Flock
(For the reader's purposes, this translation has been altered for a(n) [American/English human]'s frame of reference, as to not create unnecessary misunderstandings and untranslatable jargon.)
Wahasha lifted her arm, wafting the sickening-sweet smell of sweat toward her nostrils. She then quickly lowered it and scrunched her face, wondering when it was that she last had fish for dinner. Never fish for lunch or breakfast. Only dinner. There were standards. She slipped her hand back under the folds of her robe- a large garment that made her look twice as wide as she would without it, but something entirely necessary for the extended stay out this far in the L'hinea desert highlands. Her worry creased her face as she looked across the dunes. None of the waterseekers had returned. Not a cloud remained in the sky, a sure sign that her friends would have trouble finding anything to drink. Already mid morning, her silent discomfort only burrowed deeper.
Her job as a watcher was simple. First objective? Be exceedingly huge. At this, she excelled, being taller and stronger than almost every one of her own tribespeople for iops around, and could easily give other watchers a run for their honor. Second? Protect the flock. The first objective was almost always a given- one had to be tall, even for a L'hinea, which is anywhere between 9-12 feet tall, of which she was on the side closer to 12. This made it easier for her to see over the red dunes that surrounded her on all sides, like the viscous sedimentary blood of a fallen giant. Strength was also important- an empty waterseeker isn't nearly as heavy as a full one, and she had to carry 15-20 on any given day.
She took a drink from her hip flask. She'd managed to keep it well above the level she'd marked as "danger- 300" and just below the "danger- 400" marking. She'd mapped out the distances on her previous treks into the unforgiving ocean of sand that lay before her. She trudged along, looking for signs of her seekers. The signs could be anything ranging from shed skin to damp spots in the sand, both of which could mean something unfortunate may have transpired. She scanned the sky above her again, making sure to watch for any would-be assailants. These would be the massive tonkai, vulture-like beasts with predatory tendencies. The seekers would be able to fight back, but it was better not to risk any of them being hurt.
Her gait was slow and lumbering, in an attempt to save as much energy as possible. Her heavy robe almost rivaled her rifle in weight- she carried with her a piece akin to an anti-tank gun, a weapon that would normally have to be set up on the ground to be usable by anyone else. She prayed to Balmorra she wouldn't be forced to use it today, as more sweat beaded on her forehead, not for the heat, but of nervous exhaustion. She suddenly stopped. In front of her was a rocky cliff face she hadn't seen before. She groaned. Just more work to map it later, she thought to herself as she continued around the outcropping.
As she reached the other side, a smell other than her sweat caught her attention. It smelled of a certain dampness, not unlike that of a carpet wet with sweet-scented soap. Finally. Her angst was replaced by relief as the first of her waterseekers floated lazily into view.
She wondered how strange she would look to anyone not familiar with the symbiotic relationship the L'hineans and seekers shared. She took a moment to identify it. Its long, dainty limbs hung off of a surprisingly supple body, with strong thighs and well toned upper torso. Not nearly as tall as Wahasha, if it were standing on the ground, it would be roughly up to her crotch. Its most striking feature was its face. This one's was soft, flat, white, and almond shaped, with two holes where one's cheeks would normally be located. No mouth, nose, or ears were present. Lines of black flesh etched up from these dark pits toward a set of large, slanted red eyes. No pupils or irises were present, as was typical of this seeker's bloodline, hailing from the northernmost regions of L'hinea. The flagella, characteristic of most Ausran, was replaced with long, wide ribbons of lightly colored skin, which draped from its head and wrapped around its body like a poncho. Its slender legs ended in nubs of light-tan flesh. Each seeker has mild psionic powers, allowing them to direct energy through their bodies to keep afloat in the air. This is on top of the fact that they are incredibly light, weighing in at a marvelous 17-24 pounds unladen. With water, it was a different story. This seeker was "full", its normally well-muscled belly region mildly distended, its water bladders stretched slightly to make room for more liquid.
It was so full that it seemed to lurch, even in the air. It floated semi-gracefully to Wahasha, putting its next-to-featureless face to hers in a gesture of gratitude and affection.
"Fyse. You cute little bread-face," she crooned, cupping her hands around the seeker's downy face and lightly kneading, much to its apparent satisfaction, as it made a sound not unlike leaves rustling in the wind. Fyse wriggled herself free and used her spindly hands to crawl over Wahasha's back. She pulled on a hidden string, releasing the latch hidden deep within her robes. Metal and wood clanked together as a contraption sprung from Wahasha's back. A large circle with 20 holes, each made of a doughy substance similar to that of Fyse's face, were present within a frame of thick wood and thin metal struts for support against the watcher's robe. The size of the robe allowed Wahasha to have a decent range of motion while carrying her cargo- it wasn't just for looks. Fyse crawled inside one of the holes, perfectly sized for her then plumpish body, and closed her eyes.
Wahasha reached her hand back into the squishy canvas sack, playing around with its pudgy new occupant as it made occasional swishing noises. "Tired already? That's fine. I'll do the heavy lifting for now," she assured her pint-sized companion.
As this transpired, more waterseekers appeared on the horizon. Some were full, whiles others weren't nearly as much. Wahasha paused to watch them approach. A few had the same facial components as Fyse, but other seeker bloodlines were present. Some had a head that was more egg shaped, their flag-like skin ribbons wrapped like a scarf around the lower half of their black faces, with smaller, less pronounced orange-almond eyes peering over the folds. She knew that under those wraps lay two cheek holes, much like Fyses. One more was horned, a more exotic bloodline from a far-away desert isle, with a rounder black face and the same big red eyes that Fyse flashed in its direction. Wahasha watched the horned seeker closely.
"Hei-hei-za," she motioned toward it. "Come here."
Hei-hei-za looked at her wearily. She sighed. This seeker was the second most recent addition to her flock, and the least experienced. As a fairly young seeker, she posed a bit of a threat to the older ones, since she wouldn't have as much an issue finding a mate among the village inhabitants, should she have chosen to do so. She floated silently to the watcher, not breaking eye contact. Her belly wasn't as distended as the others. While they playfully shared water between each other in the back, Hei-hei-za had made the choice not to mingle. She noticed an anxious aura around the horned seeker, as it broke her gaze for a second to glance back at the others, then quickly back toward her. Wahasha put her hand on Hei-hei-za's coarser head, gently massaging her. She tensed at first under her hand, but then slowly pushed her head into it and let out a crinkling sound, like paper being crumpled in a warm fire.
"Go ahead." Wahasha gestured her thumb over her shoulder and toward Fyse. "Don't worry yourself over this grump. She's just jealous." She smiled at Hei, who in turn chattered lightly back and turned to join the majority of the flock.
It was almost hypnotic watching the seekers tumble through the air. Heavy mist showered from their cheek holes, while other seekers floated through the fog clouds and absorbed them into themselves, sharing equally the fruits of the night's labor until all were full. Wahasha chuckled to herself. This was always the funniest part, watching a bunch of fat little angels waft around in spit clouds without any real sense of style- it's not easy to levitate oneself gracefully on a full bladder, but it is quite entertaining to watch, and entrancingly so.
As the rest of the seekers settled into their respective pouches, Wahasha took a quick second to count them. She'd come out here with 18 waterseekers, and she was missing two. She knew exactly which ones before she'd finished counting. Feeling heavier, she turned back toward the far dune. Minutes passed as she felt her passengers settle comfortably into place, but there was still no sign of the last two seekers. She began to worry again. The smell of her perspiration had grown stronger up to this point; she thanked the gods that her companions had no true sense of smell, or else they would be treated to the rancid scent of rotten vegetables mixed with 6-month-old moldy socks, and for good reason. The last she had a shower was three days before she'd left. Her eyes watered as she searched the horizon, making her vision hazy enough without the help of the sweltering heat.
