This story goes back in the series timeline and establishes some things about the the Cult of Y’tun Sargon and how Orthos Kabalos was recruited into their service.

Silver Spiral Stories: “Preacher”

I stand on the corner of the hastily cobbled street of the colony. More specifically, I stand above the road on a small plastic crate mounted on a curb. It is flush against a small, rusted pop-up building, itself a remnant of the Neutrality’s initial expansionist thrust. Now, though, it only represents the failings of our government.

A small window welded into the metal wall looms above my head, and sticky, sweet, warm air spills out of it. Someone is cooking, and I think about how hungry I am. My hand absentmindedly drifts over a pocket in my robes, hiding a small but juicy choba, but I need to save that for later.

I observe the single lane that makes up the colony, watching my fellow Cyclopasians, dour and dull, as they wander the street on their morning business. Business which seems to extend no further than the ten buildings surrounding the lane, barring the small shelters constructed by the colonists and the far fewer settlements beyond.

What is most striking are the rolling hills, spiked with hundreds of burial pillars in “honor” of the dead. I observe each one, different in size and complexity, unique to the families that erected them, unique to the departed that the pillars represent. For so long, those pillars were mixed from concrete, with the ashes of the dead themselves mixed within.

The Ancestral Order, where I place my faith, has worked hard to end the practice. The pillars themselves are a noble yet misguided effort, but the desecration of the bodies fills us with rage.

I see the Marshal down the way, across the street, sitting in front of the largest building in the town that houses the extent of the public services of the colony. It also houses the only real G.I.N. relay that connects Dokanna to the larger system and to the larger galaxy. The Marshal’s hood is propped over his head, and his long, pointed ears are tucked beneath it, distorting the hood just enough to give his profile a diamond shape.

I have been careful not to provoke him during my stay. I preach the words here; I speak plainly of one set to find those who desire to hear the other set and learn my true purpose.

My mind wanders to my choba, and I consider eating it now, but I will not have it later. I shut my eye and remind myself to wait.

To wait. I will eat soon enough. I will eat something to wash the taste of the blood from my mouth from last night’s meal. The blood of the feral vermin was foul, but it staved off my hunger.

I steady myself on my makeshift pulpit and begin to share the word.

“Hear me, brothers and sisters! Our ancestors cry out for you not to forsake them!”

A passerby pauses, looks up at me, and then turns his gaze toward the pillars. He begins to walk away, but I take aim with my words.

“You, brother, do you have family in those hills?”

The passerby stares at me for a moment with a discernible distrust. “Yes, my mother is there,” he tells me.

“Did you burn her body?” I ask him in the most sympathetic voice I can muster.

“E-excuse me?” he says as his eye grows wide.

“Did you burn your poor mother’s corpse, brother?”

He furrows his brow, and he spits at my feet. “Farking zealot,” he yells at me.

I shake my head and turn back to the crowd on the street. He stomps off. I continue.

“We’ve drifted far too long away from the true ways of our ancestors. In our past, we entombed our ancestors. We’ve abandoned the respect of their physical form!”

I stare at the crowd. A few look from the corner of their eye at me.

“How can your loved ones be reborn in the afterlife with no corporeal form to draw from? Think of the existence you are forcing upon them!”

I feel the anger rise from deep within, someplace low and primal.

“The act of burning is savagery! We burn the diseased and the plagued! When a field has a blight, you purge it with fire. You burn what is foul. You do not burn your children!”

I am shaking. As I speak, I see the man from earlier talking to the Marshal, pointing to where I stand.

My message will not be stopped.

“You burn your sons and daughters. You set fire to your mothers and fathers! And you dare question the misery around you in this pissbucket you call a colony?”

More eyes upon me. Good.

“You burn your families like refuse – the refuse your government thinks you are. You fools. There is eternal life for you and your families, even now. Don’t destroy their bodies! Entomb them for the afterlife, where they will rise again!”

The Marshal approaches. He has a look of disgust on his gaunt face. I do my best to match his expression.

