The vast expanse of space stretched infinitely in every direction. The stars were nothing more than small spatters on the black canvas, shimmering defiantly against the eternal dark. Most of them glowed only fainty with a cold, distant light but others burned with a fierce, fiery glow. The HMS Valor held close to a blue marble of a gas giant surrounded by scores upon scores of moons. The system glowed from the light of a pitiful white dwarf the data pads logged as Mecutsunuh. He found it to be an old Tamarian word meaning "he who sits on the edge of the fire” or, more colloquially, “Old Boy.” He could not help but wonder if the faint pale glow of Old Boy reached as far as the skies of the Citadel on New Regala. If Tyr looked up towards a starry night wondering where he was. “Stay,” Tyr had begged, and Dahar had refused to listen. Calm, collected, obedient. 

         “There’s nothing out here.” 

         “That's not for you to say,” replied Corman. The older technomancer hadn’t bothered to lift his head from his data pad, brow furrowing as he tapped away. “The sooner we finishing cataloging this system the sooner we move on.” 

          Dahar could only stifle his annoyance that he released in a heavy sigh. Calm, collected, obedient. A mantra that had been beaten so hard into his skull by the teachers on New Regala that he feared his mind itself had been dented. 

          “Move on to what? Another empty system? More moons to scan and log until our minds become dull and soft?” demanded Dahar. 

          “If your mind loses its edge, it is because of your own shortcomings. Our mission is our creed, and our creed is the word of Primate Lorlyle until we return to the Citadel. Consider it a kindness I tolerate your bickering to begin with.” Corman had an old craggy face, carved from stone and made for frowns and disapproval. The crown jewel was a metal beak of a nose encrusted with dark red gems and lined with gold.  

          “If a blind man were leading himself off a cliff, would it not be our duty to save him?” asked Dahar.  

          “Is it Lorlyle you fear for or yourself acolyte?” Questioned Corman. Dahar felt a sudden flush of heat to his face. 

           “I have earned my steel, and I will not have my ability questioned!” He recalled what Styx had said the night before—the anger, the threats. Not threats, Dahar thought, promises. “It’s the Rangers–” 

          “Obedient dogs not worth a second of our time to fraternize with.” Corman raised his beak to demonstrate his disapproval. “Steelborn you are, Dahar, but a novice you might always be.” 

          Coldly, he turned and walked back towards the living quarters. Dahar twisted the metal dial on his ear, listening for any mutterings the old man might let slip, but he strode off in silence, leaving Dahar alone with his anger and the black abyss he had no choice but to become familiar with. Space had been his only true companion on their journey. Everyone else on the Valor was either old and bitter or cold and inferior.  

          It had been nearly three months since they departed from Hon Outpost and well over two months since their resupply at Rigi Station. That had been the last time Dahar had seen anyone outside of the five other crewmates. I should’ve relished it more, he thought. He would have relished every lecture, every drink and every jape with his friends, and above all else he would have spent countless more hours with Tyr.   

           Dahar expected more when he was named technomancer in the deep caverns below the Citadel, at the feet of the High Cardinal, his severed ears laid out as penance. The Archbishops named it “equivalent exchange”—the act of sacrificing a fragment of yourself to earn a noble service. With sacrifice, an acolyte shows their dedication to the order, and far more important, their willingness to advance themselves. The very thought of it soured Dahar’s mood further. He could not spend another moment here, another moment wasting away, another moment spent fearing for his life or, far worse, losing his wits. Lorlyle, he thought, he’s my only hope for returning home. His mantra echoed in his head, calm, collected, obedient. He remembered how sweetly Tyr had kissed him on their final night and hardened his resolve. I should have listened to him, and I will always regret that, but now I can try to make it right. 

          Dahar gave one last look at the outstretched darkness that coldly embraced the Valor before walking to the captain’s quarters. He will not allow himself to waste away on this ship. He’ll offer any limb to the High Cardinal to have his assignment reconsidered. There had been a mistake and Dahar knew it was his duty to correct it. 

          He left the main deck and began to walk down the grey metal corridor. The halls of the Valor were mostly desolate with only a barebones crew to ensure the ship ran smoothly, the Imperial Rangers proving stingy with the resources to support Primate Lorlyle’s expedition. A pilot, an engineer, and two rangers. Even from the beginning the four seemed to care little for the three technomancers, and less for having to follow their orders. The crew’s morale had not been high when they left Rigi, and it had only plummeted with every passing day in their search for even a hint of any Ellysians. Chasing ghosts from a bygone era, thought Dahar. He had been in swaddling clothes when the war ended seventeen years ago, and he cared as much about it now as he had then. He could barely remember his home world, as the technomancers had taken him when he was only four years old, leaving him little time to paint the life he had when he was nothing. Still, he had recollections of a woman he believes was his mother in a cramped apartment in a city’s name that didn’t know. Her face was long forgotten, and he never needed it, the technomancers became the only family he would ever need. Dahar had been raised by them, taught by them, loved by them, but in the end, he had been betrayed by them. They need me, they underestimated my devotion, my prowess, I am young unlike that codger Corman, I can prove to them still.  

