Chapter Seven

  Seven-cycles. Within the Sarchogoroth, time passed in extremes. Soran wandered endlessly through impossible dreamscapes, feeling the seconds fall like raindrops. He watched the birth of suns, galaxies, and the universe play out across endless epochs, experiencing these cosmic dawns as a single moment. Outside of himself, he observed ancient histories unfold, unwitnessed except by perhaps the ancient Levantikar. Everything that had ever been or would be flickered through his mind with unparalleled clarity. Though now free of that infernal prison, he could recall no detail, nothing except an unshakable feeling of a lived and terrifying reality.

  Despite being shielded from the brunt of the Sarchogoroth's torment, the madness could not be altogether avoided. A pounding of desperate pleas had invaded his sanctuary of illusion. On the periphery of his perception, something begged entry. Clawing and gnawing, it refused him his peace, refused to let the guilt die and the memory rest.

  It's cold.

  Echos of his master's voice broke through the silence of his cocoon, begging him for the help Soran wished to provision.

  Where are you?

  It was as if they were together again, walking the halls of the Hyacinth on their way to the next job. But instead of the friendly banter they typically engaged in, a spear of accusation was hurled.

  You killed me.

  Wandering the architecture of time and space, bearing witness to the miracles of life, death, and everything in between, the young apprentice could only mutter a single retort to the spectral indictment.

  I'm sorry.

  Soran awoke to an empty room. The disheveled bedding and pungent smell of warm bodies indicated his fellow slumberers had only recently awoken. A day, a week, perhaps even a month, he had no idea how long he had slept or where exactly the Horizon was docked. For now, there was an altogether more important feat to accomplish: getting up.

  It required all his strength to lift the heavy blanket from his chest. His fingers remained curled into bony fists, and trying to move his toes became a task of immense concentration. Even his eyelids were stubborn, refusing to stay open for more than a few moments.

  "Tugg…" He attempted to call for his friend but produced barely a whisper, dying before it could reach the door. His escape from the Sofa would be a solitary ordeal.

  Having spent much of his life in the maze-like insides of space-faring vessels, he was used to forcing blood into his limbs when they fell prickly from hanging upside down at precarious angles. Shifting his weight with his shoulders, he managed to flop one of his arms over the side of the makeshift bed. He took the pain from his knuckles wrapping against the cold steel floor as a good sign. His body was revitalizing.

  For the better part of an hour, Soran tossed and turned, revitalizing his deadened limbs. Eventually, with the aid of a re-purposed section of broken pipe, he managed to stand. Limping over to the bathroom mirror, his reflection proffered no remorse. No longer a boy, the man that stared back at him was hard-eyed, feral almost. His once lustrous brown curls now hung in heavy clumps around his shoulders, and a thick length of dark beard obscured his dirt-stained face. Opening the cabinet behind the mirror, he retrieved one of Ranna's old razors. Though time-blunted, the instrument was all he had to regain some semblance of the Soran he remembered. With an unsteady hand, he went to work. Fistfuls of matted curls fell to his feet. The pile grew until the entire floor of the cubicle was carpeted with an auburn rug. Only a sweep of hair remained atop his head, the sides and back taken down almost to the skin. Reduced to a smattering of stubble and scruffy sideburns, his beard was flecked with blood from his inexperienced swiping. He reached out to touch his reflection. A dash of pity fell from his eye for the boy whose life the pirates had stolen. He wondered what the reflection would be like if none of this had happened. What would that Soran look like? He wiped his eyes, replacing the pity with something else, something fierce. Whether he recognized the man in the mirror or not, it mattered little. His life had been returned to him by the kindness of another. The faces of Ranna and El barged into his thoughts. He made a silent prayer for their survival, for their misfortunes to be lesser than the terrible fate that had befallen him. If they still drew breath, he would find them and free them from their torment. Tugg had risked his life to free Soran; now it was his turn to do the same.

