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It was hot this far inside the ship’s systems. Hot and pulsing like a living thing, belching steam and dripping condensation, various oils and fluids thrumming like life blood through the intricate matrix of the tubes and pipes. Heavy smells of iron and rubber and grease permeated and mixed with the brighter, acrid tones of burnt ozone and the sourness of a dripping fuel line.
Jamison breathed deep, and held the oxygen weak air in his lungs, feeling glad of it. He tasted it on his tongue, felt it press against his ear drums like a weight, loved the way it crowded in his nostrils on every breath. Being down here, cocooned inside the mother-ship's innards, it was the closest Jamison ever came to being alive.
It was a close guarded secret, his passion for these dark cramped passages. On the outside, day to day, he projected the same blank admiration as the rest of the Necromongers for the stylings of the ship’s interior; clean, sleek, cold, and spartan in its creature comforts. On the inside though, he ached for this stifling heat. Like a snake always seeking a patch of sun-baked decay on the forest floor, he felt such pleasure surge through him whenever the overseer ordered him back inside.
The heat however, and perhaps the pleasure, also made him lethargic. While he was always a capable hand, he knew his lack of efficiency would never earn him a promotion. Sometimes he wondered though if that was for the best. Promotion may have meant being required to spend less time inside the systems and such a prospect brought him nothing but dread.
He took care with these feelings he had. If his overseer were to get wise of how strong an emotional attachment the ship’s systems was in him, he’d be shipped off to the purification chambers no doubt. Although the new lord had called a halt to forced monthly purifications, no alteration had been made to the law that a superior could order a session whenever they saw fit.
With a sigh he shook his head so his sweat soaked bangs fell out of his eyes, and shifted his shoulders so he lay slightly more comfortably against the floor of the crawl space. Get it together Jamison. He thought to himself as he ran a scanner slowly over yet another section of the fuel lines.
Somewhere in the vast network of pipes, something had become corrupted. The basilica’s engines were only working at 43% efficiency, her top speed a mere fraction of what it had once been. The engineers’ first thought had been that it must be an error in the fuel processors, but those had proved to be in good repair. Thus they had been forced to undertake the slow and arduous process of checking five kilometers of supply piping by hand. Scanning drones had been used where the passages were large enough to allow their hunched, sulking gait, but in the tiny, cramped crawl spaces, single workers with hand held scanners had to be used.
This was Jamison’s third day in these crawl spaces, and he was starting to think he would go mad. Not for the claustrophobia or the isolation, oh no, but because every time he had to shimmy back to the access door it grew increasingly harder to make himself step back out into the basilica’s icy halls.
His scanner beeped and the reader flashed orange before throwing back a scrolling line of numbers and symbols. To Jamison’s trained eye the message was clear. Nothing. With a sigh that was not unhappy he shifted his legs so he could dig his boot heels against the grated floor and shove himself another meter down the line. Twenty-one down, nine to go. By the end of today technicians and engineers would have gone over every inch of piping. If the flaw had not been found by then, Jamison knew heads would roll.
He had happened to be in the main engine room to receive orders at the precise moment when the engines had broken down. He’d been there too several minutes later when the Lord Marshal had sauntered into the large room, seemingly unaffected by the shaking and shuddering of the ship as it was forced to grind to a near halt. Although he hadn’t been close enough to hear the conversation, the posture of his overseer had been clear as the Lord Marshall had silently listened to his attempts to explain the situation.
An absolute predator, through and through. He had thought with no small amount of admiration. The overseer knows it as well as I do.
Jamison had not been in the throne room during the extraordinary events leading up to the new Lord Marshal’s ascension to the throne. Neither had he been in the court room when he had decreed his revolutionary changes to the religion, nor on the deck when he had ordered to the fleet to change course and begin moving towards a heading only the Lord himself had understood. In fact that had been his first time so near the Lord Marshal, his first opportunity to reallysee him in a manner un-staged and informal. His first time seeing the man in action.
In that moment he had reached two important conclusions about his new Lord. The first was that he feared him, and the second was that he would follow him anywhere.
It was the former realization that urged him to do his best work now, afraid of what Lord Riddick may look like when disappointed.
