Mass Hunt

Mass hunt

When the Sun broke out, swallowing the scorched Earth, descendants of men were already basking in the rays of other stars. The cradle of mind, dying of old age, could not destroy all of its children. Stars were born and exploded, destroying some worlds and throwing others into the dark ages. Humanity survived by clinging to watery rocks, with varying degrees of success fighting the soulless cosmos and its own prejudices.
By the time the last stars of the Milcomeda galaxy had gone out, the monstrous speed of the universe's expansion had already thrown all the other luminaries over the horizon. Even the nearest clusters of stars were lost forever, fleeing faster than light. In an ocean of hopelessly cooling vacuum and slowly growing entropy, the last descendants of the Homo genus were dying.
In the icy darkness of the cooling universe floated the last ark, where life still glowed. Photons of the relic radiation stretched to useless radio noise, and the ark's instruments had not detected any other light for several generations. In the absence of landmarks and observers, it was impossible to determine whether this fragment of a civilization that once numbered trillions of individuals was moving anywhere at all.
In the bare corridors of scratched plastic, hope was hard to live with. Madness, doom, and instincts ruled here. Previously, they helped to survive, to choose the right path. Now all that depended on them was the order of meeting with death. Modified bodies that could live for centuries and feed on radiant energy were slowly drying out from exhaustion, absorbing the fading light of the last working reactor with their entire bodies. Without external stimuli, the minds of the ark's inhabitants faded, even those of the neuroimplant-equipped scientists. At the end of civilization, as at its dawn, the strongest, the most cunning, and the most adapted to starvation had the best chance of survival.
It seemed an eternity since the ark had last been fed. A wandering asteroid, thousands of tons of iron and a hundred kilograms of the simplest organic matter, a sweet cherry for starving bodies, allowing them to chew something for the last time. Since then, the only solid food was human flesh. Losing their minds, the staff gradually degenerated into bloodthirsty sectarians who looted the remnants of infrastructure and devoured everything that could be broken, unscrewed and thrown into the reactor. Even outer panels and controls of the reactor were fed to itself. Any mass sent into the vent was now used to maintain the light – the last source of life.

Belch had once been one of the toughest and tallest employees in the science sector. The pale creature, thin and hairless, could now be identified only by its faded eyes, which retained a spark of intelligence and were full of hopeless longing. His well-defined muscles – an unnecessary and gluttonous burden-had long since disappeared, but his height remained an advantage. Gripping his main treasure, a sharp piece of metal the size of a fingernail, in his calloused hands, Belch stuck his tongue out of his toothless mouth and methodically scraped out a deepening in the ceiling panel. Plastic on the ceiling was softer, and the empty veins of the long-looted cable channels still held bits of clinging braid, which nobody else could reach. Small plastic crumbles sticked to naked body, lacking any sexual characteristics, curled in the eyes, slowly settling down.
A long-drawn-out howl in the distance startled Belch. Falling to his knees, he hastily gathered up the crumbs that clung to his hands, and, clutching the loot in his fist, deftly galloped away on all fours.

Fortunately, there was no one near the shelter.
"Open it," Belch ordered hoarsely, and one of the deeply furrowed panels slid aside to reveal a secret passage. He no longer remembered why the entrance to the laboratory opened only to him, but he had escaped sectarian raids here more than once.
However, all that remained of the laboratory in this place was the name and the ghostly outlines of the once numerous devices that were imprinted in gray spots on the walls. Only in one of the far corners was there still a small synth-chamber, slamming the door insistently.

"I'm coming, I'm coming," Belch said, trying to catch his breath and calm the tremor that ran through his muscles.
After carefully emptying the loot into the receiver, he began to collect the grains that clung to the body – every milligram matters.
"Thank you, dad," - the message on the small two-line screen lit up, the battery indicator barely noticeably growing, still showing one percent.
Belch couldn't remember the meaning of the words, but he felt a connection to the only remaining device. Taking care of it made his existence at least meaningful.
There was a scuffle outside, followed by a tentative knock. One of ours. Belch waited a few seconds, and after he heard nothing suspicious, he opened the door.
"Tomic's been killed," said a hunched, wrinkled old man from the doorway. He sank to the floor, panting heavily.
Belch crossed his arms over his chest, checking the light detectors embedded in the skin of his shoulders. It used to be possible to survive with one. Two were barely enough now.
"A thin death! My scraper is gone!" he cried suddenly.
He crawled from the door to the wall, his hands fumbling on the floor, his eyes reddened by the crumbs.
The old man held out his open hands, just in case – did not take it, don’t have a place to hide it.

