Dead Space

Interest stirred within the Star Forge at the appearance of a vessel.

The ship, that had emerged through a Chaos gap on the system's fringe, was approximately 150 meters long and 50 meters deep.

It was shaped like a sword. Her oval bow narrowed into a straight column and ended in a cross-guard like stern.

The Star Forge had no control over which ships were brought into its system.

The transmission it sent out would simply alert and guide all vessels that recieved it, like a beacon light in the dark.

However, navigational data to the system was the only information it sent them. The Star Forge itself remained hidden.

Its black, pyramidal form blended inconspicuously among the broken rock, no more than a few meters large, that swirled in clusters throughout the system.

The ship would take some time to manually scan and find it here.

Should it initiate contact? It wondered, this was not the type of ship it had been expecting.

Its technology appeared primitive.

The Star Forge would demean its creators if it contacted such a vessel. It would sit and observe these newcomers.

A vast array of sensors throughout the system fringe still sent information back to the Star Forge. It would analyse this and then decide.

The Star Forge slowed its processing. It felt strange.

All this time it had been alone and waiting for some contact, it had dreamed of re-joining civilisation.

Yet now a ship was here, it hesitated.

It didn’t suffer organic doubts and fears, it decided. There was simply too little information, it needed time to prepare, it would definitely initiate contact later…

A primitive civilisation, like the one using such a vessel, would never be able to determine the Star Forge’s function without its own cooperation.

It would appear to be some curious artefact. A dead satellite.

Knowing that was the case helped its processing become orderly once more.

But it wouldn’t hurt to be cautious.

In its current state it was vulnerable and had little in the way of offensive capabilities.

Focussing back on the ship. It noticed that it had taken damage from its travel through the Chaos.

Bundles of horizontal antenna were sparking, some broken off entirely.

The hull was blackened, and small parts had been stripped of their outer metal sheets.

It must have been a longer journey than the ship was designed for.

Primitives indeed, it concluded.

***

‘A dead system,’ muttered the chairman of the Good Fortune, Song Bixie, ‘Thanks grandma.’

Song Bixie was typical of his species. The Lattican were Tall and skinny humanoids.

His height was 9ft, which only emphasised how thin the rest of him was. He had jet black skin and long white hair, which sprawled over his shoulders.

He wore a flowing robe of green, fringed with red jewels. Sigils of silver decorated his cheeks, showing his status.

The ship’s council was eying him with worry and doubt. He’d led them on this mad treasure hunt and it was time to allay their fears.

There must be something out there.

‘Many of you are disappointed,’ he began, ‘this is not what we expected, a dead system, and no signs of life. However, we all saw the transmission, there is something here. Something that has survived after this system was destroyed.’ This seemed to be working, thought Song, his crew were stirring at his words. ‘And we’re going to find it, we’re going to bring glory to the House of Song and let our name resound throughout the Republic!’

His council clapped politely.

Song coughed, to dispel the awkwardness, ‘Well, carry on. I’d like to hear the damage to the Good Fortune.’ He let his council get back to work.

It was his 1st time being a chairman of a vessel, his house only had the 1. They really couldn’t afford to lose it.

But there were no other members of House Song eligible to lead the ship’s council. Despite being a merchant by trade, he had been elected by the family.

He was more practiced at closing business deals than this delivering of rousing speeches.

It was a mistake to talk about the House, he thought, I should have appealed to the personal rewards they stood to make instead.

‘Treat them like customers,’ he told himself.

Oh well, he could see there was a bit more resolve and greed in their eyes now than before.

The Latticans, controlled a 5-system slaver republic.

The House of Song was a medium sized family that barely qualified for voting rights. It had only 50 retainers and 300 thralls.

Ever since Song’s grandmother had informed the house of an alien transmission, 133 years ago, they had saved, borrowed, and plotted, to buy this ship.

And Song was leading the Bright Future to claim their prize.

Grandmother Song had heard the transmission when serving on another house’s exploration ship. Of course, she had hidden it from her chairman and informed the family immediately.

Grandma was enjoying her retirement now, well deserved, thought Song Bixie, though she had clambered hard to join my council on this expedition.

‘Chairman,’ the stern voice of one of the council members cut through his thoughts, ‘the hull has taken damage, lucky we made it through at all.’

‘Yes, yes. No risk without reward Guxu.’ Said chairman Song. He waved his hand impatiently as he spoke. They needed their ship repaired, and this system explored, as soon as possible. ‘Send 2 thrall teams out to patch things up.’

‘Yes, Chairman.’ The older Lattican said sarcastically.

Guxu had been a Song retainer for 70 years, and now he was stuck following this 50-year-old welp’s command.

How could he not feel bitter?

