curator-adler

[curator-adler]

Apologies for my absence, dear reader. Here is an excerpt from a story penned by my own hand and experience. I hope you enjoy it.

...of course past the rustic charm and odd citizenry, Tymburgh naturally holds one last secret. Woven throughout the streets, under the walkways and past stone walls lies a Necropolis. A labyrinthine crypt with no name as given by its builders. Those of us that know of this place gave it the moniker of the Blackrain Catacombs. A fortress of ink-black stone with the sleepy town constructed over it like a granite skin. Despite the colossal size of this gothic mausoleum, only dark tunnels scarcely tall enough to stand in have ever been recorded. A maze of dark, damp, masonry cut with impossible precision. It is called a crypt, mausoleum, catacombs, or tomb by everyone who observes its obsidian halls, not because of dead buried here, nor because of any signage proclaiming as such. If you ask someone how they know it is a burial site, they will simply reply; “Because it must be.” It is simply knowledge that is given to them, or perhaps, something forgotten, remembered. One cannot, however, speak of the Blackrain Catacombs without discussing the Challenge. 

The Challenge is levied to any who gaze upon one of the hundreds of hidden entrances to this structure, an innate knowledge that is understood rather than read or heard. A feeling of ancient dread  fills your veins with ice, your sight tunnels, and your mind is gripped by a haunted truth. Of course the exact phrasing varies from person to person, but I myself during my visit, understood it as thus:

Great knowledge lies within these perilous halls. Claim it, or be forgotten.

The Challenge is true to its claim; many have tried, but not a single one of their names lives on. It is as if their very essence have been relegated to myth. Written records may exist of them still, if they performed some vital task, they will inevitably require being replaced, but themselves? Ask their loved ones and marvel at their indifference. Even should someone be presented with proof of their existence, they will regard this revelation with the same passing acknowledgement given to polite company when told a boorish fact. The Challenge does something far worse than destroy its contenders; it makes them wholly irrelevant. Their disappearance, at its gravest; a mere inconvenience, to be duly corrected and never again addressed. 

--Excerpt from Tales of Tymburgh, F.G. Adler

[curator-adler]

We here at the Chronicle do apologize for the inactivity. There are some renovations - and new curated pieces quite nearly ready. We hope you enjoy your time here.

[curator-adler]

<ALERT.>

<A GRADE 4 EVENT HAS BEEN ISSUED>

<NEPHILIM>

<NEPHILIM>

<NEPHILIM>

[curator-adler]

Due to repeated errors in the curation of Monday articles, the Chronicle will be temporarily reducing its findings to once weekly on Thursdays. I apologize for the inconvenience while I attempt to repair the system.

[curator-adler]

I found a story authored by persons unknown. It appears to be another account of humanity's diaspora and travels through the void.

In his thirty-two years alive, James had never experienced such quiet. The cramped, busy cells of the Vimana were always filled with conversation, the shuffling of feet, and the exchange of navigation data. Today though, no voices echoed, everyone’s feet remained rooted in place at their stations, and all information was conveyed digitally to reduce miscommunication. For today was the first day since any of them had ever been alive where the Vimana changed course. Its departure from the Flotilla had not been an easy one; with countless objections from equally countless crews, all decrying their decision as irresponsible at best, and willfully damning at worst. Even so, no-one stopped the vessel as it slowly turned, decelerated, and calculated an intercept. 

No-one aboard could leave their fellows to their fate. Her captain broke the silence.

“Navigation, status update.” His voice was flat; devoid of the turbulent emotions he undoubtedly felt. He could have issued the command electronically, but James suspected they all needed to hear something other than hushed breaths.

A stiff woman’s eyes darted between equations, diagnostics, and vector information as she responded.

“Vimana has successfully charted an intercept to the last known vector of the Greybeard. We should be able to detect her beacon, barring total destruction, within a seven parsec radius of her location, time to intercept between four to eight hours local time depending on if they ever managed repair.” James marveled at the woman, his wife Anika, as she spoke. He couldn’t see a single muscle move that she didn’t need. An individual of exceptional efficiency in everything she did. There was none aboard that could match her speed and accuracy in navigational calculations.

