Vincent Michael Simbulan

The Run to Grand Maharlika Station

YOU HAVE BEEN warned not to stray from the path.

The Malaya is a red streak in the void, spiraling through a string of warps that would send most ordinary pilots astray. The run to Grand Maharlika Station, isolated from the rest of humanity and guarding a crucial border with the Busao, is a rite of passage of sorts. It is a treacherous trip that is fraught with peril. Supplies are constantly needed, and only the best pilots are allowed to undertake the dangerous voyage.

As the youngest captain to make the run, it was not without some small amount of pride that you accepted the assignment. It is a position you earned through many years of hard work and dedication, a challenge that you were chosen for, because of your exemplary record. It has not come without cost.

You have seen to it that the astrogation and all equipment have been set, and not just checked but triple-checked. For most of the voyage, there should be nothing left for you to do but wait and examine the stray memories that, unbidden, surface during the long journey.

WHEN YOU WERE eight years old you arrived home in tears, having been singled out as the victim of a young boy’s childish cruelty.

As you entered the house, your father took you in his arms, lifting you until, for a moment, you felt as if you had taken flight. He wiped away the tears, and asked you for the name of the boy who had hurt you. It was something he would do once more, when you turned sixteen, and had your heart broken for the first time. Both times, you found yourself pleading with him not to hunt down the offending boy, as he half-seriously suggested that they would benefit from a visit from his fists.

After he agreed not to strike down your tormentor, he cautioned you to guard your heart, and to know when not to listen to it, lest it lead you astray. You would laugh at him, nodding, but the lesson would soon be forgotten, for that was the one thing you could never do, no matter how hard you tried.

YOU ARE BROUGHT out of your reverie, as you deftly maneuver past another set of warp gates. An alarm chimes on the control screen, reminding you that it is his birthday, the one day you have always been meaning to erase, but somehow always survives your attempts to purge it from your life.

In the end, you have to live with the guilt of leaving him behind. Despite his reassurances that he would be fine, you could not deny the pain of parting, as he slowly succumbed to the ravages of time. It is the way of the world, he said, a parent must let go of his child.

His eyes were shut, as he hugged you goodbye on your first mission away from Earth. You knew he dearly wished you had chosen a profession that would not take you so far away from him. This was not something he ever spoke of, but you felt it in your heart, and buried it under the wonders you found in the vastness of space. You were flying on a mission to the Oort Cloud, when news reached you of his passing.

THE NEXT FEW days of the voyage pass without incident. You settle in for the week it will take to reach your destination. Some time on the fifth day of your voyage, a voice crackles through your communication array, faint at first – an indecipherable babble of static that slowly resolves into words you can understand.

Can anyone hear me?

Help me. I’ve lost control of my ship.

Is there anyone out there?

You are not sure how to react. If you follow your training, you should shut the channel and move on. Your hand settles on the switch, but the plea has struck a chord that refuses to let you ignore it. The static fades, and the voice grows stronger, clearer. The voice is definitely male, and it works its way past reason and logic, into your heart.

I need help. If anyone can hear this…

There is a sadness, a melancholic longing in the voice that sounds almost familiar, as if someone you once knew were speaking. And so, against your training, and your better judgment, you engage the override and leave the path.

You stray.

When you reach the source of the signal, you see a dark shape, limned by starlight. The ship is unfamiliar to you. It is a mass of odd protrusions and lights that are both entrancing and disturbing at the same time.

Already this should have sent alarm bells ringing. But the voice compels you. You need to help. You need to see who is speaking because, more than anything, the voice has ignited a sense of loneliness that interferes with your ability to form coherent thoughts.

Disengaging your harness, you make your way to the airlock and into the waiting maw of the alien vessel.

THE INTERIOR IS cramped and dark, redolent with the scent of mold and wet fur. But your attention is drawn to the lone figure standing at the entrance to the cockpit.

He is everything you dreamed of and more. Just by looking at him, you are filled with the sense that he is at once tender and rough, capable and vulnerable. His unnaturally-large eyes lock with yours, and you are lost.

