chartedsuns

[chartedsuns]

So... any campaign happenings 👀

Not yet!!! looked promising then two potential players dropped D:

[chartedsuns]

GOLGOTHA: Part 2 - The Captain

He was pounding on the airlock doors, his screams echoed through the intercom speakers, though Oriana scarcely needed them he was screaming so loud.

“PLEASE, I DIDN’T DO IT, I SWEAR IT CAP’N I SWEAR IT.”

The water was at his shoulders now. He was starting to float. Another few inches and he’d be kissing the ceiling for scraps of air. She didn’t think he did it, he had neither the competence nor grit. But her crew blamed him, and she needed their loyalty now more than ever. 

She pressed the airlock button. Water washed out into the corridor and the choking ensign was thrown to the floor, liquid pouring out from his lungs. She kicked him over onto his back and locked eyes with him. He looked terrified.

“Aren’t you going to thank me?” She sneered, her boot pressing down on the boy's chest, squeezing out a little more water.

He sputtered “Captain… Captain Agur…. Than--” before passing out. Her first-mate looked down at the ensign gauging the damage, then up to her, “You didn’t kill him?”

“I didn’t.” 

“Why?

“I didn’t want to.” She snapped. 

“Get him out of here, somewhere dry, and warm. He will be of no use half frozen to death.” Oriana’s first mate looked to her with concerned sympathy, then dragged him away, a trail of briny water in his wake. She stared at the still sodden airlock. Why didn’t she kill him? She had killed men before, seventeen no less. Perhaps it was too cruel of a method, perhaps she was a coward?

What did it matter? She was the captain, and aboard The Silverfish her word was law. That is how her father ran the ship, that is how she will. Her thumb circled the pommel of her sword. She must preserve his legacy.

The ensign would be killed in his sleep not a day after, and in turn the killer put to the captain's sword. Two dead bodies and an unhappy crew. Not a good start to her reign as captain. Port -at least- was in sight. 

The Drowned City of Oldlake lit up the black waters with dazzling lights. Its rusted iron hab-spheres clung to the aquatic caverns’ roof like a clutch of fish eggs. About it swarmed a school of submersibles, wafting about like flotsam, drawn here by the invisible currents of Golgothas blackmarket. She always found it hypocritical of the Dynast -the supposed ‘true ruler’ of Golgotha- to barter with the crimelords that lurk within the depths as if they were his equals. Though Oriana supposed if those scum were excised from his waters the Drowned City would become the Drowned Hamlet, hardly befitting the ‘True Imperial Dynasty of America’.

Half a dozen war submersibles guarded the main port. Though they were but fish to the shark that was the Silverfish, its hull made of gleaming steel and studded with gunbarrels, it was easily three times larger than its closest match. The Captain was terrified. She had watched her father do terrible things with the Silverfish and its host of marines. He burnt down towns, enslaving and selling its inhabitants. All done in the name of his Dynast and the oath he took to him. Now she holds the family sword, and with it the Silverfish. What would she be commanded to do?

A great vibration rang through the Silverfish; they had docked. Past the port and through the Street of Salt she went, ignoring the grifters that vied for her attention, though entering the well-to-do part of the city of Sevenslanes only served to make the grifters increasingly highborn. But surely enough she made it back home.

Her family's estate was enshrouded by the blank white dome of a privacy sheathe. An illusion generated by a person's membrane implant, rendering them unable to see within the space, unless of course they were a welcomed guest. It cost a small fortune to hire the most expert membrane technicians to code it. Father always said privacy was priceless. For her the sheathe unfurled, revealing the estate. A lavish building built from imported brick and sporting a glass enclosed courtyard, within which was dozens of plant species from across the Charted Suns - some even as far as distant Tonatiu. That courtyard was the only place she ever saw her father at peace, always so busy with war and politics. In that glass bubble of nature, dirt under his nails and flowers in his hands, was his only real time of rest. He is buried there now. She hoped he was at rest now too.

Oriana stood there for a moment, over her dads grave. By the end the courtyard had become choked with flora of every colour and variety, you could hardly see his grave beneath it all. He died a week ago. How could it have only been a week? She had been Guardian for nearly seventeen years, a mother for fifteen, she was a woman grown. Yet standing over her dads grave, with the weight of the Silverfish on her shoulders, she felt like a child. But the city didn’t need a child. Nor did her daughter. 

