The snow crunched under Willard’s boots as he strode through the deserted street. It was the kind of snow he liked, the fluffy kind that vanished upon touch. He looked up at the gray sky. Soon, the clouds would part, and the sun would beam down upon Ferah.
After today, he would have his sister back. He would have guaranteed the safety of his family. Mia would…struggle to understand for a few days, then return to them, her mind…cleansed. Worst case scenario, she’d refuse to see him. But…cruel as that may be, it was still better than to have her hang around gang goons, radicals and arsonists. Thinking that, Willard arrived at the exit of Ferah. He pushed a rusted coin into the lever mechanism by the escalator contraption, and tapped his feet to the whirls and groans of the iron machine as it slowly carried him to the middle of the cog monolith.
Tak’Makahn had had a complete makeover. As he descended, he saw the giant inflated floats of Messia, Mabit, and Marime, the three patron deities of the Sorissians swaying in the morning breeze. Between them bobbed several other floats, smaller but their colors a lot more vibrant, like schools of fish around whales. Willard grinned. Krummlae wouldn’t like those. Old Sorissians like him born decades before the trans-continental war didn’t welcome other religions lightly. Especially not ones from Mors. But, in the recent years more and more “cultural-inclusivity” operations had been conducted on Sorissu as a means to attract tourism. Each time he returned home there’d be another factory here, a new industrial building there, or some other outlandish changes. He wondered what Ferah would look like in three years.
He yawned, and placed a cigarette between his lips as he reached the gates of Tak-Makahn. It was forty-past six, and he could see a scarlet ripple across the gray of the sky. Soon that scarlet would become crimson, then pink, then yellow, and finally it would hurt his eyes to stare at it. Willard took a long drag, letting the sweet fragrance warm his insides. There was already a crowd outside the gates. Tourists, judging by their opulent outfits and ornate accessories. Willard recognized several fashion brands as he passed them. Manoa, M.V, Voidwear…a single piece costing more than twice his monthly salary. He was going to enter when a tall Sorissian man stepped before him.
Willard nodded at him. The Sorissian nodded back, but didn’t budge. Instead, he pointed at the rest of the crowd.
“I’m here for the send-off.” Willard pointed at the Hemani-Nnussa church several dozen meters past the gate.
The man shrugged, and made way to let him through. Willard nodded at him again and strode into Tak’Makahn. It was a conflicting sight: the outlandish floats, the imported drapery, and the cheap festival lights buzz about. Along the main street, stalls had been set up with black cloth covering its contents, their fringes flapping in the winds. Snow had been cleared from the road to make it easier for the tourists to cross, revealing the dark stone underneath that ran like a streak of water on moist glass through the village. Or a scar. In that sense, the stalls were stitches. None of it was natural. The foreign decorations formed no harmony with the black cantilevered roofs and olive undertones of Sorissian yurts. Willard squinted and saw the forty feet long projector shaft at the center of the village, meant to broadcast the Wildebeast hunt. That was when he would meet with Mia. If all went well he could even have time to bring some leftovers from the Marime-feast back home.
TimeScale beeped seven just as Willard stopped in front of the church. He could hear the muffled words of the Hemani-Nnussa priest behind the church’s gates.
“-inal pilgramage…mark…darkness…release…”
Willard took a deep breath, and pushed the door open. The inside was almost completely dark save a single candle on the podium before the priest. With the light from the outside cast briefly on his back, Willard caught a glimpse of several pairs of eyes turn towards him. Most were vacant, displaying only a reverence towards the occasion. Some were teary. A few with glint of spite.
“There will be life. Life within death, for it is death that brings light. Think not of it as life’s ultimatum. For it is the warm night that returns us to our fetal slumbers…”
Willard sat down on the ground before the gates. The dark silhouettes told him that every spot had been taken. Even one hadn’t, he still wouldn’t take it.
“But, alas, one’s passings marks the threshold between what is and what was. It is not time that separates us. It is the abstraction of our minds. Our forgetfulness.”
The priest shut his book, placed it on the podium before him.
“Live as you have lived, and love as you have loved.”
There was a scattered applause and as the priest picked up his book and exited the stage. The lights were turned on again, and the speakers on either side of the columns beside Willard asked if anyone had individual speeches. A few rose.
Willard left after the third had finished. He took some shaky steps away from the church and rested his shoulders on one of the stalls next to the street. A sickly, suffocating feeling had risen his chest, and he had needed the fresh air from outside. He wondered what he would’ve felt if he had been there the entire speech.
The sun was up now, radiating an irritating hotness on his nape. Soon the eulogy would finish and the ocean of tourists outside the gates would be let in, and everywhere would be swarmed by dozens of money-oozing meekos. Willard shuffled aimlessly through the streets until he found an opened stall. A crudely made, purple-painted stand with the big words “Sorissian-Ground-Coffee” nailed to its front, with several blackened stumps serving as seats.
Willard went over to the Sorissian vendor and asked him for two tablespoons worth, brushed the surface of a stump and halfheartedly kicked the snow at his feet while he listened to the crunches inside the Coffee mill. The sun was beaming down on his neck, and he suddenly felt a dreadful dreariness creeping from his stomach. The heat was certainly not making it easier, and the eulogy seemed to have suck both his excitement and remaining energy away. The Sorissian came by and handed him his coffee. Willard felt around his pockets for change but the Sorissian shook his head.
