Chapter 23: Riebeck - Part 1

This was a terrible idea.

Riebeck's engines spool down, the noise giving way to silence. The lip of the crater beckons, as does the vast tower that lies just beyond it. The ship shudders as the ground beneath its landing feet settles.

This was a terrible, terrible idea.

They've been alone on strange planets before. Well, once. Even on Brittle Hollow, with its buried secrets and terrifyingly volatile moon, a friendly voice was only ever a signalscope message away. But here, on this nameless rock, they're alone. Truly alone. More so than any other Hearthian in history. Chert, Gabbro and Feldspar might still be in orbit, if they haven't already left, but after what Riebeck has done, they may as well be in a different solar system entirely. And now icy fear spreads in their gut, turning their joints to jelly and melding them to their pilot's seat.

Outside, Lumen 282-b floods the sky with stark blue light, the thin atmosphere wavering in its monstrous heat. The alerts about the toxic air fell quiet along with the engines after landing, but the lights still flick dutifully on and off, a reminder of just how hostile the planet is to life.

And this is at its furthest point away from the sun, Riebeck's brain supplies for them helpfully. Imagine what it's going to be like in a cycle. Or two.

"Shut up," Riebeck mumbles, before realising that they are, in fact, talking to themself. A slightly hysterical laugh bubbles past their lips. That didn't take long; they've been away from the others for five minutes and they're already going mad. Then again, it feels good to hear a voice, even if it is their own. Maybe they can work with this.
"Okay, Riebeck," they say sternly. "Enough of this. You didn't come all this way to turn back now. You've got a head full of questions and the only way to answer them is to do your job. Now get up."

They get up.

Well, it's a start, despite the trembling of their limbs. Riebeck grits their teeth and steadies themself on the control panel. "Alright. You've landed, and you didn't pulverise your landing gear or yourself. So, what's next?" It's like being back in training, with Gossan's gravelly voice feeding instructions into their ear. Already the checklist springs to mind, drummed into them so many times they could recite it in their sleep. System check. Suit check; helmet, oxygen line…

It works, sort of. They're still trembling like a sapling in a high wind, but sheer force of habit is enough to distract them from the myriad ways they could mess up and die the moment they step out of the hatch. Jetpack, tether, Little Scout, signalscope-
They hesitate over the last one. There's little point in taking it with them. But, despite everything, simply leaving it behind feels… wrong. In the end, they pick it up anyway and clip it to its holder. Its familiar shape at their side makes them feel a little better about venturing forth into the unknown, at least. They refuse to think about the process of opening the hatch, or waiting for the pressure in the cabin to adjust, or manoeuvring themself down onto the planet's surface. If they start, they'll never stop, and then they'll lose their nerve entirely. But then the boots of their suit touch down on the gritty, dusty surface, and they finally let out the breath they've been holding, as their bone-deep terror recedes to a nervous flutter.

They emerge from the shadow of Traveler-1's landing gear. They're level with the tower's peak, or at least, they would be if the whole thing wasn't leaning dangerously to one side. The peak is segmented, similar to the Gloamer ship, but on a much larger scale and arranged in a configuration that puts Riebeck in mind of a flower on the verge of blooming. Below that, the familiar slick purple-black gives way to some dull reddish-grey material, pitted and scoured and patched in places. And, all at once, Riebeck can picture exactly how the Gloamers set about constructing this place.

"It's their ship!" they blurt out, forgetting in their excitement that they're still talking to themself. "Or what's left of it." They must have landed their ship and started building directly downwards, into the planet, mining for materials as they went. Which means, Riebeck realises, their pulse quickening, they never intended to leave. Not for the first time, they wish they could properly read the spheres the Gloamers had left behind on Gloam Heart. Maybe then they could get at least a clue of what awaits them inside the tower. As things stand, there's only one way to find out.

Unlike the ruins on Gloam Heart, which were riddled with windows and outdoor courtyards, the tower is as featureless as it is vast. Which makes sense, as the only way its inhabitants would be able to survive the planet's atmosphere is by suiting up. Despite knowing they're protected by their helmet and oxygen line, Riebeck itches to get out of Lumen 282-b's harsh glare. The heat is oppressive even through their suit. Reaching the shelter of the tower shouldn't be too difficult, with their jetpack and a forgiving gravity to save them from cracking their skull open should they fall. But getting inside is a whole different story. Riebeck can't see any doors. If there were any, they would probably be sealed against the harsh atmosphere.

"Well, that's what the Little Scout is for," they tell themself, channelling their inner Chert this time. If the smaller Hearthian were here, they would have had the entire landing site mapped out by now. Riebeck edges closer to the lip of the crater, looking for a good place to launch their scout from. Then they stop dead as they realise they'd been so wrapped up in looking for a conventional way in, they'd completely missed the obvious. Roughly a quarter of the way down, where the supports have bent and twisted as they've pulled away from the main structure, is a breach.

·◊◊◊·

It's not exactly a welcoming entrance - more a ragged hole left by failing joints and the unstoppable rush of escaping air. Something has fallen over the hole, leaving a gap wide enough for Riebeck to squeeze through if they unhook their oxygen tank and push it ahead of them. They hate everything about that, but unless they want to try and widen the gap they have no choice. Every moment they spend wriggling through the hole, they have to force themself to breathe normally, reminding themself over and over again that they can see their oxygen line, it's right there in front of them, untangled and whole…

Inside, once they've safely re-attached their oxygen tank and re-gathered their wits, Riebeck flicks their torch on and shines it around at their surroundings. The tower is lightless and stiflingly still. A dusting of reddish grey powder coats the floor, not to mention their suit. When they try to dust it off they only succeed in smearing it around. Giving up on that for now, they try to make sense of their surroundings.