She had been knocking on the door for a minute now. The guards assured her she was in there. “Dione. Dione can I come in?” There was of course no answer. She was hesitant to barge into her daughter's room, but considering recent events she deemed the breach of privacy a necessary precaution.

She opened the door a crack, a sliver of light cut through the dark. She couldn’t see much, but she could smell raw fish and hear the gentle breathing of her daughter. Oriana’s hand drifted toward the lightswitch —

“Don’t.” Oriana’s hand froze. “For one eye to see the other must be blinded.” She flicked the switch all the same. The fan light turned on, revealing a dead fish tied to one of its blades, its scales dripping with blood. The rest of the room was splattered with red, sprayed from the fan-bound fish. Below the fan, spotless, knelt Dione. She faced away from her mother. She did not move a muscle nor speak a word, yet her displeasure was eminently clear.

In a single motion Oriana drew her sword and cut the carp down. Its body flopped onto the floor with a wet slap. 

“People are starting to ask questions about my would-be witch of a daughter you know. Even more now after your little performance at court!” She sighed, surveying the room. “ Is getting blood stains across your room strictly necessary?”

“Yes”

“Will you tell me why?” She demanded.

“No. I didn’t”

“When you saw this happen in your visions you didn’t tell me? That’s your reason for keeping your mother at arms length? I know that you're trying to help but — “

She bolted up, her entire body snapped towards her mother, her tear strewn face contorted with exasperated anger, “I am helping! Time and time again I have found the next victim, yet time and time again I am ignored!”

“You are not ignored, that's the issue. You say a name and they die, you know how that must make me look, how does it makes you look? People are starting to ask questions.”

“Are you saying I killed Grandad?”

“What no, of course not! I would never —” The floor below her feet writhed and rolled back on itself like a reel of cloth, pulling her out of her daughter's room. Caught flat footed she tumbled onto her back, before she could get back up the door slammed closed, its door handle vanished.

Oriana knelt, her hands pressed against the door, willing it to open. 

“I lost my Dad, you lost your Grandad. And with your father gone as well we only have each other now. I can’t lose you too. I love you Songbird.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The clinking of cutlery and hushed tones of politicking carried crystal clearly across the length of the dinner table. At its head: Dynast Gastor Maris, First of his Name, Lord of Oldlake. He was the same age as her daughter. Oriana looked upon the Fused Crown jutting out of his freshly shaven head like five iron daggers, his scalp still swollen from the surgery. 

A voice buzzed from beside her, “We are lucky our Dynast accepted the implant so well; Cranial implants have a high rate of rejection for one so young.”

She turned her attention back to her colleague, “I suppose you must be an expert considering, well…” She gestured to the brutalistic implant that cleaved the man's face in two, replacing both his nose and mouth, only just sparing two dull red eyes.

“In truth I know disturbingly little of my enhancements, only how to use them in service of our Dynast.” He paused for a moment, his metallic mandibles clicking in thought, “It is curious how we must so often rely on things we know so little of. Our Lord must lean on us for support, not truly knowing us, nor truly trusting us. A challenging prospect for one so young.”

“He can trust me.” She said, a little bit too quickly. 

“I am certain.” His four knuckled fingers picked up a knife and began carving at the sea serpent laid along the table, before stuffing it into some steel orifice she guessed to be a mouth. “The Mother Matriarch on the other hand.”

“She can trust me too. She just chooses not to.” Oriana shot a glance toward a woman in a fine gown, hands encrusted with jewellery and with slick red helmet-like hair. She sat next to the new Dynast, leaning on his chair's arm, speaking in a hushed, confident, tone. Her blue eyes met Oriana’s brown, their gazes entwining, both eyes unreadable.

“It is no mystery why, think how it looks from her perspective. A series of murders predicted by your daughter alone. All of which stood to benefit you. You have the motive, and you have displayed your means many times over in your service as their Guardian.”

Oriana snapped back “I would never have killed the man who raised me! I never wanted to inherit the Silverfish, all I wanted was to serve the Dynasty as Guardian. To that extent I certainly wouldn’t kill the man I swore to protect!”

“So you either betrayed your Dynasty or were an incompetent Guardian? You must now see why you lack her trust.”

“I thought you were my friend, Scarab.” 

“I am your friend, that’s why I am telling you this, before you are told by her. You are going to be removed as Guardian of the Dynasty, to take on your role as Captain of the Silverfish.”

