The greatest sin in the Rhodeshi people’s eyes is tedium. It is precisely that critique which they level at existence. Better to be bleeding out in a battlefield than to be bored, or rather, better watch someone else bleed out. They wish to infuse every moment of their lives with entertainment—with drama. And in doing so, become something greater than their comically short lifespans.

  As such, my boring childhood under the Mantza—my existence—was considered a tragic abomination. To hear that Kairon preferred me anyway, well, that was one of many nuances to the insult seethed after the fact.

  It is a strange fact to me, however, that there are many moments in my life one would consider profoundly tedious. Not every second was spent galavanting across the galaxy or sieging worlds or even filled with heart-rending tragedy, as surprising as that may seem to some of my audience. In fact, most of my life has been spent in those moments the galaxy would label as monotonous, to which I was well-adjusted for.

  Just in this short introduction to my journey, which so far would not constitute a day’s attention, I have omitted weeks of uneventful detail. I have not included most of Ingrish’s early lessons, many of which were frustratingly slow. I did not recount Amon disciplining me for not keeping my quarters clean—something he later remarked as impressive since I had no possessions. And I did not mention much of my early interactions with Rykar and Kybit. I was introduced to them right away, but there was no point in wasting words over such a short and distant conversation.

  And yet, despite this life of abject dullness as Oberyn would have put it, the galaxy shall measure his life in the dates and days of mine. And the Rhodeshi people, after all their great games were said and done, their memory begins with only me.

  …

  I stared for many hours out of the viewport in my quarters, watching the ships go by in the orbit of Rhodon. I could’ve watched for hours more. Many times it was only the sharp need for food or water which drove me away from the chance to see something new. But this time however, I found myself unsatisfied for the opposite reason. Everything out there was the same. That’s something interesting you find out about pleasure cruises—they are all identical to the last.

  Getting up, I opened the door and began yet another expedition out into the Aphelion. Thankfully, instead of just locking me in, Amon had finally decided on a sensor for the door. It alerted Kybit whenever I left my room, and she could run a background algorithm to track my movements on the ship.

  Despite this system—which worked well enough for Amon—Ingrish would usually appear not five minutes later. This was something I was initially very annoyed by, and only later in years astounded.

  This time, however, I was left to my own devices as I wandered the corridors of the Aphelion. Always marking my trail, always inching my way forward, there was not a single hall left unmapped by my crude directions when I was done. I scratched arrows on the walls, I unwound lines of spare cable, I placed boxes on top of one another to count the decks, and when that quickly failed, I turned to a notation system of dashes and dots. Ingrish was the first to find out about this of course, and she gave me a data-slate with a map to navigate the ship.

  I kept to my system anyway, hiding my ever more complex symbols behind cargo crates and hull panels. And it so happened that the map Ingrish gave me was inaccurate anyway. It was correct in the general placement of things, yes. But in the corners, in the niches, in the hidden spots of the Aphelion… There were more secret compartments in this ship than a smuggler could ever ask for. And this included the entirety of the nonexistent Cargo Bay 13, which sat inconspicuously where the ship’s mainframe computer was supposed to be.

  A total of three decks tall and enough open space to house a hangar of shuttle craft, Amon kept the bay in total darkness. You had to bring your own light inside, otherwise you would just lose yourself. The walls were made of hydrous-polymer material, as is standard for most spaceship mainframes. It was meant to be totally invisible to sensors, off all circuit maps. The unaccounted for space would register as impervious to sensors, the usual for those highly radioactive areas. No one would think to question that the Aphelion might not have such a computer, nor why it did not need one.

  But even as observant as I was, I wouldn’t have noticed the entrance if Amon had not left the door open. The hull panels suddenly had a gap. And peering inside, I saw the impossibly large chamber for such an indiscreet entry. I saw Amon in the long distance. He had set a glow-orb at his feet, and he was sitting on a crate with his back towards me.

  It was a minor miracle I could see him at all. To call Cargo Bay 13 cluttered would be an understatement. The only thing on this ship more disorganized would’ve been the six and a half centuries of memory that oppressed Amon wherever he went. And this room itself was only one small corner of the man.

  I truly do not know where to begin with Cargo Bay 13. There were at least a hundred flash-fossilized heads mounted on the wall, most of them ferocious animals from various planets. Although, there were also a few from the more memorable of Amon’s bounties as well. The skulls were accompanied by paintings, bas-reliefs, and data murals, some recovered from the war, some payment for Amon’s services, and some simply stolen. I noticed a tapestry that looked similar to the one in Ingrish’s room, though it was too dark for me to make out what was on it.

  I wish I could put together a full list, but there was so much that defied category. There were diluvial dream catchers, glass modal cubes, and curated rows of azale teeth—still growing decades after being plucked from the flower’s maw.

