The Faceless

The Faceless is a short story, written as a series of articles for the Northstar Navigator. The articles were published from Dec. 2023 to March 2024.

The Faceless

By Graham S.

Disclaimer: The following is a fantasy series written by Graham S. It may contain mild fantasy darkness or violence. Reader discretion is advised.

Part One

The wind pounded away at Otheym, sending chills down his spine and raising goosebumps on his arms. He reached up and brushed the frost off of his snow goggles, giving him a precious few more seconds of sight, before he’d need to brush them off again. Even beneath his gloves, his fingers felt numb, and he was having trouble guiding the wires of the power box to their designated spots.

His com crackled to life, barely audible over the shriek of the blizzard, and Eira’s voice filled his ears. “Almost done, slowpoke?” she said, sounding mildly annoyed and rather shivery,   “Temperature is below zero here, and we can’t let the Dense Energy get unstable.”

“Yeah, nearly finished,” responded Otheym, as he clicked the last wire into place. “I’m returning to the HAB now.”

Otheym staggered through the snow, back to the HAB, then house sized dome which had been his home since the start of the expedition, where the rest of the team was waiting. As he approached, the blast doors grinded open, their gears straining against the ice and snow that was packed into them as a result of the blizzard. The interior of the HAB was warm and well lit, thanks to the rewiring he’d just finished. He was too drained from the biting cold outside to appreciate his handiwork, so he instead just sat down on his bunk and clicked off his goggles, tossing them onto the nearby table, at the far end of which sat Eira, her coat buttoned up, hood down, revealing her long, dark hair.  

“Took you long enough,”  she said, wryly. Otheym just nodded in acknowledgement, rather than use more energy to respond. “Here,” said Eira, her expression slightly more concerned once she realized how exhausted he was, and handed him an energy stim. Otheym injected the stim into himself, at his collar, and felt the rush of energy fill him.

He stood, no longer tired, and stretched. “Anything interesting happen during anyone else’s jobs today?” he asked, reaching for another stim that was on the table.

“Vargham was taken by the Faceless today,” Eira sighed, sounding somewhat solemn.

Otheym shook his head in frustration. “Shame. He was the best at harvesting that junk.” He gestured to the canisters of Dense Energy that lined the back wall. “Why do we even have to risk our lives getting it? The Faceless never seem to care about it, and the Leagues never tell us what they do with it. Are we really out here, on some frozen rock of a planet, risking our lives to harvest some useless material from some of the deadliest creatures in the known universe?”

“It is not useless,” interjected a raspy, mechanical voice behind him. Otheym turned to see Omentouched Dafyr standing at the doorway, having just escaped the biting winds outside.

He spoke again, his mechanical implants producing his raspy, clipped tone, “The Leagues of Omen have purposes that you are not allowed to know. Also, they are not ‘Faceless,’ their proper designation is-”

“Unusual Fauna, we know,” interjected Eira, “but you have to admit that ‘Faceless’ is more fitting.” Dafyr ignored her and walked over to the board that contained all the names of the members of Exploratory Team DE-12467 and crossed off Vargham’s name.

Numbers were getting low. When the expedition had started, there had been 100 colonists, prisoners given a chance to be pardoned if they could successfully colonize the planet. They had been divided into five equal groups, with an Omentouched to supervise each one.

Now, Otheym’s group, or DE-12467, had lost 18 of their 20 members (21, if you counted Omentouched Dafyr), to the harsh weather, mechanical mishaps, or the awful, inhuman visages of the Faceless, and had received no messages or information from or regarding the other colonies.

Dafyr turned back to the remaining members, and cleared his throat before speaking, “In light of the recent decline in personnel, I have sent a request to the League Expeditionary Fleet for reinforcements. They will arrive tomorrow evening.”

Eira raised her eyebrows. “You managed to get the communicator to work?” she asked, incredulous, before her face fell slightly, “Weren’t we prohibited from doing that unless it was an emergency?”

“I have deemed our current situation an emergency,” responded Dafyr, his voice as mechanical and monotone as always.

“And how do you expect us to deal with the Faceless? They’ll be whipped into a frenzy by the communicator.”

“The Unusual Fauna,” corrected Dafyr, “will be fought off. Seal the blast doors, ready the weaponry. The Leagues will reward our endurance.”

With a sigh, Eira got up and went about sealing the doors. Otheym went about assembling the weapons.

