Rise

"Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say. That is why it is up to us to discover their remains."

Such was the creed that each human aboard the ship repeated to themselves as it sped into the vast black void past the fringes of the galaxy, where mankind had yet to extend its ever restless reach. But this was not the adventurous journey endeavored by soldiers of fortune--of gallant swashbucklers venturing into the unknown to try their hand at snatching destiny from the jaws of fate. The people aboard this steel cylinder hurtling through space were not nearly so magnificent or splendid. They were uneasy and anxious, huddled into small cots while shivering in the subzero freeze of the cosmos, or seated at corner tables of the steel and aluminum mess hall, spooning colorless gruel into their mouths.

This was no glorious crusade. This was a death march. And I resented my father for the lies with which he had coaxed me aboard.

They say that space swallows all sound. But a scream is how new life often awakes. Not elegantly, as a swan emerging from the depths of darkness unseen from behind leafy drapes; nor does it inspire awe in the heart as a whale breaching the surface of deep water. No, new life breaks through the film of the unborn and into the verisimilitude of the world unattractively, uncouthly, with a wail or a whimper, squalling and shrieking to draw to it whoever might be listening, comforting caretaker and stalking predator alike. That is why in the wild the weak are left behind, so that their betters may be unburdened.

And that is how the first man died, without so much as a whimper.

They bore upon him in near glee while he slept, though the youngest among the butchers were at first reluctant. But with the urgings of their fathers and mothers, they swooped down upon him as carrion crows would on dying prey, and they cast his tattered remains into the depths of space. When they had gone, I emerged from my hiding place in the control panel of our room, and I watched through the window as icicles slowly crystallized along every orifice of the man's corpse. His lifeless form would linger there forever, for space does not operate by the laws of physics to which we of the Earth are accustomed.

And as I gazed into my uncle's face, warped in a soundless scream, I wondered what thoughts had passed through his mind when he saw his brother amongst those who had so eagerly dragged him into that long, endless night.

In the morning, Father and I break our fasts. He eats well, as if he has just finished a laborious task of great import. Seeing the gruel dribble from the corners of his mouth as he sates himself makes me wonder if I have ever truly known the man I called Father.

"We are the Couriers," he says as he tears at his loaf of hardened bread. "The Harbingers of life and light. Do not doubt the Calling."

I stare deep into the grey of my gruel, the surface glassy and smooth. I cannot bring myself to answer. There are many others around us, sitting at their tables. They are laughing and consorting as friends--it is as if their collective viciousness just days before have injected them with a newfound ecstasy for life aboard this ship. I wonder how they are so numb, so willing to do all as the Herald commands.

"You doubt," Father says. His chewing has ceased--he no longer gorges on his food. I can feel the weight of his gaze; the silence suggests his distaste at the morose manner of my person since my uncle's passing. I dare not lift my head and risk earning farther ire.

"No matter," Father says finally. "By the end of our journey, you cannot doubt. And if you are worthy, you will understand."

I hold my breath as he takes his tray and stands. I wait until I no longer feel Father's presence in the mess hall. Only then do I breathe freely. I lift my head slowly. Cautiously I rise, and I hurry to the lifts which will take me to the top floor. The hallways leading to them, which were in previous days crowded with those pining for the observation decks, are now bare and empty. The others are reveling below in their newfound camaraderie, of which I do not share with them. A strange feeling wriggles within my mind, warning me that to separate myself from the rest of the crew in this way is foolishness; but I cannot easily forget the sights of my uncle's last moments.

I soon find myself sitting inside the glass dome of the observation deck, gazing out into the endless black ocean as the stars rush by me like tendrils of white light. Every so often the ship will reverse its thrusters and slow its speed. Here I see the planets that the Navigators will be marking on their records. The world I see before me now is a green one, splotched with blue. Again, I note, as so many times before, that there never was, and never will be, a planet as our beloved Earth had been.

"Mako-112," someone says.

I turn and see a lithe boy behind me. His shoulders are stooped, his face smeared in grease. An Engineer, I think, emerged out of his steel prison to immerse himself in the freedom of the unimaginable infinity. He sits beside me on the bench.

"Yes," I agree. "Mako-112. It's still here."

"Fortunately," the boy says.

"In some ways," I posit. "It means the journey must go on."

The boy is silent for a short moment, before asking me a question. "Are you a Voyager?"

"Yes."

"The First Affirmation was yesterday. But you have come up here, alone, instead of remaining below with the others."

I swallow. "Yes."

The boy nods knowingly. "Then the journey will be a long one for you, I'm afraid."

"Why?" I ask.

He remains silent.

