Chapter 5: The Eulogy
The lab on the Epilogue hummed with the sound of centrifuges.
The lab on the Epilogue hummed with the sound of centrifuges.
[Initial analysis of the natives from other drones shows potential,] the AI projected a rotating helix of the alien DNA. It was robust, triple-stranded, and glowing with faint energy. [We need women, though. Blood, fluids, tissue. The X-chromosome stability we need is there.]
“The warzone has a lot of bodies, right?” Dan asked, looking at the thermal map of the equator. “Just grab a casualty.”
“No,” Ambrosio shook his head, looking up from a microscope. “We don’t want contaminated ones. The Hollow Ones—the parasites—they rewrite the code instantly. It’s useless to us.”
“Then how about the enemy?” Dan suggested.
[It’s that ‘Ethereal Fire’—weaponized entropy,] the AI brought up footage of a skirmish. [Look at the aftermath. It erases the aliens to absolute nothingness. No ash, no residue. Just void. So, no samples.]
“Can you check the samples we got on the Sails of Hope?” Ambrosio asked. “Compare the parasite residue on the dead crew to the natives? I want to see how the corruption interacts with their biology versus ours.”
[Processing,] the AI replied. [But I can tell you this: We are running out of time. If we don’t get a clean, living donor soon, the synthesis tanks will dry up.]
The Council’s Chamber
High in the obsidian spires of Aethelgard, Matriarch Valerius stood by the panoramic window, watching the silent metal giant in the plaza below.
“You took a risk, Matriarch,” Elder Cato said, his voice rasping like dry leaves. He sat at the head of the crystalline table, his violet skin wrinkled, eyes sharp with age. “Allowing that… thing… to remain in the heart of the city.”
Valerius turned, her robes shifting like liquid light. “It withstood the Purifying Light, Cato. It is not of the Shadow.”
“It is of the Stars,” Councilor Voros spat, slamming a gauntleted fist onto the table. She was the Voice of the Sword—sharp-featured, scarred, and radiating hostility. “And the last time Star-Men came, they were consumed by the Shadow. They are weak vessels.”
“These ones are different,” Valerius said, her voice steady. “They speak with a voice of iron, but they did not attack until provoked. They claim kinship.”
“Kinship?” Councilor Lyra, Keeper of the Archives, looked up from his data slates. He held a device that looked like an abacus made of light. “The Archives speak of the Sky-Walkers. They were arrogant. They burned the sky. If these are their descendants, they are dangerous.”
“They are powerful,” Valerius corrected. “And we are losing the war on the Frontlines. If they can fight…”
“We will not trade our souls for swords,” Voros growled.
“We will hear them,” Valerius commanded, silencing the room. “We meet them in the open, as they demanded. If they are monsters, we will bury them. If they are allies, we will use them.”
The Plaza: A Clash of Worlds
The Envoy Bot stood silent in the plaza. The sun was high now, casting long shadows.
Suddenly, the bot’s eyes flared red. The hydraulic joints hissed as it unlocked, turning its massive head toward the approaching procession.
Four figures stood on a raised dais. Matriarch Valerius stood at the center, flanked by the Council.
“SO YOU HAVE COME,” the bot boomed, Dan’s voice filtered through the translation matrix.
Valerius stepped forward. “We have convened, Sky-Walkers. This is the Circle of Aethelgard.”
She gestured to the elder on her right. “This is Elder Cato, Voice of the Past.”
She gestured to the scarred woman. “This is Councilor Voros, Voice of the Sword.” Voros didn’t bow; she stared at the bot with open hostility.
She gestured to the scholar. “And Councilor Lyra, Keeper of the Archives.”
“Now, speak,” Valerius commanded. “Why have you returned to our sky?”
“SO BE IT,” Dan said. “WE DO NOT COME FOR WAR. WE COME BECAUSE WE ARE DYING.”
The bot projected a hologram into the air—a spinning image of Earth, turning from blue to grey.
“OUR HOME IS GONE. CONSUMED BY OUR OWN GREED AND A SICKNESS THAT ROTS US FROM THE INSIDE. BUT FEAR NOT THE CONTAGION. THIS PLAGUE IS A CURSE WRITTEN INTO OUR VERY BLOOD. IT CANNOT LEAP TO YOURS. THIS VESSEL IS STERILE—A SHELL OF CERAMIC AND STEEL. WE REMAIN IN THE SKY TO ENSURE YOUR SAFETY. WE PLEDGE THAT NO FLESH SHALL TOUCH FLESH UNTIL WE ARE CERTAIN IT IS SAFE.”
