ARTIN

  A Veilborn Short Story

  by Island Monogram

  “Artin! Artin!” My master’s voice carries through the ship in an urgent tone. The Servitors, myself included, do not come with names. Artin was given to me by the master, the name of a former pet of his. I rush out of the small room I’m stationed in when I’m not needed. The corridors of the Windwyrm, my master’s ship, are long, segmented compartments. It takes no more than a minute to make it to the door of the bridge. I place the palm of my hand against the scanner, which is a few degrees warmer than usual. The door scrapes open, and as is to be expected, only makes it about halfway before slamming to a stop, jammed. I’m already through the door before it’s fully opened. The hydraulics bend, creak, and buckle before the door breaks loose and opens the rest of the way. Master prefers me to be punctual.

  The urgency in the master’s voice makes sense immediately. Master stands by his chair on the bridge. A man collapsed onto the ground at his feet. Master is grasping his arm; he seems uncomfortable. I rush to aid the man on the ground, rolling him onto his back to identify the issue better. Blood has just started to pool around his chest, a hole filled with shrapnel and charred flesh, the light smell of ozone in the air. Friction fire. Likely a pistol, given the wound size and depth. I check his pulse; his body is still warm, but he is gone.

  “Not him, you worthless pile of goo,” Master says rashly. “I’m the one who needs help.”

  “This man is dead. He’s been shot. Are you shot?” I stand as I speak, facing him, awaiting instructions.

  “I did the shooting, but the fucking gun exploded in my hand.” He holds out his hand for me to investigate it.

  It appears he has some skin lesions and light burns on his dominant hand. Quickly, I move to the medical containment section and get the required treatment. Bandages soaked in Motristen to help the burns and lesions heal, and a shot of spirits to calm Master’s nerves. The latter is a part of every treatment. The master slumps down into his chair with a thud as I begin to treat him. The spirits, some kind of fermented grain, go down before the bandages even touch his skin. With Master’s good hand, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a metal disc. It’s unlike any metal I have reference for, almost crystalline with veins of light cutting through it like caverns.

  “This is gonna change my life.” Master starts talking out loud, but I can tell it’s not directed at me or anyone. “I’m gonna be filthy rich. No more defective servitor, no more shitty organic ship. I’ll be able to afford full tech, I’ll be living the high life on my own planet somewhere after this.” The ship lurches lightly, the autopilot taking it towards the nearest wyrmgate. After the bandages are applied, I step back waiting for any other instructions.

  “Go dump that guy out of the airlock, would you, before he starts stinking up the place. Then I guess you can go back to your closet.”

  I nod and lift the now cooler corpse of the man on the floor over my shoulders. Blood pours from his wound across my back and onto the floor.

  “Oh, and uhh, clean up this blood.”

  The walk to the back of the ship is about ten minutes one way. Calerian Space Wyrms, like the one the ship is built into, grow to about twice this one’s size at a lifespan of about three hundred years. This one is young.

  The airlock jettisons the corpse out into deep space with the rest of the refuse that had been piling up. I turn to make the journey back to the bridge when something catches my eye. I see ships out of the airlock window. They are traveling much faster than us—full tech ships marked with strange symbols. I can’t quite make them out at this distance. Master respects knowledge, so I stand for a moment longer. It’s unmistakable now; the ships are painted with the white and blue Cassian Crow, the symbol of Salvation. Master is not well-liked by Salvation. I turn to run. At full sprint, I can make the journey in over three minutes, but only halfway there I hear the wyrm scream in pain. The ship contorts and rotates at the segments, the bio portion of biomechanics taking over in crisis. The segment I’m in throws me into the air. Whatever Salvation is doing, the ship is in distress.

  It’s a rough journey, the last half dodging debris from the twisting wyrm or Master’s piloting. The bridge, once I get to it, is in a state worse than when I left. Amid the blood, the violent convulsing of the wyrm has strewn about all the technological devices and spare parts the master kept in boxes. Not the wyrm—the master. The master is rummaging through the boxes, looking for something. The strange metal disc floats in a datafield generator he awkwardly set up on his chair.

  “Baksen!” He shouts as he throws the box of apparently incorrect parts on the floor. Almost as soon as the box hits the floor, he stares at me, donning a smile I’ve never seen before.

  “Artin. Sit.” It’s not often he gives direct commands, so I oblige quickly. Outside the closed bridge door, I hear the sound of Salvation scuttler ships boring a hole into the wyrm. It screams and writhes in pain to the dismay of my master, who has quickly started interfacing this datafield generator with my Halo. A slip of his tools sends sparks spraying, some landing on my flesh, turning it a burnt black. The constant barrage of swearing and panicked shouts halts as an eerie silence falls over the ship. The wyrm is now being pumped full of a chemical cocktail of sedatives, calms, which means Salvation forces are aboard.

