Francis Kincaid wasn’t destined for this. He wasn’t anything special. His life to this point had been standard, even boring. He didn’t deserve the accolade of dying in some forgotten temple on an alien planet. That was not how his story went. He’d imagined he’d die after failing to take his heart meds at a ripe old age. Or maybe on the operating table during a necessary surgery. He’d even settle for a freak accident on the road in his mid 60s. And yet, there he was at the ripe old age of 29, alone in a dusty cave, pinned to the ground and surrounded by noxious gases whilst wearing a supposed protective suit that had failed spectacularly from protecting him from anything.

He didn’t sign up to be an explorer or an adventurer of any kind. The only adventures he’d ever experienced was through the eyes of Maxwell Manticore, the plucky kid detective he’d long written stories about. Not that any of his stories had ever been published. He made his money working as an engineer, a “fixer”. He’d worked on starships throughout his twenties but had been trained to fixed various machines, particularly used in terraforming. And that particular skill was how he’d landed himself in this predicament.

The money was good… that should have been his first clue as to the danger of this job. Sure, they said it was risky, but they always said that. They had to say that. He couldn’t count how many waivers he’d signed over the years. Working on a broken ship had its dangers, fixing problematic terraforming tech had its dangers. Of course, that was all to be expected. But this, working on some troublesome machines on one of the rim worlds paid more than double his going rate. He should have asked more questions. But he was greedy. Plus, he’d been to Boros before. He’d worked a dozen jobs here as a fixer. There was something about this world that didn’t agree with the terraforming process. Others would have been abandoned, been written off as black rocks, but this one they persisted with. Maybe it was because so much money had already been put into it. Maybe it was because they had already started building shipping yards. They’d already sold much of the land. The Alliance had done a good job of keeping some of the negative news out of the media. As far as most were concerned, Boros was already habitable; the terraforming process long-completed. But if that was the case, he wouldn’t have been there.

Areas were still causing problems. Despite the gravity generators working, and the floral systems up and running; some parts just weren’t functioning properly. Plants weren’t growing, oxygen-deficient bubbles were common and certain spots still registered with low or high gravity. All easily fixed if you know how. Machines can be fixed, programs can be updated and errors can be patched. But in this place, in this underground colosseum that Kincaid now found himself in, the terraforming process had gone to pot.

It felt less like an alien planet he was on, and more like one of those haunted houses he’d had Maxwell Manticore investigate. He’d had fun with those stories, but now - as he looked at his open leg wound, through which a steel pipe separated flesh and bone, and struggled to breath in this dense dusty fog - he felt this was anything but fun.

He didn’t remember what had happened to the rest of his team, either they were long gone or in even dire straits than him. But as he heard whispers in the fog, whispers that sounded anything but human, he realised he wasn’t as alone in this place as he’d imagined.

—

BEKO RES. He’d had no idea what the words meant but seeing them scrawled on the walls of this circular structure chilled him to the bone. He remembered the ghost stories he’d been told as a kid. Of objects moving by themselves, of words appearing in blood. These words weren’t written in blood, but they might as well have been.

The worlds that had been discovered all those years ago were said to be nothing more than rocks. No signs of any civilisation, but the perfect foundation for what could be humanity’s new home. The terraforming process would convert these into habitable territories, a chance for everyone to start fresh. That was the line. Whether the Alliance believed that to be true, or if it was just an easy lie to sell, he didn’t know. But he’d seen evidence, particularly on Boros, to prove that humans weren’t the first ones here. He’d heard stories before, but he hadn’t put too much credence into them. But the first time he’d set foot on this world, he’d seen why the terraforming had been so troublesome. There were the remains of buildings here, the metallic element they called Borosine was not just mined here, but had been implemented in some way too by a people other than theirs. It could be seen embedded in circular stone cylinders. Nobody knew what they were but it was clear that life had existed here once, intelligent life. Maybe they predated humans and were long gone. Even so, Kincaid didn’t like the fact that his contract prohibited him from speaking about such discoveries. The terraforming process, once fixed, would soon eradicate the memory of such a civilisation. And it seemed mostly that that was true. Except here. Investigation into the errors had led Kincaid and the rest of the team to an underground structure which opened out into a round room; pillars carved into the walls. It looked reminiscent of the gladiatorial arenas on Earth-that-was. The room wasn’t as great in size as those ancient monuments, but one could likely land a small craft in here, had there been an open roof. It felt like a tomb, but with the exception of the carved pillar shapes, there was nothing of note within there. Except for the two words etched into the ground BEKO RES

Kincaid tried to discern their meaning. He was no historian or expert linguist but he’d been an avid reader and as such had picked up some things along the way.

The phrase sounded like it was from one of the dead languages. Maybe it was a name. Or maybe it meant nothing.

But he struggled to believe that. There was something about this place that resonated with him, that gave off a vibe. It was important, sacred even. And to destroy it like they had with other sites would amount to sacrilege.

