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Kale
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Chapter One: Ulima
Galactic Quadrant: Darna Quadrant
Ruling Government: Republic of Hekat
Solar System: D-447
Planet: Ora
Location: Upon the sands of the desert
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I never understood people’s fascination with their gods, as by the time I was twelve, I stopped believing in Hempki, the god of my tribe. Now that I have watched the twin suns set for seventeen years, I see it for what it is—a salve to despair. In the seventeen years since my birth, I have heard stories of people making pacts with their gods to obtain great power, but I do not believe these tales for children. I believe in what I can see. If there were gods, they have long since left this place of suffering.
Sweat trickles from my brow onto the sand, which greedily sucks it into the depths of its embrace. Behind me I drag an empty bag, one I must fill to meet a quota. The quota that increases every day—the never-ending gift of my birth. Born under the boot of the masters, I'm fated to toil until my final breath. There is strength in this though, hardship has a way of sharpening us.
The heat from the twin stars beats down on me. It is strange how we always hope for the chill of night, only when the sun's rays fill us. When the suns set on the horizon, the chill seeping into our bones, we will wish for the warmth to return. We people are fickle creatures, always running towards that which we do not truly seek.
Dragging my feet through the thick sand of the desert, fickle thoughts are all that keep my mind's thirst at bay. A hundred meters in front of me, two hundred behind, there are scores of boots pulling the bodies that claim them. Every day we must do this, the moment the twin suns crest the horizon, we have already walked for an hour or more.
As I walk, I feel a shoulder knock into mine. Hate upon the face of the one who did it. It is Neeba, the son of my tribe's chief. As he passes, he opens his mouth to speak.
"Ulima," Neeba says to me, in the old tongue of our people. His eye is still swollen from our sparring match. He is always angry when he loses.
The word does not bother me, I have heard it many times. Walking from my shadow now, I see a boy my age. A grin cresting his face.
“He still seems upset,” Arrum says with a chuckle.
I nod to him. It is not the first time I have beaten Neeba. As Arrum and I are the best of our age, we must be, we are both orphans. The need to succeed is not for accolades, it is for survival.
"Be careful today," Arrum begins, lowering his voice "There will be blood. There were little scraps left yesterday."
My jaw flexes, there is always blood on days like these.
A thousand meters into the sky, the wreckage of an old destroyer juts into the air. It came down from the skies during the Great War hundreds of years ago. We have scoured this ship for months now, ripping from its corpse all things of value to bring back to our tribes. The masters will buy what they deem worthy during market week. They come from the great flying cities of this barren planet, glittering in the sky with polished metal—the same that we collect with our blood for them.
This ship will be an empty husk when we finish with it, and then the cities of the masters will send the Carvers. They will cut the frame and bring it to the ‘Arasha’ as we call them, the people who melt and shape the things they build their cities with. As we get closer to the ship the pace quickens, people know there may not be enough for everyone today.
“We need to hurry Kale,” Arrum says to me. Our pace increasing further now.
The journeys have been getting longer lately. In the nights, as we rest our weary bones, I hear it in whispers, not everyone will make the passage to a new land.
Along the trail, I follow that which thousands of feet like mine have. Off the path carved in sand lay people, those who can walk no further. We do not look upon them, even as some beg weakly for help, we simply march past them with our eyes low. Most do not beg, they know no mercy awaits them. It is not cruelty we give them, it is a necessity. If we carry them, we will fall behind, not making the quota, if we do not make the quota we will not eat, if we do not eat, we will be along the trail with them before long.
Those who are close to the end do the honorable thing, leaving in the night, so those they care for do not carry themselves to the grave as well. It is known as the ‘Jukora Talen-Ben’ in the old tongue of my people, it means - to walk and meet your gods.
"Almost there." Arrum says, there is anticipation building in him.
I nod to him and quicken my step, we pass by people trying to get to the front of the line of thousands of souls. Arrum is my best friend, perhaps my only real friend. We have been each other’s family since before his parents died. They had taken me in until I could procure my own quota, a kindness rarely seen among my people. He is the one person I would not look away from, if he were to lay on the side of the trail, I would carry him, even if it meant to the grave.
