NOVEL NEXT B3 Chapter 4
Angar hovered within the ancient, desolate expanse.
Dust motes thick as nebula shrouds hung in eternal suspension, illuminated by an odd, sourceless light that cast long, impossible shadows.
The floor was a cracked mosaic of strange, dark, star-flecked marble, etched with impossible runes that pulsed dimly, echoes of eternity rustling with secrets of primordial pacts between ancient entities.
Towering arches of weathered bone and rusted metals hung overhead, supporting a vaulted ceiling lost in hazy infinity, where spectral cobwebs of noxious residue draped like funeral shrouds.
If it could be called air, whatever it was, thrummed with latent power, bogged down with the scent of antiquity and decay, of a haunted plane abandoned by undying horrors.
Doors and portals yawned everywhere, an endless labyrinth of entryways framing vistas of madness.
Some were ornate gateways of gold and ivory, cracked and dust-choked, leading to swirling vortices of crimson chaos.
Others were jagged rifts in the walls, cracks oozing ethereal mist, archways of living flame, doors of black bone that beckoned, and more.
All portals to the unknown.
It was utterly empty. No presence had disturbed this place in ages. And it certainly wasn't a Gray creation. This plane seemed to be forged by giants the size of the grandest buildings.
There was only a profound and oppressive silence, broken only by distant creaks, and the ethereal groan of portals straining against their frames.
This was a forbidden place, an inviolable sanctum sanctorum, not for the likes of him. He knew it, somehow, right down to his bone, just as he knew a portal here led to the temporal realm, the infernal abyss, the fugue realm, the shadow realm, Stred, and the Mindscape.
He somehow knew the fugue as that insidious sub-plane where Azgoth had hid within upon Albion.
The shadow realm as the monochrome void wherein the arch-druden dwelt, a liminal wedge between the Underworld's depths and the temporal plane.
The Stred as the ethereal domain to which the Phasorax had once borne him.
He felt his essence dissolving. He rushed to the portal he couldn't yet see, to the Mindscape, but dissipated long before he could lay eyes on it, let alone reach it.
Suddenly, reality clawed him back with savage abruptness, hurling his consciousness into the sweat-drenched confines of his quarters aboard the Zephuros.
His body convulsed, muscles seizing as if scourged by invisible lashes, the echoes of that dissolution still eating at his essence.
Fresh scabs split anew on his forearms, while his cybernetic legs ground in protest, and both his opticals rebooted.
Klaxons wailed through the bulkheads like the shrieks of damned souls, summoning the crew to battle stations.
Angar had no assigned post. His earpiece crackled as he listened for Deli's commands, but only static answered.
He hauled himself upright, his chest weighed down with guilt.
The forbidden hub, with its portals leading to the unknown, had his intrusion rippled through the ether, drawing unseen predators?
He prayed this was an Old Guard attack, unrelated to the sanctum he had profaned.
He could somewhat command a fighter now. He lurched into the deserted passageways, the ship's growling innards vibrating through his metal feet.
Shadows clung to the corridors like accusations, and he half-expected dark whispers to slither from the vents as he made his way through the Zephuros.
The fighter bay hissed open before him, the cavernous hangar exposed to the stark void beyond. No radiant cocoon of warped spacetime enveloped them, meaning the Alcubierre bubble was down, revealing only the cold pinpricks of stars against unending black.
Eight sleek new fighters filled the bay now, their hulls etched with wards and seals against the unholy, four inverted and mag-clamped to the overhead beside the battered old shuttle.
Stolen story; please report.
Stek and Iyita were already strapped into their cockpits, systems blazing with restrained fury.
Angar made for an empty craft, but before he reached it, Deli's voice grated over the all-comm channel, "Stand down, all hands. Technici, scour the propulsorium and drive core for the blight that cast us from the Lumenstream."
Angar froze, certainty hardening in his gut. His trespass in that ancient nexus? It had to be the cause, some backlash ripping them from the guided path.
Meaning three or four days were added to their voyage, at a minimum. Once the Alcubierre bubble wrapped the ship once again, the Technovex priests manning Lumen Anchors would need to reestablish their tethers, chanting rites to bend the Lumenstream's currents anew.
Without their guidance, ships plodded at a cripple's pace of ten to a hundred light-years per day. With them, the blessed flow carried vessels at three hundred to eight hundred, the only sane way to travel between arms.
If this was his fault, further explorations of the hub he'd found during the voyage would be very unwise.
As Hidetada had shunned him as of late, only sending him slates of ancient readings or demands for reports, he'd confide in Thryna. She wasn't in the Smallest Spark Knightly Chapter, but he was sure informing her was informing Hidetada.
Maybe the Saint would finally directly communicate, giving Angar a better chance to demand his Tier 3 gear.