“WE HAVE TRAVELED THE STARS SEEKING A CURE. WE REQUIRE THE ESSENCE OF LIFE. SPECIFICALLY, WE NEED THE BLOOD OF DAUGHTERS TO MEND OUR BROKEN LINEAGE. WE DO NOT ASK FOR SACRIFICE. WE ASK ONLY FOR A SAMPLE—A DROP TO SAVE AN OCEAN. WE OFFER KNOWLEDGE, TECHNOLOGY, AND AID IN YOUR WAR IN EXCHANGE FOR… HOPE.”
Silence stretched across the plaza. The wind whistled through the vents of the bot.
Cato looked at the hologram of the dead Earth. His expression hardened.
“I understand your plight,” Cato said slowly. “But as you have destroyed your mother… why would we welcome you? You ask for our daughters to save a race that could not save itself?”
The stinging truth hung in the air.
In the Epilogue, Dan grit his teeth, searching for a retort. But before he could speak, the audio channel cracked. The AI override engaged.
The bot’s voice changed. It lost the menacing bass. It became soft, rhythmic, almost human.
[The innocence of a child]
[A sin carried not his]
[Burdened by curse]
[For him to release]
[Stay bright, tread light]
[Burn thy soul to let the child see]
[That despite the curse]
[There is hope]
[I shall not weep as I give my flesh]
[No anger shall taint my heart]
[For I am a chance]
[For I am hope]
[SO LONG AS MY KIN LIVE, I SHALL DO ANYTHING,] the AI finished, the voice cracking with digital emotion.
“Calm down, Ambrosio!” Dan hissed over the private channel. “I am speaking here!”
He took a breath, wrestling control back from the AI. [DESPERATION, IT IS. WE SHALL RECONVENE.]
The bot powered down instantly, leaving the Council standing in the echo of the poem.
The Verdict
The Councilors retreated to the shadows of the dais, away from the crowd.
“They are a threat,” Voros hissed, her hand on the hilt of a ceremonial dagger. “They ask for our blood. They admit they are plagued. We should not let that sickness touch our soil.”
“Or an opportunity,” Lyra mused, looking at the data slates, his eyes bright with curiosity about the unseen puppeteers. “Their technology… that shell withstood the Ethereal Fire without a scratch. Imagine that alloy on the frontlines.”
“It is strange,” Cato murmured. “I know a different one just spoke through the machine. Although it was the same voice, the soul was different.”
“Nevertheless, we should banish them,” Voros insisted. “We can, once the Champions get back. I have called for them.”
“Then what of the frontlines?” Valerius asked, her eyes on the frozen machine.
“We have already thinned the numbers,” Voros dismissed. “It should be fine for a few days.”
Cato stared at the silent metal giant. The words hung in the air, heavier than the humidity of the crater. “A sin carried not his… burn thy soul to let the child see… For I am hope”
He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he didn’t see a machine of war. He saw the ancient texts of his own people, the laments sung when a lineage ended. The vibration in the voice—the second voice—hadn’t been synthesized anger. It was grief. Raw, digital grief.
“What do you mean, Elder?” Valerius asked, her hand still hovering near her staff.
Cato looked at them, his eyes softening, the sharp edge of his age dulling into a profound, weary sadness. “Do you not hear it, Matriarch? That was not a proclamation of power. It was a prayer.”
He looked back at the frozen metal shell. “They speak of burning their souls so a child might see hope. They speak of sins they did not commit but must carry.” He shook his head slowly. “They are not conquerors, Valerius. Conquerors do not weep for the flesh they give. These Sky-Walkers… they are orphans. They are dying, truly dying, and they are terrified that their children will die with them.”
The silence stretched, but the hostility in the air shifted. It wasn’t gone, but it was complicated now by something far more disarming: pity.
Valerius looked at the machine. She thought of the frontlines, of the young soldiers she sent to die to hold back the Shadow. She thought of what she would do—what she had done—to ensure Aethelgard survived another sunrise.
“A eulogy,” she whispered, the realization settling in her chest like a cold stone. “They are mourning themselves.”
“Desperation makes a beast dangerous,” Voros warned, though her hand loosened slightly on her dagger.
“Desperation makes a beast useful,” Valerius corrected, her voice hardening with resolve. She looked from Cato to the silent giant. The Elder’s pity had opened a door, but her duty would walk through it. “If they are willing to burn their souls for hope… let us see if they are willing to burn our enemies for it.”