The codebook wasn’t what the Singer expected it to be.

In her hands was a worn hardback book with actual printed paper. It was strange to realize that this was the first time she’d ever held one outside the pseudo-nostalgia of her mind. Inside the book was a collection of poems written by the Emperors.

Emperor Brycellis Gaius, the first all the way to the fifty-first. Different Emperors, but the same name. Fifty-two times. Each of them had written at least one poem, some so long they could have been a novel all their own. What surprised her was how consistent the voice was between the few poems she’d tried to read.

Poems about love, and death, and anger. There were lives and pantheons written in poetry. And yet, unlike how she would have expected, the poems seemed to string together somehow. As if the authors had handed down the same story to each generation.

There was some cleverness, the Singer thought, to use a book like this. Though no Empire ship had ever been captured by an enemy, if they were, there would be no book of ciphers to find. The codebook would be dismissed as nothing more than a personal effect of the Captain.

How the General had discovered this, she might never know. Nor why he’d bothered to investigate it if he didn’t think they’d be able to use that information.

It was likely that he’d expected trouble in the final Terminals. This was why the shuttle still clamped like a tick to the Manifest Destiny was stuffed to the gills with Electronic Warfare Equipment.

“You’re certain this will work?” Achilles grumbled from over her shoulder.

“Yes,” the Singer said. “And if it doesn’t, we have enough time to activate the backup in the shuttle. So if they can hear my voice, then that will definitely work.” Achilles didn’t reply, but she could feel his claws squeeze the back of the Captain’s seat nervously.

She looked up, and the holographic display of the command module dominated her vision. Its illusionary expanse made it seem like the vectored graphics floated in the air in front of her. The tiny arrow representing Manifest Destiny faced away from the oval shape of the M’divosk Terminal.

The Singer didn’t need to read the numbers floating nearby to know the ship was still accelerating – slowing their velocity. Instead, she could feel the torch drive through the ship’s hull.

However, despite her confidence, it was still possible that they would fail.

It was explicitly forbidden to fire a torch drive toward an inhabited station, even within certain orbits of inhabited worlds. Military ships were the only real spaceborne object that could sit in that kind of barrage and survive. Even Military stations suffered the same vulnerability, the cost of shielding and armor too much even for the vast pockets of the Imperial Navy.

And besides, it was suicidal to disobey the orders of Terminal Space Traffic Control. Their massive acceleration lasers, designed to accelerate light-riders between stars, could turn even Military ships to slag in moments.

And even if they didn’t just melt the Manifest Destiny into a glowing smear across the sky, they could contract the Anti-Euclidean bridge into a pinprick. If Manifest Destiny made contact with an event horizon that small, it would peel open the ship like a tin can.

Even if they missed the knife edge of the Anti-Euclidean bridge, they were moving too fast. If they missed this transfer, it would take years to slow back into an orbit that would bring them back to the Terminal again. Years they didn’t have the supplies to survive.

The communications officer began to speak when the glowing triangle of Manifest Destiny crossed the dashed blue line that represented the space controlled by M’divosk.

“M’divosk STC, Manifest Destiny on approach, bingo fuel,” they said into their headset, their voice echoed into the tinny speaker near the Singer’s ear. “Requesting immediate transfer.”

“Manifest Destiny, M’divosk. Transfer denied, wave off,” the tower controller replied. Their voice was distorted over the radio, but the Singer could clearly hear the surprise in the controller’s voice.

“Cannot comply,” the Comms officer growled. “We do not have enough fuel. Do you understand? Bingo fuel,” they explained, and though they hid it well behind a veneer of frustration, the Singer could immediately feel the Officer’s anxiousness.

There was a pregnant pause, all the while the little triangle inched closer to M’divosk’s oval indicator. As the silence from the control tower stretched, the Singer was abundantly aware of the tension in the room. It showed itself subtly, nervous tail twitches, a shiver in normally wavy tentacles.

Achilles’ grip on the chair was so tight that the Singer imagined she could hear his knuckles creak.

