3-25 RESPONSIBILITY

The marine climbs the alien paths, stomping reverently on heretic bodies. Bones and organs are crushed under his feet, his contempt far heavier than the cadavers can handle. Ill-maintained weapons are likewise tread upon or simply kicked out of the way. Nothing slows him, especially not the dead.

He brings fury.

He brings death.

He hastily brings a package to its destination for he is almost out of time.

“Hurry!” cries the skull, its broken jaw heroically waggling in the breeze.

The marine picks up the pace, now sprinting forward up the winding steps. Stone cracks worryingly beneath his feet, sending shivers throughout the whole path. However, he presses onwards, always urged forward by the impatient Navigator.

Finally, he reaches the top. The lip of the enormous cauldron is but two strides before him, separated from the path by only an ogryn’s handspan. The marine points the skull forward, swiveling left and right to allow the Navigator a perfect view.

Space around the cauldron are four stone pillars, the tops of which are charred and broken. Only the gory remains of heretic psykers atop each pillar hint at what could have happened here — a failed ritual, purpose unknown.

However, they matter not, for what is of most interest is the cauldron and its contents, these being some sort of foul liquid and the strange flames somehow hovering above the muculent broth by a half a meter.

“Don’t get too close,” the Navigator says, offering sage advice. “Who knows what sort of shit these heretics have been dumping into this soup? Garlic? Ginger? Blech!”

“Unlike you, I’m not picky, Navigator,” responds the marine, “but I am certainly not touching this. Do not worry about that. Worry instead about figuring out this puzzle. My brothers will hold the line for as long as they can, but if there are more of those cannons around, we could be in some trouble.”

“Alrighty. Well, at least I finally get to do something… Point the skull towards the flames, please. I’m sure that’s the clue.”

The marine complies immediately, rotating the skull to face the wall of fire.

Emerald embers fly upwards, licking at the ceiling above. Blackened chains reach downward to hold the cauldron, each link inscribed with yet more illegible symbols. Fortunately, they don’t seem to be the kind to immediately kill or corrupt anyone who looks at them, but neither marine nor Navigator are willing to risk inspecting them for long.

As the Navigator stares at the flames through the servo-skull, muttering to herself, the marine chances a glance backward at his brothers.

The both of them crouch next to the entrance, keeping just enough distance to avoid the blast radius of any grenades. Occasionally, one of them jumps forward toward the door, peeking out and laying down a few well-placed shots before ducking back in. It appears as if they could do this forever, however their munitions will be exhausted long before they are.

The Navigator must play her part quickly.

The marine turns back toward the cauldron and the flames. The servo-skull still echoes the Navigator’s musings — most of which being complaints at how damn bright the light is — so the marine decides to inspect the “soup” instead.

Of course, he makes no effort to step towards the disgusting liquid, but that doesn’t mean he can’t analyze it with his own eyes and his auspex.

Within the soup floats unidentifiable material. The battle-hardened marine is by no means squeamish, but he again has no will to reach in and fish anything out for closer inspection. The round thing floating by could certainly be a head. That blocky angular thing could certainly be a gun. Still, curiosity will not take hold of this cat and the marine keeps one hand on his weapon and the other hand on the skull.

The broth bubbles lightly, heated from within. The marine shakes his head, still confused by the fire floating above the cauldron. For what reason would the cooking fire be placed above the food? He looks up as well, wondering what exactly the Navigator could be seeing that interests her so.

The skull continues to mumble, the Navigator clearly enamored by what she is finding. The marine internally gasps; a rare event is happening: the Navigator is for once not complaining!

Instead, she is speaking about… something. The marine doesn’t understand it, for she has clearly been too greatly influenced by the tech-priests and has forsaken the sensibilities of any Gothic dialect and is now speaking in numerals!

“Navigator?” the marine whispers, “Are you done yet?”

“—four… two… Dammit! What?”

“Are you done? Can we exfiltrate?”

A sigh erupts from the skull and the marine can swear he feels fingers digging into his gray matter.

“Almost. Done,” the Navigator grates out. “Look, just point your auspex at the fire. I started with Rayleigh scattering, but it only feeds out noise. I then flipped through a few wavelengths checking for… methyl, formaldehyde… and uh, hydroxyl radicals. Set your auspex's narrow bandpass filter to three-ten nanometers and take a look at the hydroxyl chemiluminescence field.”

“... Yes. I can definitely do that.”

“No need to be sarcastic. Here’s the easy-baby explanation: there’s a little puzzle here — a pattern. It’s producing a fun code that I’ve now got to de-code. So, give me a few more minutes, alright?”

“Yes, ma’am. Hurry it up, ma’am.”

“Hurrying. Now, be quiet.”

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

It’s far more than a “few more minutes” by the time the Navigator is done; if the marine were a mortal man, his outstretched arm would have fallen off before the thrilling conclusion. Instead, his arm is only on the brink of becoming sore, but he is still tempted to dunk the skull in the soup when the Navigator announces she is ready.

“You’re sure?” the marine asks. “I don’t want to have to turn around while we’re on the way out just because you forgot something.”