  Master quickly finishes whatever he’s doing to me and runs and grabs a friction fire rifle off the wall, whatever cheap companion piece came from the discount bin he got the pistol from. I can tell I’m getting new information in my Halo, some kind of data. Maybe whatever veil Master was talking about is compatible with me.

  “Make yourself useful for once, Artin.” The master places his hand on the palm scanner, the rifle slung over his shoulder. “I’m going to buy time. When that upload is done, unplug yourself and get somewhere safe.” The door opens, and the master steps out of it to greet the Salvation soldiers pouring into the mid segments. The door closes behind him, leaving me connected to the data transfer. Twenty percent remaining. The unmistakable sound of friction fire breaks out behind the door. I feel my pulse quicken. Impossible as it is, the steady rhythm pulsing fluid through my flesh is malfunctioning—it’s going haywire. This feeling is alien to me, but not as alien as the drop of something within me when the friction fire stops.

  Ten percent remaining.

  The stopping means someone has won. Since Master was so outnumbered, I don’t imagine it was him. I stare at the closed door waiting for the successful palm scan sound I’ve come to know, but instead, nothing. Painful quiet caught in the moments of anticipation, then sparks. A jet of flame and plasma sprays from the door as Salvation guards begin cutting the door from the frame. The sparks patter against my legs, burning me. I back away from another foreign sensation. I rub the burnt flesh of my legs as if the pain of the burn would be wiped away. I look around in panic. The door is almost open, and what’s to be done with me if they killed the master? Surely I will die too. Death, nothingness, an empty abyss void of feeling. What is wrong with me? All this over what? Salvation is here for something; it must be the data disk I’m connected to. If I just give it to them. What could it be if it’s worth killing over?

  Five percent remaining.

  “Fuck this!” The words audibly escape my lips as if I no longer have control over my own mouth. I go to cover them quickly with my hands, but catch myself. This isn’t worth dying over. Quickly, I unplug the connectors, turn over the chair, sending all the technology scattering to the floor. The bulkhead door comes crashing to the ground as a swarm of Salvation soldiers enters. There’s no time to hide, not in the traditional sense, so all I can do is stand against the wall as I’ve done countless times. On the outside, I still look unassuming—a servitor awaiting orders. On the inside, I’m petrified.

  The soldiers come in, weapons held high, clearing the room. I’m forced to stare ahead with the barrel of a rifle pointed at me.

  “Clear,” one of the enforcers lets out.

  “Clear,” another one says. The soldiers let their guard down, weapons lower to their sides, some stretch as if their muscles were sore. Footsteps echo down the corridor, and the troop stands at attention as what I assume is their master comes in. The soldiers are dressed for battle—flexible plate armor painstakingly polished, some now dirty from the fight. Their helmets have a wide visor, dark. They are faceless, nameless. Their leader, however, wears no such mask, no such armor; his outfit hasn’t seen battle, always letting his servants do the dirty work. My fist clenches. My face fights to remain stoic. He’s dressed in glasses, a white short coat tucked neatly into nice pressed white pants, a silver emblem of the Cassian Crow proudly pinning a half cape behind him—blue with silver trim and white lining. Below the crow are medals to show all the good deeds he’s done. Good. Something about the word stings the back of my throat. Something about the thought sits well with me. He waves his hand wordlessly at the soldiers, putting them at ease.

  He walks around the room looking for his prize. He kicks at the datafield generator. He follows a trail of scattered screws and wires to the small metal disc with the canyons of light. He throws his cape out of his face as he bends down with a gloved hand, picking up the disc and holding it to his eye. A satisfied smile comes across his face. Something about it makes my stomach turn. With a flick of his arm, he throws the disc at one of the soldiers, who catches it.

  “File that.” His voice is scratchy, weathered. Perhaps he’s ill. Perhaps he screamed too much. The soldier opens a tube off their belt and places the veil data disk inside. Their master looks around, just a glance, locking eyes with me briefly, but dismissing me.

  “We have got what we came for,” he says.

  “FOR THE GOOD OF ALL!” the soldiers cry out in unison.

  “Yes, yes, let’s get going.” One by one, Salvation leaves. Leaving me nothing but a defunct ship, a deceased master, and whatever has changed within me.

