CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
"Grab Thane and the girl, get back to the ship," Neraka ordered. Negligent claws grasped at his suit, scraping Ranna's body onto the drill platform while the others prodded El into place. Kaligan gazed at his fellow Lord with faded disdain, still reeling from the apprehension of his thief. To have presented Atlazar and Galneus to Volka as Neraka stood empty-handed, shadowed under a cloud of shame, was a glorious dream that would remain just that.
Kaligan yanked Soran to his feet.
"Hope you've said your goodbyes; Volka has strict orders for you." He dug his fingers into the boy's back as he spoke. Despite the vacancy in the boy's gaze, tears continued to fall.
He can't hurt them anymore.
An admission of relief he could cling to as he traipsed behind the Lords, an unwilling participant in their nightmarish troupe.
Departing the platform chamber, Soran's eyes refused to acknowledge Tugg's lifeless mass. His friend would remain alive in his heart until forced to accept otherwise. Trapped in the corridors of his mind, he was safe from an unpalatable reality too terrible to confront.
Perplexed by his continued survival, Soran ruminated on what divine purpose Volka had imbued him with. The other members of the Horizon crew offered an aptitude to the pirate crusade that the boy evidently lacked. He was an apprentice -- of no particular renown -- that until recently had been as unremarkable as was humanly possible. That was until his brief encounter with the Pirate Lord, Ravias Malig. Was that what they wanted? Some bizarre form of protracted revenge, stringing him along until the edges of Malig's knives finally found their mark. The question whorled in his mind since he first encountered Kaligan. The pirate could have easily killed him back on the Gallowmare, and nothing would have changed. Volka, too, had squandered countless opportunities to have them killed on Accrakos. Yet here he was, moderately unharmed -- excluding his hand and the half dozen cracked ribs -- and advancing toward the next unknown. Though mystery would continue to shroud their true motive, Soran remained certain of one thing: the time would soon come when his usefulness would expire. Confronting the possibility of death so often had somewhat desensitized him to the entire affair. The fear that usually accompanied such macabre thoughts succumbed to something cold and hollow, a dark place where hope went to die.
Muted gunshots and other — more horrible — annunciations of war filtered through the craggy walls of the underground passage as the battle for the Hive continued to unfold. An array of hatches parted in response to their presence, like the welcoming arms of a friend, halting the pirate's progression with awe. Buried in the bowels of the Tartarian moon, the pirates bore witness to that which they sought. Wriggling its way through layers of despair, a smirk appeared on Soran's face.
Tales of Galneus told of a magnificent galleon whose radiance rivaled that of the brightest suns. Layers of Nanoalloy, Holo-formed to resemble the richest mahogany, covered the ship's exterior. Perfectly crafted support beams of purest gold cradled her shimmering hull. Vast scarlet robes draped the interiors and flowed into the beautifully decorated quarters, frequented by the Pirate Lords during the infancy of their odious crusade. The lavish upper decks were matched in splendor by the technical masterwork of the ship's engine. A fleet of rose gold instruments populated the heart of Galneus, and a luminous sea of soft lighting filtered through the colossal Holo-screens that spiraled around a central core. Extraction tubes poured from the outer casing of the engineering masterwork, coiling neatly around the constantly firing pistons that pumped crimson tides of Shimmersene, visible through their glassy exterior. These were the descriptions espoused so passionately by the Hyacinth's many fable-weavers, often several drinks down by the time these stories were unleashed on the eager crowds. Soran had frequented the oratory spectacles as a young boy, eager to be consumed by myth and wonder. The mythos, so expertly crafted in his youth, was swiftly unraveled as his eyes fell upon the chained wreak that sat impotent in the hangar before them.
Neither of the Pirate Lords dared utter a word. Even if they could muster the courage, what was there left to say? After decades spent combing the endless fathoms of space in search of the keystones, was this to be their reward? They had skulked in the shadows like frightened children, forced to watch their enemies grow in strength and influence, all the while being assured by Volka that their efforts would not be in vain. The culmination of their great work was upon them: a rabble of disheveled, leather-bound papers and the decrepit mass of a once-great galleon. It was an offense to the senses; no solace would be found in this end.
