Silent Gods pt1

It was said that gods lived in the stars, and watched over humans, protecting them. But when the gods fell silent, humans searched the sky. Now the only gods in the stars are us.

Instinct hits me almost before the faint smell of gas. The mask is already over my face, and the world turns a seasick green behind the glass lenses. I hear Benjen securing his own mask beside me, and when I glance at him, his other hand is already secure on the gun at his hilt. Training has made these habits swifter than spitting, and less conscious than breathing. These quick little things that constantly save our lives, that we hardly think of.

We walk up a slope of broken asphalt overrun with weeds squeezing between every crack. We’ve been following the navigators on our wrists to the nearest hill of scrapped metal. This planet in particular used to have tons, but it’s been hours of scouting and I haven’t seen anything more than a bottle cap. Benjen says bounty hunters and salesmen must have gotten to all the good stuff first. All the same, Captain Kesh won’t change his mind until he’s seen our signals have searched ten kilometers.

Something taps my shoulder. I turn, and Benjen is pointing a gloved finger toward the horizon. I’ve been watching the ground so much, I didn’t notice we’d reached the top of the hill. The sky on Tare is dull, and perpetually riddled with gas. The place is nothing but orange dirt and rusting metal. But here, beyond the forest of broken wire fences and rocks- thank the gods - is a scrap pile.

Despite our sore legs and groggy heads, Benjen and I break into a run down the hill, our breath coming in muffled gasps through the masks.

I practically collapse on the base of the pile, which stretches higher than buildings, and as wide as two ships. I pull the sensor from my pocket and slap the on button. Through the old glitching screen, glimpses of red flash and vanish, as the device tries to calculate what may be of value. It’s not the most reliable tool, of course. Nothing can top the expert’s eye when it comes to foraging. But it doesn’t hurt to leave it on just in case you miss something.

Benjen has already got his mits on an old tool box, and is fidgeting with the lock, so I climb the pile to get a better view from above. Most of it is rusting vehicle parts, or chunks of machines now converted to homes for stray cats. A few scurry past as they hear my heavy boots, and the loose rubble slipping out beneath them. They pass at the corner of my eye, and when I turn to glance at them I find myself double taking.

“Benjen!” My voice is hoarse after hours of silence. The comfortable bond Benjen and I share typically doesn’t require much talking. Just points and looks. But I need his attention fast. He stops rattling with the lock and I hear his footsteps as he jogs up behind me. By the time he’s here, though, the creature is gone.

He looks to me for an explanation. The air must be safe here, because he’s taken his gas mask off entirely. Benjen is barely a rotation older than me, but his beard and melancholy eyes age him. His skin is a dusty brown, and he has a short, sturdy frame that is often useful for hoisting me up to climb things.

I remove my gas mask as well, sniffing to test that his tuition was correct before whispering, “Just wait.” I take another step forward. Then another. “There!”

Another cat emerged from a cave in the metal, and scampered with clumsy little legs up the hill.

“A rat.” Benjen mutters. A big one, too. Rats don’t get that big unless there’s an abundance of food. Or bodies.

I continue walking up the hill, Benjen close by. Suddenly Terra, this dull, unassuming planet that we’d visited several times before, holds a weight just above, like dark clouds threatening to rain. Something changed in the past six months since our last visit. I’m not sure we want to find out what.

Halfway up the hill, I find a catalytic converter and an old fashioned compass. The compass is useless, but Benjen knows better than to point that out. We all have little useless collections, so he can’t blame me for mine. The converter, however, is unusual. This planet has been foraged before- many times. So why would someone leave something that’s 80% rhodium?

At last, we crest the scrap pile and stop to take in the other side. Below, the slope of junk flattens into a plane of dirt, and what we see beyond makes Benjen dizzy enough to grab my arm for support.

Only a meter or so from the base of the pile we stand on, dirt turns to grass. Green, new grass, stained black with blood from the bodies strewn about. The bodies are still fresh- no more than a week old - and oddly varied.

Some wear the uniforms of soldiers from the Citadel, others the tell-tale red scarves of revolutionists, and still more with burlap bags most common for bounty hunters and nomads. This wasn’t a battle, but a slaughter. And from what I can tell, no one was the winner.

The bodies are spread out here, but further on, they are clustered around something. I start down the pile.

“Finch!” Benjen hisses, and scrambles after me. But it’s too late. My inhibitions have already sprouted curiosity, and now I won’t be stopped.

Grass is soft beneath my boots - they don’t even thud as I run across, the converter clanking around in my backpack.

I try to dodge the bodies, but I think I step on someone’s hand, and I don’t want to think about the sound it made, so I keep running. Benjen keeps shouting at me, but my breathing has drowned out his voice.

At last, I reach the cluster of bodies, and stop to catch my breath. It’s a hole. Barely an arm span wide, but it’s growing. Dark, violet shadows are reaching and stretching out from the rim, and grabbing the ground to pull it under. I take a step back just as Benjen catches up, and I bump into him. “Gods, Finch, what’s wrong with you?”

I point to the hole, and Benjen’s breath catches in his throat. “Is that-”

But he doesn’t need to finish the sentence. I look at him, and the same thought hangs in the air between us. War.

Then a gunshot rings behind us.