Otheym sat on his bunk, and clicked a plasma cartridge into his rifle. He let out a long, deep sigh, trying to calm his nerves. He remembered his first encounter with the Faceless. The faint, pale shape dragging itself through the snow, muttering to itself in its vile, terrifying language. Just looking at it from the side had wracked his body with fear. He remembered the feeling of its psychic energies rushing into his mind, screaming and tearing at his very mind, nearly driving him to insanity and the flash out its large, one color eyes, before Eira had pulled him out of its sight. Just thinking about it, he felt a chill run down his spine.

“You holding up alright?” Eira’s voice said to him as she stepped into the HAB, having finished sealing the doors. She sat beside him and gave him a concerned look. “Having flashbacks?”

“Yeah,” responded Otheym, shaking his head in an attempt to get rid of the images of the Faceless that danced across his mind. “Do you think the doors will hold?” he asked, trying to change the subject to something that might get his mind off the horrible memories.

“Frankly, no,” responded Eira grimly, “They’re not made to withstand anything much stronger than a strong wind, and using the communicator will make those Omen-forsaken Faceless frenzied. But hey, that’s why we’ve got plasma, right?” She nudged him gently with her shoulder, trying to cheer him up.

“I suppose,” responded Otheym, and hoped that plasma would do anything to these beasts.

Part Two

The first sign of the Faceless was the whispering. Outside, a soft, inhuman chant could be heard, slowly growing in volume as more Faceless arrived and added their alien voices to the vile song. Then there was the scratching at the door, gently at first, as if curious, before slowly becoming more and more aggressive, then the heating and lights went out, the power box ripped off the wall by inhuman claws, before, finally, the telltale whine of rending metal, as the door was pried open by dozens of talons.

Otheym’s heart skipped a beat when the first Faceless entered the room. From behind his cover, which was a flipped over bunk, he could see its pale, hunched, emaciated form. It lifted its head into the air, casting a glance around the room, more curious than anything else. As its eyes landed on Otheym, he could see its snakelike nostrils, lack of mouth, and large white eyes. Its psychic energies wormed its way into his mind, causing an agonizing burning feeling behind his eyes. With a loud click and roar of energy, the psychic pain stopped, its creator falling dead from a plasma shot to its chest. Eira lowered her rifle, and ducked back to her cover. Otheym tried to thank her, his head still swimming, but only managed to let out a pained rasp.

Slowly, more Faceless dragged themselves into the room, their inhuman voices raised slightly in anger, or perhaps confusion. Otheym and Eira opened fire, loosing plasma into the growing crowd of creatures. Omentouched Dafyr let out a mechanical bellow, before leaping into the fray, swinging his sword. Otheym prayed that none of his shots would accidentally kill the Omentouched, although his still-swimming head would make that hard.

Despite their best efforts, Eira and Otheym slowly began to move back to avoid the unstoppable advance of the Faceless. Omentouched Dafyr, however, stood firm in the center of the crowd, wildly swinging his sword, shrugging off the claws ripping at his implants and psychic energies ravaging his mind and body. However, despite his valiant effort, Dafyr eventually collapsed, the faint whir of his implants fading. The Faceless turned their attention to the two survivors, now that the main threat was vanquished, their whispers turning into enraged shrieks, as they began their advance. Otheym felt psychic claws tearing at his mind, and was overtaken with panic. He turned and sprinted to the back of the building, tugging at the backdoor, which refused to open.

Otheym felt a weight crash into him and fell. Eira’s body lay atop his, unmoving. He couldn’t tell if she was alive or dead, but could feel a warm trickle run down from her side onto him. A Faceless stood over them, its claw raised, ready to finish him off. He shut his eyes. However, a voice rang out, a pleasant, professional voice, but magnified, as if speaking over a microphone. “All non-hostile personnel, kindly lie prone,” said the voice, before there was a roar and whine, as if a massive cannon were firing, and everything went dark.

Otheym blinked, his eyes adjusting to the light that flooded his vision. As he slowly came to, he saw a lantern dangling from a canvas roof and the pleasant warmth of a blanket around him. He sat up and found he was in a large tent, Eira beside him. On the far side of the tent, a man dressed in the black uniform and rebreather of the Leagues of Omen military, was watching him. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice distorted slightly by his rebreather, “That’s good. You weren’t as low to the ground as you should’ve been when we glassed the HAB.” Otheym tried to speak, but his voice wouldn’t come out of his throat. The soldier seemed to notice that he was trying to say something. “I assume you’re going to ask what happened. Simply put, we, the reinforcements, arrived to find that you were getting swarmed with Unusual Fauna, and we decided to just send a glassing laser through the side of the HAB and tell you to duck so it wouldn’t hit you. Fortunately, the plan worked like a charm, and now you’re recovering from the damage done to your mind by the Unusual Fauna and the high amounts of plasma that came close enough to you to knock you out. On the upside, you and your friend will be fine. Probably.”