“On me.” He smiled. “Doro’s call.”
Doro. That’s the Krummlae’s given name.
Willard nodded, an uncomfortable feeling rising in his stomach. Kindness wasn’t something he could repay instantly. He hadn’t helped out in the village ever since Kimotah Incorporated, his employer for the past two years, moved the workers to the new mines up north seven months ago. Fortunately, Sorissians were a stubborn people, and forgetfulness wasn’t their forte. What’s right, what’s wrong, which kindness to repay, which evil to abhor…they’d got it all down like a codex in their head. This rigidness was probably the chief reason behind their demise.
Willard decided to scout out Tak’Makahn one more time. Already he could see the tourists trailing in through the open gates. Soon they’d be flooding in, and people like him who were trying to go their own ways would be sandwiched between the waves of brainless meekos. Why would they even want to come to such a torn-down place on the second harshest continent? For the novelty? To tell their friends ‘hey, look, that place was totally overrated’?
The clouds were completely gone now, and with the sun blasting its heat on him, Willard’s head got heavier and heavier as he strode through the earthen trails. His cheek ached from its fresh bruises. Everything was exactly where he remembered. The crooked houses on the east side, the bell-less clocktower in the south and the titan’s ribcage in the west. However, Willard felt more and more uncertain as his expectations were met, like a student who had already reviewed every single aspect of a test feeling anxious before its start. The walk took an hour at most, which did little to distract Willard from his worries. Three hours. Three hours before he’d cuff himself to Mia and completely bring her back to him. He didn’t know if he wanted time to move faster or slower. Before he knew it he had looped back to the church. Silence. The sermon has ended.
There was a few curious tourists hanging around the church’s doors. Like Lunepods offsprings, Willard thought. They’d go sticking their long necks anywhere they want. And since they leeched off the territorial protection of Shudru, Southern-Sorissian’s largest feline species, none of the other animals were brave enough to prey on them. Willard scowled. These people were exactly like them. And one day when they thought they had everything, someone would take a swing at their long neck and end them and their dreams. His scowl vanished, replaced by his usual frown. Live fun, die young. It wasn’t exactly his philosophy for life, but it sure was tempting. He has got that last part down, after all.
The fluffy snow was gone, melted into shallow puddles that glittered in the sun’s brilliance. As Willard strode once more up the streets, he saw his own reflections in some of them. Actually, in all of them. The puddles were all different sizes; some were larger than his torso, and some were smaller than his palm. Yet he saw no whole image of himself anywhere in the dozens of them that surrounded him. He was staring at the broken shards of a shattered mirror, and the fragments frustrated him. It was as if the world did not care enough to take a good look at him, sparing only momentary glimpses. His doubts came back.
Nothing would go back the way it was, it said.
Not now.
Willard shook his head, and kicked the nearest puddle at his feet. The splash sent droplets all over the street, distorting the images in the other puddles. Willard walked on. What had the priest said again? There will be life within death? From what he knew, death was the end. He will die, that priest will die, and everyone else in that church would die. And when they died, they died. That’s it. Their brain stops moving and breaks down, bringing everything down with it. Religion was bogus, he decided.
“Price!”
Willard raised his head and gazed into the swirling, diluted grey of Rom’s eyes. He was standing fifteen paces in front of Willard, hands in his pockets, a mob behind him. Willard squinted at them, and made out the faces of several Feran teenagers within that mob. All of them, people who’ve lost someone to the mines. Their expressions sullen, some filled with grief and others, hate. It was that night on the train platforms all over again. Except this time, they had blocked the road, forming an arrow with Rom at the very front.
“I thought you’d be back in Ferah by now,” Willard sighed.
“I’ll deal with your brother when I’m done with you.”
“You could try.”
Rom raised his head and stared into the sky above. For a while he was frozen, as if he was trying to convince himself to make up his mind about something. When he lowered his head, his gaze was filled with dreadful determination.
“I CALL FOR A HIMVAT-HOLMGANG!” His voice echoed throughout the street. Several tourists stopped to look at the source of the commotion, while others, particularly the native stallmen who understood the weight of the term, turned a ghastly white.
Himvat-Holmgang. An ancient Sorissian practice that involved two men fighting to the death, or until one side yielded. A duel in its rawest sense. However, unlike other forms of Sorissian duels, it was not for honor, nor possession rights, nor obligation. It was a fight for retribution, for fairness, for satisfaction. Himvat-Holmgang—the children’s brawl.
Even though he pronounced it wrong, Rom’s words send a shiver down Willard’s spine. Since when had the man known so much native-culture? As far as Willard knew, a large part of Rom’s superiority complex was built upon Krummlae’s people. Temiuks, that’s what he called them, reeking apes. So why was he referring to old Sorissian traditions? In Tak’Makahn, of all places, where these ancient traditions are still regarded with solemnity? Surely, he understood the gravity of what he just said?
Rom, seeing as Willard did not respond, turned and brought out two staffs from the crowd behind him. He tossed one towards Willard and watched it roll down the slope until it stopped by his feet.
