The day the last human emperor perished, the universe breathed its first sigh of relief. Then it wept, for while its tormentors were gone, so were the only stewards of order. I still remember that day—the day the stars lost their light and the waters of Phlegethon took their place.
<ul>
<li>Yarnen, Anomaly 0, Year 3031, in her Codex Of War.</li>
</ul>
One last job.
Dante loathed such boasts and phrases. They were signs of bad luck, misfortune, and death. Nine times out of ten, it ended in the speaker’s untimely demise. The others?
They always screwed him over. Without fail. Why?
Because he was human, and in his own words, “Ain’t nobody liked a human in a thousand Standards.”
They still watch his people’s shows, read their books, and even name their kids with the names of his kin. The largest remaining empire even modeled itself after one of his ancient ancestors.
But nobody cares for humans like me.
Once more, Dante’s former allies sentenced him to die and left him with only one heated body by his side, proving the brutal truth. The worst part? Translators could seldom understand that last man.
After a kinetic round of depleted uranium lodged itself in his leg, Dante dragged himself around a box of smuggled goods meant for the Reikshi Sector of the Wings while bullets riddled his cover instead of his crewmate.
He never asked what the goods were or what they were for. He checked them, sure, but just a quick once-over. And with some things... he let Damen do it all.
This time... he cursed that he hadn’t.
Beside him, crouched behind the overturned steel of their dinner table as kinetic and electromagnetic rounds flew overhead, Dante cursed at one of his so-called partners, “Fucking Rejo. You gonna turn tail, too?”
The Araki, with his blood-red skin identical to those of demons from Dante’s books as a child, chuckled with his head bouncing jarringly against the box.
Shaking his flapping mouth tendrils, the alien from a million light-years away nodded toward Dante’s wound. Their brain chips translated the conversation, as neither knew the other’s language while the alien spoke, “Not my style, ‘Uman. Too ‘uch ‘oney on the line. You gon’ be fine? I’d already croaked if I ‘ad uranium in me.”
Dante exhaled with a stinging pain while reloading his revolver, annoyed by the imperfect translation—Arakis were too rare for perfect calibration. The man racked his brain in thought, ignoring the agony and frustration as he crafted a plan for survival.
Others panic in such situations. Dante’s brain sped up, and his heart turned cold. Like the enduring roaches that outlived the rest of humanity’s history. The cold metal beneath him, that of the Starsinger, mirrored his heart: cold and calculating.
“For now. Slow death’s curse. Next move is to make it to the Skull. I think the Captain we hired’s already eating stardust. I could set us into a dive for a nearby planet, but I need time,” he closed the revolver’s specialized cylinder with a sharp clasp. It was the same weapon his father had given him—the one that led him into this trade.
Rejo’s mandibles clacked in response, the eight sharp tendrils of chitin dancing across his mouth. He checked his weapon. Its coils were already hot, just like the Araki’s spirit as he shouted, “Sounds ‘ike a ride! I’ll lead the ‘arge, then follow with your ‘um leg!” Rejo, as expected, agreed to the assault on their own ship with brief hesitation.
Dante scoffed. There was a reason Rejo was here instead of back on his backwater planet. Unlike the rest of his kind—peaceful agriculturalists—Rejo was an adrenaline junkie with a penchant for exotic firearms. Critical in times like these, though it had gotten them into trouble before.
The ‘reddy’ never thought before he acted, and this attack was no different. However, amongst all those Dante had ever worked with, he did trust Rejo the most. The man idolized him, and Dante knew it.
Dante dashed out first, well aware that Rejo had no clue how to navigate to the ship’s Skull. Projectiles, beams, and radiation streaked toward the rear of his frame as he sprint-limped across the circular room to the hallway.
Without looking back, he fired off shots, the implant in his head honing his already prodigious skill. Four bodies hit the ground before his cylinder hummed empty.
Twisting around the corner, something warm and wet spread across his stomach. Dante’s back slammed against the wall as his breath came short and wheezing.
He shook his head, fighting to clear it.
