Another few days had passed since Vertan was forced to pack and take his leave.
The questions of surrounding expeditioners continued to bombard him, but he remained wearily silent.
The number continued to tumble around within his head, the faces of his former comrades trying to etch themselves into his mind, lest they be forgotten.
¤748,654,768.94 Alpharonian dollars.
It’s such an obscene amount that Vertan couldn’t even remember how much he had made previously in the past five years, and how much was added on top of that. Anywhere within the Coalition, he would be set with generational wealth for life. It being in Alpharonian currency meant that its value would carry even farther back home on Ulminh.
And yet the number rang dull and hollow to him.
His comrades are in that number.
Hilgo is in that number.
In line with the NDA he had signed, he was shipped back without parade, ceremony, or any fanfare. Nothing but a remarkably quiet and peaceful voyage back to the Myriad Worlds. No punishment but only to sit with himself. At all times now, even after leaving Thoma, Vertan would feel eyes watching him. A tiny mechanical eye hidden in the ceiling’s corner of his cabin. Securosensors lining the terminals of spaceports. Are the people eyeing him across the building real or hallucination?
A layover stop at Lejrii, headworld of Betarius, second largest extragalactic empire of the Coalition, prompted Vertan to head over to the next astership, his next flight awaiting him an hour and a half from now, having been delayed due to shifts and interferences in spacetime.
Vertan struggled with the stiff and unnatural prosthetics, almost tripping over them most of the time, and more often leaning and depending on a cane instead. Each step he wobbled and shook towards his destination.
Finally, he slumps down on a cafeteria bench, and orders a quick meal from the table’s holokiosk.
¤35.99 Alpharonian dollars.
It used to be so expensive out here for him; it used to be the amount he would make per day as a fisherman back home. What could sustain his lifestyle is worth a meal here. Now, it’s become only a drop in the bucket.
A robot server comes out a few minutes later with the meal, and a hungry Vertan begins at his meal. Perhaps a few years ago, he would have found Betariusan cuisine unlike anything he’s eaten back home, but now, it remains bland and tasteless.
“Hello, Mister?”
To his surprise, Vertan looks around, before looking down and finding that the voice came from a small child, his eyes peering up in curiosity.
“Hm?” Vertan mumbles through his bite.
“Sir, are you Mister Ver-tan?”
Vertan’s eyes widened in shock for a moment and swallowed his food, wiping his mouth on a napkin.
“Wh-what?”
“You look like Mister Ver-tan!”
“How do you—I’m not him—”
“You're lying!” the child giggles. “Hiding!”
Vertan tilts his head in curiosity towards this.
“Who—who is Mister Ver-tan?”
“You! He looks like you.”
“But who is he?”
“My papa says he read about him!”
“What did he read about?”
“That Ver-tan is a legend.”
“What did Ver-tan do?”
“He killed and survived the king demon from Hell!”
“Really, now?”
“And he, and he—”
A woman comes by and begins ushering the child to follow her.
“Come, come, son! We need to go!”
“Momma! It’s Ver-tan! Like papa said!”
“Leave that poor man alone! Not everyone who looks like that is Ver-tan. Stop doing that!”
And soon the mother and her child disappeared into the crowds of the spaceport.
Vertan blinked, and sat there stunned for a moment.
How did this get out here already? he wondered.
*****
Vertan looks out the spaceports windows out to the stars and the surface of Lejrii below.
Not unlike Suprima, it appeared rather prickly. Even if it may not be as dense here, buildings nonetheless stretched themselves past the atmosphere, poking out from the planet. Here, rather than red-orange, it was a constant mixture of white, purple, and blue; the solar megastructures dimming much of the otherwise intensely bright binary blue and white stars of the system. Despite the intense heat, from this distance and surface, the lighting made everything appear cold and callous.
Outstretching his card, Vertan reenters the astership. For a fleeting moment, his mind conjures Hilgo forgetting his own card.
