The Captain, disgraced and imprisoned, stared defiantly out of his cell. He had little ability to turn his head away, but to close his eyes in defiance was too asinine to consider.

Something had changed among his jailors. Usually, when the giant savage did not insult him with its presence, the nameless dreg did. This time, a Human darkened his door.

The highly censored brief he’d read had not done the creature justice. It was small, its limbs short and soft. But he could feel the presence behind its eyes as it stared back at him. It floated in front of his cell, almost relaxed in the free-fall environment. Its mane spread like a halo around it, a dark frame for its face.

“What is your name, Captain?” the Human finally asked. Its accent was thick, but it surprised him with how well it could speak High Vyrăin.

He was tempted, for a moment, to remain silent. He had nothing to gain from speaking with this Human. He couldn’t even squeeze out some entertainment from it by tormenting it over its fears because it was clear to him these creatures felt no fear. Only a monstrously fearless being would dare to attempt what they had succeeded at.

But the isolation was a potent torment, and the Human’s mere presence stirred his desire for contact with another living being.

“I am Captain Markus Brelaric,” he answered, his voice hoarse from lack of use.

The Human’s expression twisted disapprovingly as she tapped at the control console in front of his cell. Then, mercifully, the tube in the Captain’s mouth dispensed a measure of water which he swallowed greedily.

“I am the Singer,” the Human replied. “Do you know why you’re here?” she asked.

An interrogation, then, that was what the creature was here for. Of course, the nameless exile had attempted to interrogate him as well, but a Captain of the Imperial Navy was not so easily broken. He remained silent.

“I don’t just mean the obvious, Markus,” the Singer continued after a long pause. “Fools don’t become Captains: I think you know why we kept you and released your crew. Do you know why your ship was sent to Torus, Markus? Did you know the purpose of your mission, Markus?”

The Captain remained silent.

“I’m not asking because I’m fishing for information, Markus. I want to know how much they told you,” the Human continued again. “If you didn’t know why that Inquisitor came to Torus, then you’re a victim in this, too. I may be able to help you, Markus.”

“How?” Captain Brelaric asked after a long moment. This was clearly a ruse, but it was not one he’d expected. There was obviously nothing that could be done. He would either suffer for the rest of his unnatural life as their prisoner – an unwilling participant in further piracy – or he would die when his usefulness ran its course. What pretty lie would this creature, so coveted by the Emperor, tell him?

“No one knows the Manifest Destiny has been stolen,” the Singer explained. “We only really need it long enough to get to our destination. So you would only need to tell one little lie: that you escaped, and locked yourself in the control room, and flushed us out with the vacuum. People love a story, and you would be a hero,” she said.

The realization of how tempting that lie was sent a pang of shame through him so sharp it was almost painful. “Kill me or release me, parasite,” he spat as he turned that shame to anger, “but do not mock me with talk.”

“I was worried you’d say that,” the Singer sighed as she idly pushed off the control console to send herself into a slow spin. “I guess, from your perspective, it makes no sense to release you – logically or strategically, that is. I’m obviously lying because no one in their right mind would let you go. But the truth is that you can’t really hurt us,” she explained. “Keeping you prisoner like this is an evil I’m willing to allow to continue only because we need you and can’t guarantee your cooperation.

“But I also get why you wouldn’t want to take the deal, Markus: It wouldn’t matter if no one else knew – you would know,” she continued. “A shameful secret, one you would have to carry to your grave, and that still might not stay secret. If your family found out, they’d be ashamed – assuming you have a family?”

Her spin brought her face to face with the Captain again, but he did not rise to her questions.

“I understand honor and pride, to some extent,” she continued when her spin made it impossible to look at him again. “I don’t know the ways of your people, but my people have always been proud by nature. We don’t kill prisoners of war, for example. What I don’t understand is what you see in the Empire. I’ve seen some of the worst it has to offer. What about you, Markus? Why do you love your nation?” she asked.

