By Glenn Riley and Lady Eckland
Part Four: The Island of Lost Stars
The mood aboard The Ironclad following the disastrous reconnaissance of the Cyclops was poisonous. Fear, thick and suffocating as the omnipresent fog, permeated every timber, every iron plate. In Captain Thorne’s cabin, the air was heavy with the ghost of Master-at-Arms Riggs and the chilling implications of Abernathy’s report.
Davies, his face etched with grief and fury, stood stiffly, recounting the encounter. "...Riggs bought us time. Engaged it hand-to-hand while we retreated. Didn't stand a chance against those claws, Captain. Cut down before our eyes." He slammed a fist onto the table, making the lamp jump. "Damn that ship! Damn this whole cursed sea!"
Abernathy, pale and holding the recovered journal as if it were contaminated, elaborated. "The journal entries are unequivocal, Captain. The entity encountered within the Cyclops was once human. Eleanor Vance, travelling with her husband aboard the yacht Wanderer. The text describes a parasitic organism, encountered deep within the derelict, initiating a rapid, horrifying metamorphosis. It suggests a biological assimilation, rewriting the host physically and mentally." He shuddered. "The creature we fought… it was her, twisted into something monstrous, driven by alien hunger."
Dr. Maxwell, carefully tending to the ragged gash on Seaman Hawkins' arm in the corner, added his grim findings. "The wound is… unusual. There's minor necrosis around the edges, far quicker than typical infection. And the tissue samples under the microscope show… intrusions. Cellular structures I cannot identify, almost crystalline yet seemingly mobile. Whatever inflicted this wound left something behind. It's as if the creature itself is infectious." Hawkins groaned, feverish sweat beading on his brow.
Chaplain Hemlock, who had remained silent, spoke now, his voice low but resonant. "This place is not merely a physical trap, Captain. It is a crucible of corruption. The great beast in the fog consumes the flesh, but the lurking evils within these wrecks… they consume the soul, twisting God's creation into mockery. This is a layered Hell, each circle revealing deeper damnation."
Sutton, who had stood rigidly throughout the debriefing, spoke for the first time, his voice hoarse, devoid of its youthful tones, replaced by a chilling emptiness. "My brother… Finn… Evans… Riggs… Miller… How many more? This place doesn't just kill you. It changes you. Like that… woman. Are we all destined to become monsters here?"
Thorne surveyed his officers, his crew. The horror of the colossal entity below was now compounded by the terror of parasitic transformation from within the graveyard itself. Paranoia spread like the strange mould on the derelict ships. Men eyed each other suspiciously, flinched at shadows, avoided the darker corners of the ship. Discipline, already frayed, threatened to snap.
"Enough," Thorne’s voice cut through the despair, sharp and commanding. "Riggs died bravely, serving this ship. We will honour his memory by surviving. Dr. Maxwell, tend to Hawkins, isolate him if necessary. Mr. Abernathy, study that journal, study the slime samples, find anything that might offer a defense. Mr. Davies, maintain order, double the watches again. Chaplain, offer what comfort you can, but remind the men that duty prevails even in Hell."
His words were a fragile dam against the tide of fear, but before his orders could be fully absorbed, chaos erupted from above.
A sound like thunder cracked overhead, but born of impact, not storm. The entire ship shuddered violently, timbers screaming, iron groaning. Shouts of alarm echoed from the deck. Thorne and the others scrambled up the companionway ladder into a scene of terrifying destruction.
Emerging silently from the grey shroud, immense tentacles, thicker and darker than the one that had taken Miller, slammed down onto The Ironclad. One crushed a section of the starboard bulwark and railing, sending splinters and twisted metal flying. Another slammed onto the forecastle, narrowly missing a cannon crew, pulverizing the deck planks. Panic ensued. Men scattered, screaming, firing muskets wildly into the fog.
"Gunnery crews! Fire at will!" Thorne roared, drawing his sword, the situation demanding immediate, violent response. "Aim for the source! Load chain shot! Double charge!"
The cannons, already loaded, erupted with flame and smoke. Balls ripped into the fog. The chain shot, designed to shred sails and rigging, whirred invisibly into the grey, seeking a target. A deafening, guttural bellow answered them, a sound so deep and resonant it seemed to shake the very air, vibrating through the soles of their boots. It was a sound of pain, perhaps, but mostly of colossal, inhuman rage.