Can’t die now. Can’t. Won’t. I still gotta—
Rejo snapped Dante’s eyes to focus on the chittering sound of his translated voice, “Dante? You don’t ‘ook well. Sure you’ll ‘ake it to the Skull?”
Dante nodded, confident in his temporary survival, “Yeah. Now stop asking… Just a little further… I’ve got a present for Damen’s nasty friends.”
Dante unclipped a round object from his belt with bloody fingers, the leather, and flesh beneath scorched from a laser strike. Thankfully, most creatures were terrified of augments, so only one hit him because of their shitty inaccuracy. Their bodies often rejected such things.
Humans? Some pills will cover it. There was nothing like the human body or the experiments their scientists once did to further their kind. While Dante wasn’t a Martian, the subspecies of man nigh unkillable by anything less than large ordinance, he was one tough bastard with his implants.
But Dante wasn’t thinking about that—not even about the woman who did this to him—as he tossed the fragmentation grenade down the hallway, limping toward the Skull, now only a short distance away. Instead, the smuggler, bounty hunter, and bleeding-out body cursed his shitty luck over this package.
Damned Desnovians. Pay me a hundred thousand credits to transport Dirge material!? That’s a fucking job for a Seafarer, not me or my crew. At least offer ten times the rate!
Dante’s thoughts swarmed with curses and anger. He wasn’t qualified for this. He wasn’t supernatural—just an experimental human.
I ain’t special. Can’t warp time. Can’t come back to life. Fuck, I ain’t even as tough as my old man. I’ve got an hour, maybe two, without seeing a Medrack. Let’s hope Rejo and I are fast enough.
The augments in his knees pushed him forward, tiny embedded steel and springs driving flesh step by step. Gunfire and echoes of a swift battle rang out from the attackers, ending the few who weren’t awake before chaos struck. The sounds beat against the featureless gray walls as the two ran harder than ever before.
Thankfully, the Araki sensed the ambush before they reached the next turn, “Look ahead, Dante! ‘Ive on the right.”
Dante nodded to his partner. The past thirteen months they spent togetherbuilt trust that, to his surprise, was unbroken by greed. So, he flipped his revolver over, reloading as he limped forward. The human stole the first step around the corner, aiming for shock and awe.
With adrenaline steadying his bloodied hands, Dante greeted his five ambushers with a deathly smile, “Behind you!”
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The Gorshars, with their tusks and dark skin, barely registered his words, but his trickery bought him the fraction of a second he needed. Fanning the revolver, he shot two chunks of lead into each of the three Gorshars, piercing their armor.
Screams of pain and anger filled the air before Rejo blasted one of the Gorshars’ brains with captured lightning, then slammed his recharging weapon into the last attacker—again and again.
Rejo howled at the body long after it ceased moving, “Die ‘astard! ‘Eah! Hawwh...”
Tangerine-colored blood flooded the gray hallway, reminding Dante of childhood and the sweet taste of fruit. Wooziness gripped him for a moment before the taste of blood in his mouth snapped him back to reality.
“Focus, you dimwit! Control yourself! Follow me! We have little time before whoever paid for Damen’s betrayal shows up,” Dante hauled the Araki off the body, barking orders to get him into line.
Dante pressed one hand against his unburnt wound to staunch the bleeding. Meanwhile, the other reloaded his revolver with swift precision, inserting the specialty rounds. He cursed his luck under his breath, uncertain of his future.
Fuck. If we don’t get this ship into the Lightsea soon, we’ll have a hundred more of them to kill! I swear, after this, I’m getting a new crew. Maybe I’ll fly the ship myself instead of paying for a pilot. Rejo’s a given, though. Might even give him one free betrayal pass after all this shit.
As they neared the Skull—the heart of the Starsinger—the walls shifted into interlocking plates with sealed doors on either side. Voices echoed in Dante’s ringing ears as he hinged the corner.
“Get us the fuck out of here! You have a live Godspawn onboard!? I thought it was a Qualae in an Immortal Corpse!?”