“We require a Captain’s certification to approve non-emergency deviations from protocol,” a new voice said over the radio. That would be a higher-ranked controller, likely the head appointed by the Empire itself.

“This is Captain Markus Brelaric,” the Captain’s voice said through the Singer’s throat. She paid no mind to the command module, trusting in the seat’s directed microphones to capture her voice. She concentrated on the sensation at the back of her neck instead.

Her own voice thrummed in her throat, and she felt the familiar timbre in her chest. But it was not the Singer’s voice that she heard in her ears. The icy sensation that trickled into her spine was indication enough that it was working. However, it was not so simple as willing it to work.

The Singer knew what voice she wanted. She could imagine the Captain’s voice in her head, but replacing her own voice with his was like trying to redirect a river with her bare hands.

She could manage, but not forever. Eventually, the ice water trickling into her veins would sap her core temperature. Then, if she wasn’t careful, she could give herself hypothermia. And with how taxing this process was, she might not recover in time to do it again at the next station. Or the third.

“A blood black nothingness,” the controller recited.

The Singer hastily flipped open the codebook. Her anxiety spiked of its own accord like she’d sat down to a test she hadn’t studied for – and indeed, she hadn’t. She’d taken some time to read through the poem book, but for much of it, she’d only skimmed. She felt it took ages to find the correct passage, but she did find it.

“Begins to spin,” the Singer completed with the Captain’s voice.

With the first line of the passage recited, what would follow would be a complex set of questions. The answers would come from the poems. But she wasn’t only required to repeat the correct response; she was required to recite the correct response with the right inflection.

It was a complex system of verification. One incorrect inflection was chance. Two was a sign of undue stress on the part of the Captain. Three was a signal to the controller that the ship and its Captain were under immediate duress, and whatever their original request, it was to be denied. And they wouldn’t tell her when she got it wrong.

“Feel that in your body?” the controller recited deadpan.

The Singer hesitated. It was such a strange question. But as she skimmed the following lines, she realized the appropriate response.

“The system,” the Captain’s voice dutifully responded.

“What does it feel like to be part of the system?”

The response was the same, but the Singer imagined pride in the Captain’s voice – and as his voice echoed in her ears, she could feel some of that pride. The pride of nationalism, to be part of something greater.

“Is there a sound that comes with the system?”

The response was the same, but the Singer felt a twinge of anxiety. Was there a chance they could tell the voice was an imitation?

“Do they keep you in a cell?” the controller continued, and the Singer was forced to respond rather than dwell.

“Cells,” the Captain dutifully responded.

“When you’re not performing your duties, do they keep you in a little box?”

The Singer imagined some minor regret in the Captain’s voice. Was the ship the box? His home his duty? Or the other way around? The Singer wasn’t sure, but she could imagine the Captain having the same indecision.

“What comes from something else?” the controller recited, and the Singer hesitated again.

What could they possibly be referring to? Even as her eyes desperately searched the passage, she wondered if the controller was still performing the certification or if she’d been discovered.

“Stem,” the Captain recited, and the Singer hoped her indecision didn’t show.

“Have you been to the source of the river?”

The response was the same, but the Singer had to guess at the inflection yet again. The source? The source of the Empire? The Capitol? The Emperor? Pride in confirmation or shame in denial? She settled on pride again.

“What’s it like to be filled with dread?” the controller droned.

Was the animosity in the controller’s voice her imagination?

“Dreadfully,” the Captain’s voice recited.

“What separates somebody from somebody else?” the controller demanded.

“Distinct,” the Captain replied. The Singer hoped her heartbeat wasn’t audible over the radio.

“What’s it like when someone gives you the silent treatment?” the controller taunted.

“Dark.” The Singer’s breath clouded in front of her. Every moment felt colder, and yet she felt sweat roll down the side of her face.

“Do you think you can protect people against the dark?”

“Against the dark.” It was getting difficult to read the poetry. Her hands shook, and her eyes refused to focus. Her knuckles felt stiff and cold.

So. Cold.

When her breath finally stopped fogging, and she could feel her fingertips again, she realized she hadn’t answered another question. In a moment of panic, she wondered if she’d blacked out. Of course, missing a response would be highly suspicious, but she could do nothing until the controller spoke again.