“Clear out,” he tells me, “you’re disturbing the peace.”

“Peace?” I scoff. “What peace is there for your ancestors? They are no more than firewood to you all.”

He locks his eye on mine. Neither of us blinks. I bare my teeth.

“If you don’t clear out,” he says slowly, “I can’t be held responsible for the crowd.”

My eye shifts to the surrounding group. There are at least ten people.

I stand firm.

“If my presence brings this community such shame, perhaps your collective sins are more egregious than I thought. If you burn your families, who knows what else you may do to them, Marshal.”

I put venom in my accusation. I don’t know if the Marshall has any hidden crimes, but an accusation is enough to cast doubt.

He stares at me as he begins walking away.

“Shame about these crackpots calling us modern colonists a bunch of disrespectful jackasses,” he calls back to nobody in particular.

I see the group of ten around me shift closer.

The Marshal calls back, “I’ll be having a drink. Let’s hope nobody puts you in your place, preacher man.”

Before he is in his shack, I feel something small and sharp hit my cheek. The feeling of warm blood trickles down my face, and before I know it, I am under a barrage of fists, feet, and sticks. I lose my balance and fall from my crate onto the unfinished pavement.

I curl up into a ball as the blows continue to rain down.

“Off! Get off him!” I hear from someone nearby. 

Before I know it, the assault ends. I cannot see my savior.

“Get up. You’re safe now.”

I uncurl and look up at a smiling young man of about twenty or so. His skin is dark green, and his hair is a brownish color. His eye is golden in hue. He looks dirty, not as though he does not care for his image, but rather that he has been hard at work.

He extends a hand to help me up and helps me to rise to my feet – he is strong.

“Thank you,” I say. I offer all I have – the bruised and broken choba in my pocket. He refuses my offering with a wave of his hand.

“Let’s get you some food,” he says.

We wander toward the edge of town together. He notices my pained limp and slows his stride to keep me company to ward off errant attackers. Mercifully, there were none.

We arrive at his home, which I find admittedly impressive for the colony. It was a small home, but it was of quality and, from what I could tell, one of the oldest homes built in the area. As we enter, his young wife welcomes me and offers us lunch.

As we eat a meal of rehydrated algae noodles and mushroom stew, I learn they had only recently been married. Orthos, the young man, had worked for months as colonial security and had managed to catch the eye of the young Kolea. She was the daughter of one of the colony’s founders.

They lived here in this house with her father, who had recently died. Orthos, it seems, had stumbled upon me when coming back from the memorial hill, building the family’s pillar.

Kolea excuses herself from the table as Orthos leads me into the central room of the house. He offers me a chair, and my bruised and weary body sinks into it.

“In truth,” Orthos leans towards me, “I heard your sermon, and while I do not agree with your delivery, I agree with the sentiment.” He lowers his head. “I am just following the wishes of Kolea. She and her father don’t – didn’t – follow the old ways. My family has a tomb back on the homeworld.”

I look up at him – my eyes tearing up – overjoyed that such an admirable and gentle young man follows the old ways. I am so relieved by this that I choose to ignore the fact that he had his father-in-law cremated.

Suddenly, I wonder if he is my reason for being in this heathenistic backwater world. Surely men like him could lead The Order to greatness. I feel my ambition grow, however. He could be so much more. My mind drifts to the inner circle, the council of lords and underlords, where the real work is done. I only know of it, never having the privilege of meeting them myself.

I think, though, that a man like Orthos could become a leader in The Order and carry me into the eternal salvation of Y’tun Sargon’s gaze.

“Tell me, young man, are you happy here?”

The man’s expression speaks volumes. He tries to put on a smile but merely shrugs his shoulders.

“What if I could get you to a proper planet?” I ask. “A proper planet where you could get real work in The Order?”

“The Order? What sort of work?”

“The Order has many jobs, Orthos. We need builders, scribes, and researchers… we want to make our race great again. We want to bring back the old ways, which are still the best.”

Orthos considers my words for a moment.