Panic locked up the augments in Dante’s legs. His bloodied hand gripped the back of Rejo’s armor as the mechanical enhancements shrieked in protest. Yet his mind stuttered worse than his failing internals.
A Godspawn. A Stareater. A Dirge. A living Qualae.
Those words echoed without a sound in Dante’s mind. The last time he’d heard of a Stareater… his father didn’t come home. His bloodied hands trembled with emotions too powerful to put into meaningful sentences. Rage. Excitement. Confusion. Horror. And greed.
Weak Godspawn, Dirge, whatever one would call them existed, of course, yet no one would smuggle them like this. Those, most often dead or captured, would be transported with small containers. Whatever was in here was strong. Very strong.
Rejo whispered to Dante, his tendrils flapping in fury and bewilderment at the human’s actions, “What are you ‘oing? They ‘ave a Godspawn! This is our chance to strike it ‘ich! No more smuggling! We ‘ould both be Seafarers in no time!!”
Dante scoffed at Rejo’s reasoning but didn’t shut him down. Everyone knows there are no bounds to human greed. But even humans at the height of their power were wary of these space leviathans
He released Rejo slowly, warning him with every inch as he said, “If we survive, maniac. I’ve been doing this for ten Standards, since I was sixteen. There’s nothing more dangerous than dealing with Qualae. They’re the Devil. We’re better off turning tail and running.”
“You ‘umans and superstition. They’re just ‘igher dimensional creatures. Nothing we can’t ‘andle or haven’t before,” Rejo said as the mighty ‘reddy’ strutted forward without fear, beckoning Dante to follow. While the Araki was right—they had fought dimensional entities before—they’d never dealt with anything from the Lightsea. That was a different beast. The strongest kind. Even their weakest were fatal in most encounters.
Dante and his ‘superstition’ halted at the corridor’s edge. His body shivered—it was the coldest he had ever felt in his life. Not even the virus he survived as a kid compared. Nor when he endured six gunshot wounds two Standards ago. Nothing compared to this.
Then he realized—this was the moment—the moment that could change everything.
He wouldn’t be just another smuggler anymore, moving cargo in constant fear of opposition, hiding from the Empires’ investigations into his race. Sure, he was skilled, but even a human was powerless against many forces in the galaxy.
He had once seen a woman turn a town-sized starship into a ball the size of a fist with flowing waters.
It all started with the Dirge of the Lightsea. Well, not with them, but they were the strongest and most prevalent of the interdimensional beings. Their dimension was the largest and most terrifying that existed. The Qualae harvested from their bodies or eggs gave Dante hope—a future with no set destination but one far better than his current life.
And so he scrambled after Rejo, ignoring his lethal wounds. Humans were tough, arguably the most resilient species in the cosmos to occur naturally. But there were limits. Blood loss, shock, and organ failure prickled at the edges of his mind.
Reaching into his pocket as his eyes scanned the Skull’s surroundings, Dante stopped to tend to his wounds. He pulled a syringe from his coat and injected pure adrenaline into his veins in tandem with a dozen other chemicals that would’ve put someone like Rejo down within seconds. He needed that boost to stand a chance against the woman waiting for him in the next room.
A long box, etched with unknown words and sigils, sat in the center of the Skull, surrounded by chairs and screens. The open window to the cosmos, showing featureless space, loomed behind Damen and his lackeys—two of whom Dante once would’ve trusted with his life. Keyword: trusted.
The Gorshar, in Dante’s muddled mind of greed, hatred, and confusion, pivoted to face him, momentarily stunned by his condition and Rejo’s sudden arrival. He pointed at them both, shouting for Yesha and Ide to kill the attackers.
Before diving for cover, Rejo spewed forked lightning from his weapon at Ide, a Gorshar much like Damen. Meanwhile, the chems boiled in Dante’s blood. Time seemed to slow, his pupils dilating, his hands steadying with unnatural firmness.
It had been months since Dante hadn’t felt the shake. He hated it. But sometimes... There were too few ways to survive than cheating.
Yesha spun the barrels on her rifle, aiming at Dante’s brow. He would admit that few shooters in the outskirts of the stars were on his level. This Irgen, with her lithe body and scaled tail, was one of them.