  * * *

  I go back to my normal duties. The first thing I do is clean up the wires and put them back in the boxes. The bulkhead is too big for me to move, so it will have to stay for now. The hallway is next. It seems like my master put up quite the fight before… I look at the lifeless corpse of the man who bought me, who had me serve him day after day. Now he was gone. Now, no one to give me commands. No one but myself. He’s the first thing I clean out of the hallway. I start the walk to the aft of the ship. His body hits the ground of the airlock with a thud. Usually, I place them down, but for some reason, this felt more appropriate. I stare into the window—out at the stars, out at my master collecting ice in the abyss. My stark white flesh in the reflection catches my eye, and for the first time, I notice myself. The metal ring going through my skull—the Halo, they call it. I press my hand to the glass; it’s cold. I don’t notice the temperature, but I notice the way my muscles feel, the way they tense up on my palm and fingertips. I have to snap myself back to my current situation or risk being lost. The rest of the cleaning and repairs are uneventful, but I’ve learned that the duties I once had don’t fulfill me anymore.

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  I can tell by the groans of the ship that it’s starting to wake, which means I need to go. Somewhere. I sit in the captain’s chair, the autopilot begging for coordinates. I think first of places Master had been. I punch them into the console, and the planets appear in front of me. 2X78R9, or Ge’trel to the people. A dangerous place for anyone. The wildlife has a penchant for eating anything, starships included. Mali Limana is a nice planet for the wealthy. Master had gotten several jobs from his friends there. His friends probably wouldn’t take kindly to me, and I would probably end up in their service. My fingers seem to move across the keys on their own. 8S7S32. This one I’ve not been to. Maybe Master told me about it. Maybe it was luck. The choice: death, or servitude, or the unknown. I activate the autopilot, and the ship lurches forward under its normal rhythm to the nearest wyrmgate.

  * * *

  The gate—an impossibly ancient wyrm bound by iron and steel, technology implanted into it. No one thinks of the wyrm. Even I, before this moment, hadn’t thought of the horror. The ship approaches. I watch the lights travel along the apparatus that controls it. Beams of energy spray into the flesh of the wyrm, eliciting a low rumble that grows. The mouth of the wyrm opens fully as the beams increase their intensity. The sound of the gate. Yesterday, a fact of space travel. Now I see it through a new lens. The wyrm screams. I feel it in the walls, in the Halo, and somewhere inside of me. It screams not because it wishes to, but because it’s made to. The ship shakes, and the fabric of reality breaks down in the mouth, showing me new stars. I reach my hand to my eyes to feel water dripping down my face. This is not right. The ship crosses the threshold and speeds forward into wyrmspace—a flash of colors rushing by, the low hum of a distorted scream—before being spat out light-years from where I was. The destination is visible to me from the viewscreen, a growing grey spec in the distance among the unfamiliar stars. As we leave the gate, I look up at it and say, “I’m sorry.”

  * * *

  The planet is mostly clouds and water. A little closer to its star, and it would be all clouds. The ship journeys through the foggy sky, coming gently onto the only ground. A quick scan for civilization puts us an hour’s walk from something. Maybe the last thing. I step out onto the soggy soil, and it makes way for my feet as they sink into the cold earth. Something about it puts me at ease. The smell of moss and dirt, the misty breeze, the sound of the waves crashing onto the rock beaches far below. Strange foliage dots the landscape, colorful leafy plants bearing fruits unknown to me. I take some time gathering the things I need from the ship. I grab some provisions—dried meals, the master’s rifle, water, a compass—and I find myself grabbing the nameplate from my room. I used to stare at it, awaiting orders. Something about it fascinates me now. I take a look around the bridge one last time. I listen to the swell and creak of the ship, the wyrm’s body. I hover my hand over the switch for a moment before I disable the life support systems. I walk to the front of the wyrm, its function slowing. I reach out with a hand, looking into its eyes for the first time. “It’s okay. You no longer need to serve us. You can rest.” The beast lies gently to the ground and stops. The creaking of the segments settling gives way to beautiful silence. I pack up my things into a bag and head north.

  I find myself missing the familiar ambiance of a starship more with every step. The snapping of twigs and rustling of leaves has me on edge for the majority of the trek. A close call with a small bipedal herbivore sends my chest into a frenzy. My mind, however, has been the most alien. Before, there was silence. Only Master’s voice would break it. Now I notice things—random things, unimportant things. A rock rolling down the cliffside. A lone tree toppled by wind or storm. The way light reflects off the water below. I must have a thousand thoughts by the time the sound of voices breaks through.

  First I hear it. Civilization.