Markus felt his anger grow at her ignorant spouting. “You know nothing of honor,” he spat. “The Empire is the greatest nation in the Galaxy! The Emperor-“

“I hate to interrupt, Markus, but I didn’t ask you for the propaganda reel,” the Singer snapped, her spin halted as she turned her head to look directly at him.

He was momentarily shocked as her eyes locked brazenly onto his own. It was like she could stare into him. He hadn’t realized it before, but he’d never seen eyes quite like hers. A ring of color, framed in white, it was like it dared him to mistake her for looking anywhere but at him. He was so shocked that he didn’t notice her spin simply stopped in free-fall, no gentle touch to bring her to a halt.

“I asked why you love it. What gives you the pride to call yourself a member of the Imperial Navy?” she asked sharply. Her voice snapped him back to topic – niggling doubts and mesmerizing eyes forgotten.

Markus choked on his words, partly because he realized that she was right and he was simply repeating what he’d been told, and partly because he had to pause and think.

The Empire was the greatest nation in the Galaxy, of that he had no doubt. Their navy was the most powerful and technologically advanced. Their soldiers were better trained and equipped. And their economy was one of the most powerful, with the lowest poverty rate of any other nation – of the ones whose statistics could be trusted. But all of those were statistics, anyone could see those numbers, and the Empire was quick to boast of them in their state media.

But he didn’t think of that when he thought of the Empire. Instead, he thought of the pride of graduating from the Academy on Veridian IV. He thought of his family’s villa, which he left behind to defend from afar. He thought about his cousins, sisters and brothers, and aunts and uncles – his family. His thoughts were of home. And as the Human stared at him, so brazen with her eyes framed in white, he admitted as much.

“So tell me about your home,” the Singer said, her voice softer now. “Tell me why a man joins the navy. Tell me about the ceiling over your bed. Tell me about the people who lived down the road and the places you explored as a child. Tell me you’re more than your nation, and I’ll tell you that I’m more than its enemy,” she promised.

“No,” the Captain eventually said, his voice hollow. If the Human had hoped to inspire some sympathy from him by reminding him of his home, it had failed. “I see no point. I will die on this ship. We both know this,” he spoke calmly, with authority due him as a Captain of the Imperial Navy. He drew some strength from that spiteful feeling, and some of his pride returned. “If I must die, I shall do so with my dignity intact.”

“And my legacy will remain unmarred,” his voice echoed in the small room, but with horror, the Captain realized he had not been the one to speak. “Thank you, Captain. Your sacrifice is not in vain.” The Singer’s mouth moved, but it was his voice that came out of her throat. Her accent was gone in an instant, her face hardened like the venerated Captain she mimicked. It shouldn’t have been possible: Her neck was too short and the shape of her mouth too shallow.

Not even a computer could have created such a perfect simulacrum of his voice. And he realized that they’d finally taken everything he had. His career, shattered by their dishonorable piracy and trickery. His body and the ship that it unlocked, stolen to be turned into a weapon against his country. And now, with just an utterance, they had claimed ownership of his legacy.

No one could escape death. Even the Emperor would die and his mantle taken by one of his children. But legacy could outlive anyone; it could uplift a mortal’s life into legend. And this Human, this monster, had utter control over how he would be remembered.

No wonder the Emperor wanted these creatures.

~,~’~{~{@ ((●(●_(ө_ ө)(Θ_Θ)(◌_◌)_●)●)) @}~}~’~,~

The storm blocked the light of the stars, and the valley was nearly pitch black by the time Karen’teh ushered Eabha into a shelter. Eabha hadn’t argued when Karen’teh picked her up, and she hadn’t paid much attention to where they were going. She could tell that Karen’teh had climbed, but the thought didn’t go any farther than that.

Eabha didn’t want to think.

If she started to think, then her mind would inevitably go to a dark place. So it was better not to think – to feel – at all.