Scarab was right. Not a day after the coronation feast she was honourably discharged from her position as Guardian, to serve fully as Captain of the Silverfish. It made sense, she couldn’t be both, especially not under these circumstances. But after seventeen years of service it still hurt, and she already had hurt aplenty. What was a sailor to do but drink?

Her father drank too. She hated it. He would come back trailing the stench of alcohol and piss wherever he went. He never got violent or angry, for that she was grateful. No, he got sad. He got so sad his wailing could be heard across the estate, yet in the morning it’d be like it never happened. She could never quite understand why he cried. She wanted to help so badly, but she was so small and confused. She didn’t know how to help, and that hurt her so damn much. She never found out why he cried, why he drank. 

She was drunk now, staggering through the streets in the small hours of the morning. Her long leather coat was stained with alcohol, her near black hair crusted with salt from the water that leaked from the steel sky of the habsphere. She didn’t want to go back home yet, not like this. Not in front of her daughter.

She turned a corner and was confronted with the barrel of a gun. The sudden burst of adrenaline helped to counteract her drunken haze. She noticed his hands were steady, he wasn’t panicking, he had done this before. His grip however was wrong, his posture unbalanced. This man was willing to kill, but probably wasn’t very good at it.

Her membrane implant displayed an unformatted web-page before her, gently glowing in the dim alley. A large red [TRANSFER] button at the bottom of the page summarised the text's contents.

The man seemed almost bored, “Okay lady, real simple. Transfer your cash or your kneecaps get a bullet each.” 

She stumbled forward toward the illusionary text that hovered between them. Close enough so that it blocked his sight of her hands. As her left arm moved toward the transfer button, her right surreptitiously moved toward her sword. Once her fingers had curled around her hilt she struck. Lunging through the illusion her sword slipped between his ribs. As he fell two stray shots left his gun. He was on his back, the sword still in his chest. Oriana slid the sword out, her foot now pressed down onto the mugger's hand. Her sword hovered over the man's neck, ready to plunge.

Suddenly the alley was drowned in light, “HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM.” Police drones buzzed above her, officers stormed through the alley rifles in hand. She threw her sword into the muck and raised her hands.

#worldbuilding #sci-fi #short story #creative writing #storytelling

[chartedsuns]

GOLGOTHA: Part 1 - The Psychic

He could feel the music through his skin and the alcohol running through his veins, but all Alec could focus on was him. Jake was talking but the chaos of the club was drowning him out. Alec let the walls of his mind blur, and reached out, “Sorry I can’t hear a damn thing, what did you say?”

Alec could feel Jake’ thoughts scamper to create a response, unused to telepathic communication. Using all his mental might he managed to convey the concept of piss. It would seem two way telepathic verbal communication was still a touch too difficult for Jake. “Piss. How eloquently put.” Alec gestured vaguely toward the corridor “I think the toilets are down that way and to the right.” Jake slid off the barstool onto his feet, “SEE YOU LATER ALEC-GATER”.  Pleased with his pun he wobbled his way toward the toilets.

Now Alec was left only to his own thoughts. He could hear the stern disapproving words of his tutor, “A Philosopher is above carnal delights such as these.” He momentarily panicked thinking it might have really been the voice of his tutor within his head, before swiftly deciding he didn’t care. In fact, he cared so little, he raised two fingers to the bartender to order another round for himself and Jake . He withdrew a small plastic device from his bag and began drunkenly fumbling with its unresponsive touch screen, trying desperately to pay the bartend. Before Alec could wrangle the device into cooperation Jake arrived back at the bar and sent the payment through his Membrane Implant.

Jake shouted over the music, “SO TOUGH BEING A PSYCHIC, CAN’T PAY FOR YOUR OWN DRINKS!” Alec chuckled and psychically responded, “Ah you discovered our secret scheme! Our brains reject our Membranes purely so we can get free drinks from cute boys.” 

“YOU THINK I’M CUTE?”

“Shut up Jake.” 

He did in fact think Jake was cute. So much so two hours and four drinks later Alec had Jake pinned against a wall two streets down from the bar. Another hour later they were in bed.

Silver sunlight rudely ended their sleep. Alec woke first, fumbling with his Membrane-Surrogate, trying to catch up on what had transpired in the eight hours he was asleep. As it would turn out quite a lot. He was gone before Jake awoke.

He sat in the office of Tableman Ulric of the College of Wills, his tutor and superior. Alec was tall, even for a moon-born man. Yet in front of his tutor he felt tiny and frightened. 