  Dressed in only an old vest and underwear, Soran approached the lockers in the living quarters, riffling through the empty cabinets until he unearthed an old scuffed-up suit. The beauty of Nanofibre was its ability to conform to any body shape. Despite his skeletal frame, the suit fit comfortably, stressing the unflattering ridges of his knobled ribs. Before he left, Soran noticed something draped over the back of the Sofa, something left out for him. He picked up the battered jacket, noticing the eight-pronged crown of the Horizon crew emblem stitched on the breast and back.

  Ranna's jacket. Tugg must have thought he would want the boy to have it.

  "He did say the positions were always rotating. Doubt he meant Captain," Soran said with a grin. He and Ranna had had their share of issues, but if nothing else, Soran could say with certainty that his Captain wasn't evil — an asshole, maybe, but not evil.

  Hobbling out into the main compartment, Soran confirmed he was alone. Dull rays of honeyed sunshine bathed the cockpit, the viewing portal obscured by a dense layer of pinkish cloud. With a few grunts and groans, he sloshed his aching body into the pilot's seat, kicking up a layer of dust.

  "How long have you been out?" he wondered out loud. He wiped away the film of dirt from the navigation console, and a Holo-projection of the star system flickered to life. Though unfamiliar with the binary star system they had entered, Soran knew the planet where they had docked very well. Latia, sky-city of the nobles, a world that Soran had hoped to visit if he ever broke free of the Hyacinth's clutches. Marvels of architecture, the vast plates that hid amongst the sea of cloud were said to be the most beautiful of all Ven creations and the last of their kind. Upon completing the Latian Metropolis, the Ven followed their King, Obarakhan, back to their ruined home planet. There, they retreated to the mountain cities under the magma-choked landscape of what had once been a verdant earth-like paradise. Unlike humanity, the Ven refused to abandon their world after bringing it to ruin, vowing to rebuild what they had lost or die in the attempt. Lanic had often relayed stories of Venetia to Soran as they worked, for he was there on the day the mountains belched their fiery wrath and scorched the land to ash. The Ven, attempting to harness the power of their planet's core, had initiated an unstoppable chain reaction, dooming their people to burn. Those fortunate enough to escape on star-barges watched in horror as the green charred and the blue boiled, leaving red and black to churn endlessly in a maelstrom of death. Upon encountering other races in their exile, the Ven hoped to impart their cautionary tale but found the galaxy overrun with fellow fools. World after world, swallowed into oblivion by the hubris of intelligent life. Soran had tried to lighten the mood when he first heard the fate of the Ven home-world, saying that at least the galaxy's races could bond over their own stupidity. Lanic would laugh in agreement, but Soran knew the loss of Venetia remained a sore topic. He witnessed the full extent of his master's regret when the Ven returned home. The proclamation of King Obarakhan was disseminated throughout the galaxy; the Ven were to return to Venetia to engage in the grand rebuilding. Enough time had passed for the magma to harden and the temperature to return to stable levels, although the surface would remain uninhabitable for many decades. The mountain cities would provide refuge for the Ven until the terraforming efforts came to fruition. Upon hearing the news, Lanic begged Zyre to release him from his contract so that the pair could return to Venetia together. He was denied. Although Zyre was Ven, he had no allegiance to the scattered tribes of his species or the man they called King. He, too, had watched the planet burn, stolen from his wife and children as the ship he labored upon dragged him into the stars. After a century of stewing in his hatred, there was nothing to say that would bring him around. His family was dead, and so was Venetia. He said as much to Lanic, ordering him to return to work and forget the folly of rebuilding. Dead worlds don't bloom. The last words Zyre spoke on the matter and the final time Lanic spoke of his home.

  Docked in the bay of a Ven mega-structure, filled Soran with fond memories. Lanic had talked Latia up into a city of mythic proportion, sparing no praise for the ingenuity and raw architectural genius of his race. Now, Soran had the chance to see that genius demonstrated firsthand.

  He limped over to the ship's stern and placed his palm on the lever for the exit ramp.

  "I'm finally here, Lanic. I made it." Soran said as he pulled the lever, engulfed by the majesty of the city in the sky.