Nevertheless...
Dante was a cheater. Anything to win. Anything to survive. Anything to reach the center of the galaxy. Anything. Absolutely anything. He would degrade himself, ruin himself, and even push himself to the razor’s edge of oblivion.
Why?
He oft asked himself that very question. Yet, he had no solution to such a complex equation.
Dante’s revolver rose with such swiftness that Yesha only fired one shot in response. His augments alongside the drugs overpowered his blood loss and injuries. As a result, the Irgen woman collapsed to the ground, twin holes in her eyes.
Dead.
A projectile slammed into Dante’s left side, tearing away a chunk of his flesh, but he didn’t slow. Step by step, he advanced on Damen while Rejo kept the other former ally occupied. He should’ve known better. Friends were never easy to come by.
Friendships, lasting ones, were formed by debts of blood, life, and inexorable circumstances. All those on this ship, except for one, received payment instead of companionship. Money meant little to one’s lifeblood; seldom would someone not turn to the highest bidder.
At least he still had Rejo, the strange Araki, who possessed a dozen first names and a barely comprehensible accent.
With a gasp of desperation, Damen reached for Irgen’s rifle, but Dante shot his left hand before he could get close. Then, careful not to kill the cowardly rat, he smashed Damen’s skull with the handle of his revolver. Bones cracked in the air as thick orange fluid leaked down his grayish skin.
Damen damn near pissed himself, throwing up his hands in dismay while he said, “Wait! Wait! Don’t kill me! I can help you!”
Dante grinned, sanguine fluid pooling on the colorless steel beneath him as he pointed at the box behind Damen. The sounds of Rejo winning his fight filled him with satisfaction, but the dread of what lay inside the box overshadowed them. Dante didn’t recall allowing that thing on board.
“How can you help me? By sneaking a Godspawn onto my ship? By lying and deceiving my entire crew about what we were transporting? Clever, hiding the goods beneath the chems. You knew I wouldn’t touch them. Addiction and all,” Dante spat out his hatred, staring down the soon-to-be-dead man who used to oversee the smuggling of goods without a shred of concern for his own life.
Often, Dante couldn’t stand to look at the things he smuggled. But he had limited choices. There weren’t many jobs for humans. And now, it had all led to staring down at this pitiful shitstain of a man.
The Gorshar, with one broken tusk and the other bejeweled, babbled promises to save his hide, “No, no, no! You don’t understand! They forced me! The Federation of Flesh—”
“You’re working with those psychos? The ones who worship Stareaters?” Dante said sharply, cutting him off.
Damen shook his head, then nodded begrudgingly. It seemed he might tell part of the truth as he spoke, “Yes... not willingly. They... they have my daughter. Said she was talented with Tides. I didn’t know who they were until... yeah. Just... kill me. Better that than—"
The forlorn father’s voice trailed off as the strength drained from his shoulders, leaving his words unfinished.
But Dante was not done yet. He roughly snatched the man’s knotted hair, forcing him to respond, “What? Better than what? Is there something wrong with the Dirge?!”
A grim smile met the human’s chem-laced breath before the last of a dying species lost his cool, partly because of his drug-fueled rampage and because of the meaning behind that smile. A fist smashed into Damen’s face thrice before his breathing stopped and his eyes closed.
Broken and misshapen, Damen crumpled to the floor as Rejo touched Dante’s trembling shoulder. Dante spun around, his fury scarcely contained, but he reined it in before striking his only ally on the Starsinger.
Despite his lust for battle, Rejo seemed concerned for Dante. His gaze flicked to the blood dripping from the human and asked, “What’s wrong?”
A bouquet of laughter escaped Dante as he stumbled toward the screens in the center of the room. He struggled to reach the pilot’s seat, shoving aside the body of the pilot he had hired. He hated flying, especially into the Lightsea. It brought back unsavory memories from when the drugs had their worst hold on him.
But... now was not the time for such recollections.