The tentacles momentarily recoiled, but the assault wasn't over. Suddenly, huge objects began hurtling out of the fog, thrown by unimaginable strength. A massive chunk of rock, trailing weed and slime, crashed onto the quarterdeck, obliterating the helm, sending the helmsman flying overboard in a spray of blood and shattered wood. Then came a section of rotten mast, thick as a man's body, torn from one of the nearby wrecks, landing amidships with devastating force, smashing through the deck and into the compartments below.
"Port battery, fire!" Davies bellowed, directing the gunners as another tentacle snaked over the side, probing blindly, seeking purchase or prey. Round shot slammed into its flank, leaving bleeding, puckering wounds that oozed the familiar cold slime, but it barely seemed to register the impacts.
"Concentrate fire!" Thorne yelled, pointing towards the area where the bellow had originated. The remaining cannons roared again and again, a desperate, continuous barrage into the unseen. They threw everything they had – round shot, grape shot, chain shot – into the swirling grey curtain.
Another agonized, furious bellow tore through the fog, closer this time. Then, slowly, the tentacles withdrew. The bombardment of debris ceased. The monstrous presence receded, leaving behind a scene of devastation.
The Ironclad was crippled. The helm was destroyed, the rudder linkage likely damaged. Sections of the deck were smashed open, the starboard bulwark mangled. At least one mast showed signs of serious strain from the impacts, its rigging frayed. Water poured through the hole amidships. Pumps were already working frantically, but the ship was taking on water, listing noticeably to starboard. Casualties were still being counted, but Thorne could see bodies lying still on the deck, others being tended by Maxwell and his mates.
They had survived the direct assault, driving the beast back with the sheer fury of their cannons. But it was a pyrrhic victory. They were damaged, adrift, taking on water, lost in a graveyard sea ruled by an enraged titan and populated by parasitic horrors. Despair, cold and absolute, threatened to finally overwhelm the remaining crew.
Days turned into an indistinguishable grey blur. The crew worked relentlessly, driven by the primal instinct for survival. Pumps clanked non-stop. Repair crews, under Davies’s tireless supervision, patched the hull as best they could with salvaged timber and metal plates scavenged from their own damaged sections. Abernathy, when not assisting with repairs, pored over the journal and slime samples, his brow furrowed in concentration, finding nothing useful. Chaplain Hemlock moved among the men, offering prayers that sounded increasingly hollow against the backdrop of constant fog and the groaning of the wounded ship. Sutton worked with a silent, obsessive intensity, his grief channelled into hard labour. Thorne projected an image of unwavering resolve, but inwardly, he grappled with dwindling hope. Their food was running low, fresh water strictly rationed, ammunition depleted.
They drifted deeper into the graveyard, the current pulling them slowly but inexorably onwards. The fog remained their constant companion, their prison wall. Then, after what felt like an eternity of grey despair, the lookout’s cry startled everyone.
Through a momentary thinning of the mist, they saw it – an island, rising starkly from the lifeless sea. Jagged peaks of black volcanic rock clawed at the sky, partially shrouded in ancient, blue-tinged glacial ice. But the lower slopes, particularly on one side, were free of ice, revealing barren, dark earth. And like morbid jewels scattered upon its shores and slopes, lay more shipwrecks, dozens of them, bleached and broken.
A flicker of hope ignited. Land. Solid ground. A chance, however slim, for more substantial repairs, perhaps even fresh water. Thorne ordered the remaining sails set, using makeshift steering with tackles attached directly to the damaged rudder post, coaxing the crippled Ironclad towards the island.
He chose a small cove on the thawed side, sheltered from the open sea, where several ancient wrecks lay half-buried in the black sand. With painstaking effort, they nudged the wounded warship as close inland as they dared, dropping anchors that thankfully found purchase. The silence of the island felt different from the silence of the sea – heavier, more watchful.
"Mr. Davies," Thorne ordered, once the ship was secured. "Organise shore parties. We need water, first and foremost. And materials. Strip those wrecks on the beach for anything usable – timber, iron, canvas. Establish a defensive perimeter. We don't know what awaits us here."
Repair crews immediately set to work on the Ironclad's hull, benefiting from the relative stability and the promise of salvaged materials. Exploration parties fanned out cautiously along the shoreline, searching for streams or pools. The island was unnervingly desolate. No birds wheeled overhead, no insects buzzed in the damp air, no vegetation grew beyond patches of hardy, blackish moss clinging to the rocks and the ubiquitous, pale fungi seen throughout the graveyard. Skeletal remains, some recognizably animal, others disturbingly unidentifiable, lay scattered among the rocks.