“I’m not fighting you, Rom,” Willard sneered, kicking the stick aside.
“You dare dishonor me?” Rom shouted, the feigned anger in his voice painfully noticeable.
“Please. You don’t care about Sorissian culture,” Willard stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, “plus, I can only trample on something that exists.”
“Pick it up,” someone in the crowd behind Rom said.
“Pick it up.” “Pick it up.” “Pick it up.” The scattered voices eventually came into unison, a chant, voice low but booming by numbers.
Willard gaped at them. He recognized several. Wide eyes, brows furrowed, they were the sons and daughters of folks Rom had terrorized—the sons and daughters of his dead coworkers. Now they amass behind him, a mob of considerable numbers.
“I’ve called for a Himvat-Holmgang. You are obliged to answer,” Rom snarled.
Willard saw several Sorissian stallmen turn to each other, grimness written across their pale face. There hadn’t been any Holmgang in Tak’Makahn for such a long time, the practice had become nothing more than a topic for dinner-table chats.
“Why do you do this?” Willard shouted, addressing not only Rom but the mob behind him.
You know full well why they do this.
“You’re a murderer,” Rom said through gritted teeth.
“Murderer!” someone shouted.
“I am not.” Willard felt his fists clench.
Why did you apologize that night, then?
“We’ll see,” Rom spun his staff and began making his way down the slope, the mob following five paces behind, “if you are truly righteous, god shall protect you and shatter my weapon.”
Willard took a deep breath, ignoring the gnawing pain in his chest, then let out the loudest shout he can muster.
“STOP!!”
His voice rang across the streets. The advancing mob halted in their tracks.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Willard shouted, not addressing Rom anymore, “I’ve not wronged you, not wronged any of you.”
“Murderer,” someone muttered.
“I DID NOT KILL THEM!” Willard spat, “so don’t blame me for your misgivings. I mourn for them as much as you do.”
Hell, they’ve probably spent more time with you than their family down there.
“Since when has it become a crime to live? Are we not the same people? Have we not lived together, ate together? Have we not depended on each other when the Meekos took over, when the Blizzandromes blasted at our windows and when the Nesgowls prowled our streets? ”
And when that man came banging door to door, demanding early debt?
“And yet you side with…him?” Willard pointed at Rom, his voice shaking. Willard spotted several pairs of downcast eyes in the mob, guilt glistening in some, indifference in others.
“Shut up! I’ve not killed anyone!” There was panic in Rom’s voice as he realized he was losing his audience.
“And neither have I! You just…” Willard suddenly remembered Nafimm’s words, “you, all of you, just want someone to blame your misfortunes on!”
“Misfortune?” Rom saw the opening and latched on, “so you think their death was a matter of ‘fortune’?!”
“That’s not what I-”
“You feasted on their flesh!” someone shouted. It was more an exclamation, not particularly addressed to Willard but for the sole purpose of getting it out.
“What?!”
“You can’t be the only one in the service elevator! Workers always go in pairs!”
“How does that m-”
“They won’t even let us see them! Kimotah Incorporated won’t even release the autopsy reports! It’s because you ate the ones you found, isn’t it? Two weeks under that rubble, and you survived off their flesh! Hell, you probably killed and ate them!”
If not given the seriousness in their voices, Willard would have chortled. Eating human flesh? He couldn’t imagine. Even though he had heard certain religions in Mors, like the Poramnic-Perussia, had blood-tasting festivals, the very thought of consuming a fellow person disgusted him. After being a part of them for so long, how could they assume something so…subhuman from him? Plus, even if he did resort to cannibalism, he would start himself.
“And who told you that?”
That shut them up. Some cast a quick glance at Rom, their eyes betraying their frustration at their own stupidity.
Of course.
The man took a wet, stinking lie and had somehow rubbed it into Willard’s dead friends’ families.
“I did no such thing,” Willard tried to control his anger, “and I am…saddened that you would believe him. He took advantage of your emotions after the preaching. ” He turned to Rom, “you once said I was half-native. You’re right. I would rather starve than disrespect the dead.”
“Shut up!” Rom shouted at his crowd, “he’s trying to convince you with those meaningless words again! Don’t listen!”
“While you…you’d rather sell yourself to the Meekos!” Willard pointed at him, “you look down at us as if you’re anything better! As if you know more! As if you’ve seen more!” he found himself getting more and more riled up. Unfairness, unfairness, unfairness. Everything that has piled onto him in the past month came pouring out of his mouth. A catharsis. It was as if that nagging voice in his head took over. And then it did.
“I bet your family’s real proud. You know your father spends most times with us? He doesn’t even want to look at you. At the sickening mess you turned out to be. How’s your brother? I heard he goes around school searching for stray Mishcats and trampling them? Did you teach him to do that?”
Stop, Willard. Enough.
“I…hah,” Willard grinned, an ecstatic glare behind his eyes, “I bet Sammy’s real proud of seeing you right now! How did that big brother she’d always looked up to turn into this…thing, I wonder?”
Too far. You’ve gone too far.