  The distant sounds of people speaking, of animal coos, the crackle of rock paths beneath carts. Then the smell—fruity, smokey, earthy. The smell of baked goods, of forges, freshly tilled soil. I come to a clearing and see it atop a cliff, the roofs of mud brick buildings peaking above the cliffside. Something red at the base of the cliff catches my attention as I approach cautiously. Soon after, three heads poke over the cliffside. On instinct, I duck behind a nearby rock. I peer from behind it. The three heads belong to children looking down from the edge of the cliff. I can see now they are pointing at the red knitted ball sitting pristine amongst the dirt and rocks. The ball must have fallen from the cliff. I notice a frayed and knotted rope dangling off the cliff as the tallest of the kids points to it. The smallest kid, a girl no older than seven, is pushed by the taller one towards the rope. I find myself out from behind the rocks, walking towards the ball before my mind can realize how dangerous it is. The children notice and point at me. I can’t hear what they say to one another; I only assume they are plotting how they will use me. I grab the ball from the cliffside. Its soft, woven fabric sticks lightly to my flesh. I look at the children, perhaps fifty feet up, and hold the ball aloft. The tallest opens his arms. I drop my arm and fling the ball into the air as hard as I can. Twenty, thirty, forty. The ball drops in its arc and falls back down away from me. I should leave before I’m in danger. I look to the wilderness; perhaps a new home is back that way. I look toward the knotted rope leading to the top of the cliff. I reach down and grab the ball, placing it alongside my provisions, and grab the rope. One foot finds purchase on the cliffside and another. The rope creaks against my weight. A fire builds in my chest as I climb—less so about the danger and more about what awaits me at the top. Thirty feet. Forty feet. I reach out and pull myself up the cliff. The tallest kid waits with his arms open as I take the ball out of my bag, but my eyes meet the young girl’s. I place the ball into her hands and lock eyes, expecting something—some maliciousness, the sound of guards or masters looking for another servant—but all I get is a girl’s smile. A smile which extinguishes my chest in an instant. She drops the ball to the ground and kicks it, laughing with her friends. “Thank you!” she shouts, almost as an afterthought.

  * * *

  The village is grand up close. Not as grand as the floating cities on Cassius or the Kalias star cluster, but more real, more tangible. Huge two-story brick buildings side by side, almost touching, form rings. The rings, connected by paths, each seem to serve a function. In one ring, the tailors sewing and weaving, farriers forging shoes for their beasts of burden. In another, the houses—painted with floral vines bringing excitement to the brown backdrop of the bricks. I walk through the village catching eyes from people. The adults look at me with suspicion, the way I look at them, but soon after they’ve looked, they seem to pay me no mind. All except a baker who calls out to me from the window of her shop.

  “Sir! Hello! Would you like a tart?” I look around to see if I’m in the way before realizing she means me. I timidly approach. The woman smiles.

  “I cannot buy anything,” I respond, as if the words are falling out of my mouth.

  “Not buy. Here.” She holds one out to me. “They are the old ones from today. I only have a few left.”

  I take the circular tart. The crust flakes off and crackles in my hand. A sweet fruit jelly decorates the outside. Slowly, I bring it to my mouth. My teeth pierce the crust—soft and hard at the same time, the jelly tart and sweet. I can’t seem to comprehend how such a thing is made, only that I’m glad it is.

  “This… this is wonderful.” My words are starting to better align with my feelings. Subconsciously, I reach for another, and the woman gestures that it’s okay. This one is orange colored, more sour than sweet, and causes the muscles in my face to tense and my mouth to water. When my face relaxes, it finds a new resting position. The corners of my mouth lifted in a place that almost feels like it’s becoming easier than stoic.

  Boom!

  a small object enters the atmosphere at high speed, fire forming around the hull as its engines screech as it lowers toward the village. The ship is familiar, though smaller than the last one. The Cassian Crow emblem is unmistakable. Salvation. They land a short ways off the cliffside, and before my feet can decide where to go, they are here. The crew of soldiers are familiar too—the same commander leading a smaller team of soldiers who killed the master. They are met with the strongest villagers, maybe farmers, and have a brief conversation out of earshot. The sinking pit in my chest returns as the farmer points at me and the soldiers advance. I run fast, a dead sprint that I used to be able to maintain for an hour. But now, it's minutes before my legs burn, I crumple down to the cool earth, dragged back to the central circle where the commander is dropping payment into the hand of the farmer. Cold, the commander looks above his glasses at one of the soldiers.

  “Take his head. We only need the Halo.”

  “No! Please!” I cry out, and for the first time, the commander looks thrown off. The moment is brief.

  “A servitor begging for its life. Well, it does seem there’s still surprises left.” He gestures to the soldier, who pulls a blade from his belt and grabs me.