Eabha was only shaken from her apathy when Karen’teh finally put her down, and strong arms no longer held her securely against the giant woman’s chest. Her bare feet touched down on cool moss and bark, but it was too dark to see. Eabha was soaking wet, and without Karen’teh’s fur, she could feel the cold creep straight into her, and she began to shiver.

Eabha could hear the storm outside, in full swing as the wind roared and the rain came down in sheets. She only noticed that the entrance was closed when the sound became muffled. Without its dominating presence in the air, she could hear a trickle of water, and the scuffle of claws as Karen’teh blindly moved around the room.

There was a strange sound, a buzz-click-buzz, and a tiny circle of electric light glowed in Karen’teh’s hand. The alien woman scowled at the squeeze-crank torch in her hand but clipped the light to the netting she’d pulled it from regardless. She glanced at Eabha before she began to search through the mesh again.

Several nets were nailed to the walls of the little shelter, stuffed full with supplies in leather hand-stitched bags. The walls were living wood, the trunks and branches of dozens of trees were grown so close together that there were no gaps. The thick branches and trunks defined the edges of the strange room, creating crevices and bends. Boughs and vines crisscrossed above them, but shadows swallowed the ceiling – if there was one.

Rainwater trickled through the ceiling near the back wall. Eabha’s feet were spared from the water by the thick root Karen’teh placed her on. The root bisected the room, moist soil and moss on one side and a shallow pool fed by the trickling water on the other.

Karen’teh unrolled something from the nets, and with a few moments of work, hung a hammock from the walls. Next, she gathered a few more items from the netting and dumped them into the hammock as she unrolled a blanket – something made from a patchwork of fur – and stuffed a handful of leaves into her mouth. Finally, with the room apparently prepared, she turned back to Eabha.

Karen’teh used the blanket to wick water off of Eabha, though her hair remained damp. Karen’teh scrubbed at the cuts and scrapes all over Eabha to clean the blood. Eabha flinched away from her touch, the wounds had stopped bleeding ages ago, but the cleaning opened a few of the deeper cuts again and irritated red and swollen flesh.

Once Eabha was clean to Karen’teh’s satisfaction, she hung the soiled blanket and spat into one of her hands. The leaves she’d chewed had turned into a paste, and she carefully spread it over Eabha’s cuts.

Eabha watched Karen’teh tend to her. Unfortunately, the tiny LED torch that hung from the netting cast harsh shadows and was poor light to work by. And Karen’teh was still soaking wet, her fur stuck to her body. Eabha could sense the tremble in Karen’teh’s hands as she resisted the urge to shiver from the cold.

Eabha didn’t have to think. The thought came on its own.

Eabha could see herself tending to Mason after he’d hurt himself. Immediately followed by the knowledge that it had been for nothing. She’d failed to protect him, the one thing she had in the world. She should have known, should have recognized the signs. And because she’d failed, rather than lift him out of suffering, she might have condemned him to another, more terrible fate.

Eabha was selfish, she realized. She’d abandoned him at the first chance she got. Even now, she was selfish, as Karen’teh shivered and tended to Eabha. The way Karen’teh looked at Eabha, the giantess clearly venerated Eabha – but Eabha selfishly, childishly, did nothing. Not even a thank you. And now, she was too ashamed to thank her.

“The pain will pass, my Lady,” Karen’teh said as she wrapped rough cloths around the deepest cuts. Eabha had barely noticed that she’d started to cry again.

But Karen’teh didn’t understand, and Eabha shook her head. “There will be a pain again,” Eabha said, tripping over her lacking vocabulary – just another way she was like a child, another way she had failed. “Mason …” she tried to explain, but it was challenging to find the words.

“It is okay to cry now, my Lady. You were very wise to wait until I found shelter for us. The Storm will protect us now while you grieve,” she dutifully replied.

“No, Mason … will again. He will again,” Eabha tried to explain. For some reason, she wanted to blame Karen’teh for not understanding, as if the poor woman should know anything at all.