She spotted her last two seekers a short minute later, alleviating her of her unease. She knew these two well. Kotra was of a southern bloodline, a dome-headed seeker with a cheerful personality. Her lameness was not a result of her nature, but rather of a weakened psionic ability to keep herself afloat, costing her speed and often alignment. Her sluggish pace was expected. She never collected enough water- all the other seekers would beat her to it, and she would be too late to make the water exchanging ritual. Although she was well loved by the other seekers, she would almost always be the last to return. She moved lackadaisically to sit on Wahasha's broad shoulder and rest her head in her patch of satin-skinned flagella.
Palahi was a different situation altogether. Her northern almond face was marred by a single black scar, going from above her left eye all the way down to her right cheek. Her back was in equally ragged condition, covered in pitch-colored old lesions. Wahasha had employed her after an ill-advised and contentious trade with a nomadic group called the Hendija. She didn't know much about them. What was apparent to her was their distaste for seekers, and their ironic reliance on them. They didn't treat their seekers with the respect afforded to all the sentient races, instead torturing and imprisoning them. Their connections with the Jusanek were equally apparent, judging by the crest upon their caravan. She didn't like to use the word "buy" when referring to Palahi. Money was exchanged, but only out of concern for the law- if she had her way, the nomads would be flogged. She couldn't bear to look at such a tortured soul in the hands of those that sought to harm for personal gain rather than nurture for the same reward. Palahi's past still weighed heavy on her shoulders; she was taught how to collect water on a leash, and to collect competitively, or else she would be beaten with gods-know-what, seemingly anything within arms reach of her captors.
She advanced, a strained whimpering escaping her as she half-tumbled through the air. It was obvious to Wahasha that she was experiencing extreme discomfort. She was exceptionally swollen, her tight skin almost translucent.
"Oh, gods," she said, and gave an exasperated groan.
Wahasha walked forward to meet her, her arms outstretched to catch the distressed waterseeker, should they fall. It was standard procedure at this point to her. Every time she'd gone out with Palahi, she'd overindulge and refuse to share, such as she was instructed most of her life. Wahasha practiced the same method with younger seekers, who themselves were often prone to binging and competing with one another. As Palahi drifted into cradle of her right arm, Wahasha used her left to position Kotra directly in front of her. No water could be wasted- there had to be a perfect shot. She poked at Palahi a bit, ignoring the quiet-yet-high-pitched whines of protest.
"I'm sorry, sponge-head. You know I have to do this." She situated her arms underneath Palahi's thighs, allowing her to sit on her forearm as she placed the other atop her bloated water bladder. Although she vocalized her discomfort, she didn't struggle. She had accepted Wahasha's help for once, a point which the watcher gladly took note of. "You'll be fine, soft-sweet. Just hold Kotra's hand..."
Kotra grasped Palahi's palm as Wahasha gave a firm squeeze. Instead of a thick mist, Palahi's cheeks let loose a wide spray water as her red eyes went wide with shock. Kotra caught as much of the sudden discharge as she could, using her ribbons to capture any mist that happened to miss her body. Every droplet mattered out in the desert, as all in the group were well aware of.
Kotra, looking significantly fuller, happily appropriated her own pouch and went to sleep. Palahi carefully freed herself from Wahasha's hold. "See? You're getting better about it. You didn't gorge yourself nearly as much as last time." Palahi crossed her arms, as it was now within her comfort to do so. Her thin fingers gestured in sign language to say 'I hope you had fun. I didn't. No one likes to be wrung out like a wet rag.'
Wahasha kneaded Palahi's shoulders and chuckled. Although waterseekers couldn't speak, she'd heard stories of those who gotten close enough to their flock or mate and been able to hear them talk. Some male villagers had claimed to hear their waterseeker spouses' voice. Rumors always have a habit of spreading, though, she thought to herself. One day, she might find out. Or it wasn't true and she already knew. Either way, she was happy with her job, and content with their preferred form of communication, which happened to be Eskan sign language.
Taking her by the arm, Wahasha lifted Palahi over her shoulder and placed her in the pouch right behind her head. She then licked her finger, holding it to the sky to find a favorable wind. It was ironic to her that her favorite part of the journey was always prior to the worst part: the long trek back home. Traveling from the town wasn't so bad, but going back, she had to account for the increased weight of her living cargo. Every once in a while, her companions would relieve her of some of that weight, leaving their pouches to frolic and shake out all their extra energy, but it was little help. If she wanted to, she could set down her rifle, which would definitely reduce her load, but she wouldn't have access to a weapon if she needed one. She sighed and turned back toward the outcropping. The wind always blows from the sea to the mountains, she thought as she kept her finger raised over her head.
A breeze piqued her sense of touch, and she was off. It had taken several days to make it as far as she had, but the trip back had no stops; just a straight shot toward a warm bed and... and... Kehme. Wahasha blushed at the thought. She hadn't picked out a gift yet. He would be hers. She knew it. The way he always helped her tend the seekers, his kind smile, his graceful gait- and most of all, what he told her when she left. He said he'd wait for her. He spoke to her! Males didn't speak to her often, but he did! She caught herself salivating at the thought of him without his robes. Thoughts like these helped her on the heaviest parts of the trek, as they would distract her from her own bodily limitations. She wiped the spittle from her cheek and ignored the nagging, incessant pang of reality in the recesses of her mind, poured a bit of water from her canteen to cool off the metal implants on her forehead, and with the water level edging closer and closer to the "danger- 300" mark, carried on.
. . .
The smell of her own bodily fluids would have been overpowering to anyone else. Thankfully, no one else with a nose was anywhere in sight. Wahasha had gotten used to her scent- it tended to happen towards the end of the journey, or at least until she reached a working mud bath. Using the seeker's water was too risky, as it isn't just water- the cocktail of nutrients created in their bladders would keep a whole village of tradespeople running for months without much food to supplement themselves. It was too great a commodity to abuse in something like a shower or bathtub. She'd only been to Beljensik twice, and in one of its famed bathhouses once; in her opinion, it was little to write home about, and it made her feel like a fine coat of adhesive had been applied to her lower half (she remembered that she had been too tall to fit in the communal tub, so she had to sit up the whole time while her friends splashed about in what she could only assume was water that hadn't been cycled properly in 4 years). The mud bath felt so much better to her. It cleansed the skin, the pores, the cilia- oh! especially the cilia- and it didn't leave her feeling like she'd bathed in glue, oddly enough. She supposed it was all about upbringing. Her mother had raised her, alongside her one surviving brother, bathing entirely in the hot mud pits nearby her home village. When those would bi-annually dry up, she was taught to take a sand-bath. It wasn't nearly as effective, or as much fun, but it did help to mask the stench and make her feel slightly, if at all, cleaner. She'd heard of "showers," a bath that was taken while standing, like under a waterfall or a heavy rain. She'd have to try that out sometime- after, of course, she found out what heavy rain felt like. She snorted, imagining herself trying to fit inside the tiny rooms she'd seen in the advertisements buried in her digi-magazines she'd buy from wandering traders. That was if she could even fit within the dwellings- she reasoned that she'd more than likely get her ass stuck in the front door frame before even getting near the showering room. Her laughter seemed to echo back to her across the wide expanse laid out before her as she plodded along.
She held her canteen to the sun, attempting to gauge the water level. She normally could tell how much was left simply by feeling the weight of the bottle in her hands, but her arm had gone numb from the weight of her passengers on the straps under her massive robe, so that method of measurement was spotty at best. It was below the 300 mark. She'd adapted to being short on liquids, but she knew she had about 250 iops* to travel, based on her surroundings- she'd recognized one of her landmarks, a rock outcropping with a white flag shoved into one of its crevasses, not a few minutes before, and she'd walked 200 iops. Although she wasn't under much pressure most of the time, her town needed this water as soon as possible. She could survive on just the water left in the canteen, but she might have to rest more than 2 nights. She could only walk so far in the 28 hour day, and not having enough water would make for a slower return, and another possible rest. At her normal pace, she could walk 114 iops in 19 hours. Without water, she would be slow enough to cost her precious time that she could be spending with Kehme... She shook herself out of a love-addled stupor yet again, recalculating the times in her head. This, she thought, would not do.
