Chapter 5 - The Scrubland

Galameis arrives at the planet Aterakarus, where he was told to seek his glory.

Verginius Star System 

Planet Aterakarus

Orbit above the Aterakarian Mainland. 

When the Pacifist Union shot Galameis from orbit, to crash onto Planet Pieria, many of the systems crucial for space travel had been irreparably destroyed or lost entirely. Great pieces of the hull had been torn off, and the majority of the Vanderdrones (crucial for dampening the massive forces of inertia) had been fried by the Union’s electrolasers and broken down. When the umbrakinetic matriarch had rebuilt the ship, she had syphoned material from the surrounding hull to replace parts that had been lost, sacrificing some of its integrity. Galameis lost consciousness time and time again on the five-day journey from one side of the solar system to the other. They were going much slower than the speed of light, although still fast enough that they barrelled through anything in their path. 

When they finally reached Planet Aterakarus, the ship cruised into orbit, and finally lost power. Like Pieria, Aterakarus was controlled by the Pacifist Union, who again had constructed an artificial ring system around the planet. Compared to Pieria’s ring system, which resembled an intricate spiderweb wrapped around a trapped fly, Aterakarus’ rings were minimal. It was a single band, jutting out from the planet. Pacifist ships floated around it in various states of construction, though none looked operable. Most were little more than skeletons, comprised of minerals mined from the planet below. A single drifted through orbit, but otherwise the upper atmosphere was quiet and empty. 

Which had made Galameis easy to notice. 

There was no attempt at communication this time. Galameis had lost his tablet, so even if the Ozlones had tried, they’d have had no way to reach him. One of the ring’s many cannons twinkled red, there was a flash of lightning, and Galameis’ ship fell apart around him. 

Lamia was torn away, her light body tossed to the wind while Galameis fell. The voice in his head, screaming indignantly, sounded to Galameis like white noise, mostly drowned out by the roar of rushing wind. He tumbled through the cloud layers, through burning sunlight and waves of hot, wet air. Below, far below, a red desert blossomed, criss-crossed by farmland. 

Galameis stared at his hands, wondering dimly what his body would do this time. How would it attempt to adapt and save him from falling, not understanding that Galameis would survive regardless. His hands were hard, and calloused. The skin had blackened at some point, though to what end Galameis couldn’t remember. Since then, splotches of white had grown, as though the pigments had died once and for all. Since his last fall from orbit, the fingers had grown long and spindly, like a bat’s wing, and the skin was so thin that he could see the tendons flex beneath. He had bitten his nails short, and they had grown back wrong; they dug into his flesh, making it red and tender. It made his fingers hurt to touch anything at all, but not enough that it prompted his body to repair itself. Once, fed up, Galameis had taken a fruit knife and tried to cut his fingers off completely, on the hope that they would grow back in their original condition. It had been harder than he’d thought; the pain had robbed him of both his strength and his resolve, and every cut scarred over before he could finish. Eventually he managed to completely saw off one of his fingers, but when it grew back the ingrown nail had returned as well. 

His nails seemed to be aching particularly badly now. Galameis tried to pick at them, first with his fingers and then his teeth, and from his thumbnail he ripped the top layer away. It hurt so much that he let out a cry, immediately swallowed up by the raging wind. Through his watering eyes, Galameis held up his thumb to inspect the damage, and found his nail had already grown back, and then some. It had thickened and lengthened, curving over the tip of his thumb as though to shield it. Then, as he watched, the nail started to grow backwards, extending back toward his hand. It grew to about five centimetres in length, then stopped, and another nail sprouted below it. The other fingers followed suit, and soon nails covered his hand like a keratin gauntlet, articulating so tightly that it hurt to move at all. More nails rose from under his skin, spreading up his arms and across his chest, up his neck and over his face. They grew all across his body, even over his eyes, shutting out the light. They straightened his limbs and locked them. They covered him like quills, or a suit of armour, but it was one that Galameis did not want to wear. He would survive the fall regardless of what armour he grew. He had survived worse, and according to the matriarch only a blow from Sator Electus could kill him. This keratin armour would do nothing to help, only obscure his vision and hamper his movement. He tried to force his arms to move, to reach up and break open his eyes, so at least he would see again. His armour resisted, and snapped in a dozen places. Then a shard pierced his flesh, and he jerked his arms back in automatic response. His body, determined to resist him, grew more nails to replace those broken off, and Galameis was back to where he started, only now with a two-inch nail stabbed through his arm. He started to cry. 

Then He hit the ground. 

***

“Fado? Dofa misolresi misilado, dofasolsi?”

“Misidore. Solfa soldo lasollare misolresi midomisi domisido fa domifare. Re misolmisol, dofa redofafa!”

Galameis lay, uncomprehending, on the ground. The red, rusty sand was hot, and much of it had been incorporated into his body when he’d healed, following his landing. Now his body was attempting to expel it, forcing the grains out through his skin like particularly painful beads of sweat. And Galameis didn’t know if he had the strength to move any more. 