Dante glanced at Rejo, then back at the coffin-shaped box, an almost fatalistic acceptance settling over him, “Most Qualae are dead, ready to be harvested, but this one’s alive. We don’t even know what kind it is. It’s special—and only one thing could be wrong with a live Dirge like this,” sweat dripped from his brow as he spoke their ill fate aloud. “It’s not sealed right. Maybe it can’t even be sealed. That means...”
The beetroot color drained from Rejo’s face as even the fearless warrior understood Dante’s following words, “Its mother will come. And the Federation are the only ones insane enough to invade with Dirge. We’re one Solar away from Cisey, the Sector furthest on the border and a hub for travel.”
Rejo dropped into a seat, eyes fixed on the coffin, scanning for any sign of leakage with desperation. He found none, but he wasn’t an expert. No one he knew was.
The Araki confronted the silent human, pleading with him for how to live, as he spoke, “What ‘hen? Damen’s men are still ‘oming, and who knows when the mother will show? I... I don’t want my brain ‘urned to slush and my body ‘arvested for conceptual organs. It’s not a ‘eautiful ‘eath! You ‘otta know something, Dante. You ‘ways do.”
The translation device in Dante’s brain glitched, as usual, while the Araki prayed for survival.
Dante avoided looking at Rejo, but answered him anyway, tapping instructions into the ship’s guidance system and leaving bloody fingerprints with every press while he said, “We’re entering the Lightsea with no protection. If we’re lucky, the parent will take its child while we traverse the higher dimension. And the ones coming after us will be slowed down. If we’re unlucky...”
He left the rest unsaid as the ship began to hum and pulse with energy. The ship overrode its controls under Dante’s ministrations and deactivated the shields used for traveling through the Lightsea, one of the most dangerous regions in all realities. A typical suicide move for failed captains.
Rejo stared into Dante’s eyes as the man stood again, the chems driving him forward to death’s landing. Rejo searched for any sign of dishonesty or bluffing, but found none. With a resigned exhale, he raised his weapon toward the open gateway and stated, “Sit your ass ‘ack down. I’ll ‘old them off. Get us the fuck out of ‘ere.”
Rushing footsteps echoed in the distance, panicked and frantic over the pilot’s choices. They had assumed Dante and Rejo would die at the Skull, especially with Dante injured and shaking, given that Yesha had bested them in every competition over the past Standard. They had underestimated the tenacity of a final human.
Dante’s gaze drifted from the coffin and the display screens to the glass outside the Starsinger. His mind wandered into the great beyond as colors stretched and shadows dissolved. The vast cosmos vanished, replaced by every vibrant shade imaginable as strange creatures drifted beyond the sturdy glass.
He couldn’t tear his gaze from the Lightsea, the drugs narrowing his focus to a pin’s spike. The coffin beside him rattled. Then it did again, with more force this time. Whatever was inside begged to be released. Despite it, he didn’t move. He knew he should have. But he didn’t.
His body trembled with unseen agony, an unfulfilled promise, and the presence of something monstrous. His mind had one sole thought as his body broke down.
It’s already here.
Twelve taps of... something horrific landed on his shoulders as the waves of the Lightsea tore into his body. It shouldn’t have been possible—the glass hadn’t broken—but Dante’s flesh and bones felt like putty under the pressure. An incomprehensible mind invaded his own. The words…
The words weren’t meant to be understood, not by any mortal creature—least of all Dante Penance. Pure, raw, unfiltered misery surged through his brain, searing its way through him, forcing change. Forcing understanding. Something inside him... would never be the same, and the being didn’t care.
Flashes of cursed faces, ruined bodies, and desolate planets wove their way into his mind. A mint-green sea the size of countless suns burnt his irises while a tidal wave of blood engulfed an entire city, devouring its inhabitants before spiraling around him at the apex. Above, there was crimson. Below, there was darkness. In his hands, though, there was...
There was...
There was understanding.
“What delicious suffering. A shadow lengthened, a life prolonged. For now. I find you to be a treat. More than that, you will be useful as a favor. A fly leaping from rat to rat. May my children enjoy the pangs of you and yours for a while longer.”