CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Time's crawl had congealed into a monotonous sludge. Reaching the core of the Golgotha was a test in itself, leaving the Lords to stew in a concoction of anxiety and foreboding. Mechanical arms mauled through the layers of molten rock, dragging the tower toward the mantle of the planet. Their descent showed no sign of abatement, and the rhythmic clang of machinery grew so maddening that Soran hummed a low note in his head to drown it out. At first, he was surprised that the pirates were not in higher spirits, expecting an atmosphere of celebration. After all, the only thing that stood between them and their goal was around another thousand kilometers of abyss. All they had was time. However, the mood on the platform remained stoically contemplative. Volka and Khan appeared to be engaged in what most closely resembled meditation; a final ritual or rite they were obliged to perform in preparation for what was to come.

Maldreska was indulging in her most cherished of pastimes, herself. She had spent the last hour or so preening the frills of her many collars and was now reapplying layers of make-up to an already over-ornamented face. Bedizening was the hallmark of her persona. Failing to appear immaculate at all times, would likely result in multiple crew members facing the guillotine -- her preferred method of capital punishment --.

Noctei and Neraka sat opposite one another, locked in a fierce stare with neither one about to back down. Each woman harbored a resentment that had long since boiled over. This silent contest of wills was the only acceptable form of conflict whilst under the watchful gaze of the Cybel. A wide berth was kept by the other Lords, knowing the extent of the animosity between the two women and being smart enough to steer clear.

Malig and Kaligan had remained uncharacteristically quiet, both adrift in a mire of introspection. An air of hesitation hung over them like a stubborn cloud of doubt. Volka had indeed produced the miracles he had promised, that fact was undeniable. The fall of the entire naval armada. The murder of the galactic government and re-appropriation of the Naval HQ. Even the retrieval of Atlazar and the flagship Galneus had come to pass. Despite the unfortunate condition of the two objects, they were still tangible items, physical incarnations of myth. Deep down the men knew that their journey had not yet come to an end, the last hurdle being the most difficult to overcome. The Golgotha didn't rise to the surface on its own, its ascent was activated from below. They were trespassing in a house where the owner was not only home, he was waiting.

One thing had become abundantly clear to Soran. The Pirate-Lords were no tightly knit unit. There was no clear or cohesive motivation for their cooperation outside of the promise of eternal paradise. Were that to be removed from the picture, less than a heartbeat would pass before they had torn each other apart. Defeating them as a team -- or even as individuals for that matter -- was an impossibility, but this chink in their otherwise impenetrable armor was real, a flaw he could exploit. Bound at the wrists and with his only companion still deep in the throws of radiation sickness, there was nothing to do but wait.

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A trickle of sweat streamed down Soran’s face, stirring him from his transitory daze. His extremities prickled as the slowly creeping temperature finally breached what could only be described as sweltering. Each Lord had shed their outer-wear. Their breathing was noticeably deeper, chests heaving in the low oxygen environment. Maldreska was fanning herself with an elaborate silken frond, trying to maintain the meticulously calculated curls she had crafted, exacerbated at the inhumane conditions being imposed upon her.

With an abrupt crash, the platform ceased its descent, casting the standing Lords into disarray. Exhausted pistons hissed a scalding breath of relief as the mechanical arms retracted into the machine's interior. Without even so much as a signal, the seven Lords drew their weapons, pointing them directly into the shadow cloaked stairwell that unfolded beneath them. A monster lurked in this boiling darkness and viewing the world through the sight of a gun painted everything with a threatening outline. With a golden plasma revolver in each hand, Volka summoned the courage to step forward into the perpetual night. He was followed eagerly by his brother who had an impressive-looking cannon mounted on his right shoulder, its weight impossible for an unaltered human to lift. Soran watched the colossal android in terror, his branch-like fingers uncomfortably close to a trigger capable of untold annihilation. Each Lord hesitantly approached the immense stairway to the planet's core with only the echoes of their feet saving them from deafening silence.

Flecks of crimson twinkled in the dark. The black obsidian peeled away to reveal a bright red crystal beneath. It pulsated gently, giving them momentary vision to assist in the perilous descent. Bathed in ruby light, Soran fell victim to an uncontrollable panic reflex. His eyes darted around, looking for the nearest exit. Instead of a signal to flee, the light was beckoning them closer, growing more vivid and complete with every mountainous slab of rock they conquered. Hurling themselves from the final step, the nine pilgrims were fully illuminated, confronted with the arcs of three gigantic doors.

All this for three prisoners?