Frail beams of rotten wood were cradled by gnarled fingers of rusted metal, coated with greasy layers of grime and spent fuel. Substantial fissures in the outer hull revealed the decaying remnants of what was once a technological marvel. Now a graveyard of long-defunct machinery, the engine rooms operated as a poorly kept museum of antiquated gadgetry. Scraps of folded silk lay in tatters, decorating the decrepit hallways with their perished opulence. There was no doubt the size and scope of Galneus were unrivaled, even compared to the Naval Citadels of today. All that remained was a pitiful shell, serving only as an insult to the Pirate Lords, a final broken promise.
As he stared at the defeated Kaligan, Soran eyed a flicker of light. The cluster of keystones hung from his trunk-like neck, beckoning the boy with their call. Again, he was caught, unable to break the mesmeric snare. His senses magnified until each beat of his heart exploded in his chest, magma-hot blood searing his veins. His hand stretched out, drawn to the object's ethereal allure. Darting forward, his arm cut through the air, gripping a stray keystone. Satiated by the touch of cold metal, his blood crackled with a familiar intensity, unique yet familiar to his previous interactions. The intense weight that had burdened him so severely was absent, and although still firmly rooted, gravity had relinquished its grasp. Seeping through his pores and flowing into the space around him was an energy too potent for containment. He focused, tensing his muscles in an attempt to retrieve what was lost. Hauling the departed energy back into his core, he could feel the keystone's essence coalesce deep in his being. Kaligan's head turned to face him but lacked the immediacy the situation required. His actions crawled so sluggishly that Soran registered each degree of movement, the displacement of each muscle in his neck and face as his eyes shifted down. As the energy reached its peak and with the power almost under his control, Soran felt the right side of his jaw implode with a violent crunch. So overwhelmed by the experience, he had failed to observe Neraka. She had thrown the punishing fist the moment she clocked his daring thrust. Blooming in a frond of broken fingers, Soran released the keystone, his body crumpling into a defeated pile. Blissful weightlessness surrendered to the heavy hand of gravity as his head connected with the metal plating of the ground, knocking him unconscious.
Exasperation oozed from callous eyes as Neraka flexed the pain from her gloved fingers.
"Any other surprises?" She asked, cracking her knuckles to calm the sting of the punch.
"Volka's interest in the boy is making sense now. He's one of them." Replied Kaligan, opening up his chest cavity to stash the keystones amongst the expanse of tangled wires comprising his synthetic circulatory system. A trickle of debris grabbed their attention as it bounced off Kaligan's shoulder. Expansive ruptures parted the walls and ceiling, the tortured rock shedding thick layers of onyx plating that bound her crumbling innards. A mass of metal-infused sediment blocked the pristine tunnel they had entered through in a matter of seconds. They had no choice but to board the husk of Galneus.
Kaligan threw Soran's limp body over his shoulder and followed Neraka into the dilapidated vestibule. The sound of the Hive crumbling around them sped their advance, navigating the embrittled stairwells with haste.
As the pair neared the bridge, they passed through a mirrored corridor. Faded portraits adorned the dilapidated walls, immaculate renditions of the founding seven. For Kaligan, their splendor remained untarnished, even in their disheveled state. Seeing the Lords in whose footsteps he walked swelled him with pride and purpose. He gave the pirate salute before the mold-stained frame of his predecessor, the Gallowmare's architect, Bartholomeo Braccus. Selected by Braccus to inherit the Lordship upon his death, it had been under his strict tutelage that the augmented giant morphed into such an uncompromising instrument of brutality. Sentimentality was rare for Kaligan, but reuniting with his mentor's gaze forced tears to surface.
Neraka had no such connection with her forebears. After all, she had been responsible for inflicting the fatal wound and watching the life drain from Lord Carrias. The crew of the Insidia partook in the tradition of acquiring the Lordship by force. Any crew member could, at any time, usurp the mantle of leadership. All it required was a sharp blade and the guts to thrust it. An ever-present aura of terror had to be maintained to prevent such an action. For Neraka, being a particularly fearsome character in a long line of monstrous individuals had its perks. So far, no attempt had been made on her life. It seemed, for now, the young devotees that served under her were content following her every command.
Two of the portraits had reached such a severe level of degradation they had become unrecognizable. Despite this, the Lords knew that they had once displayed the still-human faces of Volka and Khan Cybel, faces no eyes but their own had ever seen.
Hung above the door to the bridge was the magnum opus of all the portraits. A once-golden frame decorated with handcrafted leaves that fanned out at pleasing angles. Their tips lead the viewer to what were once the eyes of the most infamous pirate that ever lived, King Talas. A visage lost to time, all that remained in the frame was the point of his tricorne hat and the tops of his regal cloak that trailed him like a shadow through all his legendary journeys. Both Neraka and Kaligan crossed their arms and knelt before the faded image — their respect and loyalty to their King not lessened by recent traumatic discoveries.
