Crash Landings and Calendar Cults

The stolen Thrashing Oar raider descended toward Tlazolteotl with all the grace of a dropped engine block. Smoke billowed from vents that weren't designed to smoke. Sparks leapt joyfully from exposed wiring.

Somewhere in the cockpit, a mechanical voice repeated ‘GLORY TO MAKERGOD. GLORY TO KHOURGE’ in the Oghman dialect. No one knew how to turn it off.

Maltz the Vargr, hanging on to a bulkhead pipe that was probably load-bearing in theory, growled, "So we’re actually landing on this hellhole. Remind me, what’s the bit with the sacrifices again?"

Quinn the android nodded, his eyes flickered briefly as he accessed his internal database. "Tlazolteotl. A lost Sindalian colony, now rebuilt as a caste-theocracy by sun-worshipping death cultists. Extensive ritual sacrifice. Not fond of outsiders. Especially the smoking, heretical kind."

"Right," said Maltz, eye twitching. "So basically, we've stolen a pirate ship built by lunatics and we’re crashing it into a planet run by lunatics who hate pirate ships."

"Yes. That appears accurate."

Caitlin O'Neill, hunched over the smoking flight console, glared at the controls like they’d just insulted her mother. "Feckin’ hell. We're gonna burst through the clouds like the patron saint of bad omens."

"Dry ground is scarce," continued Quinn, ignoring the captain. "The dominant biome is microbial sludge, ranging from a few centimetres to several metres deep. Towering sponge colonies shaped like mushrooms. Wailing semi-animate amoebae strings that devour everything in their path. Forests composed of writhing, fern-like tubeworms."

He rubbed his stubbly scalp, installed by engineers to help humans forget he could break bones in alphabetical order.

"Local ecology is aggressive. Carnivorous mould, parasitic sludge, apex predators in every direction. Most lifeforms inject digestive fluid into prey, then drink the resulting soup while it's still alive."

"Oh, and there are shrieking spider analogues the size of small grav tanks. They spin webs from their own waste and hunt by vibration."

Caitlin rolled her eyes. "Grand. I’ll keep the windows up, so."

The ship lurched. Something in the ceiling groaned and fell off. It hit the floor with a thud and immediately started glowing green.

Maltz flinched. "Well, that’s new."

"Ignore it," Quinn said, unbothered. "The Oghmans call that an Oathbreaker Coil. It screams when dishonour is near. Or when you turn left."

"We should’ve taken the shuttle," Morwen the Sword Worlder muttered.

"We did," said Caitlin grimly. "It’s bolted to the top of this one. For luck."

Below them, the planet rose into view. The mountains bit at the sky, the jungles festered, and the cities crouched like predators. And rising from the shimmering heat, the warped silhouette of a stepped pyramid loomed: part temple, part execution stage, all bad intentions.

"The natives call themselves the Vox Solis," Quinn said, as if describing a knitting circle. "Voice of the Sun. Traditional. Devout. Very calendar-focused. Try not to land on a holy date."

Scarred-Snout the Aslan tilted his head, watching the ground rise like it meant it. "And how do we know if it’s a holy date?"

"If you’re flayed," Quinn said, matter-of-fact.

Scarred-Snout growled softly, not with fear, more like approval. "Honourable, in its way."

Caitlin bared her teeth. "Lovely. We'll land politely, say hello, and if they try sacrificing us, I’ll kick their bloody high priest down a flight of obsidian stairs."

Maltz made a noise that might’ve been a prayer, or just a Vargr curse involving at least three ancestors and a regrettable tattoo.

And then the Thrashing Oar, singing its own death hymn in Oghman binary, gave one last groan of protest, shed a large piece of hull in resignation, and began its final approach through a thick layer of yellow fog and ozone.

Somewhere below, the priests were watching.

And one of them was probably sharpening something.