After a time we catch up with our group. My tribe's leader looks back at us, beginning to speak.
“Keep the pace,” Nekam says. He is Arrum’s uncle by way of his father. A strong, but fair man, one that holds the respect of many other tribe leaders.
Behind him, I see his son Neeba. He gives me a look with a clenched jaw and turns towards the looming ship.
We are a thousand meters from the ship. The pace now becoming a jog, thousands of feet pattering in the sand, the desperation building. I look at Arrum and he nods to me. We know the journey today will be difficult. We are used to this struggle, it has molded us from birth until now.
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When we are a hundred meters from the ship, the pace becomes a sprint, everyone pushing and shoving, trying to get into the hole on the side of the ship. It is always like this on the last days of salvage. Some will fall in the commotion, trampled to death by their own people, those who do not get their fill will fight those who did. Tonight and the days that follow will be filled with blood as the hunger rises.
“Stay close, do not fall behind,” Nekam says to us all, his breath is calm and even.
We make it to the ship now, jumping aboard, following behind Arrum’s uncles and their children old enough to do the walk. Among them, I see Nevari, my tribe leader's only daughter. The wind from the holes in the ship whips at her hair. She glances over at me for a brief moment, my gaze turns away, better to not incur her father's anger before the climb.
The ship near the entrance is completely hollow, the panels of floor removed so we can walk swiftly upon the metal skeleton. Anything that could have been removed from here has been already, so we must climb to the top of the ship, raiding the last compartments.
The climb is dangerous, so we use ropes and help each other. Arrum and I are thrown above to the beams of metal, by the men of our tribe, because we are Ulima - 'The Forsaken' in the old tongue. They call orphans and outcasts by this. Some use it as an insult, like Neeba, but I have grown to embrace it, as being Ulima has made me more aware of everything. Being Ulima has helped me survive.
We catch the bars and tie the rope from around our waist to the beam, so they can climb it. It will take the better part of the day to reach the summit; on our way down people will try to steal from us to save the trip to the top, which is why being in a group is important. Without a tribe, you will not last. Without a tribe, you will surely die among my people.
It is said of my people - the Kuwathi as we are known, that we are born with a knife in hand, learning to use it before we can even say our mother’s name. With the little energy we have left after the day is over, we will practice with dulled blades, learning how to kill those who would take from us. Not because we want to kill, but because we must.
My arms are burning now from the climb; we are close to the top of the ship and my hands are trembling from the exertion. I look over and see Arrum panting, sweat flowing from his brow.
“We are almost there Arrum, keep the pace,” I say, looking down below, seeing many follow our path.
I can also see Neeba, he is struggling to finish the climb, more so than his half-sister Nevari. I reach my hand down to help him up. He swats it away, the veins in his face thicken, and the iris in each of his eyes begin to glow dully.
“I… don’t need your help, Ulima.” He growls at me, spit flying from his chapped lips.
Nekam grabs his arm, yanking him up, looking at him him sternly, and for a moment I think I see anger on his face, but a calmness washes over him.
“Control your emotions.” He says to Neeba, pointing to his eyes.
All Kuwathi are born with eyes that glow with bioluminescence, it happens when they experience extreme emotions: fear, pain, sadness and anger are the most common. It is considered shameful to let them glow without purpose. We Kuwathi, pride ourselves on control over our minds, and the emotions inside us. Neeba has never been good at controlling his emotions, much to the annoyance of his father. Nevari gives her brother a glance, then me. Her eyebrow raises for but a moment.
As an Ulima, I always hide my glow deep within.
“Sorry, Father,” Neeba says, giving him a small bow; the glow fades from his eyes, the veins sinking back.
I wipe my brow, getting ready for the next throw. Two of the men throw me a few meters above them, I grab the bar—barely able to pull myself up now. I almost lose my footing as I stand, peering over the edge; I can see we are hundreds of meters in the air now. After fastening my rope around the beam I move towards Arrum, helping him up.
“Finally,” Arrum says, seeing we are at the top; the beams now closer together, letting us move without ropes.
