His personal light source blazed through the pitch-like space, illuminating bare stone walls that had not seen a single ray of light in many years. Now illuminated and at his feet was the object he had travelled through vast stretches of space and time to find - the relic.
Wrapped around the artifact was a dusty corpse, having been mummified by the arid atmosphere of the planet. The claw-like bones of the creature's hands twisted around its handle while the empty skull of whomever or whatever it belonged to was frozen in a silent, toothy scream. Though dead, this creature's bones and preserved reptilian-looking skin told him about the living thing that had once worn them. Its leg had been fractured, and a short rusty blade protruded from the torso. This creature had come here to die, crawling down into the far corner of the room in the lowest bowels beneath the sands, facing the only entrance. Some dull fragments were lying next to the corpse, which might have been used as a weapon before death. Three similar-looking creatures were strewn about in various positions in the room with it. All three had just crossed the entrance threshold but had gone no farther before falling prey to some misfortune, perhaps from the weapon of the injured one in the corner. It was impossible to confirm whether this creature had been followed or the one following, but it was clear that no one had made it off the planet, and no one had come looking for them…. Except it seemed, now, by him.
He squatted, shining his light directly at the old hands of bone and paper skin closed around the artifact in an eternal embrace. He took hold of the stiff, dry fingers, which crunched under his own as he bent and broke them away from the object they clutched. Then, with a final tug, the relic was free. He scanned the object with his wrist tool to record its base stats, but the scan couldn't gather anything other than sand, visual appearance, and temperature: dark, cold, very hard, and heavy. Its edge was blunt yet uncharacteristically not cracked or eroded from time or the environment. It was very odd for any artifact of this age, yet these unusual facts further confirmed for him what it was.
Not wanting to get ahead of himself and to be absolutely sure, he pulled up his notes and scrutinized his gathered sketches and stills - comparing them. It was indeed the object he was looking for; its strange shape was unmistakable. One could imagine its creator had begun putting the finishing touches at a forge before abandoning the craft entirely. Despite its slightly misshapen appearance, he knew he had finally found what he had been looking for. This was the thing that had shaped destinies and guided hands - this was the thing that ancient wars had been fought over… but why?
It had been a weapon, a trophy, a royal heirloom, a standard, an idol, and these things happened not once in its lifetime but many - on different worlds and races. Why had so many coveted this dark chunk of metal throughout the ages? He supposed it was valuable in the same vein as an exceptionally ancient piece of great art, passed from generation to generation, from one collector to another. Certainly, the existence of an incorruptible icon was downright mythical for primitive races, perhaps even now to the current advanced ones. The ancient race responsible for the alpha event that had infused his homeworld with power might have constructed it from some advanced material before the race perished, leaving it as the last vestige of their memory, which would certainly explain its downright exceptional resilience. However, the idea itself was an uncomfortable one, for it begged the question of what could cause the collapse of such an advanced race. If they could construct a seemingly trivial weapon of such sublime material, why had they not created greater works…. works that would have persisted far and wide, works that would have been found by those who came after? There were none, or at least none that had been found.
He ran his hand along the misshapen thing, savouring the moment. He held it in front of him loosely in that dark and buried place, reflecting his personal light source off its dark metal, memorizing its every detail, drinking in the veritable strangeness of it all. The thing looked so big it looked prehistoric, so heavy that he almost had to lift it two-handed. The momentum, he thought, is apt to drive it right through a sturdy wall. That's if he could swing it at all, or even if it could withstand such a blow. It deserved to be seen, sitting in a clear case somewhere for the whole galaxy to gaze upon and know that it was real... yet there was some part of him that wanted to hold it, wanted to swing it, wanted to use it and keep it for his own; some part of him that responded to its perfectly expressed purpose; some part of him which sensed its dim and bloody history and wanted to be part of it.
He should have been jumping up and down with joy, crying from the elation and relief of a journey completed and prize won. Instead, he stared at the corpse in that sunless and buried room, who, in its final moments, had clutched at the thing and died for it. He didn't seriously believe in curses, but some part of him sensed that taking it would change his life forever, and most probably not in a good way. He knew he was at a crossroads, one that he had never fully expected to contemplate, one that he had never considered until he had finally seen the sought item with his own eyes. He had found it, yes. Maybe, he deliberated to himself, that was enough? Nothing stopped him from leaving it here, crawling back up to the surface, crossing its scorching sands, getting in his craft, and never returning. He would have completed what he had sought: confirmed the artifact's existence, validated all of the stories, and added one more footnote to its chain in history. Nothing more, nothing less. If he took it, he would be hunted, the item coveted, and he would be added to the long list of persons who died while possessing it, changing his fate irreversibly.