A few pairs of arms grabbed him roughly, and pushed him over so that he was lying on his back. The sun above was so bright that he couldn’t open his eyes. He tried to hold up his hand to block it out, but his arms were too long, and the muscles hadn’t finished growing back yet. 

“[Translated from Imperial Esperanto]” he croaked. 

The other’s paused. 

“Soldosol?”

“Volapuk solresol?”

“Do. Esperanto Solresol.”

“Doflla Siremifa,” 

“Do lasolfasol, dofa misilado, mimisolmi.”

“Domi do dofadofa mire. Dofa misidomi lasi Sirere.”

“Dore solsifala.”

There was a crunch of sand as a pair of shoes stepped away. For a moment Galameis worried that they would leave him, but then the crunching sound returned. Pain broke out in his arm; someone was scraping at his skin. Galameis felt himself begin to bleed, but only for a moment. 

“Dofalala.” The assailant muttered, as the blood retracted back into Galameis’ body. They redoubled his efforts, scrubbing at Galameis’ arm until the skin shredded. As he worked, a shadow fell across Galameis’ face, and he finally managed to open his eyes. Three figures crowded around him, tightly wrapped in robes to ward off the sun. Two looked like humans, probably Aterakarian natives. The third was tall and spindly, with a long dark mane spilling from the back of his collar. He clutched a rifle in his hands, while the humans were unarmed. An Ozlone, Galameis realised. 

The human who had ripped Galameis’ arm open with a rough, metal gauntlet, straighted up and gave the bloody glove a lick. He shuddered, then doubled over and vomited. 

“Solsisimi.” He muttered. “Mimidore misilado. Milasila misilado.”

“Dodore mi sirere?” Asked the Ozlone. 

“Dodore re sirere.” The Aterakarian muttered. 

The Ozlone sighed. “Dore silafa solresol esperanto.”

The Ozlone knelt down beside Galameis. 

“” the Ozlone asked, in very awkward Imperial Esperanto. He paused a moment, searching for words, then poked Galameis in the shoulder. “”

Galameis just stared. The Ozlone’s Esperanto was so fractured, and Galameis’ mind so foggy, that the words didnt seem to make sense. What did he want?

Relief flooded Galameis. The voice in his head was back. He wasn’t alone. 

“” Galameis said. “”

“Dofa mirefado?” asked one of the sorcerers. 

“Dore solsimisol, dofa mifala mirelafa siresolmi. Lasolmido.”

“Mireremi. Mirelafa siresolmi soldosi.”

The Ozlone barked a laugh. “Sido domi dofadofa? Domi do dofadofa domi simisido.”

For a moment there was silence. 

“Dore dosolsisol dofa fa siresolmi.”

“Misisolsi.” 

And with that, the group grabbed him roughly, and hauled him up. They dragged him for a few metres, before dumping him into the back of a ute. As they climbed into the front, and the truck rumbled to life, something heavy dropped onto him. Blinded by the sun, Galameis felt the object that had dropped onto him, and realised that it was Lamia. 

“” he whispered, running his fingers through her her wirey fur as she curled up beside him. 

said the voice in his head.

***

Galameis waited out the drive in a fitful doze. He felt exhausted, but proper sleep eluded him. Whenever he seemed to be drifting off, flashes of the matriarch’s vision stirred him to wakefulness again. 

His skin prickled. Galameis was still injured, and though his body was attempting to repair itself, he had lost a good portion of his mass when he’d hit the ground. There was only so many cells to go round, and those areas which had a seemingly ample supply were cannibalised. In an attempt to acquire new material, he had stopped exhaling. The carbon dioxide, oxygen and water vapour that was normally expelled with every breath, was instead being retained, and converted into triglycerides. It was the reverse of a process which normally expelled fat cells, and just one asset of his body’s magical affinity for self-healing. The Grey, Caesius, had told him as much, several lifetimes ago. 

There was however not much mass in the air. Some food would have been better, or perhaps even a soft blanket. 

Despite slowing down every few hours, as they passed through a town, the truck only stopped once that day prior to their final destination. They had pulled up outside a pub, on whose open-air deck several people were drinking, eating, and watching two small birds fight to the death in a cage hanging from the ceiling. One of the Susceptor in the front of the ute had ventured inside, returning several minutes later with a translator for Galameis The man had shifted between what seemed like every language Galameis had ever heard, and more besides, but nothing the man said spurred Galameis to speak back. In the end, the translator gave it up as a bad job, returned to his drink, and the ute pulled away. 

By the time they slowed again, darkness had fallen. Galameis supposed there was no twilight on this part of the planet, or else that it had passed remarkably quickly. For a moment he toyed with the notion that perhaps he had slept a while after all, while above him the six stars which marked the Empire twinkled innocently, deceptively. 

