Forsaken of the Abyss- Eriaroon Vignettes

[Kyoki Chudoku]

BECKONING JOURNEY - PART ONE

---

It rests as though embalmed, that cylinder its urn. A tangled web of tubes embedded in its mouths, skin as black as the abyssal recesses from which it came, trapped in a chilled sarcophagus of near-gelatinous insulation fluid. It does not move. It does not writhe. Its every tendril lies still. Its every function halted. It may as well be ensnared now in its grave-

-but it has died before. And this moratorium of its body does nothing to strike its soul.

A hydraulic hiss echoes. Pressurised water floods the alcove, synthetic enzymes mutilating insulation fluid on a molecular level. Over the course of a minute, the tomb of viscous liquid dissolves, coalescing instead into concentrated clumps of nutrient paste that drift in this artificial sea. Then the tubes pulse, draining away litres of preservatory cryogel. Leaving the body hollow. A husk. A shell to fill. Smaller tubules strain as swathes of blood are pumped inside. Chlorocruorin and haemocyanin flood through exsanguinated arteries, fragments of their aquamarine hue visible as patches of the creature luminesce in bright cyan. Electrical tethers spark, and for the first time in months-

It spasms.

Tentacles stretch, tearing the instruments from her body. Her glows grow vibrant as she pulses, detaching each tubule embedded in her orifices. Her eyes bulge open, vision filled with monochrome darkness, shifting away from the electrical line in discomfort. She reaches for globules of nutrient paste, shoving each fragment within its mouths- ending her mindless starvation. And as the seal to the cyrochamber hisses open, she jets forward into the corridor ahead, reborn from her second demise.

Her thoughts are scrambled. Her neurons thrum with electrical energy, but every conception beyond conditioned instinct seems to lapse as though still clambering out of cold oblivion. She turns to her last conscious experience- embedding herself into the cryochamber- and finds to her dread that there are things she cannot remember. Details that escaped not her gaze, but her retention. Impossible. Inconceivable for any Eriaroon, much less one assigned the prestigious assignment of exploring the Great Beyond- but then, she reassures herself, such irregularities are not unprecedented when first escaping cryogenesis. That much she remembers, and that much she clings to as tightly as the rungs that fill the corridors. Omnidirectional eyesight peers all around her, electroception marking the blurred outline of…

Another.

The emerging Eriaroon’s tendrils make rapid motions, bioluminescent blotches glowing and pulsing, water bubbling from her pores- forming the rapid and efficient components of Eriaroon Amalgamated Language. “My condolences, Preserver Zemnazhal Rulsho Lazaam-Terelos,” she offers. A standard greeting. She awaits the typical response-

“Within this moment, may we not ascend.”

-and is left utterly baffled by the Preserver’s response. Ascension? At this moment? Does her mind so fail her that her perception of the language has become incorrect? The phenomenon is not unprecedented, but even emerging from cryogenesis, such psychological degeneracy will have her purged if not swiftly corrected-

“Justify your fear.” She has darkened from her panic, sheer dread taking over, compelling her to make demands of her situational superior, to question her colleague’s authority despite the clear hierarchy imposed upon them. “Our arrival at Molazhum is cause for commemoration, not for-“

“Vibrant Rectifier Azhula Ralmnos Sezhal-Meriiz, you suffer from temporary cryodegeneracy. Cease your hysteria and report to the primary operations chamber immediately.” In the face of such stern commands- intoned with the utmost sincerity and with clinical assertion- she has no recourse other than compliance.

————————————————————————————

It is a mark of the utmost humiliation that Azhula took as long as her arrival into the primary operations chamber to consider the nature of her vibrancy. Long has she been respected- and at the age of sixteen, she retains a further decade of achievements before her inevitable ascension- but under these circumstances, even Ascendant status would not be enough to outrank Zemnzhal. That this gap in her comprehension existed at all would be intolerable on its own, but she still struggles to infer if this experience is even reality. Azhula Ralmnos Sezhal-Meriiz was not developed from recombined ORNA of the highest caliber, not afforded the opportunity to partake in the Beckoning Enlightenment’s voyage, only to do so something as shameful as to forget-

The waterlock opens, another colleague clambering inside. This one refuses to even jet about, relying on the rungs lining the capsular chamber to move. Even from this distance Azhula senses the erratic twitches of each muscular contraction- it seems she is not the only one struggling with her resuscitation. The pattern of glowing patches allows her to identify the unfortunate victim of severe cryogenic sickness- Larulmnos Ashaal Zeluch-Teriim, the vessel’s designated trophobiotic operator.

“My condolenc-“

But before the offer can even be completed, two others shift through the waterlock. The first is Zemnazhal, drifting with unerring composure into the middle of the chamber. She offers no vocals, instead concentrating full attention on a joint-mind interface terminal on the far side of the room. The second is an equally diligent but much less composed Eriaroon, jetting deliberately close to Azhula and Larulmnos. Confessor Fushaal Selomnai-Rashiros, the individual charged with overseeing their health and ensuring their undegeneracy.

“My condolences,” Azhula offers. And for once-

“My condolences.”

-they are returned. In this situation, where normalcy has become a novelty, being recognised in a conventional manner is comforting. What is not comforting is how long it has taken Azhula to realise the nature of their predicament. This is no delusion. This is an emergency. A limited resuscitation of essential crew members to correct an unexpected incident. It is the only explanation for why the director has not yet emerged, why their preserver has taken charge. And if a rectifier and the trophobiotic operator have been awoken-

“Luminous colleagues.” Zemnazhal’s voice booms- but now in the more formal dialect of Eriaroon Vibrant Language. She taps at the interface, projectors forming a hologram in the centre of the chamber. That directed light forms a three-dimensional image of their vessel. Azhula notes with irritation that Fushaal is barely paying attention, instead devoting her efforts towards scrutinising her more proximal compatriots. “It is with the utmost devotion that we undertake such enlightened ventures as the Beckoning Journey’s endeavour through the Great Beyond. Many difficulties face such valiant explorers as we, and such a concern has emerged to risk our premature ascension at this moment.”

