“The Irakari-Tol,” a hand drags across stone etched with sharp lines displaying a story on two dimensions. “Star Owl.” Three drones float backward as the man’s free hand swipes toward the floor. All three aim their lights across the wall to better illuminate the documented fable. “Sun Owl, if I’m being precise.” As one might graciously, and gently, touch a holy artifact, the man slides his skin over the dented and worn stone.
“Another tale of myths and monsters?” Soft humor, friendly and exhausted, comes from the darkness behind the drones. “I’ve not heard of this one. Irakari-Tol.” I’ll remember this one. Could be useful. Neither simple beast nor playful tale. Not something like this.
Staring at the carving, the creature stands nearly twenty meters tall along the wall of the tunnel. Massive wings stretch out in tethers like tapestries tying the bird to every aspect of life on the planet. Trees, mountains, animals, people… this owl encompasses, embraces, them all.
More like a crane of some sort. Is it an owl? Long neck, and… are there four feet? Quite the design. Imaginative peoples. Religious and superstitious.
“You haven’t heard the tales of Irakari-Tol? I’m positive you have.” The man within the light continues to study the piece. His eyes, dark orbs when not facing the drones, suddenly flash as he turns. Like looking at deep caverns of water, the bright shorelines slope gradually into the bottomless maw of the tunnels. A childish smile overtakes his face. “The Sun Owl’s one of the Praetors.
“Pillars of creation gifted to Rakar—”
“Icarus Alpha.” The voice in the darkness corrects.
“Yes, but here,” he glances over his shoulder at the beast. “My blood demands the name Rakar.” Golden eyes, twinkling ever so gently in the darkness, and waving hand signal permission, and the energetic storyteller continues. “From Almakamla, The Heart of Every Star, came these Praetors. Demi-gods of sorts to reshape the world and bless the faithful. Each with some manner of strength that set them above the common beasts of the Rakar.”
“There have been anything but common beasts here, Francestish.” The figure, walking into the light, slowly pushes his right hand through the silvery lengths of hair atop his head. Swiping it to the side, he feels the weight of the humidity fall from him in one of many meditative habits. Golden eyes, unnatural even among his bloodlines, flex like practiced warriors to adapt perfectly to the current level of light. “This beast… it connects to all life?”
“Indeed, Sir.” Francestish bows his head in a series of nods as he steps to his master’s side. Sharing a view with his commander, he breathes deeply of the moment. “A fascinating specimen, if ever it existed. It’s said the beat of the Sun Owl’s wings brought the crack of lightning.”
“Such a monstrous avian would require tremendous force to fly.”
“His eyes contained vast universes that twinkle with countless stars.”
“Nocturnal creature; likely possessing various adaptations for an extended spectrum of light. Advantageous for a hunter and scavenger.”
“Talons like Zurikan Steel.”
“Powerful predator. Among the specimens of Icarus, I’d assume a beast of this historical and cultural significance to be quite capable. The landscape possesses a particularly hard series of minerals. Perhaps tools meant for rending flesh as well as landscapes.”
“He could see into a man’s soul.” Francestish crosses his arms in pride as if he’s stumped his commander.
The silver-haired man scratches his chin as his golden eyes flash back and forth across the grand carving. Like a computer scanning, rescanning, analyzing, saving, and then organizing all aspects of the piece, the man nods and slides his hand through his hair again. His tongue clicks before he speaks. “See’s into a man’s soul? Or, does it connect to other beings?”
“The legends do say one could hear the beast in their mind.”
“Spark.” The man nods and continues to click his tongue in an even tune. “A creature capable of such a skill… interesting.” He knocks on the stone; satisfied with the outcome of both physical and cultural discovery. “A beast possessing the bloodline talent, or at least something similar to it, could be valuable. Alas,” the golden eyes turn toward Francestish, “fairytales do not provide me with viable specimens or data.”
“It does provide you an understanding of your people.”
“That it does,” he looks over the length of the bird’s wings like peninsulas sprawling over the map to bridge the divide between the five continents. Yet, the golden eyes notice how the tethers upon the southwest Potazel continent seem to spiral in a complex matrix. “Peoples praising a creature for its power and ability to connect to their minds. A most fascinating detail.” The golden eyes blink as if trying to remove the sparkle like flecks of sand from the iris. “One I’d have preferred to know earlier.
“No matter. I know it now.” And I will make good use of the information.
“I could tell you more of the Sun Owl’s story.” Francestish taps gently on the stone. “You’ve earned it, Sir. You’ve worked hard since approving our cultural outreach program. Excavating this area will surely ripple through the Icarians.”
“Civilized or Ravagers?” The silver-haired man grins like a cat at his subordinate.
“All will find this uncovered treasure as a sign of good things to come. The Sun Owl has always been a sign of unity and great fortune. When all are connected and hear its voice, then the people can be as one.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
All in one connection? That does sound like Spark. How Francestish’s eyes were alight in the dimmed tomb of this carved Sun Owl. Plain on his face, the wonder of such a subject binding all life with a single web of tethering feathers was infectious. Not that I could truly share in this. Yet, a smile spread across the man’s face to mimic the young Francestish’s expression. One cannot waste such an opportunity. Not when we’re so close.
“Shall I go retrieve the crew? We’ll want to block this area off so we can properly examine everything. We’ll want to know what tribes created this. It would be most beneficial to contact their elders to reveal it to them first. There might be more carvings of the other Praetors—”
“A fine showing of honor to the peoples responsible for this shared history.”