A sharp cry of an alarm on his wrist sounded off, and he cried out in fright despite himself, startled. The notice was a proximity sensor of another incoming craft. At that moment, he realized fate had already made up its mind. Scarcely a moment had passed between his encounter with the artifact, and he was now fully inserted into its bloody fold. Just like the dusty corpses at his feet, he was no longer alone on this empty and dead planet; Someone had followed him here.
The planet was an arid wasteland with ancient structures dotted across the surface from a long-forgotten race. Like the one he was standing in, a few of the structures had been used as temporary shelters by ancient smugglers or vagrants. No one came here, and most didn't even know about it. He had clearly been followed. He hadn't expected trouble, so he hadn't brought anything to carry the artifact in beside a thick, stiff, protective wrap. Despite its prehistoric age, it didn't seem fragile to him, which was strange, but he wrapped it and tucked it under his left arm. He turned off his light, grabbed the pistol from his side, and headed back up the sunken twilight shaft to the surface.
.
There were three of them that arrived on the shuttle. He wasn't sure they could have been mercenaries or independents, but they were all armed, and their intentions were obvious. They were there looking for him, the artifact, or both.
His chest tightened as he felt a robust unexpected sense of possessiveness overtake him. Leaving it here forever had been something he had prepared to do, yet handing it over was not. He could have hidden the artifact and returned it later, but there was a good chance they would find it.
He peered out from the cracked stone wall of the ruins. It was bright out, and the white star beat down bright and hot on the white sands. There were minimal winds on the plain, so it was relatively flat, which meant no cover between the structure he was in and the rock walls of the canyon east of his position. He could make it if he ran, but he also had to contend with holding the bulky artifact as he did so. Carrying it was a liability, but it was the only option in his mind. If he stayed here, he could take a couple of the intruders at most before they realized something was there with them and bombed the structure outright. It was too small to use to his advantage. His only option was to run; it had to be now before they got closer.
He exited the ruins through a large crumbled hole in one of the walls near the rear of the structure, which shielded him from being seen. He stared hard at his destination within the canyon and adjusted the wrapped artifact in his arms. He would run perpendicular to them, which was less than ideal, but the canyon cover was closest. Every second he waited, the closer they would get.
He took off running as fast as he could through the sands, not looking back or off to the side to see if they spotted him. The sand muffled his steps, but his timing was poor, and they had almost instantly seen him. Shots were fired without warning. He paid no attention to the light rounds that glanced off his thin armour, but when he heard and saw the heavy rounds passing him, he faltered with anxiety. He was breathing heavily as he traversed through the soft terrain, but he couldn't afford to waste time or energy stopping and returning fire.
He was nearing his goal when the loud twang and sharp force of a heavy round ricocheting off the artifact under his arm was felt, catching him unawares and making him stumble. His heart jumped into his throat, realizing he had subjected a priceless treasure to incoming fire. He quickly passed the narrow canyon entrance and dared not stop, jumping through several openings and across several passages while the rock around him occasionally peppered with glancing shots. Eventually, he had placed himself ahead of the pack enough to buy himself a few moments to catch his ragged breaths and check on the artifact's condition. With a hand shaking from adrenaline, he hastily unwrapped the heat-blackened cloth away from the object, preparing himself for the worst, but he hadn't needed to - it looked completely unharmed. Even after running his hand quickly over its surface, he only observed the soot from the burnt fabric it had been wrapped in. Whatever material it was made of, it was incredibly tough. There was a reason it had persisted over the eons. He wasted no additional time admiring what he held, took the artifact and continued running.
The wind-sculpted walls of the canyon were smooth and could not be easily climbed. The passages led him deeper down and under cover of rock for some time before he stumbled through a small opening into an enclosed oasis, which both surprised and filled him with hope. There was darkness in the multitude of shadows in the cave, and thick plant life could be used as cover. Some moisture was in the air, but its source could not be determined quickly. Roots of the plants and strange-looking trees must have gotten water from somewhere just under the thin layer of soil, probably some source deeper underground. The planet, it seemed, was not without life after all.