Willard had just enough time to register Rom’s swing as the staff connected with his shoulder. A sickening crack sounded throughout the streets. Willard fell back, his right arm falling limp beside him. Rom screamed and charged at him. A second swing, a wild one flung forward in an arc with one arm like an enraged athlete, missing Willard’s nose by a fraction of a millimeter as he scrambled backwards. His right arm burning, throbbing and flailing forward as he hit the ground.
Now you’ve done it. He’s going to kill you.
Rom was about to swing it down at his head when someone shot out from the crowd and tackled him, sending him flying onto the pavement. The figure picked up the staff and tossed it aside.
“We will not tolerate violence on Makobi’s day,” they said as Rom made his way back.
“Get out of my way,” Rom growled.
“Stand down.”
Rom balled his fists and feigned a right hook, taking a jab at their face. Without moving, the person caught both fists and slammed his head down on Rom’s, the muffled thud of the headbutt was even louder than the crack had been. Rom stumbled back, one hand over his nose, trying to regain his balance. He didn’t, and fell one knee to the ground.
“Leave, dishonorable fighter. You’ve lost the right to call for Holmgangs,” the figure waved their hand nonchalantly.
“Who the hell cares for-” Rom stopped as he saw something underneath that hood. He glared over at Willard, who had pulled himself up to a sitting position, hate dancing in his eyes. Then he turned to the figure. Then a sly grin appeared on his face, and the anger in his eyes were replaced by resolution. A shiver ran down Willard’s spine.
“Watch yourself, now.” He crooned, pulled himself up and trotted away, the crowd separating as he passed like people avoiding a mad dog.
Now guilt completely replaced the indifference in the crowds’ eyes. They looked at each other, dazed, like morning birds who just woke up, wondering what made them come this far. Irrational compulsion, directionless hate and jealousy. The remaining crowd stared at him apologetically, wanting to move but compelled otherwise by their conscience.
“What’re you still standing there for?!” Willard glared at them, “get out of my sight.”
Slowly, they walked away. Willard made sure they were beyond earshot, then fell back on his back, exhausted from the excursion. He retched, the pain from his sides and his arm an unbearable searing. But he was more hurt inside than outside. Since when did Rom’s words become more acceptable than his existence? Probably when news of the dead reached them. A unmistakable aching spread through his chest. He had recognized most of the crowd, had called them by name, had delivered fresh food to each of their houses. Now it meant nothing. It was as if he became a stranger to them, a Nesgowl to a bunch of tired, tattered people, hands linked in an attempt to drive him back. Back to where he came from. Back to the mines. Back to die.
A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.
The sun beamed down on his neck, its warmth clashing with the coldness of his heart. It was too beautiful a day to die. Timescale beeped eleven-forty-five. Willard lay back and sprawled his arms, staring at the blue sky above. The color was mesmerizing, so powerful it was as if he had just taken a dose of vitamins. Since when had he last seen a sky so blue? Not for the past three…four years now.
Bagiraek has blue skies.
It was the only thing he could remember about his childhood home. Then it became gray, light gray, and dark grey. But today, the sky was blue again. As if someone had punctured a hole in a sheet of paper covering his face. No wind was blowing, and not a sound can be heard. Some kind of fulfillment he didn’t know he had wished for seeped into his heart. He might not ever see such a beautiful day again.
It was too beautiful a day to not die.
Footsteps getting closer.
“Hey, friend.”
The oval face below that hood appeared before Willard. Large eyes, dark skin, grinning teeth as sharp as knives.
“…it’s you.” Willard muttered, hoisting himself up with the Sorissian’s extended hand. Once back on his feet, the young man dusted his overcoat, careful to not slap his shoulder.
“I came running to see who called for the Himvat-Holmgang,” he said, “good thing I came in time.”
The Sorissian picked up the screw that had rolled out of Willard pocket and handed it to him, “Why’d you provoke him?”
“Some things you have to do after bottling them for too long,” Willard ruffled his hair. They had grown significantly since his return, like seedlings gladly sprouting above ground. The two trotted up the slanted street, the Sorissian not bothering to sidestep the newly formed water puddles. Willard saw him take occasional glances at his arm.
“Hey, friend. What’s your name?”
“Willard.”
“Got a Tak name? It’d more…how do you put it…culturally appropriate to use it today, of all days.”
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Willard shrugged, trying to remember it. A Tak name was the highest acknowledgement an outsider could get from any native communities. For Adrian, it was Himironn. As for what they did to deserve it, Willard had long since forgotten. Though, while Adrian wore it proudly like an alter-ego, Willard kept it inside himself, afraid that if he were to accept it, he would in turn accept this hellhole of a continent as home. Willard grinned as he realized that the last piece of belonging he still had of his previous life was this name. But now he couldn’t care less about it.
“Well?”
“En’Taeic.”
The Sorissian’s eyes widened. “Moon’s ebb,” he mused, “you have a beautiful name.”
“And you?”
“Just call me Steve,” his devilishly sharp teeth flashed as he grinned at him . Willard wondered if that girl had fallen for this Sorissian because of it. No, probably to his humor. No, probably to his sincerity. Actually, no, probably to his looks.