“Why haven’t you gone?” he asks me.

“I must speak the word of The Order from colony to colony. Such is my job as a missionary. The Ancestral Order is devoted to the preservation of our culture and traditions. We still believe in the old ways… all of them.”

He leans closer and asks, in a whisper, “Including Y’tun Sargon?”

I smile at him. “But of course.”

He leans back in his chair and nods to himself. “I do miss civilization,” he shakes his head and looks out a window at the untamed landscape outside, “so very much.”

I stretch slightly and whimper from pain. The pain is real, but I put extra emphasis on the whimper. I lean back into the chair and smile.

“Would you like to know more?” I ask.

Orthos stands up, makes his way to a shelf made of recycled shipping containers, and pulls out a bottle of some spirit and a pair of glasses.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks.

I smile and nod. Here is where my real work begins.

I pull the choba from my pocket – I’ve earned it.

Thank you for taking time to read this Cosmic Dash short story. You can always check out the series hub for more adventure or worldbuilding details. You comments, questions, and feedback are always welcome.

The post Silver Spiral Stories – “Preacher” appeared first on hpkomics.com.

“Son of the Soil” is one of the first short stories produced in the Cosmic Dash setting, providing further insight into the nature of Guugel, while providing additionally information about Blu. This story would have taken place prior to volume 2 of the comic.

Guugel came out of his rest cycle slowly, his lone eye staring at the ceiling as he lay in his bed; the only noises he heard were the warm hum of the ship and the death rattle that was Kracker’s snoring. The concept of bed was still so alien to him, and he would dwell on how artificial it all seemed when he came out of his rest state. In their own strange way, beds did have a tint of familiarity. Back home on Ottwa, his people would rest in the communal peat rooms. There, they would slow down their bodies while lying upon the soft plants. Guugel did feel a twinge of familiarity and homesickness every time he woke up inside the crew bunks. He kept expecting to see the greenery of his youth. He continued to stare at the ceiling, which loomed above him, a ceiling which seemed miles away, as far as he could tell at such an early hour. His mind wandered as he rested on his gigantic bunk in the cavernous room.

Most of the ship was gigantic to him. He wasn’t quite sure how Marken handled it; Marken was just as small as he was. Whenever he was around Marken, Guugel would feel flashes of business-related panic; there would be worries of failure, and loss, and disappointment, with just a hint of sad longing. However, more overwhelming was the love of food and cooking. Guugel had always picked up on the subtle emotional vibrations of other beings. Then he learned to avoid them entirely because, most often, they would overwhelm him. He had made his choice to explore the stars… unusual for most Wot. He wouldn’t let someone else’s sad feelings spur him toward homesickness and self-doubt. He’d made his choice to leave the safety of Ottwa, and he was determined to see as much of the galaxy as he could.

The rest of his bunkmates were still asleep and actively dreaming as the wot prepared for his day. He would get small flashes of the abstract imagery of their dreams, but there were times when their meanings were unmistakable. He did not want to invade their dreams, but the dreams were adamant about invading his mind. 

As usual, Kracker’s unconscious mind was flashing the energetic imagery of the Zero-G races; the dream felt almost lustful, as though he was opening up the throttle of a technically advanced racer, just like the ones he was always watching on the GIN. Kracker was addicted to racing and the pursuit of speed, as evidenced by most of his flying when he could get away from the pre-laid routes. 

Guugel turned to Dorian and noticed the young Grey was tossing fitfully as he recalled a sad memory involving a sibling. Guugel promptly tuned it out. All he had seen was the presence of three Grey children in a hallway. The oldest tried to talk to one who was grudgingly acknowledging him, down the hall, and the youngest was crying. Guugel felt this was Dorian, and promptly tried to flush the image from his mind.

Most unusual was Dash, always Dash. Dash always understood Guugel and was one of the few individuals the Wot had met who could actually hear his conscious projections. As usual, though, Dash’s dreams were indecipherable; the mental equivalent of static. Tonally, Guugel sensed conflict: rage, fear, yet some tang of optimism? Puzzling.