Running his scanning stylus over each centimeter of the pipe, Jamison watched the messages on the read out screen flash before his eyes with a sort of detached intensity. Loath to shirk his duty, he paid close attention to the symbols on his scanner, but the warmth of the tunnel was still there, creeping into his bones steadily as a worm burrows into a corpse.
A shiver rushed up his spine at his own image and he smiled humorously as he thought perhaps I am not so dead after all.
Ten minutes and two negative scans later, Jamison was reaching the end of his crawl space. Just ahead of him the tiny tunnel emptied into a larger, circular chamber which directed the majority of the electrical lines into a central, shielded column which traveled hundreds of feet up to a series of hubs which would redirect power and data and impulses to any number of places throughout the ship. Those electrical lines could be scanned remotely with a fair amount of accuracy, and electrical engineers were rarely required in these tunnels. They’d never been able, however, to find a fail proof way to remotely monitor the fuel pipes and that made Jamison smile as he paused for a moment to stare at the electrical column, which glowed a faint green-white from the shield.
Underneath the field the wires were twisted and wound together like tree roots or vines, many different sizes and textures but mostly black and grey. They came together to form the great trunk of some electrical monument, strong and gracefully chaotic. While his training had been in the more analog craft of ship mechanics, he could appreciate the design of the electric systems for what it was; art.
Of a sort. At least he thought so. He sighed and let his eyes slide away from the column, fixing again on the fuel pipe above him. It wasn’t like he’d ever try and take up his argument with a member of the elite.
Shifting his feet, about to push himself to the edge of the tunnel and out into the routing chamber, Jamison forced himself to pause and hold his breath. He swore he heard a sound, and not one the ship was known to make. He could have sworn he heard-
There it was again! Echoing faintly underneath the constant, heady thrum of electricity and roaring rush of fuel, there were the reverberations of a moan.
That was a human sound.
Jamison scowled. Moving as quietly as possible, he turned himself over on to his stomach. If someone was down here amongst his heat and his tubes and his wires, he was going to be pissed.
Another moan started, but was cut off sharply and became a choked sort of gasp.
Brow furrowed, Jamison drew himself further along the tunnel.
“Damn you!” Someone whispered with hardly any malice. The voice was strong, rich, and masculine. A man then, moaning. And there was another? Yes, he could hear them move, but only just, they were near silent as they shifted. Was it a forbidden tryst? Were they but an adventurous married couple? Who was stupid enough to come down here? Who among Necromongers would sully themselves by trudging through this ship's inner workings?
This was outrageous.
Jamison was not naive enough to misread the sounds of pleasure, but he still found himself disbelieving. What madman had crawled down here with his lover in order to have a go at it? Bristling he rolled his shoulders and prepared to jump out of the tunnel. It'd give him the advantage of surprise, then he'd give them a piece of his mind!
Then the second lover's voice joined in, less a moan than a growl, and that voice was deep indeed. Having no illusions about his own strength and stature, Jamison stopped dead in hesitation, reluctant to confront the owner of such a voice as that.
The deeper voice rumbled, sounding pleased.
There was a dull metallic sound and a sharp exhalation from the owner of the first voice, as if the breath had been driven from his lungs. Heavy breathing sped up and Jamison tensed. It seemed Jamison had happened across them near their end, and he was barely ready for the cursing, stifled cry which rushed and echoed about the chamber.
Without words the second voice rumbled a sort of approval, so deep Jamison could barely pick it out from the base groanings constant to the ship’s internals. It frightened him, though the fear was quickly shuttled aside. He waited a long moment in still silence, but the moans seemed to have ceased. They were finished then.
Jamison frowned, forcing himself to think despite the manipulative warmth of the atmosphere. Perhaps in a post coital state they would be more easily persuaded to leave without incident? Jamison’s own wife had herself told him once, while in one of her more playful moods, that if she ever wanted anything she waited till after they had had a night of it to ask. To her credit, Jamison had thought back to those requests she spoke of and couldn’t recall a single one he’d denied.
