“I can’t agree with your conclusion,” Deschane said, “This calcite formation is remarkable, but how can you say with certainty it’s the work of thinking beings?”

“Because there are obvious symbolisms. Again, another thing we thought them incapable of. Notice how the stalactites are arranged?”

Rene squinted. There was no pattern to it. Then Prota asked: “What star points northward in the month of Clemdas?”

“Brahe.” Both he and the navigator said simultaneously. Comprehension dawned upon them. The Amit had shaped the ceiling with careful applications of acid, carving it such that every major constellation in the night sky was represented in the domes by a glittering array of water droplets. Even Deschane gaped at the realization: the Amit could read the stars just as they did.

“But that isn’t all.” Prota took a torch from a nearby stanchion and held it aloft. The curious geometric figures etched into the ceiling above them resolved themselves into abstract images.

Three great ovoid shapes threaded their way through the star-strewn sky, each trailing behind it wavering tails of fire.

“Thus it came to pass that the sons of Man fled from the desolate earth. In three gilded ships they rode, and tails of flame as fierce as a dying sun burned behind them as their mighty engines drove them into the deathless void. Of these blessed machines it was decreed that three would be their holy number, for then if one lost resonance and rebelled, then two could set the course aright…”

She had quoted from the first page of the Log of the Voidtrekkers, oldest and most sacred of texts that dealt with the coming of the ancestor-gods.

“Three ships. Three tails of fire for each one.”

Rene’s head swam with the implications.

“Then why haven’t we seen such things before? In other conquered mounds?” Deschane demanded.

“You know as well as I that each individual mound contains an entirely separate race of Amit. You were not here when we took this place. It exacted a terrible price. There was a week of close quarter fighting in the entrance hall. In some places there the bodies were stacked four or six deep.”

“They were a strange sub-species. Jaundice yellow rather than white, small yet highly vicious. They led us into countless ambushes. They knew how to feint a charge to draw a volley, retreat and charge again while we reloaded. When the eastern wall finally fell…” her voice trailed away, and she looked away troubled. “As we swarmed in, we found what was left of them all hunched together. As though they were holding some final communion. As we neared, we saw what they’d done. They’d sat in circles facing one another, and thrust their claws down their own throats. They severed their own cortical bundles. A mass suicide. It was rather disturbing. We only had a few corpses of them to examine, and all heavily damaged, but from what we could see they had abnormal growth in their frontal lobes. They were special. They were aware of the massacre that awaited them, and they chose their own way out. It was almost noble, really”

“You sound as though you admire them.” Deschane said.

“I appreciate the function they serve. Surely, navigator, you realize that without them the Fleet would have died out long ago?”

It was true. The Amit expanded cave systems, honeycombing the limestone with claw and acid, building the feeder towers in such a way that the life-giving mixture of carbon dioxide rich air extended all throughout the confines of the mounds. These were the sites for the only permanent settlements the Fleet could inhabit. And so they took the works of the enemy and put him to the bayonet, making homes of his fortresses, hard won in battles that raged far from the light of the twin suns of this cruel planet. They bored their way through, blasting apart his alien warrens to make way for smooth white tunnels, egress points, ventilation shafts, fields to grow glowing crops of fungus. In so doing they survived.

Deschane scoffed.

“That is entirely coincidental. We evolved to become their predators, and vice versa. Nature designed us to be adversaries. Besides, if the ancestor-gods willed them into being, then why did they vanish and leave us to tear each other apart?”

“That is what we hope to learn.”

“This makes no sense,” Deschane growled, “So they share the same legends as we do. What of it? They merely confirm what we already know.”

“But we don’t know, navigator. The knowledge we possess is next to nothing compared to what we have forgotten.”

“We know enough. We know that it is our destiny to claim this planet even if it means striding over the corpse of every single living thing on it.”

“Navigator, you seem to forget that we only rediscovered the uses of black powder a century ago. We have lost so much in our time on this world. Anything that can begin our process of recovery is to be cherished.”

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“Even when it comes from the hand of the enemy?” Deschane’s eyes glinted fiercely.

“This is not the only depiction within the mound. There are sculptures, acid paintings, more engravings like the ones you see before you now. Most have no parallel in the book of old terra-they are events unrecorded in all the annals of our history. That is why 13 is so important. There are mysteries here both sacred and profane. It is touched by the god--ancestors themselves.”

“Our structural engineers have surveyed this place. They say it is impossible for it to have remained intact as it has for millennia. They said that wind or gravity should have destroyed it long ago. Yet it stands. Something is keeping this place together. Something which given time we may discover. It is almost as though it has been waiting for us to take it.”

“What does it all mean?” Rene said aloud.

“That old myth is merely history distilled. That we do not belong here, and never have. That the Amit are intelligent beyond a doubt and know us for what we truly are.”

“Delusional,” spat Deschane.

