CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Byzantium forks of lightning enthused the mounting crowd; the Insidia's bridge alive with coruscations. Particularly energized were the younger amongst them, their feral eyes illuminated with eruptions of unrestrained nature. Many of them had never set foot on a planet -- Soran himself belonging to this brotherhood of space dwellers --, their entire existence spent trapped in the void. Flowing water, trees, and vast grassy plains were as elusive to them as any of the universe's great unknowns. Witnessing the jagged peaks of mountains pierce the thick sandy clouds was a thing of wonder that left them stunned by creation's ingenuity.

Only the Lords would be permitted to enter the sacred Naval dungeon, leaving the legions of pirate loyalists to watch over the armada. Pockets of resistance, however unlikely, were still a possibility. The EMP produced by the Basilica would not hamper the enemy indefinitely, and Volka was unwilling to risk sabotage at this late stage. Twice before his plans had been thwarted by the betrayal of the seemingly faithful, he would not allow himself to be fooled a third time.

Neraka pulled Soran to his feet, dragging him back through the halls to the bow of the vessel where a scout ship awaited their departure. As usual, her silent demeanor remained intact but there was a swiftness to her step that betrayed her ardor. Soran could see the desire peeking through her perpetual scowl. Instead of being thrown into the vessel, he was permitted the dignity of sitting for the first time since he entered pirate custody. He put this down to the high spirits of his captors, knowing a sudden inclination to compassion was doubtful. Before his seat was even touched, he heard the rhythmic clang of chains in the distance. Three men made their way onboard the craft. Ranna was pushed down into the seat opposite. Barely able to keep his eyes open, the radiation shivers were still visible in his reddened flesh. The Captain kept his head down. It reminded Soran of the look hounds would give their masters after failing a daring heist for table scraps. The soldiers secured their restraints to the seats before escorting Neraka to the cockpit. The hunters were left in consensual silence. Both had so much to say but no idea where to even begin.

“So, what do I call you?” Soran asked, his tone lacking the animosity it so deeply deserved. Ranna looked up, blackened eyes sunk deep into his emaciated face. The radiation had drained him of his vitality, unearthing decades of struggle that had withed his spirit well beyond its years.

Silence endured. The threads of his past were being woven into an unflattering tapestry; an explicit illustration of historic misdeeds that demanded elucidation.

“Thane died on the Eureka. I'm all that’s left.” He swallowed uncomfortably.

“Trust me, the galaxy is better off for it, and so am I.” His raspy voice was pitiful. Despite his sympathies, Soran couldn't hold back his need for answers.

“How could you do it? To Lanic, to all those countless thousands that opposed you. You killed them all, and for what?” He was hesitant to continue his accusatory barrage. He witnessed each word tear at Ranna. Scars that were sealed for decades, ripped open by the aggrieved declarations of a victim. Despite his reticence, Soran found himself unable to quell the tide.

“Lanic was the only good one left. He was the only guy that still set an example worth following. He cared about people and his job, no matter how far beneath him it was. He was happy waking up each day for credits most people wouldn't get out of bed for. Despite everything you took from him, he was still happy, you could never take that.” Soran took a deep breath. The visible discomfort of the quivering man opposite him demonstrated that enough had been said.

“But.” Soran paused. Ranna found the strength to meet his gaze.

“He would have forgiven you you know. In spite of everything.” The words clamped onto Ranna’s throat, his eyes welling up with twenty years of guilt. Two decades of sleepless nights that not even a Negessen visor could ameliorate. At that moment, he had been handed a key. A way through the blockade of enmity that had thus far hindered his recovery; a chance to repent.

“Thank you.” A croaked whisper was all he could manage. Soran knew that whatever Ranna might have done in the past, his penance had been paid ten times over by the guilt he drowned in each day.

The boy had said his piece. There was nothing to do now but sit back and wait. The engines of their vessel ignited and they commenced the slow, turbulent descent to the tower.

Soran thought about asking what their next move would be. The ingenious plan Ranna had concocted to get them out of this mess. He longed for the tale of how they would save El, and return to their lives as the galaxy's most feared bounty hunters. Though he knew that Ranna had no such plan. There would be no next step. Without having to hear the words, he knew this journey didn't include a return trip.

Six vessels made the voyage. Each was uniquely crafted for the occasion, representing both the ethos and aesthetic of their Lord; miniatures of the colossal dreadnoughts from which they departed. Magnificent crests were emblazoned proudly on their hulls, a symbol of pride for the pirates, and an augury of death to those that dared cross them.