He takes you to the command console, and you make short work of the damaged control module. It is something even the greenest cadet would have been able to work out in minutes.

A plea for caution, from many long years ago, surfaces. Your mind issues a warning, questions bubble into being, and you rise to ask them.

But he is suddenly so close, his eyes locked on yours, and you feel your breath coming in short, shallow gasps. His presence causes your traitorous heart to leap in your chest, erasing all the questions, all the doubts and uncertainty.

His hand reaches for your cheek, a gentle caress that invites you to lean closer. His lips are surprisingly cold, but they soon feed on the warmth of your skin. You shudder and surrender, as he peels away your red and silver uniform, unclasps the white buckles of your boots, exposing you to the stale, cold air of the cabin.

In the aftermath of your passion, you caress his earlobe, marveling at the delicacy of it. His voice urges you to keep talking, to tell him why you are here.

Tell me more, he says. Where are you going?

And so you tell him about your days as a pilot, of the responsibility you bear on your shoulders, to deliver much needed supplies to Grand Maharlika, in the Sarangao Quadrant, and the strange inhabitants who dwell beyond it.

You tell him of the research being conducted on the Busao, about how little is really known about them. About how they can seem to change shape at will, and how they wield something that can only be described as magic.

His fingers trace the contours of the small of your back as you talk, leaving a warm glow in the pit of your stomach that fills you with need. But he stops just short of bringing you to another climax.

In a moment of clarity, a different kind of urgency fills you. “I have to go,” you say. “I’ve stayed too long.”

He does not try to stop you. He rises and helps you to your feet. The lights are dim, but he leads you back to the airlock.

Thank you for helping me. I would not have made it without you, he says, taking your hand and pressing it against his lips. His tongue is rough and warm.

With great effort, you pull your hand away and take your leave.

“I have to go now,” you say. A part of you wishes he would ask you to stay.

As if reading your mind, he says, I will not ask you to stay, only because you are needed elsewhere. You are bringing hope. But I know that we will meet again.

You manage a smile and nod in agreement. The outer hatch seals you away, as you step back into your ship, into the waiting comfort of the familiar and the mundane. Within moments, you re-engage the propulsion systems, coaxing your ship back onto the path. The forest of stars, streaking past on either side of you, is a splash of color against the cold darkness. It is a sight that has always filled you with a sense of peace, unlike anything else in the universe.

As your long voyage resumes its steady, preordained course, you feel as if you are waking from a dream, but then your hand reaches for the mark on your neck, and you know it was more.

MUCH LATER, AS your life slowly ebbs away, you will learn that, within the confines of the starship you left behind, the Busao who seduced you savored your lingering scent, as it dropped the seeming that kept its true nature from your senses.

As its starship flares to life, patterns of color play along the surface of the vessel, until it becomes an exact replica of your own. With a silent command, the Busao’s ship flits through the vortices of space, taking routes that no other could take, passing through forgotten spaces between space, easily outpacing you until it reaches your destination, days before you do.

Grand Maharlika Station is a glimmering blue-and-white jewel suspended in the void. With a thought, the Busao reconfigures its form – flesh distends on its chest, limbs shorten, and the contours of its face change into an exact replica of yours. It is perfect in every way. And so is she. She has your voice, your eyes, your ears, and your teeth.

With your voice, the Busao/you recite the recognition codes, and the chief of the station himself welcomes it/you into the station.

It/You lower the cargo ramps and open the airlock. The station smells of washed, antiseptic air, the kind the Busao finds revolting and abhorrent, the kind you need to survive. But it smiles sweetly, as four of the five people who maintain the station come forward to greet it/you.

Navarro. Ruiz. Ortega. Fernandez. They extend hands, grasping its/yours warmly, stoking the hunger that grows within it/you. It/You gesture in the direction of the cargo ramp, and they turn their backs to retrieve the precious supplies that it/you have brought.

In that moment, it/you strike. A geyser of red erupts as its/your teeth, its/your claws rend, rip, and tear at flesh, bone, and sinew. It/You gorge on delicious screams and tender meat.