Something clattered and the first voice growled in warning. “This is unacceptable!” He cried. “Ri-” he began, but his declarations were cut off, all sounds of further exchange lost amidst general ship noise. Shocked, Jamison found himself certain the couple must be starting up again and he huffed with an indigence the purifiers would say he shouldn’t feel. Cautiously began to drag himself to the mouth of the tunnel, determined to call the trysting couple on their indeed unacceptable behaviour. Though it was likely they would be his superiors in rank, he had orders to attend to down here and the honour of the necromongers to uphold. Rutting in an electrical chamber, amidst the wires and fuel lines, they were like common breeders, they-
Oh. Oh... Oh my.
Like a startled animal he ducked back behind the edge of the tunnel, incapable of blushing but feeling a phantom heat of embarrassment prick at his cheeks.
“Riddick...”
Jamison shut his eyes as if sight and hearing were conjoined, but the image of... Of the Lord Marshal-
“Hang on Vaako”
And the first among commanders moaned in a way Jamison was certain the purifiers would not approve of.
Any stupor that lingered in him was sloughing off speedily as his mind raced. Should he leave? Just crawl back along the tunnel and head to report that all was well? He swallowed hard.
He was tense, feeling the ghostly sensations of fear and embarrassment, but he knew with every fiber of his conditioned being that he could not forsake his duty. He would have to wait. For a split second that made him resentful, then he scowled and let it pass.
No, it was his lord’s right to use his ship as he saw fit. Whatever he did, with whomever, wherever, was his prerogative. That he had chosen to sequester himself away with his legal mate as opposed to a random initiate in fact spoke highly of him, Jamison scolded himself. He tried to calm himself down.
The First Among Commanders moaned.
“Knew I’d never find a way to get you down here if it weren’t for some emergency.”
Truly Jamison tried not to listen, it would be rude to do so, but the Lord Marshal’s resonant voice was hard to block out. In fact he felt as If his ears were hearing more than ever, the white noise of the ship scaling back until he swore he could make out the rustling of fabric as clothing was shifted and shed, and the swift inhalation of an expectant breath.
“Feel the heat Vaako?”
The lord Marshal’s mate was silent except for a small grunt.
“Can feel it sometimes running under my feet, almost see it bleeding out of the engine room. It’s all over the place. It moves like it’s fucking alive. Feel it Vaako? Feel it heat you up like there’s more of me to close in on you from all sides? Are you burning Vaako?”
Vaako moaned. A long low sound he would only make for the Lord.
"You hide behind your cold, think it keeps you safe, but I'll make your blood boil in your veins, make you burn for it like an animal. Like the animal you are."
For a minute there was nothing but their breathing, Vaako’s more rapid than Riddick’s slow, heavy pants.
Then the Lord Marshal moved, and Vaako yelled.
“Gonna set you on fire, Vaako. Burn for me.”
If his howls were anything to go by, he succeeded. They were not so much cries of passion as a common lover may make, but rather the roars of a warrior meeting his match in battle. Defiant till the end and goading, mingling with Lord Riddick’s grumbles and growls.
With the wet, meaty sounds of flesh hitting flesh coming rhythmically, Jamison was dismayed to find himself feeling a sense of arousal. Without hesitation he shoved the heel of his hand against his groin viciously, attempting to squash such feelings. They were obscene, base, unacceptable. Loyalty until Underverse come. He thought savagely, pushing any physical sensation aside as the purifiers taught, refusing to sully the Lord Marshal’s meeting with his own weak arousal, even if the Lord never knew of his presence here. This was a test, private though it may be, of his will and his loyalty. He would not fail his lord.
Riddick grew louder, growls giving way to snarls and sounds more savage and animal, his passion clearly listing towards violence even in matters such as these. For all accounts, The First Among Commanders only howled the louder, goaded Riddick further, demanded nothing but the hottest fires from his mate and received only the best in return.
“More!” Commander Vaako hissed at length, his voice like the steam coming off a reactor, and Lord Riddick responded with a growl of equal intensity.
They moved together with no shame, Vaako coming alive in the heat of the room and through the burning press of Riddick's body. It was vicious, at a break neck pace, not meant to last.