I decide to press him for answers. I feel his wariness surrounding him like a mist, however, so I must tread carefully. "Is this your first journey?"

"No," he says. I cannot believe that he is a veteran of many journeys--his face is so young, as if he has just climbed out of boyhood and hangs on awkwardly at the precipice of becoming an adult.

He suddenly stands. "You make it too obvious that this is your first journey." He makes to leave. Just before he enters the lift, he turns back. "When the time comes, give yourself willingly, and it will go well for you. The more you resist, the less like your old self you will end up." He watches me with glazed eyes as the steel doors of the elevator close, leaving me bewildered and unnerved.

Screams, you see, are mostly mechanisms of defense. A way to project and convey the intensity of emotion, a response to a danger or a threat, or a way to stamp out resistance. But a scream works both ways. A scream may elicit a scream--the prey becomes aware of the danger before their demise, no matter how short of a window that might be. In that time they may rise to the defense, or conjure some escape for themselves. That is why one must permeate, infiltrate, shift the balances and scales without the other even realizing it. Because, you see, the most effective organisms are not those who claim themselves at the top of the food pyramid, for they are always threatened--one can only remain king for so long, before another usurps its place. You must infiltrate your foe, diffuse yourself through them, steer their course deliberately by single degrees so minuscule that by the end they shall believe that they arrived at the destination which you intended for them of their own will. These sorts are the entities which flourish and thrive, whether their opponents will it or not.

The second person was sacrificed that night. She was a mother of two, and yet she wore not even a grimace as her son and daughter both drove their blades into her body. Her eyes appeared rapturous, and as the life seeped out of her like curling wisps of smoke, she began chanting in a tone of voice that will haunt me forever.

I stumbled out of the chamber soon afterwards. Her manner of death had differed so starkly from that of my uncle's. Even the demeanor of those who had partook had been as different as night and day. With my uncle it had been as if they had fallen into crazed depravity; with this woman, however, it seemed almost...ceremonious.

It seemed as if I were standing still, but the halls were passing me by. I stretched my hand to feel their surface, then quickly drew them back in as a torrent of people rushed past me. My head felt too light, my feet too heavy. When I awoke on the floor of my room, I did not know how I had found my way back. Though my body felt as if it were made of lead, I climbed onto my cot and hid under the sheets.

I woke to the blaring of sirens. I stumbled out of bed and dressed into my uniform. When I stepped into the corridor, it was already overflowing with members of the ship, all headed in the same direction. We were all garbed in the same green and white. Many beat their breasts as they poured into the vaulted chamber at the fore of the ship, and all sang until the place was transformed into some hallowed hall echoing with the frenzied chorus of creed. I make my way to a corner, to distance myself from the commotion as best I can.

The Herald steps onto the platform, trailed by his many attendants. They are both garbed and masked in silver. Behind him is a wall of glass, concave in form, beyond which can be seen the blackness of space and the celestial bodies which speckle its depths. It is an awesome sight, and the Herald truly seems as one who speaks the will of the cosmos. He spreads his hands and waves them as if he speaks, turning this way and that, facing his fiery followers. Many fall onto their faces or drop to their knees, and I can keenly feel the fervent atmosphere. Some in the audience even begin to openly weep.

But I stare only in confusion, for I can hear nothing. The Herald, to me, appears as if he is merely engaging in pantomime. I shuffle as far back into the shadows as I may, fearful of the crazed excitement surrounding me. I take a step towards the doors to make my escape, and suddenly all heads turn toward me. The hall has fallen silent. The weight of their perception makes it hard to breathe. There is only the faint sound of boots clicking against the floor, and I realize that Father is walking towards me.

"It is time," he says when he stands before me. He offers me his hand.

"Time for what?" I ask fearfully.

"We have found them. It is our turn, mine and yours, to make the final journey."

As if they can sense my hesitation, the others begin closing in around us like a mob thronging the condemned. I can see in their eyes the passion which borders on vehemence, and I try to yank my arm back despite my reservations. Father tightens his grip around my hand, and I know I can no longer escape.

I board the corvette with Father, and we are soon sailing into the star-filled sea. We lose sight of the mothership to our rear, and I can feel the emptiness of the cosmos pressing its weight on all sides. Amidst the blackness of space, I understand the terror of insignificance.

Our communication systems begin to burble the cry of drowning static. Father adjusts the knobs so that we may better understand what is being spoken.

"C-121, C121, do you copy?"

"This is C-121, copy," Father answers.

"We are now sending the coordinates of Maya-24 to your navigation systems, over."

"Then Maya-24 is our target? Over."

I feel much sorrow at the mention of Maya-24's destruction. I had heard much of that planet, and of how the Magistrates long believed that it was destined to be the second home of the human race after Earth's untimely destruction--that it was a place with as much life and beauty such as we had never seen for generations.