Otheym slowly got to his feet, and tried speaking again, “What do we do… now that the HAB is… blown up?” His voice felt slow and raspy.

“Not to worry,” responded the soldier, “We’ve been repairing all the damage done, and setting up new accommodations for the reinforcements.”

“So, we’ll… still be… on this planet? The mission… isn’t called off?” asked Otheym.

The soldier nodded in response, “The Omen wishes that the expedition continues. Oh, and now that you’re up, we have a list of tasks you can help with.” He handed a slip of paper listing the tasks to Otheym. Otheym read the first one, sighed, and began to look for his goggles, so that he could rewire the power box once again.

Part Three - A Mysterious End

Kesh stood in the dark viewing chamber, staring out into the deep abyss of space, at the distant stars that shone like pinpricks of white hot flame, and the vast white sphere of a planet that sat below the ship. Styros Prime, as the planet was called on League records, was a frozen, hostile world, known for being home to Snowbison and the mind-breaking entities dubbed “Unusual Fauna.” For reasons that had not been explained to Kesh, the Omen wanted this world brought into his Leagues. For this purpose, an exploration team had been dispatched, along with two thousand convicts, with the objective of establishing colonies on Styros. Kesh was part of said exploratory team. Not as a convict, of course, he would never commit a crime against the Leagues of Omen. Kesh had the honor of being the secretary of Lieutenant Haythe, the expedition’s head of security.

Kesh’s moment of quiet was disturbed by the soft hum of an incoming message on his communicator. He glanced at the device hanging at his waist and was presented with a message from Lieutenant Haythe, which read: “I am going to the ground. Come to hangar two immediately.” Kesh paled as he read the message. Lieutenant Haythe was going to the planet and had invited him of all people! He was suited more for offices and the comfort of a ship’s warm interior, not the frigid wastes of Styros Prime. Still, Kesh could not ignore a direct order from the Lieutenant, so he quickly pulled on a coat, boots and hat, before making his way to the hangar.

As Kesh entered the hangar, he noticed Lieutenant Haythe’s familiar, grizzled face, which was partially concealed by the rebreather that he wore around his mouth. Standing at his side was a team of soldiers, dressed in their standard-issue black uniform, rebreather, goggles and helmet. Haythe’s eyes were slightly bloodshot, with dark bags underneath them, as if he hadn’t slept very well. “There you are, boy,” he said, “Hop aboard the lander.” He gestured to a nearby landing-craft, its grav-tendrils deployed and slowly moving up and down, as it hunted for a gravitational pull to latch onto. Kesh nervously made his way aboard, followed by the Lieutenant and the soldiers. The door to the lander slid shut and the interior lights flickered on, casting a warm glow about the lander’s inside. Kesh felt the vehicle rumble beneath his feet, as it was jettisoned into space and its grav-tendrils locked onto Styros Prime’s gravitational pull, dragging them down towards the planet’s surface.

“Our objective is very simple. One of our colonies, DE-12467, recently went dark,” said Lieutenant Haythe, “It suffered an attack from a mob of Unusual Fauna a couple days back, so we sent a team to reinforce it. Earlier this morning, our scanners abruptly stopped receiving bio-signatures from it. We’re supposed to scout it out and see if our scanners are simply glitching, or if everyone is dead.” Kesh shuddered at the idea of landing on the planet and finding nothing but corpses, or, worse yet, whatever made the colonists into corpses.

***

The planet was colder than Kesh was expecting, which was saying something. If he stood still for more than a few seconds, he could feel his feet beginning to turn numb. He shuddered, shuffling in the snow to keep himself warm. He surveyed the desolate landscape around him, finding it unnerving. The endless white plains and complete lack of anything made him wonder what in all the stars the Omen needed this place for. The only break in the white canvas of earth was the ruined remains of the HAB that had once stood in the plains, which was now reduced to a pile of charred rubble. He watched the soldiers sift through the snow and splinters of metal, looking for any clues as to what caused the destruction. Lieutenant Haythe had determined that it couldn’t be Unusual Fauna, as they didn’t have any ability to cause explosions or fire, meaning that the HAB had been destroyed by either a freak accident with the HAB’s heating system, or something more sophisticated had destroyed the HAB.

