Companionship - beyond flesh

Churchman atop a pile of bones

The great Ammarian poet Gazhul predicted the spread and flourish of religion throughout the stellar colonies when she wrote: 

“In the stars, the roots of mine faith grow deep unhampered. Branches spread through time meeting the canopy of thine own faith: a forest of heavens.” 

Most colonies are secular, preferring to center their existence on expansion and commerce.  But, for some systems, daily life is formed by spirituality and belief (viz. Qura Ammara, the galaxy's center for art and learning; the nature cults of Andromeda Skye; Elephantana's Golden Cities). Then there is The Church.  The Church has no one colony that it calls home, it is everywhere -- an army of believers spread throughout the colonies to provide “a spiritual compass where there was none before”. The priests (both men and women) of The Church are universally known as Churchmen, and one such devotee had been assigned to guide the crew of the Orr Refinery.  Max Jones was on his way to meet him.

I don't know why the hell I'm following her to who knows where, but it's not like I have a choice.  Just breath and walk is all I can do. It's dark but I can see her weird glow, not like a torch, more like the reflection of fire light -- at least it’s enough for me to follow even if I can’t see more than a few feet ahead. Perhaps I don’t want to see any further. I think I’ve seen enough already. 

One step forward and repeat and repeat and repeat, looking down following the blur of my white shoes as trepid butterflies return. I start chewing the skin around my fingernails and hide myself in distant memories, remembering right back to before Companionship left Earth Dock. I think back to my job at the Civic Center where I monitored the recreational facilities in New Lyons, day-in-day-out watching a remote drone fly around the parks, issuing marching orders to vagrants, calling in the law if they refused or, more often, if they ignored me. Who would have known that twenty years continuous service in that brain dead job was a prerequisite to this gig -- the very thing that got me here to the arse end of the galaxy -- willing captive of a god-like experiment gone wrong -- who is beautiful -- more beautiful than anything else -- and she sees me-as-me, not wanting more -- treating me like no one else has ever done in the seventy-three meaningless years since my mother spat me out by mistake.

“Narrp,” I whisper my verbal twitch. “Narrp” and again.

Emma turns and looks at me as she glides along, then turns back realising my nonsense.

I feel like asking her if we’re there yet and realize the irony if I, of all people, said that, only having just spent twelve years travelling to this place and now walking for ten minutes find myself out of patience. But, just as I’m about to ask, Emma stops before a large door panel.

“Max, beyond this door is the man that killed Emma Yee. I have made a shrine for her so that he may always remember what he has done. Do not be alarmed when you see.  It is art.”

I'm wildly curious, but also nurse an ominous feeling of dread, as if I’m about to be made aware of some dark secret. I try and back out, “Emma, perhaps I don’t need to see. If this man is a murder, what if he tries to attack?”

“If he is a murderer? Do you doubt me Max Jones? Do you think I lie?”

I can’t think of anything to say so just shake my head as the door slides open. A bad smell hits me -- musty like old socks -- not good.

The lighting in the room seems bright, and I adjust my eyes. What I see is like an electric shock, and I yell, "MY GOD!!" as I double over, retch, vomit and fall to my knees. I try to look up at Emma, but vomit again, heaving uncontrollably. Dizzy and unable to move, all I can do is wait on my hands and knees staring at the meal I never ate.  The smell makes me retch again.  After a minute, I look up and wipe the phlegm dribble from my mouth and stubbled chin.

Emma is looking at me somewhat bemused and, I can tell she is compelled to explain.

“They say the measure of great art is the emotion it elicits in the observer and so I can tell by your reaction this must be a masterpiece indeed.”

Weak and wonky, I turn my head and look toward the pile of bones that has been arranged lattice-like, in the form of a pyramid, atop of which is a man, naked, hanging from a crucifix, his head sunk to his chest. There’s a tube running down from the rib cage on his right side and some kind of machine digging into his neck above the left collar bone. Directly at his feet is pile of skulls and, below that, a recess partially hiding a figure sitting upon a throne of bone. Standing before the abhorrent structure, supporting a long spear is the auger Riggs, her forehead sprouting a bronze pair of rams head horns -- she wears the stoic expression of a dutiful guard.

I look to the figure in the recess; it's the only beautiful thing I can see in the room, and I realise it's Emma Yee perfectly frozen in orr. A chroma flicka hovers above her head.

In the distance I hear my Emma asking me to look closely so that I can tell her what I really think; explaining something about Churchman and how he betrayed her; and how the arrangement of bones was most selective.

I try to stand, but slip in the spew and hit my chin on the ground. The pain flashes through my face and is welcome. 

Standing this time, I look up to the man and try to find a movement in his chest, to see if he lives -- if he breaths. There’s a murmur, and then his head snaps up! His blue eyes open, sapphires burning sharp contrast against dark skin.  He looks into my soul and says with a rasp: 

“Upon the firm opacous globe of this round world, whose first convex divides the luminous inferior orbs, inclosed  from Chaos and the inroad of darkness old, Satan alighted walks!"