The two scaled the street until they reached the large turnabout next to the village center. Tourists had started streaming into the place, some of them gaping at Steve when he passed. Steve pulled Willard into one of the smaller houses bordering the giant holographic projector, then left, telling him to remain there while he ‘go look for something’. The yurt was filled with the warm aroma of baking butter and milk. The insides were what one’d expect from a Tak of pre-nomadic descent. Dried jerkies and spices hung from the support beams and the ceiling. A single stove, four mats made from animal pelts and two layered shelves that reached all the way to the top. One could travel across the place in five steps. Steve returned in a dozen minutes or so, and busied himself fishing through one of the cabinets on the right shelf.
Willard took another glance around the tiny yurt. Even though it was smaller than his tiny apartment, it felt infinitely larger.
“Say, En’Taeic, how long have you been livin’ here?” Steve knelt down beside him with a slender bracer made up of multiple smaller sticks.
“Seventeen…eighteen years now?” Willard shrugged, watching him adjust the length between each stick until the bracer enrolled into something that looked like a miniature water-wheel.
“Seven-what? That’s older than me!” he glanced at Willard, who only chuckled at his words.
“Time flies with or without you, heh.” Willard winced as he rolled up his sleeve. A long streak of red had already condensed below the wrist where the staff had hit.
“I don’t understand,” Steve shook his head as he slid the contraption onto Willard’s hand, “probably. Everything’s changing. I know the elders dislike any talk of politics, but we couldn’t help but wonder what would become of us in the future; what’s to become of our Tak when I reach your age. Times are changing so fast even I can feel it.”
“You mean the pact on this continent between the M.S.S.P and Gerang?” Willard said as he consulted Timescale through the waves of pain. It beeped twelve-thirty.
“Well, that too.”
“That too?” Willard could hardly imagine anything larger than the power transfer.
“I’m talking about something more urgent. Someone came and spoke with Doro in his place the other day while I was fixing his support beams. A women, hair darker than the eye of a blizzandrome, carries herself like the north wind across the eastern plains. Man…she was unlike anyone I’d seen before,” he scratched his chin as he tightened the fasteners until the bracer squeezed Willard’s arm, “if it were four months ago I would’ve asked her out, definitely.”
“Is that so?” Willard tried his best to keep his voice flat, partly from the pain and partly from his racing heart, “what did they talk about?”
“Something about a partnership,” Steve lowered his voice, “says she has something that would completely change the course of where we’re headed. Says that the fate of all Sorissians depended on his answer.”
Willard looked around the Yurt. No one except the two of them. The bustling outside was nearly completely muffled. “And did he…”
“I don’t know,” Steve stood up, admiring his work, “but with Doro’s personality, he probably would’ve turned it down.”
Willard looked at his arm. The dozens of smaller sticks clamped down together around his wrist, fixing them into place. “Why are you telling me this? Also, why’d you help me? We’ve barely met.”
“Secrecy’s the scourge of society,” Steve grinned, reciting the closing words of Marime’s Epigraph, “our species’s intellectual evolution has undermined our empathetic capabilities.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Willard shrugged, too tired to decipher the Sorissian’s enigmatic words and more worried about his arm. He’d need to use it to cuff himself to Mia in an hour or so, after all.
“I just did. And to answer your first question,” Steve popped the tip of something that looked like a spray can, revealing a needle-thin tip, “you seem to be the only Olcom that our Tak trusts fully.”
Olcom. Old comers. The phrase once again ate at Willard’s heart. He belonged, but his did not. He belonged nowhere.
“I’m no buffer,” Willard flinched as Steve felt for his ulna and radius, subsequently driving the needle point into space between them. He realized, through short bursts of pain and coolness shooting throughout his arm, that Steve had just administered the raw Sorissian treatment for possible broken bones—fix the site in place, cut the blood-flow and inject a mixture of antifreeze liquid and stabilizing agents.
“No, you are not,” Steve shrugged, standing up and dusting his hands, “—don’t take it off for another two hours—but you’re the only one close enough to us that I can share this with. The only one who has the power to do something.”
Timescale beeped one.
“I don’t think I can help you, Mik,” Willard sighed, “I don’t even have the power to be with my family.” Somehow, sharing that with a stranger was much easier than he had expected. The words had flowed out without him even realizing it, and the shame hadn’t arrived after he said it.
“That, would be a choice of personal preference,” Steve pulled off his overcoat and hung it on a bone spike protruding from the support beam, “And internal decision that can easily overrule exterior barriers. What I am talking of is an external barrier that can’t be overruled. A rot that has poisoned our Tak for more than a hundred years.”
Willard stared at him. Steve was a native Sorissian, after all, so it wasn’t unusual for him to hold a grudge against the old-comers. Historical backgrounds aside, just the way they’re treated by the Gerang Coalition and Sorissu Triumglate would be enough to make any of them detest anyone outside of their Tak.
“What do you…”
“Please. I heard you two were close. Talk to her. No matter the outcome of the hundred-year-contract, our people will still be more and more diluted. The scraps the Triumglate throws up would be fouler and fouler. Sooner or later, there wouldn’t be a ‘Sorissian’ anymore. Nothing would change for you lot, and that, like always, changes everything for us.”