The hooded snake with bladed fangs, the Bassalark.

Three stars over an eclipsed moon, the Arachnaris.

A golden toothed jaw bone, the Gallowmare.

The Raven with scimitar wings, the Insidia.

A blood-filled chalice, the Siren.

Overshadowing all others, the three concentric circles of the Basilica. Volka and Khan had not always sailed under such an emblem, but since their renewed crusade began, it had been a sign of their activity across the galaxy. Only death could be found in its wake and was the Navy's only clue that adherents of the Cybel were still operating.

Each of these motifs sat before a pair of crossed blades, signifying their allegiance to the one true king. Stories would all mention the now infamous flag that flew high at the birth of piracy. The black sail that clung to the masts of Galneus and shepherded the inaugural pirate armada. A menacing skull that sat on a pair of crossed daggers. It was said all those who gazed upon it were staring into the hollow sockets of their end. Soran had always been captivated when Lanic would act out the old pirate tales. However reluctant he may have been to venture into such topics, his enthusiasm -- once he got going -- was addictive, adding layers of depth to an already enchanting mythology. It seemed however that the glory days of Galneus were long behind her, the skull and daggers now scraps of torn silk.

Talon-like extrusions clawed at the cyclopean obelisk, the hands of the planet were reaching up, attempting to drag the infernal creation back into the depths. Cut at odd angles, the tower was given the sharpness and glean of uncut crystal, the lightning accentuating the deep grooves in the obsidian surface. Littering the scarred terrain, a hostile blanket of spiny succulents burst forth from the sulfurous soil. Blackened and crackling with stored electrical energy, they provided a scare offering of oxygen that stung at the throat and lungs when inhaled.

The Lords docked their ships in a crescent formation surrounding the tower's cyclopean stairway, each disembarking alone and leaving their humble entourage on watch.

Neraka emerged with Ranna and Soran in chains behind her, eager to present them to Volka as requested. Before she could dismount the exit ramp, Kaligan had knelt before the Cybel brothers, exhibiting the shredded papers of Atlazar for all to see.

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“Please forgive me Lord Volka, but it would appear our sister Neraka has failed us.” He looked back at her as he spoke, unable to contain his pleasure from shaming her in front of the other Lords. Volka took the book into his hands, holding it with the care of a mother with her newborn.

“Failure? I see only success.” Kaligan was visibly shaken by Volka’s words. He wondered if his synthetic mind saw something different, a hidden perfection he could not comprehend. Volka sensed the confusion in his expression and he and his brother smiled at one another.

“Have I ever lied to you Samael? Have the truths I promised not come to pass?” He lifted the frayed remnants.

“Where you see a tattered book and the decaying husk of a once-great ship, I see the future. There is one final miracle I have yet to show you. The time for patience is almost at its end.” Volka’s words filled the Lords with wondrous anticipation. Kaligan bowed his head, partly out of respect but also feeling the sour sting of his failed point-scoring attempt.

“Lord Volka,” Nerka called out, the other Lords turning in surprise. Never had they heard such eagerness in her voice. She strode from her ship, shoving Ranna forward before administering a kick to his calves and taking his feet out from under him. Coarse grains of white sand whisked through the air, biting at their skin as they watched the bound man brought to his knees. Surrounded, the smug faces of his former brothers and sisters now offered Ranna only merciless stares of pity.

“Thane!” Maldreska cried, taking mere seconds to peer through the thin veil of his charade.

“The years have, not been kind.” She chuckled, running her fingers delicately through the perfectly crafted curls that sat in an immaculate bun atop her head. She took a few steps forward to get a better look at his face, taking care where she stepped as not to ruin the polished leather of her thigh-length boots. Her long painted nails scratched the side of his face, hooks of revulsion curling the edges of her mouth.

“Disgusting.” She said before retaking her place in the circle. The Lords were shrouded in shadow by the brooding tower that hung over them. Soran peered out from behind Neraka to see Volka step forward, remembering in horror what Ranna had done to him and his brother during their last meeting. The slender android bent down, meeting the bound man at eye level.

“You never we’re a very polite man, were you Thane? But stealing a man's weapon to use against him was low, even for you.” With a brisk swat, the backs of Volkas reinforced plate fingers collided with Ranna’s cheek, knocking him to the ground. Volka returned to his feet, brushing down his suit and flicking up the high collar of his jacket.

