Space Rock

Justinian fought to suppress the wave of discomfort that he felt as he entered the temple.

His image was reflected on the shiny obsidian surfaces. Gold trimming accented the obelisks and mounts that held bizarre statues.

The scrys had provided critical intel during the war. His own victory at Araki was due in no small part to their warning that the space fortress was going to be attacked.

What they did was useful, but strange, unknowable. If a recon team or a scout ship reported on the enemy’s movements, he could be confident that eyes or scanner systems had seen things. But this was pure hoodoo, it had no place in the real world.

He reached the inner sanctum. The place was kept dark. Tanks lined the walls, the occupants floating in liquid, breathing apparatuses stuck to their faces. Their eyes were shut, but the lids moved as if the scrys were deep in dreams. Weird drugs were pumped into the pods, so that the person inside was submerged in them. Wires ran out of their heads to the tank’s subsystems. From there, the data was fed to a central computer.

Green text on a black background, queer symbols and incomprehensible gibberish scrolled past on a big screen. Circuits hummed and relays clicked as the gigantic mainframe processed the visions of the scrys. The screen was surrounded by instruments, panels, and machines, the functions of which Justinian had no clue.

The high priestess wore a black and white gown. The fans of a silver headdress stuck out on the sides of her head. She was pretty, but the chrome sheen of her mechanical eyes was all that he saw.

How can I still see a soul behind those damnable eyes?

Her words felt like they could have been a response to this thought, “Admiral, you must learn to trust in our sight. It should be easy for you, after all, you have seen visions.”

“No, I haven’t,” he lied, making a mental note to figure out who he had told that too.

“You must go to the black star, enter the spectrum rift.”

The black star, the spectrum rift, pure madness. The star was home to a species of crazed barbarians, avoided by all civilized peoples. And no one had ever entered the rift and returned to report what was on the other side.

“Why would I do that?”

“It is your fate, your destiny.”

“Those words mean little to me, at least when they come from you.”

The priestess ignored his remark, “We have a new enemy.”

His mind started going over the possibilities. Star empires, sinister corporations, and fanatical organizations walked across his consciousness, each stopping to present themselves, showing off their weaknesses and capabilities.

Again, she spoke as if she could read his thoughts, “They are like nothing that you have ever faced. Their leader has aims that go beyond even those of our imperial majesty.”

“Who is this new enemy?”

“We don’t know, we only see shadows on the cave wall; glimpses of flesh that is strange to us, and occulted power.”

“Where will the rift take me?”

“The same place that it takes all who enter it, where they need to go.”

Justinian looked around, seeing that all of the dreamers had awakened. Many sets of silvery machine eyes stared at him, unblinking. He left the building, wondering away from it in a daze. He had survived the war, only to commit suicide carrying out a fool’s errand. How had it come to this?

The sky was still bright. The finely carved stone buildings towered high above him. Imperial banners and seals adorned practically every flat surface.

Was this a trick? What better way to get rid of him than to send him on a mission like this? Was it a plot by a rival house? Could the emperor be upset with him over his affair with the princess?

He found himself at the knights’ way. Statues, each representing an era of the empire, were standing in a long row. They went from the time when the home world was at last united under one flag, on through the days of the first interstellar conquests, up to the warriors of the present day.

He grabbed the communicator off of his belt, “Is Suspiria available?”

“Yes, sir. It is in port while the crew are on leave.”

“Recall them, prepare the ship for launch. Mission: classified,” he hesitated slightly before the next sentence, “I will be accompanying them.”