Wahasha reached behind her head to harass one of the seeker pouches. She told herself she didn't care which, but that wasn't true; she would much rather poke a seeker that would converse with her to distract her from a building pain in her legs, than one that would simply retreat back into its hole as soon as it had fulfilled her request. Her prodding bore fruit soon enough. A southern bloodline seeker soon poked their head over the lip of the carrying circle. She looked up to see which passenger she'd roused. She recognized this one as Lek, one of the more mature seekers. Lek blinked and revealed her hands.
"You needed something?" Lek signed. If she was agitated, she did a commendable job hiding it, thought Wahasha.
"I need some of your water. I'm afraid I'll run out in a bit, and I think we might shave some time off of our walk if I had something fresh to mix in with what I've got in here." She raised her canteen, shaking it to show how much was water was left. If Lek could frown in disapproval, she would have. "Just this once," she gestured, snatching the more-than-half-empty bottle from Wahasha.
"Thanks. I just don't want to have to spend another night this far out, you know?" Lek put the canteen up to the lip of her cheek orifice as a small stream of liquid flowed from it, seemingly ignoring Wahasha's expression of gratitude. She knew the seeker was more than happy to provide, even if it was for such an insignificant purpose; Lek had a reputation of being playfully manipulative for the sake of the odd laugh or two. Wahasha reached back and tickled her underarm, causing her to spit the last drops of water into the canteen in a fit of laughter that mimicked the sound of a crackling fire. Lek closed the bottle and retaliated swiftly, diving low toward Wahasha's legs. Her fingers reached for the spot directly behind her right knee, a known weak point to Lek, who had a habit of play-fighting with watchers and exploiting their ticklish and tender spots. She had to be quick. If Wahasha had enough time to react, she would, and she understood full well that Lek would choose the back of her right knee as a target.
Wahasha's arm swung back, but it was too late. Lek pressed her thin digits into the back of her knee, drawing forth a yelp at first, then a continued stream of hysterical laughter as she pressed more, aware that Wahasha was no longer trying to reach her. The watcher collapsed forward on the sand, leaning on the carrier's frame and frantically fumbling for a grip on her mischievous assailant under the robe in between bouts of uncontrollable giggling.
"NO!" She gasped. "We're losing time- AHAHAAAAAAAAHAHAAAA!"
After a couple minutes, she managed to get a hold of Lek's arm and pull her out from inside her clothes. The other seekers poked their heads out of their holes to observe the disturbance that had just shuddered them out of their sleep, only to find a sheepish Lek and a sour Wahasha. Her frown soon gave way to a more lenient grin- Wahasha just couldn't stay angry for long. After all, she'd asked for it by messing with Lek in the first place. The other seekers quietly retired to their pouches, self-assured that they were in no danger from bandits or large predators.
"Oh gods, what am I gonna do with you?" said Wahasha as she lightly shook her ticklish antagonist.
Lek gave a windy chuckle in response. Wahasha carefully placed her back on the carrier, where Lek slipped back into her pouch and fell asleep. Wahasha looked at her full canteen in the afternoon sun, took a quick swig, tossed a few water droplets over her shoulder as an offering to Balmorra, and pressed on.
. . .
Nightfall came swift, setting over the large hills behind Wahasha. For the most part, she ignored it. It didn't take that much energy to see in the dark, and the more dangerous beasts of the night wouldn't be out for the next few hours. During this non-predatory window, she'd continue her journey. Other more passive creatures took advantage of this "friendly gap" as well, as a chorus of chirps, growls, whoops, and howls sounded aloud all throughout the desert night. She knew each of these calls as well as she knew her seekers. A loud, repetitive whooping call was that of a trail walker, a small amphibious critter that acted as a sort of alarm for travelers on foot. They had the innate ability to sense danger, and could be taken advantage of by skilled wanderers and nomads. She used them to gauge the terrain ahead, listening in for their eerily Ausran-like voices. She had spent years training herself not to disturb them, as to make sure she wasn't unknowingly detected by someone- or something- else using the same technique. Her strenuous practice paid off on expeditions, as they let her pass without much a sound. Their giant marble eyes poked up from the sand as she walked briskly by, following her carefully. She had never seen one in full view- they were much too fast to catch by hand, and there was no reason to do so in the first place. Their meat was fabled to be as foul as the sand itself, salty and tough, with very little nutrient payoff, since the creatures themselves didn't have enough meat to begin with, especially not for her. She imagined it would take more than a bucket of them to keep her sated.
Still, her mouth watered at the prospect of food. Although the seeker's nutrient cocktail could keep her going, she still missed having something solid to sink her teeth into. She salivated to the visions of a steaming hot bowl of tonkai soup, maybe with a side of thoroughly aged cheese curds in whey, and a glass of warm seeker-water broth to wash it all down... she could almost smell it on the night wind. Lifting her nose to the air, she soon realized she wasn't envisioning it- the smell was real, and it was accompanied by a small lamp-lit caravan.
The sour aroma of tonkai soup wasn't the only thing, either. Smoked meats of indeterminate origins, heady spices from the far countries, fragrant flowers only found deep in the jungles to the east; she even caught a faint whiff of her favorite dessert, a distinctly sweet scent, but light enough that only the nose of a familiar party could discern. It was a creamy substance extracted from Kadek bushes known to grow in the northernmost regions of L'hinea, lovingly called Kadesa. It has a similar taste to sweetened condensed milk, but slightly thicker. The best recipes had clumps of coagulated extract mixed in with the slurry, meant to be eaten by hand with fingers dipped in a small bowl of salty water. She hated how much she loved it. When her last challenge went badly and she had lost her mate, she'd eaten a whole tub of the stuff- a mistake she was not exactly eager to repeat. Besides, eating too much of it made her lazy...
She hurriedly suppressed her guilt and anguish. She'd have more time to wallow in self pity later.
The caravan itself was unassuming, simply a bunch of tents atop hovering platforms dragged by a half-exhausted looking sandswimmer vehicle. It was rusty and old, most likely pre-Red Snow. While they live for a long time, Wahasha thought, they were often reminded about their merely temporary existence by their constantly degrading technology. Most of it lasted, but not nearly as long as it's owners. A strange concept for sure, she continued musing to herself. The tents were made mostly of tightly woven plant fibers, and were shaped like the scales of a great reptile, angled down toward the front of the train. The bottom-most tips of the tents were weighted, as to prevent them from flying away in the rough winds, and were given a modest edge to help in breaking said wind. The back of each of these tents was open, letting the food air out. Nomads quietly milled about between the tents, some cooking and preparing, others sampling, and others still sitting back and observing from a distance. Only specific nomads were actually allowed to set foot inside these tents. Unlike the traditional nomadic garb, these ones were dressed in white robes. On their heads they wore one-eared hats, only to the right, as was standard to them for reasons not fully understood by any outside their operation.
Wahasha had seen these wanderers before. Bands of merchants like this cropped up now and again at the village to sell exotic foods at more reasonable prices than the more frequent and consistent northern traders. Not only that, but they were much better cooks. They were completely random, and always worth it. She strayed closer, trying to keep herself as quiet as the nomads themselves in an attempt to be respectful. A few of them saw her close in, but paid her no mind. Watchers weren't known for being aggressive, and for good reason- they're job is to take care of people, not hurt them. Wahasha was only daunting in height, and the nomads were familiar with this concept. She recognized a few from previous visits, although they were too busy to give her any attention aside from a quick glance or a flashed smile here and there.
