I spent the next two days in a sealed compartment. Amon used the nanites of his Carapace Suit to close my injury, and then we waited for the Xurak response. Yes, he could’ve finished off every last of their awful kind on that cursed ship. But the damage to Amon’s Suit was already so severe that he ran the risk of never taking the armor off again.

  And from the Xurak’s standpoint, neither could they hope to steal me away. A thing that needed no sleep guarded me, and it had a sword that condemned its victims to a fate worse than death.

  The Xurak limped away, their powerful engines taking them beyond the reach of the Void Aegis. There they disappeared, never to be seen again.

  I didn’t see Amon breathe a sigh of relief when the Xurak departed. Such a movement was beyond him. Instead, he swiftly left me in that sealed part of the ship, taking care to other matters. In the end, I believe it was for the best. There was no way he could comfort me while in the Carapace Suit, and as it was, what had been done to me was inconsolable. I preferred the loneliness of this strange new world, subsisting off the rations Amon had given me. And slowly, I came to the realization that I had a future again.

  When I gained the strength to explore the pressurized section, I limped down the wide corridors, at lost for words at where Amon had found such a wonder. It defied my limited description, both the human and the Xurak parts of me. I suppose I could’ve used the word for “beautiful” in galactic basic. However, that simple definition loses so much of its meaning. I could easily speak the same for the pleasure cruises and the Xurak vessels, and it would’ve not been entirely wrong. They both had their vulgar arguments.

  But the pleasure cruises were designed for the ecstasy and comfort of their guests. These barges were entirely garish. Their sides were lined with lysergic bulbs, thick pink pods from which a dozen occupants experienced mystical rapture—or rather—the chemical components of such an experience. The gilded ornaments attempted to dignify the wriggling shapes, and the effect was most similar to that kind of life only seen in the far corners, the sort of blind creature you find squelching on the deepest of sea beds.

  The Xurak, on the other hand, trained their eyes upon on the galaxy and sculpted their vessels for this task. It is not that they built their worlds of horror because they delighted in such things. They sought the most monstrous of designs to strike fear into the alien heart. Nothing less could be permitted, lest the tragedy of Terra strike again. And it was only after several generations that the Xurak fell in love with what they wanted to inflict on their enemies.

  Neither such calculation entered the mind of whoever designed this ship. These builders had their eyes trained elsewhere, not for the slovenly taste of its occupants and not with a mind bent for horror. It is a common refrain in the galaxy that art is a matter of self-expression, but I have always found the opposite to be the case. Art only rises to its mastery when it is chained by constraint.

  After all, the reason you did not make vessels this large was because it is impossible to get anywhere. The wide, sweeping halls were too large for the occupants’ convenience. I found myself bewildered, having to take long breaks in my journey. At first, I believed I had access to the length and breadth of the ship, only to discover at a viewport that this was just one tiny section. It occurred to me then that whoever built this mighty vessel expected that the passengers would exist in spite of its architecture. Or rather, that they found something in the bones of this place that was worth such pains.

  And counterintuitive to its scale, not a single hand-crafted detail was lost. At first, I thought the statues which lined its hull were all manufactured copies. It was only upon closer inspection that I saw each face was, in fact, unique. I thought the dim blue starlight, patterned emergency lights in the floor, must’ve repeated somewhere. But by the end of my stay, I believe the constellations gracefully unwound in a unique strand from the bow to the stern.

  I thought this ship’s glass rotundas and great planar ceilings were altogether delicate. As a child, I trembled, anxiously looking for cracks. I held my breath, waiting for these great works to shatter. As an old man, I realize they were the thoughts of a people who didn’t fear the void and the emptiness within.

  The secret of this noble craft was that it had not been originally built for war. It had been a shrine, once. And so too, its name had once been Etchmiadzin, the Place of the Holy Spear. The old stories say this ship took pilgrims upon the million, to travel the emptiness between galaxies, to find a crossing to Cynocephali—or in its ancient name—Canis of the Greater Dwarf.

  It was only bad luck that it had returned to drydock when the conflict broke out, another sad tragedy of the Fifth Aberrant War. Instead of departing on final voyage, this holy place had been defiled with battle. Looking back, I wish I had known the history of this vessel to have paid it more reverence. But even as a child, I walked the rooms of the most hidden of holies in respectful silence.

  As young as I was, having lived no more than a speck of my long life, I knew the last labor of this most mighty of works was to bring me home.

  …

  Amon kept the Void Aegis running until it finally failed. Ships translated in, but they were not the dark shadows of the Xurak. Instead, the elegant vessels of the Dalfaen appeared. The Xurak had fled, or rather, lost interest in our broken craft. And with the militaries of the galaxy converging on the Rhodeshi system, the Xurak chose to simply disappear, back to whatever corner of the galaxy they called home.