Not that he was religious of any kind, not anymore, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have a conscience.

His memory was hazy. Had he told the rest of the team as much? Had he begged them to hold off the work and report it? He didn’t remember. All he knew was he’d been sent here to do a job. He’d blacked out and when he’d awoken, one of the pillars had fallen, bringing dust and who knew what else cascading down upon them. The metallic rod that now pinned his leg to the floor looked to a pipe of one of the oxygen generators that had been drilled into the ground above him. The end of the metal protruded from a sand coloured boulder that was twice the size of Kincaid himself and sat immovable on the ground pressed beside him. An inch to the side and it would have crushed his hip, broke his ribs and likely killed him instantly. The company should have done a thorough check of the area before work began… but likely they’d been fed the same lies as anyone else - this was just a dead rock, waiting to be transformed into a new world.

Dust filled the air and Kincaid continued to breathe shallowly. There was oxygen here, but it seemed to be diminishing, its particles slowly being outnumbered by whatever gases originally called this place their home. He’d been in abandoned places before but this room smelt stale, almost like there was food somewhere there that had long since gone bad. He could barely see a few feet in front of him. Couldn’t see whether there were other bodies around him, or whether the exit had been blocked. He’d called out numerous times but his words fell on deaf ears. If his colleagues were still here, then they likely were in no condition to respond.

But then he heard it again.

A whisper.

It could have been his imagination, perhaps a breeze whistling through the tunnel, but he doubted it.

It sounded like words, only words he couldn’t quite decipher.

Kincaid pulled at the piping and groaned as his leg pierced with pain. There was no shifting the metal, nor his leg. Not unless he… No, even if he had the mental disposition to take drastic action to remove himself from his predicament, he had no implement to carry out the task. Nor did he have any guarantee that he’d be able to make it out of the catacomb, even with two legs. His only hope was that someone had heard the crash, or that their boss will note when they don’t report in at the end of the day. If he can make it that long.

Francis

He hadn’t misheard the whisper that time.

“Hello?” he called out. “Is anyone there?”

More whispers this time, only ones he couldn’t understand.

He tried to sit up. As he did so, a whiff of the putrid smell hit him again. It smelt like death.

He wished he had something on him. A weapon. Or even a tool he could pretend was a weapon. That was the trouble with his job. He rarely used tools. Most of all he used his head. Rarely did he need to take a machine apart. He could figure it out himself and get it up and running. So why couldn’t he figure out a solution to this problem?

His head wasn’t clear. That was the problem. His head was pounding, his vision faltering. Maybe he’d hit it but he could feel no wound up there. But it might not have been a physical injury. It could have been the gases.

He stared at his mask discarded beside him. For a second it looked in perfect condition and he wondered why he’d taken it off. It wasn’t working, he told himself. But he couldn’t recall now whether he had tried everything to get it working.

It’s no use

He heard the words sound in his head, but he couldn’t work out whether the voice had originated in his own mind, or if it had been whispered into the room.

His heart started to pound more as he reached for the mask and pull it over his head. It looked okay but he now struggled to work out how it functioned. Did it need to be strapped into his suit. Was there a lead that connected it to an external tank? He looked his body over. Nothing on the right hand side, and his left was pressed so closely to the stone he couldn’t see whether there was anything attached. Could the boulder have shattered any attached tank?

Kincaid continued to fiddle with his suit, seeing whether there was a locking mechanism to attach it. With the mask attached, his vision seemed even more obscured, the fog looking denser. Or maybe the mask was itself dirty. As he wiped it with his hand, he saw a shadow move across his vision.

Was that the shadow of his hand? Perhaps his movement reflected in the fog? He wanted to believe that but he knew deep down it was wrong.

“I need your help,” he cried out, hoping that the figure was friendly and looking for him.

Maybe it could follow the sound of his voice. If he called out, it would find him.

But that thought terrified him more than it should.

Kincaid looked back at the piping in his leg. Maybe he could shift it. He pulled at it again, trying aimlessly to lift it up but to no avail. He was a fool. If they had a truck down here, it probably would still struggle to lift it.

He looked at the rock, maybe he could break some of it away. Maybe the pipe could be extracted from the rock and therefore manoeuvered that way. Or maybe he could bring the rock down on himself…

It was a frightening possibility. But so was the chance that he would bleed out here. And the longer he waited, the more his strength wained, and if he passed out, likely he’d be done for anyway.

He tried with his left hand first. Thumping the rock with the soft part of his gloved fist. A thrum sound in the rock and dust dissipated in the air. It felt solid, but not as solid as he might have feared. Perhaps there might be some give in it. He tried with his right hand, meeting the rock head on with his hard knuckled fist but with his body laying mostly flat on the ground, he could barely get the power behind him to do too much damage. He’d been more successful the first time. He tried again with his left fist, drumming again and again. Occasionally his leg would shoot with pain as if he was hitting the wound itself and he wondered with all the dirt kicking off, whether it would fall into the opening in his flesh. It seemed like the least of his problems.

