Planatae

Samples

Indeed, the door to her room had begun to slide open, but even as she watched, it ground to a halt about halfway. Still, she sized up the opening between the top of the door and the ceiling, but it was clear there was no way she could squeeze through the gap.

She jerked backwards in surprise as a face appeared; only the Purist's black shades and shiny bald forehead were visible. Any lingering resistance shriveled away when the barrel of a stun gun was wedged into the space next to their face.

"Hello, sinner," came a low, feminine voice. Despite her fear, Ricardia almost rolled her eyes at the melodrama of that.
"Why am I here?" She found her voice scratchy from lack of use. "What do you want with me?"

"To help you," the Purist murmured. A moment later, a plastic container was pushed through the wall and landed with a clatter onto the floor. "We seek humanity's freedom. Some of us must give up everything for the sake of the rest."

"I don't understand!" Ricardia protested. She made no move to get closer to the package - and the gun that hovered above it.

"Eat," the Purist said, "maintain your strength. You will aid us in our learning."

"Learning? Learning what?" But the door was closing again, the gun withdrawn.
"We work to save you and your kind, to release those unholy powers and cleanse you of their influence. You should be grateful for the chance to offer yourself."

Then the face withdrew, the door clanged shut, and Ricardia was alone again with nothing but her thoughts.

Offer yourself. The words echoed in the Purit's wake, the implications sobering. Even in the relative cradle of Caedem, the reputation of the cult preceded them. Everyone knew that they hated Factors, abilities - the Planetae. To them, to live on a conscious planet was to be a parasite; sucking away at a world that was literally built from devils.

But the deeper particularities of the religion... much of it was shrouded in mystery. Even something as simple as the Purists' origins was impossible to trace. The scholars claimed that they were one of the oldest forms of worship in the galaxy, but had no explanation for how they came about.

Right now, however, none of that speculation seemed to matter very much. Knowing why these people had captured her, and now seemed intent on using her wasn't her goal. Escape was the priority, but at the moment it felt as though there was nothing she could do.

Miserable, she crawled over to where the container lay and opened it.

She had expected for it to be food, and not a fantastic meal at that, but the reveal was more disappointing than expected. Along with a cheap, plastic water canteen, there were several beige packets that she recognized with a sinking stomach.

'Flight food,' as it was commonly called; the packets contained a white, tasteless paste that was high in nutritional content, but extremely low in enjoyment.

Sighting, Ricardia tore off a corner of one of the packs, lifting it up and squeezing the paste into her mouth. The stuff wasn't pleasant, but she was hungry, and it seemed like a good idea to keep her strength up.

Eating was a good distraction, for a little while. She could focus on the sensations of chewing and swallowing, pushing away the encroaching sense of despair. This is your life now, the walls seem to whisper. This is what happens when you run from responsibility.

Ricardia tucked her head in curled up, a small figure against the harsh, cold floor.

...

It was a long time before the Purist returned. Ricardia, who had been listlessly sprawled across the floor, scrambled to her feet at the sound of the grinding door. This time, the entire panel slid away, revealing a trio of figures. It was the same Purist from before, a woman, Ricardia guessed, accompanied by another of the cultists. But her third visitor was unexpected; a young, plain-looking man in a simple frock and trousers.