Guugel began his day as he always did, with a few moments at his footlocker. He popped it open to inspect his collection of soils. As he traveled from planet to planet, he would take a sample and store it in the footlocker. His people had an intimate connection with the soil. The weary Wot dug through his small bags of earth, looking for one he hadn’t tried in a while. He spied Poenva. He unsealed the bag and poured some of the grit into his hand. Poenva’s soil was fairly acrid. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant, though, as the planet was full of life and aged stone. It felt old, and old soil was always of the most comfort. In a way, he just needed that pick-me-up.

Soil still in hand, Guugel sealed up the Poenva bag, set it back into the footlocker, and shut it. He took a moment to make sure he didn’t wake any of his coworkers and made his way to the fresher. Along the way, he spotted the robot, Blu, jumping from seat to seat in the living area. The small robot paused for a second and waved. Guugel nodded back. 

Despite the energy the robot showed, he felt old… far older than the ship. It was something that filled Guugel with curiosity most of the time, but curiosity was best avoided in the mornings. He stepped into the fresher and selected his custom settings. No laundry, no soap, 2-inch lukewarm water fill, high-luminosity lighting, and no air-dry. 

In seconds, the tub began to fill and shut off at exactly 2 inches. Guugel dipped a finger into the water to make sure the hygiene system did not have the occasional hiccup it was known for. Satisfied with the temperature, he tossed his small handful of dirt into the water. It made a plunk, and a cloud of coppery brown billowed out from the surface of the water down to the bottom of the tub. Guugel stepped in, mixed the dirt in with his feet, and finally lay down, his back resting against the plasteel flooring of the tub. He spent a few minutes soaking. He enjoyed the texture of the earthy water. Combined with the bright light, this would be just perfect to keep him going for his day. Everyone else had breakfast. He had this.

A few minutes later, Guugel returned from the hygiene room, feeling refreshed. He made his way back to his bunk and had just reached the foot of his bed when he noticed his footlocker was open. He promptly shut the locker, but then grew curious. He opened it again and pored through his bags of soil, but he could not find Ottwa. He searched through several times, frantically tossing bags out of the locker. Reeling with shock, he fell backward onto the thinly carpeted floor. His arms fell to his sides, and his palms found themselves on the threadbare flooring. As his fingers gripped the carpet, he found the telltale signs of dirt on his fingertips. He whipped upright and held the loose grains close to his eye. It was Ottwan, particularly, that of his former village. He peered around, noticing more bits of soil on the carpet. He began to follow them.

The trail led him down the hall to the lower common room, where he had seen Blu earlier. Now Blu was absent. Blu was harmless, mostly; he was known to take things and hoard them, and generally, this wasn’t a problem. Everyone would just find their stuff dangling out of a vent eventually… but this was a bit more personal.

The trail of grains led to the couch in the lounge but stopped at the cushions. Guugel took the cushion and ripped it from the couch. No sign of the Ottwan dirt. Nor were there signs under the couch. He placed the cushions back on the seat and peered around, annoyed that his trail ran cold.

Then, he remembered the vents and Blu’s love of skittering through them.

He looked upward. Six feet from the top of the couch was a vent cover that was clearly loose. Guugel climbed up onto the couch and jumped as high as his small legs would allow, but to no avail. Annoyed, he clenched his fist and hit the wall. To his surprise, the vent opened as a thin wire rolled out from within, onto his head. Dash had mentioned that he’d found makeshift rigging all over the ship, thanks to Blu.

He tugged at the wire, and it did not give way. He climbed up to the vent, brushing aside the cover, and pulled himself into the inner workings of the ship. Sure enough, he was greeted by several grains of the coveted soil. The vent was small, even for the diminutive wot, and he had to remain on his hands and knees. Unabated by the ironically cramped quarters, he pushed forward. The vents were dark and smooth. This was an utterly gloomy and artificial environment for him, and he already felt fatigued by it.