A whisper called out startling him and Kincaid swung his head to the space in front of him. He had no idea what it had said but it was closer. Too close. It had sounded like it was right in front of him but there was still clear space in front of him. And yet, he could smell the stench of putrid decomposition as if he’d planted his face in a carcass. The fog ahead was in the process of shifting as if something had just passed through it.

“There’s no such as thing as… whatever that is,” he told himself. But he didn’t believe it. His father had been a preacher. Stood on a pulpit and everything. He’d called himself a Christian as a child, went to church same as his mother and brother to listen to his father’s sermons. But it didn’t stick. His mother suffered an untimely death and his brother stuck with it but Francis… no, it wasn’t for him. It was all superstitious nonsense. But it was funny, even though he didn’t believe in God, he found himself needing to pray to him right now.

“No,” he told himself. That would just have him thinking about angels and demons and all it would do is make him feel even more scared. It’s all just stories.

But stories were his thing too. He might not have believed in the God of the bible, but he told his own stories. And the majority of them had been inspired by something true. Even if his character’s adventures were made up, they’d been inspired by the stories of ghosts and monsters, of lost civilisations and uncanny powers. Maybe his imagination was running wild.

He thought about the pain in his head. He had concussion, he must have. And the gases, there’s probably something in there that can cause hallucination. Plus oxygen deprivation. It’s all a distraction. What he needed to focus on was getting the hell out of there.

Hell out of there.

The words echoed although he hadn’t said them out loud. Had he?

Hell out here.

Hell here.

He was imagining it.

He turned his attention to the rock. It had cracked. Examining it, the crack seemed to line up with where the metal pipe led. He was making progress.

He continued to pound at the rock, as he did the dust shook of it and the wall of the boulder vibrated with each thump. The more he did, the more he realised it wasn’t just a soft surface, but there were markings in it. Subtle but undoubtedly there was a design etched in there. Had this been a part of the pillar? He couldn’t get more distracted, he thumped it again and again. The single line crack becoming more prominent. A whisper and gust blew around him but he ignored it. Distraction. Focus.

Each time he thumped he saw the dust drift away but as it did he noticed it didn’t just blow off in a mist, it seemed to gather in unique ways. Three or four clumps would drift away in a perfect line. Soon he found himself hitting the boulder automatically without checking on his progress, instead he would focus on the way the dust danced away from it. The dust started to resemble sentences on a page, each gathered speckle forming words circulating in the air.

It felt like a dream.

His head was hazy.

“You are likely suffering oxygen withdrawal, you need to focus” he told himself as he turned his attention to the boulder. Only he wasn’t looking a boulder anymore. He was looking at a huge monolith covered in text, words in various languages, some recognisable, some not so. What were these human languages doing on here?

“This isn’t real,” he thought, blinking. But the words remained. He looked for any words in english but his eyes fixated on something else. Genius Loci. It was latin. The phrase stood out in particular because he’d included it in one of his ghost stories. It referred to the atmosphere of a place, it could sometimes mean a guardian spirit. That was how he’d used it in his story. An ethereal being lived on a property and protected the occupants from the evils that tried to enter. Only he got the feeling from this place that the spirit that lived here was not protecting anyone but itself.

No. He told himself again, thumping the rock again. And again. And again. Willing the words to disappear. He thumped it one last time and a big chunk of the rock fell off, landing on his leg causing him to cry out in pain. But it worked. The metal pipe was exposed and revealed the length of it. The pipe travelled straight up and then with a 45 degree bend broke off. The length of the metal rested in a thin groove within the rock but now showed signs of being able to be freed.

Kincaid shifted his leg as much as he could so that the part of the boulder that had landed there rolled in a way to take the pressure off. Then, he grabbed the pipe from just below the rock and pulled at it, every movement like daggers in his leg, but successfully wiggling at the stone groove within the rock. His leg started to hurt less and numb more the more he shifted. It was a small consolation but was a larger worry. He was losing feeling in it and the damp puddle of blood he’d been sat in seemed to be flowing more.

Every time he moved, the mask that sat unfixed upon him moved around and in a moment of frustration he used his right hand to yank the mask off and slam it on the ground beside him. As he did so he felt something slam against the top of his own hand, gripping him. He snapped his head to face it but there was nothing there. Nothing visible. But he felt it. He could see the material of the glove misshapen. Something was gripping his hand. Something unseen.

Then it pulled at him, his body falling flat to the ground his arm outstretched.

What…

Then it tugged again, this time with more force, almost dislocating his shoulder.

The third pull succeeded in that.

Kincaid screamed in pain.

But it didn’t stop.

The invisible entity pulled his hand and arm again, only this time his whole body shifted, the metal pole in his leg tearing at his wound, making it bigger.

Then a final pull. This time there was no restraint. His arm went numb and Kincaid let out an inhuman scream as the metal tore through muscle, nerves and flesh as his leg was ripped free and his crippled body pulled into the mist ahead.