Black Sun – I Bring You Death 2

June 27, 2011 § 1 Comment

The name of the planet was a particularly elaborate sequence of electrical patterns. If you happened to be one of the beings called Taklarsaza by the Harrakar (the word means Not a spider made of metal) you would understand that vague electricity to have special meaning. It indicated the huge birth ocean that had been grown there over the course of thousands of years, a seething pool of chemicals that created the reactions that, in time, could grow a mass of germanium, selenium, and iron which one day could be called a life form.

In the distant past, the Taklarsaza had met other entities. One group of beings even managed to replicate their speech. But for the most part, the Taklarsaza found life offensive, especially when life didn’t look like them. They themselves were alive, as they defined it. Not much else was. To acknowledge a life form was problematic for them. They honestly had a hard time understanding that beings made of a different kind of elements were beings, and moreover, they were often sickened at the idea. Things that moved, brought atmosphere into themselves, secreted complex molecules – these were not things the Taklarsaza wanted to be alive. Imagine being forced to talk to something made up of carbon and hydrogen and oxygen, because they could not.

Above their largest and most populous world – not the home of the first Birth Ocean, from which their distant ancestors had twitched their way forth, but the greatest of their efforts to make more and spread throughout space – they had strung hundreds of artificial constructions, elaborately beautiful lattices of metallic antimony and various silicates that reached out into the local gravity web of the entire solar system surrounding them. With these, they believed they were capable of reading all distortions in space around their world. False stars, they gleamed in the skies above the floating metallic islands that dotted the surface of their liquid methane mother.

Unfortunately for them, they could not detect distortions in space when there were no distortions.Their first warning was when a small figure, barely two and a half meters, appeared in low orbit directly above the largest of their metal islands. The methane ocean covered almost ninety percent of the planet, a large ball of heavy elements and rock. While it was clearly no match for a gas giant, it was still fairly massive, nearly comparing to Throneworld itself for size and heat. The figure floating above it, in his gleaming metal armor completely studded with spikes and bladed edges, and saw his armor scan and categorize the place. He himself didn’t, couldn’t care. His thoughts were full of ideas, memories, experiences never meant to be had by a flesh brain.

This place was important to them.

This place was, as close as they could get anyway, sacred to them.

This place was where multitudes were born, lived, and returned to the liquid methane to be consumed and recombined. This was a cradle and a creche. Even as the antimony and silicate rings and rings within rings took notice of this very small distortion to the planet’s gravity, he was already reaching out to the space that was not space, feeling his will pull energy from nothing.

Well, not nothing at all. But nothing could come from nothing. He clenched his hands, feeling what he’d seen on Klarakshton and his own loathing rose up and grabbed him by the base of his brain. He had never hated like this. Had never felt anything was worth feeling  much of anything before this one, last moment where he could have chosen sanity, could have claimed his wits and tried to reach the millions upon millions of Taklarsaza on the world below him. He could have tried. He knew he could.

He had never felt anything the way he felt his hate, the skin on his back coruscating with the puckering of his flesh. He hated and at last, he hated something aside from himself and his own people, and what was even better, he hated something big enough to hold all of his hate, something he could strike against. In that moment he understood Harrak himself, hating the Wrexxakt. It felt good, right, even divine to hate this much, and he felt like nothing so much as that hate made flesh. He was hate. He was furious, roiling hatred for them, their arrogance, their disdain for flesh, their disgust.

The sparkling, silver and glass surface of the sea below him caught his eyes for a moment and he stared at the flickering light reflecting up from its surface. His better nature tried one more time to assert itself, to argue against what he had planned. It called him by name, as if he was not even himself, but was standing outside yelling, screaming to carry his voice over the cacophony in his thoughts. The power of otherspace hummed in his veins, his temples. His armor remained silent, offering no council, and he could feel how distraught it was.

He almost wanted to stop. He remembered the piles of corpses, of qualsilath and naratsilath bodies just tossed aside as unimportant, and felt again the deep and abiding disgust and horror the Taklarsaza felt looking at them, at their fluids leaking out of jagged holes. How much they found them abhorrent, disgusting.

He would give them a new emotion to feel when they looked at his people.

 

 

Those of the Taklarsaza that were swimming in the methane around the largest of their metal islands in that moment died as he came crashing down, a terrible black and gold figure with outstretched black razor wings. There was so little oxygen in their atmosphere that when he crashed into the methane sea, it merely rushed away from the impact, it did not burst into flames even from the extreme heat. He descended until he reached the bottom of that almost living ocean, where the methane was kilometers deep, where the pressure was enough to crush even the Taklarsaza themselves. He ignored it. He ignored the darkness, for he shed his own light, and finally reached the bottom.

Metal clad fingers touched that, and he felt the planet, felt the molten rock below him, and the molten iron and nickle core of it, vast and many, many times further deep than he was. No amount of force that he could generate could do anything to it. But his distant ancestors had already solved that problem. Vast as the core was, it was smaller than otherspace, where space and time were palimpsests and distance an illusion. He reached out, and began weaving patterns between the core and the ocean floor, short cuts through nowhere.

Tens of thousands of them.

The core of the planet suddenly had a great many open holes to the bottom of the birth ocean. The pressure differential did the rest, forcing the molten metal up through a few hundred yards of stone and into great columns of erupting fire and iron.

He did not leave. Insulated in a field of force, he watched as the core of the planet pushed itself through a series of perforations and into the birth ocean. Liquid methane will only burn at extremely high pressures… like those present at the bottom of the birth ocean, with millions upon millions upon millions of tons of superheated iron erupting.  He set the planet on fire.

As it burned and tore itself apart, he watched.

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