“Once we find the responsible tribe, they will hold high the title of Dominax and he that possesses it.” Francestish spins about with his arms wide as if to catch the faint breeze in the tunnel. As if he desires to embrace the very breath of Rakar, the man attempts to align himself properly. “Simora Nor-Noctlin! They’ll cheer it.” He turns and exhales with a dramatic shriek like several predators in the woodlands above. “Simora! Simora!”
“Have you not made the same claim at the last temple, construction, relocation, supply delivery, and even now at the most recent Reaping.” Simora Nor-Noctlin, a fine man of golden eyes, silver hair, and a style that makes him look more like a pious professor of forest and oceanic gods than a planet’s commanding voice, wiggles a finger in the air. “Every time I’m promised glory only to have half the peoples spit at the name you proclaim to be on the verge of hoisting beyond sight.”
It is a playful tone. No true concern in it, yet the accusation must be addressed.
“The people are a fickle audience, Dominax,” Francestish swings his arms about like a symphony’s conductor. “You can never please them all. A seesaw on a tightrope. Offers spilled about to one side or the other. Ravenous beasts cheer for more but only get fed when the other starves.”
“You recommend that I allow one side to starve?”
Francestish shrugs as he reexamines the carved stone of a sandy shine. “Starve might’ve been a strong word, but it could always come to that.”
Simora swipes his hand through his hair. “No one starves anymore.”
“I know you know what I mean.” Francestish grunts; knowing the Dominax plays with him. “Amelioration has done a great service to the people.”
Simora wriggles his fingers about, “And even that! Damned as devils are the minds of tomorrow. Witches and warlocks, all that manifest the future of their own will wield what feeble minds believe to be magic.” He mocks as he exaggerates a recent preacher’s words in the streets.
“Hence your standing with the Ravagers,” Francestish pulls back knowing the subject can churn a pleasant sky into a whirling storm. Today, the mention seems to merely tug at a humorous nerve within the Dominax’s body.
“Or lack thereof.” Simora Nor-Noctlin turns toward the drones. “You.” He points toward one. “Travel deeper into this tunnel. I want mineral and atmospheric samples. Any algae, copper, and energy sources. Recordings of all notable factors based on user preference: 001340.”
Buzzing and beeping signals confirmation and the accepted preference. The electronic voice, purposefully kept distinct from human vocals, responds, “Voice registration accepted. Retinal scan complete. DNA validated.” The small screen on the front of the drone becomes a shining, black background with a blue, knotted tree standing in the center. The edge of the knotted outer circle and a specific design within the tree are slightly more greened to make the vertical infinity sign more distinguishable. “For house Nor-Noctlin.” The machine’s harsh emphasis on the prefix to the surname makes Simora’s shoulders roll with quiet clicks.
“Yes, yes.” Simora waves it off as he turns to look into the darkness behind him. Different routes of carved stone through a temple, village, or some other uncertain structures and architecture. His golden eyes contort as the blackened center spreads in a more oval style than his companion’s might. “Take that route, first.” He points toward one with inscriptions above an archway.
Likely some sort of inner temple. From the symbols, he studies at a distance through the dark, it may contain some relic or information from the tribe. Knowing the modern dialects and alphabets of the Icarians, he attempts to tie any of the symbols within his view to the known tribes. Bordana? Illapadan? Perhaps, the Shalazan? He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. Energy best reserved for more pressing matters of the present.
“Francestish,” Simora notions toward the carving that his subordinate seems unable to resist. “When you’re done obsequiously tending to the Sun Owl, gather the crew. I’d have secrets brought to the light of day.” Simora begins to walk the known trail that leads to the uncovered entrance. “Pay the farmer for his discovery.”
“The usual rate?”
Simora stopped his exit as he thought over the possible routes these paths could take. Unfurling what is potential, the helix of life blooms with Born—a specialized Spark.
Of the various opportunities and routes yet to be taken, risks of the certain and uncertain are weighed. For such a simple situation, one might believe, there needn’t be excess energy applied to the outcome. Yet, as Simora’s eyes flicker about at invisible markings and probabilities, he clicks his tongue gently in a soothing rhythm.
Studying snippets of events playing out like recorded holograms atop individual shards of glass, Simora examines the benefit, the size, the clarity, distortions, word choice, edges to the glass, movements of the subjects, length of the vision, locations, smells, emotions… the overwhelming nature of this unrefined ability steals away the soul’s breath. Only a day or two ahead. That’s the extent of years of training.
Unclear. Unpleasant. Unyielding and uncaring. The mind opens toward all possibilities. Every detail constructed from that which is known to be known, known to be unknown, unknown to be known, and unknown to be unknown. The biological computations struggles to resists the torrential flood of information and outcomes. Yet, the Dominax subjects himself.
Even the slightest chance.
“Pay him quadruple the rate.” His breath is uneven, and he clicks his tongue between short huffs. Only a second or two of silence before his answer.
“Sir?” Francestish calls out to him, peeling his eyes from the Sun Owl.
“I want the tribe responsible for this to see the care we’ve taken. The farmer’s goodwill, the communal discussion, the striving citizens seeking more. I see no downfall to this but the additional cost. Reaping will come soon, and the coffers will again be filled.”
Nodding, listening to the soft clicks of his Dominax, the man shrugs. “Sure. Quadruple it is.”
A waste of energy. A few more clicks of the tongue and a swipe of the hand through the hair. Simora steps into the brightened light of Icarus Alpha. His golden eyes swell until the darkness of his pupils all but disappear. He clicks his tongue and proceeds down through the overgrowth toward his guard. There’s important work to be done.