And soon, so did the same process play out as it once did, five years before. Departure from the spaceport, leaving Lejrii and its moons behind. Ships and vessels of all sorts constantly swarming around like schools of fish. And finally, passing through one of Lejrii’s many gateways, and the dimming of light into blackened redness, all the stars and lights focusing into an infinitely bright point towards the front of the ship and reality warped and bent.
But Vertan heeded no attention to the window this time as he breathed heavily from the physical exertion of existing. Unclasping his prosthetics, he cast them aside, attempting to feel some relief from the agitating devices, only, of course, to find that his original limbs are no longer there. The nerves leading up to each stump continued to attempt to grasp for parts of his feet and hand that are no longer attached.
Looking back up, he suddenly sees a figure.
The dim, glowing red eyes of the entity.
The brutalized, scarred figure.
The dying man beneath.
Yelping, Vertan falls from his chair, scrambling to his bed on the other side of his room.
The figure continues standing there.
Grabbing his prosthetic arm, he throws it desperately at the figure, missing the first time, then grabbing his prosthetic leg, and hitting it this time.
It isn’t there anymore.
Panting heavily and in a cold sweat, Vertan begins to break down, weeping and trembling.
Hilgo’s figure stands before him, a sorrow beneath his eyes.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
*****
Vertan continues to lie in his cabin’s bed, ruminating.
Hilgo is gone, and he’s found no further truth about his father.
But he will bring back wealth for his mother, right?
Is she still around?
Suddenly, he realizes the chance that perhaps she hasn’t received a single message he’s sent out in all these years.
For all she knows, her son may have left her, too.
If she’s still around.
Aru.
Happia.
Aru.
Happia.
Aru from Happia.
A name and a place.
A name belongs to a person.
A person belongs to a place.
A person.
The symbols, language, and emblem continue to rotate around in Vertan’s mind as he stares up at the ceiling.
A name belongs to a person.
A person belongs to a place.
What would Hilgo have pointed out?
What did Hilgo always point out?
Well, Hilgo would have found it immediately strange and suspicious. He was always pointing things out. He didn’t like the rules of their system. It was foreign and didn’t sit well with him, and he didn’t enjoy adapting to their—
Why?
Well, probably because he didn’t like the way they did things!
But why?
Stop asking why!
You need to!
It conflicted with his philosophy?
Perhaps. Go on.
It was stressful to him?
Needlessly.
Needlessly?
Pointlessly.
…
There was always the need to run, never rest.
Doesn’t that put us ahead for success?
Yet another constructed way of thinking to keep you working.
For who?
For them.
Who’s “them”?
Who knows? But it’s not you.
So?
You were sold on the belief that you worked for you, not “them”.
…
Go on. What else?
He found spirits and demons to be odd.
Sure, they call it that.
Spirits and demons?
Were they?
Yes?
Was that dying man?
No.
So why did they call them that?
I-I don’t know.
But you had this whole idea about them, didn’t you? Even if you didn’t know.
But why? What’s the point?
Perhaps that is the point.
What is the point? To do what?
To hide that they are people.
Is that what we were tracking? What we were looking for?
If not, why hide it?
*****
Vertan stumbles down the steps, falling to the ground as his prosthetic leg unclasps itself from his stump. Shielding his face from pitying people, he quickly reattaches his leg, and scurries off.
At the baggage claim, he finds that his luggage had been stolen.
Boarding a bus, he comes off at a stop downtown after leaving the international skyport. Stepping out into the brisk cold, to his surprise, everything appeared just the way they did when he had first left. The three moons shone brightly against the night sky, nightlife bustled about, and the normality of everything going about around him gave him a sudden case of mental whiplash. Just a few weeks ago, he was sure he would die the most gruesome death millions of light years from home.
Perhaps I should have, he thought to himself. Why do I deserve to be here?
Stumbling down the sidewalk, he comes to a crosswalk, and waits for the signal to cross on the right; the one on the left signaling green before his side. People walked to and from, brushing past him. Three people crossed the street, approaching him.
