"...What they need, Margulis, is to be destroyed! They're devils from that hell, not human anymore."
- Executor Ballas
Then.
"Isolde!"
She runs to meet them, giggling. Giddy bare feet slap cool smooth decking as she dashes into the open concourse. Golden light streams down from the shutters overhead.
Beyond, the Void trembles and surges, unending.
The other children await her. Five friends, thrown together by life aboard the Orokin vessel. There is Sara, her closest friend and confidant. Impish and playful Sara grins and slaps palms with her adoptive sister. They speak over one another, exchanging breathless gossip at blinding speed.
Solemn Doric shushes them. He is the tallest of the boys; dour and broad shouldered. His ashen skin sets him apart. Kael, the paler boy beside him mutters an aside and the two chuckle privately. Isolde flushes. Sara scowls and swats at him playfully. They squabble. Kael complaining loudly as she tousles his mop of unkempt dark hair.
"Over here."
That is Sohren. He lacks Doric's commanding height but is the oldest of their little corpus. They were a team, separate from the other children aboard the ship.
Every roguish suggestion was Sohren's doing, every grand design, or misadventure or hushed conversation after lights out. He is barely a teenager, yet already carries the beginnings of a man about him. His parents were low within the mighty ship's vast hierarchy.
It does not matter to them. They are children. Hierarchies are naturally created and unconsciously maintained. He is the fastest, the strongest; the most experienced. They all but worship him.
The gang gathers around. Sohren stands by a large oval viewport that dominates the Observation Deck. It is one of the more remote parts of the ship, overshadowed by more central and heavily trafficked viewing galleries.
In normal times the viewport provides a grand view of the swooping lines and graceful golden curves of the ship beyond. It is a vast landscape, seemingly endless. These were not normal times. They are underway, beset on all sides by the swirling energies of the Void.
A Void Expedition, for the Void Era.
The viewport is opaque, a necessary safeguard. It appears to them now as an alabaster mirror, smooth and cool to the touch; It is rimmed by gold; infused with a lacing silver trim.
Only the Grownups had access to the science deck where the windows could be unveiled, and even then only with the strictest of safeguards in. The children never saw those places, mysterious and forbidden.
"What is it?" Kael asks, stepping forward.
"Watch." Sohren simply says. He steps towards the glass. Places his palm against it.
The opaque glass warps to his touch; twisting and folding into a shape. It becomes the outline boy, much like him. A perfect shadow.
The shadow cocks its head to one side. They all scream, all but Sohren. He stares, fascinated. The lights on the deck flicker. A bemused, cold laughter chuckles in the dark, playful yet distorted. Kael grabs his friend, shaking him. Sohren blinks.
The shadow is gone.
Lights restore and the ship thrums as it always has; a comforting ticking rhythm. All is calm again.
The children look at each other.
"Not a word of this to anyone." Sohren warns sternly. "Not even the others."
Weeks pass. Every day after lessons they gather in the same place where the shadow greeted them. Sohren tries to reveal the shadow once more, to no avail; clapping his hands, slapping the view screen; chanting. He sits down heavily, defeated. Evidently the shadow has found other ways to entertain itself.
But there are still oddities here, on this remote part of the ship. Peculiarities remain.
Doric brings with him a set of handcrafted marbles; an old gift from his Name Day past. The children marvel as the marbles spin and coalesce before the viewport; shifting into unknowable patterns before eventually settling still.
The next day Sara sets out an ayatan spinning top. It turns and spins as normal until it doesn't; abruptly whirling in the opposite direction with maddening speed. They yelp in unison as it shoots out across the room and shatters into a thousand pieces against the far wall.
Their collective yelp is one of delight.
The clandestine experimentation continues. Isolde sets out the tarot set, murmuring in wonder as the same faces reveal themselves time and time again, no matter how many times she shuffles the deck.
The set is new to her, a present from her Mother who served on the science team. An idle gift intended to keep her shy daughter entertained during the long shifts that kept her parents away more often than not. A distraction.
No longer. Now they are set out in sequence before the opaque mirror on the wall. Isolde's nervous reflection stares back at her as she turns each card over in sequence.
