Silver Linings

Why must the ceiling be gray?

Gunner 78471 awoke to his standard alarm at 0530 hours, his bunkmate equally stirring at the clamor of the miniature klaxon in their barrack before silently going about his morning ritual. Tingy and precisely discordant, the alarm never failed to rouse the sailors from their slumber. It was specially crafted for just this purpose by master artisans in consultation with the renowned bellfounders of the Spindrift Isles. Every rivet, every decision aboard the Xaryxian fleet was carefully planned and choreographed, no detail left untested. Sailors were even required to sign away their names in order to suppress any latent individualism. Anything less than perfection was deemed unbecoming. Various elves were released from service for as little as missing their mark at reveille by half a step.

That perfectionism pervaded the whole of The Wakeful, one of the better-regarded vessels in the Elven Imperial Navy, and all the more so this assignment. The Armada-class vessel had recently encountered The Weird in Wildspace on a mission of scientific inquiry – a dangerous task even without the looming threat of illithid incursion. There was no room for error. Most ventures into The Weird returned wholly and irrevocably changed, if they ever returned at all. Stories of various ships falling prey to unknown aberrations were all too common amongst spelljamming vessels. If this region were mapped in the days before mages conquered the Flow, when seafaring was still the height of exploration, it would be decorated with an ornate serpent of the deep, threatening all who dared approach. Yet this danger is exactly what called The Wakeful here – the Xaryxian court determined that, if possible, The Weird ought to be sealed to prevent such disasters in the future. An altruistic endeavor on behalf of the whole of the Navy, if ever there were one. Of course, those with even a modicum of sense knew the royal family ordered this to save their own skin. Entire flotillas had been lost over time, and replacing them was no quick matter. This was a mission to staunch the bleeding, nothing more, nothing less.

But whatever the motive, here The Wakeful found itself, under orders to ascertain the true nature of The Weird and seal it shut, if possible. And as a mission of the Navy, regiment and regulation were the currency of the trade, with all manners controlled and specified to the millimeter.

So, the ceiling was gray, to 78471's chagrin.

He had 20 minutes to bathe, dress, and be seated in the mess hall with his first meal of the day. Thankfully, this part of his schedule was easy to navigate. He laid out his uniform at the beginning of every rest, staged his toiletries alongside, and rarely used his cot so as to save time cleaning his quarters later on. He found that his desk chair sufficed perfectly well for his daily trances. Like clockwork, counting his brushstrokes and timing his shower, he arrived at his mess table with two minutes to spare. Those two minutes were as close as he could get to something resembling meditation, an opportunity to reset and mentally prepare over the wafting fumes of – in today's case – some poorly-spiced indeterminate off-beige stew, accompanied by the standard-issue hard tack and generic electrolytic liquid.

Eugh, that slop reeks worse than swamp gumbo...

Other sailors and crewmen fell in during the intervening time, quickly assuming their respective positions. They chattered amongst themselves as they regaled their cycles preceding and plotted those forthcoming, eager to squeeze in what little opportunity existed for socializing while out on deployment. 

"I saw a Gypsy Moth!–" 

"Heard about the squeeze on 077?"

"Oh, there's no way the admiral would allow that – "

78471, however, continued his meal in silence.

Fifteen minutes later, trays returned, he moved in lockstep at the head of his four-sailor detachment to their station. The squad marched past an open hangar bay, intercepting a wing of flitter pilots who had just returned from their pass around this sector of The Weird, scouting for anomalies and ensuring no other vessels approached The Wakeful unperturbed. They always carried an air of confidence and bravado. These were elite fighters and marksmen, equally skilled in whatever other vessels they may need to commandeer in the course of their duties as they were in their own. Highly intelligent. Truly deadly. It was expected that if one ever went down, it would take ten of their enemy with them in the doing. Blusterous though they were, they had the accolades to back it up; in all the ways that mattered, they were untouchable. They enjoyed a level of freedom and respect that 78471 could only dream of achieving in the EIN, not being a native-born Xaryxian.