But the silence over the radio dragged onwards.

“Damn,” Achilles hissed. “Call down to the shuttle-“

“A blood black nothingness began to spin,” the controller’s voice cut through Achilles’ order, and a wave of relief passed over the control module. The recitation of the passage would be their only confirmation that they’d passed, and Achilles hastily hushed the module as cheers began to drown out the radio. “… And dreadfully distinct, against the dark, a tall white fountain played,” the controller finished.

Achilles nervously turned to the Singer, only she would know if this was a confirmation or damnation. But the Singer nodded, as her eyes drooped and she limply floated against the seat’s restraints.

“Proceed, Captain,” the previous controller said. “You will perform torch shutdown on final approach, one kilometer. You may light the torch again once you complete your transfer and confirm down-range clearance.”

“Confirmed, Hail the Emperor,” the communications officer replied hastily. Then, when the broadcast indicator on their workstation shut off, the command module erupted into cheers again.

The Singer did not join them, however. Her head pounded, and she was so damn cold. The book slipped from her stiffened fingers, and she idly examined the gooseflesh across her arms. A clawed hand on her shoulder managed to break the entrancement she had with the subtle patterns of her own arms.

“Are you alright?” Achilles said, low so only she could hear him over the dying cheers. “You’re cold, aren’t you?” he asked expectantly. When she nodded, he grunted, “Happened to him, too. Come on, you need to get warm.”

The Singer sighed, but ultimately he was correct. If this was hypothermia, mild or otherwise, she needed to get warm again. She fumbled with the seat’s straps as Achilles retook control of the command module even as he dug through a nearby first aid kit.

By the time she was free, he’d retrieved a reflective blanket and draped it over her as he pushed her toward the door.

“They’ll take care of the rest,” Achilles told her reassuringly. “You’ve done enough. Rest, because you have to do it again in two weeks.”

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

The storm shelter was so peaceful.

Despite the chill that had crept into the air while Eabha slept, with Karen’teh in the hammock – even though her fur was still slightly damp – they stayed warm. The white noise of the storm outside remained a calming drone.

But Eabha couldn’t sleep anymore. Her eyes had opened, and though she couldn’t see anything in the dark, she couldn’t seem to close them again. There was no rush of emotion or sensation that had prompted it. She was simply awake. And yet-

… y̵̞͍̿̊o̸̧̮̔͑ǘ̷͓̑ ̶̪̊a̴͈̒̽r̸̳̅̓ẹ̷̺̐̚ ̵̝͔͆̀l̸͖̹̃̾ő̷̫͝v̵̙́ḛ̶̎ḋ̵̹̽ …

Eabha sat up in the hammock, suddenly tense as goosebumps spread across her arms and legs. She stared out into the darkness, ears strained. There was only the storm, white noise, and thunder behind whatever served as the door to the shelter.

Karen’teh stirred, and the hammock rocked as the larger woman sat up as well.

“My Lady?” the Viribus asked. Eabha’s comprehension was still poor, but she could sense the concern in the giant’s voice.

“Someone else is here?” Eabha said, unsure. She thought she’d heard a voice, but it had been so faint. Perhaps she’d imagined it.

Karen’teh said something else, a question. Then something that sounded like a reassurance, but the only words Eabha recognized were “hear” and “inside.”

“No,” Eabha stuttered, though she couldn’t be sure what question she was denying.

… c̶̠̔o̵̟͝m̵͈͛e̴̩̿ ̵̯͗t̸̡͆ǒ̶͓ ̷̣͗ụ̵͆s̷͖̽ …

Eabha felt her skin crawl, and she turned her head in a futile attempt to figure out which direction the voice had come from. But no matter how she turned her head, the voice remained at the same volume. She felt ice in her spine as she realized that she didn’t hear the voice; it was in her head.

“My Lady?” Karen’teh asked, her concern growing sharp.

It was only when Karen’teh wrapped her arms around Eabha that she realized she had begun to panic, her breath fast and her heart like a drum in her chest.