“Well,” Willard scoffed, flexing the digits of his fingers, “what do you want me to talk to her about? I’m a Olcom. I can’t speak for you, nor Krummlae, nor anyone in Tak Makahn.”
Both fell into silence. Willard watched at a tiny insect crawling lazily in and out of the leather hangings of the Yurt’s entrance. He had heard somewhere that Sorissians use these insects to polish their belongings. The bugs would eat the loose skin from the fur and hides, their excrement serving as a varnishing substance that add a glistening layer to their clothes. He wondered how they were able to contend with this knowledge and still be perfectly fine with it.
Timescale beeped one-ten.
“Just…make…no, help her understand our race dilemma,” Steve finally said, slouching back in a defeated motion, “we need help, but we’re a people too proud and hotheaded to ask for it. Most of all…no, all of us, would toil away each day, doing what we’ve always done, hoping for a change that would never come.”
Like you.
It might be sympathy, or maybe the relatability, that softened Willard. “Alright. I’ll speak to her,” he shrugged, “though I’m not sure if she’d be willing to listen.”
There was a sudden boom outside, followed by the blaring of a microphone.
“Oh my,” Steve mused, “seems like the beast hunt has begun.” He looked at Willard and smiled bitterly, a smile that betrayed the frustration beneath, “I need to start selling stuff to the tourists now.”
Willard watched as he picked up a bag and strode to the exit.
“Don’t bother returning that,” he pointed at the bracer on Willard’s wrist, “think of it as…downpayment.” With that, he threw open the entrance cloth and disappeared into the light. He stayed there for several more minutes, thinking of what had just happened. Timescale beeped one-twenty. He stood up, and left the yurt.
Already, the narrow alleys between the Sorissian yurts were beginning to fill with trash. Wrappers, plastic straws, and spilled cans littered the crosswalks. Not giving himself time to feel sorry, he scrambled up and headed towards the people-packed center. Getting closer to the main path, he saw the orange backs of a dozen tourists blocking the way.
Some of them were hooting, some cheering, and some raising their arms at something on the holographic screen in the middle of the center. Together, they were a sea of orange that grew painfully bright from the reflected sunlight. The closer Willard got to the squirming mass, the hotter the atmosphere became. Willard tried to squeeze in through the gaps between the orange coats but was violent ricocheted back by strong arms. He jumped, ignoring the pain in his knees, and caught a glimpse of the lamp next to the meeting place.
“Now, as you look to the right, you will see the pursuers closing in on the beasts!” boomed a voice under the holograph. A gasp of awe escaped the audience.
Willard bit his lower lip. There was no way he was going to make it through that giant crowd without getting crushed to death. No way was he going to make it in time, even if he did squeeze through. Timescale beeped one-twenty-two.
A detour.
Willard headed the opposite direction, the voice growing fainter until it became a muffled hum to his ears. Willard started running.
Seven.
He passed through the deserted backstreets of Tak’Makahn’s industrial district.
Six.
He leapt across the little stream separating the two meat warehouses.
Five.
Water seeped into the sole of his sock as he sprinted past the giant titan ribcage. The muffled hums grew louder. Grab, pull, cuff, he told himself. He looked up to the top of the monolith cog at the place where Ferah would be. To his surprise, he saw a faint puff of smoke rising from the surface. Factories? But he thought they were closed this day.
Four.
He had to stop to catch his breath. His lungs were killing him, and the large mouthfuls of icy air didn’t help calm him. He realized he had left his jacket somewhere behind him. He didn’t bother to retrace his steps for it. The hum grew audible, and the reporter’s voice sounded more and more excited. Grab, pull, cuff.
Three.
What would he find there? How would he cuff himself to her? What would she do? Resistance is natural. Could he take it? What would the Shades do? Would they honor their end of the bargain? Willard plunged into a narrowing alleyway and saw the orange jackets of those in front of it, with the lamp post to one side. Grab, pull, cuff.
Twenty-eight-past-one.
He shot through the alley and nearly slipped down the steps to the center. He pulled himself back and slapped the lamp post beside him. He’s made it.
Mia wasn’t there.
A dreadful feeling welled up inside him. Why wasn’t she here? There’s still two more minutes. Did she want to arrive just on time? But she’d told him she’d be waiting for him. Willard looked around at the bobbing waves of heads before him. Some had hats on. Some were outlandishly golden. Some were dyed. None of them had the steely glisten and slick black of Mia’s hair. No one was making their way to him. He glanced up. Nothing in the sky. Not even clouds. Not even the sun.
No sun?
Twenty-nine-past-one.
Willard tried dialing her through TochNet. Had something happened to her? Was she hurt? Had she fallen down somewhere? Had the Shades gone back on their word? Shit. The Shades. It must’ve been the Shades. They’ve gotten her.
“The number you dialed is busy now. Please call again.” The robot voice swam in Willard’s head. He suddenly realized just how damp his back was against his sweater.
“The number you dialed is busy now. Please call again.”
The receiver transplant on his temple was tickling him. The hair on his nape stood up as if responding to an electric current. The invisible commentator was getting more and more excited, and the crowds pushed against each other to get a closer look at the hologram. Willard saw some of them move back, rubbing their necks and eyes as if something had just dazed them. There was a bird-eye view of the Marime-Beast herd going towards a clean drop on the hologram, and the leading bull was nearing the edge.