Kesh frowned at the idea of something more intelligent than an Unusual Fauna living on Styros. The planet’s initial sweep hadn’t revealed any raider camps, or the presence of any rival countries, so what could have happened? As he sat in thought, he noticed markings in the snow. Footprints, leading off into the wastes. Kesh stared at them momentarily, before slowly beginning to follow the tracks. Snow began to fall, threatening to cover the prints, so he moved faster, hurrying into a jog. He made his way over a snowdrift, when the prints stopped. Before Kesh could speculate as to why, he felt the cold barrel of a weapon press into the back of his head. “Don’t move,” said a soft voice behind him, “I won’t let you take me too.”

Part Three - A Mysterious End (pt. 2)

Sorne lay against the snowdrift, shuddering. The cold was only half the reason for his violent shivers, although the biting chill of the snow that soaked through his coat was certainly unpleasant. The other half was fear. Memories of the sudden raid, of the snow suddenly churning as white-clad attackers sprang from it, of the high pitched shriek of plasma and dying men, raced across his mind.

He heard the hiss and click of his rebreather as it released painkilling stimulants into his lungs. His goggles faintly flashed red words on the corner of their lenses, warning him of the wound in his side. Sorne glanced down at the wound, which had stopped bleeding. It’s just a scratch, he thought to himself, nothing to be worried about. Still, the plasma burn that ran just below his ribs looked substantial. Sorne found himself worrying about infection, or how agonizing it would be when his rebreather’s painkiller gasses ran out. He shook his head, trying to reassure himself. “Come on, Sorne,” he said, trying to put on his most optimistic voice, “There’s a friendly ship in orbit. Surely they’ll send help soon!” Even as he said these words to himself, he began to doubt whether or not help was actually coming.

As the day dragged on, snow slowly began to fall. Sorne looked down at his uniform, grateful for the protection it provided against the cold. Unfortunately, the hole that had been ripped across the black uniform coat’s side still let in enough cold to be unpleasant, but at least it wasn’t enough to kill him. He hoped. Sorne felt his eyes grow heavy, the call of sleep urging him to shut his tired eyes and let him rest. In the back of his mind he felt a hint of concern, wondering if he would wake back up if he were to fall asleep. “I’ll be fine,” he assured himself, “It’s just a quick nap. What’s the worst that could happen?”

***

Sorne blinked awake, feeling groggy. He felt an intense throb of pain in his side and let out a soft curse, realizing his painkillers must have worn off. Suddenly, he saw a humanoid shape in front of him, clouded by his still-adjusting eyes. He quickly scrambled for his pistol, before getting to his feet and slowly moving up behind the figure, stumbling slightly in pain, before pressing the barrel of the gun against the back of the figure’s head. “Don’t move,” he said, his voice soft due to his tiredness and pain, “I won’t let you take me too.” The figure stiffened, and its breath caught in surprise.

Slowly, Sorne’s eyes came into focus, allowing him to identify the figure in front of him. It was a small human, it seemed, wearing a black coat and hat. Sorne identified the golden symbol of the Omen sewn into the coat’s shoulder and sighed in relief, lowering his weapon. “You’re friendly,” he sighed in relief, “Thank the Omen.” The person slowly turned to face him, revealing it to be a young man, with a clean shaven face and well-combed blonde hair. “Oh,” said the boy, looking rather intimidated, “Er, you’re one of the colony guards, I assume?”

Sorne nodded his head in confirmation, and the boy’s expression relaxed. “Thank goodness,” he said, smiling politely and extending his hand for a handshake, “My name is Secretary Kesh, with the investigation team that was sent here to learn why you went biosign-dark.”

Sorne tentatively shook Kesh’s hand, before clearing his throat. “That would be the raiders’ fault. They just popped out of the snow and opened fire on us.”

“Raiders?” said Kesh, raising an eyebrow, “We scanned Styros before establishing any colonies. The only life-forms it detected were Unusual Fauna and Snowbison, with the occasional insect or rodent. Certainly nothing sentient.”

“Maybe the scans were wrong,” responded Sorne, “Maybe the raiders landed on the planet after you’d finished scanning. But look, can we discuss this after we’ve made it back to the ship? I’d like to get this wound fixed.” He gestured to his wounded side, wincing as another throb of pain coursed through it.