The head merchant sat at the very end of the last tent, a long pipe protruding from underneath his hood. He was the person that organized the nomadic cooks almost every time, and would always be in charge of selling the goods. Wahasha took him as a man that knew very well the value of money, and was a smart enough businessman to make sure that those that needed their wares could afford it. Not much skin showed from beneath his deep cloak, but what was visible was brownish-orange with yellow splotches. His face was the same array of colors; it was clear that his lineage wasn't L'hinean, due to its shape, a more rounded head with larger eyes akin to those found on residents of the jungles to the east.
"How does the evening find you, tireless one?" he asked without looking, a hint of mirth in his voice.
Wahasha approached from his left. "As good as it finds you, friend. It's been months since your last visit. Smuggling not a profitable business venture anymore?" she joked, fully expecting the dry laugh that came afterwards. He turned himself to face her, the Jusaanel crest now visible in the dull light cast upon his chest.
"Indeed!" he exclaimed sarcastically. "This is just a hobby of mine, you see?" -he pointed to a short cook, most likely of Kessan persuasion- "I collect them like one does colorful rocks, or strange shoes, or awkward fur coats that they never wear!" He let out a long, wheezing laugh. "Who ever said it was about profit, anyhow? Am I not allowed to take pleasure in granting you traditionalist stiffs access to the finer tastes in life every once a twin moon? Heeheeheeee! Without me, you'd all be mummified from all the sand you guzzle out here!"
She snorted like mad, trying to cover her purpled face. After regaining her composure, she put on her business mask. It was a rudimentary carving, an oval with two eye holes and a grille for which to speak through. She didn't have to wear it to interact with anyone, but it was customary to use it during transactional conversations. "Well? Do I look ready to trade?"
The head merchant grinned, showing off teeth yellowed by the light of the lamps around them. "I don't care how you look. I only care if I've got something you want, and you're willing to give me something I want." He looked around her at the seeker pouches. "Looks like a full load," he deduced out loud. "Care to see if you can persuade one of them to give up some of the goods?"
She had a hunch that he would ask for seeker water. She had to be careful while haggling with the man. To him, she was carrying the equivalent of a platinum backpack adorned with jewels bigger than her head. Seeker water was always in demand, and some people would easily be willing to kill for it. If she gave him the chance, he'd short her faster than she could enunciate a non-contextual conjunction. His eyes glowed with a dim greed- a look exclusive to those that only thought in the language of the deal. She looked past him as well, towards a rack of cured jerky, and pointed. "How much for 3 sticks and some oil?"
The merchant's covetous eyes became a little brighter at the request. "Alcohol and a half-rack of..." He gestured to one of the cooks behind him. "What did we get this off of?"
The cook didn't even look up from her cutting board. "Baklineyt. Mountain behemoths. Tough, but worth the jaw-ache. Killed it myself with a dull soul-knife and my left thumb."
Ignoring the last statement, the Jusaanel merchant turned back to Wahasha. "Well, I'd say that it's worth... a quarter bladders worth."
Typical, she thought. If she hadn't been carrying this rig, he'd start at least somewhere close to a more reasonable price. "You know, I've heard stories of watchers that can go for months without solid food. Think those tales are true, friend?" she teased.
She saw his face tighten slightly, but the expression was gone as soon as she had perceived it. She'd need to dig a little deeper.
"I have heard those stories, sure. But I can also see your mouth watering, even with these shit lanterns. You don't need it, but you certainly want it, yes?"
"An eighth bladders worth," she replied. "If you want the quarter, add another stick and a half and I might be willing to talk to the ladies in back."
"Oh, that's far too much. You know how much time it took to..."
"I suppose I don't need to ask them at all, and we could keep the..." she started with a shrug.
"Well, when you put it that way, how about 3/16ths?"
She smirked, victorious. "Desperate now, aren't we?" He gave a half-frown and crossed his arms, as if to protest, but then steeled himself and switched to a more satisfied expression. She pulled a vial from the depths of her robe. Measurements were present on both sides, in Ausran standard iopin measurement and L'hinean measurements, respectively. Reaching down, she jostled a pouch to her left. Hei-hei-za slunk around the pouch rig, her red eyes only partially open and ringed by tiny yellow sulfur particles. Wahasha tended quickly to them, using her thumbs to rub the sleep out. She then gently scooped Hei-hei-za's legs out from under her, cradling her like a youngling. The seeker didn't protest, either too tired, or apathetic, to do so.
"Hello, sleepy. I need something firm to chew on for the home stretch. Could you spare... I dunno..." She motioned to the vial, pointing to a dash on the side with her finger. "That much?"
Hei-hei-za didn't seem to mind. She took the vial and put it to her cheek orifice. After filling the tube to the specified level, she handed it back and slipped back to her happy place. The merchant couldn't help but betray his pleasure.
"Excellent." He stood, brushing the ashes from his pipe off his robes, and fetched the requested wares. "This right here," he held up an ornately designed glass bottle, "is a rare vintage from the seafaring northern isles. You know? Those ones. I can't pronounce their names, but they make a damn fine liquor if I do say so myself!" Even in the dim light, the metal decorated bottleneck glistened gold, and a red wax seal could be seen just under the merchant's fingers. She didn't care what kind of booze he chose for her, as long as it wasn't poisoned, or spiced rum, which to her meant basically the same thing. Looking on the bright side of the latter, however, if it was spiced rum, at least she'd be able to strangle him later.
Wahasha corked the vial and tossed it to the merchant, who in turn threw her the bottle and a sack full of her cured Baklinyet meat. He tucked the vial away in his cloak, looking both ways before doing so, and sat down.
"I have another town to hit before I pass through Ahsna. If you still have that damn bottle by the time I come around, you'd better pour me a shot or two, huh?" He chuckled to himself as Wahasha removed her business mask.
"IF I still have this damn bottle. Farewell, roamer."
"Good travels, watcher! When you don't think about the road ahead, you're always closer!"
She didn't care to ask him what that meant. It was a common saying among the nomads, and it was best if she didn't bother herself with definitions. She nodded to the others, and took the next opening in the dunes to split from the caravan and into the eerie half-darkness of the desert night once more.
The merchant watched her disappear into the dunes, then looked back to his digimap. He picked up a roasted hoof of indeterminate origin to nibble on, only to have it smacked from his hand a moment later by a stern-faced cook with an extraordinarily long spatula.
He frowned, indignant. "Come on! Just one bite won't hurt!"
"This is my kitchen," she snapped back. "You'll eat what I tell you you can eat." She then held up a loaf of bread. "This is your meal. Don't ask for more from me. Talk to Mahashna, I'm sure she'll be willing to spare some vegetables."
The merchant frowned at her coldness, but didn't argue, for his mouth was already full of stale bread.
. . .
Wahasha stopped, straining her ears for a sound, any sound, to pierce the unnerving silence that gripped the night. This silence marked the end of the non-predatory window; only dangerous beasts would roam at this hour, she reminded herself. It was time to find a watcher hole, and fast. Judging by landmarks, she'd set a new hole up not far from where she was- without the seekers, a trek out this far didn't take up much time at all- sprinting without the rig made all the difference in time, and she would often prepare new holes before each expedition. Planning was the key to surviving past her early 20s, she thought. So far, so good, then.
She had to be careful in her advance. The wastes were unforgiving in the light as well as the dark- as long as she paid attention to her surroundings, she wouldn't join the many that disappeared before her out here. If any of the stories her mother told her when she was little were true, she decided, she'd list her fates from least-to-most likely to pass the time. As she weighed her options, it grew more and more apparent that this was a terrible idea. Least likely? She was going to be swallowed by a worm that could wrap around the planet three times over. Most? She'd be torn limb from limb by hungry opashas- ferocious pack animals with endless hunger. As far as she knew, none of those were even real; that didn't make the thoughts of what they'd do to her and her flock if they were any less unsettling.
