(Dyn)

  “Sorry, this area is off limits,” the ded said as Dyn approached him. The bck bandana was the only reason Dyn knew him to be a member of the deck crew.

  “I was just on my way to che Echo…” Dyn said, uo tell which Echo he eaking with. He couldn’t distinguish one drai skeleton from another, and his voice wasn’t familiar.

  “Echo von A’lyce, I know. Still, I ’t let you pass. Captain’s orders,” he said, unmoving from the middle of the hallway.

  “ you at least tell me if she’s alright?” Dyn leaned around the skeleton to peer at the door out of habit.

  The mprian shifted to block his line of sight, which wasn’t terribly effective as a naked skeleton. “No, she isn’t. Not in the slightest, and you seeing her won’t ge that.”

  “You don’t know that.” Dyn jabbed a fi the drai skeleton. “I want to see my friend,” he said, more insistent this time.

  The ded sighed, which was weird, because he didn’t have any lungs. Then again, he also talked. Dyn was still getting used to the whole beings-of-pure-energy thing.

  The ded’s stance softened, as if he uood. He reached out and pced a bony hand on Dyn’s shoulder, l his voice. “She isn’t your friend anymore.”

  But the ded was wrong and didn’t truly uand. Dyn didn’t want to be patronized. He wao see his goddamn friend!

  Dyn shrugged off the skeletal hand, balling his own. “I’m going to see my friend. Now get out of my way.”

  Two fming e spheres ignited around the ded’s fists as a warning. “Yoing to get hurt.”

  ‘Shit,’ Dyn thought. ‘He’s got abilities.’

  His friend could need help, and he was literally powerless to do so. But he didn’t want to fight the ded—the puy was just doing his job. More importantly, he’d probably wipe the floor with Dyn if they got into a tussle. It was another reminder of why he o pass this trial and start training to be an adventurer, so he could at least be on the same pying field.

  They stood off against each other in the middle of the hallway. One incredibly determined Dyn versus a mprian with fming fists, eawilling to yield.

  “Look,” the ded said, extinguishing his hands. “If you really want to see her, go talk to the captain. It’s her ship, her rules.”

  “Fine.” Dyn narrowed his eyes at the ded and decred, “But I’ll be back.”

  He marched all the way back to the upper ded then climbed the stairs to the Captain’s Suite, just behind the bridge. His fist pouwi the door and then he waited. He heard someone approag from the other side. The door swung open and Captain Echo appeared.

  “Yes, what?” She paused, realizing it wasn’t one of her creassenger?” Her skull angled down tard him. “If you need something, please see First Mate Echo. I’m sure he—”

  Dyn barged his ast her, walking through the door and into her personal suite.

  “Excuse me?!” the captain demanded, spinning around after him. “Who—”

  Dyn cut her off, pointing a fi the captain. “I’m here to see you!”

  “Ah, you’re the round oh a pent for trouble. Dyn, if my ma is correct, which it always is.” There was a tone of superiority in her voice, the kind that felt dismissive, and it ruffled him the wrong way.

  “Yeah. Why ’t I see my friend Echo von A’lyce?” he asked, pg his hands on his hips.

  Her skull sat slightly askew. “I thought her self-impriso would’ve made that clear—she’s dangerous.” The captain’s bony hand still held the door open, as if he might take the hint and leave.

  “Whatever she is, it’s because of what you did to her.” The anger from st night found him again as he struggled to keep it to a simmer.

  “It wasn’t forced on her,” the captain said, gesturing at him. “You saw it yourself. She volunteered of her own free will.” But they both khat was only half true, and just barely better than being voluntold.

  “Fine,” he said, g the point. “She volunteered to help fix the ship so we all get home. So, why are you being a jerk to her?” If anything, the captain should be grateful for Echo. She’d saved the captain from the guilt of having to give the and to take a life.

  “Have you sidered the possibility that Echo doesn’t wish to speak with you?”

  ‘All the time,’ he thought. Not only had he sidered it, but that was exactly what he was desperately trying to prevent. There wasn’t muyone could do if she gave up on herself—a painful lesson Dyn’s cousin had taught him a few years back.

  “Why?” he asked, brag himself for the answer. “Is that what she told you?”

  “Not with words, but with her as.”

  ‘Good,’ he thought. All she had ecution. He shook his head at her and said, “That doesn’t work for me.”

  The smallest mprian would o say it to his face for him to believe it, and even then, he’d still beg her to ge her mind. Letting someone walk that dark path alone was a mistake he’d never make again.

  “That… doesn’t work for you,” the captaied, her shoulders boung as she chuckled, genuinely amused by his answer. She took a moment to pose herself.

  The door closed behind her with a clibsp;as she took a step toward him. “Oh, my boy, you must be fused. Let me put it simply.” Like most drai, she was two heads taller than him, and he had to e his o meet her eye sockets.