  And as I picked my way through the dark room, there was so much silhouetted in the pitch black. I saw heaps of books—books, not data-slates. They were written in half a dozen lost languages. Some were written and encoded by Amon himself, but most were souvenirs taken from extinct species. There were crates of Jakatan jewelry, their light shining like dim stars in the dark space. I saw canisters of green fluid—liquid calculators, churning slowly in their deactivated resting states. There were cephlapodic pipe organs, scaly headdresses from the Utuskan Dynasties, and mycofibrous sculptures.

  I saw holo-schematics taken from the end of the Fifth Aberrant War. Casks of whiskey from planets now turned to cinder. Gravestones plucked from tomb worlds, and more than a few monoliths, now rendered inert. I saw autonomic translocators, terran guass rifles, and even chits housing digitized antimatter, meant to instantly construct, and then totally obliterate the target.

  And then there were also the things that Amon grieved over—more than the rest. An occupied stasis pod, a scorched scrap of hull plate, and a sheathed zero-sword.

  There were no other words to describe this room except as a heap of spent time, slowly collected over the centuries. Cargo Bay 13 might’ve been one of the best kept secrets in the galaxy. And if you wonder why Amon so rarely leveraged the contents of this room, so rarely utilized this great arsenal, then you don’t understand the man.

  Ghosts were as dear to him, if not more so, than the living. I used to be very angry at him for that, but after you live as long as we do, the ghosts become more real than those who still draw breath. They’re the only ones who stay with you.

  I watched Amon from behind a cargo crate, sure that he had not spotted me. He was hunched over a book, scribbling with a pen. I waited there a long time, far longer than any child looking for cheap entertainment. The only noise in the room was scribbling, and then, Amon straightened. He snapped the book shut, and without turning to me, he said, “Come here, Vas.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  Silently, I rounded the cargo crate and approached. Standing in front of Amon, his weathered face was dimly lit by the yellow glow-orb. The old man sized me up.

  “Ingrish cried today.”

  My throat clenched, but Amon waved his hand dismissively, already knowing my worry. “Wasn’t you. Oberyn.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She hurts. For what you overheard.”

  I stared, unblinking at the word.

  Amon sighed. “For your future. She hates Oberyn… I hate him. Don’t think him. Don’t learn him.”

  “Why?”

  “She loves you,” Amon said stoically. His eyes glanced away from me into the darkness, peering at something I could not guess at. He stared for a long time before lowering his head. With a trembling hand, he covered his mouth, concealing some secret that only he knew. And then, with an expression of great agony—the only emotion I then recognized on faces, Amon said, “I love you.”

  I didn’t know what to think. Amon couldn’t say those words, not the way Ingrish could. I suppose that is the drawback of growing up with a telepath for a mother, you come to expect an intimacy that no one else in the galaxy can express to you. Amon could never impart to me one thousandth of what Ingrish could share without a spoken word. But then again, it was also true that Ingrish could not speak one syllable from Amon’s mouth.

  And as I stand here, gazing over a murdered star, I realize that I have forgotten much of what Ingrish has said to me over the years. But from Amon? Not a single word.

  Still, I can’t say I had any sense at the time. “Can I leave?” I asked suddenly, driven away more by the fact that I just didn’t understand Amon.

  The old man slowly nodded, but just as I turned, he called out. “Wait.”

  I glanced back.

  Amon stood up, towering over me. “What you take?”

  I held out my palm. It wasn’t that I meant to steal anything. I barely had a notion of the concept. It was that I needed something to track my way back here, and I simply chose the most apparent object convenient to me. It was one of the few items not covered in a thick layer of dust in Cargo Bay 13, a silver cruciform bound by a chain necklace. It had been resting on the stasis pod just near the entrance.

  Amon reached out his hand and bid me place the necklace in his palm. I obeyed without hesitation. He inspected the trinket for a long while, running it along in his hands. Finally, he stood up and placed it around my neck.

  “We’re not alone,” he said.

  And just as the same, he could never say those words with the same tenderness or feeling that Ingrish had. Nor could he make the moment the same as had been in the access tube. However, as I realized, the whole conversation he had with me could not have been spoken without many tedious hours. He would’ve had to sit with Ingrish for a great, great deal of time, carefully memorizing every narrow meaning I knew. And it was all just so he could speak with me face-to-face, without an interpreter.

  He did as much, knowing that those words meant nothing, not a single thing, except that they were the most important words to me. And they just so happened to be the most important words for him as well.

  He was to undergo the surgery tomorrow, and it was that he would not be able to speak until after the Carapace Suit was taken off again.

  Until after it was all over.

  …

  “The Dalfaen told you this armor was an antique, yes?” Tut asked, examining one of the ocular nails with a hand scanner.

  Amon crossed his arms. He was wearing thin loose clothes in preparation for the surgery. “Let me guess,” he said. “The armor is not in the best condition.”

  Tut set the implant down onto a nearby tray. “As far as my inspection goes, the gravity-shielding is completely disabled. Ion emitters are at 5% efficiency, so don’t expect much protection from plasma or heat weaponry. Short range teleporter has one to two charges left, and then that will go too. You’ll be relying entirely on the armor’s regenerative capabilities, speaking of which, the nano-fabricator is 83% depleted. I do not recommend taking much damage, otherwise we will not be able to take the suit off without killing you.”