Thorne decided a deeper reconnaissance was necessary. "Mr. Abernathy," he called. "Assemble a small party. Yourself, Mr. Davies, Sutton, Chaplain Hemlock for morale, Dr. Maxwell – I want your assessment of any biologicals – and four dependable men. Armed. Scout inland. Look for water sources away from the shore, assess the island's extent, and identify any potential threats. Stay alert. We know what horrors this sea can breed."
The party set off, moving inland from the cove. The terrain was rugged, sharp volcanic rock making footing difficult. They climbed slopes littered with the bones of ships and creatures, the silence broken only by the crunch of their boots and the low sigh of the wind moving through the jagged peaks above. The air was cold, clean, but carried a faint, metallic tang beneath the smell of brine and decay.
They found no fresh water near the coast. Following a dry, ancient riverbed upwards, they moved deeper into the island's barren interior. The landscape grew stranger, the rock formations more contorted. After several hours of difficult hiking, they crested a ridge and looked down into a hidden valley, a sort of natural crater shielded from the sea. And nestled within it, half-buried by rockfall from one side, lay the most bizarre wreck they had encountered yet.
It was unmistakably a vessel, but utterly alien. It bore no resemblance to any ship, whether from their time or the ancient past, nor even the futuristic strangeness of the Cyclops. Its hull was a seamless, flowing structure of a material that shimmered faintly with iridescent colours, even in the dull grey light. It lacked discernible decks, windows, or propulsion systems. Its shape was partly organic, partly geometric, suggesting principles of design beyond human comprehension. It had clearly crashed, violently, impacting the crater wall and embedding itself deep into the rock and earth. Strange, twisted spars of the same iridescent metal lay scattered around it.
"Good Lord," Abernathy breathed, raising his spyglass. "This… this is not of Earth. It cannot be."
Davies gripped his cutlass tighter. "Fell from the sky? Like a meteor?"
"A constructed vessel, Davies," Abernathy insisted, his voice filled with awe and trepidation. "Look at the lines, the structure… it’s technology, but unlike anything imaginable. A starship?" The word sounded absurd, yet unavoidable.
Chaplain Hemlock made the sign of the cross. "Fallen angels? Or something… else?"
Sutton stared, his expression unreadable. Maxwell simply looked baffled, shaking his head.
Curiosity and the desperate need for answers outweighed their fear. Thorne's orders were to investigate anything unusual. Cautiously, they descended into the crater towards the silent, alien wreck. Finding an entry point was difficult; the seamless hull offered few openings. They eventually located a jagged tear near the impact zone, where the strange metal had been ripped open like fabric.
Davies took point, peering into the darkness within, lantern held high. "Smells… strange. Like ozone, and… cinnamon?" He climbed inside, followed by the others.
The interior was even more disorienting than the exterior. Corridors curved at unnatural angles, defying Euclidean geometry. The walls glowed with a soft, internal light, shifting in slow patterns. Panels covered in intricate, unreadable symbols pulsed faintly. A low, resonant hum vibrated through the deck beneath their feet, despite the obvious crash damage. Gravity felt subtly lighter, their movements slightly floaty.
They moved cautiously, weapons ready, overwhelmed by the sheer alienness of it all. They found chambers filled with bizarre, incomprehensible machinery, some rooms lined with pods containing viscous fluids, others seemingly dedicated to the observation of swirling star fields projected onto curved walls.
Then, they found the crew.
In what might have been a control room or bridge, dominated by vast, dark viewing screens and chairs moulded into strange shapes, lay several bodies. They were desiccated, ancient-looking, yet clearly non-human. Tall, thin, with multiple limbs, their bodies were encased in a dark, chitinous exoskeleton. Their heads were elongated, dominated by huge, multifaceted eyes like those of insects. Their limbs ended in delicate, three-fingered claws. They lay slumped over consoles or sprawled on the floor, seemingly victims of the crash centuries, perhaps millennia, ago.
"Incredible," Maxwell whispered, kneeling beside one, careful not to touch. "Insectoid… yet clearly intelligent. Tool users."
Abernathy examined the symbols on a nearby console. "Their science… their understanding of the universe… it must have been staggering."
As they absorbed the shock of discovering extraterrestrial life, a subtle wrongness intruded. A flicker of movement caught Sutton’s eye in the periphery. He spun around. Nothing. Davies frowned, sensing something amiss. A low hum near Abernathy suddenly cut out. A small, metallic tool lying on a console clattered inexplicably to the floor.
"Did you see that?" one of the sailors whispered, aiming his musket into the shadows.
"Stay sharp," Davies ordered, his instincts screaming danger. "Something’s here."