His journey to The Wakeful was, quite frankly, fortunate to have led him there at all. He barely passed boot camp. He barely passed muster on the couple of Zoner-class skirmisher vessels, which perpetually offloaded him whenever they had the chance. He barely qualified on his gunnery assessment, and on a notably delayed timetable compared to his peers. Every step of the way, his overseers ensured his existence in the Xaryxian fleet was as uncomfortable as possible. 78471 had never overtly done anything to jeopardize his position, though, so instead they relied on soft pressure and intimidation to encourage that he resign in order to free up space for someone more qualified for the role. But they could not deny his record – impeccable, if exceedingly underwhelming – and so he remained, quietly obstinate of the strictures.

The corridors were still as gray as the ceiling in his bunk, and his morning as silent as it had ever been. Perfectly ordered, as all things in this ship should be.

Before he knew it, the squad arrived at their post. The gunner quickly assumed his air of command, though his instructions rang with the passion and verve of a damp towel.

"Detachment Astra, you are dismissed. Detachment Glacia, assume command."

Hyper-vigilance was the name of the game, and this squad played it as well as any could. This being a scientific expedition first and foremost, there was no extraneous armed backup for The Wakeful. Scuttlebutt amongst the crew had it that it was the best compromise the fleet could agree upon, given the nature and location of their visit: send as few vessels and lives as possible in order to complete the objective without jeopardizing any more than was absolutely necessary. The Wakeful could, in theory, operate on its own and withstand formidable resistance, if required. Its crew all knew the risks of this isolation, though. Any lapse in perception or judgment could spell the end of The Wakeful – let alone their job, should they make it out of a particularly bad encounter alive. Accordingly, they minded their sensors with intent and kept their trigger fingers loose.

78471, however, could not help but allow his mind to wander. He stared out of the cabin with forlorn fascination. The general public understood The Weird to be Emperor Vulkaran's fanatical protectionism of his Vodoni Empire – and that certainly was true. One could use The Weird to locate Vodonispace, if one so chose, and Vulkaran had indeed weaponized its inky blackness to his own devices. But that could not explain all the other stories and misgivings of this place. In the middle of the Flow, the beautiful Rainbow Ocean that permeated all space between inhabited worlds, this streak of pure black cut as a blight on the fabric of the universe, where seemingly all life went to die. Just gazing upon that jagged wound had already driven some of The Wakeful's crew to madness, no doubt exacerbated by the fear of whatever abominations Vulkaran had scrounged from the Far Realms. 

For all its danger, though, it had an uncanny allure: an area which light did not penetrate, with untold wonders and eldritch dread alike. 78471 found the barrier separating the Weird from the rest of Wildspace especially curious. It was as though fine filigree were hammered into three-dimensional space, or a ribbon of the sheerest drow spider silk flitting through water, and yet it was both at once. It was gossamer and ephemeral, a tangible trick of the eye. While the Weird itself was stark and jagged, this flowing lattice reminded him of the soft stream that bisected the Park of the Infernal and Divine back home. 

That divide between limbo and serene fluidity captivated him, and without fail, every rotation that brought Glacia to this sector excited him. He felt the Weave coursing through him with churning fervor, his skin detecting the slightest changes in electromagnetic pressure radiating from this astral pitch, his internal clock synchronizing with the irregular ebb and flow. His mind was clearer here than anywhere else on the ship. Those unfortunate souls who gazed into the void and blinked were focused on the wrong thing. This was not madness: this was comprehension. This was enlightenment. In these days, when others saw the murky maw of oblivion, 78471 found agency, and a universe that did not shirk him for his birth. Here, behind an abjurative glass canopy, 78471 felt seen. And so, for countless hours, he mindlessly directed his sailors as they scanned the Flow, his winding eyes studying every filament and wisp of the pearly sea. Out there, there were no gray ceilings, only the infinite.

-------------------

"Gunner, Detachment Radiant picking up Conjuration traces in sector 4-7-028."

Jolted out of his reverie, 78471 re-acclimated in a snap. "Adjust viewfinder, monitor for incoming vessels." His hackles raised immediately. 

There aren't any ships from our fleet supposed to be here, so who in the Hells could this be?

As Sailor 2888 swung the cabin around to confirm Radiant's report, Glacia's own sensors began to flare.