“Calm yourself Navigator,” Prota drew herself. “There is a reason command is willing to sacrifice you and thousands of others to keep this place safe. I understand your frustrations-”

“Do you? I’ve just lost eighteen good men for the sake of meaningless conjecture!”

“Please consider the implications. For the first time, the Fleet will know where it came from, and why it is here! For the first time, we can move forward on a basis of solid fact rather than doubtful superstition! We will have true knowledge of the past!”

“To the void with the past!” Deschane was raging, “Why waste breath upon it? There are beasts out there, madame, in their millions, slavering hordes that eat children and empty whole settlements of life! They are the sole reason mankind cannot live in comfort and security. They must be eradicated. All else is irrelevant.”

They locked eyes and stood inches apart.

The situation was only defused when a man came running up to Admiral Prota. He leant forward and whispered in her ear.

Her eyes widened in alarm.

“One of your men has been seen approaching the outpost.”

“Lethway!” Rene yelled. He ran in the direction of the pressure gate, pounding through the corridors and thrusting aside the people standing in his way.

“Open the gate!” cried Prota as she, Deschane and her retinue came followed from behind. He scrambled into the decontamination chamber, hastily pulled on his sealant suit and strapped on the mask. The others donned their surface gear and joined him as the great iron slabs heaved aside.

Hurriedly they made their way down the rough-hewn steps of the barbican, all the way down to the palisades, where a small crowd had gathered on the walls to watch. They cleared a path when they saw the Admiral.

“Where is he?” Deschane asked the men standing about. They pointed vaguely northward, unsure themselves, and he pulled out his binoculars.

“It’s him alright,” he said, sounding impressed. “He survived.”

“How?”

“Ask him when you meet.”

With a rare smile he handed the lenses to Rene, whose heart leapt. Beyond a small thicket of trees in the distance was a wide clearing, into which a familiar figure now emerged. Against all odds, he was back safe. Rene could have shouted for joy.

But as he adjusted the magnification knob and the image of his friend came into crisp focus, he realized there was something wrong.

“He’s not wearing a mask,” Rene said in horror.

“Rene! Ensign, wait!”

He bounded off the platform and ran for the entrance. Cursing, Deschane snatched the musket from the hands of the nearest trooper and yelled:

“Someone get me a spare!”

A mask was found in haste and tossed his way. He caught it and dashed after Rene, who had already begun making for the tree line.

“Ensign, stop! That’s an order!”

Rene ignored him and ploughed on.

He reached the thicket and was about to burst through the other side when a strong hand grasped his ankle and he came crashing down.

“Wait,” Deschane said gruffly. Rene squirmed but the navigator was sitting calmly on the back of his knees, and he could not pull free. “Rene! Listen to me.”

“What are you doing! He’ll die out here without a mask-”

“How do you suppose he lost it?” hissed Deschane, as he pulled Rene forcefully back into cover.

Hundreds of meters away, Lethway emerged into the clearing. He was sprinting at full pelt, not jogging as they had supposed. His clothes were torn and besmirched with mud, his sealant suit one great ragged mass of polymer that hung by a single sleeve.

They stopped struggling and turned to watch. Fear was evident in his posture: every movement of his body suggested that of a hunted man.

“Those clever bastards.” Deschane said sadly. “Haven’t you realized? He’s already dead.”

“What are talking about, sir? He’s right there! If we give my mask to him in time, we can rush him into the depressurization chamber-”

“They let him live. They knew more of us had survived, so they held off and followed him home. He doesn’t know it, but he’s led them straight to us.”

Sure enough, in the acre of woods across the clearing they saw scores of shadows moving furtively between the trees. Rene’s blood ran cold.

“Ancestors preserve us.”

“Don’t count on it. There’s enough of them there to level a full settlement.”

Lethway drew closer, looking constantly behind him and stumbling over his feet. Deschane pursed his lips. His hand ran down the length of the musket and found the trigger guard.

“There’s nothing more we can do for him. And if he keeps running this way, they’re bound to find the outpost.”

It took Rene a few moments to process what he was saying. He looked at him in disbelief.

Deschane went down on one knee. He placed the percussion cap and thumbed the hammer back.

Rene watched him in horrid fascination.

“It’s a hard thing,” the navigator was saying, settling into a marksman’s crouch, “But there’s still a chance we can save Mound 13.”

He aimed down the iron sight.

It was a terrible form of arithmetic, to weigh the value of one life against that of a thousand. But in that moment, Rene reached the same, gut-wrenching conclusion. He reached out and placed a hand on the barrel, forcing it to point at the ground. They looked at each other, and an understanding passed between them.

A few yards away, Lethway sobbed as he caught sight of the outpost rising up from out of the trees. It was nothing short of a miracle that he’d made it this far. He caught the glint of metal in the undergrowth, and with a cry of delight saw a human face peering back at him from beneath the shade. He raised his hands up high in greeting.

There was a sharp report, and a blinding flash. Lethway stumbled as though he’d been tripped and lay very still.