The sharp crack of a rock caught her ear. She whipped around toward the noise, cupping her left hand around the bottom rim of the rig. A hulking figure shifted around a boulder to her left, it's dusky fur gently reflecting the moonlight as it strode slowly toward her. Her heart calmed, and she breathed a large sigh of relief. A few more of the creatures crested the dune behind the first. It was a herd of chernabog. The one in front of her was a cow- she could tell by its size compared to its companions. Their heads were hard to make out amongst their thick pelts, but their chins had a single long, prehensile tendril that when not in use would curl back toward their mouths. They were harmless, as long as she didn't try to provoke them, and even then, that was easier said than done. In fact, she was safer now than she had been before they'd crept up on her. Their padded hooves made their movements silent and left no prints in the sand behind them. This led to the nickname "ghost herders," as it is incredibly difficult to track herds of chernabog, much less an individual one. Their size also made them great wards for small groups of travelers, as most predators wouldn't dare stray too close for fear of being trampled.
The cow lifted her fuzzy hoof toward Wahasha. Its smell almost knocked her out cold; she couldn't comprehend the language she'd need to speak to describe the horrific odor as she scrabbled to find a kerchief to shove in her tortured nostrils. She noticed halfway through this that it hadn't put its foot down yet. Leaning in closer (and adjusting her new nose-plugs to block out as much of the stench as possible), she inspected it. She felt her flock shuffle around in their pouches, clearly distressed by the hoof-pong that had ruined their perfectly crisp night air, and ignored it. The bottom of the hoof was a dusty gray- by all appearances, it wasn't dirty. She wondered about her own sense of smell, and how she smelled to them. It was relative, she assumed. I probably smell like three-week-old meat to them, too, she speculated. After searching for a bit, she found the issue: the creature had a stone chip embedded in the soft part of its heel. She knew better than to be believe that it was asking her to pull it out- more likely, it wasn't paying her any mind and was simply making sure that the rock shard didn't cause too much pain. The boulders in the desert were made up of many different minerals, some soft and crumbly, like a finely aged cheese, and some hard and sharp, like blades sticking out above the sand. This chernabog had been unfortunate enough to stumble upon a flakier rock, a blackish-red striped stone that Wahasha would have considered beautiful had it not been stuck in a giant animal that smelled like the sweatiest bra in existence. It almost seemed too convenient to her, and perhaps too familiar. Whatever. She'd have a good story when she returned... and she'd tell Kehme first. Short, sweet, pretty little Kehme...
She gagged again at the stench, putting her mind back on track. She felt the bottom of the hoof, careful to find any more splinters. She could vaguely recall seeing ads in digi-magazines with videos of eastern farmers tending to hoofed livestock of some kind, removing burrs and gums from their feet to improve their mood. Of all people, she was among those who understood this best- all livestock have feelings, and can get depressed without proper care and attention. Of course, she was dealing with an extra-specialized breed of Ausran, and not a creature that hadn't the space in its brain for critical sentient abstraction, which is to say she was dealing with people. Did this make her a people person? She scoffed. That was the kind of language used by Beljensiki socialites who thought way too highly of themselves and never did an honest day's worth of work in their lives. The padded skin behind the hoof was surprisingly pliant, like fresh dough. Satisfied with the null results of her search, she gingerly fingered the stone splinter. The hoof moved a bit, but went still again, as if the creature was waiting for her to pull it out. It was remarkably well behaved for a wild animal. She gripped the stone firmly and yanked.
The chernabog's bellow echoed throughout the dunes. Wahasha leapt back as the hoof came down hard, very nearly stomping her head. Its chin tendril flicked angrily as it started forward, lashing down at her ankles. She leapt again out of its reach. She tried and failed to ignore the immense pain in her back as the rig's wooden beams dug into her. She shut her eyes for a second, bracing for a collision. When it didn't come, she cracked her eyes open to see that the cow had lost interest and was again off on its own path.
"Thank gods," she said aloud to herself. She checked the pouches. No seekers had fled in the excitement, but three were awake. She spent the next several minutes reassuring them of their safety, patting their heads and cooing st them until they eventually sunk their heads back into the depths of their holes. She let out a breath and took a look at her hands. One of them was still holding the stone. It was much prettier there than it was in the foot of a giant mammal. The red-lined rock was smooth on one end, like it had been beaten soft by a flowing river. The other end was jagged but beautiful, cracked open to show the stunning veined geode inside. It was rather viscous, and Wahasha wasn't exactly sure how many lines were blood and how many were mineral veins. She loved it. Cleaning it off with her robes, she was pleased to see that much of the red remained. This would make for a wonderful offering to Kehme. He'd be as awed by it as she, it was meant to be! His smile would be like the moon on a warm summer evening just above the setting sun, his lips like silvery pillows, his body like a statue chiseled from the finest marble. She didn't feel herself drooling all over her hand as she continued to stare deeply into the scores of the geode, letting it bewitch her mind with promises of love and acceptance.
She then felt a tap on her shoulder. Turning, she met Kotra's plush face. "What? Can't you see I..."
She trailed off. On the dune above her, a tonkai perched, its eyes firmly affixed on her and her cargo. This was unusual- they mostly hunted during the day, and slept by night. This one was far from the usual. Instead of a dull brown, it's scales were a shady maroon color, much like the sand around it. It's hooked beak snapped twice in her direction. It's eyes were a menacing blue, cold gemstones against a sea of red. It walked on the wrists of its massive wings. She slowly backed away, being sure to put herself between the seekers and the large predator that stood before her. She loaded a shot into her rifle, careful not to be too quick about it, and aimed right between it's eyes. She knew this would draw every creature in an iop's radius to her location, but if she didn't defend herself then, she'd die, or even worse: lose a seeker. That wouldn't happen, she told herself. Not on my watch.
The tonkai waited for her to take one more step back, then lurched forward, it's bladelike wing swinging like a cleaver straight for her neck. It never got close. In an instant, its fierce beaked head was replaced by a cloud of red dust. The sound nearly busted Wahasha's eardrums. She'd never had to fire it in a pinch before, and she'd put the mechanism too close to her ears. She couldn't ignore it, but she already heard the calls of much more dangerous beasts, alerted to her presence. She knew for a fact that the sounds were closer than they sounded to her. She felt the seekers squirming in the pouches, all awake now, all frightened and all whistling like mad. She moved as fast as her legs would take her toward the large outcropping that she knew to be her safety. Landmarks on her route were easy enough to recognize, and this was unmistakable. She didn't look over her shoulder to see what was making the panting, heaving, wheezing breathes behind her as she raced toward a circular hole, now visible in the shadow of the colossal boulder. Tears of stress stung her cheeks. Her legs burned hotter than they ever had before in her life. Her cilia flapped against the light breeze. If this were in any other context, she would have considered this fun.
As she neared the entrance, she flipped around and pulled a switch on the rig. The seeker pouches suddenly went taut, launching them toward the cave opening she'd dug a week or two prior. That done, she flipped back around just as she reached the entrance. It was just wide enough for her to fit through, but not quite so for the rig. However, instead of breaking, the rig folded to cover the entrance. She pulled the lever to her left and the rig came off her back with a pop, taking the coat with it. Voila, she thought. Makeshift tunnel block. She couldn't see very will in darkness this deep, but at least they were safe. The rig trembled with the weight of a few small predators slamming into it, but held steady. The rig was designed for situations like this. She'd dragged the rig only a few feet further in away from the entrance, and this prevented larger beasts that could possibly break the rig from doing so, and the thing was already tough enough to withstand an attack from anything small enough to get into the entrance. During the planning phase, she'd measured out every inch of the tunnel to make sure it would work this way- she just never thought that she'd have to do it in such a hurry. Thankfully, the rig had held together as she dragged it against the cave walls.