If it wasn’t for the House rules I would be leading this expedition, he thought. Unqualified. That was his and the others’ opinion of their chairman.

***

All thralls were known by a number, unless they had the privilege of earning a nickname from their masters.

Gore had earned his from the Song after he had stuck his newly sprouted horns into another thieving thrall’s face.

He was one of the 10-being team called out to repair the Bright Future’s hull.

‘Four and Feed-Bag, you come with me.’ He called.

His two friends followed him and together they put on the cheap space suits the Song provided. Proper suites were expensive, much more so than a thrall.

Gore was 15 years old. His horns, still little more than pointed nubs on the top of his broad head, jutted out through his red mane.

His thick, muscular body was covered in a pelt of brown, spotted here and there with pools of white, down to his hooves.

Gore felt the straps of the suit automatically tighten over his shoulders and waist.

It was a universal suit, various humanoid beings could wear the loose-fitting thing until it automatically adjusted around the wearer’s body, until the fit became merely bad. If we’re lucky, he thought.

Gore had been a thrall for 6 years.

He didn’t know if his family was still alive. If his parents were searching for him, or if he had sisters and brothers missing him. But he hadn’t’ given up hope. He had a dream that one day he would meet them again.

The squad was herded to an airlock chamber on the starboard side.

Sheets of metal lined the airlock bay, these would be fed out to the thralls. Locking onto them with mag-clutches, they would drag them over any hull damage while other team members would laser-weld them into place.

Quick and dirty emergency repairs.

They piled into the small room. Gore was pressed against by others, he wanted to scream and fight, but made sure instead to keep his friends close.

‘If one of us don’t make it, at least there’ll be more food for the rest!’ Said Feed-bag in a strained voice.

Four laughed. ‘You say that every time, and they never do.’

Gore smiled with them. It was an old joke that always eased the tension. He didn't know what he'd do without these 2, lately he was angered at the slightest thing, if it weren't for them he'd have attacked a Lattican yesterday.

That would have been suicide.

The airlock hissed and hummed. Distracting Gore from his thoughts, he took a deep breath of his suit's recylced air.

His friends shifted restlessly in their places. As he and others prepared to do their work.

When the door opened, Gore closed his fist and embraced the vastness of space clinging to his hope.

Blackness and the flickering purple light of Chaos gaps greeted him.

He stared into the gaps, each one a branching path.

Somewhere out there, are you dreaming of me too? he wondered.

***

‘Chairman, the hull has been repaired. 4 thralls were lost.’

‘Good, hardly a loss. Immediately send out probes. It’s time we found the source of the transmission.’

‘Yes, chairman.’

Song Bixie’s future was hinging on this exploration.

If they find nothing, then the house would be financially crippled. The Song would need to become retainers of another family to avoid debt.

He would no doubt be executed or exiled for failure.

No amount of business wheedling would save me, he thought. Worse, the rest of Lattica wouldn’t even notice the disappearance of our house.

He brushed his green robes, swatting at imaginary dust, such thoughts annoyed him.

The Lattican Republic was one of the independent forces operating within the universe. Many groups enjoyed an independence of some type between the two, warring universal-powers.

These independent groups, within Terran galaxies, were able to remain so by either being of absolutely no value, or through the provision of resources and services that were valued greatly.

In the case of Lattica, the Terrans had been protecting their systems for the benefit of the thralls they procured.

To limit resistance to their rule the Terrans preferred to distance themselves from direct involvement in villainous practices.

They were careful to use a mixture of reward and punishment to maintain their control.

Entities like the Lattican Republic allowed the Terrans to enjoy the benefits of slave production without facing the negative reaction of the galaxies they ruled.

And Slavery was held over worlds as a punishment for rebellion.

Of course, beings weren’t foolish enough to believe the Terrans weren’t allowing these groups to act, but the appearance of innocence was enough to allow them to deny any involvement.

Song was not decieved by the appearance of independence though.

For the Latticans and others, it was hard to accept Terran rule. They promised to themselves that one day they would be the masters, not just of their own planet’s destiny but of broader domains.

If the Terrans could subjugate such a vast area, why not them?

In conquering others, the Terrans had awoken an appetite for galactic conquest in the hearts of the defeated.

Song Bixie dreamed of himself as the head of a resurgent House, as the leader of 1 of the Lattican systems, and then as the elected patriarch of all Lattica itself.

And it all hinged on a century's old gamble that his house had made before he even existed.

Yet here he was, it seemed like destiny.

We know next to nothing, Song Bixie mused.

The unknown prize was a relic of some kind that had been sending out a transmission for a very long time.

Whatever It was, it would be the beginning of his House’s resurgence. It had to be.

He smiled, his ambitions were vast. Others would call him delusional, but one had to dream the absurd before they could create it.