Strange Rites on Rudax 1

Like a knife through butter the craft entered the atmosphere of Rudax 1, a large planet that was comprised of a continent sized city and smaller land masses devoted to the agroarts.

The ship was shaped like an arrowhead within for wings jutting out of both sides. Affixed to the wing tips were solar cells in the form of acute triangles, the tips pointing straight ahead of the craft.

Inside the cockpit which was wrapped in a latticework of metal, sat the lone pilot of this single man freighter. He grunted as the crowded spaceport came into view. If he wasn't so worn out from the month he'd spent on this job he wouldn't even have bothered landing on Rudax 1.

He smoked the occasional cigar and could swear with the best of them if pushed to that point but he still lived something of a moral code. That code had led him to pass up several lucrative smuggling jobs and it was that selfsame code that balked at the decadence found in these large city planets.

The pilot rubbed his eyes and looked briefly behind his captain's chair at the cramped space where he kept his freight. It was empty. There was nothing there except for the stains of grease and various unnamed fluids from hauls past.

He'd converted the large storage unit in the starboard bulkhead into his sleeping quarters which consisted of one soiled bed and a picture of an old flame that had left him with the taste of unrequited love.

One more night here and he'd be heading home for the month he had off.

The ship docked and was inspected and soon the pilot was asleep. It must have been about the early morning hours by the measure of time upon Rudax 1. The sky was a creamy orange and the port was silent as a tomb. The pilot climbed out of bed and cast a quick look at a nearby Chrono reader. It was the day when worship of the Light Lord was worshiped all across the galaxy. A man of this faith himself, the pilot threw on his leather jacket,exited his freighter, and sat out to find a holy place. Passing the port side of his ship he gave one the solar cells–the point of which now faced towards the sky in the landing position – a customary pat.

How long he'd walked down the bustling street pacing humanity in all its space bred forms when a particular edifice demanded his attention. A golden dome at the top that was wrapped in a holographic banner that flashed the name, Church of the Holy Light in all the galactic languages. The congregation seemed to be filing in. They all wore hooded mantels of deeply colored silk, almost black but somewhat purple as well.

He walked up the entrance and was halted by a person clad in this manner with a theatrical mask on their face. The faux smile seemed positively bizarre in a setting such as this.

"Do you wish to worship us today?" asked the strange figure in an almost robotic tone.

"Yes," replied the pilot.

The man had been holding a stack of the masks and handed one to the pilot.

"We require those who enter to wear one of these."

He put on the face covering with a faux smile like all the others. He took his place among the crowd. The music started with some ancient hymn from a long dead bird. It was beautiful. The dim lights, the artificial smoke, all of it created an ambiance that sat off every chemical in the brain designed to make you feel like a million bucks. The head clergyman spoke in between songs. "Yes, everybody. The Light Lord is gracing us with his presence. Can you not feel it? He is here in all his glory!"

Was he? To the pilot something was different. This didn't feel like the time he'd say with members of the faith face to face having discussion about that galaxy's theology nor the times he'd spent on wilderness planets in the quiet of nature. In those times he'd almost heard the whispers of the divine melody that brought all into existence.

Aside from the display before him and the theater masks something else was noticeable. From the moment he'd walked through the door the pilot's nostrils had met with a pungent floral aroma. He'd been to many holy places but never had he encountered a copious amount of flowers.

Sometime before the clergyman gave his sermon he stepped out to relieve himself. On his way to the men's room he passed by dozens of flowers. There was a mystery here. Whatever was going on in this place was not genuine. He planned to quietly slip out the door.

So caught up in these thoughts and the perfume of the flowers which was making him dizzy that he bumped into a member of the congregation that was walking down the velvet corridor. The mask was knocked off that person's face and in that moment the pilot let out a startled cry.

Staring back at him was a face marred unspeakably by decay. The sudden commotion had interrupted the services and the crowd had come to see what was the matter.

"He's a dead walker! exclaimed the pilot. They all removed their own masks. They stood revealed as the zombies they were. Now he understood the purpose of the flowers to mask the stench. He threw his own mask off and bolted for the door. He ran through the streets weaving and pushing his way through the denizens of the port city. There was no life in that chapel on living death shrouded in ritual and theatrics.