As they came into clearer focus to his view, Vertan’s eyes widened in painful shock. As though not a single day had passed since, it is his friends Gahn, Tilko, and Mohya crossing the street approaching him. They don’t appear to recognize him as they did, and they—
“Wait, Vertan?!” exclaims Gahn, now in shock and awe.
So, it is true. Vertan’s couldn’t deny the visual proof that there stood before him is Gahn, who hadn’t aged a single day since.
“Vertan, is that really you?” Gahn asks again in disbelief. Mohya and Tilko remain speechless.
“...”
“Vertan, it’s really you, isn’t it? By the cosmos what’s happened to you?”
“...Gahn… it’s you?” Vertan mumbled weakly.
“Yes, it’s me!” exclaims Gahn. “What happened?”
“I can’t believe you’re still here,” Vertan continues.
“Of course we’re still here! Where would we have gone?”
“But it’s been so long.”
“What do you mean? You left two weeks ago. By the cosmos, what’s happened to you in those two weeks?”
Vertan’s dulled, sunken eyes noticeably widened. It was almost as if his skull could barely hold them back from falling straight out.
“Two weeks?”
“What do you mean, ‘two weeks?’? You just left!”
“No.”
“You and Hilgo haven’t sent us a single word back since then! Where’s Hilgo?”
“Hilgo…”
“Vertan?”
“...Hilgo…”
“What?”
“It’s been so long…”
“What do you mean?”
“I thought you all wouldn’t be here anymore.”
“I told you already, where would we have gone in two weeks?”
“But it hasn’t been.”
“What?”
“It’s been sixty-three months.”
“...What?”
“I’ve been away for sixty-three months.”
“...No you haven’t?”
“I have been!”
Gahn, Tilko, and Mohya could only look on in confusion at the ghostly husk that was their friend. He had left a healthy, even athletic man of sharp wit, strong drive, and sound mind.
But how could only two weeks have passed in all the years since he left?
“Okay, um look, let’s get you home,” says Tilko. “Whatever’s in your head is just all in your head right now, we’re going to take some time to fix you up—”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” Vertan shouts back, feeling attacked by this. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t real! You weren’t there!”
“Vertan, what wasn’t real?,” Gahn asks. “What happened? What are you talking about?”
“I-I, I can’t say—I’m not allowed to—,” Vertan stammers.
“Hey come on let’s keep it moving, we probably don’t want to attract any trouble on the streets,” says Mohya. “There’s people looking at us.”
“Vertan, what happened—okay you know what, that can wait,” continues Gahn. “Look, we need to get you home, alright? Have you talked with your mother—”
Right about that moment, the blaring engine of a modified hovercar driven by some youths startles the group, the exhaust making a loud popping sound as it rolls down the street.
Suddenly, it wasn’t the exhaust popping anymore, but the sound of gunfire in a torn landscape. Gunfire, the screams of the eternally damned, and an environment that consumes you—
“GET AWAY FROM ME! FUCK! FUCK! GET AWAY!”
Gahn’s heart skips a beat as he whirls back around to find Vertan profusely shaking, sweating, and screaming hysterically at the car through tears. The youths immediately notice and look over with a disgusted expression on their faces. Mohya and Tilko exchange nervous glances.
“Vertan! Get ahold of yourself, calm down, what the hell are you—”
“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! HOW DO I KNOW YOU’RE REAL? YOU’RE GOING TO KILL ME—”
Vertan lands a clean punch into Gahn’s nose, breaking cartilage, and his blood dripping to the pavement and staining his pants and shoes below. The youths that were watching are now jumping from their car to Gahn’s aid, but are intercepted and stopped by Tilko and Mohya in an attempt to control the situation. Crowds are gathering now as Gahn struggles to get ahold of the increasingly distressed Vertan.
“GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME! GET AWAY FROM ME!”
“FUCK!”
“FUCK!”