“The number you dialed is busy now. Please call again.”
In three seconds they’d fall. Two. One.
Thirty-past-one.
“The number you dialed is busy now. Please c-c-c-c-call—a-a-a-a-a-a—a—”
There was a sudden prick on his temple, and a pop as the glass surrounding the tiny receiver shattered, throwing Willard to the ground. At the same time he heard a roar of disappointment rise from the ripple of heads below him. He propped himself up on his hand and saw the glitching, static image of the hologram. Without the booming sound of the commentator, shouts, curses, and the wails of a baby could be heard. The orange sea of the crowd had lost all its brightness and grew ugly in seconds. Wait, why did the brightness go?
Willard looked up at the gray sky.
Gray. Turning dark.
But it was clear just seconds ago.
A bulking black helicopter lifted from the side of Ferah, like a lone bird fleeing an imminent disaster.
Willard sniffed. The smell of burnt hair was in the air. His saliva tasted salty. A cold bead of sweat rolled down his spine. The scar across his back prickled. He knew this feeling. He’s felt it before. At that time, several thousand others had probably also felt it, but he was the only one who’d lived to remember it.
The crowd became silent. He looked up, and saw a tiny, bright ball of light in the sky.
The sun?
It was getting bigger. His hair stood up.
That’s no sun.
As it grew larger, Willard saw the tiny bursts of intense light shoot out from its surface, only to be absorbed back into it like some deformed amalgamation. He glanced over at the metal railings behind him. They were shaking violently, electric arcs shooting out between the handrails. Now the smell of burnt hair became the pungent odor of rotten garlic. A strained murmur rose from the crowds.
Then, like the splash of a single droplet hundreds of meter underground, everything exploded.
A giant arc of energy sprang from the effulgent ball in the sky and connected with the giant monolith shaft towering above Tak’Makahn. The ground shook as a low groan rumbled through it, as if the giant monolith itself was writhing in pain. The tourists were knocked off their feet. When Willard’s eyes focused, he saw a giant dust screen covering the top of the shaft, with bits and pieces of cascading debris leaving tiny gray trails behind them. One the ground, the largest was only slightly larger than a raisin. But he knew for him to see that all the way here, it wouldn’t be anything smaller than a house.
Ferah is right underneath it.
The baby started wailing again. As if responding to its wails, something larger tumbled through the dust clouds surrounding the tip of the monolith shaft.
Willard and the tourists stared in horror as a giant, six-legged mobile factory fell through the sky. Within milliseconds it vanished behind the monolith cog. The explosion that followed sent a shockwave throughout Tak’Makahn, knocking those who’d stood up back onto the ground. There was a flash of red flame, and a giant black cloud rose from somewhere behind the monolith cog. Then the sound hit, the sound of a thousand trains colliding. Willard could almost hear the screams echoing down from above. The giant ball of energy twisted, changing shapes.
Ferah is right underneath it!
Willard forced himself to stand up. He didn’t dare cling to any railings for support. High up above, the sphere sent another energy arc into the monolith shaft.
Forget Mia. Go home. Get your real family.
For once, Willard actually listened to the voice in his head. He dragged his feet towards the back alley. A simple plan formulated in his head. He’d go the straight way through. He’d cut straight through the panicked crowds to the service elevator. There he’d take the emergency lift home and get Adrian and mother. His shuffle turned into a mild limp, and his walk became a sprint. And without him knowing it, he was going as fast as he could, stumbling over people who’s fallen down and pushing others out of the way. The tourists saw him, and pandemonium ensued.
Everyone made their beelines towards the gate, knocking people over and trampling them in the process. Willard was sandwiched between two frantic crowds and it suddenly dawned on him that he might become one of the trampled. Thinking this, he forcibly pulled himself out, and ended up again in an empty side alley next to the main road. His bracer was gone, and his entire arm was on fire. But at least it moved as he willed. Someone screamed back in the center, but he didn’t care enough to look back. Without stopping, he scrambled atop one of the low-hanging roofs next to him. Once he was up, he let himself slide down the other side, then pushed up with his legs at the very last moment, propelling himself from roof to roof. Sometimes he’d slip, but would then pull himself back up with every fiber of muscle in his body. He made his way onto the last house by the wall. There was a block at the gate, as a dozen people were stuck trying to squeeze out of a four-man opening simultaneously. Willard wondered why they wanted to leave. Maybe to get out of the crater zone? But Tak’Makahn should be the safest place under the monolith shaft, being in the crevice of the cog monolith.
Willard glanced up, and to his horror, he saw the sphere moving down the monolith shaft. Soon it was directly horizontal with the first monolith cog, and he could see hundreds of energy arcs shooting out onto the surface. The sphere stayed there for some time, sending out dozens of arcs each second. Willard gulped. How much energy was in one of them? If the monolith shaft had been made out of Sibithian stone, the hardest material in Sorissu, and it had been easily destroyed by the arcs, then they’d rip through the concrete houses of Ferah like paper. Anything softer than that would practically be vaporized. The tourists saw this and stopped fighting. Down here, they couldn’t hear anything. But a feeling of dread and gloom permeated the air nonetheless.