“No one touches him. His suffering has only begun.” Volka said to a chorus and disappointed grunts and groans.

The Lords had not laid eyes on Marick Thane for over fifteen years, not since his escape from the Insidia's dungeon. Discovering he was still alive filled them with the anticipation of revenge. Volka turned his back, swiftly followed by Maldreska and Kaligan, each giving Ranna a grin of sinister intent before departing. Malig swung in close; the hiss of his slow breathing still gave Ranna the same chill it did all those years ago.

“Trickster turned traitor.” He smiled as he pulled out his knife, running the blade across his tongue in a bizarre display of intimidation.

“I look forward to tasting your blood again Thane, it's only a matter of time.” He took a few steps backward, maintaining eye contact as he sheathed his dagger before slithering off into the storm. Not a moment passed by before another judgemental shadow was cast over Ranna. He squinted through the torrent of sand, attempting to disclose the identity of the approaching figure. Unlike the fear and discomfort caused by the others, this Lord stilled him to his core. Noctei towered over the man. The rough winds swept at her greying hair, further obscuring her gloom-choked features. All Ranna could see were her eyes; piercing blue eyes. After all this time, was there anything left to say? The disdain in her eyes spoke volumes and told him far more than he had ever wished to know. No words were exchanged and her cloak swept over him like a great wave as she departed, once again leaving him behind. Watching her silhouette fade behind the curtains of sand was an unwelcome reminder of the Eureka. He could feel a bitter foam of resentment pool in his mouth. Decades of waiting for a moment so fleeting. A memory of her cold indifference the only proof it ever happened.

Ranna’s arms flew into the air, the sting of his bindings tearing him from the frigid remorse. Neraka tugged forcefully, pulling him to his feet and tilting her head toward the ominous passageway.

A series of solid black, half-moon gates sat inside one another, shrinking in size as they extended into the facility. Finding the gates already open, Malig and Kaligan exchanged a look of shared suspicion. The apparent ease of their entry into the galaxy's most heavily guarded location gave them ample reason for pause. Volka clocked their hesitation.

“We’ve won,” Volka said as he threw his arms wide.

"He may be many things, but the final Admiral is not a stupid man. Why would he sacrifice his men to a lost cause? To defend the indefensible would be madness." The others nodded at his assessment. With only Indra left alive, what defense could he possibly muster against an armada of aggressors.

"Though you are right to keep your wits about you my brethren. Make no mistake, he is here, and he is waiting.” Volka turned, and with his brother at his side entered through the gates. Seeing their fearless advance spurred the other Lords to follow, the five of them shelving their apprehension to finish what they had started.

The haunting cries of endless winds echoed throughout the tower's main chamber. Colossal human sculptures loomed in each of the four corners; their giant stone hands met in the center of the room, covering a cylindrical portal. The Lord's mouths twisted into snarls upon seeing what to them was the antithesis of their cause. Elevated high above them were the faces of the founding four, the original Admirals. These men and women had shepherded humanity into the stars and saved the human race from a sick and dying world. With distinguished features and immaculate uniforms, they were justice incarnate; a beacon of hope to all those who wished for peace and safety in the galaxy. To the pirates, they were usurpers of freedom. Wardens that had kept them trapped in a life of servitude and obedience, never allowing anyone to step beyond the confines of their rigid laws. The pirates had spent their lives breaking free from what they saw as an oppressive system of control, taking with them as many souls as would join their cause. The blood-soaked path they had forged to their freedom was to them on the hands of the men that built the cage. Centuries later those same men were still staring down on them, their pitiless expressions etched eternally in pristine white marble.

As Volka approached the overlapping hands of the statues, they rose in unison, each slotting into place with a great crash that seemed to shake the tower itself. Locked into a salute, the Admirals offered their respect to those officers unfortunate enough to be stationed in such a place. An entire cycle spent trapped in the humid dark of the Golgotha was a duty requested of all those that sought the status of Captain or higher. Most were driven to madness, relieved from their post as quivering wrecks, immediately sequestered in a recovery facility. It was only those that could withstand the immense gravitational pressures and constant, prickling heat of the planet's core that would prove themselves worthy to hold such a coveted rank.

Ghostly apparitions, whispers in the winds, and the unending screams of those claimed by the prison were just a few of the tales Soran had heard growing up. A haunted cage on the edge of known space had been the most frightening place imaginable as a child. But as he took a slow step forward onto the shimmering black surface of the elevator platform, he knew the reality would be more terrible than anything his mind was able to conjure.