They're in some kind of hallway, disorientingly tilted, claustrophobic and utilitarian in design, stretching far into the featureless dark in both directions. The walls are plated the same way as the Gloamer ship, with intersecting scale-like marble pieces. Which throws Riebeck for a loop; where on Hearth did it come from? Even the Gloamers couldn't have hauled the stuff all the way out here. Unless… since the Gloamers had used their ship - or ships - as a base to start building from, perhaps they stripped them for parts too. That makes a horrible kind of sense, though it also means they would have effectively grounded themselves. Permanently.

Riebeck's fingers dart for their signalscope, eager to share their theory. Then they remember with a pang that there's no longer anyone to share it with. At least, no one who would care to hear from them.

…they need a moment, after that.

When they can see again, they take a shuddering breath and force themself to pick a direction and move. Their torchlight picks out the odd detail; small different-coloured panels set into the walls, dead lights similar to those that had frightened them so on the Gloamer ship. These remain dark though, and Riebeck doesn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed. Every so often they come to a pair of hatches in the floor and ceiling. As far as their torch lets them see, the vertical shafts lead to more of the same featureless tunnels. It would be all too easy to become lost, so they make a point of aiming away from the pull of gravity, so at least they can know to follow the direction of the slope when it comes to retracing their steps.

When they come to a familiar-looking wall of hexagonal shapes, their first instinct is to run as far away from it as they can. It's so like the one beneath the ruins on Gloam Heart, the one that led to almost losing Feldspar. But there are no strange constellation-shaped markings here, and a cursory scan of Riebeck's surroundings reveals that the air here isn't toxic. Well, no more so than the rest of the planet's atmosphere.
The idea of opening up a door into the unknown is terrifying, but Riebeck can't linger forever in what they're starting to suspect is a maintenance corridor. Cautiously, they reach out and give the wall a gentle nudge. It doesn't spring open, but yields to their touch nonetheless. They ease the panels aside, giving themself enough room to squeeze through, and shine their torch around the chamber they've just opened up.

It's as if they just stepped back onto Gloam Heart. Well, almost. The room isn't as beautiful or colourfully decorated as the ruin, but as their torchlight sweeps over dust-furred furnishings the similarities are striking. It has to be some kind of living space, with low curved furniture arranged neatly in groups. And yet there's something oddly… cold about it. An unlived-in quality that they can't blame entirely on the fact it's abandoned. Riebeck can't quite put their finger on why, but it makes the back of their neck prickle. The room opens out directly onto a wide curved hallway. The Gloamers had cleverly created a place for themselves not so unlike their home, halfway across the solar system. Smaller in scale, yes, but as Riebeck starts to wander along this new hallway they can see that it's been built with familiarity in mind. Rooms are laid out in similar configurations as the ruin, the wide windows replaced with dark surfaces that might be display panels. Riebeck's scientist brain is jumping for joy at the prospect of exploring this place, in spite of the dark, insistent voice at the back of their mind reminding them that something must have happened to the Gloamers to make them abandon their new home.
Deep in their hearts, they'd always known this was an archeological mission, not an anthropological one. The Gloamers are long gone. All Riebeck really wants is to understand why. Why leave their home planet for a desolate rock so close to the sun? Why create a trail of clues leading to this place, only for it to be a dead end?

Inevitably, as they wander between the lifeless, tilted rooms, Riebeck's joints start to ache. They never feel quite one hundred percent these days, though taking it easy aboard the Traveler has helped. But when the pain truly sets in, they simply can't ignore it any longer. It claws its way up their lower back, setting off that stars-damned nausea again, and before long they have to stop and unhook their oxygen tank, leaning against a listing wall until the worst of it passes. They can't help but wish they'd brought some bitterwillow pellets with them. But that just makes them feel worse; it's clear Feldspar needs the stuff more than they do. Riebeck remembers the horrible moment the others had all turned to look at them, betrayal and worry warring on their faces, and they flush with shame. No, they've done enough damage as it is, without stealing more supplies to boot. They can handle this… whatever it is that's wrong with them, without putting their friends at risk.

They shut their eyes and breathe deeply, in for four, out for four, willing away the bone-deep ache in their spine. They'd never quite managed to achieve the same serene state as Gabbro, but it's not as if they have any other options right now. In the silence, they feel rather than hear a faint hum through their suit. It's soothing, in a way, and they hone in on it, letting it lull them into their quiet space…

Wait.

Riebeck's eyes fly open, and they slap their gloved hands flat against the wall. That's an electrical hum. Which means this place still has power - or parts of it do, anyway. The Gloamers must have left something running before they… Riebeck fumbles mentally for the right word, settling eventually on disappeared. They scramble to their feet, gritting their teeth against the pain, but that turns out to be a mistake because a wave of nausea breaks over them, worse than anything they'd ever felt on the Traveler. They double over with a groan, head spinning, managing by sheer force of will to now throw up inside their suit.

Stars, what's wrong with me? They sag against the wall. They can't carry on like this - except they have to, because they're painfully aware their oxygen tank won't last forever. If they can return to Traveler-1, the ship has enough oxygen to give them a few refills. But when that runs out… well, Riebeck isn't going to think too hard about that.
Even so, the quiet is starting to feel… oppressive. As if they let go of the wall and lose the faint electrical hum, it too will disappear, and Riebeck will be trapped here, left to drown in the silence.

No, they have to keep moving. If there's power, there may be clues as to what happened to this place, and Riebeck has come too far to give up now, even with their body threatening to give out on them. They do some quick mental arithmetic and roll their shoulders experimentally. They're still sore, but they have enough oxygen for at least another hour of exploration before they will have to turn back. As long as they don't over-exert themself.

Gingerly, so as not to push their aching joints too far, they start to feel their way along the wall, following the electrical hum onward, into the dark.