13
ATONEMENT RITUALS, LORIAN
The shrineaboard my vessel is small but sacred. Tucked away in a reinforced chamber shielded from the quantum fluctuations of the ship's core, it exists in perfect stillness while the universe warps around us. Statuettes of the twelve Imperial goddesses stand in their alcoves, their ancient faces carved from genuine Homeworld stone, and illuminated by photonic prayer candles that mimic the eternal flames burning at the Grand City Temple in the Empire's capital.
The deck beneath my feet cools as I activate the ceremonial field, particles of charged atmosphere crackling around the perimeter. This technology predates the Ascension Wars; a relic from when faith and science were still intertwined in Imperial culture. The field will contain the bio-emissions of the ritual, preventing the ship's sensors from detecting my life signs in distress and triggering automated medical protocols.
“Through suffering, we enter the light,” I whisper, the ancient words activating the shrine's acoustic dampeners. “Through pain, we transcend.”
I remove my clothes so that I’m naked before the twelve silver faces ofthe goddesses. The air is cool, and goose bumps rise on my skin. I take a deep breath, preparing myself to commune with the goddesses.
The ceremonial whip rests in its mount beside the goddess of justice. I lift it reverently, feeling the weight of the black braided leather embedded with microscopic shards of purification crystal. Each crystal is attuned to my unique neural signature, calibrated to draw both blood and memory with each strike.
I kneel, assuming the penitent's posture on the cold metallic floor.
“Goddesses of the Empire, witness my transgressions,” I begin, the ritual words familiar on my tongue. “I have failed to protect the innocent. I have abandoned those I could have saved. I have desired what is forbidden.”
The first lash across my shoulders burns like liquid fire, the crystals opening tiny cuts in my skin. The pain receptor nodes implanted along my spine amplify the sensation tenfold, sending precise waves of agony through my nervous system. The second draws more blood, thin rivulets running down my back, activating the floor's absorption cells.
With each stroke, the neural crystals extract fragments of memory: the redhead's desperate eyes, the collar forcing pleasure through her unwilling body, and my own shameful arousal. The pain algorithm intensifies in proportion to my guilt, a technology developed by Imperial priestesses centuries ago to ensure true atonement.
My breath comes in controlled gasps as I continue the ritual. “I am unworthy of your grace,” I whisper to the goddess of mercy, whose silver face seems to watch me with silent judgment. “Yet I seek redemption through suffering.”
Each stroke of the whip is penance, not just for leaving those humans behind, but for wanting to possess them. For the darkness inside me that still sees human beings as objects to be dominated, controlled, and used for my pleasure.
I deserve this pain.
Blood drips onto the shrine floor, where the absorption cells collect it for later molecular analysis. The goddesses will determine if my sacrifice is sufficient; the ship's processors interpreting the blood's chemical composition according to ancient algorithms.
“The pain cleanses,” I recite, striking myself again. “The blood purifies.”
On the twelfth lash, one for each goddess, the memories extracted by the neural crystals project before me in a holographic display only I can see. The redhead's face contorted in unwilling pleasure. The desperation in her eyes. My hand delivering death instead of salvation.
And beneath it all, the truth I cannot escape: her captivity awakened something barbaric in me.
“You did what was necessary,” my lieutenant says from the doorway.
The intrusion breaks the ceremonial field, and the holographic memories dissolve instantly. My blood is still running down my back, but the intensified pain recedes to normal levels.
“Leave me,” I command. My voice is rough with emotion. “This space is consecrated.”
“Sovereign, the shipment is all physically accounted for and secure, and we have set in a course to the Celestial Spire as ordered. Our mission was a success.” Lieutenant Vo remains in the doorway, careful not to step onto the ritual floor, but not leaving either.
“Was it?” I ask, striking myself again, though without the field's enhancement, the pain is dull and unsatisfying. “Tell me, Vo, at what point did we become so concerned with ourgalactic reputationthat we'd leave humans to be used as toys by creatures like the Octopods?”
Vo shifts uncomfortably. “The Ascendant Alliance just legally registered Eve Eden through the proper IGC channels. There's no way you could have taken those humans. The Syndicate was trying to entrap you, to give you humans as payment and then report you to the IGC for human trafficking. The political ramifications would havebeen?—”
“Politics,” I spit the word. “My brother worships at that altar. I used to think I was different.” Another lash and more blood flows from my back, but I don’t even feel it. The ritual is broken. “And today, goddesses, today I proved I'm just the same as Rafe. Maybe even worse.”
Vo moves forward, his boots triggering warnings from the shrine's floor sensors. He ignores them, catching my wrist, mid-strike. “Enough. The goddesses demand penance, not self-destruction.”
I let the whip fall from my fingers. “I should have taken her,” I admit quietly. “Even if just to get her away from there.”
“And then what?” Vo challenges me. “Keep her as a pet, like your father keeps Autumn? Use her for your pleasure until you tire of her? Or free her and release her into a galaxy she doesn't understand, where she'd end up right back in some other slaver's collar? You delivered mercy, Sovereign. It was all you could offer.”
I know he's right. I couldn't trust myself with a human woman. Not after what happened with Denise. The darkness inside me, the part that takes pleasure in dominance and control, would eventually win out. It always does. Kry was correct; Imperial blood cannot be diluted, even by Reima Two citizenship.
I rise from my knees, blood still trickling down my back, and face the small goddess statues once more. Their silver faces offer no judgment or absolution, only reflection.