  “Stop!” A small voice cries out from the onlooking crowd. Standing in front of everyone is the little girl I had given the ball to. “Don’t hurt him!”

  “Darling, it’s not real. It will be quite painless.”

  * * *

  The crowd parts. Silence, filled with wet footsteps, as a man steps forward. He doesn’t stop, though, slowly walking up to the commander. With each step, a loud clank rings out through the ring. He wears armor plates and a helmet—not full, dented, scratched, but well maintained. He wears a tan cape which follows the breeze, clasped with a white pin, a strange symbol I’ve never seen. On one arm, a pauldron that goes down to his elbow leading to a gauntlet. The other arm appears flesh melded with metal, white light pouring out of the cracks between the two. It forms to his arm like it has been replaced by it. Not arm, not armor, but somewhere between. The figure stands for a moment and unclasps the cape, letting it fall behind him. His arm pulses with white light. He raises his hand. The parts of metal dissipate, turning into a white dust. At his whim, it grows to form a thin sheet. In his hand, a sharpened blade formed from his arm’s very essence. He points it at the commander and speaks only one word, in a voice that would make mountains bend. “Leave!”

  The commander stares for a moment too long at the arm of the warrior but wastes no time giving his command. “Shoot him.”

  The soldiers train their rifles on the figure and fire. I roll out of the way of the danger, landing in time to catch a glimpse of the commander. He’s running back toward his ship. Not with dignity. He runs scared, terrified. I soon understand why. With ease, the figure transforms his blade to a shield, sending bolts of white-hot steel scattering into the ground. He charges the first soldier, then the second, knocking them away—an unstoppable force. The shield becomes white tendrils, grabbing the guns of the last two. In panic, they fire, and the guns redirect the blasts into their downed comrades who were trying to get to their feet. With the collapse of his fist, the guns crumple, and the sword returns, making quick work of the last soldiers. The commander, not far, is grabbed by the luminous dust and dragged by his feet, clawing at the earth for any escape. I slowly stand to my feet as the commander, now kneeling before the man, is bound by his light. “Kill him.” The helmet of the man hides his eyes well, but I can tell they are trained on me.

  “What?” I respond, half out of discomfort, half truly not understanding the request. The light from the binds splits off with audible discomfort from the man and forms a knife floating in front of me. “This man wronged you. Thinks you are subhuman. That you’re worthless. Prove him wrong. Make a choice. Kill him.” I take the knife in my hand. It tingles—no temperature, no real texture, like pure energy. With it, I feel something. Emotion. Fear, maybe. Distrust. I look into the eyes of the commander. The knife gripped firmly in my hand. I think about the master, about Salvation. I think of the commander moments ago fearing the man who asks me this, and now fearing me. “No.” I let the knife go, and the luminous dust reforms to the commander’s bonds. “No?” He parrots me. “Why not? Surely this man deserves it.”

  “That’s not for me to decide. He is no longer a threat to me.”

  The binds of the commander loosen to allow him to stand. His arms remain cuffed. The figure, looming, removes his helmet. “You really are something new. Come with me.” His expression, as best I can tell, is genuine, soft. And as we walk with the commander, he takes me outside the village.

  * * *

  The path is long, well worn. The commander has been gagged to prevent the incessant begging.

  “Are you aware that you shouldn’t exist?” His question has a tone of genuine bafflement.

  “Yes?”

  “Do you know what this is?” He fishes the data disk from the pocket of the commander.

  “It’s data.”

  “More than that. This metal—” He holds up the arm. “The veil holds memory, spirit, and this disk had done the same. My friend kept the archives here. His mark, the same metal as this disk. His spirit, along with whatever is stored, is in each of these. I can’t feel him in it anymore, but I think I can sense it in here.” His hand touches the Halo, and a sense of peace washes over me—familiar, like the warmth of starlight. “Whatever happened to get you here, the way you found this place… somewhere in there, you are connected to him.”

  We cross the path to a clearing in front of a cliff. The cliff has been carved. Two statues, faceless from years of weathering, stand guard at the giant doors. Stairs lead up to the entrance, and emblazoned above it, the symbol from the man’s cape. As we approach the steps, I feel a sense of calm, like I’m supposed to be here. The man crouches to look me in the eyes.

  “I don’t know how much of my friend is in there. How much is you. But if you want, you can stay. Learn of the veil. Be a protector of it. Bathe in the light of the universe and uphold peace. Or, if you want, we can help you get to wherever it is you’re going next.”

  I stand in the doorway, unable to respond. I look back to the village, into the man’s eyes. I might be impossible. I may never understand my place in the world.

  But I’m here. I’m home.