Episode 13: Dead Men Shall Live

16 months ago

Cold frosted Imperator's destroyed bridge, and space sucked air from it too quickly as Desslok reached for the nearest control panel.

A shard of deck plate ripped into his side and cut off what little breath he could get. Blood seeped through the front of his uniform, and a long, ugly piece of viewport cut into him from collar to mid-gut. One arm turned to fiery pain when he tried to use it, and he discovered one collarbone broken cleanly, further hindering mobility.

He fumbled for the emergency seal controls and found them.

The hole in the bridge vanished, replaced by dark, air-tight grates.

Bodies interrupted mid-flight thunked to the floor. Even Krypt had been dragged from the rubble and thrown across the bridge. Many were gone, drawn into the void.

Dead eyes stared at him from every direction.

At least most of the crew left when he told them to.

Gehenna's Bridge had proven even more volatile than he realized.

This is the Eratites' fault! He choked in another breath as darkness hazed the edges of his vision. He shook it off, but blood still slowly pooled around him. They did this to us.

Smoke's sharp stink filled the bridge. The fire that burned when Imperator was flung out of the Gate tunnel must have gone out before he woke. Around him lay a thin blanket of black char, but it stopped inches away, almost as if a shield covered him while he was unconscious.

A harsh clank on the outer hull.

The sharp hiss of a cutter torch.

Near the back of the bridge, a round piece of plating clanked to the floor, and a helmeted man peered down into the bridge. His skin was dark, olive-green.

Cometines!

As he struggled to rise—to fight off the intruders, he slipped back into unconsciousness.


When Desslok woke again, the confines of a small ship penned him with three Cometines. They chattered amongst themselves, and Desslok only caught a few words: priest, ship, found, man, Prince Zordar. Most of the men's words made no sense. The universal translator behind his ear must have been destroyed.

One man noticed he was awake and pointed enthusiastically.

The piece of viewport still jutted from Desslok's chest and torso, but some of the pain had ebbed, either from shock or drugs, he couldn't tell. Maybe they'd dosed him with stardust, and he was imagining everything.

He tried to touch the viewport piece, but his wrists were anchored to the bed.

"No—move!" One man urged him to stop while the others scrambled to keep the bleeding at bay. "Die—! Stop!"

He stilled as trickles of red leaked down his sides and coated the bed in crimson. The broken collarbone still angled unnaturally, but the wound in his side was patched.

The viewport piece seemed to stare at him, like a giant cat with glass fangs dug deep in his flesh. But just how deep? What organs would fail? What vital systems would die? What pieces of him would never leave this ship?

Blood pounded in his ears, and darkness seeped into his vision again, but this time, the dark didn't let go.


Chains burned into his flesh, searing off one layer of skin at a time, but no matter how hard he yanked, they would not give.

Around him, in the blackness, danced shadows of things more terrifying than anything he had seen, even in the dark recesses of Aurelia Guardiana's lair years ago. He shut his eyes, but the images still burned through, scarring his vision, and keeping him from any semblance of peace.

Thirst tore his throat, and he searched for water, but found none. Even the air was devoid of moisture, and the dryness crinkled through his scalp, making his hair feel like needles poking through his skin. He tried to rip out the irritant, but the chains prevented him.

Two unfamiliar voices rippled the air.

"He is mine," said one, deep, guttural, though it belonged to a stunningly beautiful man. Long, blonde hair flowed over his shoulders to his waist and framed a blue-eyed face anyone, man or woman, would envy. His glowing robes hid a perfect form, but something about him seemed… wrong—like a sour note mid-song. Pride radiated from him.

"His time is not over, Heilel," said a second man. This one did not possess the first's appeal, but he seemed strong—stronger than anyone Desslok had ever seen—and at his side hung a broadsword to rival any weapon wielded by man.

"He is dead. His time is over," growled Heilel.

"So saith the One—Olam Elohim—the One—Shaddai—the One—Elyon—the One Yahweh Adonai—this one is not finished." The armed man's words boomed like thunder and carried an authority that made Heilel wince.

