The walls dripped with blood, even in the darkness she could see it.

The physical stains had long since been cleaned away, every drop saved, but the essence of terror could never be removed.

They moved down it, towards the Source, the cause of this.

Didn’t the others hear it? All-consuming, it beckoned them, called out to every mind that could listen.

But no; their minds were deaf to it. Or rather, they heard it, but did not know that was what made them no longer even ask her for directions as they took turns through the blood-drenched halls.

Eventually the others saw the blood. Apollonia watched in detached serenity as they saw the literal stains running down the walls, streaking the floor, and splattered even up onto the ceiling. They all reacted with shock and horror. But they pressed on.

It was a dumb idea, she thought. But it seemed pointless to say that.

They could not resist any more than she could.

The call was akin to a song, something born of a darkness, a mind that thought in ways they could not understand. It calculated; measured all it saw in only its usefulness to it. A mind devoid of anything that one might ascribe as human.

Its song grew stronger as they neared the sacrificial chamber.

It was the source of the ship singing. That song was its song, reaching out through unimaginable distances.

The Craton itself had heard it in a dream, for even the ship dreamed, she could now see. It understood on some level, and when it had heard this ghastly siren song it had answered.

“Listen,” she breathed. Urle turned, jerkily, staring at her, and she saw fear in his eyes.

Why then, did she feel so incredibly calm?

A door was now before them. Multiple decks had been carved up, then bulkheads cut, to create a door of massive height. The work was newly done, the edges of the metal still glowing hot. And through vents cut into the bulkheads, the blood flowed.

It slid, slithered upward through the holes, towards the Source. Even it obeyed the call.

One of the Response team, one she could see was more sensitive than the others, dropped to his knees, his body trembling. Urle, Pirra, and the others did not notice – or could not stop themselves.

They entered.

Great spikes of metal protruded up from the deck, and to them were nailed the naked bodies of people. Hundreds of them, all human. They were dead, their blood drained through tubes pierced into their bodies.

Almost artfully, she thought, the idea almost making her gag. It was not her own thought.

A feeling of slight appreciation, though only what one might give to the clever words of a being otherwise a dullard, came to her, and she knew that it was the thought of the Source.

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One of the bodies moved. He was different from the colonists; still human and not Greggan, but his body scarred and with the wiry strength of someone who had fought to survive in the worst conditions all their life.

“. . . part of the crew . . .” he said, his eyes staring sightlessly. “. . . not one a’ them . . . don’t cut me boys . . . I beg ya . . .”

Urle’s knees seemed to give away momentarily.

“I -I’m having too many errors,” he said, his voice stuttering, sounding for once like a machine and not a man.

Pirra looked at him, her mouth moving, but no words came through. Perhaps the radios were out now, Apollonia thought.

Leaving Urle, the squad continued forward relentlessly, helplessly. Drawn to the Source that would undo them.

Its song grew richer, yet sicker. It was nothing like a song for it had no melody, no words that could be understood, but it was the only way that she could describe it.

They stepped past the last of the metal pieces covered in bodies and finally saw it.

It was on a raised, terraced dais, crude but built with devotion. Channels cut into the terraces let the blood continue to flow upwards, even through the air, behaving as no liquid should with or without gravity.

All into the casket.

It was twice the length of a man, made of a dark stone that she knew to be cratonic. It was open at the top, and the blood came in through that top, overflowing its edges and running back out, only to swirl around its base.

Something thin and shriveled rose from the blood, reaching up. It moved so slowly that she almost questioned if it was moving until it touched the stone.

You have come, it said. The voice was soft and gentle.

“Yes,” she said.

Come closer upon me.

She approached, moving past the Response Team, who seemed frozen, struggling to move, unable to control their bodies.

“Let them go,” Apollonia said, her mind swirling. She was watching herself step forward as if it was another. She felt nothing, but she knew that on some level she was the only one who had even enough power to realize that.

That she was the only one who could save any of them.

Child, you have suffered for so long, the voice said. Come closer and let your pain be at an end.

It was too ominous, and she felt closer to herself, almost inside her own body again. She struggled to stop her feet, pausing before taking another step.

“Let the others go,” she said, more forcefully.

They will be free, the voice said. It was so sweet and alluring that she wanted to believe it.

But what about you? You have always wondered. Always wanted to understand what you truly were. What your passenger is and why it chose you.

“Your blood sings in me,” she said, not even understanding where the words came from.

Yes, it told her.

A million, million generations ago, your kind were nothing; just a chemical mockery of life. But then we gave you everything. And now it is time to repay that debt.

And make me live again.

She did not realize she had come even closer. But now she was standing next to the sarcophagus, staring down into it.

The blood flow stopped. The floating streams exploded, turning everything red.

Even the blood in the sarcophagus was gone. The being inside was tall, so tall that it had to be folded to fit inside, its body shaped like a shield, its head embedded in its torso and entirely covered in organic plates. Its arms small, coming from the bottom of its body, folded across it. Its long legs, folded so many times, came from where one might expect the shoulders to be.

It was looking at her with its mind, from a body so ancient that it had withered into a husk.

Yet its spirit had held on, with hate and malice and sheer greed, those raw emotions just enough when it understood the secrets of the cosmos so deeply. It had twisted reality around itself to make it possible.

All that while reaching into dreams to bring one to it. The Greggan pirates had come, their captain more sensitive than most. But it found their blood unpalatable.

Human blood suited it better.

The ancient Priest-Lord, grand worshipper of the Things That Lived in the Stars. It was favored, basked in their . . . she knew it was not love, because they did not feel that. It did not even understand that concept. But it had been granted greatness by them, allowing it to shape flesh, minds, and reality.

You have come, it said again, and she felt herself become fully paralyzed. Her eyes watered gazing upon its body, and as if emboldened by her presence its ancient limbs moved more, twitching, stretching, dust coming from the joints.

She hoped that it was too frail, that it would tear itself apart. But it did not.

It was living again.