Through her panting, she could hear the whimpers of some very distressed seekers. She had only one source of light, and it would require a decent amount of energy. In hindsight, it was wise to purchase the jerky, she mused to herself. She concentrated for a second, feeling the warmth of her body flow through her hands. They started to glow, faintly at first, then just bright enough to see the whole cave. The seekers huddled on a bed of specially dried mud- she'd made it at home for the trip and brought it over when she dug out the cave- leaving just enough room for her to sit. She looked at the flock with concern. The whole group shuddered as one, a bunch of terrified pot-bellied cherubs on a sponge-bed made of poly-dirt. Their shivering died down as the light from her hands became brighter. "Hey, girls. We're safe now. No need to fret." She turned back toward the rig. Her robes dangled from it, their shoulders still stock-straight. Whatever was attacking it had discontinued their immediate assault, although she assumed they'd be back later.
Seekers could defend themselves quite well from any would-be antagonists, but Wahasha didn't trust her relatively untrained flock to defend themselves from the horrors of the desert night. She seen spectacular skirmishes out of seasoned seekers, and walked the electric sand where they fought. A seeker that knew itself well enough to use its power was a formidable opponent. These seekers were no warriors. The most experienced seeker in her flock was Palahi, but she'd never been taught to make anything of herself besides a sentient water tank. Fyse could make a fairly decent arc of electricity once in a while, but it made her too tired to do it more than once. She'd seen her fry the eyeballs out of a tonkai once. If she absolutely had to, she could conjure a little localized lighting storm for a few seconds. This wouldn't be enough to stop more than two attackers, and Fyse knew it.
But she didn't have to worry too much. The rig would hold. She laid back into a few seekers, who were glad to offer themselves as improvised plush pillows. She didn't know why they were always so willing to let people lie on top of them. She'd asked the question many times, only to get snide and sarcastic remarks. The general consensus was that it simply was comfortable to them. Nehani, one of her other northern seekers said to her once, "Doesn't everyone like being... squeezed, just a little?" Wahasha thought that this statement summed it up quite well, although she thought she was too heavy to be laying down on them. They squirmed under her for a second, trying to get comfortable as she obliviously pulled out a small object from her shirt pocket. She looked at it. The small orb, translucent in appearance, stuck to her fingers. Then, she threw it lightly at the ceiling of the cave. Instead of bouncing back, it held fast, quickly lighting up the area. She let the energy drain from her hands- they were starting to get all tingly again, and that sensation made her more uncomfortable than date anxiety.
Date anxiety, she thought. She pulled a pocket mirror from the same place that she'd just pulled the sticky lamp. She gazed into her own eyes. Her pupils were massive, almost completely overshadowing her amber-colored irises. A flagellum hung in her face, but she didn't move it. She'd styled her fat tendrils to look like Troubel Skedrow's own classic 'do. It looked good on her, as she felt it made her facial features stand out. She chuckled at her own vanity- she was thinking in Terran terms, and she knew that her face was nearly indistinguishable from the actual Troubel. At least she was almost a head taller. The raised bump on her face that was her nose, the shaped ears, the wide mouth, the large eyes- they were exactly like everyone else's. If a Terran looked at her and any other dark red female villager side by side, they wouldn't be able to tell the difference. She smiled faintly, showing her teeth. She was proud of them at one point in her life- now, she only saw two unnaturally white polysynth fillings, contrasted with their faded orange compatriots. She saw the twisted metal bits in her forehead- her only outward defining marks. The largest bit was in the shape of a V, like an arrow pointing down the center of her face. It had small pieces at each end, three shiny nuggets in a line. She had two more nuggets on the points of her cheekbones. They weren't there to look handsome. Her coming-of-age ceremony had been difficult, but she toughed it out better than any of the other younglings she'd been sent out with.
She remembered the ceremony with a dull sorrow. Every year, younglings came of age, and every year, they be sent out to survive. They had to come back in three days. Most never did. It was romantic to think that they somehow escaped into the desert, joined a nomad band, and became a world-traveler. It was realistic- no, correct- to assume that they perished. She'd seen the bodies, or what was left of them. The wasteland was unforgiving to those that didn't properly understand its ability to overwhelm, confuse, and obliterate. She'd gotten all the extra metal because she was the only one to survive the ceremony that year. She stacked it up to dumb luck, while the village council attributed her success to the favor of Balmorra. She didn't feel blessed then, and she didn't feel blessed now. She was grateful, however, to be in the presence of friends.
Her face fully examined, she moved to the rest of her body, stowing the mirror gingerly as not to break it. Her shirt had no sleeves, showing off her scarred biceps. The scars were ceremonial in nature, but they looked more like they'd been put there by some ravenous monster. Assuming that was the purpose, she'd asked no further questions at the time. It was easier to get a mate if you looked more on the rugged side anyway, she reasoned. She flexed absently, ignorant to what could only be described as frowns from her living cushions. Pulling up her shirt, she examined her belly and hips for any before-unnoticed wounds or abrasions. Surprisingly, she was undamaged, aside from a set of wraps around her ribs, which was to say nothing new had cropped up. She checked under her collar. No support inside- just the shirt- and unharmed, save a bruise from a strap on the rig catching her right breast. Curious as to why there was no pain, she prodded the blue splotch, only to wince as a wave of pain advanced through her chest. She gasped in discomfort, jostling her pile of seekers. Kotra popped her head up, slipping away from the others and floating under her arm. She wrapped her scrawny limbs around Wahasha and nuzzled close in an attempt to ease her sudden outburst.
"I'm alright. A bruise, nothing more," she said. Kotra whistled in response, but didn't let go. She sighed and continued inspecting herself.
Her legs were next. Long and well-toned, they were the pride of any watcher. After all, a watcher's legs got them to where the needed to go, and much faster than anyone else could do it for that matter. She wore tight white shorts, what she considered to be the most comfortable garment she owned. She'd always look for more when traders came by. Unlike most of the villagers, she preferred more clothes over less. She massaged her calves, feeling the tightness in them fade away as she kneaded them. The brace on her right knee still held tightly. Surprisingly, it hadn't been bothering her- physically, at least. Next came her poor feet.
She wore a set of toed shoes she'd found in the last trading caravan; they fit well, and even though they looked goofy, they protected her feet from the hottest sands. She'd forgotten to remove them at nightfall, though. Her feet were a darker red, covered in a grime comprised of crystalline sweat and sand. She wished she had a pool of mud to dip into. Although she'd gone nose-blind to her other odors, this one nearly knocked her dead, which could never mean anything good. She hadn't felt any pain before, but the open air brought feeling back into her feet, and along with it, more tenderness. She sucked in a breath through the sides of her mouth- she wasn't about to use her nose any time soon- and reached into a different shirt pocket, this one containing a silvery box with an emblem on top of three straight horizontal lines. Opening it, she removed a length of stretchy fabric. Quickly, she wrapped her tortured appendages. After biting off the end to finish the last foot, she breathed in deeply through her nose, which was still a mistake, but not as bad as it would have been beforehand.
The bandages were soaked with hot blood. She'd worked her feet too hard. Damn it. She finished the wraps too rapidly to examine the extent of the wounds, but she felt the blisters on the sides and heels of both feet, as well as some in between toes. She cursed again, this time aloud. How could she not have noticed the burning sensation all this time? It was recent, and this she knew. As the pain died down a bit, she decided to scrutinize more closely the severity of her affliction.
The bandages were already soaked through. They stuck to what was left of her skin as she ground her teeth together in pain yet again. She bit onto one of her seeker's skin ribbons, graciously provided to her in her time of need. It was more springy than she thought it would be, and the seeker, an older subject named Olko, didn't seem fazed. Kotra, still snuggled under her arm, wrapped her arms around her waist in an effort to ease her. The other seekers had positioned themselves behind her so that she was sitting more upright. The sores in her feet weren't hard to locate- the soles weren't too badly burnt from friction, but the sides looked awful. She cringed as she massaged her heels, pulling her hands away to reveal dark blood coating her fingers and palms. The smell was unholy; if she'd had anything in her stomach to toss up, she would have. She apologized quietly to the entire chernabog race for thinking that they had the world's worst funk.