The armed man approached Desslok, took his chains in both powerful hands and ripped them apart.

Heilel lunged at the armed man and stopped just short of his drawn sword's tip.

"You cannot challenge the One, Heilel."

Heilel gritted his teeth and stepped back, but he looked as if he wanted to sweep the sword aside and tear the other man apart.

The armed man kept his sword pointed at Heilel with one hand and with the other, he touched the gaping wound in Desslok's chest.

The torn flesh began to knit into a neatly stitched row, and the burning around him eased—disappeared.

Heilel vanished, but the second man lingered a few seconds longer. Before he faded completely, he whispered, "Few are granted such a gift. Use it wisely."


Burial wraps covered him from chest to feet as a Cometine man poised to wrap the rest of Desslok's body in preparation for him to be spaced.

As he opened his eyes, the man wrapping him leapt back with a horrified gasp. Fear filled his face, and he bit one fist to cover a scream. "Alive!" he cried as he scrambled away and ran from the room. "Alive!"


12 months ago

Desslok sat at the desk in his provided quarters. The message disk his mother entrusted to him years ago sat in a little compartment, concealed. Mintra'el, his AI occupied another hidden pocket, and a third spot housed a clone of Imperator's computer.

The door hissed open, granting Prince Zordar entrance. The tall Cometine walked with the authority of a king. His shock of white hair surrounded his head in a thick, wild bush and merged into eyebrows that spanned his forehead without interruption.

The power this man represented—an entire worldship at his command—the ability to destroy entire worlds. Though he found the man's lineage detestable, such power demanded respect.

"You possess an obscene amount of luck, Desslok of Gamilon. Any other man would never have survived your journey through the Gate wall. We are fortunate to have found you. Our high priest Gairen told us where you would be. The Warbringer gifts him great knowledge at times."

Desslok tapped the spot just behind his left ear. A translator fixed to his skin, right where the old one used to be. He rose from his chair as quickly as he dared and bowed to the prince. In Gamilon he said, "I am in your debt, Prince Zordar. However, I must return to my throne-world to see to what remains of my people."

Zordar's face turned grim. "Ah…I see you have not heard. Your people believe you dead. Your Prime Minister has taken the lead in your absence and seems to be holding things together with the aid of a small advisory council."

Masterson made it home. Good. "Then my return will be all the more triumphant. Is my ship repaired?"

"I'm afraid it was beyond salvaging. All that remained was the bridge where we found you. The rest was blown apart inside the Gate. I commissioned another ship to be built for you, but it will not be completed for nearly a year. While you finish your recovery and await your ship's completion, won't you explore Gatlantis? Our great libraries, combat training facilities, and our much-loved vices are yours to enjoy as you will. Soon we will reach Enrithal—and conquer it. I would value your insight into such a tenacious foe as the Enrithali—a branch of the Bolar clans, I believe."

"I would gladly aid you in defeating such vermin as the Enrithali."

"I hoped you would say that." Zordar grinned. "We will meet to discuss the situation soon. I'll keep you informed."


7 months ago

Desslok dodged another bolt as the training drone fired at him. Through his long recovery, he determined his injuries would not keep him from returning to his previous level of combat prowess. But though his will never bent, his body sometimes refused to obey.

He stretched for the drone bare-handed but overreached. The healed chest wound flared pain up his arm and through his middle, and he dropped to one knee, hand on his chest as his heart pounded in protest and sweat beaded on his forehead.

A deep breath pushed the pain away, and he leapt on the drone, taking it down, but as he finished his enemy, the pain returned, duller this time, but still there.

He fell to his knees again, and a med droid was instantly at his side. It dosed him with painkillers.

"Rest is recommended," it droned.

"I don't care what you recommend," he bit back. "Set it up again!"

Desslok ran the sim, still in pain, though the drugs took away its edge.

When he finished the program a second time, he retreated to the room's separate shower.

Gatlantis' showers were far better than anything they'd had aboard Imperator—even rivaling the facilities back on Gamilon.

