CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Fractured and hemorrhaging a cocktail of vital fluids, the Hive's atmospheric barrier teetered on structural failure. The Insidia floated free of the titanic Iris portal, and her crew watched gleefully as the architectural marvel fell into ruin. The protective barrier that shielded the prison peeled away in a flicker of light. Within seconds, the life-sustaining atmosphere dissipated, and with it, those unfortunate souls that failed to escape. Lacking the rabid eruption that so often followed such large-scale destruction, the facility crumbled into an archipelago of splintered rock. The Hive was no more.

  With Galneus in tow and her mission fulfilled, Neraka and her fellow pirates were gifted yet another spectacle of domination. A roiling inferno of emerald flame seethed from the stricken hull of the Dios Toro, torn in twain and leaking kiloliters of Shimmersene into the void. Crippled beyond recognition, the fearsome lances that adorned her bow lay impotent. Between the grand horns, the devastating weapon the pirates so feared had melted to a river of boiling slag. Igneous tears fell from her bow as if lamenting her defeat. A twitch of amusement threatened to defile Neraka's scowl. To her, it was a thing of beauty, a fiery tomb laying to rest all that she reviled. Cascading through ruined decks, the fiery torrent of molten steel reached the Dios Toro's fulgurating core, drowning her radioactive heart in liquid fire and initiating a full meltdown. In a spectacular explosion that ignited the heavens, a pinnacle of Naval engineering vaporized, a viridescent cloud all that remained.

  Bathed in the ashes of their enemies sailed a show of supremacy not seen for over a century, not since the days of the Maiden Sin at the birth of the pirate crusade. Thousands of ships littered the heavens, concentrated villainy from every corner of the galaxy. It was an Armada to rival the great galactic powers, a fervent congregation of opposition.

  Amethyst bolts strobed from the deep scars in the Basilica's spherical hull, teaming with the feverish workings of repair drones. Flanking her right sailed the Gallowmare; steel and iron fashioned to detain, the bars of a thousand cages, reforged into the fiercest Dreadnought in pirate history. Kaligan's eyes burned with admiration upon seeing his ship. He longed to return home to celebrate the great victory with his crew. They had played their part in the great work admirably, worthy of the reward to come.

  Skulking in the shadow of the Gallowmare's brutal exterior lurked the lavishly constructed Siren. Through the meticulously crafted stained glass of the castle-esque vessel, you could almost hear the baroque symphony of the Eterna Dramatica: an unending spectacle performed by Lady Maldreska's indentured entertainers, Troupe Malice. Rather than any great warship, Maldreska's vessel acted as a cathedral of debauchery for the galaxy's more notorious residents. After the events of the Eureka Calamity, she vanished into the Seethe, buying off -- or dealing with -- any Naval agents that happened to uncover her whereabouts.

  A curious glance passed between Neraka and Kaligan as they eyed a familiar vessel sleuthing at the port side of the Basilica.

  "How fortuitous!" Kaligan snorted as he laughed.

  "She always was an individual of impeccable timing, arriving at the opportune moment to revel in the glory won by the hardship of others," he said with a minatory tone. He gazed enviously upon the curved dagger-like fins that punctuated the length of the slender vessel. The Arachnaris once again coasted the stars. Bladed spears fanned out at the vessel's stern, open at full spread to infuse her fuel stores with solar particulates.

  "I'll deal with Noctei when I get the chance. Volka's pet will get what she's owed. Be patient." Neraka's disdain smoldered, her usual hushed whisper elevated to an almost audible volume. She and Kaligan had a particular hatred for Noctei, still considering her a traitor. She had imprisoned many of their crew during her espionage in the government and had been responsible for Kaligan's incarceration upon the Eureka's failure. Having her ship returned to sail alongside her sister vessels touched a nerve with the pair. Thoughts of revenge retreated as another Dreadnought made its introduction. Volka had been busy.

  Nightmarish depictions of tortured souls haunted the abyssal backdrop of deep space. The flayed and burning bodies carved into the raven-black hull were a nostalgic sight for Kaligan. He and Malig had been close during their crusade, often partaking in the pleasures of war side by side, sharing tales of their cruelties with one another. The Bassalark, it seemed, was beyond the snare of destruction. Reborn with its saturnine exterior gleaming and weapons retooled, she was ready to inflict fresh horror upon the galaxy. Monstrously tall masts soared from its main deck, each anchored to the hull by tentacled arms. Motionless in the void were dozens of magnificent sails, each emblazoned with Malig's seal: the dagger-fanged serpent.

  "In my most delusory imaginings, I could not have conjured such a vision. The true glory of our kind is being realized." Kaligan mused, mesmerized by the forgathering of Dreadnoughts. He had been a faithful servant of Volka since his induction to Lordship, seeing the landscape of destruction that crumbled beneath their armada as a visceral demonstration of his master's foresight.

  Volka had told tales of the government's fall; their ships turned to scrap, and facilities collapsed in flame. All that was required was the keystones, and events would unfold as predicted. Looking back at the wreckage of the once-mighty Galneus did little to distill his faith.

  Our story is already written. All that remains is to live through the memories.

  Since the day he heard Volka speak those words, he had not once strayed from the work. Never had Kaligan seen a shred of doubt or moment of hesitation in all the years he had followed him. Volka's conviction was infallible.