Alongside the darkened vents, he made out crude drawings. Blu had turned the inner-workings of the ship into his playground. It was too dark to see them in much detail, but he made out rudimentary versions of members of the crew along one side, and a long sequence of symbols on the other. Blu was telling a story, but that could wait.

The vent split into two after a while, and based on where he entered, Guugel suspected the paths took him to the cargo-bay or the engine room. He peered around, and spying an errant grain heading toward the engine room, he pressed onward. The temperature rose as he moved closer to the core mechanics of the ship. The heat was not intense, so much as thick and stifling. He knew he couldn’t remain for long, or else he would dry out. A light ahead of him grew in intensity with each crawling step, and when he broke the threshold, he found a large vent hub, filled with plant life, and Blu, who was sitting on an upside-down clay pot. The little robot waved at his guest.

The makeshift garden was fascinating. The plant-life had grown lush in the warm vents near the engine room, and the variety was quite shocking. Guugel wiped at his brow, partially to clear sweat, and partially in disbelief. He had nearly lost himself in awe when he remembered his purpose.

Guugel picked up some grains of the Ottwan dirt inside the room. He held them toward Blu. Blu tilted his head in response, curious. Guugel gestured again, pretending to open a bag, and then pouring the grains from one hand to another. He then pretended to open and close a footlocker several times. He would bring two level hands down several times in a smooth motion. Blu took a moment and then nodded, understanding. Blu hopped off the clay pot and knelt down next to it. He pointed to the pot and waved Guugel over. Guugel approached, uncomfortable in the heat. Blu pointed to his own kneeling stance, and Guugel followed through with his own.

Blu looked around a bit and then lifted the bottom of the pot, just slightly, almost gingerly. He nodded at Guugel and tilted the pot enough so that a smaller pot was clearly visible. The pot itself had been filled with dirt. He just noticed the distinct tang of the Ottwan soil.  He rubbed the side of his head a bit in exasperation until he noticed the mushroom. 

It was small, still juvenile in many ways. The mushroom was a light purple with a teal swirl along with the cap. The surface of the cap was smooth and rubbery, with a brilliant sheen. The mushroom resembled him. He marveled at it.

Blu picked up the larger pot and set it to the side while Guugel was still entranced by the mushroom. Blu grabbed a small watering can, once a Pommo can, and tapped Guugel’s shoulder. Guugel watched as the tiny robot poured for a few seconds. Blu finished and shook his finger at Guugel, pointing at the can several times. Guugel nodded. Content, Blu picked up the small pot and thrust it toward Guugel. Guugel held the pot for a moment and looked back at Blu, who had already begun trimming one of his plants. Guugel shook his head in disbelief and made the crawl back through the vents.

Back in the bunk room, everyone was still asleep. Kracker’s snoring had grown more ear-shattering, and instinctually, Dash and Dorian had each buried their heads into their pillows. Guugel looked around the room for a moment but finally decided that the best place for his mushroom was on top of his footlocker. He placed it there, and for a few moments, he was content. Then, quite suddenly, he pulled the mushroom off the footlocker, setting it to the side. He opened the lid and began to collect bags of dirt.

A few hours later, while moving through the vents, Blu arrived at the exit to the lower common room, usually his main thoroughfare. He was quite surprised to see several bags of soil waiting for him just inside the vent.

Thank you for taking time to read this Cosmic Dash short story. You can always check out the series hub for more adventure or worldbuilding details. You comments, questions, and feedback are always welcome.

The post Cosmic Dash: “Son of the Soil” appeared first on hpkomics.com.

The night the snowstorm hit was the fifth day that ten-year-old William Feldson had been tortured by a sinister yard decoration. He stood at the window of his bedroom on the first floor, looking out into the darkness of the world outside, ringed by holiday lights and the splotchy reflections of them on the show.

The blow mold Santa Claus was in the piled snow, currently facing out toward the street. The Santa hadn’t moved yet since last night, beyond finding its way in the view of the window. But it was only midnight, and every previous night, William found the Santa outside his bedroom window, staring inside into his room.