Kaligan forced open the door, and they stepped beyond the threshold. Although time had been particularly cruel to Galneus, the magnificence of her bridge remained undeniable. Statues of beautiful women, their legs replaced with long scaled tails and tipped with a flickering fin that met at the door's apex. Large wooden pillars stretched high to the intricate domed ceiling, frescoed with ancient-looking vessels that sailed on vast and beautiful oceans. Looking upon the still unmatched artistry imbued the pirates with a fathomless longing for something they had never known and yet felt an unshakable connection to; the emerald paradise promised to them long ago, an escape from the infinite, empty black. The deafening silence and stillness of their existence relented to the roar of waves and rush of cooling winds. These thoughts had kept them together through the darkest of days. Years erased without making an inch of progress, trudging from planet to planet, system to system, endlessly searching for the keystones, each blow of failure softened by Volka's assurance their efforts would not be in vain.
Trust in the great work, and your reward will be everlasting.
The Lords had never questioned the exact mechanics of gaining access to Elyssia, Volka's riddles too cryptic and vague to decipher. Following the great work while pledging an undying oath of loyalty to a Pirate King seemed to be the sole requirement. Volka assured them that Talas, upon his liberation, would shed ample light on this most perplexing question, espousing the wisdom of Atlazar that appeared to him alone. However, in its current state, the tome would be insufficient to employ as kindling.
Galneus shook with profound violence, battered by the ceaseless hail of sediment, her archaic hull faltering under the onslaught. Kaligan approached the primary control server, pulling a lengthy cord from the base of his neck. It dripped with Shimmersene and lubricating fluids, stinking of inhuman sterility. He threaded the attachment into an ancient connector on the central console, and to his surprise, the screen illuminated. Through the fragmented pane of shattered glass, he examined the last diagnostic reading she had taken before her incarceration.
"Barren, as imagined." Kaligan sighed. The Pirate Lords stood in contemplative silence, watching the facility crumble around them through the bullet-pocked viewing portal.
"As a place to perish, I could imagine no finer setting." Kaligan mused, standing proudly at the helm of what was, in his mind, the greatest ship ever crafted.
"You can die if it pleases you," Neraka replied, holding up her locator beacon. Just as its red flash became a solid green shimmer of hope, a quake of unthinkable magnitude wracked the ship's foundations. The rotting carcass of the hull exploded in a cloud of antique mist. Thrown to the ground, the Lords scrambled to regain their footing. A plume of thick, powdery dust settled over everything like winter's first snow. Neraka sprang to her feet, brushing down the feathers of her cape and affixing her face mask to breathe through the acrid clouds. Kaligan shrugged off the debris from his back, Soran's body protected from harm beneath his massive frame.
"Deploy the scout. We're on our way," Neraka ordered into her comm as she ascended what remained of a spiral staircase, exiting to the outer deck. Despite their ceaseless rivalry, Kaligan couldn't help but be impressed by his peer's ingenuity. On this occasion, she would be granted the authority in their escape.
The clouds of smoke cleared to reveal a colossal canyon, the devastation spanning the entirety of the asteroid's southern hemisphere. Gravity became heavy, the air starved and tasteless. The artificial atmosphere of the facility was struggling to regulate for the damage, all power diverted to prevent occupant expulsion into the vacuum. Neraka stared skyward, a vacant gaze affixed to their salvation. Framed by the opalescent moonlight of a nearby planet's twin satellites, the scouting ship she had requested docked on the hull of Galneus. Trailing the vessel, three giant hooks spewed forth from the Goliath jaws of the Insidia. Her crew disembarked with feverish excitement, aching to greet their Lord. She shooed them from her presence, ordering them to attach the hooks to the ancient ship, securing it for transport.
With Galneus in tow, they fled the crumbling prison, eager to present their findings to Volka. Their respective roles in the great work had transpired as prophesied, successfully retrieving the pirate relics. Despite this, a quiet unease brewed with Kaligan and Neraka. What if they had made a mistake? A more terrifying consideration for the Lords was what if the error had been Volka's? What if the prophecy he had spent his life attempting to bring to fruition was just a story, a fantasy concocted by the wild imaginings of some tale-teller long ago? If this were the case, then what would become of them? What would it even mean to be a pirate?
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