  They had already taken everything they came for, and picking a fight with the Carapace Suit was more trouble than it was worth.

  Laerad trained his weapons on the exhausted Etchmiadzin, the broken world having lost most of its teeth to defend itself. Officially, Amon bargained the sacred shrine for passage back to the Rhodeshi system. Realistically, he had no choice but to turn it over and fall on Laerad’s mercy. The Dalfaen Adjudicator seized the Jewel of the Final Crossings as his compensation. And for the disappointment of the Death Games, the Miracle of Tiridates was forfeit. We humans were quickly shuffled off, abandoned to a small frigate to take us home.

  Had history occurred in any other way, this small ship should’ve been forgotten. It was a minor attachment of an insignificant armada. But for this record, the Risso will be the only name of this fleet remembered. And in the appendices of this account, you will find every soldier and officer who served upon its short journey.

  Such is my gratitude, and the only repayment I can give at this end of history.

  Of the trip home, I most remember being ushered into a white medical bay shaped like a bowl. The Carapace Suit stood with its arms crossed as the Nekomata doctors looked over me. The aliens were careful with their personality heuristics, but even they could not conceal their shock and horror as they conversed with each other, running scans on me.

  I stared numbly above at the blue waters, watching the occasional Dalfaen pass by. It was only with the insistence of Amon that I was not swarmed by petitioners, wishing to lay eyes upon me, on one of the last human children in the galaxy.That said, deep into the night, some of the lower Dalfaen officers secretly approached me to ask for blessings.

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  They let down their image blinders. I did not scream a second time.

  The small Dalfaen vessel took us to a refugee depot. Just as the Rhodeshi had been quick supplying the galaxy with the entertainment of the Death Games, so too had the galaxy been quick to fleece them for all they were worth. In their time of the great need, the Rhodeshi people found assistance was expensive, and those could not afford to pay up front were forced to take loans at enormous interest.

  And as with all those who find themselves suddenly poor, neither could the Rhodeshi keep their dignity. Rescue operations in high orbit found proud Game Masters trembling in airtight compartments, the first time they experienced terror in their lives. Those lucky to afford passage out of the system were shoved into cramped freighters and given just enough provisions to survive. Captains pushed their ship’s life support to the limit, making as much profit as they could from the situation. Those left on the failing space stations were often forced down to their homeworld, where millions lived in hastily constructed encampments, struggling under the harsh gravity.

  Every ship still able to fly was now supporting the relief efforts, whether it be rescue operations or emergency repairs or supply runs. On approach to the refugee depot, I saw the Aphelion limping towards a landing pad, having volunteered its services. Only one of its engines remained operational and there were decks exposed to the vacuum, but Rykar had done his job, keeping the old vessel flying until every last bolt gave out. Our shuttle docked beside, and clambering out, I imagine we must’ve been a sight on that shoddy station. There we were, a small child with crimson eyes and a prosthetic hand walking side by side with the terror of the Carapace Suit.

  The landing ramp was broken, but the airlock opened. I saw Ingrish appear at the threshold, and I hesitated. I was scared of what I was now—what she would think of me. I tried to tell myself that I was corpse once again, relying upon that thought which comforted me when I was in the hands of the Xurak.

  But I knew it wasn’t true. No matter what I told myself, a corpse doesn’t feel its heart lurch in its chest. I realized there was no longer any denying it. I was back home. The only question was whether my home was still there for me.

  Ingrish practically jumped down from the Aphelion. Stopping just an arm’s reach away, I saw the expression I must dreaded, a look of profound horror crossing her face. But before I could turn away to hide myself, Ingrish embraced me and wept bitter tears, wailing at what had been done.

  I winced, but I did not stop her.

  …

  Tut now had two patients to practice his grisly work with. And I am sure we tested his long experience in the profession. Amon was the easier to put back together again. After all, what had been done to him had been with Tut’s own hands. Connecting to the ocular nails with a control interface, the Belazzar began the lengthy process stripping the armor away and uncovering the man inside.

  The doctor peeled away layer after layer of armor plate, unplugging long connector needles. Black fluid gushed out and drained on the floor. After a few days, the pale mass of Amon’s flesh lay for all to see in the surgery suite. The process for removing the implants was gradual, starting with rebuilding Amon’s digestive system. One-by-one, the devices came out and the nanites were set reconstructing human organs, expending the last of their power to resurrect the man they murdered.