  The captain gred down at him and said, “No one on this ship works for you. But tinue your petund I’ll withdraw my efforts to save you from this mistake.” Dyed a hidden burden in her words besides the warning.

  “You ’t treat her like this. You ’t ask her to kill someone, use her, and then throw her away because she’s an invenie’s—it’s nht.” He shook his head as his voice wavered and he repeated, “It’s nht…”

  She broke their stare and walked over to the round table in her room, her movements refined, calcuted—proper, taking a seat on a fortable-lookiher-bound chair. She’d expertly withdrawn herself from their increasingly heated versation.

  It disrupted Dyn’s focus enough to allow him to take in the room. The walls were barren, as was the furniture. There was a distinct ck of kniacks, photos, or anything else that represented someone capable of emotional attats who lived there. A dozen boxes were scattered about the room as if she were living out of them or hadn’t finished moving i.

  Captain Echo crossed one skeleton leg over her other, resting both bony hands in her p. Her skull turard the window dispying a geous view of the juhe sun had set, but from what Echo had told him, the captain didn’t need light to see.

  “Do you even know why mprians, who give in to nekralis, are sidered so dangerous?” she asked as she stared out the window.

  “No, but—”

  She cut him off, tinuing to gaze eyelessly out the window. “Then take a seat a me edify you.” She lifted a hand, gesturing to the e leather-bound chair across from her.

  She let out a small sigh, turning her skull to focus on Dyn, and then asked, “In your culture, do you have a monster who s under your bed?”

  He rying t the wooden chair back. It didn’t budge. So he tried harder, grunting with increased effort.

  Unwilling to watch him struggle, she said, “The furniture is affixed to the ship, so it doesn’t bee a projectile during turbulence.”

  ‘That makes sense,’ Dyn thought, remembering all the seats bolted along the walls and the long, unmovable benches bolted to the floor in the mess hell. e to think of it, there hadn’t been a siray chair in any of the rooms he’d been in, including the brig.

  Dyn took a seat; it was every bit as fortable as it looked. The chair dwarfed him, desigo seat a drai, making him feel even more childlike as he listeo the captain tell her tale.

  “We also share this cautionary fable with our children. Except it’s not just a monster. It’s our mother, husband, son, or perhaps even an aunt. Inside every one of us slumbers a terrible hunger, waiting for the first sip of energy to awaken the nightmare. Are you familiar with crystalis?”

  Dyn nodded again.

  “Good, now let me tell you the story of my people. It’s a long and bloody one. We’ve worked diligently, sacrifig much to get where we are. There was a time when mprians were sidered a universe-level threat. Back then, we were the monsters ing under your bed. ces are, your folklore and legends are about us.

  “Energy leeches, mana vampires, soul devourers, there are many names for those of us who awaken the hunger within. My aors were opportunistinibals with an appetite for power. It’s that taste that knocks on the door and awakens the hunger.

  “We don’t o drink or eat, but we have the memories and experiences of our hosts. I’ve read that the huarts small, like you’re not quite full anymore. A new urge—a hat wasn’t there before and ’t ever be satisfied? That would drive me mad.

  “While it starts small, if they sate the hunger, it grows quiet for a time. But ing energy is insidiously addictive. The cycle perpetuates until a critical mass of energy has been collected, then terrifying new powers emerge. They feed on mprians outside of crystalis, eventually getting strong enough to feed on any lifeforce.”

  “Nekralis is how monsters are created; powerful, intelligent, insatiable monsters.”

  “The debate persists whether we did more harm ood by uniting the universe against us.” She waved her bony hand dismissively. “Regardless, my aors lost to the might of a unified universe.”

  “They were presented with two choices: huo extin, reduced to mere footnotes in the histories written by their exterminators, or hand over their unborn children for a newly discovered procedure called symbiosis.

  “Back then, we didn’t have hosts aed as beings of pure energy without corporeal form. Symbiosis allows our host to imprint on us, ideally showing us how to live and co-exist with the rest of the universe before we emerge as individuals after the host’s death.

  “Some chose a future for their unborn children, handing them over to join the rest of the civilized species. their children didn’t earn them a pardon, though. They were purged along with the rest of them.

  “The purges were costly, both in resources and lives. Not all mprians agreed to surrender, most went out as they lived, fighting to the bitter end.

  “Their obsession with power and a pent for betrayal were natural barriers, preventing them franizing and fighting back. You’ll hear rumors that the stro of them are still in stasis—crystalis without a host.

  “Nekralis isn’t just about murder. It’s a dangerous step backwards to a time when we forced the universe to see us as a threat and bring my people to the cusp of extin,” she said.

  The captain sat in sileh Dyn as he processed her people’s history. After a couple of quiet minutes, she asked, “Do you uand now?”