“Yes, my Lady, of course. I forgot,” Karen’teh replied, suddenly supplicant with her hands in that circular shape she’d shown a few times now. “You are immortal, I forgot. So I should not presume you would grieve. But then, why are you crying, my Lady?” Karen’teh looked up from her supplicant bow, peeking through her fingers to attempt to divine the Human’s mood.

“Cry because … again,” Eabha tried to explain. “The word, to never standing?” she asked instead.

“Die?” Karen’teh offered hesitantly. “He will die again?”

“Again and again. Alone,” Eabha said, her relief at understanding almost enough to overpower the sucking dread in her gut – at least, for a moment.

“You are right, my Lady, I’m sorry. I should have realized,” Karen’teh said, her bow deepened. “Even if he can find his way to the exit you found, the Night is too dangerous – even for you. When will he return? Should we turn around? We might still be able to reach the Temple before the Storm worsens-“

She stopped as Eabha shook her head, suddenly unsure. “No word. Long time … like a … birth? He is birth again?” Eabha tried to explain.

She didn’t have the words for time to describe that it would be a year at least before the automated processes would possibly put his mind into a new body. And besides that, she wasn’t sure that a year was accurate enough.

This wasn’t Earth; a year could be any number of days longer or shorter than the year she thought of. And she couldn’t express how long it was in seconds, even if she did the math, the number would be so astronomical to be beyond comprehension – especially, probably, for someone who likely doesn’t even understand the concept of zero, let alone billions or trillions.

But the birthing metaphor was accurate enough. If only Eabha could remember the word for pregnancy. “The before-birth, it is long,” she tried. But again, that wasn’t enough. “But the mother, she is weak. When he is born, he is broken. Maybe he is born more broken this time.”

It still wasn’t enough! How could she possibly explain the terrible thoughts in her head? How she was so frightened. What if the errors in the machine were worse than she thought? What if he was born physically crippled the next time? He would die of thirst only steps away from water, or worse, drown in the amniotic fluid from the pod.

How could she explain that kind of hell in a language she barely understood? How could she explain the pain of death, over and over again, forever? Even if the few moments alive remained in his memory, it would be, to him, a constant with no respite, the continuity unbroken by design.

How could she explain the terrible things he’d mentioned to her? How could she describe his horror, one she only barely comprehended herself? The idea that he was so very small, in the face of something so unimaginably enormous. And what if Karen’teh didn’t even understand the concept of suicide? How could she possibly explain existential dread in a way that Karen’teh could understand?

It seemed hopeless. And useless. Eabha wasn’t a therapist. She couldn’t really help Mason.

“Then,” Karen’teh began hesitantly. “Then we go to my village. We have a medicine woman trained by the Monks. She might know how to help. We can bring them back after the Night. The whole village will want to help. I know they will come,” she said, almost desperately.

Eabha didn’t see the point, but she agreed anyway. Maybe they could at least give him the dignity of choosing, then at least he wouldn’t suffer that helplessness.

~,~’~{~{@ ((●(●_(ө_ ө)(Θ_Θ)(◌_◌)_●)●)) @}~}~’~,~

Doctor Tarpeia huddled in her raincoat as she watched, impotently, as Landing’s defenses were prepared for the Night.

The rain came down in sideways sheets, and the high mast floodlights cast long black shadows in the dying light. The shouting voices of the teams were a dull mumble in comparison to the thunder and wind.

She watched as a team of soldiers crowded around a tractor as it struggled to climb the ramp to Landing’s outer walls. The 68-mm Anti-Armor cannon balanced on the tractor’s forks was one of the last damaged guns from the previous Night to finish repairs. The soldiers pushed against the tractor as its tires slipped on the wet ramp; together, they were able to make frustratingly uneven progress.

Outside the wall, the high mast lights cast deep shadows across the outer city – all evacuated in anticipation of the coming half-year siege. The swaying of the masts created a hypnotic array of shifting shadows among the hastily built buildings there. Incomplete earthworks of a third wall cast pitch-black shadows across the barren hills and the wall of greenery that marked the edge of Landing.

