Mars had become an old man at that point - one far older than his age dictated. The stresses had torn on him, but he had grown into the role over time. Still, the tooth of time and the many losses had deprived him of any and all appetites. He no longer desired food - he ate from necessity, rather than any wanting.
Since the arrival of a fresh core, a decade had seen the station transformed to the incomparable. Every canton once jettisoned had been reclaimed by the skilled hands of the old and young. The luxuries of fabricated food, clothing and an increase in their temperature had raised the spirits of the young, sparking in a baby boom the likes of which had never been seen before. They numbered nearly a thousand by the tenth day of Reclamation - a dreary day for him, but a day of celebration for the entirety of Sitabee.
He sat in the throne, leaned back on the warm metal - comfortable in his long, black coat. The return of the fabric-printers had painted their population in colors he had never seen before and all through the use of cryo-frozen larvae and fungus.
He spun the creaking throne around to look at his many displays; the cameras showing the citizenship - young, plump children running in the halls with wide grins, driving their mothers mad with noise. Once, Luna had driven her mother to the brink of tears with her incessant need for attention - a far cry from the niece he knew.
He stood up and rearranged his coat, stroking his smooth-shaven scalp. Years had passed, yet he had never really gotten accustomed to it. But he still found comfort in viewing his skeletal, bald head in the mirror.
Had he been any fuller, he might’ve been the spitting image of Stellaris - Logos rest his soul. He cracked his weary knuckles and checked the chronometer on his wrist. Not that he needed one… she was the only chronometer he needed.
At the strike of twelve, the doors opened. There, tall and as beautiful as ever, Luna stood - dressed in a black coat of her own. She fit the historical Commander’s uniform like none before her; so much better than his own mother.
She was no longer a girl, but a fully grown woman - with all the curves and bumps that entailed. Her hair was done with strict precision, the same precisions she used to run the station. Her skin was as smooth as it always had been, not creasing to form as much as a dimple on her cheeks… not that there was much there. She was still a skinny one, by his account. Alas, he was hardly one to criticize her lack of self-care, especially after all she’d been through.
When she stepped into the white lights of the chamber, the amulet around her neck glistened with its polychromatic radiance; the pristinely polished, clean shell of an opalescent, juvenile nautilus. Her honey-blonde bun never moved as she formed the triangle over her chest and saluted: “Uncle. How’s the shift been?”
Again, he chuckled. She had been hiding away in her chamber again - reading those historical books of hers; the ones that had taught her this self-imposed discipline. But he knew better than anyone how such rituals could allow one to cling to the slipping strands of sanity… and now, he needed that sanity more than ever.
“Good morning, sleepyhead. All quiet in the graveyard and all the systems are nominal. We’re still venting sewage like never before, but we can hardly stop it.” He bit his lip as he made the connection. She stopped mid-step and looked down at the floor, mustering the strength to shake her head. Ten years had passed since that day - that horrific day. A simple mention of it would awaken those soul-crushing, breath-depriving memories of monsters and of the explosion that had bereaved her of…
“No, we can’t. There’s no one who understands how that system works - the only one who did, got blown up.” He could only imagine what strength it took to speak so calmly, so coldly of that day.
She made it clear that she was in no mood to reminisce, not now. Not on that day. She turned towards the screen and viewed the people with hardened eyes, a stark opposite to how he felt watching the easy lives lived beneath his watch.
“Anything to report?”
He shook his head and took a step closer to look at the screens next to her.
“Nothing. Everyone’s getting ready for the celebration… really, it’s no trouble. You should go rest. I know this is a difficult-”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
“Don’t. It’s been ten years… I’m fine. The least I can do is see to it that he’s remembered well.” He knew how it upset her to see his plaques - the far-too-realistic artwork. They honored him like the hero he had been; a ritual that made her stomach churn with disgust. When he was still with them, they spat at him. They hated him… now, they spoke of him as if he had been carried on a golden throne throughout the station whenever he returned from the work they shunned him for.
No, this voyeurism served a purpose. It fueled her rage and hatred - her despise of the station, the depths and the abyss. Since that day, the darkness no longer bothered her; she was hoping something would sneak in from the black pits of the seas to devour the station. Maybe then… maybe then she’d have the courage to leave. She swallowed down the lump in her throat, straightened her back and spoke to the screens: “Go rest, Mars. You’ve done well this year. You’ve done well ever since your first day in that chair.”