  He sighed. That sounded like some grade A nightmare fuel—grand space opera level shit. But he wouldn’t n one person for the sins of an a empire.

  “I want to hear it from her,” he said finally. The leather from his chair creaked under him as he adjusted himself.

  “You want to hear what from her?”

  “I want to hear Echo tell me she doesn’t want to talk to me ever again.” He crossed his arms, having decided.

  She sat ba her own chair. “After everything I’ve just said, you still want to speak with her?” Her skull stared at him in disbelief. If she thought a cautionary tale of what might happen would ge his mind, she’d sorely misjudged his resolve.

  “Echo’s only ever been kind to me. She’s scared right now and you’re not helping her.” He leaned forward, appealing to her decy.

  “I’m afraid you’re not helping her either,” the captain sighed, “but you just ’t see it.”

  Nothing? She’d shut him down agaiing this whole isotion business was for Echo’s own good. He had enough of her fear m, heartless bullshit.

  “She’s dohing. She’s not a monster.”

  The captain scoffed, turning away from him. “I don’t think our previous meic, Echo von Lee’ah, would agree with that statement. If she were still alive…”

  Dyn’s fists ched at her words, anger bubbling to the surface.

  ‘You fug bitch,’ he thought as his nostrils fred.

  “She fixed yoddamned ship!” he shouted, smming his fist down oable.

  Her skull snapped back, log onto him. Her words were swift and carried a warning tohis path does not end well for her.” For the first time, her voice faltered, revealing an edge of . Maybe she wasn’t heartless after all?

  “Don’t you uand?” he asked, sensing she was close to seeing his point. “That just means she needs friends even more.”

  He leaned ba his oversized chair, thinking his test point might have gotten through to the captain when she didn’t immediately refute or challenge him. Her bleached skull focused on him for a few moments, as if she was taking in the weight of his words.

  She disengaged from the versation agaiing up and waltzing over to peer out another window with a view of the ship. She stood with her hands csped behind her back. Her skull moved to track the various crew members as they offloaded unnecessary weight and ran the new rigging under her and.

  Iy, it was only about a minute of silence, but to Dyn, it felt like ay. There were half a dozen times he wao interrupt, but caught himself.

  She broke the silence, speaking to herself as she tio window-watch, her skull trag the slow movements of a crew member hauling rope.

  “Dyn, I’ve tried my very best to dissuade you from this path.” She sighed. “Your exceptional obstinance is only matched by your passion.” He frowned, unsure whether that was a pliment.

  She tinued her monologue. “While anht fuse it for determination and loyalty. Yet, perhaps it’s all semantics. Merely two sides of the same ?”

  Captain Echo slowly turo face him again. “I’ll allow you to ask Echo von A’lyce your question on one dition.” She truly was indomitable. Even her capitution came with a final salvo, assuriher of them got exactly what they wanted.

  “And that is?” he asked, hoping the request was something he could afford.

  She crossed her bony arms. “That you listen to her answer and respect her wishes.” She hesitated, before adding, “Even if that answer isn’t what you wao hear.” To see his friend again, he’d have to accept the possibility of letting her go forever.

  “Fine,” he agreed. But what choice did he have? At the very least, he’d be able to say goodbye. Something fate hadn’t afforded him with his cousin.

  Finally, Captain Eoved her hat and took two steps toward him. “Take this,” she said, holding out the hat to him, her bck tri with a crimsohered plume.

  Dyn started tue. “I don’t—”

  When she saw he wasn’t getting up from his chair at the table, she took aep toward him. “Put it on,” she insisted, still holding it out to him. “None of the crew will stop you from doing as you wish as long as you wear it.”

  Dyn stared at the captain’s hat. He imagi would act as a literal token from the captain to let him see his friend. He hesitated at first, doubts gnawing at him—was this really the best way? The captain patiently waited for him to decide. Skulls were hard to read, and he dismissed the sense of desperatiohought he was getting from her. After a terse moment, he accepted her offer.

  She returo the window to watch her crew. There was something different ieps—they seemed lighter.

  “Hand it to the First Mate when you’re done or keep it for all I care,” she said as she tio stare out the window. “I don’t want it anymore. Your friend isn’t the only oing the crew.”

  Dyn looked around at the boxes of stuff with a new perspective. It ainfully obvious to him now; she’d packed up all of her things because she was moving on. He hadn’t realized this trip had affected her to the point of quitting.

  He got up from his seat and made his way to the door before he heard her voice again.

  “If you do decide to keep the ship, that hat is a lot heavier than it looks.”

  Dyn gnced back at her. The sight of her standing at the window, framed by the scattered boxes and bathed in the soft glow of the twin moons, stuck with him as he stepped out the door. He wondered, ‘Perhaps I treated her too harshly…’

  ---

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