It was only a matter of time.

William wondered who had put the Santa back out in his view. He thought that it was his brother Gary’s doing, but there was no evidence of it, beyond Gary being a jerk in general. Every night, no matter where the blow mold Santa was placed, the blobby, sun-damaged plastic shell would creep its way to William’s window when he wasn’t looking. Every night.

Every night.

William drew the curtains shut and slid into bed.

He shuddered and shut his eyes, hoping to get to sleep. Perhaps he could sleep through the inevitably sinister events and his dad would fix it by morning so that the Santa Claus wasn’t staring into his room.

Within minutes, he had drifted.

He woke up at 2 AM. The clock ticked its continuous tock, and William turned his bleary eyes to the window. He crept out of bed, tip-toeing over to the window and drawing the curtains open just a sliver. Sure enough, between flurries of snow, a glimpse of the blow mold Santa could be seen, and the unmistakable, distorted face was turned toward the window, gazing toward his bedroom window.

William had had enough of the plastic monster.

He threw on his boots and pulled his thick snow jacket over his pajamaed shoulders. He marched out to the mudroom and grabbed the flashlight from the cabinet under the window seat. He unlocked the door and stepped out into the cold, his flashlight darting wildly in the night. He strode to the Santa and found it had changed its position again, this time toward the front door, where he had emerged. Enraged, William was determined to be rid of it entirely, even if that meant throwing away his dead Grandma’s favorite Christmas decoration.

It had to go.

He paused and stared at the Santa, standing just about a yard away from it. Nothing about it seemed odd, really, beyond the strange, distorted face. That could easily have been age, grime, and sun damage. The face was round and jolly, and there was a red nose, too. But the eyes were solid white, like the snow banked around the front yard.

Had they always been like that? He could have sworn they were black.

Stepping closer, though, that’s when William truly took in the expression of the Santa’s face; under the massive, ballooned jowls and bulbous beard, was a smile, yes, and the heavy-lidded eyes were set to a scowl. Had that just happened? The Santa, so inscrutable for days, now had a wicked grin.

It seemed happy – but not in a pleasant way.

William stepped toward the plastic figure and threw a punch at the fat, ugly face, eager to topple the mold. He was shocked to find that his blow didn’t land – well, not quite; instead, his hand was sucked up into the mouth of the plastic Santa, which had begun pulling him in, eagerly. William’s arm began to disappear between parted ruby lips and a white plastic beard.

William screamed, but a gust of howling wind masked his cry. The neighborhood slept soundly that night.

…

The police had yet to find William. It had been three days.

Any signs of where he went that night had been obscured by the fresh snow on the night of and the day after. Beth had been crying since. To lose her mother was one thing, but for their youngest child to go missing was quite another. Bill Sr. had been advised by the police to stay at the house, in case his son came home. They would search he could best help by staying him, especially given the conditions outside;

Against his impulse, Bill had done so, but this was the last day of that nonsense. He’d be out tomorrow, all day and night if he had to. He’d already taken a few walks around the block, here and there, keeping an eye out for his son. He’d begin a real search tomorrow.

For now, he would spend his afternoon doing something productive. He was putting away decorations. Christmas had passed.

Bill Sr. approached the old Santa blow mold. He never really understood why Margaret had kept the ugly thing around, but it was something that had belonged to her, and Beth decided to keep it, too. He bent down to pick it up, but it was far heavier than he had expected. He stooped down, closer, bending at the knees. He wrapped his arms around it, lifting it with a sudden jerk. He nearly toppled over at the weight of it as the plastic beard rested against his face.

That’s when he smelled the faint scent of rot coming from the Santa Claus.

Thanks for reading. As always, you can support my writing via Ko-Fi at $1 a month for access to early chapters and some exclusives. I am also available for commissions.

I am sure the Holiday Home Blow Mold Santa Claus is nowhere near as menacing as the one I wrote about, but I couldn’t resist using it’s likeness for the story.

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