If they ever managed repair. James anguished at the meaning behind the simple sentence. The Greybeard had reported a cascading drive failure only three hours before the Vimana changed course, but the relativity wake caused by the Zephyr drive means entire decades could have passed for their crew in those few, short hours. Anything could have happened to them. James knew people on that ship, good people. Likely dead or, best case,  twice their previous age now. The silence once again smothered the vessel like the very wave they ran from. The vector was set, the flotilla abandoned. Nothing to do but wait and listen.

The Blackwave- James began to think, the captain’s sharp voice cutting the thought short, seemingly finishing it.

“Time to Blackwave overtake, Navigation?” Anika’s eyes flashed as she parsed the math in her mind’s eye.

“At this vector, seven point eight-three hours, local time.” James noticed an almost imperceptible change in the captain, as if he was grasped by despair itself, only to scare it off. Nonetheless, the captain stared ahead, his countenance statuesque. 

“Continue on-vector, Navigation.”

[curator-adler]

Another systems error on a Monday. An amusing, if disappointing occurrence. Please expect the Thursday article as usual.

[curator-adler]

Here is a scrap from a worn journal. Strange occurrences were common after the Second Fall it seems.

It’s like whatever I met in that dream has been following me. 

Thinking back, it started with morning grub, I was about to take a bite and it felt…wrong. A tiny alarm bell in my head. “Don’t eat that”. I was just about to write it off as paranoia when Henson ran in the door and told everyone to drop their rations. Contaminated batch. 3 deputies in the medical wing already. Coincidence right? Just some gut intuition and old-fashioned luck. Couldn’t be anything else.

The next incident was on second patrol. I was on the Seabed-02 route today, easy stuff. It’s just an hour long walk past the South shore, never anything more than the occasional animal carcass. There’s a little alcove behind a petrified rock near the end of the route that’s easy to miss; sometimes critters like to hide there and give second shift a scare, so I always check and clear it out when I’m on that route. I did my check and moved on like usual, but again, that little nagging thought from nowhere. “Check again”. Normally I wouldn’t have even stopped, but after this morning I went with my gut. Wouldn’t you know it? Type-1C aberration. A flower, with luminescent red petals. That alcove is only a few square centimeters wide, and that plant took up almost the whole thing, there is no way I missed that. I stuffed it in a bio-box and finished up the route. Gave Ricard the box and report. 

There is no way I missed that.

I went through the rest of the day on a hair-trigger. It was quiet throughout the afternoon, no toxic foods and no unexpected flora. It finally happened after evening patrol debrief. I was walking back toward the barracks, about to call the open-air lift that connected ops to quarters when I felt it. This…omen. All the people around me, my comrades, other survivors like me. They were all dead. I can’t explain it - they were moving around, talking, working but…it was like their bodies hadn’t realized it yet. At the same time I heard that voice again:

“MOVE. GET AWAY.” 

I just…reacted. I jumped over the railing past the lift. It was at least a 8-meter drop. I hadn’t even hit the ground before I heard it. An impossibly loud bang, followed by metal groaning and people screaming. I landed on my leg and heard a snap before getting hit with the blinding pain of a broken femur. I actually passed out there, I never saw what happened to those people. I woke up in the infirmary a couple hours later. I asked around. Type-5F aberration, one of the worst seen. A micro-singularity had popped into existence right in the ops center. It instantly evaporated and the resulting energy caused a blast wave that pulverized the entire wing. All those people were just…vaporized. A few others crushed by debris. And me? A broken femur and concussion. A small price to pay for escaping death. The nurse told me to get some rest and report to the counselor in the morning. Apparently that's the procedure they’re taking with everyone right now. The event was undoubtedly traumatizing. I should be scarred.

But all I want is to know what the voice will say next.

[curator-adler]

Apologies to any visitors Monday for the lack of a curated article. It would appear my systems were temporarily overloaded. Thursday article will be posted normally.

[curator-adler]

Here is something interesting. An excerpt of a story about a pair of skilled pilots chasing down a target of some kind.

Two machines, built for battle, cut through the air, a deep orange sunset glinting off their polished wings, and a low hum of their engines echoing in the frigid mountains. The pair flew straight, then turned right, straight again, and a deep right bank, exiting into the final straight that promised to take them back to warmth and slumber. 

A piercing tone spiked thrice through the radio. Following the tone, a precisely enunciated voice spoke in a metallic rattle.