Their rhythm began to fail and Jamison bit his cheek hard enough to draw blood, grounding himself by concentrating on the tricky task of making himself feel pain. Anything to distract himself from the all-too-clear vision of his Lord and his Lord’s First joined with all the passion of breeders. He groaned so quiet it was little more than a breath, and tried to recall the details of the entire day’s scanner read outs from memory.
Then the rhythm was gone completely, a heaviness in the air so different from the usual atmosphere. Through it a low voice broke like a fist through glass.
“Come for me Vaako.”
And the commander howled. Something gave a metallic screech and clang as the Lord Marshal himself grunted and growled triumphantly. Blood roared in Jamison’s ears, and he grit his teeth, bidding it to cease.
Slowly, like a much needed sigh the air emptied itself of its tension and Jamison took a deep breath of the moist, odorous air, feeling the faint touch of gladness. His ordeal was through.
Never let it be said I am not loyal to the Lord Marshal. He thought dazedly, his body thrumming pleasantly in a way he did not want to acknowledge.
Below his tunnel in the chamber there were several long minutes of silence before the two began to stir. Clothing was shifted, unheard, murmuring words exchanged and Jamison relaxed, breathing deeply as he lay listening, waiting to return to his duties.
The heat of the tunnel was getting to him again, chasing away his stress like a scolding mother, edging him back into the comfortable state of functional lethargy. It was the Lord Marshal’s voice alone which could have roused him, but it would not. The Lord Marshal did not know he was here, hidden away in this tiny crawl space. He had stayed quiet, respected his Lord's privacy, no one need know of this except Jamison himself and he was certain he would endeavour to forget it as soon as he returned to his chambers in the evening. He closed his eyes as he imagined returning to his wife, smelling her hair, doing his best to put the warmth and crooning noise of the ship's insides out of his head, letting any and all memory of these shameful minutes spent hiding and testing the limits of his loyalty fade away. It would be fine. Heat and the training of purification put fear out of his mind as he waited with closed eyes for the Lord and his First to be on his way.
Then the Lord Marshal called, “Come out now.” and Jamison’s eyes snapped open wide, his naturally cool body going downright icy.
Underverse protect me.
For less than a moment he entertained the thought of remaining hidden, or scampering back down the tunnel and out into the basilica, but he dismissed the thought before it was even fully formed.
Loyalty until Underverse come
He would do as he was bid. Whatever test this was, he had failed, and he would answer his Lord's call, even to death before his due time. He pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, and began to move. As he pulled himself out of the tunnel he found himself unable to look down at either of the chamber’s occupants, his mind and heart racing.
Indignation. It was not fair; they had come into this place unbidden, not he, he was only following orders. Yes, but you could have left as soon as you realized who else was there.
Fear. He was not prepared to be fully promoted. It is not your choice, it is your Lord’s.
Concern. Would they tell his wife, or would they just let his body rot here unfound? Would she find another? She has always been strong, she will make her way to Underverse without you.
Anger, Embarrassment, Grief washed through him in succession, but they were all faint sensations easily rationalized and ignored. He was a Necromonger first, and as he climbed slowly down the rungs of the access ladder he went over their creeds in his head and was satisfied that he had lived well under the eye of the law. Perhaps this one transgression, and his unfortunate promotion, would not necessarily leave him trapped halfway as a lost soul. Perhaps one day Underverse would call him home still.
The moment his feet touched the floor he turned and lowered himself to his knees, bowing his head but keeping his back straight; certain of his honour but servile to the end.
Loyalty.
A minute of silence felt like a minor eternity before the Lord Marshal chuckled, a warm and dangerous sound like a smouldering ember and Jamison prepared himself for his final death.
Then the Lord Marshal spoke.
“Was it good for you? Because it sure as fuck was good for me.” He began to laugh and though Jamison did not look up, through his shock he heard the First Among Commanders growl in anger and watched his feet step closer to the Lord Marshal.
“You knew he was there all along? And you said nothing?!”
His hands were balled into white-knuckled fists by his sides, his right arm slightly bent so his fist hovered dangerously close to a dagger at his hip.