She looked so strict with her thin lips and narrowed eyes - obviously deep in thought.
Mars’ slight mustache bristled as he huffed through his nose and braved her harsh mood with a hand atop her shoulder. “He’d be proud of you. What you’ve done here, what you’ve become… you’re like his spitting image - it’s as if he’s still here, sometimes.” Luna’s lip twitched, her fists tightened. She was holding back, but whether it was a punch or a tear, he could not decide. So rarely did he see her so emotional those days… it was almost nostalgic. Healing, he hoped.
“No one even seems to remember how dad died for them…” She muttered, her voice but a whisper of agony.
He stepped closer and closed an arm around her, both still staring up at the screens. “Yes. He died a hero, but he wasn’t the one I was talking about. That’s a given…” This time, she could no longer hold back her tears. The warm exudates glistened in the bright white of the displays as they streamed down her cheeks, yet her back remained straight - her mind remained steeled. He would often compliment her, but this was one for the books. Instead of thanking him, she responded with an unexpected question.
“Do you remember the day we were poisoned? What you said to us in the med-bay?” His lips twitched with shame. “Yes.”
“That’s how I feel now… I do my duties because I want you to be happy. I want you to live and I want my mind to be busy… but if I had any other choice, I’d let this place sink. When I look at them, I don’t see them for what they are… I see them for what they were when they were hungry and so full of hate… they tried to kill us, for fuck’s sake.”
Mars did not blame her. Truthfully, his motivations were not dissimilar to hers. The years of strife had warped his perception of them - or, perhaps, he only now saw the truth… that beneath the surface of their civilization, they were all monsters.
He released her from his grip and nodded, searching his mind for something to say. Old as he was, he assumed she was looking for some wisdom and though he had little of it, he decided to impart upon her what he could - a lesson in history.
“Have you ever read about the Dead Gods, Luna?” Taken aback by the shift of topic, she nodded - glad to have the emotional unpleasantries gone, but regretful she had ever opened her mouth to voice her vile thoughts.
“Once or twice. Long ago… I can’t remember much.” She confessed.
Mars sat down on his chair and in turn, she took a seat on the table; turning back the clock to all those years ago, when she had listened to her father’s tales in that very same spot.
“The Dead Gods - there were three of them. Logos, Bravelle and Pan. They had their own Peoples - the Logoruum, the Bravellians and the Panites; that’s what we called them, anyways. I’m sure they have their own names. I’m sure a lot of this is exaggerated and truth can be a hard thing to define - keep that in mind. But what I choose to believe are those bitter battles. For countless years, we fought and warred. The Logoruum with their machines, the Bravellians with their mind-powers and the Panites with their occult, demonic things. I’m not sure which one of us brought about the Monstrum… Maybe it’s some kind of punishment for battling it out?” Luna folded her arms, curious as to where this story was going. Still, she listened as he waved his arms and continued:
“We’re not sure how we ended up here. But what I do know is that we’re of Logo’s blood- hardened by thousands of years of struggles. I’ve asked myself - often, what that did to us… at what point can we say that we’ve changed too much? Who’s even going to say it?” A philosophical conversation was the last thing she had expected. She breathed a sigh of relief as he chuckled and said: “But for what it’s worth, I still agree with you… I think those days changed us all. Maybe, in time, we’ll forget it like they seem to have.”
Scoffing, she sounded her protest: “I’ll never forget. I’ll never forgive them for what they did; for what they’re doing. I’ll do my duty, I’ll keep them alive. But I will not love them.” Whenever she spoke that word, her hands reflexively went to the shell around her neck. How could she not? Mars knew that every day in the station reminded her of him - the system she spent her days submerged in had his signatures all over. The core filling the station with life was, in part, all that remained of him… he sighed deeply and rose from the chair, tapping her shoulder as he passed by her.
“Thanks for the talk, girl. I’ll leave you to it. Try to keep us all alive until I return; if we’re gonna blow the place up, I’ll want to be there to press the button.” They shared a scoff of grim humor as he continued past her, out the door.
“Sleep well, old man.”