Slowly, as if it had nothing to destroy on the cog surface anymore, it started to move down again. This time directly headed for Tak’Makahn. The mob saw this and became even more frantic. People started pushing, grappling, trying to climb on top of each other to get out. Three hundred people squeezed against each other, trying to force the gates down. Willard was almost certain whoever was stuck in the slanted gates was squished into pulp. But no matter how hard they pushed, the gate didn’t budge. It was made of Sibithian stone, after all. Willard stood atop the ridge of the closest roof and stared at them. Their haughty expressions from before were gone, replaced by the universal look of fear that his coworkers wore on the day of the incident. Willard looked back and saw a Sorissian family huddled together in the center, arms wrapped tight around each other. Without giving himself the time to be afraid, Willard slid down the roof, scrambled to regain his balance, and rushed the opposite way. The east side’s wall was unfinished. He’d find a large enough gap to squeeze through.
They’re dead. Stop trying.
SHUT UP!
Before he could take another step forward, he was blown forward by a tremendous force that sent him rolling all the way down the street into the center.
Rewind.
Before he could take another step forward, he was blown forward by a tremendous force that sent him rolling all the way down the street into the center.
Rewind.
Before he could set his foot down, a tremendous force blew him forward, sending him rolling all the way down the street into the center.
This time no more rewinds came, and the pain followed. Willard cursed. A deja-vu? Now? His ears rang. His scar prickled. Something hot rang down his nose. Something sickly savory permeated the air.
What used to be a mass of three hundred, pushing and screaming, was reduced to only a dozen on the very outer fringes. The ones in the middle and next to the walls were completely gone. Evaporated. Reduced to black soot that stained the pure ice beneath them. Someone screamed. The smell of barbecue. Willard scrambled up, slapped himself in the face. Numb cheeks. More of the hot stuff ran down his nose, down his neck, staining his sweater.
“Run, run, run!” He gritted his teeth and started his trot again. Something was wrong with his left leg and he was hobbling slightly. He was limping by the time he reached the east wall. The sphere was halfway down the cog monolith and was continuously sending out blinding arcs of light into the ground, cracking Sibithian stone and making big, gaping burn-holes in the wooden yurts. The tourists had completely dispersed, going their own ways like swarms of frightened ants.
What if an arc got their apartment? What if it collapsed? What if mother got trapped beneath the debris and was losing oxygen? What if he was too late?
There. A hole under the wall, just large enough for two Marime-beetles to squeeze through. It might’ve been an actual beetle burrow. Willard went prone and squirmed his way under the wall, spitting out dirt as he pulled himself out from the other side into the vehicle storage lot. There were several outlandish hovercrafts, a broken Moose, and a large delivery truck parked neatly in the slots.
The sphere was almost on top of Tak’Makahn now, and Willard stared in horror as the giant unfinished bell tower disintegrated under the hundreds of arcs connecting with it. A spark discharged from the sphere and struck a hoverpod that had been taking off, sending it spinning back to the ground. For a few seconds it lay there, motionless. Then another discharge blew up the engines and the entire thing went up in flames.
Another arc hit the bottom land of the cog monolith, sending the beam of bright energy ricocheting between two involutes. At last, it shot into the elevator platform right under it, and its bright lights dimmed. Willard cursed. He dashed over to the delivery truck and entered his serial number into the lockpad. It worked.
The lazy bastards hadn’t revoked my worker’s license.
Willard grinned. For the first time in his life he was thankful for his multiple part-times. He pulled himself in, turned the gear up, and pushed the pedal to the bottom. If straight-up wouldn’t work, he’d just take the snowy ascent around the cog.
Just hang on a few more minutes, Ma. Adrian. I’m coming.
The engines roared to life and the truck lurched forward like a Marime-Beast on fire, knocking two hoverpods out of the way and tearing down the fences as it made its way around the first level of the cog.
Ten meters up. Twenty. Thirty. First level reached. Willard was urging the truck to go over its safety speed limits. The four tons of metal frame groaned. Something rattled in the backseats. Willard ignored it.
TIME!
Willard didn’t know why he was so anxious. Common sense told him they were already gone. Maybe he just wanted to confirm with his own eyes. But what if they’d gotten enough time to go underground? No. No, they wouldn’t.
A drop of fury rolled down his cheeks. Adrian could. Mother couldn’t. She wouldn’t be able to use her wheelchair. He had made certain of that.
I’ll never see her smile again.
SHUT UP.
Sixty meters. Seventy. Eighty. Second level reached. A lone energy arc connected with the snow on the third level, sending down an landslide of ice. Willard drove right through it.
I’m all alone now.
SHUT UP!
One hundred meters.
Suddenly, as if time had slowed, Willard felt himself being thrown to the left. At the same time, the sound of snow under the tires vanished. For several milliseconds the truck stayed gracefully suspended in the air, a brilliant arc of light through the cargo crate in the back tossing it into the air like a straw doll. Then everything came down to earth. The truck landed on its side, rolling several times before it crashed into the cog’s wall.
The last thing Willard saw before darkness enveloped him were cold, white snowflakes drifting through the broken windshield.