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  Crippled fingers caressed the freshly swollen mound that enveloped the boy's eye, sealing it closed save for a blurred sliver of reality. Callous hands hauled Soran to the Insidia. The pirate armada spooled their engines, readying their crews for the final journey. El huddled in a corner, cradling Ranna's irradiated body. She lulled him to sleep in her mother tongue, shamanic mantras sailing on currents of warm breath. Although through the worst of it, her abilities were insufficient to reverse the damage suffered by his internal organs. He needed real help. A familiar fragrant aroma accented the sterile atmosphere as the engine ignited. The Insidia's internal machinery surged to life with a shrieking caw that echoed up from the lower decks. Soran's body jolted. He recoiled in agony, putting pressure on his broken hand. Pain had become a frequent visitor and always wore the same winced expression. As an engineer, he had endured his fair share of scrapes, bumps, and burns. These minor traumas were incomparable to the pirate-inflicted corporal vandalism. Though in no immediate danger, the boy hesitated to declare his ordeal concluded.

  Kaligan and Neraka stared passionately through the viewing window's frosted pane, basking in their armada's might; such a sight would have been unthinkable only days before. Heading the pack was the Basilica, blotting out the sunlight of the nearby star with her sheer immensity. Encircled by a halo of golden light, its rays illuminated the disciples of Talas on their pilgrimage, the culmination of the great work.

  In need of distraction, Soran scanned the Insidia's bridge. It was a lifeless expanse of perforated sheet metal maintained at a close freezing temperature, one of a host of small cruelties Neraka devised to keep her crew in line. The boy thumbed at Lanic's Naval insignia and felt a faint warmth, his mentor's spirit lingering on in the circular plate of chipped silver.

  Soran flicked through the layers of his mind, searching for a shred of hope. He had endured injury, abuse, and even... even the death of his friends. His voyage with the Horizon crew had swallowed whatever future he had imagined for himself. Despite the trials he had overcome, his exhausted limbs lay impotent, and he craved that his burden be lifted by another. Desperately pleading for the weight to be lessened, his hardships relinquished, to be free from the unending struggle. Lanic had played this role in the past. Thanklessly, he had shouldered the boy's adversity on a back already inundated with a lifetime of undue misfortune. Whenever things had gotten too much, the work too difficult, or the shifts in the docking bay too long, Lanic had always braved more than his fair share. Although appreciated in the moment, Soran now realized the unreserved kindness had veiled unintended cruelty. Despite the galaxy's best attempts to sharpen him, he was still soft, weak, and in need of help.

  Staring out at the intimidating display of the Pirate armada, Soran's mind could only muster a single thought.

  This has to be stopped.

  He didn't need to know their plan or what his part in it would be, but he could feel the approaching chaos closing in; its black, oily tendrils enveloping everything they touched. There were things far worse than weakness, worse than being paralyzed by fear or cowering in the face of it. There was a power inside of him. He had felt it, seen its devastating effects on those around him. Malig, Kaligan, and Neraka all bore witness, its crushing weight bearing down on them, disabled by the invisible force and thus, at his mercy. Knowing this, he couldn't satisfy his mind's pleading. He couldn't give in to the fear and the weakness that had held him back until now. He had to fight.

  An obscene chorus of laughter and hissing pistons fractured his thoughts. A gaggle of snarling children appeared through a static-laced mist, prodding at Soran with clawed hands and barbed sticks crudely crafted with bone and wire. With a dismissive wave, Neraka ordered her prisoner's departure. The boy felt a plume of pain swell in his hand, letting out a scream of agony as the children bound his wrists and hoisted him to his feet. Reveling in his pain, they marched him from the bridge, chanting a profanity-laced rhyme while escalating their torment.

  Descending the Insidia's sepulchral layers, Soran plunged into the feral hierarchy of the juvenile crew. Those weakest scoured the floors for scraps of food, clinging to pipes for warmth, scrounging for a semblance of comfort. Higher-status pirates sat on makeshift thrones, demanding their hordes of underlings perform menial tasks or compete in vile contests for their entertainment. Abhorred by what he saw, Soran recalled his brief stint on the Gallowmare. Despite the brutality of Kaligan's crew, there had at least been a sense of camaraderie, family even. The place where he found himself was devoid of kinship and consumed by the unyielding desire to conquer. For the heathen children of the Insidia, the pile of bodies would never be too high, justifying every drop of blood they spilled on their ascent to power, their sanguine journey to rule.

  Soran's feet were swept from beneath him, cast into a wintrous cage. The barred door slammed shut behind him, and he pulled his tired limbs to the rear of his cell, away from the grabbing paws of his captors. Closing his eyes and covering his head with his arms, Soran attempted to block out the screeches of twisted delight that swarmed the lower decks. The once comforting smell of Shimmersene was now soured by the stench of unwashed bodies and rotting food. He clenched his eyes and focused on the slow throbbing of his hand; the rhythmic ache drowned out the jeers and tormenting clang of the bars. After several hours of meaningless noise, calm reigned for just long enough to allow him to slip into unconsciousness. Although saved from the accursed bowels of the Insidia, the realm of sleep presented only fire and death. A bleak omen of what was to come.