Hot water rinsed away the ache in his chest, leaving the long scar softer and less angry looking.

Towel tied around his waist, he stepped out of the shower unit, letting the cloud of steam roll into the changing area and fill it with mist.

A secured locker, keyed to his handprint, held fresh clothes, but before he reached it, a young woman stepped through the cloud of mist. The hem of her thin, sleeveless white dress—made thinner by the hot steam—brushed her bare feet. Straight, raven hair flowed over her bare shoulders and back, contrasting with pale skin.

She didn't hide her admiring stare and quickly closed the distance between them. "I've heard much about you from my father, Prince Zordar, but I wasn't prepared for the… other stories I'd heard to be more than true."

The girl gave him a tart smile. "I watched while they tried to save you." Her fingers walked the length of the scar from waist to chest, then trailed to his face where they traced his tight jaw and neck—all the way to the crooked collarbone.

"Lucky for you that face of yours is still agreeably handsome." Her hand dropped to his waist. "Are you hiding any other scars?" She tried to unknot the towel.

Desslok grabbed her hand and twisted it hard.

She yelped, and he released her.

"Touch me again, and I'll break that hand," he said coldly.

She huffed. "I am Princess Invidia, heir to Prince Zordar's throne. How dare you threaten me!"

Desslok growled at her. "I don't care who you are. I am not a prized animal to be gawked at on his mistress' whim. Get out!" He pointed to the door.

Invidia shook her head and took two steps toward the door but didn't leave. "So, you do still cling to the past. What do I have to do? Lighten my hair?" She ran her fingers through her hair, and it turned red blonde. "Maybe change the dress?" She smoothed one hand over her clothes, and they transformed into a long-sleeved dress, blue as the summer sky. But her eyes were still black as steel, not Starsha's gentle hazel. And she was half a head too short.

"That doesn't become you," he hissed.

Invidia barked a harsh laugh and twirled the hem of her dress. It reverted to limp white, and her hair faded black again. "When you finally decide to give her up, I'll be waiting."

Desslok didn't reply.

"You're wondering how I know about her? Oh, your failed attempts at wooing the Iscandari queen have traveled far, Desslok. Even here aboard Gatlantis, we've heard of it—how you saved her from the terrible plague but were too late to heal her sister. How you tried to talk her into coming back to Gamilon with you as your queen—and how she turned you down. It's quite the amusing tale." Invidia laughed again as she continued toward the door. "I am not so difficult to please." One step from the door, she slipped him a leer, then left.

Desslok locked the changing room door.

When he'd finished, he headed for one of Zordar's war council meetings.


Present day

Masterson sat in his quarters. The tale Desslok told him still rattled around his brain. Pieces didn't make sense—or were too disturbing to contemplate for long.

Thankfully, David was on the bridge, watching Morta and keeping him as far from Desslok as possible.

His friend's encounter with the two other-worldly strangers repeated in his mind. Adonai… I am so sorry I questioned you after the battle at Gehenna's Bridge. I lost faith in You—forgot that You are all-powerful—that You can do anything—even bring back a soul from Abaddon's fire. I believe You now, Adonai. Help me never to forget again.

Something else about Desslok's account nagged Masterson—Invidia's attempts at seduction. According to Desslok, she had tried many times after that first encounter—some instances more flagrant than others. But why? What would she gain? She clearly didn't love him. The only person she seemed to love was herself.

Adonai, give me wisdom… I fear I will need it.


Episode 13 Notes:

Editing pass complete, 8/18/2022

The title for this episode was taken from Isaiah 26:19-21:

Thy dead men shall live, together with my dead body shall they arise. Awake and sing, ye that dwell in dust: for thy dew is as the dew of herbs, and the earth shall cast out the dead.

Come, my people, enter thou into thy chambers, and shut thy doors about thee: hide thyself as it were for a little moment, until the indignation be overpast.

For, behold, the Lord cometh out of his place to punish the inhabitants of the earth for their iniquity: the earth also shall disclose her blood, and shall no more cover her slain.