P Hillard - The Teller of Lies

“Does it give a location of the comms station broadcasting?” Abberax stepped towards the thrall, an unusual thing for a lord to do.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Set a course there immediately.” Abberax turned, walking back towards his command throne. The thrall let a sigh of relief leave its lips.

The communications thrall nodded at the navigation thrall. None of them had names, they simply weren’t worth it. The Substrate didn’t consider non-crystalline life worth anything and had taken great pains to instil that thought into the thralls themselves. Constant affirmations that they were worthless, that they existed only to function as cogs in a machine, had replaced any culture they might have had. Along with the constant brainwashing, each thrall had a control unit, a device that could kill them at any moment should a Substrate overlord decide so. The people who made the devices considered themselves artisans, and there was a bewildering array of possible execution methods available.

The thrall at the navigations console nodded in reply. A complex web of wires and cables stretched from the console before him and had been embedded into his arms and chest, obscuring his torso in a web of metal. The navigation data appeared on the screen before him, confirming the new course. It was deep behind enemy lines, far past the support of the fleets. The thralls weren’t stupid, they knew that they weren’t expected to return. The Empress had delivered a death sentence under the pretence of atonement.

“Course set, my lord,” the navigations thrall said.

“Prepare to jump as soon as we clear the fleet.”

The dreadnought drifted away from its companions, leaving the swarm of stone daggers behind it as it turned. Light raged from its engines, pushing the vessel into the dark. Once safely away from the bulk of the fleet, a faint purple light began to pulse across its hull as the jump drive began its work.

The drive began to burrow through the strange other realm of jump space, digging out a twisting meandering corridor for the ship to travel down. It’s path to its destination plotted, the dreadnought vanished, shifting realities into the corridor, an invisible field protecting it from the effects of this other eldritch place. Crystalline or organic, jump space was difficult for both equally, its very existence anathema to life. More than one culture in the galaxy claimed jump space as their afterlife, a hell for twisted angry spirits.

Neither the Council or the Substrate held those particular beliefs, instead, understanding that the effects of jump space were down to its strange energies. Common theories held it to be poorly understood radiation. More than one attempt had been made to weaponize the effects, attempts that had come to little success, much to the thanks of the galaxy at large.

To those watching, the curious eyes of rival lords, the dreadnought simply winked out of existence, disappearing into the dark.

Michael had to admit it was an impressive sight. Brekt’s little camp had expanded, with the help of some volunteers, to encompass half the island. It was a proper structure now, with walls, a roof, and even a power generator salvaged from a damaged shuttle. Around the edge of the lake, several more buildings had sprung up, ranging from similar wooden cabins to half disassembled ships. One enterprising individual hailing from a semi-aquatic race had sunken their ship into the lake itself, forming a bridge between the shore and the island in the process. It had only been three weeks, but already a town was forming on the flat world.

The Custodian had been the one to make the suggestion. Whilst a good portion of the flotilla had jumped away once the machine had shut down the system scrambling navigation, those that remained had been invited to settle upon the artificial world. The Custodian had waited millions of years for his ward to serve its purpose, to house people upon its surface, to support life. He had leapt at the opportunity, and those that remained had graciously accepted. It was hard not to blame them, a lot of the new settlers were Cortican, their world had burned. To be offered a new paradise was an appealing respite.

Michael was sat on a small rise, overlooking the lake. He had a section of Meggok’s mushroom jerky in his hand, chewing the wrinkled grey strip half-heartedly. Meggok himself was down below, directing the settlers as they ploughed a field, ready to plant some mushrooms of their own.

The last of the living beds had been delivered to the planet, compliant now that the Custodian had solidified his control on them. No new creatures had been made, but the ones that remained were proving useful. The settlers had already begun using them as beasts of burden, and one was pulling a makeshift plough across the growing field. Michael had to admit, living beds was up there amongst the many weird things he had seen.

“Organic life form found. Greeting generated. Hello, Michael.”

“Custodian.”

The floating machine seemed somewhat less imposing under the light of the fake star. He seemed a lot smaller, his tentacles less long. The Custodian seemed, for a lack of a better term, happier. It was like his life finally had meaning.

“Providing opinion. People seem to be settling in nicely. It does bring me joy, to see this world being used as intended. By what could possibly be considered one of its creators’ descendants, no less. Truly remarkable.”

“What’s remarkable is that we ended up here at all. What are the odds, that out of everywhere in the galaxy, we would find here?”

“Calculating. Extremely unlikely. Though from my perspective, it is perhaps inevitable. I have existed for millions of years, and I will exist for millions more. Even at staggeringly low odds, eventually, it would have happened.” The Custodian turned. It had no eyes, no cameras, no visible sensors of any kind, but Michael had learnt there was one side of itself that the Custodian considered its face. It brought itself about to look upon the town. “Though, in this particular case, I do not believe this was random. The model of starship you call the Sword has been in orbit around the planet before, though it did not land. I believe possibly it arrived here intentionally.”

Michael shook his head. “No, we just set the drive to the maximum range. We didn’t set a specific destination.”

“Hypothesis formed. Possibly the navigation interpreted it to mean an identifiable object as close to the maximum range as it could achieve? It would make sense that the ship’s safeties would prevent you from becoming totally lost in such a scenario.”

“It didn’t help us. We couldn’t navigate out of here anyway. We might as well have been lost.”

“Considering statement. True. I wonder how they left before. There must be some system that doesn’t require standard pulsar navigation they used. Perhaps it was never installed on the Sword? Or you haven’t worked out how to access it yet? It would appear several functions are locked off from your ship’s AI.”

Michael allowed himself to fall backwards onto the grass, his eyes drifting upwards to the clouds above. He wondered if the fake world was creating the clouds as close to naturally as it could, or if there was some great machine somewhere spitting them into the sky.

“Maybe. The Sword was the last off its world. Maybe they had to rush it? Couldn’t you help Clive, maybe I don’t know, jack in or whatever AI do and try and unlock some stuff?”

“Selecting polite refusal from list. I’m sorry, no. I wasn’t aware there was an AI aboard the ship. If I were, I would never have interfered. Would you appreciate a surgeon delving into you without permission?”