.
The first had been easy, he thought to himself. The first of the pack to enter a darkened side room of the oasis had gotten his blade thrust into their carotid artery. It had been silent, but the companions quickly noticed their companion's absence, then body. The two remaining then stayed in tight formation and advanced slowly but moved back toward the entrance, hoping to trap him. Within moments, they had found what he had dropped - the artifact - along the outer wall of the hollow. He had dropped it, seemingly in a haphazard attempt to escape with his life, a ploy he hoped would work. One of them picked it up and motioned to the other to leave.
They had walked right past him while he hid behind the trunk of a large and gnarly rooted tree, hidden in the broad foliage it provided. He would trade one of their lives for his element of surprise, he thought, hoping that he would be able to squarely take on the third one-on-one. They advanced cautiously, but the bait had already been taken. One searched the foliage for him, while the larger one held the artifact with both hands facing the opposite direction. Three quick shots at point-blank to the side of the thinly shielded helmet had accomplished the end of the second. His element of surprise was now gone, though, and the last was quick despite their larger size. He had time to fire three shots at close range, but the bulk of the last assailant had ensured they had barely flinched even though the shots burned into their armour. The last one was the least dangerous, he had believed erroneously, and he hadn't expected the bulk to lunge toward him with nimble agility. The artifact was tossed to the stone floor, and he was wrestled to the ground. He protected his face from the blows that came, but too much weight sat behind the punches. Again and again, his head bounced between the fists and the rock floor, which filled his head with ringing white fuzz. He weakly caught the assailant's left arm, but a responding punch from the other fist sent his vision reeling and his jaw loose. A metallic taste filled his mouth as his blood filled it. The assailant's hands then closed around his throat to garrotte him, and he struggled at the seemingly unbreakable lock around his windpipe. His eyes bulged as his chest tightened and his vision receded from lack of breath.
He realized he was going to die. His rage turned into a panic, realizing that he was being done in here and now, alone and over some bloody goddamn artifact. Unable to free his throat from the crushing hands, his hands fanned out to find something he could use from the ground that could stagger the thing that was slowly and steadily wringing the life from his body - a rock, a stick, anything. As he flailed, his hands bumped against something solid and heavy. He grabbed it and struck his assailant's head with as much force as he could muster.
A misshapen chunk of dark metal looking very much like the artifact buried itself cleanly through his assailant's helmet, face and then the head, and he observed in his oxygen-deprived astonishment that it sliced as deep and as clean into the armour, flesh, and bone as if he were holding a plasma knife. As he buried its dark edge into his foe's warm, beating body, a presence awoke from the thing in his hands, and it slithered up his arms into his head. It boomed like the beatings of war drums, quaked like an army of feet running on the battlefield as it charged into the tiny room that was his skull and roared. The presence was so sudden, so forceful, so utterly alien and terrifying that he screamed painfully through his damaged throat with whatever air he had managed to recover. He threw the artifact away from him and pressed his freshly bloodied hands to the sides of his skull to quell the gargantuan otherness that assailed him, but it vanished as soon as he let go. However, the feeling of sheer terror lingered on in his mind, like the unease one feels when one wakes from a violent nightmare. He scrambled away from the scene on his front, dragging a blood trail across the moist rock and leaving the weapon to lie in the pool of gore being fed from the stump of his assailant's newly headless corpse. He repeatedly vomited while his lungs cried for air until his stomach could expel no more, and he collapsed, unconscious.
He would awake later on the cool stone - battered, covered in gore but already a good way healed - with the artifact still left in the pool of entrails he had left it in. He thought intently about his decision to either leave it or take it, knowing there was no turning back once he had made his choice. He was terrified of touching it again, but the experience had etched itself into some deep part of his mind, and he could not bear parting with it. Unable to leave it behind, he wrapped it in a piece of cloth he looted from his defeated adversaries, carried it back to his shuttle, and left with it.
He knew the stories; that his decision to take it would paint a target on his back, and it did - he was hunted ceaselessly for it until all common memory of it passed from the galaxy at the end of his cycle. Yet he could not foresee that by making his decision on that day on the ruined planet, he had bound himself to the relic's long thread of fate - and that his cycle would only be the beginning of a new story never written or imagined by his predecessors.