"Got to go back, get it back," Belch wailed. Where, where? Again and again he felt the pocket on his wrist that had been cut out with the same scraper – the miniature scarred scabbard where the treasure was kept.
"Open it!" he ordered the door, and without looking back, ran out.
The old man hurried after him. If the passageway closes and the stupid Belch disappears, it will be impossible to get out of the shelter.
Belch raced forward, careless, ignoring the howls that echoed through the empty corridors. The last turn – here It is, lies on the floor! With the last of his strength, he galloped forward, grabbing the loss as he went.
Something's wrong. Belch stopped at the fork and opened his hand. Instead of a scraper, it held a similar-shaped piece of bone. At the same moment, several figures leaped out of the adjoining corridor with a hideous laugh. The cultists rushed at Belch, waving their sinewy arms. At the last moment, he managed to dodge, jumped to his feet, and ran back. The squeals that followed him on all fours were falling behind. If only he had time to get a head start, so that the shelter door had the time to close! A piece of bone, which he was lured to, will restore strength.
But his hopes were not fulfilled. At the cherished door, an old man knelt helplessly, surrounded by excited sectarians. Belch backed away, but the hunters were also behind him, cutting off retreat.

The prisoners were dragged into the largest room – a recreation area that had become the chief's throne room.
"Chief!"," Master Hopecid!", "We caught the sciests!", – vying shouted voices, dragging the prisoners to the center of the hall, where the leader was waiting. Towering over the crowd, he sat on a four-legged painted thing. "Chair" - Belch recalled the ancient word. Once there were so many of them here... Instead of the missing back, the chief leaned on a white column of translucent material – the only object that could not be destroyed. A gray rag with holes in the knees covered the sitting man's legs, a bitter reminder of the times when everyone was dressed.
A pale, bony sea surrounded the chief, ingratiating glances trying to get closer, to warm themselves with the heat of a strong body. Of the numerous corridors, howling, crawled autophags, rowing with limb remnants. Everyone wanted to snatch at least a piece of someone else's flesh - once there are some sciests caught, there will be a feast. The prisoners, surrendering, listened humbly to the madness bubbling around them. Fear gave way to anticipating the end, an escape from senseless torment.
“Weightless death, look!" the old prisoner shouted suddenly, pointing with a trembling hand behind the chief's back.
The spherical clusters that crowned the column began to flash alternately, a greenish glow streaming down, reflected in the old man's tears.
- The neutrino detector came to life, it flashed somewhere, so soon the light will come! We will go forward, gather mass, start a new life! The old man pulled his trembling hands toward the flicker, calling to the wild crew.
The crowd roared with excitement. Those closest to the detector turned their feeders toward the light, catching free photons.
"The old man is lying!” - The chief stood up. "The divine light is a gift for a successful hunt. Tear his flesh! Eat his bones! Sprinkle some of the blood on the Holy light!
The old man was torn apart by the roaring crowd. Blood spattered Belch's face, and he automatically licked his lips. How tasty.

“And I'll gut the long one myself!" - the chief barked, and the crowd parted to make way for the prisoner.
Belch looked apathetically into the eyes of the approaching executioner. He struggled. Now he's ready to die.
But death stumbled, choosing another victim.
Something mottled, multi-faceted and shiny flew out from above and blinked red. The chief collapsed, cut in half. His naked servants were tossed about, some crawling away, screaming with fear, others, unable to resist the temptation, pounced on the warm entrails.

Belch kicked at the sticky floor, trying to crawl away, keeping his eyes on the unexpected rescuer. The glittering sphere dropped lower, startling the gut-wrenching cultists, and hovered in front of his face.
"Hello, dad" said an emotionless voice, " do you want me to kill them all?"
“ I.. not..” the words stuck in the throat, thoughts confused.
"Don't be afraid. Everything will be all right now» – the voice promised. – When the light came, the core rebooted, and I got access to the network. I can feel the ark coming to life. It's huge. And deserted. There are no survivors in the other compartments, but there are devices, machines, seeds. Thousands of preserved embryos.
Belch struggled to understand what he was talking about, but the meaning of the forgotten words eluded him.
"Close your eyes " the voice commanded, "don't move, don't breathe”.
His temples throbbed, tingled, and flared with pain. “Neuroimplant”-a strange word suddenly made sense. Then again and again, an avalanche of memories overwhelmed Belch, suffocating by the horror of what had happened.
"Enough!” Belch pleaded, " not all at once! “
The flow of information stopped, and Belch collapsed, pressing his flaming forehead against the cool floor. He remembered many things. His son, melting from exhaustion in his arms. Sleepless nights spent trying to keep at least some of his dying personality in digits.
We receiving energy, more with every second! - emotions appeared in the synthesized speech - neural network of the ark is restored! Computing power is growing!
Belch squeezed his eyes shut as the light returned to its standard level, too bright for eyes accustomed to the dimness.
– I'm getting signals!" "Dad, there's someone out there!" a boyish voice shouted in delight. I can't decipher the meaning, but there's someone waiting for us in the dark! Start the engines!