Landing had two circular walls and plans for a third, butted against the lake’s shore. The original encircled the military base and its spaceport; the second surrounded the rest of the city. It had naturally grown as families followed the members who were deployed there. It was a fortress city but unlike any other military fort in existence.

Standard fortification protocols listed defensive munitions on a scale of escalation. Tear gas was at the lower end of the scale, napalm was at the upper end – neither was effective on Laetus. Liquid nitrogen had never been weaponized before, but these walls were lined with cryogenic tanks. At a moment’s notice, they could douse anything too close to the wall with hundreds of gallons of liquid nitrogen.

Standard fortifications avoided building upwards, instead choosing to dig in. Walls and fortifications had shallow angles, better to deflect ground-based cannons and artillery – orbital or otherwise. Landing’s walls were tall and leaned outward, better to prevent attempts to scale or leap over the walls.

Doctor Tarpeia checked the clever device in her hand. The many arms of the circular display described with great accuracy the position of the moons around Laetus. The third moon, Minimus Fillia, was only four degrees below the horizon, about thirteen days until it would rise over the mountains.

The Viribus told time by the passing of the moons, but not out of idle curiosity. During the Day, most Viribus couldn’t care less about time, except when the sun began to fall back toward the horizon. The Night was only somewhat more delineated. They split their year into four parts, but not in a way that could be easily charted: Thale’eh for the Daylight, Thale’teh for the Twilight and its storms, Nere’eh for the safe portions of the Night, and Nere’teh for when it was unsafe.

She could spend hundreds of years studying the various ways these people gendered their language and how it reflected on their culture.

Tarpeia had been told that, before the Empire had wiped out their order, the Monks would carefully chart the moons to determine when the Night was safe and when it was not. Eventually, the Empire discovered why the Viribus so specifically split the Night into different parts.

It was the moons, they’d discovered, which correlated with these ‘seasons’ of danger. Specifically, the smallest moon’s presence in the sky heralded the unsafe season: Nere’teh. The Empire had dubbed that moon the Youngest Daughter, but the Viribus called it Nereo’teh’s Eye. Its orbit was almost ninety-seven Imperial Universal days long, to a year that lasted three hundred and fifty-five Imperial Universal days. When that orbit brought the Eye into the sky at Night was when not even the Empire’s might could guarantee their protection.

She checked the time with the same device, measured in Imperial Universal Time.

Once she was confident of the time, she turned to face the southeastern wall. There, inspecting the emplaced weapons, stood General Jacentarius. Imperial Guards accompanied him, one desperately holding his ceremonial shield up like an umbrella to block most of the rain from touching the royal-adjacent officer. General Jacentarius’s hooded uniform was all she could see of him.

The pleats in his coat were for his rank, but the hood marked him as one of the Emperor’s cabinet – and a potential successor. It was his presence that she knew sealed the fate of this world. It was why the Emperor hadn’t simply bombarded the valley into submission or abandoned it.

Doctor Tarpeia didn’t know exactly what the Emperor wanted with Laetus. She could make assumptions: the curiosity of an extinct – or perhaps extant – interstellar society; or the military applications of the things that go bump in the Night – assuming they could be exploited. Then, there were the obvious; resources and cultures to exploit.

But the way Doctor Tarpeia saw it, the reason the Empire was there at all was to give the Viribus the chance to break free of the limitations of their world. It was a kind of oppression that these people lived under, artificially suppressed by the requirements of survival imposed on them for half of the year.

“Now, while their attention is on the opposite side of the settlement,” a tinny voice commanded over her radio. “Once you’re outside the wall, go radio silent.”

Tarpeia had never gone outside the walls at Night. It was dangerous: The walls existed for a reason. But the group she was a part of now was confident that if they didn’t work outside the Empire’s oversight, the Viribus would be wiped out. They had a chance to help the Empire and the Viribus, but they couldn’t do it huddled behind their walls and guns.

They would need to catch a monster to do that.