The other children stoop over her, craning in for a closer look. She sets the final card down.
The same sequence, every time. No matter how many times she shuffles and reshuffles the cards, there they were; staring back at her.
The Nine of Quills. The Four of Chains. The Fool's Eye. The Tower, inverted.
And finally, Death.
Isolde scrutinises the sequence. At this early stage in her life; the cards are unfamiliar, their true meanings and finer subtleties as unyielding and opaque as the viewport before her. Yet the cards themselves seem to hum; moving with a barely perceptible tremble. They are warm to the touch.
Isolde frowns and tries to swap the cards intentionally; to break the order with brutish direct input. The moment she does so the entire decks spits into the air, flitting about and sending the children scattering for cover, cackling as the cards rain down.
They recover, reset. The investigation must continue unabated. This is a science vessel, after all.
The sixth time; nothing. Deflated, they heave a collective sigh. The magic is gone once again.
They vow to return tomorrow, to once again tempt fate with a power that is unknown and perhaps unknowable.
Fate finds them first.
It is deep in the night shift when the killing starts.
It has already begun by the time her eyes snap awake. Her cabin is awash in sinister red warning lights. Toys scattered about her room leer at her; smiling blank expressions rendered feral in the disorientating strobe.
Isolde springs from her bed, and cries out for her parents in the dark. Warning klaxons are the only response.
Instinctively she grabs the tarot deck from her dresser, clutching it close as she pads into the shared living room that adjoins her parents' bedroom. The deck pulses warm in her hands. She calls out again.
Their door is ajar, the bed pristine and so terribly empty. She knows she should lock the door, to stay put and wait as her parents would tell her to. Her finger hovers over the activation stud that will seal her in here alone with that empty bed
The klaxons will not stop screaming.
Tarot deck clutched close to her chest, Isolde steps out into smoke and fire.
Isolde does not remember where she is when the first Void Storm breaches the hull of the Zariman Ten Zero .
Void-Jump Accident. The very concept is unthinkable. It is a research vessel staffed with thousands of the most qualified and brilliant scientific minds of the Orokin Empire. There are entire generations aboard; countless children. The Seven show the requisite caution, understanding the loss to the Empire should even the slightest mishap occur.
The design is peerless; as robust and timeless as anything made in the Empire's endless reign.
It fails; fails utterly. The Void Shields are compromised, and pulsing waves of eldritch power rip through the corridors; enveloping every soul aboard. It is unknown whether this is a natural malfunction, or deliberate sabotage.
The question is academic. The Zariman Ten Zero becomes a murderous funhouse; a killing field. The true horror of it is lost to time.
Fire suppression systems ship wide fail. Sentry turrets at key intersections blaze to life, slicing into panicking survivors and felling them in droves; all IFF restrictions wiped. Boarding defences spring to life; cutting beams severing bone and cooking flesh as they scythe through those unfortunate enough to be caught in their path.
Isolde remembers none of this. One moment she is treading carefully down a darkened corridor; listening to the ship-wide broadcast ordering all hands to emergency stations. The next she is on the floor, retching.
Cards scatter across the deck. She has fallen. The air tastes singed; her hair too. That Void stink. Her scalp is bleeding. Flecks of blood stain her night dress; spattering against the upturned face cards. The grinning skull beams up at her, pristine and mocking.
They are the same cards as before, that same damned sequence. Smoke fills the corridors, along with screams and shrill, insane laughter. Still the klaxons shriek.
Smudged hands shaking, Isolde sweeps the cards back into her hands and rises to her feet, limping numbly forward.
The first adult she encounters is a male crewmen, middle aged. One of the security detail, name of Agnas. A friendly man, he is known to her, but not like this. Agnas' helmet is missing. His tunic is frayed and torn, maroon with caked blood. The reason becomes apparent.
Agnas is bashing his skull into the bulkhead repeatedly; slow deliberate strikes. He makes no sound. Just that maddening, methodical squelching thud as torn, bruised flesh meets unyielding ship plating. The plating wins, and the man topples with a wet thud; forehead caved inward.
Isolde screams, louder than any siren.
Sohren finds her, a traumatised ball in the corner; eyes swollen shut from streaming tears. Isolde's lungs now manage little more than a tortured, prolonged croak.
