So let’s review the facts, shall we? Rene thought as he trudged after Zildiz. We’re deep behind enemy lines in completely uncharted territory that is inhabited by races of psychopathic humanoids with no conception of mercy or compassion, and who run around clothed in the flesh of monsters, thinking nothing of serving each other up for dinner. We’re wounded, completely lost, with absolutely no hope of rescue or resupply. And as if that weren’t enough, we’ve taken on a homicidal captive with swords growing out of her arms who nurses an abiding hatred for all things pertaining to yours truly. But worst of all—and I really can’t stress this enough—I’m bloody well starving.

Now, Rene’s stomach wasn’t the demanding sort. He’d trained it to run on the bare minimum of sustenance—in the times of severe famine an onion and half pound of rice had been the daily ration, and it had been glad to get it. But he had ignored its polite reminders for too long. Having mailed its complaints to the relevant authorities and received nothing by way of reply, it was now occupied with razing the post office to the ground.

His innards yowled their discontent with every passing minute. He could feel his legs going weak at the knees; the two of them had been walking nonstop since last night’s battle. Already he could see the rosy brushstrokes of dawn poking through the foliage, set against a field of marshmallow clouds. Ordinarily he would have found the sight rather pretty, but the coming of day brought with it the reminder that the Weeping Vipers would be out searching for Kryptus by now, and the only emotions it aroused in him now were the fear and hunger which were taking turns at gnawing at his intestines.

Despite all that, the mission remained clear in his mind. He had to get back to friendly lines and warn the Fleet. More importantly, he had to lead them to the Divine Engine. With a such a tool in their possession, humanity stood an actual chance of sanitizing the surface world.

Which begged the question: why had the Engine cast him out and stranded him all the way out here? Surely the ancestor-gods understood the Fleet’s dire need for an equalizer in the uneven struggle for mankind’s continued survival? And why had the flying machine not seen him when it had retrieved the safety pod? Where there perhaps limits to the supposed omnipotence of the ancestors? Or was this yet another test of his faith, a trial of mind and will designed to determine his worthiness? All these thoughts were running his thoughts ragged.

That must be it, Rene reasoned. The gods test me sorely. For only the pure shall be worthy to soar in the Flight Eternal across the cosmos.

“Alright, that’s enough,” he told Zildiz. He halted and threw himself back onto the ground, chest heaving and bones feeling like jelly. The one saving grace in all this was that this gas mask he’d discovered was far and away the best he had ever worn. The air it gave was clear and sweet, and it didn’t seem like it would be running out anytime soon. It was a pity he couldn’t gorge himself on oxygen.

“You hungry?” he asked the prisoner. Zildiz was squatting on her haunches and brooding silently. She ignored him and shuffled a bit to turn her back on him. Rene sighed and opened his survival kit, taking out the pouch of white cinnamon-scented cubes. Shaking them loudly to in a half-hearted bid to get her attention Rene popped one of them into his mouth.

“Mmm,” he said loudly, rubbing his belly, “Yummy yummy yummy in my tummy tummy tummy.”

This was in spite of the fact that the white cubes tasted like earwax and had all the consistency of a block of tallow. Rene suffered through the first lump and heroically swallowed the second, but his courage failed him at the third and he put the food items aside.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Then he saw Zildiz watching him closely, her head cocked to one side in curiosity. He held out the pouch to her again. There was some lingering resentment there, he thought. Earlier she had suggested that they return to the bodies of the Leapers and secure additional protein that way. Rene had rejected her idea outright, giving her yet another reason to hate him.

Although let’s face it, Rene confided in himself. We’re not exactly winning a popularity contest around here anytime soon. Still, he had to try. There was such a thing as good manners, even between a captor and his charge.

To his surprise Zildiz hopped closer, cocking an eyebrow at him as if to say: “Alright, I’ll bite.”

Rene apologized for being unable to untie her, something which she met with a blank stare. Apparently, they didn’t make a habit of apologizing wherever it was she came from. He took a lump between thumb and forefinger and held it to her lips. Zildiz took one sniff at his offering and haughtily turned up her nose at it.

“Don’t like it? Well I’m sorry, princess, but this is all we’ve got!” he said, feeling both much offended and sympathetic, “Apparently the ancestor-gods didn’t have much use for their taste buds.”

“So these are all the tools of your forebearers?” she scoffed, once more catching him off guard, “The humming sword, your flimsy exoskeleton, and the Divine Engine?”

“Yes. They were your forebearers too, so you don’t have to sound all smarmy about it.”

“No they weren’t,” Zildiz replied, “I told you. We share the primal pattern, nothing more. Considering your use of unliving instruments, you and your kind must be descendants of the Betrayers.”

“And how do you figure that?” Rene frowned, wondering who or what on earth the Betrayers were.

“Simple,” Zildiz continued glibly, “You have broken the commandments of the Great Game. You adopt the crutch that is industry out of your own weakness and desperation, taking up arms against Creation itself. You are the abortive spawn of a misbegotten race whose defining achievement is having all but driven itself to annihilation, leaving only a galactic graveyard of burnt-out husks orbiting cold, dead stars, their monumental failure the sole testament of their ever having existed at all.”

“Oh, is that right?” Rene blustered, unable to think of a snappy retort, “Well, we’re still here, aren’t we?”

Zildiz let out a hacking, cruel laugh.

“Not for long,” she promised, “Once the Vitalus learns of your Fleet’s existence, It will spare no effort to wipe you off the face of Arachnea.”

“Bit of a prick, then, is he? You know, the more I hear about this Vitalus, the less I care for him. You worship this chap, is that it?”

“Imbecile. Do you sing for the wind or mutter prayers into the mud? The Vitalus no more requires our devotion than a dog needs ticks on its arse.”

“Now look who’s being silly!” Rene cackled in triumph, “Everyone knows dogs aren’t real!”

“Yes they are,” Zildiz insisted, confusion replacing her scornful demeanor, “What are you talking about?”

“You have dogs?” Rene said slowly, his mind grappling with the impossibility of another myth turning into reality.

“Of course we do!” Zildiz was looking at him as if he’d gone mental, “Don’t you?”

“Uhm. Er. Legend has it we did, once. We ate the last of em hundreds of years ago, or so the elders say.”

Zildiz sniffed reproachfully, as if he’d just proven a point for her.

“Say, you’ve got me all interested now. This Vitalus, for instance. Is supposed to be the spiritual representation of Nature itself?”

“It isn’t a spirit you, superstitious nit. It is quite literally everything you see around you. The Vitalus permeates every layer of the ecosystem through communities of symbiotic microorganisms, creating a gestalt intelligence.”

“Huh. So am I speaking to it now, then?”

“What do you think, genius?” Zildiz said with stinging sarcasm. Rene rolled his eyes and hauled her back to her feet.

“Where are we heading?” she protested.

“To the closest body of water I can find. I’m going to see if I can catch this god of yours. Then I’m going to gut, cook, and eat the sonofabitch for breakfast.”