"Tracking new signs of Evoker – "

"Illusory mapping is going hayw – "

"Gunner, take a – "

Before 78471 could respond, swirling indigo light amassed in front of them, before the radiant ochres and golds and corroded coppers emanating from the Flow were blotted out. Floating in space, no more than a klik from their own hull, sat an enormous vessel of alien design: a cavernous conch-like shell, with a mess of writhing, deep violet tentacles. Most worryingly, though, was that it radiated an oppressive psionic tension that seemed to stop time in its tracks. The whole group froze in place, taking no breath, as they beheld the source of these unexpected signals.

A dreadnought. The illithid had found them.

74871 observed and quickly assessed their options. 

No retreating back, since they’ve got us tracked. Can’t afford to lead them to Krynn. No time to escalate to the navigator for orders. Our flitters out on patrol will have seen this, too…only one option.

"FIRE AT WILL!"

Battle commenced with a fury. It seemed 78471’s fellow gunners reached the same conclusion. Arcane blasts whizzed by in every direction: fire, lightning, sonic booms. Flitters streaked through space as they broke off their previous patrols and engaged swarming miniature nautiloids peppering The Wakeful with psychic blasts meant to drain both vessel and crew. The dreadnought itself unleashed a tidal wave of ballistae and catapults, indiscriminately hurling space debris in the direction of the elves. It was utter chaos.

Detachment Glacia, though, had been itching for something just like this, and began picking out nautiloids like so many flies in a glue trap. They worked in harmonizing unison, aided by an emergency telepathic bond activated by a special symbol embedded in every gunner cabin. The five of them couldn't afford to waste energy speaking and hearing when there were much quicker means of communication. Sailor 41 tracked the illithid in space with their personal tracking magic. 2888 whizzed the canopy from point to point as directed. 030 funneled The Wakeful’s arcane core into their cannon. 990 aimed the cannon and released the blasts, using 2888’s movements to lure the nautiloids into the line of fire. They moved with deadly efficiency, and shot after shot found their mark. 

Line ‘em up, knock ‘em down. We might even get a commendation for this! And this lot said those reps in training were useless!

One by one, after what could’ve been just a few minutes or multiple hours, the illithid numbers dwindled...and replenished...and dwindled...and replenished anew.

Sailor 990 remarked it first, though by then all in Glacia had felt this same panic: "Gunner, they aren't stopping. We’ve pegged at least 50 by now, and they just keep coming. Where are they coming from?"

They were right, this was far too coordinated and voluminous an attack to simply be bad luck. By their best estimates, they alone had already eliminated more nautiloids than typically accompany the standard dreadnought. Something was amiss, and it unsettled everyone in this canopy. But there was no time to ponder the hows and whys. 

41 piped up. “Gunner, it looks like there’s primary egress on their port side near the stern. We might be able to slow them down if we clog that hole.”

You always were the brightest one here, 4-1! 

“Good eye! Lay suppressing fire, we’ll let the flitters handle the stragglers.” 

As the canopy turned and the sailors set eyes on their new target, 78471 quickly hit the broader Gunners' comm to inform his compatriots of their plan, seeking immediate assistance. At this distance, making consistent contact was difficult at best for one cannon alone. Within thirty seconds, though, other cannons soon picked up Glacia’s pattern, and they equally shot into the hull of the dreadnought. With a violent whirlwind of activity and the sheer volume of artillery fire, Detachment Scintillant eventually conveyed visual confirmation of structural collapse in the dreadnought's hull. The cannoneers’ collective effort was even more successful than simply sealing the nautiloids off. They blew a hole so large in the side of the dreadnought that its upper decks, including the command deck, began to crumble under their own weight. It began to list off to the far side, and enemy activity slowed to a crawl.

Their persistence paid off! Cheers rang out around The Wakeful. Looking at his readout of the rest of the ship, though, it came at great cost. Nearly half of their flitters were lost (many couldn’t even take off before being destroyed by ballistae), the hull sustained significant structural damage, and medic wards were already filled to the brim. They were in a bad way. With the dreadnought out of commission, the remaining flitters and cannons could focus on the stray nautilioids still in pursuit, and allow the admiral time to make a safe retreat to Krynnspace to regroup with the High elven fleet. Whatever the fruits of their original mission, illithid interference on this scale drastically altered the equation.

