Weekly Drabble #356: Art and Artist (Patreon)

This week's prompts are 'remind them of their shame' by Lincoln Neal and 'the fear I inspire' from AS900, giving us a hypothetical conversation from a hypothetical future. Enjoy!

~

Art and Artist:

I want to show you something.

Nasham looked into the Janissary’s helmet visor. It stared blankly back at him, the empty suit of power armour standing upright as if it were still occupied and its owner were standing at parade-perfect attention. It was not the only suit in this corridor; both sides of the hallway were lined with vacant sets of armour, EVA and engineering gear, ranging from archaic civilian designs more than a millennium out of date to cutting-edge military equipment. The origin of some he could easily identify, but many belonged to organizations long defunct and forgotten. Some weren’t even Compact, but belonged to other polities. A few were truly alien.

There was no nameplate on it, but he recognized the personal touches of the paint applied to it. Though not strictly allowed by the Space Force Uniform Code, many Janissaries added personal touches to their individual suits: iconography, totems and charms, but paint was by far the most common, with some works quite intricate and detailed. That a single engagement could easily sear away weeks of effort never seemed to deter the soldiers. Some adjusted their work after every battle, incorporating cosmetic damage into their designs. A laser burn that obliterated a painted sun might become the event horizon of a black hole and so forth.

Blackened, operating in situations where camouflage was important even for half-ton troops in power armour, were more strict about the cosmetic alterations they allowed their soldiers, and the pair of empty Ground Force suits on display here attested to that. Naham scratched his chin. “I knew the man who wore this.” One of the soldiers from Bequeathed. “Advocate, Submissive Arlak Hallo Estik Kresei. He married shortly before Bequeathed’s last mission. His wife was apparently all he talked about.” He paused. “Did he die well?”

The phantom’s voice answered without hesitation. “Better than many.”

“I am surprised to see him here.” At the far end of the hallway, looking deceptively unguarded, were the heavy double doors that lead to her command center. She’d told him that the suits that lined this corridor were taken from those that died here, collected from those that fell within sight of their goal.

I have never allowed one of your kind to set foot on my bridge.

Any other boarders that survived to reach this hall would be greeted by the sight of all the others that had made it this far... and also failed.

“I was not at my best during that time. There were still gaps in my security coverage and complement. The advocate, submissive proved elusive and capable.” A beat. “He died two meters into this hallway.”

Nasham’s mouth parted slightly in his species’s equivalent of a nod. “Did any others from Bequeathed make it this far?”

“No. It was annoying that this one did.”

“How terrible for you, to be irritated by how far an ickt’is crawled up the hem of your skirt.”

“Do you like my little tableau?” she countered, ignoring the jibe. Nasham doubted that his words mattered to her, any more than a man took the barking of a hound to heart. “I wasn’t made with an aesthetic eye. It’s something I’ve had to develop on my own. This, I think, is not only meant to erode the morale of anyone who’s survived to get here, but also stands as a monument to failure. Two thousand years of a shame you haven’t been able to stamp out. The Wound that forever bleeds.” Another brief pause, her tone proud. “Some expeditions that reach this point break when they see it.”

The Tribune’s ears twitched, lowering several degrees. “I am sure they did.” He didn’t need to imagine the horrors that anyone getting to this deck would have suffered through. The dead and injured they’d have to leave behind, the paranoia as open corridors shimmered into soulless killers, the ship itself killing them with grav-plating, radiation, vacuum and nanoplagues, the calls of the dead taunting them, the damage to them and their equipment mounting, their ammunition depleting...

...and then thinking that you’d almost arrived at your target only to be confronted with a display made from the remains of the all the other poor, doomed souls who’d also fought their way here. It was no wonder that some had finally succumbed to terror, exhaustion and fury. “Your creators would be proud.”

“No,” she corrected him, the pride in her voice fading. “They wouldn’t.”

Nasham’s ears stood straighter at that admission, but he didn’t press her on it. “This is what you wanted to show me, was it?”

“Yes,” she answered. “You asked me a question earlier, and I told you I’d answer it. My answer to your question is a question itself.”

“Of course it is.”

“Do you want your answer or not?” She didn’t sound irritated, but curious. Like a girl poking an insect to see what it would do, and whether she should smash it flat.

Nasham nodded again. “I am here because of it.”

“Good.” She paused. “I wanted you to see this for yourself before I did. I wanted the sight of the hollowed-out suits of every scavenger, soldier, engineer and all the others whose confidence, righteousness, hunger and greed saw them try to set foot on my bridge to be foremost in your mind when I do so. So, Nasham Kem Unoth Ludhy Inku Pram Vasd, here is your answer and my question...”