Despite mercilessly pestering Lanic and the other station staff, answers regarding the Golgotha were never quite sufficient enough to quell his wild imaginings. Two smaller -- yet no less intimidating -- doors framed a central reinforced gate, naval commandments inscribed into its surface. Golden lettering gleamed with glorious purpose. The door was a single piece of metal. No keys, ciphers, or bolts to gain access, only opening to individuals that held the rank of Admiral.

Volka signaled toward the obstacle and his brother stepped forward. Khan flicked open several hazardously labeled latches on his weapon. Bypassing the security warnings, he engaged the ignition and the cannon began to charge. A series of low hums escalated in pitch and tempo until a whirring static filled the air. Vibrations coursed through the android's body, shaking the earth beneath him until finally, the weapon cried a most terrible roar. A blade of light was sent hurtling from the wide slit of the gun's barrel. The screaming hiss of molten metal wailed out as the concentrated beam of plasma collided with the surface of the door. The volatility of the collision caused an array of chromatic sparks to belch forth in a prismatic explosion. Khan's knees buckled under the immense pressure, his massive shoulders surging forward to compensate for the kickback. Scalding jets of steam cascaded from the rear of the weapon and the beam of light petered out into crackling shards before burning away into nothing. An awed reaction was shared between the Lords at the might of the Cybel weaponry. Globs of molten steel dripped like shimmering rain onto the ground below, scorching the earth as they rolled through the black sand.

Unfazed by the display, Volka turned to address his flock, not a shred of surprise invading his expression.

“Beyond this door lies our future. The final era will be ushered in by the actions we brave few have taken today. Brothers and sisters, I offer you this one final chance to retreat. We are embarking on a path from which we cannot turn. All those that follow into this chamber, do so with that knowledge at the forefront of your mind and prepare to receive the ultimate gift. Life, eternal.” Volka’s words cut through the Lords like a divine blade. Infallible conviction drenched his speech in an ichor so intoxicating that none could resist its allure. Years of fabled promise came to fruition as each man and woman took their final steps as mortals, entering the blinding white light of the Golgotha’s innermost sanctum.

A sophisticated assortment of machinery clung to the frame of the dome-shaped enclosure, the blunted thrum of monitoring stations ending the silence of the stairwell. Burrowing their way through the floor plating and wall panels -- interlaced with golden nano-fiber -- was a highway of perfectly threaded cabling, artificial veins of a sprawling, intricate network. The expanse of the dome was impressive and for the most part utterly empty. Lakes of liquid magma churned endlessly below their feet, siphoned by harvesting rods, and converted into energy for the facility's central core.

Despite the myriad of flashing Holo-screens, all eyes were transfixed by the cylindrical tank built into the rear wall. The glass-fronted coffin soared almost to the ceiling of the dome, flanked by a pair of huge alabaster wheels. Every cord in the room seemed to culminate in the innumerable input sockets that poked from the tank's brushed steel exterior. This was an ancient place, built to be self-sustaining, requiring minimal maintenance from the would-be Admirals and Captains.

A sand-like substance filled the tank, motionless from decades of remaining undisturbed. Grains of mottled brown and ivory pushed firmly against the glass screen, secreting whatever lay buried inside. Soran had never even heard of an inmate being suspended in sand, Cryonic suspension the more common method for those individuals deemed too dangerous for standard incarceration. The thought made him shudder and avert his gaze. Volka, stricken by the gravity of his situation, gripped tightly on his brother's shoulder. Their mission was finally complete.

Kaligan once again kneeled before Volka, opening up his chest plate to retrieve the keystones. He hoisted them over his bowed head as a demonstration of his loyalty.

“This will not go unrewarded Samael.” Volka rested his palm on Kaligan’s skull as he spoke. The Cybel knew their work would have been impossible without the assistance of the other Lords. Volka never missed an opportunity to praise their successes with as much vigor as he administered punishments for failure. With all twelve keystones in his possession, their true grandeur could be demonstrated. Laying them on the ground with great care, he selected matching individuals, pressing them together. Their faceted cube extrusions slotted perfectly together with a satisfying click. After the careful assembly was completed Volka’s movement ceased. Anticipation had forged a charged atmosphere under the dome. Volka turned and presented his fellow Lords with a shimmering metallic ring. A crown.

“Where is it Samael?” Volka questioned in an accusatory tone. The crown was incomplete, missing the rear keystone that would complete the loop.