Before they could make such a move, though, a deafening BANG echoed down the corridor. Shocked silence descended upon Glacia before the ringing of steel on steel and shouts of ardor reverberated through their station. The ship had been boarded.

"Sailors 990 and 41, maintain current pressure and engage nautiloids. 030 and 2888, prepare for defense." 

Not ideal to split, but I don't think we have a choice right now.

Worried expressions came to 78471 from all around, equally aware of how perilous a choice this was. Whether they disagreed, though, they would not say. There was no time for discord, and this option was frankly no worse than any other they could imagine. Sailor 030 grasped his pendant of Lathander and whispered to the Morninglord, channeling the dawn to imbue the two defenders with improved fortitude. 2888, for her part, drew runes in the air with her tin flute, and the pair gained levity and quickness. They pulled their weapons and stood guard at the hatch to the cannonade, while 990 and 41 doubled their concentration on the sea before them. One hull breach was bad enough, and they would be damned if they allowed another on their watch.

The clashing grew louder and closer. The two defenders hardened themselves and donned their helmets in anticipation. The cannoneers hustled overtime to continue their pursuit, with 78471 jumping into 41’s seat to direct. Outside the safety of their glass canopy, flitters continued to zoom across the cannon's field of view, before one unexpectedly slammed into The Wakeful's hull just below their cannonade, knocking all of Glacia to their knees. 78471 felt his own resolve crumble for a brief moment, his nerves wracking him like a bolt of lightning from Moradin's own anvil.  Steeling himself as best he could, he got his squadron mates back on their feet.

Hell of a time for a first fight...gods blast it, Nubel, where are you?

Within minutes, the sounds of attack began to subside, and fewer and fewer elven cries sounded. Deathly stillness filled the cabin. All five of Glacia heaved in anticipation. 78471 spun around, rose from his seat, and detached and extended his battlestaff in preparation. 

Not that this'll do much... 

Footsteps padded down the corridor. Twenty seconds to contact, he estimated.

They didn't reach that full twenty, though, when 030 and 2888 were knocked over and forced flat on their backs, the wind surging out of their lungs. A beat passed before Glacia saw the source of the attack: an illithid striker, storming through the entry with murderous intent. In quick succession, 990 and 41 leapt from their positions and physically engaged the illithid, fearing its ability to resist their more potent magical abilities. 990 slashed out with their family rapier, attempting to hack off a few tentacles; 41 dove between its legs and sliced the backs of its knees with a pair of dwarven steel daggers, attempting to break its stance. Meanwhile, 78471 quickly lifted 030 and 2888 back on their feet, subtly healing their wounds and preparing them to counterattack. Even in the midst of a heated battle, he could not afford to let slip his sorcerous ways.

Harangued on both sides, 2888 sprang up to join the fray. She briefly pointed her flute at the intruder and zeroed in on its now weakened legs, moving a short axe into her hands, and followed 41's lead to bring it low. 030, though, remained stunned where they stood, and couldn’t follow up to continue the assault, despite 78471's best attempts to help them recoup. He wanted to get them back to fighting shape, but out of the corner of his eye, the illithid fought vigorously and largely matched the three sailors blow for blow. It wasn’t a fight he felt confident in. Precious time was ticking. 78471 once more tried to influence the fracas by surreptitiously casting a pall over the enemy's eyes, but it shook the effect with ease before throwing the three defenders to the ground and unleashing another psychic wave. At close range, however, this one was far more devastating. All five elves were once more shunted back. Only one, 78471, was able to stand back up, his legs wiggling and his eyes darting about, seeking either escape or salvation, but finding neither.

In split time, he assessed the state of his detachment. 090 and 2888 both lay still on the cold metal floor. 41 breathed haggardly for a moment, the sound of fluid filling their lungs with each exhale, before falling motionless. 030 was flung back behind his gunner, hit the glass canopy above, and fell about twenty-five feet onto 990's console before tumbling to the ground, but was able to sit up and attempt to catch his breath. The mindflayer stood before the feebled group and uttered a guttural snicker before turning to face 78471.