“Thank you for arriving on time, Philosopher Gater. I appreciate it can be an awkward affair when a breach of conduct is brought up. But it is always good to ‘nip it in the bud’ early so to speak.”

“You spied on me.” Alec spat, “You spied on me. How come when I dare suggest an alternate interpretation of the Moralist Code I am looked down upon, but when you openly break it you suffer no repercussions!”

“You would accuse a Tableman of disregarding The Code young Philosopher? Don’t you think you find yourself in enough trouble already?” Ulric paused and calmed himself, “No we did not ‘spy on you’ Alec, but your charge —”

“Arthur?”

“Yes. Mister Chainman did observe you and your - coupling - outside an establishment last night. He has requested you be assigned to a different post, a decision that I concur with. Having a relationship with a charge’s son is not only unprofessional but may also alter the council you provide him.”

“My coupling is none of Mister Chainman’s business, Sir Tableman. Jake and I have in fact been coupling for the last year, and I have yet to receive any complaint on my ever precious council. And besides, what is this sudden concern over my council; what council have I ever given to him? All I give to him is status, the bragging rights of having a Philosopher under his thumb.”

Tableman Ulric sighed “On that last point I will secede to you. It was a waste of a talented young Philosopher to be assigned to a technician of all people. As such you are to be reassigned —”

“REASSIGNED?”

“Yes, reassigned. And please, do me a kindness, and stop interrupting.” Alec shrunk down into his chair.

“You are hereby reassigned to the city of Golgotha upon the world of Throne. There you shall aid the leading Archon in investigating the recent disappearances of foundry workers. A position much more fit for a hot-blooded Philosopher such as yourself, wouldn’t you agree?”

“May I speak?”

“You may.”

“I am thankful for this new assignment —”

“But…”

“But. I can’t help but note that our great nation is engaged in active conflict against The Sword Stars, The Khanate of Flesh and the Numen Cooperatives. Why not send me to war, I promise you I could serve best as a war councillor . Not an advisor to some Archon ruling an ancient torn up world.”

“You don’t want to see war, boy. And besides, that ancient torn up world was once the capital of the old Dynasties and is presently the greatest industrial planet in the New Moralist Authority, hardly an unimportant post. Not to mention it is the planet our moon currently orbits - unless I am terribly mistaken - meaning you could visit your acquaintance, if you so wished.”

Alec gathered himself, “Thank you Tableman. I will gladly accept this charge, and would like to apologise for my behaviour today. It was unbecoming of a Philosopher.”

“Your apology is accepted. I too was young once.” Ulric chuckles, “Though I can scarcely remember it. Your charge awaits. Go to Golgotha and meet with its Archon. Report back what you find.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Alec’s shuttlecraft plunged into the atmosphere he felt trapped between the sky above and the city below. The skies were choked with pollution, staining the cancerous sunlight a sickly saffron. The city was little better, mostly consisting of dusty ruins of rusted steel and crumbling brick. This place looked old, and it was so very old. Yet in the centre of the detritus was a colossal facility of gleaming chrome, tendrils stretched out from it rooting into the remains of the city. This was The Foundry, the reason Alec had come all this way. The Hegemony built The Foundry to recycle the city to create a new world after the old collapsed. And when the Hegemony too wilted and died, his people, The Moralists, assumed control of the vast mega-factory. Looking down at The City of Aeons and the scars it bore, he wondered what they would leave behind.

The planet's ecosystem had long since perished, and the city was so overgrown as to become an urban wilderness. Populated by mindless scrapper drones eager to recycle the iron in your blood, and subterranean pirates that lurked in the now submerged tri-rail below. Yet the Foundry is vital to the Moralists, the beating heart of its economy. So a small population of survivalists tends to it, ensuring its production of starships, computer chips - and anything else the imagination can summon - remains uninterrupted. 

Yet Alec wouldn’t be here if it hadn’t been interrupted. People were disappearing and The Foundry was under threat. But by who, and for what purpose? The shuttlecraft landed, Alec swept his anxieties aside and emerged into the streets.

Condensation clung to the rebreather strapped onto Alec’s face and his unpowered exoskeleton dug awkwardly into his ribs. He wore a hooded ivory dress and a tall corset that accentuated his lithe moon-born frame. Yet with all the paraphernalia he needed to inhabit the surface of Throne, and the tawny dirt that now clung to his dress, it felt as if all the pomp of his formal Philosopher attire had been somewhat undermined.

