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Kalon
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Chapter Twenty-Seven: Jukora Talen-Ben
Galactic Quadrant: Darna Quadrant
Ruling Government: Talum Merchant Federation
Solar System: D-447
Planet: Ora
Location: Planet’s Surface, Frozen Tundra Near Naro City
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Two Weeks Later
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It has been two weeks since Nekam told everyone of his plan, though I do not think he revealed all, he never does. Two weeks since the black box came into my possession. The blue-haired woman still has not returned to the market. Since she left, more guards have been posted, and more drones now patrol the lower city.
A few days after Korra enacted the last phase of the plan, the Dorasi Clan fell in a single night, one moment they were there, and the next, just like in the mines with the lurkers, they were gone. Dekarn managed to bribe five tribes to join us before that happened, swelling our ranks to twenty tribes now. To my surprise, no one betrayed Nekam, not even Henek’s cousins who now lead Barnak’s blooded tribes. Perhaps the words of Barnak stayed their blade. Or perhaps they bide their time. Nekam still has not taken the stain of Ulima from Arrum and I. Though he told us soon. We do not say it openly, but we wonder if he speaks the truth.
When everything finally settled, we joined the other Clans on the surface. Our first days were a struggle. We were left with the old and damaged equipment, many of us having to share tools and wear thermosuits that do not fit us well. Leading to the bitter cold of the surface seeping in. We expected this though, being late means you have the last pick. The discomfort of the cold will not be life-threatening until we reach the final month of summer. When winter comes, those with improper suits will not be able to continue. This fact is a constant reminder for us to pick up the pace.
There are many faces amongst our group that I do not know well. Instead of holding another proving and wasting more precious days, Nekam ordered that all tribes will share equally the riches we gather. It is both wise and foolish. Wise because only the best fighters are with us. Making us formidable even in smaller numbers. Foolish because if we fail to meet the quota, the blame will fall upon his head alone. This season will make or break our Clan, all of us feel the pressure.
The snow patters down to the ground, creating a fresh film, it crunches under my thick boots and the ice beneath. The frigid wind blows against the cracks in my garb covered in heavy furs, reminding me I am still alive. Thoughts of questions that I cannot find answers to often fill my mind on these long journeys. My people travel through the frozen wasteland of the endless tundra almost daily in search of what the masters require. The surface of my planet is not suitable for all to walk, only some can survive her fury. If she does not swallow you into her depths, then the creatures that lurk in the shadows of her night surely will.
Slung on my shoulder I carry two empty bags, one I must fill to meet a quota, the other my Clan will be allowed to keep. The quota increases every day—the never-ending gift of my birth. Born under the boot of the ones above, my Clan and I are fated to toil until our final breaths. There is strength in this though, hardship has a way of sharpening us. They say that the quota is to pay the ones above the City Chief, the ones we call Arasha, they are the lowest caste of the masters. The Sage, before he died told me this is only partly true, he said the City Chief takes more than they ought.
As my feet pound the ground towards my destination fickle thoughts are all that keep my mind's thirst at bay. A hundred paces 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 and the night creatures scurry back into the shadows we begin our walk. Often, we see streaks of blood upon the ice from those whom night claimed. The ones who fall on the trail and do not return before the twin suns set. Soon the blood will be buried in another layer of fresh snow, the only proof it was there, the ones who remember the lost. We are grateful to be here though, despite the danger, it is better than the mines.
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As I walk, I feel a shoulder knock into mine. Disdain grips the gait of the one who did it. It is Neeba, I can tell from his attire and the way he moves, even under the mask I can always tell.
"Ulima," Neeba growls over the wind.
When I saw him this morning, his body was still bruised from the beating his father gave him for sleeping during guard duty. His father did not let him have it healed, he wanted him to feel the punishment. Walking from my shadow now, I see Arrum. His gait I would recognize anywhere. Confident yet reserved.
“He still seems upset,” Arrum says with a chuckle between gusts of wind.
I nod to him.
"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. We have been fortunate so far to lose only one in two weeks. Such cannot be said for the other Clans. Those with more spots than us send their people in droves. Most of them are subordinates to larger Clans who do not risk their own.
In the distance, the wreckage of an old destroyer juts high into the air before us. It came down from the skies during the Great War more than a thousand years ago. We have scoured this spaceship for weeks now, ripping from its corpse all things of value to bring back to our Clans. The masters will buy what they deem worthy during market week. They come from the great flying cities of this barren ice planet, glittering in the sky with polished metals—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 Arasha before winter can smother it in ice and snow once more. The Arasha will cut the frame and bring it to the Dwartha as we call them, the people who melt and shape the things they build their cities with. I have seldom seen them, but the Sage told Arrum and me many stories of their craftsmanship. It was their hands that built the masters' cities.
As we get closer to the ship the pace quickens, people know there may not be enough for everyone today.
“We need to hurry Kalon,” Arrum says to me. Our pace increasing further now.
The journeys have been getting longer each year. More than double the first time I walked with the surface crew, years ago. In the nights, as we rest our weary bones, I hear it in whispers, we will not make enough this season, most will have to go to the mines deep below, despite Nekam’s promises. My jaw tenses just thinking about it. The creatures in the depths haunt even the most hardened in their nightmares.
Along the trail, I follow that which thousands of feet like mine have. Off the path carved in fresh snow lay people, those from other Clans who can walk no further. Some of them came without surface chits, not able to get thermosuits. 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 be along the trail with them before long.
Some of those upon the trail are the old and sick. Among my people, those who are close to the end do the honorable thing, walking far into the tundra, so far that they cannot change their minds and return. They do this 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, 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. He is one of the few that 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 our grave. As I know he would do the same.
After a time, Arrum and I catch up with our group. The brothers Haki and Daki follow close behind us. They have seldom left our side since we helped them. Even helping us finish our quota which is more, since we are still Ulima. Arrum has still not warmed to them though. He will in time, I hope.
“Keep the pace,” Nekam says.
Over the last two weeks, my thoughts have settled more, though a lingering thought keeps crossing my mind. He said we will rise to the inner city, I wonder if his aspirations end there. One can never know what others truly aspire for. Behind him I see Nevari, she does not look at me. She has not since she found out I remained Ulima. There is bitterness in her still, I do not blame her.
We are a thousand paces from the ship. The pace now becoming a jog, thousands of feet pattering like the snow upon the ice, 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.
When we are a hundred paces from the ship, the pace becomes a sprint, everyone pushing and shoving, trying to get into the hole in the side of the ship. It is always like this on the last days of a ship’s 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. Only the inner Clans sleep with full bellies. The price of rations always rises in the summer months. It is few that can afford to stockpile during the harsh winter.
“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 others from our Clan.
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, the brothers, and I are thrown above to the beams of metal, because we are Ulima.
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 Clan, you will not last. Without a Clan, you will surely die among my people.