Abernathy, examining the air near where the tool had fallen, noticed a faint distortion, like heat haze on a summer road. "Light… it's bending. Refracting around something…"
Before he could finish, the sailor who had whispered cried out, a choked gurgle. He collapsed backwards, clutching his throat, where a perfectly circular, cauterized hole had appeared, smoking slightly. Chaos erupted.
"Take cover!" Davies yelled, shoving Abernathy behind a console.
Another sailor screamed, stumbling back as a shimmering line of intense heat sliced through his musket barrel and continued into his chest. He fell, smoke rising from the wound.
"It's invisible!" Sutton shouted, firing his pistol wildly into the area where the attacks originated. The shot hit nothing but a glowing wall panel, which sparked and went dark.
Chaplain Hemlock began reciting the Lord's Prayer, his voice trembling but loud, a beacon of familiar faith in the alien nightmare. Davies and the remaining two sailors fired muskets into the air, hoping to hit something, anything.
Suddenly, Sutton, remembering the Cyclops creature appearing from nowhere, grabbed a pouch of spare gunpowder from his belt. With a roar, he flung its contents high into the air near where the attacks seemed to be coming from.
The fine black powder momentarily clung to a shape – a tall, humanoid silhouette, shimmering, indistinct, but definitely there. It seemed startled by the revelation, pausing its attack.
"There!" Davies roared. He fired his pistol, aiming centre mass of the powder-dusted outline. The shape convulsed violently. Abernathy saw the light-bending effect flicker and fail in patches, revealing glimpses of smooth, grey skin or perhaps armour, and a complex optical device mounted where a head should be.
The creature, partially visible now as a shimmering, distorted figure, raised an arm, pointing a slender, metallic weapon. Before it could fire, Sutton charged, tackling it low. They crashed to the floor. The cloaking effect failed completely as Sutton wrestled with the unseen limb holding the weapon. The creature was humanoid, but unnaturally thin and tall, clad in tight-fitting grey material, its face obscured by the complex optical mask. It hissed, a sound like escaping steam, and tried to bring another weapon, a short blade that flickered with energy, to bear.
Davies and the remaining sailors jumped in, cutlasses and pistols finding purchase now that the creature was visible and entangled. The fight was short, brutal, and desperate. The alien was strong and fast, but outnumbered and already wounded. A final pistol shot from Davies at point-blank range ended the struggle. The creature convulsed and lay still, its optical mask shattering, revealing a face surprisingly similar to the insectoid corpses, but less desiccated, clearly the lone survivor of the crash.
Silence fell, broken only by ragged breathing and Hemlock’s concluding "Amen." Two more men lay dead, victims of an invisible hunter from the stars. Maxwell rushed to check them, but it was futile.
Abernathy knelt beside the dead alien, examining its cloaking device, integrated into its suit. "Incredible… it bends light around itself. Perfect camouflage."
Davies nudged the energy weapon with his boot. "Nearly perfect."
Their attention was drawn to where the creature had made its stand. It seemed to have been positioned near a specific console, one that was still partially active, displaying a complex, shifting pattern of lights and symbols. Set into the console was a recess, and nestled within it, humming faintly and emitting a soft blue glow, was a crystalline device, roughly the size of a human fist, covered in the same alien script. It pulsed with contained energy.
Abernathy approached it cautiously. Unlike the rest of the dead ship, this device felt… alive. The symbols swirling across its surface seemed to shift and resolve into patterns that vaguely resembled star charts, constellations utterly unfamiliar, yet undeniably celestial. Energy readings spiked and flowed across the console connected to it.
"What is it?" Davies asked, keeping his pistol trained on it warily.
"I don't know," Abernathy admitted, mesmerized. "A power source? A navigational computer? Both?" He reached out tentatively. "The energy signature… the patterns… they suggest control over spatial coordinates, perhaps even temporal ones given where we are." He looked back at Davies, his eyes alight with a terrifying, desperate hope. "This technology… it's beyond comprehension. But if anything in this gods-forsaken place holds the key to escaping, to finding our way home…"
He gestured towards the glowing crystal. "...It might be this."
The survivors of the shore party stood in the eerie silence of the crashed starship, surrounded by the dead – their own comrades, the ancient insectoid crew, and the invisible hunter. They had faced another impossible horror and prevailed, at great cost. Now, clutching a piece of inscrutable alien technology, they faced the daunting task of returning to their crippled ship, bringing news of wonders and terrors beyond human understanding, and carrying the slimmest, most alien fragment of hope they had encountered since sailing into the fog.
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