  “So, it will be just like old times,” Amon sighed. He glanced at me. “Corpse Armor. You know why we called it that? Keeps you fighting even after you’re dead. No heartbeat. No breathing. No brain. You don’t get to die until you bleed every last drop and then some.” The old man continued talking.

  I would’ve listened more, but Ingrish politely put her hands over my ears and refused to translate. Amon’s mouth moved, and he seemed to be staring at something a thousand miles away. When he did finally glance back, he let out a wry smile and shook his head. Looking over to Tut, he motioned that he was ready. He jumped off the bed and the two went into the surgery suit where all the scalpels and saws and needles were ready for their grisly work.

  Amon marched up to the bed and laid down while Ingrish and I watched behind the reinforced glass.

  “One last thing.” I heard Ingrish translate Amon’s voice as he stared up at the butcher’s instruments. “Have you begun teaching Vas history yet?”

  “You’re asking now?” Ingrish looked at him worried.

  “Might as well.” Amon said as Tut gave him a shot of anesthesia in his arm. “Kid, if you’re hearing me, listen closely. You’re not going to learn this from a data-slate. If you want to know how bad the war was, how desperate we were, how much we sacrificed for this galaxy… don’t look away.”

  Amon closed his eyes, and the very words Ingrish translated were this, a final order to the doctor. “Don’t let me dream.”

  Depending on the generation, a Carapace Suit can take anywhere from a few days to several weeks to put on. For Amon, he wouldn’t wake until the start of the games.

  I suppose Ingrish could’ve ordered me out of the medical bay, spared me what I was about to see. It would’ve saved me a few nightmares. But I think she knew Amon needed me there, that in whatever part of mind that was still aware during the surgery—he needed a reason to hold himself together. He needed a reason to fight, even as the Rhodeshi dragged him right back into the hell of the Fifth Aberrant War—the hell of wearing that armor.

  And as I look back, I realize Amon was never trying to save humanity. He was not that kind of man, to take up lost causes.

  No, the reason he allowed himself to be gutted, without a single complaint, was that he was trying to save my future—spare me from the life I was going to live once he was gone. Whatever flaws Amon Russ had, whatever blame you can assign the man, he never hesitated to sacrifice himself for another. And so he walked to that butcher’s table, for the sake of a child who had no idea what he was trying to do.

  The surgery begins with the installation of the ocular nails. Long, thick spikes, the black implants were sharpened to a point lined with monofilament wires. They were slowly driven through the eyes until the ends poked through the back of the head. This would take up to six hours as the monofilaments embedded themselves into Amon’s brain and restructured his nervous system, preparing both his mind and body for the more severe modifications. Portions of Amon’s psyche had to be sectioned off, lest he go insane upon waking. The man’s own emotions, the amygdala among other parts of the brain, were scanned, saved, and cauterized. By the end of the first stage, his eyes were gone. Replaced by black orbs prickling with red light.

  The next part was the attachment of the exterior vertebral column. Each individual piece was drilled into Amon’s spine, with thin tubs inserted along the length of his body. Black viscous fluid was pumped in, the nanites quickly getting to work restructuring Amon’s cellular functions and isolating his nervous system from his organs. These tubes would be removed later, after the metal vertebrae had fused with Amon’s spine.

  Once the man’s brain had been effectively rendered independent of his bodily functions, Tut got to work. Opening up Amon’s torso, the doctor hollowed out most of his insides. He took out Amon’s heart and stitched the nano-fabricator to the artificial veins growing inside the blackened cavity. His stomach and intestines were replaced with a pouch about the size of my fist. The rest of the space was filled with much of the technology Tut was talking about earlier, directly integrated into Amon’s body.

  I believe the lungs were the only thing not carved out. They didn’t have the part for it, so they let the nanites break down and convert the organ into its much smaller and efficient replacement. There was a long while where Amon simply looked like a corpse on the medical bed, with everything essential to keep a human alive placed in a box. And yet, he was still alive.

  By the time Tut closed Amon back up, the man’s skin was pale white with dark ports erupted from his flesh. I was glad I couldn’t make out much of the next part, as the nanites reinforced his skin and changed his bones into metal. His very muscles and tendons were rethreaded. By the time Tut was affixing the exoskeleton plates, there was not one part of Amon’s body that had not been thoroughly violated.

  Bit by bit, Amon was hidden under black armor plates. Long needles slid into the ports where the blackened blood would be pumped in between the layers of the ultra-strong armor, fusing flesh and metal. Finally came the helm, a bulky mask with a long tube to be inserted down Amon’s esophagus.

  And then Amon was gone, replaced entirely by this new thing that was the Carapace Suit. Tut stepped back and announced to himself. “Perfect.”

  Ingrish broke down and wept. And for myself? I simply obeyed what Amon had told me. I watched as much as I could bear to see.