CHAPTER FIFTY
Bathed in the oppressive flaxen light of the transport depot, Soran waited anxiously upon his comrade's return. The sickly glow morphed into a calming, azure hue and a grin was painted over the Kaligan's sullen impatience. He snorted a mocking chuckle at the sound of the rising platform.
“They did care about you boy,” Kaligan said, releasing his grip and jostling Soran’s hair playfully.
“Does, does this mean they’re OK?” A hopefully tone creeping into his question.
“Of course they are boy. What do you take me for? A liar? Let's go see them shall we?” He proposed as the platform returned to its summit. Stepping onto the drill, Kaligan pressed his palm to the control sphere and they began to descend.
“No need for those revolting ‘keys’ now.” His demeanor had changed since infiltrating the Hive. His faith in Volka and the great work had forged a divine shield that he was certain would protect him against any danger. Even the fabled Dios Toro was unable to stand in the way of his progress. He was unshakable.
Descending further into the endless blue morass, Soran’s impatience grew.
They need to be alright.
He thought to himself, unconvinced by the comforting words of his captor. The control pillar announced they had reached 3000 meters and the platform slowly drew to a stop.
Burning.
The excavation was bloated with foul odors. Soran could feel the muscles in his throat contract with each breath of rancid air he choked down. It was from his periphery he glanced at the two smoldering lumps of flesh. The boy refused to accept what he saw, thumbing through explanations to save him from the truth.
They need to be alright.
Kaligan strode forward, stepping over the twitching bodies. He cast a revulsed glance at the pulsating wounds that coated their reddened flesh.
“How typical. So swept up in excitement, I neglected to mention the slight increase in temperature." His grin widened, a flash of gold appearing behind his lips. "Well, at least they played their parts valiantly. My sincerest apologies for your loss.”
With his brief eulogy concluded, his attention moved swiftly to the layered steel door at the opposite end of the landing.
Although of similar proportion to the men that had descended, their features were almost unrecognizable. Tugg’s eyes were completely glazed over; the once dark, oily sheen of his skin replaced by a fierce crimson. Soran had always thought him invincible. Throughout all their close calls, Tugg had been an unstoppable wall of brute force, pushing them forward through impossible odds. Shallow breaths pushed against his swollen throat causing an almost imperceptible twinge in the charred skin of his gills.
Kaligan hummed a tune as he fiddled with the control sphere for the door. He scanned the ground for the second officer's hand, the first being too badly burned to be of any use.
One small step after another, Soran approached Ranna. The bushy mane of hair that once coated his chin lay beside him in wild tufts. Without the beard, he looked like another man. Half of his face and neck still steamed from the burns. Layers of skin had peeled away, revealing a secret that had been hidden for decades.
A gust of fresh air washed away the worst of the stench as the exit door slid open.
“We made it boy.” Exclaimed Kaligan. Giddy with anticipation, wild imaginings of what lay through the steel frame danced through his mind.
“You said they would be OK!” Soran screamed, unable to contain his hatred.
“Did my apology not suffice? Volka did mention something about protective suits, though it must have slipped my mind.” Another smirk crept onto his face, unable to mask his insincerity. Looking down at the boy cradled over his Captain, Kaligan clocked a detail he had overlooked during his initial inspection. He approached curiously and Soran clung tightly to his friend.
“Stay away from him!” He spoke as if his words held a semblance of authority. They did not.
Kaligan pushed him aside and inspected the markings that had been revealed on Ranna's neck and chest. His eyes lit up. Tracing the mark with his fingers, he clawed away the burnt layer of skin until the tattoo was entirely visible. A pair of crossed daggers; between them, a single, wilting rose. A tattoo like this could be explained away as a youthful mistake, or past allegiance that had been long since severed. For the mark on his neck, however, no excuse would suffice. A single letter, sewn into the skin with imperishable ink. T.
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“We were wondering when you'd show up. Volka told us to expect you but... I never imagined it would be in such a hideous disguise.” Kaligan scrunched his face in disgust as he spoke. He caught Soran’s perplexed gaze and his eyes widening in joyous realization.