<ALERT. ALERT. ALERT.>

<A GRADE 3 EVENT HAS BEEN ISSUED.>

<DEEPSHOCK.>

<DEEPSHOCK.>

<DEEPSHOCK.>

<REPEAT:>

Dafid stiffened, his whole body electric. His hands moved fast as he pressed the green “ACKNOWLEDGE” key on his radio, increased engine power, and wrenched the stick toward the vector that flashed on his flickering indicator. No.3 roared as the pistons fired rapidly, blue jets of flame erupting from the side vents. The ailerons snapped into position, shunting the air around them and forcing the machine to roll. The elevators simultaneously rose, pushing the nose up and tail down, as the rudder maintained the aircraft’s horizontal orientation. The complex sequence of movements forced No.3 into a fast turn, banking deeply. Dafid tensed his legs and core, keeping his focus despite the turn forcing several times his own weight to bear down on his body. No.2 mirrored the maneuver perfectly, forming a half-circle away from its counterpart and converging back toward the same vector. Sharp lines creased the sky as No.2 and No.3 wordlessly charged toward their target, abandoning their dream of warm sleep.

[curator-adler]

Some Human settlers after the First Fall landed on a fairly hostile moon, it seems. One of them took it upon themselves to write a guide for new arrivals. Here is the introduction if it interests you.

Nox Grestis, Vade Mecum

Revision 1

Maxim Barbeau

Introductions

Welcome to Nox Grestis,

your survival is unlikely.

I, as the singular author of this guide, apologize for the ominous introduction, however hard truths are best accepted quickly. Despite the poor odds of long-term survival and near impossibility of thriving, your chances are much improved by heeding the words in this compendium. You stand upon the world of Nox Grestis; the arid moon of the second planet of the AST-48.217836 stellar system. The moon (named for the dedication plaque of the first and only vessel to land upon its surface), is home to the only livable atmospheric conditions in the system. The vessel, King Hamlet, was dismantled on arrival and reconfigured into the colony of Skyhaven, the original and current capital of Nox Grestis. I include this information for posterity. It will not help you.

Practically speaking, you stand upon a ball of dust that abhors life. Crops rarely grow, rain has never fallen to my recollection, and the air is uncomfortably cold in the warmest seasons. There is no natural flora or fauna. People would already be ill-tempered when cold, sick, and starved, and that isn’t the worst of it. I’ve established a short list of rules, which I’m going to list here in the introduction. If you lack the attention span or self-preservation to read this entire volume, read this list.

All of the food that does exist has to be slowly cultivated from legacy seeds or engineered from the ground-up, and the water is pulled from the bone-dry air. Ration your food and water.

Despite the cold, the atmosphere has very low ultraviolet protection; staying out in the sun without protection is deadly. Wear dark, thick clothes.

The ground is a silicate sand, meaning the grains are tiny, sharp, and get everywhere, notably your lungs. Wear a breather.

The religious might feel inclined to pray for safety or a long life. You don’t know what might be listening. Never pray.

If you were born unlucky, you might hear The Music. Never listen to The Music.

If you follow these instructions, you just might live to see 30. That is the average life expectancy. If you want to see your fiftieth, you’ll have the sense to read on. Good luck to you.

[curator-adler]

Here is something of note, a log from a seedship captain during the Human Diaspora. The journey to the Abyssal Stars was not an easy one, it seems.

Log Entry Cpt.RSchofield.1: First personal log, Captain Royd Schofield. Our previous leader, Captain Smithson, was laid to rest earlier yesterday following 30 ESY of service. As a leader, he will be remembered as a stoic and inspiring leader. As my predecessor, I will remember him for his awful record-keeping.

It’s been nearly 13 ESY since the failure of the Zephyr-Drive. Chief Maintenance Officer Schultz has long since given up on repairs, but I have chosen to upkeep our previous Captain’s orders for now. If we have the slightest chance of making it to the Abyss, we’d be fools not to take it wouldn't we?

We may never see another human again since being separated from the Flotilla, so we must forge on assuming that we are what remains of Human civilization. No pressure.

Blackwave Overtake in 11:03:27:02:25:14

[curator-adler]

Hello all. Please enjoy the Chronicle, and please let us know if there’s something specific you would like to learn about. The Chronicle is at its best when you know what you are looking for.