  The vertebral column hummed as the fused plate turned white hot and melted, allowing Tut to detach it from Amon’s spine. Drawing forth the respirator mask, the artificial pneumoctyes unlatched along Amon’s esophagus and a long thick tube came up from his throat. The cardiovascular system was next. With wet hands, Tut dropped the nano-fabricator in a box. And finally, the ocular nails were drawn out, just as slowly as they had been put in. The monofilament wires repaired Amon’s brain as they were sucked out. And over the course of the weeks, the man returned and the awful Carapace Suit was gone.

  It had been close. Had any more of the nanites been expended during the battle, Tut wouldn’t have been able to remove the armor at all. As it stood, the Belazzar had to leave several of the artificial organs in Amon. His body had become dependent on them, adapting to their higher functions and refusing to accept inferior replacements. He would never possess his large intestine and right lung again.

  As for myself, the macro surgery was shorter as Tut removed the feeding ports and affixed a better prosthetic replacement for my hand. I panicked as I realized over the weeks that my flesh was slowly rising to the skeletal fingers. Amon placed his hand on my shoulder and told me it was natural to humans. The organo-prosthetic was to accelerate limb growth, something our species could regenerate over time. I would have a normal hand again within the next few months.

  What was not so easy was undoing everything else. The Xurak were not only concerned with remaking my genetic structure. There were microbial colonies, synthetic nanobes, and even small organisms wriggling in my brain. Tut had to unravel long threads of interwoven dependencies, all mutating me into something else. My DNA itself had become an unstable arrangement, and any lesser doctor would’ve tipped the delicate balance and inadvertently killed me.

  Instead, Tut acted with a series of precise retroviruses, weaning me off the Xurak adjustments one-by-one. He introduced prions into my brain, to eradicate the nameless things which crawled there. I found that the words of the world stopped re-arranging themselves into their Xurak configurations, but even Tut could not remove the awful things that had already been learned. It is not as if memories can simply be deleted.

  When we recall the past, it is not like a computer, filed away in some small corner to be used when necessary. Our history is written on every neuron, brought to life as if resurrecting the dead, however imperfectly. That is what humans are, and even Tut could not change that.

  And impressive as the Belazzar was, there was one other thing beyond his science. Despite every attempt and every natural law working in his favor, Tut could not change my eyes back to their former color. Even as he changed my very DNA, his alterations reset themselves. He excised the extra eyelid several times, but the translucent membrane always regrew itself within a few days. No matter what, both the subtle and gross powers of the Belazzar utterly failed against this simple fact.

  I found it an easy compromise at first, especially after Tut assured me that everything else of the Xurak had been excised. I still remember when I opened my eyes again on that surgery bed. Tut was looking down and saying I was back to normal. Ingrish was there also. And while she couldn’t conceal her pain, she hugged me still, assuring me that everything would be all right. It was over.

  It was finally all over.

  I admit. I allowed myself to believe. As horrifying as Tut was, I thought he could fix whatever had gone wrong in me. As the Xurak thing was erased and the boy raised by the Mantza returned, I thought I would be able to move on. I thought—in time—I could forget. And in some distant day, I would never have to fear the Xurak again.

  I had my first seizure three days later.

  …

  The Aphelion had taken a contracting job, transporting Rhodeshi refugees out of their system. It was money Amon couldn’t afford to pass up. As such, even my tiny quarters had been taken by our new visitors. Ingrish had given me a blanket and tried to make the access tube as homely as possible, with a lantern and a holo-projector to keep me entertained. Even she had to vacate her room, rolling up the many tapestries and sleeping in a maintenance shaft next to mine.

  As for Amon, he barely left the bridge for the next seven months. The work was practically around the clock, both with the passengers and making sure the ship didn’t fall apart. When the problem wasn’t power requirements, it was life support or the heat exchangers. I had no idea how much we struggled those months, how close the Aphelion came to failing. But Amon and Rykar and Kybit were nothing if not miracle workers. Even as shields failed and we lost more decks to vacuum, we scrapped by. At painful cost, we stopped losing our home to the vicious law of entropy. And after a hundred runs, we could finally breathe easy.

  But even as there are a thousand memories of that period, the only one that remains clear in my mind was my first phantasmal attack. I had just settled in for bed in that narrow access tube. Opening and closing my eyes, I thought at first it was just that realm of sleep bleeding into my fading awareness. But I noticed a small bit of hull pushing out, like a finger against cloth. It remained there for a long moment, straining.

  Slowly, the metal ripped open, and I saw a wriggling finger come through. More and more digits pressed against the hull from impossible angles. And the access tube became filled with a thousand fingers of threshing movement, forming into the lost hand that was trying to return to me. I wanted to scream, but I found the movement beyond me. The mass contorted, the sea of writhing flesh forming a face. It wished me well and soothed me—to my great distress—with the knowledge that the time of the sacrifice was still to arrive.