The car rocked and bumped, and finally came to a complete stop again. The people in the front got out, doors slammed shut, and a pair of huge, rough hands grabbed Galameis and plucked him from the back. They belonged to a golem, a humanoid creature comprised of dust and rock, animated by a terrakinetic. This one was only slightly taller than Galameis itself, with long, spindly arms, the right of which had four joints along its length, the left of which had no joints but was planted into the ground as a brace. The Susceptor who brought him there were already marching away, deep in talk. Before them stood a great mesa, rising like a mountain with sheer slopes on all sides, as though a giant had constructed it from a bucket of sand. A cable car ran up its side, powered by a crank operated by another golem, which led straight through the wide open gates of an enormous castle, built of the same red stone as the mesa, so that it melded seamlessly. The party crowded in, with Galameis dumped unceremoniously on the floor. 

The Susceptor who had tasted Galameis’ blood, turned to him. “Sisidore fa domifare lalafasol.” She said, clicking her fingers. Galameis lost consciousness. 

A similar click of fingers brought him back round again, though it was quickly apparent that a lot of time had passed. They were no longer in the cable car, but in a long, high-ceilinged room, unfurnished aside from the long rock tables down it’s centre, which appeared to have sprouted from the floor like mushrooms. There were no windows on the walls, but enchanted violet fire burned from torches every few metres, around which fantastic rock and crystal formations grew into spiralling patterns. There was a crowd of people in the hall, beyond count, but they were standing back against the walls, as though clearing a space for him. Galameis stood up. His legs still felt worryingly feeble but at least they supported him. He glanced around. The gathered people, most of whom seemed to be Susceptor, cast him furtive looks. The few Anglon, plain-skinned, non-magical Susceptor, looked downright alarmed. Had he… had he already become Tyrant? Had his memory failed him, as it sometimes did, blacking out the previous months in which he rose to prominence? He took a breath, preparing to call out to his people, to give a command. What command, he did not know, but a ruler acted with instinct, so it was with confidence that he opened his mouth. But his words died in his throat as he realised another man stood in the centre of the room, atop one of the stone tables. He was dressed lavishly, in a rust-coloured cloak that shone in the light of the torches, a waistcoat that seemed to be made of liquid gold, and thick boots that rang with the sound of steel whenever he took a step. His face and hands, the only skin that was visible, had a dark chimeric banding across them. When he spoke, it was in a language that Galameis didn’t understand, and by the confused glances amongst the gathered crowd, it was unknown to them as well. 

“There you are, good as new.” He called, as he walked back and forth down the table, seemingly unaware or just uncaring that no one could understand a word he spoke. “Now, what do they call you? Remi resisolre… uh, lasilami?”

Galameis, completely at a loss, just stared at the man, who he now recognised must surely be the tyrant of planet Aterakarus. Thats why the crowd was waiting on bated breath, they were anticipating the fight which would decide their highest ruler. 

“Bugger.” The tyrant babbled, before gesturing at one of the people waiting against the walls. “Dosolsisol dore friggin soldolsol ladosol.” 

Several of the onlookers hastened to comply, and within several minutes they had returned, this time clutching a thick book bound with red leather. The tyrant grabbed this and began to rifle through it. Evidently it was a translation dictionary, for with its help the tyrant began to speak a very fragmented version of Imperial Esperanto. 

“Kio… estas… uh, kio estas via… via nomo.” He said, and though it was a shaky first attempt, Galameis finally understood. 

“

“So your name is Galaxy, hey?” the tyrant said, again using that strange foreign language. “What a dumb name. I’ll call you Obb.” 

The tyrant rounded on Galameis. “So you want to fight me for rule of the Doladola-dodore?” he consulted his dictionary again. “” He flipped through the dictionary again, and cursed. “”

Galameis smirked. He couldn’t help it. The tyrant didn’t know the Esperanto word for mesa. 

“Tablo.” Galameis informed him. The tyrant bristled. 

“Ah f**k off.” He muttered, again in that strange language, and before Galameis could move a rock came zooming out of nowhere to strike him across the face. Galameis fell backward, more from shock than the force of the blow, but when he straightened up he realised the rock had broken his skull, though not badly. It had almost healed already, although multiple rock chips had been healed over and incorporated into his scalp, by the feel of it. 

“Ni batalas nun!” the tyrant said. We fight now.

“Vi mortas nun.” Galameis said in retort. The tyrant, seemingly not needing a dictionary to work out what Galameis had said, snarled. Galameis raised his fists. He would have preferred to use his zweihänder, but was more than happy to rip this man apart with just his hands. He’d done it before. But before he had taken two steps forward, the tyrant and gestured at the wall, and summoned another stone from the wall. Twisting his hands, he fashioned it into a buzzsaw, which shot toward Galameis as fast as a bullet. Galameis’ last thought, before the blade him him, was that it was a futile gesture. He had seen his death, the umbrakinetic had shown it to him. Galameis was destined to die at the hands of an Inferma. This Susceptor was no more threat to him than the wind was to the castle. 

Then the buzzsaw split his head from his shoulders. Galameis’ world span for a moment, and then there was his body, his naked, grotesque body, trembling on its feet. It tried to steady itself, but fell. Galameis’ vision dissolved.