He steals a panicked glance over his shoulder. He knows more Grownups are coming. Some are organising, lashing out in an animalistic rage. The Void has them. They tear each other apart, or stalk in groups; hurling themselves upon anyone and everyone they deem to be Other. The children are not spared.
Their children have a rule. In times of crisis, or injury or self-doubt, the lonely observation deck is their sanctuary. Sohren carefully guides Isolde through the dark. They arrive terrified, but unharmed.
Sara has appeared, all but dragging a groggy Kael. A venting conduit had all but cooked the corridor he and his parents had been standing in when the first Void Storm hit.
Sara is ordinarily a chirpy person; bright eyed and optimistic. That is gone now. With grim determination she had pulled Kael from beneath the cooked bodies; administering what little aid she knew. Kael rasps into a rebreather; eyes streaming.
They gather at the only place they know. Doric is already waiting for them. Marbles clack as they grind together in his balled fists. He too is bloodied.
He is staring out the viewport in awestruck horror. It is opaque no longer.
The veil has been lifted. The Lidless Eye of the Void stares back; baleful, livid and ever-changing.
The children sink to the floor together, clinging to each other and weeping.
One of the hunting parties finds them eventually. There are five of them, three men and two women. Their eyes are black with murderous intent. Some carry rifles, but wield them like clubs. Others brandish little more than bloodied fingernails, caked with gore.
The children have no weapons. They are hemmed in on both sides. Their backs kiss the cool glass behind them.
"Stay back!" Sara warns with thinly disguised panic.
Sohren puts himself between the encroaching killers and Isolde, shielding her. She is all but catatonic.
Doric attempts to break the deadlock. He charges forward; balled fists swinging. A rifle butt rewards him, cracking across his forehead with a meaty slap. Marbles bounce and skitter across the corridor as he tumbles to the deck, stunned.
Sara sprints forward instinctively, snarling. One of the women overpowers her easily, clamping gnarled hands over her throat. Kael throws himself onto the crazed woman's back; respirator working overtime. He pulls hair, claws at eyes; anything to save his diminutive friend.
To no avail. The adult feels no pain, and instead starts cackling as she tightens her grip on Sara's throat.
Sohren steps in to help. He is hopelessly outnumbered. Defiant to the end, he raises his fists in a striking stance. His father is a lowly guardsman, and he is scarcely more than a boy. He roars a challenge.
Something pushes past him.
It is Isolde. She is no longer crying. Her eyes blaze with fury. Sohren does not recognise the look in her eyes. It is a cold rage, pitiless and vengeful as she stares at the fiend choking Sara.
Isolde raises a hand and emits a primal scream. A shockwave rips through the corridor. Crewmen are scattered about like bowling pins; Kael along with them. The death grip on Sara is loosened.
In a flash Sara disappears; appearing in a terrified heap six metres away and scrambling backward on her elbows. Her face is a mask of confusion.
The adults charge. Another shockwave blasts them off their feet. Sohren has lunged at them, only he has covered too much ground, impossibly quick. He catches himself, looking down at his hands, bewildered.
The adults scramble to their feet. One of the men roars a challenge and arcs a rifle toward Isolde. A scalding bolt of light vaporises him on the spot; blasting ash back up the corridor. Flakes flicker in the air, like morbid butterflies.
The rest of the adults flee, hooting like stampeding animals.
Kael's eyes blaze a deep blue above the ridges of the respirator. Energy crackles across his fingertips.
He holds his hand up, turning it over in awe; studying it. A hush falls over them. This is a scene playing out across every deck, on every level. The realms of reality simply twist, bend, then shatter.
It is an Awakening of sorts. Untamed power unleashed, bonded to minds young enough and vivid enough to withstand an unbridled, forbidden power, but unable to control it beyond blind impulse.
Fully harnessed, it will determine the fate of an Empire.
Doric, groaning and clambering to his feet, looks up at the viewport that forms a silhouette behind his friends. He is dazed, winded certainly. His eyes play tricks on him surely.
For the briefest moment, a shadow watches them. It cocks its head in wry amusement, and as suddenly as it appears is gone.