The God of the Gos

I finally hear steps echoing on the marble floor, and straighten myself up in the chair I had been slouching in for four hours, waiting for the Priests to come. They thank me for my patience and take me up in a whirl of maroon robes and excited smiles. They tell me I'm luckiest child on the ship, for today is the day I get to go in the Church. Today is the day I get to meet my God.

 

After bathing me in the holy liquid that looks and feels like sun rays consuming one's skin, they lift me out naked and take me to the Church door, chanting beatus in cibus all the way there. Then the Founder himself shows up to open it up with his fabled ebony key, it is the first time I've seen him up close: his face has been cracked by time, but he is still as strong in his devotion as ever. I love him, I tell him so. He chuckles and runs his clammy hand upon my head, And I love you little one he announces before turning to open the lock.

 

The thick wooden doors sway open and I am led inside without another word: my eyes water: the Church is a spectacle beyond dream. The ground I tread upon is a bee hive styled fusion of mali garnet and titanium plating, the pews of the west and east transept are lined with the fur of Saturnite Lions and fitted with frames of white gold, the stained glass windows depicting the Founder discovering our God for the very first time have been crafted from the finest Crown glassing in Italy. It is everything the Priests promised it would be, and as look back on the closing door: I believe I see a tinge of jealousy in their eyes. The nave in front of me lit only by way of star light shining through the windows, I begin my walk forward.

 

On the ship's many planet stops through the void, we faithful, the crew of the Gos have oft been questioned as to why we built a Church at the front of our vessel. These profligates can sometimes sympathise with the benefits of having a ship-wide religion, but the idea of dedicating a third of the Gos to what they see as an unessential structure often bewilders them. What the poor souls fail to realise is that the Church is more essential than any other part of our ark, for the Church houses the God, and the God guides us through the void... where the faithless would sail blindly through it.

 

The treasures of our pilgrimage, priceless gems unattainable to non believers, are displayed proudly on the Church's Amber walls. Such tokens of our dedication include the last sentient flower from a now barren sapphire world, a complete set of bladed coins scavenged from the wreckage of some forgotten empire's ancient relay station, the three mouthed skull that once belonged to a member of the rarest species of Nomad Worms, and a whispering capsule of pure misery snatched from the Galaxy of Freezing. All this we achieved, solely through the direction of our God. Nevertheless: these are only trinkets compared to the bounties we will unearth when we reach the Gos' ultimate destination; the home planet of our God itself, for which we have been sailing towards for twenty eight years.

 

My shaking legs having carried me to the crossing, I kneel before the sanctuary: the divine spot where our God was found, now flanked on all sides by curling peridot stalagmites. My ears catch a fluttering from above and my heart stops working for a moment, it is here. My God quivers itself down from the ceiling and perches on the centre stalagmite, smelling the holy liquid on my skin. Its four veined wings beat air in my face, the skin of them shifting to a rainbow assortment of colours from the action. I look up, and am no longer scared, my God's ghostly grey exoskeleton has become stretched over the meat of its last sacrifice, so much so that I can see the expression of my predecessor between my God's glaring compound eyes.

 

Elongated arms pierce through me, and I am at peace. I will become the backbone of my beloved deity and through my extinguished life the pilgrimage of the Gos will continue for another four years. A grin slides across my face as I slip into the skin, while others grovel in prayer and chase after figments of their imagination in the meanest hope that they might steal a glimpse of their god, I am truly becoming one with my own. For the God of the Gos is real, and I am reborn once again.