Shoes weren't all that important out in the wasteland. The sands caressed ones feet with soft sedimentary hands, cradling them on their travels. During the brightest days, however, it became a burning hellscape of burnt toes and prolonged sadness. If anyone should know, it'd be Wahasha. The last time the northern traders passed through, she decided that she wouldn't go barefoot on the next water run. No more tip-toeing over the searing hot dust- saved time that way. She'd gotten these shoes cheap, only a 1/16 vial for the pair. The merchant was wearing a set themselves. Somehow, he'd found one in her size, which she'd promptly forgotten after the transaction. How often did she need to remember the size of her feet?
Now, she was in a bind. A skilled hux could heal this expeditiously, but she wasn't very adept in her abilities. The power to heal at that level was beyond her. She'd seen it done, but when she tried to do the same, all she could do was heal tiny scrapes and sores. This disappointed her. Almost as much as losing him for the same reason. She sighed through the pain. She'd been tamping the memory down for a while. Sweet, gentle Kehme was all that distracted her from those horrible, rending recollections. She told herself constantly that all the extra ground she covered in her expeditions was purely for higher and not for repressing her raw feelings about the matter... about him.
Fyse squeezed out from under the rest of the seekers, wheezing and oozing from her twin mouths as she advanced toward Wahasha's damaged appendages. She was no stranger to wounds and treatment, as she took care of Palahi whenever Wahasha was out of action. In addition to being a primary source of sustenance, seeker amalgam could be utilized for many different medicinal purposes, including...
Wahasha watched and felt the prickling fingers picking away at the remnants of her bandages.
"Fyse. No..." she objected. It was a waste! She'd be fine by morning, for the most part. Her abilities could heal her slowly over the night, but it would be a gamble. Not that it mattered now. Fyse positioned her face above her feet and let the watery spittle drip down into the open sores. It burned more intensely at first, but that pain soon subsided, leading into a dull tenderness. The sores had gone from glistening red to pale pink, the fresh new layer of skin already lightly callused.
Wahasha's face warped into a scowl. "That was wasteful." Fyse scuttled away anxiously, eyeing her for any sudden movements.
"I'm not mad. Come here." The seeker obeyed, approaching carefully. She saw the fear in her eyes, and softened her tone more still. "Don't look at me like that. You know I wouldn't ever punish you for helping." She reached out her arm, her hand meeting Fyse's pleasant chin as she inched forward. "It's fine. Be more considerate of the village before you race to my aid."
Fyse gestured back. "This was for the best. You would be late tomorrow, should I have sat idly by." Wahasha closed her hand over Fyse's, only to have Fyse remove it and continue. "Your stubbornness is no excuse to lecture me, watcher."
Wahasha smirked. "Ah, I give you leeway and you use it as an opening to get lippy with me?"
Fyse responded by throwing her hip to the side and whipping her head to the opposite angle, letting out loud breath while doing so. Wahasha knew this to be an improvised 'harrumph' of protest. Seekers couldn't grunt, but the body language and slight exhalation seemed to get the point across.
The night was still somewhat young- it'd be a while before she could leave. The beasts outside would retreat at sunrise, to be sure, but she had to make up for lost time. An all out sprint wouldn't be impossible, now that her wounds were tended to. The aerial beasts of the day wouldn't be a bother as long as the seekers kept to their holes...
She let the logistics of her next move lay heavy on her lids as she slipped into a fresh nightmare.
. . .
Her silky scarf draped down past her navel over her most proper vestments- a vest of fine leather lined with a unique threaded interior, a pair of white diagonal single-strap suspenders, and a single dark red glove. Covered stalls surrounded her on all sides, each with a different combination of curios, tools, hobby items, and trinkets. The system of currency wasn't something one could hold in their hand- rather, it was favors, promises, and services to be rendered. Sometimes, items were bartered, but there was always something to do, and there was always something to be obtained from even a few minutes of labor.
She wore her clothes like armor for her self esteem- these pieces made her feel confident in her appearance. She thought she looked noble, like a white-breasted avian goddess, her long legs elegant instead of awkward, her skin smooth instead of scarred, her eyes brilliant instead of dull; best of all, it made her feel oh-so-sexy. And who better to be sexy for than...
She felt a tug on her pant leg. This would set the rest of the memory in motion. The things she had been repressing were to be laid bare to witness, coming back to flagellate her like a bundle of whips all cracking at once upon her mind, flaying deep into mental blemishes already present. She looked down, largely against her will and better judgement, and continued the memory.
Kehme was short for a L'hinea, funnily enough. When they were together, they sometimes would converse on the irony of their situation; the disparity in their height was worthy of a chuckle or two, perhaps. He only came up to her waist; the way they held hands reminded her of a father walking a youngling. His cilia were drawn back into an intricate braid and held with chrome-orange trinkets that shined bright under even the dimmest light. His mask, when he chose to wear it, was a simple oval shape, but the flair was what made it shine above others of its ilk. An asymmetric pattern was emblazoned around his left eye in a brilliant green, unlike any she'd seen before she'd met him. His purple eyes would glint from behind it, a reminder of the smooth, unmarred L'hinean face beneath, and he made a concentrated effort to keep the rest of his dark pinkish skin the same texture. His hands, a feature she was sure came from his seeker mother, looked thin and dainty from a distance, but were taut and precise, and for good reason. His skill as a fine craftsman was well known by his peers- all jewelry he owned was fashioned in his own studio. She'd helped him build it, a special room to fit all of his tools and devices. The body underneath his long robes was both lean and well toned.
But the thing she loved most about him was his mind. Lek and Kehme were a deadly duo when it came to practical jokes, and if she lost sight of either of them at the same time, she'd develop a strong paranoia and suspect every opening, device, tool, cooking utensil, chair, digi-mag... nothing could be trusted. His jokes were the best ones around friends, and his ideas were always thought through and well informed. He would be doing research in his off time, laying on her chest with his nose buried in another heavy piece of media, be it a book on the political history of the Plains of Kess, or a 4 hour documentary on the migratory patterns of wild seeker tribes (she actually learned a great deal more than she thought she would from that one, including that the southern horned seekers could grow said horns up to 6 feet high. "Gods, how do ya think they keep their heads up?") He had a relatively touchy side as well, when it came to societal reforms. She'd argue with him at times about his role in the tribe, his place in the scripture, but he'd always retort that his path was his own. This was the time when she'd be turned on the most. His backtalk aroused her like nothing else. In turn, she'd keep egging him on until he realized he'd been talking for a ridiculously long time about male's liberation and how his backwards territory was stuck in the archaic past of male's rights, and notice that his mate was just steaming in the corner waiting for him to finish so they could move on to the bed.
"What is it?" she felt herself say.
"Walk a little faster, hanesh," he whispered in his light north-desert accent. "I feel eyes at my back. They lead with the right."
She hefted him to her shoulder and did just that. She felt her breath quicken, not in exertion, but rather in fear. A possible challenger. Her heart raced anxiously. As long as she found a place to hide for a second, they would be in the clear. Left and right, only signs and stands and clearings. Nothing to obfuscate a 12' giant. As she continued glancing around, she realized that she'd find no nook or cranny here deep enough for her to squeeze in. She wanted to keep moving, to cry out in desperation as her feet slowed to a stop, to wake up from this hell as she turned to face her would-be opponent.
There they stood, once more. A crowd, noticing the unfurling commotion, gathered round the three of them. The pounding in her chest grew louder and the sweat from her brow felt real as ever. Her challenger was just who she'd feared- Andega. A decorated veteran from the years of Red Snow, she'd come back more confrontational than ever, and with training to back up this new attitude she'd cultivated. Her name was spoken by females around town in hushed tones. Challenges for mates were not uncommon before, but she'd made a hobby out of it. Infamously, she'd clobbered the local ambassador for her harem just a year after she'd returned from the war. Just my shit luck, she thought. She braced herself for the emotional impact.