“A … not-sound,” Eabha said, once again failed by her lack of vocabulary. “It is-“ she was about to try to explain that it was in her head, her hands drawn to her temples, but she realized that was wrong. Instead, her hands trailed down her head, and she traced the golden disk at the base of her skull.

It was cold, like ice.

… y̷o̸u̴ ̶w̵e̵r̶e̶ ̶m̶a̶d̸e̶ ̵f̵o̸r̴ ̷u̷s̸ …

The voice was clearer now. She could almost pick out the words. English of all things. But she wasn’t sure what it meant. If it wasn’t a sound, then it was somehow coming to her through the implants.

There was something there in that thought. Something important, but Eabha couldn’t remember what. It was like walking into a room and forgetting why she’d gone in there. She knew there was something there, but she couldn’t remember what.

… n̵̛̟̦͖̬̖̭͚̗͇̭̼̝̫͈̉̈́̏̾̑̑̒̈́͜͝͠ͅö̶̧͉̺̳͔̥̗͓̟̜̙́́͒̀͒͊̈́̎͝ͅļ̸͙̺͕̮̟̠͖͖͈̩̭̲̒̽̈̄́́͗̉́̐̇͋͗̈̈́̕̚͘͜͠͝͝͝ͅi̵̛̤̹͖͇͚̲̼̺̮̣̱͔̤̥̞̱̤̥̤̹͔̯̮̫͔̾̀̈́ͅ ̷͎̺͕̜̮͙͍̦̼̙͔̲͚́̈́͑̑̈́̇̓͠t̵̢̰͎̞̼͓̂́̋̉̓̏̈̅͛̓̎̇̄̽̌̓͗̓̚͘͜͝͠͝ͅî̴͚̬̤̟͚̲͆͂́̒͂͆͐̚m̸̨̛͖͚͍̳͈͔̦͇͕̳͍͙͎̗̭̰͙̤͇̞̞͎͈̯͈̠͖̝͐̈́̓͑̈́̑͗̈́̍͋̔̈́̀̽͗̈́̽̑͛͗̚̚͝ȩ̶̢̛̲̞̼͇͈̟̮̬͚̰̖̳̰͖͈͕͖̲̝̖͍̝̟̃̈̄͆̈́̃͑̋̚͜͠ͅr̴̛͖̜͖̠̲̫̜̖̍̈́̃͑̒̑̚͠͝ę̵̨̧͓͓͖͔̦͓͈̩̼̪̠̯̯͈͖̼̯̏̆͌̅̀̈͊̀̊͂͋̑.

Was it louder? Distorted? It wasn’t in her ears, but the words were so loud it felt like her eardrums would burst.

Karen’teh’s confusion was swiftly replaced by a tense concentration, a sound outside instead of the words. But before she could decide what to do, the entrance to the shelter shattered.

The storm roared into the tiny shelter, and Karen’teh clung tightly to Eabha as their hammock was buffeted by wind and rain and chunks of wood and debris. Eabha screamed, despite herself, as the hammock fell from its mounting and a root slammed into her tailbone.

The cacophony only grew in volume as the shelter continued to break apart around them. Eabha could hear the wood crack, split, shatter, and tear. The Metal bones of the shelter groaned and snapped, and the floor shuddered beneath them. Water sprayed across her, icy cold.

And in a flash of lightning from outside, she saw it.

The shelter hadn’t failed. It was an attack.

y̸̛͈̻̮̳ọ̴͍̫̅̈́̌u̶͔̘̿̄̈̕ ̸̫̮̠͐̒̔ẉ̶̘͠ǐ̸̥̂̒̀l̴̹̀͊͝l̷̢̗̘̠̀ ̶̢̞̍͌b̷̗͈̼̌e̴̼̖̾̑̄̕ ̴̢̊̊̊͝ơ̶̳̞̭͉̈́̕ư̷͇̠r̸̼̱͐ͅş̵͂͊̍͘͜

Its limbs were like twisted, gnarled branches – they split and bent, elbows and shoulders and knuckles in no apparent order. It had no body, only a tangle where too many limbs met many others. It was like watching a nervous system, separated from a body, pull a mountain apart.