“Didn’t feel like breaking momentum to send him off. He won’t say anything.”
In Jamison’s limited line of sight he watched the Lord Marshal step right up in front of him. So close to him in fact that he could see the threads which made up the fabric of the Lord Marshal's pants. Then with one finger his Lord gestured that he should tilt his head up and meet his eyes.
“Will you?” His voice made it clear that there was only one answer, and his face had lost any earlier mirth it may have had. Jamison swallowed hard.
“Never my Lord.” He swallowed again, then pushed himself to add, “Don’t talk much anyway.”
After another beat of staring at him from behind his signature goggles, the Lord Marshal grinned and his whole posture relaxed, apparently taking Jamison at his word.
Jamison did not yet hope for his life. He felt certain that if the Lord Marshal did not kill him outright, then surely the First would. It would be his right, of course, to kill him to keep his own secret. He should have left, he had brought this upon himself. With great care he schooled his face to stillness and his eyes to be blank. He would die a Necromonger, giving his superior his due. He waited the bite of the dagger.
The Lord Marshal however had other ideas. “Good.” He muttered, and without any further warning he grabbed Jamison by the bicep and hauled him stumbling to his feet, turning him to face the First who was still scowling with a violence Jamison knew had withered enemies on the field.
“What did you see down here, Yeoman?” He hissed the title like a warning and Jamison understood. He was low ranking, not stupid.
“Nothing, Sir.” He answered with quiet deference. It was mostly true anyways.
Vaako scrutinized him a long time, much longer than the Lord Marshal. Jamison waited for the knife, reciting Necromonger creeds and pledges in his mind and bidding his wife goodbye.
Then the First sighed, and abruptly his anger no longer seemed to be directed at Jamison, though the man could still see it simmering in his eyes.
“Your silence is worth a promotion” Commander Vaako bit out, clearly reluctant to admit it. Jamison, through his surprise, barely had mind to contain a wince, believing that execution may have been kinder. There was still a chance full death could be warm.
“But he doesn’t want a promotion, do you?”
Vaako looked surprised, turning his frustration and questioning look on the Lord Marshal without mercy. Lord Riddick weathered them both easily.
“Promotion would put you out of the systems, wouldn’t it...” He trailed off, one hand gesturing for Jamison to fill in the blank.
To his credit, Jamison answered quickly as he gave his name and his voice hitched only slightly.
“Jamison.” Riddick repeated, as he moved over to a fuel router and rapped on it with his knuckles. “And you like the tunnels, don’t you Jamison?”
“Yes sir, I do sir.”
Vaako snorted. “If that is your wish, so be it.”
He sounded disbelieving
But the Lord Marshal ignored him, turning to face Jamison again with a look on his face clear enough to be read even with the obstruction of his goggles. A moment of mutual understanding of the beauty, the strength, the heat, the life-
“Fix that.” Riddick broke the connection and pointed at a pipe in the corner which had become unsecured from the wall. Jamison carefully avoided looking at the First’s scowl and nodded despite the returning prick of embarrassment.
“And this is where the fuel problem is coming from. Fix that too.” He drummed his fingers on the fuel router again.
Jamison could only nod dumbly.
“You have ten minutes to fix the fuel problem.”
“Yessir.” Jamison stood straighter as Vaako walked past, heading towards a ladder on the far wall of the chamber which led to a higher tunnel than the one Jamison had come out of.
Riddick said nothing else, apparently satisfied with their exchange, and followed his first up the ladder and into the tunnel. He moved in a crouch like a hunter rather than crawling on his belly the way Jamison did, but that could hardly surprise him.
Standing a moment in solitude and silence Jamison let the muted feelings of shock pass through him, before he pushed them out of mind and turned to the fuel router. He groped at his waist for his scanner before realizing he’d left it in the tunnel, and with a sigh he clambered up the ladder again. Later he could revisit the remarkable events of today, when he had no orders from the Lord Marshal to fulfill.
If perhaps he smiled slightly the rest of the day,with a bit of a dazed look about his eye, no one could begrudge him that. He’d found the fuel problem after all and fixed it; He had served the Lord Marshal well.