“My Lord Volka, those are all of the keystones that were retrieved, I swear it,” Kaligan replied, visibly panicked. He began to doubt himself. Had he lost one of the keystones? They had never been out of his sight, not even for a second. Never had they been so much as touched by another… Before he could finish his thought he saw the other Lords panning their gaze to the entrance, eyes wide with discovery. They were looking at Soran. His hand was held high, the final keystone gripped between his battered, bloody fingers. The boy wore a conquers smile; it alone was enough to mortally wound the pirate's pride. Bested by a child, the most fearsome individuals to ever sail the stars at the mercy of a boy who took his first steps into the cosmos mere weeks ago. Their weapons immediately rose, setting upon their target with lethal intent. A loud whistle pulled their attention to Volka, casually motioning them to lower their guns. He placed the crown gently at his feet and began to clap.

“His interest in you always puzzled me. I couldn't quite see your potential, until now.” He started to walk toward Soran. No trepidation could be found in his face and confidence was evident in his gait. The boy was taken back by Volka's lack of apprehension. He griped the keystone tight in his hands, its sharp edges reopening fresh wounds. He closed his eyes and focused, infusing his will into the object, trying to summon what before came without effort. The distinct heaviness that accompanied the interaction was absent. In fact, there was nothing. All he could feel was the heat bubbling up from the planet's core, fear-laced sweat swamping his brow and back. He opened his eyes and saw Volka’s staring back. Abyssal orbs of malevolence that brought the gravity the keystone had failed to produce. Volka held out his hand palm up, the letter T carved deep into the Nanomaterial.

“That won’t work. Not here.” He eyed the dome that surrounded them. “Our Naval friends happen to have some expertise where the keystones are concerned. As you are well aware, they contain a kind of power. A power that you have so kindly demonstrated on several occasions. Such abilities could be devastating in the wrong hands.” Volka chuckled and a nervous, unified cackle masked the relief of the pirates. None of them had been privy to the domes negating properties and thoroughly expected to be crushed by the latent abilities of their young enemy.

That was everything I had.

Soran had used his trump card. His foolproof plan to stop the pirates and save his friends; to save everyone. He had failed. Unable to stop himself, trembling fingers handed over the final keystone and he dropped to the floor, his legs unable to handle the weight of such defeat.

Volka slotted the final keystone into place. With a metallic snap, the crown was complete. This act brought with it no great fanfare, but the importance of the artifact needed no such thing.

“A crown is nothing without its King,” Volka remarked. Khan and Kaligan approached the giant wheels that were affixed to either side of the tank. Both grasped the thorny ivory spokes and, exerting all the force they could muster, began to turn. The grinding of archaic mechanisms shed thick layers of rust as ancient chain links clawed against the walls of the dome. An involuntary wince was shared by all present. The faucet poking from the very base of the tank began to spew sand into a small portal in the ground. The sound of something hollow slowly being filled could be heard below their feet. As the pirates gazed through the translucent floor panels, they discovered a giant gourd that had been hidden from view. It collected the spilling sands, sinking further down as its mass increased. The flow was unrelenting, cascading from the faucet, and filling the gourd at a rapid rate. As the sands retreated, something came into view through the glass screen. Ribbed black tubing hung from the tank's apex, coiling through the sand and sticking deep into the shriveled carcass of what was once a man. Sand continued to peel from the glassy surface, revealing the sunken, wrinkled face of an emaciated being. Endless lengths of tubing poured from its mouth, ears, and nose. Soran squinted at the scarred pane and noticed a thick band of metal that appeared to be welded to the skin of his face. A primeval device used to cast prisoners into eternal night, blinding them to the world. The inmate's face was further obscured by two thick strands of matted hair, hanging from either side of the head like withered horns. The sand continued to recede until the tight coils of Nanofiber that bound the body were visible, contorting the limbs into a hideous form. The faucet spat the last remnants of grain into the buried receptacle and the chorus of revelation faded back to a mechanical hum.

The gourd, now brimming with lustrous flecks, tipped back and spilled its contents. With each grain disgorged, the glass screen that shielded the prisoner descended further, exhibiting the full extent of the torment. Bound with razor-sharp restraints, the extremities were stained in dry black blood. Once rich chestnut skin had dulled to a lifeless grey, ashy flakes collected in wrinkled valleys.

Volka fell to his knees, his head pressed against the ground, and hands spread wide before him.

“My King!” he cried. Raw emotion spilled unfiltered from his synthetic husk, overwhelmed at the sight of divinity embodied in flesh. More than a mere man, to Volka, he was a god. Khan followed suit, sobbing into the floor and crawling to be closer to his brother. The other Lords had dropped to their knees with arms crossed and heads held high. Each revealed the initial that was etched into their skin, demonstrating both their devotion and loyalty.

None of them had known what to expect. However shocking Talas' current incarnation may have been, they could no longer deny his existence; doubt had been eradicated. The inalterable future Volka had prophesied was now in motion.