“Ah, of course,” Kesh said, slightly pale at the sight of the wound, clearly not having much experience with such things, “Lieutenant Haythe is just over the snowdrift, I’d be happy to lead you to-” and that was when the snow exploded.

Part Three - A Mysterious End (pt. 3)

Kesh found himself being rudely and abruptly cut off by the spray of snow that was tossed up all around him. Before he could react, he felt rough hands clench around his face and throat, pushing him down the ground. He choked as the airflow to his lungs was cut off. He could hear the sound of shouting and scuffling nearby, as Sorne attempted to resist the sudden attack. Kesh began to flail, wildly waving his arms in the hope that he might hit his attacker. Miraculously, his swinging fist made contact with something. Kesh heard a crackling sound, as if glass was breaking, before the enemy released him, stumbling away.

Kesh scrambled to his feet to see a man in a white cloak and reflective faceplate, which now had a crack in it from Kesh’s punch. He saw Sorne tangling with a similarly-dressed enemy nearby, though he was clearly on the back foot. The attacker landed a blow on Sorne’s wounded side, causing the soldier to cry out in pain, dropping to the ground. Kesh saw Sorne’s pistol lying on the ground a few feet away. He dove for it, grabbing frantically for the small weapon. The first attacker, no longer reeling from Kesh’s blow, reached for his own weapon, a long rifle slung around his back. Kesh swung the pistol around towards the attacker and fired, sending a bolt of plasma screeching through the air. The attacker let out a grunt of pain as the shot impacted his leg, sending him sprawling.

The second enemy yelped, before shouting in concern, “Fritz!” He sprinted towards his friend, leaving Sorne on the ground. Kesh ran to Sorne, helping him to his feet, before starting to make his way over the hill.

“Quickly,” he said, barely keeping the panic out of his voice, “Lieutenant Haythe and the others are just over this hill.”

As he scrambled over the edge of the snowdrift, Kesh started to wave to Lieutenant Haythe, who was examining the ruined remains of the colony’s HAB.

“Lieutenant!” he began, shouting to get Haythe’s attention, “There’s raiders! Two of them!” As Kesh finished, Lieutenant Haythe turned to look at him. As he was about to respond, a wailing bolt of plasma hurtled through the air, striking the Lieutenant in the heart, as dozens more raiders began to emerge from the snow. Caught off guard, the soldiers rose from their places around the ruined HAB, frantically trying to organize themselves as shots began to fill the frigid air.

Kesh’s eyes went wide as he saw Lieutenant Haythe’s body hit the ground, unmoving. He sat, frozen, before he felt Sorne’s hand grab him by the collar and pull him over the snowdrift. The soldier dove into the thick snow, and began to drag himself through the icy ground, towards the lander that sat just past the ruined HAB. Kesh felt his heart pounding in his chest, but slowly followed Sorne, crawling on his belly. Plasma flew past overhead, and the raiders continued to advance.

Sorne clambered up the lander’s ramp and ran to the ship’s controls, before Kesh pulled himself into the lander’s interior. Sorne cursed under his breath. “By the Omen, why do these ships all have incomprehensible controls?” He grumbled. Kesh thought back to his time spent aboard the exploratory ship. He had learned how to pilot one of the ship’s sample-gathering ships up there. Surely a lander wasn’t too different.

Hesitantly, Kesh spoke up. “I can fly it, I think.” Sorne gave him a skeptical look but stepped aside to allow Kesh access to the control. Hesitantly, Kesh started the engines, kicking snow into the air, and the ship slowly lifted a few off the ground. The ship’s viewing hatch slid open, revealing that raiders and League soldiers alike were staring at the vehicle as it slowly ascended. The raiders, shrugging off their surprise, began to open fire on the lander, but the plasma had little effect on the ship’s armor plates. Kesh tightly gripped the ship’s control sticks, which sent beams of energy sputtering out of the lander’s cannons. In the single volley, at least a third of the raiders were slain. The rest fled for the snow-covered hills, as the League soldiers raised their rifles in salute to Kesh, cheering.

Kesh sank into the pilot’s chair, relieved. “Dear Omen,” he sighed, “I hope I never see this planet’s surface again.”

End

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Graham S. lives in Africa, in the Democratic Republic of Congo. He has been studying at Northstar for two years and is in tenth grade. He enjoys reading, writing, video games, Dungeons and Dragons, and Warhammer 40k. He hopes to one day be an author but currently is enjoying being a journalist for the Navigator.