“Considering I’m not there to drop my crypt-key into the soup, I doubt you’ll have to turn around and fetch anything. I have everything I need recorded. Just flip a throne into the pool for good luck and then you can go.”

“I only have scrip.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Get out.”

“Yes, ma’am.

The marine, freed from the burden of standing next to a roaring wall of warp-touched flame, breathes a silent sigh of relief and marches over to his brothers. Only one of them is guarding the door — the trickle of reinforcing heretics have by now nearly given up at breaching their two-man defense. The other marine sits next to the plasma cannon, fiddling with its power supply.

“Solik, what are you doing?”

The sitting marine looks up at his brother and pats the cannon with one hand. “I am, or was, preparing this weapon for its final duty.”

“That is?”

“Destroying itself, and that thing over there,” Solik says, nodding toward the cauldron.

“Is it ready?”

“No. I believe it used up most of its energy on… on its first shot. It doesn’t have enough left. I’ll just be destroying both with our own munitions. I’ve been siphoning off the remaining power to top off my own reserves. Waste not, want not.”

“Good thinking, brother. Does that mean you are ready to go?”

“One moment.” Solik puts a finger up as he pulls a metal object out of his pack. He presses a series of buttons on its outer shell and a small light on its side begins blinking. He turns and takes a few steps forward, then leaps upward and sends the object towards the cauldron in a graceful arcing throw. As Solik strolls back to his brother marine, a gentle splash marks his good aim and he raises his hands up over his head, forming them into the shape of a soaring Aquila.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“Are you quite finished?” hisses the skull as the battle brothers politely applaud.

“I am now.”

“Good. Grab your fallen and get out. I want you back on the surface as soon as possible. A shuttle will pick you up when you arrive. Do not be late.”

With that, the skull’s eye grows dark, the Navigator having withdrawn to contemplate the information she has gleaned.

“Navigator?” The marine shakes the skull, then peers into the workings of the thing. “Navigator? How do we get out?”

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

The shadow continues to hover overhead, staring down at you with a sliver of memory hanging from the corner of its mouth.

Your head lolls backwards as you blink your eye open and you discover your upper half is hanging off the bed. You fumble about for support, but find your movement restricted. You’re trapped!

Dastardly bedding befuddles you, wrapping you in a tangled mess you cannot possibly hope to escape. You rock back and forth, trying to wriggle your way out like a worm through an apple core. Alas, you must stop for you’ve nearly rolled your way off the warm, soft bed.

You curse the dark gods. Obviously their hideous hands have plied you with gifts of luxurious temptation. Perhaps it was the Prince, then? Or perhaps it was that stupid, ever-confusing bird?

You rage at your bonds, falling closer to the patron of anger and war, but then you think back to the dream of death and disgusting decay. Decadence in death, a promise of love and life forevermore.

Perhaps that fat bastard wants you to laze about in bed all day to grow larger and therefore closer to him?

Alright, now you’re stretching it.

A beam of light blazes within the tangled sheets and the smell of burnt fabric itches your nose. The trap falls away from you, unraveling into threads of warpstuff. You stand up and sheath your saber, wary of falling off your delightfully bouncy bed.

You look up again, staring back at the shadow above you.

It begins to move, slowly at first — matching speed with the flickering orrery.

And then it speeds up, descending down and orbiting the center of the room while you spin to keep it in sight.

You fall, tripped by the surviving sheets which have nefariously wrapped around your legs as you tracked what you thought to be the greater threat.

It is not the soft mattress that catches you this time, though. You’ve strayed too close to the edge. Instead, you pitch over the side of the bed, thumping face first into the cold, stony floor.

You cry out in pain and clutch at your face. You blink your eyes open, then gasp.

You can’t see!

What happened? Did you fall so hard that you went blind?

You need a healer! You need a… oh. Right.

Your warp-eye opens once again, having been closed by years of habit. You look about, searching for the shadow.

It’s gone.

Where did it go?

You reach out with the Force, flooding the once-empty room with what should have been there all along. Now, you have full awareness of the area, for your Force Sight shows you all.

Except it doesn’t.

This room doesn’t exist; not really. This room is within you, within your true-self. It’s hidden — a fragment of memory, mentally present thanks to the confusing presence of warp. But, warp is concept, and concept has no existence except in the minds of the living and in the realm of the Empyrean.

This is not your mind, though it holds your psyche.

This is not the Immaterium, though it has been imprinted with the vestiges of such.

The Force only holds power here under your active control. Using it as a passive medium provides you with nonsense for it can make no sense of this unreal environment!

You slap your hands against your face, squishing your cheeks as you clear your mind. Where could the creature be?

Movement catches your eye. You look down and the creature dances for you, its amorphous shape wiggling about under your skin. You frown down at your arm and pinch at it, but receive nothing but stinging pain.

Stupid.

You sigh, rubbing at your eye with your other arm. This is going nowhere. Around and around in a circle you go. This creature is one mystery, leading you on a merry chase through a myriad of others.