She further taps at the interface, adjusting the field of view, and projecting another set of holographic images- this time, raw data. Ration expenditure. It is only now that the true implications of their situation become apparent. “The observant among you will note the absence of plankton in our filtered water.” Evidently, Azhula was not observant enough. The fact is obvious in hindsight, but like so many thoughts, eluded her in the moment. She hopes desperately that this damage to her mind is not permanent- and even more desperately that this damage to the ship is not permanent. For the only reason for there being no plankton provided would be-

“This is the result of damage to the trophobiotic capsule.” Trophobiosis. Life providing food for other life. Their source of sustainable sustenance so far from the nourishing hydrothermal vents of Uroncayde. Typically, silos of nutrient paste would be stored for this purpose rather than an entire module dedicated to trophobiosis- but the Beckoning Journey is a vessel intended to visit the closest worlds to the blazing light of Zhalmnos. Such a lengthy assignment and such an advanced vessel demand more intricate measures. “The primary concern is not our imminent starvation. The primary concern is that within four hours, nutrient starvation will cause irreparable damage to our vessel’s joint-minds.”

As a rectifier- and thus responsible for maintaining and repairing all onboard systems- Azhula has long known of the fragility of joint-minds. Those engineered brains are a necessity for any complex apparatus, whether it be an incubation complex or an exploration vessel. It is simply impossible for analogue constructs to contend with such purpose-engineered minds, and even optimised Eriaroons have been outphased as a result. But all of that brainpower demands a voracious metabolism, and as effective as modern regeneration technology is, there is simply no replacing a damaged joint-mind in the middle of an interplanetary mission. If those minds begin to perish, the condemned crew will perish also.

“Confessor Fushaal Selomnai-Rashiros. Provide your assessments of all revitalised personnel.” Zemnazhal has switched to EAL- and the confessor follows suit.

“Larulmnos Ashaal Zeluch-Teriim continues to suffer severe lapses in physical and psychological control. Her expertise is vital to our objective, but meticulous observation is recommended. Further indications of physical and psychological degeneracy will be catalogued and addressed.” The confessor directed a tentacle at Azhula next. “Azhula Ralmnos Sezhal-Meriiz is undergoing recovery from cryogenesis. Her state is precedented, and full mental recovery should ensue within the hour. Zemnazhal Rulsho Lazaam-Terelos was not suspended in cryogenesis, and shows no signs of defects. Finally, I submit that I am undergoing a rapid recovery from cryogenesis, and am fully capable of attending to my responsibilities.”

The preserver gives a rapid flash of light- a gesture of approval. “I concur with your assessments. Larulmnos Ashaal Zelich-Teriim will assess the situation from within the capsule. Fushaal Selomnai-Rashiros will accompany her to ensure her continued vitality and purity.” Azhula cannot help but feel relief at that declaration. Being followed by a confessor would make this already perilous task all the more straining on her already diminished mind. “Azhula Ralmnos Sezhal-Meriiz will conduct an excursion to rectify any external malignancies. I will remain here to coordinate all activities.”

It is a sensible strategy. Azhula, though unfamiliar with travel in the Great Beyond, has extensive experience operating the excursion suits used in the tenuous upper depths of Uroncayde’s oceans. The designs used aboard the Beckoning Journey employ the same general principles. Delicate as her work may be, and struggling as she is to maintain mental cohesion at this moment, she has a legacy to uphold. Merit to embody. She will perform her duty to her utmost, for diligence is a virtue- and lethargy a sin. There is no argument amidst the group, simply glows of accord. They each begin to disperse at once, except-

She hesitates. Something is amiss. It takes empty, wasted seconds to discover what-

“Forgive my ignorance, but should Nozol Zhalai-Shaal not be with us?”

When venturing any considerable distance through the vacant expanse of the Great Beyond, the standard protocol is for most Eriaroon crew-members to undergo cryogenesis to preserve their lifespans throughout the journey. However, it is also essential for someone to ensure no issues occur throughout that transit. The role of the preserver is to maintain the vessel throughout this time, sacrificing years of her life to ensure the safety of the others. But she should not be alone. For another who remains outside the glacial grasp of the second grave is the vessel’s archivist. The one who notes their activities, reports every occurrence directly back to Uroncayde, maintains assessments of their efforts. Where is she now, in this time of crisis?

“Nozol Zhalai-Shaal is corroborating previous reports in hopes of ascertaining the cause of our predicament through educated conjecture.” Zemnazhal’s glows prove harsh, motions rigid. Signs of repressed frustration. It is not uncommon for archivist and preserver to develop considerable attachments during their length, isolated vigil- and it is equally common for such relationships to be defined more by differences in doctrine than similarities in aptitude.

Azhula wants no part of their dispute. As far as she is concerned, neither is an appealing candidate for antagonism. Having her entire gene batch assessed for degeneracy because of her own faults would be harsh penance indeed, but then it is equally perilous to infuriate one she must entrust to ensure her survival once cryogenesis recommences. Assuming they survive this catastrophe-

This flagrant paranoia grows much too close to vice. Isolation will bring her tranquility. She can meditate upon her concerns when she is safe from them. She almost wishes the preserver ascension, but holds her light for a moment longer-

“May zeal guide you.”

“May zeal guide you also.”