Ian Berridge

• The Man
• ⚜
• The Myth
• ⚜
• The Legend

The Jockey

     I knew being this crew’s Jockey was too good to be true.

     The crackle of the intercom interrupted the monotonous hum of the Coaster’s quickly fading engines.

     “The fuck is taking so long, Jockey? You’ve ran this a half-dozen times in the simulation fine.”

     “This is different… there were—”

     “Not my fucking problem Jockey. Just fix it and come back.”

     The intercom went silent. I knew I had to keep going, but the cauterized stumps where my feet once were made navigating the blood-slick metal floor of the engine room even more difficult. As I pulled myself through the coagulating quagmire of bodily detritus, I sliced opened my arms and lost more blood.

     When I arrived at my objective, I noticed the fusion-injector valve was sitting askew.

     So that’s it. They were thirsty.

     A few adjustments later and the engine roared back to life with the cacophonic tune of functioning machinery.

     Another crackle.

     “Look at that. The fuckin’ Jockey finally finished. Get back to the teleporter and we’ll bring you topside. Hell, you might even get a reward. You know how much those rich bastards love their hot baths—”

     I wretched the comms device from my ear and smashed it against the newly operational steam engine. My head rolled from the sudden movement and my bloodless body joined the corpses of the war-torn refugees that littered our shared titanium coffin.

     I knew being this crew’s Jockey was too good to be true.

The Wandering Brothers

My dearest Verlyn,

     I must once again express my unyielding admiration for your seemingly preternatural ability to discover cultural touchstones from pre-galactic civilizations. To wit, your most recent submission on the peoples of Geldash was so utterly divine—in both structural composition as well as narrative throughline—that were I not privy to your strict moral compass, I would out you as a deplorable reprobate for clearly having a network of researchers combing through data slicers at your behest.

     However, while you may have bested me soundly these last three millennia, I shan’t allow you the satisfaction of being the only godkin responsible for publishing these artifacts to the Grand Archives. We both know what happens when a singular voice is responsible for a statistically significant portion of a given age’s historical documentation. (The havoc Bryndwyl wreaked on celestial record keeping will, mayhap, never be undone.) That besides, I know you secretly love the thrill of our competition; albeit you’d never denigrate yourself to admit such base desires. As such, I am preemptively sending you my most recent work with the utmost confidence that, despite having forewarning of its contents, even you cannot hope to find a tale that is both equal parts fascinating and scholastic.

     Before I regale you with this legend, as it was spoken to me verbatim, (eidetic memory has its advantages!), allow me to set the stage:

     Celestial Sector 30-1ΩLZ/3, a desolate area with an even more desolate galaxy, far beyond the reaches of modern civilizations, where even godlings dare not tread. Therein lies a small planet: Strebor. In truth, I stumbled on Strebor by mistake. My relocator’s newest fieldware has been atrocious with coordinates, so 1ß became 1Ω and I’m lucky I landed on a planet rather than in one. After re-Atmatacizing my features and DNA to match that of the locals, I strolled—for a span—through the forest in which I had arrived, before finding myself in a clearing with a small, ramshackle collection of thatch-roofed hovels.

     There appeared to be no main thoroughfare leading in, or out, of this backwoods village; rather, the buildings themselves seemed to spiral out from the center of the expanse, forming lanes between each mud-packed, shanty-filled tendril. (Upon reflection, it now occurs to me this formation mimics that of several surrounding galaxies, yet not their own, which is… well, you’ll see.)

     Entering down one such appendage, I mentally accessed the archives to get a sense of the language, culture, history, etc. of the world and was met with only the most surface level scientific data about planetary composition. Who needs historic weather conditions when I don’t know if looking someone in the eyes will earn me a trip to a headsman?! I filed a report with the Historical Administration Ministry / Ministry of Educational Restructuring to assimilate a few field agents for further study. But I digress.

     The lack of societal minutiae did little to deter my curiosity. I continued toward whatever might lay at the origin, meandering between buildings and across the tails of this primitive constellation. The structures passed by as featureless, brown-grey blurs that only served to obscure my vision from its true pursuit: the natives. Where I expected a more homogenized population with unified features based on climate, geography, and the like. Instead, I found a vast array of lifeforms, all of whom would not be out of place in our fine Citadel. Skins of alabaster, of obsidian, and every shade in between; flaxen-haired with eyes like orchids, bioluminescent hair (fur?) and cavernous sockets filled with emeralds of such purity they might have been plucked straight from the bands around our fingers; bipedal, quadrupedal, even a rather pleasant monopedal chap who said I really should hurry on to the Tavern.

     Ahh, yes. The Tavern. Its façade identical to what came before, but its imposing edifice felt somehow different. Upon entering, the proprietor handed me a bowl of ham and mermaid fin soup (my favorite; how do you suppose they knew?), and claimed they had something of interest to me. I was more than shocked that anyone would know my purpose, but given the relative proximity of everyone in town, it logically follows that word would travel fast. Obliged, I asked them to present their findings, and the following is what they said (verbatim!):

At the dawn of creation, there was nothing.
But also, there was something.
That something ate up the nothing.
And from that something, came someone and somebodies.
The someone was called Asthore.
The somebodies were known as Hamme & R’Lock.
The somebodies fought over the someone.
For they both wanted to become someone’s.
Asthore laughed and teased the brutish somebodies.
They believed their fists could win someone’s heart.
They pummeled away everlasting, unending, sempiternal.
Their blood and sweat: the stars; their flesh: the planets.
The something continued to devour the nothing.
But also, there were now other things.
The somebodies wrestled atop the something.
Yet someone watched from afar.
The somebodies’ war raged on.
Someone grew bored of them both.
Asthore stepped between the somebodies.
And the something consumed the someone.
Hamme reached for someone’s hand.
R’Lock grasped for someone’s foot.
The somebodies finally caught their someone.
Asthore was torn asunder by the something.
The somebodies howled in anguish.
The something did not hear.
Someone was gone forever.
But also, there were now many other things.
Hamme & R’Lock turned their backs on the something.
The somebodies walked away from each other.
Their endless tears filled the night sky.
The something continued to engulf the nothing.
Some day the somebodies will meet again.
They will see themselves and the something.
The something will consume them both.
And then there will be nothing.