Mother, Second of the Moon

Whose body hides behind clouds, stalking

Hear your daughter here, in a land free of Your grasses and holy roots.

Mother, Second of the Moon

Warrior against the Dark

I tell of Our people here, far from the Land

Cast out amongst the diamonds that round

Your face and fall as Your tears.

— Resh, Prophet of the Azhar, trans. by Artemis, From the Report on the Azhar incident.

They are the last of their kind.

The news was reported via secret dispatch from their home plane. Azhar had been a lush and vibrant place; class M, with a Baker Rating of 0. The first sentients the Librum had contacted, who called themselves the Azhar, had been a warlike people millennia in the past. The younger members of the team has been enthralled by their children, and Anderson had smiled reading those first encounter notes. Felids often had an adorable adolescence, and reminded most Primes of their cats now far from them.

The gate had opened a week before FC, leading to sending a Gary in to probe the site. Prime gravity and a close enough mix of oxygen and nitrogen that anyone who hasn't had a cough or cold recently would be capable of going native with nothing worse than a slightly reduced life expectancy and perhaps a bit harder time breathing after a long run. 

The Gary, built for adventures on new planes and equipped with long viewing capability, had encountered nothing more dangerous than a few rogue spelllings. Those scraps of Mana found on rogue planes as they came to their Event. While Primes lacked the ability to wield the powers many they encountered had, Anderson’s team knew how to deal with its products quickly enough.

In the first months the Azhar had been a respite. It was rare to encounter a people who wasn't ready to fight the Librum on sight, much less a sapient species that embraced the help without a sense of religious awe. These were a practical people, their canted eyes blinking slowly as the Emissaries came and presented the knowledge that their world and everything they knew was predicted to collapse within months, if not days.

Matrilineal cultures accept assistance, Martinez had said as they sat poring over the data available. She was an Alt, from a Prime where women had ruled societies since the early primate ancestors, and it had been hard to bring her under command. Even so, her skills with linguistics and tracking down Sources was the best in the Librum, and it hasn't been more than a few weeks before they had found the little god who had created this place.

Marilyn Darling of East Hampton, Ontario. Azhar had been a silly little doodle, a child's fancy that extended into a few comics and a collection of short stories that made her a minor celebrity thirty years before. And that was enough. A whole planet of lush African savannah, filled with catfolk and telling of their struggles and scrapes. Darling’s creation had not reached the typical threshold of a Creation, and Anderson was shocked that the doughy former substitute teacher in front of him had made such a beautiful place.

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“Oh, this was long ago, long ago.” she said, twisting a tissue into torn tendrils as she was questioned. “They were just silly little things I would tell the kids at naptime, then I wrote them down and… well, you just don't expect anything do you?”

They grilled her for plot points. Secret ideas that could be the cause of the calamity. Anderson had approved for the little author to travel to her Creation, though had noted that she was not to have interaction with any sapients while there. The Librum had rules for a reason, and on a Class M the dangers of apotheosis were significant enough to keep them away.

If only he had thought harder.

It was innocent. Protocols were followed. Every Librum knew their role, and decontamination was important. They were drilled on the steps like holy litany, and it should have kept everyone safe. Anderson sighed as the helicopter touched down, knowing his purpose.

Toxoplasma gondii. Safe enough to Primes and their cohort unless they were young, immunocompromised or pregnant. Darling had been asymptomatic but had a cat. Asshair. The fifth of his name, she has joked, running her fingers nervously through the furry ball on her lap just a few weeks ago. It had been six months, and the bacteria landed in Azhar with a vengeance. A small mouse analogue known as a zet had contracted the illness, and spread it amongst it's people. Weeks later the first cases spread, and only a few more before the bacteria mutated further.

They had quarantined all Azhar in a clean facility just outside of Portland. Anderson had liked their leader, a majestic black furred female known as Bas. They had shared stories of their homelands and the emissary had been amused that her name was the name of a goddess of our own felines in ancient Primary history. She ate beef raw and daintily, though Anderson could never watch as she broke the bones for marrow.

22. A population over seven million now gone, along with three Librum abandoned in fear that the toxo had become a planar killer. The chance for zoonotic transfer was high, and each member of the team tested positive. Even on survival of the initial horrid flu the memory of infection remained in the blood.  

He had written their death letters on the chopper, and handed them to his attache. He headed to the infirmary, taking time to get there.

“There's a possibility of zoonotic crossover.” the physician said, looking over the data. “Each Azhar is, well, a factory. What if they contract any other illnesses? This is Prime 12 all over again.”

Prime 12. Hell on a new Earth. A 45.9% loss over simple influenza. The resultant illness Librum came back with led to a pandemic of, thankfully, lesser loss. It was from the lessons of P12 that Anderson's post had been created.

Bas saw it on his face as soon as he came in. She has adapted, the chill of the Pacific Northwest leading her to wearing heavy flannels in lieu of her previous skyclad body. Even with the clothes Anderson saw the hairs raise on her exposed body, and her tail still and raise.

“Resh told me today would come. You frass have brought calamity to my people. Will I see my mother's bone place, anjersin? Will I hold my cubs again?” Her eyes were reproachful and her words raw, and she kept her distance circling him. Anderson knew a fight was coming, and neither welcomed or shied away.

“The news is not good. The bacteria has infected your people. They have become confused, unable to eat or drink, fighting… and dying.” Anderson put his hand on his knife and nodded, waiting for the queen to strike with claws and teeth.

He had not expected the collapse. The tears and howling and screeching. Bas’s cries roused the rest of the Azhar, who answered in keening wails. This sounds was familiar to Anderson, and it never got easier.

They sang prayers to their land as they were executed. The translators didn't catch every word, but the gist was there. A people died in a Quonset hut, and their lead executioner watched as his team stacked the bodies and prepared the hut for the burn.

He didn't recall what the recruit said. Perhaps it was whistling a happy tune during his brutal work. Mocking one of the elders who had died trying to protect the two young Azhar who had taught the lab team how to play a game with a rubber ball and three sticks. Anderson had been sedated halfway through the beating he had set out to deliver. He knew that he would be cashiered, a mental case. He had lasted longer than most in his position. Perhaps he would be retired to a stable Creation. 

Her name was Bas,

and there were none left of her kind.