          Sacrifice and obedience were the very heart of all technomancers teachings. To serve the order, you sacrificed to advance, but Dahar sacrificed in vain. After years of learning, years of obedience, when the time came the Archbishops rewarded him with a lifelong servitude to the Rangers. Dahar prayed every night for the enlightenment he was promised, but every night all he heard was the quiet rumble of the ship's engine and his own breaths. 

          Every step rang as he walked down the empty corridor. In his scarce encounters with his crewmates, none seemed to treasure his company. Corman had a rod too far up his ass to make for good conversation, and the pilot and engineer were too inferior and dull to maintain his attention. That left only the Rangers and Lorlyle. Curse them all, he thought. A mind wasted following a blind old fool. Too many nights he dreamed of being back in New Regala, too many nights he remembered Tyr’s sweet smile or his soft hands. How those hands slid under his robes and grasped at his very soul. “Stay,” he had whispered in Dehar’s ear. 

          “Where are you going, technomancer?” The voice was low and distorted by the radio. Dahar turned to see one of the Rangers, dressed in white-plated armor that covered them from head to toe. There must have been a time over a decade ago when the armor was as white and smooth as bone, but it was now covered in scratches and dents from a hundred battles.  Their helmets were pitch-black glass that hid their faces, and never once had Dahar seen the Rangers remove them. Whether it was out of disdain or protocol, Dahar did not know. It had taken him time to learn which Ranger was which by sight alone. Rhys moved brusquely as though every step he took had been ordered, and every movement he made was almost robotic. Styx, on the other hand, did not walk, but instead prowled like an old, scarred snow lion, every step taking him closer to his target. Dahar now had to somehow free himself from the lion’s jaws. 

          “I don’t see how it’s your business,” he responded. The Ranger’s face was a mask, forever expressionless.  

          “Everything on this ship is my business,” said Styx.  

The door to the room behind him slid shut. The armory, thought Dahar. The Ranger had been spending more time in there, supposedly for routine supply checks, despite the arms onboard being meager. A discarded weapon among discarded weapons. 

          “Now where are you going.” Styx did not ask it as a question.  

          “To see Primate Lorlyle.” 

          “Oh.” There was a flat tone to his voice that unsettled him. Styx stood staring at the technomancer. Dahar held the dark gaze for what felt like hours before Styx at last continued down the hall. 

          “I didn’t dismiss you acolyte,” the radio static spoke.  

Dahar ignored the arrogant Ranger. A firm hand grabbed his arm, gloved fingers digging into the flesh and yanking him back. I didn’t hear him move. Styx looked down at him with a look that he could only assume was pure loathing. 

          “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking recently,” began the Ranger, “about this assignment, about that old bag Lorlyle, and above else about you, Dahar.”  

          “I’m charmed,” said Dahar with a rueful smile. He winced as Styx dug his fingers deeper into his arm.  

          “And I have just one question for you,” Styx continued. “Did you hear anything interesting last night?”  

          Calm. Pain aside, Dahar’s face would reveal nothing under the Ranger’s searching gaze. They were alike in some odd way, Dahar thought. A Ranger was taught pain was a tool, a technomancer was taught pain was a lesson. Dahar bore scars for every lesson received on New Regala. A technomancer that does not understand pain could never understand the path to advancement. 

          “All I ever hear at night is the engine running and an old man’s snores.” And the daily radio checks the pilot made, the quiet ripping of meal packets, the flushing of every toilet, Corman’s hums as he looked over data he had read thousands of times before, and above all else, he heard every word the Ranger’s said when they spoke through their own private radio channel. 

          Styx held him in place, looking for a crack on the ice, something that he could use to break him. Collected.  

          The Ranger shoved him off. “You better watch yourself, technomancer. One toe out of line and I hope your cult will have enough metal to put you back together.” 

          Dahar watched him stalk down the halls ravenous for a piece of meat to tear apart. Not until the Ranger was out of sight did Dahar let the waves of pressure slide off him, his heart pounding hard in his ears. He leaned against the wall for support. He remembered every between Styx and Rhys the previous night. They had spoken in the privacy of their own quarters on their own frequency in case anyone overheard.  

          “We’re wasting our time out here,” said Styx. “There are Ellysian filth and rebel scum to hunt, yet here we are sitting in the middle of Wild Space with our dicks in our hands. If I have to spend one more goddamn day staring out a black fucking window and obeying those damn tech freaks, I might just have to put a laser through that old bastard’s head and turn the ship around myself.” 

          The talk was normal of Styx, a grizzled veteran and one of the first to volunteer for the Rangers to keep hunting down the Ellysians. Styx would complain and make vague threats, and Rhys would laugh them away. This time Rhys didn’t laugh. He didn’t say anything, and that unsettled Dahar far more than any threat of violence. The Rangers were soldiers who lived to keep on fighting, who lived to keep on killing. You can train a dog to do anything, but if you leave them to starve it will only be a matter of time before it began to eat its owner. 