"It is. The Herald wishes you and your child good fortune. Over."

There is a last gurgle, and silence reigns once more.

At length, it is Father who finally speaks.

"When we reach Maya-24, do not fear what you may see. And remember, that I have also once undertaken this task, and that I have returned alive, albeit changed."

I swallow. "What death did the planet suffer?"

Father does not answer for a long moment. "Do you remember your mother?"

"Every day," I answer.

"She was a biologist. The finest the Institution had ever seen."

"She was a protozoologist. It is different, Father."

"Very well." Father carefully steers the corvette through a field of debris--the rocks are pocked and stained black, like the stones which remain following a volcanic eruption. Father is skilled. He guides the ship, using the swaying of the thrusters and the movements of its own weight to glide us through without accident or injury.

We again fly in silence. We have ventured far past the comforts of civilization--ahead of us, I cannot even see the silver stars, nor are there other awesome sights of the galaxy. We are alone and unknown.

"There are some things," Father begins suddenly, "which may at first seem dangerous and deadly, but once taken in and consumed, may elevate one past the restraints of their current selves. Many fear to take that step."

"Yes," I say quietly. "Mother spoke of them often. Protozoan lifeforms which bind themselves to host DNA and alter it so that one might, arguably, advance themselves in some ways." I say this merely to satisfy Father. Mother also warned me of this terrible dichotomy. This parasite consumes its prey slowly in the mind while changing the host's appearance. But the mode of transfer of this deadly creature is through that which is the most carnal of human lusts--and so the benefits it sows is for its own survival, and not for the betterment of its host--that it may spread unchecked through an unsuspecting populace consumed by their biological urges.

"She spoke of it often, but she was not partial to the creed of we Voyagers," Father says bitterly. "But they are so similar. How one so learned could be so blind!" He gives me a rageful look. "Be not deceived by the seduction of knowledge, for it may in fact blind one to the truth!"

He suddenly stands and takes me by the nape of my neck. I hold my breath so that I do not cry out in pain and displease him.

"Come, child!" Father opens the shaft which leads into the descent pods. He drags me through, and I stumble along.

"Father, I can walk myself!" I cry.

"No! For your heart may quail in that very last moment." He turns to me, and I see the light of madness in his eyes. "You cannot conceal from me your blindness to the truth! Do you think that I did not know that you were deaf to the Herald's voice? Where the rest of us heard, that you did not? That is why he has chosen you, my child! That your eyes may be opened, that you may be enlightened, that you may become as one with the rest of us!"

We stand at the entrance to the descent pod. "The others have left the path for its arrival," Father says in a pained voice. "I leave the last stone. Do not let it be in vain."

With a whoosh, the doors slide open, and Father throws me in. I fall on my face, and I hear the doors shut once more. I look up in horror to see that Father has not entered with me. He wears a look of solemnity, and tears glisten in his eyes. But these things do not touch me. No, I feel the sting of fear deep within my being. For Father does not show these things out of love, but from creed. He wore the same look the night my uncle was slain.

I am thrown back against the wall of the pod as it launches from the corvette. I see the grey ship fall away from me, or am I falling away from it? I nearly lose myself to the madness of despair in that moment. I stumble onto my feet and look out the window to make out where I am headed. Far above me, I can see the shape of a planet. I am hurtling towards it at great speed, and it grows in size before my eyes. I am unable to speak at the horror of what I soon see.

It is Maya-24, as my radar indicates. But it is not the second earth others made it out to be, the Elysium which would shelter our kind for another hundred thousand generations. This planet is dead, rotting from the inside, blackened and shrouded in a deathly cosmic mist of poisonous gases. There is not a single speck of color in that cracked, grey sphere of decay--but it is not the planet which petrifies me.

Connected to Maya-24, I can now see, is a black arm, shimmering and wriggling like writhing oil. It makes sense to me now, why there were no stars to be seen in our view during the journey here. Before me is a curtain of some kind, blocking out the sights behind it. No, I am not even sure if it is a curtain, or if it is just a vast, infinite ocean which has swallowed all before it and merely continues unabated on its path, swallowing everything with no regard for it, reducing the wills and cycles of lives on entire planets to insignificance. It wriggles like a billion worms clawing at the air to inch forward meticulously in this vacuum of space--and I am headed towards it, with no control over my pod and the course it hurtles on.

It is then that I hear a voice in the depths of my mind. Your voice.

I have waited long, for you. Come, surrender yourself, and learn.

"Give myself willingly, and it will go easy for me," I say.

Come the end.

"And I will understand." I close my eyes.