But the tenderest morsel of all is yours. The Busao slavers in anticipation, as it dispenses with your form, and waits for your arrival.

YOU CONTINUE TO make up for lost time. You have pushed the engines as far as you can – any more, and you would burn out, fading like one of the dying embers of a white dwarf. The unplanned detour has left you behind schedule, but you are generally unconcerned. Your mind is still awash with the heat of your encounter.

Even though the details are slowly fading, you still remember the strength of the embrace, and the warmth of the voice that reached out and spoke to the very core of your being.

A part of you is screaming, outraged, and desperately aware of the danger you are in. But it is so muffled, so distant, you barely notice it.

Never mind that you disobeyed over a dozen rules, any one of which should lead to your immediate discharge. For now, all is right with the world. You will bring the much-needed supplies to Grand Maharlika, and then you will return home. Perhaps chance will allow you to cross paths with him again. You never even thought to ask his name.

MAHARLIKA DOES NOT answer your repeated transmissions as you approach, but the docking bay doors have opened. You position the docking clamps, and open the cargo bay as you land.

The lights flicker on and off, casting momentary shadows all around you, as you walk down the ramp. You fumble in the unfamiliar surroundings. When your hand touches the walls, it comes back wet and red. Before you can react, a calm, reassuring voice calls out, from beyond the door leading into the station.

Welcome to Grand Maharlika, Captain.

You turn and see a man wearing the station commander’s uniform. You salute, and he smiles.

You must be hungry, he says.

There is a growl that comes from your stomach, and you nod your head in agreement.

“But the supplies,” you say.

He raises a hand to silence you. We’ll deal with that later, come to the mess with me.

There is a feast waiting, when you enter the commissary. You are surprised at all the meat that is on display. Perhaps they still had more supplies than they let on.

He gestures, and you take the seat across from him. He watches as you fill your plate with food. Your first mouthful is rich, red, and warm. The meat is unlike anything you have had before, a taste sensation that you could die for, and you tell him so.

His lips curl up, almost imperceptibly. It is nothing less than you deserve, for all your efforts to get here, he replies.

You forget yourself for a moment, lost in the savory flavors that fill your mouth. Your teeth work on a piece of gristle, masticating it into submission before you take another mouthful. The meat is juicy and tender, a bit on the rare side, but that is something you aren’t about to complain about. It’s enough that you aren’t eating the same generic sludge that serves as sustenance on a starship.

You are lost in gustatory delight, as you scoop another serving onto your plate. That’s when you notice the wrinkled mass that was once Ortega’s eyeball, afloat on a thin patina of blood and grease.

Your scream mingles with a shout, as a man charges into the room. You recognize him from your briefing as the station engineer, Santos.

He yells at you to move away. He brandishes a vibro-knife and lunges at your host. The station commander calmly rises from his seat, even as the knife bites deep into his stomach.

With one fluid motion, the commander pulls the knife, reaches into the engineer’s chest, and rips out the still-beating mass within. The engineer’s mouth fills with blood. He moans and slides to the floor, awash in a flood of crimson.

The commander turns his gaze on you. He moves closer, until his face is almost touching yours. You can feel his breath on your cheek. His eyes are empty pools that widen, drawing you in.

What big eyes you have, you want to say, lost in the fathomless depths.

The better to see you with, my dear. You hear the voice in your head, and the Busao smiles, revealing rows of razor-sharp white teeth.

 

 

Vincent Michael Simbulan has written stories for various publications, including the annual Philippine Speculative Fiction anthology, The Philippines Free Press, and The Digest of Philippine Genre Stories. He’s a founding member of the LitCritters writing group, and served as editor for A Time for Dragons (Anvil Fantasy), and co-editor for Philippine Speculative Fiction volume 5. His next story is slated to appear in the second edition of Maximum Volume. Vin has recently taken up swimming to relieve stress from work, and to offset the calories he takes in while tinkering with recipes in the kitchen.