          Obedience, he thought mockingly. Dahar raised a hand and fiddled with the dial once more, listening in on their private frequency for any further talk, but heard nothing. Dahar felt his breath steady, and his heartbeat slow. He pushed himself up and continued down to the Captain’s room, sparing one more glance behind him before moving forward.  

          He reached the end of the corridor, a grey metal door blocking his path. He raised his hand to knock on the door, but he hesitated. Obedience he thought again. He had believed in everything the Citadel could offer him. They gave him a home, a meal every night, the path to enlightenment, and above all else, Tyr. Dahar still remembered his last night on New Regala, for once living as he chose to, spending the night drinking among friends. How lightheaded he felt as he and Tyr walked down the Citadel’s halls back to his room. The taste of sweet wine on his lips and how Tyr’s hands slipped beneath his robe without him noticing. He could’ve lived forever in that moment, but it only took one word to ruin it. Stay. 

          Dahar lowered his hand and turned back down the hall, resolved to return to his quarters, but the swooshing of an open door called him back. 

          “I do not know you to dally, young acolyte,” an old shaky voice spoke. “Come speak your mind, Brother Dahar.” 

          Dahar’s breath caught in his throat as he turned once more and entered the Primate’s chambers. The room was enveloped in a red light, a bloody red maw that called him forward. At the center of the room sat Primate Lorlyle, legs crisscrossed on a high cushion. The old Hytari had a long snout, his fur long turned grey with an ever-growing patch of white. His robes were grey with gold lace that marked him as high-ranking of the order.  

          “Come sit,” said Lorlyle. There was no other chair or cushion in the room, Dahar crossed the room and sat on the cold metal floor. Once he settled, Lorlyle’s eyes opened, small metal orbs with red dots for pupils. They lacked the warmness of any sentient gaze; they were cold and calculating, the mark of a true technomancer. 

          “What ails you, child?” he asked. for a moment Dahar didn’t know what to say, and his first thought was everything.  

          Calm. 

          “Our mission, Primate,” answered Dahar. The Hytari said nothing, his eyes were unmoving yet searching. Not searching—analyzing. Collected. 

          “And what part of the mission have you taken issue with, child?” asked Lorlyle sharply.  

          Obedience. 

          “It is not I who has taken issue Primate,” said Dahar. “My worries are for the rest of the crew—” 

          “I had not thought pity for the lesser beings to be a core principle of the Citadel. Has our scripture changed since last I read it?” 

          “No Primate I just meant—” 

          “I do not care what you mean, Dahar.” His name rolled off the Primate’s tongue like an insult. “Words mean little and less from an acolyte., Our mission is clear and our orders even clearer. The Ellysians lie out here and it is our duty to find them.” 

          “Primate,” Dahar began carefully. “I serve at your pleasure, but the inferiors do not feel the same obligations.”  

          Lorlyle said nothing and Dahar continued. 

          “They follow whatever desire and whim they have.” He thought of Tyr’s sweet smile and drunken kisses. “The Rangers only live for violence, and with every passing day that we’ve not encountered any Ellysians—”  

          “You think I’d waste my time hunting mind readers like the rest of those Imperial dogs?” said Lorlyle sharply, “Why is it the Citadel is resolved to only send me the foolish and the incompetent.” 

          The door opened once more revealing the dark corridor. “Get out of my sight before I’m at risk of catching your stupidity.” 

          “But Primate I—”  

          “Deaf and stupid,” snorted Lorlyle. “Begone. I have no more time to be wasting with you.” 

          Without another word, Dahar entered the corridor, the bleeding red lights stretched out like fingers toward him before being cut off by the sliding door. Stay, Tyr had whispered in his ear. For me. Dahar couldn’t, Tyr damn well knew it and asked anyway. Tyr’s soft hand still working wonders on him, Dahar didn’t want it to stop, but he had to. He had to tell him no, he had to break his heart. Tyr asked him what it meant, what any of it meant. 

          Dahar told him, “Nothing, it can’t mean anything.” The Citadel gave him order; it gave him structure. He would be rewarded for his dedication, for his sacrifice. Obedience. Tyr had shared one last look with him, his blue eyes like the waves of oceans that threatened to spill out and left without another word. Dahar got his assignment the next day, and Tyr had not wished him a goodbye. 

          Dahar did not recall walking back to the lobby. The window outside the ship revealed nothing but a black canvas that not a soul in the universe could paint. He could hear the ship humming to itself, the pilot reeling off the same radio check she had said a thousand times before, Rhys speaking softly with the engineer, Styx entering the armory, Corman muttering a song. The world would never quiet for him, sounds holding him tight like the choking embrace of a lover. Stay, it whispered. His mantra began again in his head. Dahar ran his fingers on the smooth curved metal of his ears. Finding a small button on the back, he pressed hard. Everything went silent.  

          Calm.