Looking around now, I see upended panels and start cutting wires, and chunks of metal with my small laser cutter, it is a tool our people use to shear thin metals. When children come of age they are given a cutter by the masters of the great cities. In a pinch, it is as good as a knife.
Stripping the last panel by me, my bag now swollen from my labor, almost unable to fit more, I move closer to Arrum. Stuffing as much as my bag can hold. Being an orphan and not of their blood, I am expected to bring more than others for our tribe. Blood is everything to the Kuwathi - if you do not share theirs, you must give yours.
My bag is filled now, I help Arrum to fill his. When finished, we wait for the others by a hole near the top of the ship. The heat from the uninsulated metal around the blast hole is sweltering, making my vision blurry.
“Everyone is ready?” my tribe's leader, Nekam, asks. He has a scar over his left eye, and little shoots of grey fill his beard. Everyone nods to him and he motions us to follow.
We all remove our ropes and begin tying them together; Nekam comes and checks every knot with extreme diligence. His eyes move over the strands as he checks for frays, his calloused hands feel them carefully until he is satisfied.
He fastens the rope around the beam and then selects the first to go. We number twenty-seven people. He lets four go down at a time until we are less than ten. Now is the danger, our numbers are small, bigger groups may try to attack us for our bags. Nekam looks around, holding his cutter in one hand, in the other a long knife with many notches carved into it. Each notch a man he has slain with it.
Nevari comes to the gaping hole in the ships side, grabbing the rope, she looks back at me before climbing downwards. Her brother comes now to the hole.
“Neeba, check the device,” Nekam says to his firstborn.
Neeba gives me a look of irritation, then checks the contraption on my back. We have never gotten along, even as young boys. Like Arrum and me, he is almost eighteen. Almost a man by the standards of the Kuwathi, and yet I can’t help but feel he is childish. He has always had trouble controlling himself. If he were Ulima, and his father not the leader of our tribe, I am sure he would already be dead.
I feel him tug on the metal box on my back, and then he nods to his father, giving me one last look as he goes, descending the rope. I think I saw a grin on his face, but the air is too heavy and hot to see clearly. I push it from my mind to focus on my task.
“You know what to do,” Nekam says, nodding to me as he grabs my bag to carry down with him.
The risk is lower now that he has descended with it, as I have nothing of value to give, besides my cutter and gear; still, I do not lose focus as danger can come from anywhere. I look down and see he is halfway now. There are hundreds of people around me pulling the little scraps from the ship now, the fervor intensifying as more pile in. On the edge of the platform, boots are stepping on the hands of climbers, keeping them down until others finish their quota. They do like we do, descending the holes of the ship. Everyone eyeing each other, keeping their bags close, their knives closer still.
Looking down again, Nekam is at the bottom, I waste no time cutting the rope. Now crawling out of the ship, grabbing pieces of metal to climb to the very top as I must. When I reach the top I take a moment, looking out upon the desert, the people look so small from up here. Looking across the landscape, towards the horizon, I see a storm in the distance, miles away. We will have to be quick on our return or be consumed by it.
I close my eyes, taking in a deep breath, checking the contraption on my back with my hands. Running as fast as I can towards the edge, I leap with all my might to distance myself from the ship. The air rushes past me and my heart beats quicker now. Reaching back and pulling the cord once I am far enough away from the ship. Nothing happens. I pull again, harder this time, the cord pulls free, the end cut cleanly. I blink fast, the ground coming quickly as I rip off the contraption and see the problem. My heart sinks as I see the emergency cord has also been cut.
There is no time to think about the how or why. Using my blade, I pry the back off, my heart pounding out of my chest. A plume of shimmering fabric erupts from it, making a parachute. I can’t let go to guide the chute, so I spin wildly in the air. The ship is coming towards me quickly as a draft of wind pushes me towards it. There is nothing I can do to stop it as I slam into it. My shoulder dislocates with a loud popping noise, pain shooting through my mind. The chute tears on a piece of metal protruding from the ship, coming to a halt and slamming me against the hull again, this time knocking me out cold.