The Navigator — other-you — found something: a set of numbers and letters. A string of information in another language, one that you’re somehow understanding within the context of the dream.

A set of coordinates, according to the memories. Coordinates to something the Navigator deems important. Mission critical, apparently.

Why was it in the fire?

Why was the fire even there?

You ball your little hands into little fists and pound them into the side of the bed. They bounce off the mattress with no harm done, so you repeat the exercise until your annoyance subsides.

Everything is a mystery. Everything brings confusion, especially when it relates to the Warp. How could it not?

You’ll just have to ride it out. You’ll have to wait until other-you decides to show you more, for something tells you that what you have seen is but a chapter in a convoluted story. And so, you lie back onto the stony floor, unwilling to stand up and return to other-you’s bed.

You close your eyes and wake up.

≡][≡ ⬦⬦⬦ ≡][≡

“Welcome, Youngling. Happy to see you, I am.”

You bow and take a seat where the Grandmaster indicates. “Thank you for meeting with me, Master Yoda. And, um, thank you for approving my… my Trials.”

The wizened alien smiles as he settles upon his own seat. You don’t exactly look about, but you do probe the room with your senses, curious as to what the Grandmaster might keep within his rooms.

It’s… it’s very spartan. Ascetic, as a Jedi’s room should be. You think back to your own room, back to the two keepsakes within your drawers.

Are those allowed? Nobody has said otherwise. They’re also rather important for something, so it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to throw them away anyways.

Right?

“Your mask, remove it if you will,” commands your Grandmaster. You dutifully doff the mask and place it in your lap without complaint. His words and tone are gentle, but he is the Grandmaster. His word is practically law for an Initiate like you.

“And your blindfold,” he continues, tapping on your headband with his gimer stick.

You rear back, surprised by both his request and the speed at which he’d brought the stick to your face. “But—”

“See you as you are, I prefer. See me as you are, I wish,” he says with a smile. “Keep your eye closed, you may. Or, I can keep mine closed in turn. Only one of us needs to be sightless at the moment, yes?”

Hesitantly, you reach up and take the headband off as well, but you keep your warp-eye closed. “Master Lasah taught me Force Sight. I don’t need my eye to see.”

“But, prefer it you do, yes? You see much more with it open.”

You blink, then gasp at your mistake. However, when Master Yoda doesn’t say anything, instead chuckling quietly away, you fully open your eye to see him with his eyes already closed.

“Sorry, Master.”

“Heh! No need for apologies, young Xena. No harm done, yes?”

“But that’s because… because you anticipated me. What if you didn’t?”

“Only a blink, it was. What terrible fate could have befallen me in such a tiny moment? A headache? A spell of dizziness?”

“Maybe worse.”

“Hmm. Well, no harm was done this time. Take off your blindfold, I asked. Complied, you have. My fate was in my own hands and words, and prepared myself I did. So, whose fault would it be if I were to be in danger? Who owns the risk?”

“Me. The source.”

“Or, perhaps me, the true cause?” Master Yoda chuckles, rapping his gimer stick on the edge of his chair. “Responsible, you may think yourself, but young you still are. You are responsible in only half the sense of the word.”

“Shouldn’t I be responsible if I hurt someone? Isn’t that being responsible?”

“In many cases, yes. In others, no. Remember, you should. While we teach control, there is only so much you can control. A Jedi, you are. A god, you are not.”

You frown, still not fully convinced by his seemingly backwards argument. Yes, he did tell you to remove your headband, thus exposing your eye to the world. However, you are the one who unthinkingly opened it. It was only his foresight to close his own eyes that saved him from discomfort, but you get the feeling that something worse can still happen, whether or not he meets your gaze.

Then again, nothing did happen this time.

Still, responsibility is an important thing. As much as you would like to foist fault upon others, you’ve been taught otherwise. It’s literally in an Initiate’s curriculum, as it should be within practically any other Youngling’s. So, why is the Grandmaster telling you not to take responsibility for your mistakes?

You don’t really get it. Maybe you’re just missing the point.

“Master,” you finally say, “if someone does get hurt because of me, I think I’ll still feel… at fault. I would feel bad about it. Isn’t that what’s important?”

“If injured someone is, but out of your control it was, is it your fault?” Master Yoda annoyingly responds with a question.

If you could still roll your eyes, you would. Instead, you do your best to answer. “No, Master. Of course it’s not. However, if I could prevent it, I would still feel bad if I didn’t.”

“Very good! But, is it your fault that you didn’t?”

“Only if I could, but decided not to. If I couldn’t, then no.”

“What if there were outside circumstances?”

“Um…” you hesitate, unsure of what to say. However, before you can finish your thoughts, Master Yoda presses on.

“How about a little scenario? A ship bears down upon a group of people, and you and your Master are in position to save them. However, in saving them, you will doom your Master, for in the moment they spend diverting the ship, they will be shot and fatally wounded. Not strong enough, your Master is, to save the innocents on their own. A choice you have: defend your Master and doom the others, or join in the efforts, saving the others but losing your Master. You cannot do both, so what do you do?”