In the scattered thunder and lightning of the storm, she watched its divaricated limbs wrap around an ancient spar and heave it into the hurricane behind it. Metal thicker than Eabha was tall, tossed aside like a toddler with toys.

It was nothing like the garden snake. It was a monster.

And it reached for her. A hand like snaking branches of slime mold, its knuckles and elbows scraped against the boughs and roots and left deep gouges in the wood. Thankfully, its branching limbs made it harder for the thing to reach in. A finger or an entire branch of fingers would catch on a root or vine that halted its progress – if only briefly before it tore away the offending greenery.

Karen’teh scrambled away from its reaching limb, arms clutched around Eabha protectively. But Eabha could feel the panic in her protector’s chest, the drum of her heart, and the off-beat of her breath.

It would kill them. It was inevitable, and briefly, Eabha wondered why she was so afraid. Yes, Karen’teh would die, which would be tragic. But Eabha would wake up again in the giant pyramid, right by Mason’s side.

Didn’t she want that?

But no amount of calm pragmatism would still the fear in her heart or the shaking of her hands as she clung to Karen’teh. And something, deep in her, didn’t believe she would wake up again.

C̶̡̜̐͛o̴̞̱̦͓̒̏͠m̴̢̋͒͘ͅë̸̪͊͝ ̵͕͓͗̃̚͜t̶̜̿̾ŏ̶͍̼̏̆ ̶̠̱͆̽̓͑u̷̺̔̓s̸̫͚̥̈́̑͋̋.̸̭̹̅͛ …

The voice was as loud as it had ever been, though no less understandable. And Eabha realized that it was this thing, speaking to her in her mind and desperate to reach her. It was the source of the voice.

Y̴̩͌ǫ̶̡̟̽͜u̴͉͔͗̃̇͂ ̵̟̤̀̀͝w̷̧̦͔͐̌̄͝i̶̺̭̋̅̎̕ļ̵̗͖̼͆l̴͙̖̑̃̂ ̸̥̱̻̲̽̑̚͠b̵̢̗͔̟̎é̵̫̪̀̏͐ͅ ̵̤̲̫̭̈̇͠o̶̗͇̬̱͊̕ȗ̸̧̗̼̾r̸̨̘̟̝͐̎̐̔s̷̜̟̺̕,̶̺̊ ̸̙͈͔̺̎̉̐̕̕͝a̸̫̒͠ņ̶͕͚̲̬̙͈͉͂̾̃̃̿d̸̟̱͙͙̫̰͖̥̓ ̴͕̘̾̑̈́w̵̢̡̜̩̺̓̄͆̾̔̃̈́͘͜e̴̛̜̹̘̹̘̳̿̈́͋̈́͋͠͠ ̷̦̹̞̮̄̈́͜ͅw̶̘̟͈̗̞̹̱͛i̴̦̣͈̼̮͗̽̒̓͆̿͘͝͠ͅl̷̢̟̭͍̪̃̆l̵͙̻̻̬̍͌̏̑ ̷͙̻̆̃̀b̶̨̒̄̃̃̄̚͝ë̸̢̨̙͍̘̼͚̖̅͊́̈̑̕ ̸̗͕̩̒̽̈́͋͌̅͘͝y̶͙̟͆̋̂͠ȍ̴̼̝̹͙̣̬̆̅͊ṷ̴̃̂͠r̶̛̻͕͔̒͘s̴̼̎͋̈́̊.̸̨̠͎̙͕̝͖̜̏̚

There was nowhere for them to run. Karen’teh had reached the deepest point of the shelter – a crevice between two massive trunks barely big enough for the giant woman to squeeze into. The Viribus curled around Eabha, a final and desperate attempt to protect the smaller Human.

Karen’teh sobbed into Eabha’s ear, and Eabha’s heart ached in her chest at the sound.

The thing’s hand was close now, and in a flash of lightning, the silvery branches of its utterly alien body burned into her retinas. A perfect Human hand stood out to her, reaching out to Eabha. It, too, was made from twisted, gnarled silver.