Alec had been assigned to the Archon of Highcross, the quasi-capital of this wild city and one of the only safe havens from the worst of the smog below; it was a far cry from his home. Highcross was situated atop a massive suspended monorail that in days past served The Foundry with a near endless supply of minerals from the Ferox Mountains, before they were disassembled. Now it serves as a skyborn refuge providing a rare pocket of safety. And in Golgotha safety was a rare commodity indeed.

Alec grew up on Scepter, without the burden of a planet's gravity, rendering him a foot or two taller than most Golgothans. Which was most helpful when navigating the meat-packed streets of Highcross. His dress stuck uncomfortably to his sweat slick skin, though mercifully his respirator saved him from the rather organic odour that wafted through the streets. 

As he jostled his way through the crowd he couldn’t help but notice the looks he got. Curious residents lurched over their balconies above him, their eyes tracking the strange foreigner, and sinister figures weaved through the crowd looking for a chance to pick his non-existent pockets.

Eventually the street he was navigating split as a row of thin buildings carved the path in two. At the frontmost of these buildings a semicircular terrace hung three stories above an enraptured crowd, from which a blue banner was hoisted, emblazoned with the symbol of a bear. Upon the terrace was a man, well put together compared to the local populace, but his sun-scarred skin and lack of respirator marked him as a local. His voice carried across the street through tinny speakers that dangled precariously from cables strung from rooftop to rooftop. Alec was entranced by his voice. Curious and eager to rest his legs; he locked his exoskeleton in place to serve as a makeshift chair, and listened.

“Every ideology born under a sun has come to this city, and every ideology has failed it. Five Dynasties ruled over us, and five left the city polluted and dying. Then came the Hegemony and their artificial rulers, Instead of lifting our city back up to its glory, they preyed upon our world like a vulture. Now the Moralists occupy our streets under the pretence of ‘protection’, but make no mistake, they are here for The Foundry and naught else. Our people - who work The Foundry for our occupiers - have been disappearing, vital machinery gone with them. Pirates from the Drowned City have gotten to the very core of The Foundry yet the Moralists stand back and watch as our people vanish one by one. Where is our supposed protection now?”

“Puzzling.” Alec responded in a psychically amplified voice, “then why have they sent me?” The crowd shifted attention, their trance was broken and all eyes were on him.

“So a Moralist wormed his way into our midst; a Philosopher if my eyes still work. Unlike you I can’t spy into peoples heads, so why don’t you tell us the purpose of your visit?”

Alec took a moment to bask in the attention before continuing, “I am Philosopher Gater of the College of Wills. Tableman Ulric himself sent me to investigate these disappearances and to aid your elected Archon. We abandon no one, including the kind people of Golgotha.”

The man chuckled to himself, “Oh, so we just have to put our lives in the hands of Philosophers from a college us small folk aren’t even allowed to see? The G.I.P have been stopped time and time again from taking arms against the enemy, despite our people being willing to die for the cause. Yet you Philosophers are bound by their oh so precious Code to not hurt their ‘fellow man’? Tell me little psychic, how are you going to stop the Drowned City from stealing, kidnapping, and murderin’ without giving them any bruises or bumps?”

“The first step is to speak and to hear them out —” The crowd didn’t react well to that. First it was shocked murmuring, then a few raised voices, until it eventually boiled into outraged shouting. Even the speakers broadcasting the man’s voice were drowned out by the crowd. Yet their anger was far more tangible for Alec. His mind was a submarine beneath a sea of fury, the compartments of his brain bursting under the pressure. He saw visions of a man, destitute after all he had was taken from him in a midnight raid. Another vision, this time of a woman who had been a slave in a city shrouded in shadowed water, serving wine to a despotic ruler. Finally a vision of a burning town within the lower depths of Golgotha, gunfire rattling through the streets, blood running into cracked concrete.

It was too much, far too much for Alec to bear. Bodies rammed into him and minds scorned him, he was an icon of the Moralists to rail against. He wanted to be anywhere else. Anywhere else. Anywhere. No, not anywhere, with Jake. He just wanted to listen to Jake ramble on about membranes, and computers, whatever he wanted. As long as he could feel his warmth next to him in bed.

He closed his eyes, hoping to withstand the storm, only to find it suddenly stop.

#sci-fi #worldbuilding #short story #storytelling #weekly #fiction #writing #queer