“How precious. You have no idea." he paused, reveling in the boy's naive confusion.
"Your Captain and I are something of long-lost brothers. Colleagues to say the least.” He was savoring every syllable that slipped through his lips.
“Lies.” Whispered Soran.
“He may be far from great but he's a good man. Not some pirate scumbag.” The embers of his words surprised Kaligan. Staring at the boy's grimaced face, he plucked a blurred memory from his mind. That day on the Gallowmare, in the depths of shrinking moon. The teary-eyed boy hovering over the remains of Captain Hallow. One and the same. The true splendor of the great work in operation astounded him; the synchronicity of fate. No coincidences. No random series of events. It was all happening as has been foretold.
Kaligan held back. He composed himself before pushing his face close to the boy and lowering his voice to a whisper.
“Not just any pirate scumbag. Oh no. This man was once something of a big deal. A legend to some, a nightmare to most. Sailing under the withered rose, he was granted the flattering title of the trickster. His real name though, the name so reviled by Navy a pirate alike, is Marick Thane” Each word was so sweet to Kaligan that it dripped from his lips like treacle. Soran receded into himself as his world collapsed around him.
Anyone but him.
It couldn't be. The man he cradled in his arms. He couldn't be, couldn't be that. The evidence was undeniable. Only those loyal to Talas bore the tattoo. He examined the deep scaring that pervaded Ranna's entire body and a picture came into focus. A mosaic of truth, broken and scattered by endless deception, was reformed. A skinsuit. Thin layers of mailable flesh that concealed a hidden reality beneath them. It was the only sure method to truly disappear. To slip into the shoes of another and leave whatever awful life you had wrought behind. Although an intense surgical procedure, -- over five days of agonizing transformation -- it was a far cry better than than the alternative. To surrender yourself to life as a machine like the Cybel and their ilk; existing in a post-human wasteland to which you had foolishly condemned yourself. Soran knew Ranna was too smart for that.
Staring at his Captain's real face, at the soft skin beneath the scar-mottled mask, something clicked in his mind. He remembered he had seen that wilted rose once before.
It had been years ago. He and Lanic had been working a big job. A Citadel class Naval vessel had docked at the Hyacinth and some freshly anointed Captain was doing his rounds, assuring that the station was operating ‘above board’, whatever that meant. Soran watched on in amazement as Lanic slid effortlessly around the engine room, performing checks that would take an entire team the whole day in just under an hour. It was one of the many times he had been in awe of the man, and in no doubt that it would be in his footsteps that he would follow. It was on this day he had seen it for the first time. As Lanic reached to reset a transmission relay his shirt lifted on one side, revealing the silvery sheen of an old burn. At first, Soran dismissed it as a workplace injury. A close encounter with a scalding pipe, or a memento of falling asleep with a lit cigar (as he often did). This mark was no mistake, it had a purpose. He knew it was a pirate mark, but Lanic was a lifelong Navy man. Soran thought it unlikely a holdover from a secret life that his mentor had kept hidden. It wouldn't be until years later that he would learn of its true significance. Pirates would always have the emblem of their Lord tattooed or scarred into their flesh, a rite of initiation. By using ink infused with Nano-machines, even if the wearer tried to erase their brand of allegiance, the mark would always return. A declaration of their eternal loyalty to their new family. For those unworthy of a tattoo, a brand would instead be administered. Mostly to prisoners and hostages, before they were sold into slavery or forced to fight for entertainment. The brand was a mark of shame and humiliation to those that were forced to bear it.
The Eureka Calamity had been the masterplan of a single individual. It was by his hands that tens of thousands lost their lives. Lanic had been betrayed, tricked by someone he thought he could trust, and sentenced to a life of ridicule and misery. One man was to blame for the countless orphans; children forced to confront the ceaseless black of an uncaring galaxy alone. Soran looked down and was confronted with the desolate eyes of that man.
“It was you.”