As he retraced his steps toward his quarters, Simo dallying in the galley caught his eye, the only other crewman without a role during space combat.
The veteran hunched in the narrow aisle between cold-storage, cooker, and sink, gnawing at a lumpy mass of paste that reeked of rotten eggs, his weathered face contorted in revulsion.
"By the Three's mercy," Simo spat, forcing down a swallow with a shudder. "This filth is disgusting."
He set the offending glob on the counter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then straightened at Angar's approach. "Apologies, Sir. Any word on what hurled us from the Lumenstream?"
"Nothing beyond Deli's all-comm message," Angar stated. "What's that you're eating?"
Simo's grin was grim, a soldier's gallows humor. "You ought to try a bite, Sir. It hails from your own world. Some crud harvested from colossal insects there. Jon was told to be on the lookout for items that could be sold to rich folk. Harc is certain little canisters of this vile swill can fetch five, six hundred credits among the elite. Pure insanity. It's inedible."
Angar knew many of the giant insects of Tribute, both scourge and sustenance, but none with edible secretions came to mind.
Curiosity prompted him to pinch off a morsel. He thrust it into his mouth, the substance yielding with a foul squelch.
The assault was immediate, overwhelming, and far too intense. It was a rancid torrent, bitter as bile and sharp as acid, flooding his senses, summoning a deluge of saliva and a gag, his enhanced palate amplifying the horror.
His face contorted despite his iron will, forced to crush the urge to expel the revolting substance. With a grunt, he swallowed, denying himself even a sip from the sink's faucet to purge the lingering venom, as Simo hadn't.
As Angar wrestled his features into a mask of stoic indifference, ignoring the foul aftertaste that clung to his tongue, he watched as Simo's grin split his weathered face like a crack in rusted armor.
Angar was glad to see it. Since he'd been collected from Tribute, Simo had somewhat been avoiding him. Angar thought he knew why, but couldn't raise the courage to breach the topic, and place his only real friendship at risk.
Through the galley's viewports, he caught sight of Garioch and Iyita striding down the passageway, their forms silhouetted against the lumen strips.
The pair seemed deep in conversation, probably about the Lumenstream disruption, Garioch's raspy voice carrying through the passage.
A curse boiled in his mind, unspoken, but still as fetid and bitter as the taste corroding his mouth.
The galley, the only ship compartment with inner viewports, betrayed them in turn, and the pair spotted the occupants and veered their path, crowding into the cramped space designed for a solitary occupant.
"Any word on what cast us from the Lumenstream?" Iyita inquired in her silken voice, her presence pressing against Angar's senses like heat.
At least she wore her gubernator's armor, and her flight suit under it was a cut made for males, far preferable than her evening vestments that clung like sin to her form, stirring tempests he'd rather not need to quell.
"Nothing but Deli's all-comm message," Simo replied, his tone filled with the same type of fatherly authority it always was when he spoke to Iyita. "Same as everyone else got."
Saint Garioch emitted a loud and raspy grunt, like a drive core straining. "They banished me from the machimotarium, though I'd wager my hands could discern the fault knocking this ship from her Alcubierre bubble."
The ex-United Front's knowledge of engines and arcane machineries was a forge-tempered truth, making his exclusion peculiar, pointing more to an engine issue they'd want kept from a non-crewman guest.
Angar's suspicions loosened, now questioning if his jaunt to the forbidden plane of consciousness had been responsible.
If the technici turned up no mechanical answer, without Angar returning to the plane as a test, the truth couldn't be known. And that was a bad idea, especially while traveling through the void between arms. He wanted to arrive at Abyssalhome as fast as possible.
"Is Harc's training still on?" Iyita asked, her emerald gaze lingering on Angar like a brand. "The class on breaching?"
"No notion," Simo answered, shrugging.
A smile bloomed on her lips then, radiant as a false dawn, sending unwelcome flutters through Angar's gut, butterflies of base desire chipping away at his iron resolve. "We've four here. Fancy a hand of scopa, boys?" she asked.
Angar recoiled inwardly. Before Simo or Garioch could voice assent, he interjected. "I had hoped to train with Garioch before Harc's instruction."
Iyita's expression soured as Angar prayed the Saint went along with the abrupt schedule change without comment.
Simo chuckled. "I'll deal with you, Iyita, either scopa or parchisi, but on friendly terms alone, with no credit wagers. I've tasted defeat at your hands enough to learn that lesson. Veerta will murder me if I lose much more."
Her frown lingered, deepening as she turned to Simo. "Want to spar alongside Saint Garioch and Sir Angar, then?"
Angar cut in swiftly. "Impossible. Both our Abilities are area effects that demand the studio's full expanse, unshared."
Iyita's pout etched deeper.