyone! All idiots for believing—" the cough the soldier in red let out was laced with smoke and ribbons of flame. " ... for believing in none of it!" Number 413 finished.
Fons and the rest of the uninjured just stood quietly as they watched Number 413 dissolve. The wounds deepened and the glowing flesh allowed them to see his lungs and heart, also smoldering like burning coals. Bones blackened and muscle sizzled, all while 413 cackled.493Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡbnEBnAIs7Z
"Roya ... " was the last word he said.
The laughter stopped when the spell had taken his whole body.
It took a moment for 636 to realize that Roya was one of the Ten Suns of Gio that he had forgotten.
"I've never seen anything like that," one of the unit members uttered.
"An illusion, no doubt," said 988, "from the artifact."
The artifact, Fons mused, that's what they called the ghost.
The inhabitants of this wreck were one of the last great congregations of Gio. Giosin'zio, the holy crew had named the ship, which meant "Gio is here" in Old Vir, an ancient language. They had found something: Something great, powerful and sentient, though no rumor spread of its shape or consistency. 493Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTPkSe5ZbKG
Whatever it was, wondered Fons, they interpreted and worshipped it as—
Gunfire shook Fons from his thoughts. More than one gun was going off in the distance, he realized. It sounded like dozens.
Number 988 bellowed a command and they moved out of the ash-polluted room.
"What's going on?" Number 988 said into his radio.
Fons saw the disbelief and anxiousness in Number 988 face as he listened to the reports, something he thought he would never see in a man so stern and collected.
Looking back, he saw Number 112 reach out and squeeze Number 024 hand. Fons had always had a suspicion about the two who would always sit silently next to each other in the mess hall. Mere inches away from each other on a bench was as intimate as one was allowed to in the force.
Number 988 directed them to a grand hall near the center of the shipwreck.
Above their heads, the metal had given way to reveal the night sky, but in the remnants of the roof, Fons could still see the shattered screen of which the false heavenly bodies may have been displayed as computer-generated animation. The marble statue of Gio, surrounded by a halo of the Ten Suns, four of which had fallen of their stony axis when the ship crashed, stood forlorn, a godly hand stretching out into the cosmos.
Below, the onslaught raged on. Creatures formed from hot ash, some resembling bears, wolves, and other predatory beasts, tore through Fons's comrades. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
"What is all this? Who ... " Fons said out loud, his voice steeped in fear.
"Above! Above!" he heard Number 024 shout.
Fons looked up and, on a rusty beam, sauntered a young girl dressed in white. Beneath her feet, the metal began to heat up to the point where it glowed white-hot. Each step sent embers to fly from the surface. The hot air seemed to make her dress billow revealing her long, pale legs. Pearl white ribbons danced in the air wildly, as did her long silvery locks. Within the flow, Fons could see two horns sprout from her skull Below her glowing red eyes, a black and jagged shape concealed her mouth. Below her breasts, a familiar symbol sat.
"That's the Heart of Roya," Fons said to himself, "The Ninth Sun of Gio."
Fons fired his rounds and the ashen fiends, but the bullets did nothing to stymie them: they whizzed through the ash, leaving holes that only reformed within seconds of penetration. The bullets that flew towards Roya slowed to stop within a foot of her and melted into glowing drops of lead.
Those who saw the futility in fighting turned and ran. Though Number 988 ordered them all to seize the artifact, many bolted and ignored him. Fons was one of the deserters, following Number 112 and 024, their hands locked and never to let go until they reached safety.493Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ57ZsBJrE17
