The refectory of Port Helios glittered like the inside of a reliquary. Gold leaf gleamed on every surface, incense choked the air, and a choir sang beneath chandeliers of crystal. Servitors poured wine from vessels shaped like angels, while mechanized cherubs flitted above with censers of burning myrrh.
Francis Harlock sat at the high table, a guest of honor by name, a prisoner by circumstance.
To his left, robed priests of the Ecclesiarchy spoke in voices thick with hymn and honey. To his right, Tech-Priests of Mars muttered binary prayers, their voices clashing like grinding gears. At the far end of the table sat a man in plain black, silent, eyes sharp as knives.
"Your victories are spoken of as miracles," one preacher said, raising a chalice high. "The faithful whisper your name as though it were scripture. That is dangerous, Captain. Devotion belongs to Him alone."
Another smiled too widely. "A shrine aboard your ship, perhaps? A cathedral upon her prow? We would sanctify your legend — and guide it."
Before Harlock could reply, the static-laden voice of a Magos rasped over the hymn. "Sanctify corruption? This is folly. The Arcadia's heart beats with heresy. A machine unsanctioned. Give her to Mars for examination. For cleansing."
"Cleansing?" the preacher sneered, thumping his chalice upon the table. "You would strip her for parts and call it devotion. Blasphemy!"
The Magos' optics whirred as he hissed, "Better stripped than damned."
The choir above faltered. The incense seemed thicker. Harlock raised his glass, crimson light from his hidden eye flickering beneath the rim for only an instant.
"Devotion, purification…" He let the words drift, thin and sharp. "And what of freedom?"
The man in black finally spoke. His voice was calm, his words unadorned. "Freedom is tolerated. Suspicion is eternal. Remember that, Captain."
Silence swallowed the table. The choir resumed, softer, as if afraid.
Harlock sipped his wine. The priests muttered blessings. The Magi rasped binharic litanies. And the man in black simply watched, saying no more.
The banquet was not a feast. It was a battlefield.