"Perhaps it's time you join our little family," it sneered, extending a hand. Down its robe, a bulge moved from behind its head and through its sleeve, where 78471 caught the faintest glimpse of raw flesh, and crawling legs...as well as a large chunk of broken structural support about fifteen feet behind the illithid in an adjacent store room from the cannonade. Inspiration struck.

"Not today!" With preternatural speed, 78471 whipped his staff to his side and feinted to his left, forcing the illithid to move to the opposite side to avoid the coming swing of the staff, whereupon it collided with the now flying piece of wreckage, just as the gunner intended. In that brief opening, 78471 used the one bit of magic that was safe to use in others' presence, unleashing his inner starfire to burn his combatants from within. The mindflayer let loose a horrific telepathic screech, nearly bringing 78471 to the ground once more, before its body fell lifeless on the threshold. He heaved a huge sigh of relief, stared at the broken metal now lying just inside the cannonade by the enemy’s motionless corpse, and gave a wry smile. 

That might be the most useful spell out there. 

Caught in his brief self-congratulations, he suddenly felt the wind shift beside his ear as a dagger flew across the room and pinned the leaping companion brain of the illithid to the wall opposite the scuffle. Shocked, he turned to find 030 with his arm still extended at the end of his throw, before collapsing back to the floor.

78471 quickly rushed to his side to cradle the fall. He was in a bad way. The fall was worse than he initially thought.  "Hell of a throw, 3-0!"

The lithe elf managed a weak smile and whispered, "Always had better reflexes than y – " before coughing hard. Blood spattered into his free hand. 78471 could hear the grind and crack of broken ribs. This was beyond anything he could try to heal on his own. If 030 had any hopes of survival, he needed a medic immediately. But with them so tied down, getting one down here was a tall order. It was time 030 simply did not have. His gunner looked on, understanding what this meant.

"We'll get you set, just gotta find a medic, you'll be right as rain," he encouraged, knowingly. “Gunna getchu a good retirement at the Court of Stars, for this one.”

030 cracked his eyes. He knew his fate well before his gunner did. That fall would have killed most other elves, and frankly, should have done him in, but he would not allow that to be his end. He willed his final act of defiance to fell the intellect devourer and save his gunner. An elf of honor. He was ready. "How divine...before you go...my name's Aimar." He smiled weakly.

78471 couldn't help but reciprocate the warmth. In these final moments, they saw each other as equals. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you, Aimar. My name's – "

But he couldn't finish his thought. He couldn't even speak another word, for his throat was constricted and crushed by an unseen force. 78471 felt his body lift off the ground and turn in midair, where he faced a new threat. Another illithid, but larger, more commanding, decorated: an ulitharid, and one gifted with imposing physical strength. It willed 78471 over to where it stood by the door and signaled a githyanki slave behind it to finish off the remaining survivors. Aimar's final death rattle hung thick in the air as 78471 felt his mental barriers crumble under the ulitharid’s telepathic pressure, before it spoke directly to him..

You should not have resisted. It will be your undoing. 

It observed its prey, writhing and struggling, as it attempted futilely to fight back. If such a being can smirk, 78471 thought he saw one crawl across its face. 

The moons and the stars all die...and so shall you be extinguished. 

Its long tentacles wrapped around his body, drawing him closer in. Its sharp beak slowly gaped. 78471 dripped with fear, despite his best efforts. The monster savored the psychological torment it wreaked upon its latest victim.

Its beak mere centimeters from the elf’s head, a deep, seismic shock suddenly filled the room, intensifying with each passing second. In short order, the entire cabin rattled and shuddered before violently jerking and knocking the githyanki off its feet. The ulitharid grew impatient. It reached one last time for 78471's skull...

...then, nothing. Comforting, painless, unceasing void...peace…

...his senses slowly returned...sunlight...trees...the skitter of varmints and birds on the wing...and the voices – both audible and telepathic – of numerous persons in various levels of armor and finery. 78471 lay naked in a crater, his long-hidden pendant hanging from his neck. For as slowly as his sight and touch returned, his fear instead returned like a thunderclap. He may have escaped one terror, but now seeing himself surrounded…

Human soldiers? Where in the Nine Hells am I?

He wasn’t sure just how lucky he actually was to have somehow escaped that terror aboard The Wakeful.

In that moment, he knew only one emotion: panic.