Eabha clutched to Karen’teh and emptied her lungs into a single, fearful, defiant scream. It wasn’t even a word, but she put every ounce of terror and grief and anger that she’d felt from the moment she’d stepped out of the Temple into her voice. The scream tore at her throat and ached in her diaphragm.

The reaching hand hesitated, and she could feel a spike of ice pressed into her brain.

But now, the dams were broken. So why suppress what she’d felt all along when Eabha would die in only a moment? Why try to act like the strong one when even Karen’teh, kind and strong and patient and everything Eabha had hoped she could be for Mason, was also crying?

Eabha screamed again. All her frustration and dissatisfaction compressed into a sobbing wail.

She’d tried, she tried so hard, and she’d still failed. It wasn’t fair, and it wasn’t right. She hated that she’d failed, hated herself for not being enough for Mason. She hated Karen’teh too because, in just the short time Eabha had known the strange woman, Eabha could tell she was better than her. But, most of all, she hated this thing for taking away any chance Eabha had of making it right again.

She screamed, and she kept screaming until her voice was so hoarse she couldn’t hear it over the wind and the rain.

But when she was finally done screaming, there was only the wind and the rain. No crushing, tearing pain as the monster tore them apart.

Karen’teh uncurled, just enough to glance back over her shoulder at the ruined shelter.

A lightning ripple across the sky revealed that the silver monster was still there, frozen in place. But its blind probing motions had halted. It was perfectly still. As they watched, its tangled body tilted away from them. Its grasping fingers and tendrils, still frozen, tore out wood and scraped against steel. Its reaching arm lifted away, digging and tearing at the vines and branches above them.

Like a felled tree, the monster leaned away from them. More wood shattered in its rigor mortis grip, and it slid away from the entrance. Its reaching branched limb didn’t snap. But it pulled and pulled and ripped free.

And then it was gone, fallen from the hole it had created. A moment later, the wind calmed enough that they heard a crash as it fell to the ground far below.

Karen’teh let out a shuddering breath, and her fearful sobs came to a halt. And then she laughed, a kind of hysterical, relieved laugh that still came with tears. A pair of Karen’teh’s shaking hands cupped Eabha’s face, and the larger woman pressed her forehead against Eabha’s.

“Thank you,” she said through stuttering breaths. “Thank you.”

Eabha stared blankly, the dark and Karen’teh’s face all she could see. Why was Karen’teh thanking her? Had she done something?

“Thank you.”

Eabha struggled to keep her eyes open. What was Karen’teh saying? Why did she feel so tired?

“Thank you.”

She couldn’t stop shivering, and her eyelids were so heavy.

Karen’teh’s embrace was so warm.

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

“Did you see that?!” a scientist hissed, his back the only support for the tarp that protected their electronics from the driving rain.

“Biggest spike yet,” another agreed distractedly as he carefully recorded the readings.

“Did we get a direction?” someone asked. It was hard to tell who’d asked in the gloom.

“Nah, the second antenna is fucked,” one of the engineers grunted.

“It’s early, don’t you think? I thought the eye didn’t rise for another thirteen hours?”

“We shouldn’t assume that because it’s followed a pattern before, it will continue to do so. We don’t know enough yet,” the scientist groused as he struggled to record the reading and hold the tarp up at the same time.

“We can at least predict the weather,” the Seargent, their reluctant guide outside the walls, said. “There’s a gap in the storm coming in an hour. So we’ll tear down the equipment, see what we can do about antenna two, and move toward the next checkpoint. I’d rather be closer to the Viribus village than not.”

“Yeah, then someone will be able to hear us die,” the engineer grumbled as he began to disassemble the listening device.

“The Viribus won’t deny us if we ask for shelter,” Tarpeia grunted as she hefted the tarp her own back supported. “But we have to ask, and we have to follow their rules. They won’t send a search party for us, and we don’t want to draw something to their village.”

“What attracts those things again?” someone asked, their nervousness evident even in the dark.

“Radio, light, repetitive noises, talking,” the Seargent growled.

The discussion ended there, and they concentrated on their respective duties.