"I would expect a watcher to be better at running." Her voice was quiet. Subtle. However, her body language betrayed her true intentions. She wasn't there for an idle chat. Her red irises flickered like flame in the gradually dying sunlight, resting on Kehme. She stepped, right foot first, towards the pair. Some in the growing crowd sighed. Others winced. Still others turned away entirely.
She calmly addressed her prey. "I've been watching you a while. Your artistry speaks volumes of your character. I too have a great appreciation of your crafts. Do you now see the connection between us?"
Wahasha swore she saw a silvered tongue flick out from between her lips, gone as soon as it appeared. The statement was to give an illusion of choice in the matter. If Kehme decided to follow Andega, he could avoid the trauma of watching his former mate be beaten to a bloody pulp, but they both knew there was only one way they would remain together. Chances of that outcome were slim to none- but there was still a chance.
Kehme hopped off of her shoulder and stood ramrod straight, seemingly ready to speak. She put her hand on his shoulder to stop him. She couldn't see any of her choices as mistakes. If she didn't fight for her relationship, what good was it anyway? Andega looked on, unfazed.
"You still address my mate." Wahasha's voice trembled noticeably. Andega smiled and retorted simply: "Not for long."
She felt the fist before she saw it. She hadn't focused her first move on a counterattack; rather, she used the split second to push Kehme out of harm's way. The haymaker caught her left cheek as she staggered out of her opponent's strike zone. She felt the punch like it was real.
She regained her bearings quickly. Andega paced the other edge of the challenge circle, like a grounded tonkai moving in on a wounded meal. Onlookers stood solemnly, maintaining the borders. She could never forget the pity they showed on their faces. The aggressor bared her teeth, smiling manically. This was a game to her. She cared nothing for Kehme's adoration or craft. She just wanted to pound someone bigger than her (Wahasha stood at least 2 heads taller) into the ground and humiliate them.
In hindsight, the watcher wondered why she did this. Was it to fill some void created by the traumatic situations she endured? Was it a childhood grudge against her establishment? Was it a mental imbalance of bottled-up aggression? She reasoned she'd never truly know.
Andega pounced again, this time going for a blow to her lower torso, but this time, Wahasha saw her make her approach. In a fluid move, she locked her fists together and struck her underneath her chin. She heard the satisfying clack of teeth being pushed together as her opponent's head whipped backwards. Good. She'd landed a solid hit...
She felt her guts push up further into her rib cage as another punch she hadn't seen connected. She knew this move, but she didn't remember the fighting style. It was a special marshal art style utilized by the wider Ausran military, and it centered around fighting whilst off balance, using the momentum from the opponent's attacks to counter effectively. This punch in particular would have been considered a killing blow on anyone smaller than her. She vomited a mixture of half digested food and spittle. It was only by sheer luck that none of her organs had been ruptured.
The next hit found her jaw. She felt two of her teeth come loose. She had to fight back. Counterattack with a kick to the knees. She whipped her left leg around and found nothing but air, while she felt a burst of pain in her right. Uh oh. The next few blows never really registered. She felt her fingers strain, some ribs shatter, her kneecap pop out of place...
It was over quickly. Her left eye had swollen shut as she lay on the ground, bleeding and whimpering. Out of her right, she saw nothing but the sorrowful faces of bystanders as a blur of red hoisted the one thing she cared about more than her own flock over its shoulder and faded into the smudged mass of distant colors. She reached out, grasping for something she'd already accepted was no longer her own.
. . .
She woke up to darkness. The adhesive lamp's alarm function hadn't activated yet, and she didn't know how much time she had left until daylight. When the dreams started, she would wake up angry, screaming, crying, ready to break any bit of furniture in her vicinity. Now she just felt empty. Wasted. Kehme would have loved the stone she found, but what of it? It wasn't like she could just visit- rules were rules, and they existed for a reason. If she really wanted to talk to him again, she'd have to do it through Andega. She chuckled dryly at the thought. No way that was happening. Even if he were to leave his current partner and come back to her, it would do the both of them more harm than good. They would both lose face, merit, and favor. The price for her happiness was simply too high to pay. She pulled the stone from her shorts. Although she couldn't see it, she felt its smoothed edges, imagining its crimson veins and bright red fractals within. Try as she might, she just couldn't forget him.
She put her palm to her forehead and grimaced, disappointed. Get over it. It was moons ago. Why is it so hard to erase it? There is plenty of time to find another just as kind, just as talented, just as passionate... She tensed again, then let herself relax.
"The road to acceptance is long," she mused to herself quietly, as not to wake her snoring companions. It was her own fault she wasn't strong enough to defend her honor, but she was strong enough to accept the reality of her situation. She had a job to do now- she'd focus on herself later.
. . .
The next 20 or so minutes felt like hours as she attempted to go back to sleep. Every time she felt herself begin to drift off and sink into the gently breathing mass of luxuriously-skinned seeker-cushions, she'd feel her heart beat just fast enough to where it felt as if she was fighting to catch the rest of her slumber. As the adhesive lamp began to emit its slowly waxing light, she realized that it was too late for that. She reached up and grabbed it from the ceiling before it scorched out her retinas.
Adjusting her brace, she moved towards the entryway. This was one of her more recent additions to the route. Every watcher worth their slurry knew to make hide-holes on their longer expeditions for the trip back to the settlement. She'd dug this one weeks ago with the expectation that she'd need it, and with the intention to delve further into her work to avoid getting depressed over her now-upended home life. She retracted the lever on her rig and it collapsed neatly out of the crag, robes and all, and she got a better look at her handiwork in the rays of the slowly rising sun. The outside of hole was scratched to shit. Whatever had wanted to get in didn't, but it certainly wasn't for lack of trying. She imagined that the other end of the rig would need some maintenance when she returned to the village later that day. Despite this, the makeshift cave had held up well, and could easily be reused for subsequent runs. It helped that she'd spent as much time as she had on it, even taking the time to haul enough poly-dirt to cover the floor of the cave.
She took a second to admire the handiwork, then shook herself back into focus. With a sharp whistle, she signaled to her flock that the coast was clear. Lek was first to peer out. She snorted, trying to smell the surroundings, and when she was satisfied with her reconnaissance, exited the cave. The pouches hadn't been damaged too severely overnight, and were all still operational. Good. Lek settled herself in as the the rest of the seekers flowed out towards the rig to claim their own spots.
With all her passengers secure, she could continue the trek back to the village. The rig almost seemed lighter than usual. Wahasha simply stacked this up to the dumped emotional baggage. Not a head was missing- of this, she was sure. Munching on a stick of jerky, she resumed her journey home.
Her passengers were strangely quiet and still. They could sense her melancholy mood. Her emotional pain had spread to them like a bad smell or a contagious cough. She could resolve her mood swings quickly, but the seekers had a deeper connection to her feelings than she did- it would take them a few minutes to straighten themselves out after a whole night spent sopping up Wahasha's negative aura.
She thought again of Kehme. It was funny how she kept thinking back to him to distract herself from the most boring sections of her route, but in a pathetic sort of way. It felt like a story she'd heard, one from Terra, about a man half-submerged in water with a fruit tree hanging over his head. He was a sinner of some sort, and his punishment was to have his needs dangled in front of him, but he could not partake in consumption of any of them. When he bowed his head to drink, the water flowed away from his lips, and when he reached for fruit, the branch climbed just out of arm's reach; both of us, she thought, perpetually tormented by the illusion of possession. She couldn't change what happened. There was no turning back or starting from square one with him. Her road stretched on ahead, over the dunes, seemingly into perpetuity.
. . .
By midday, she stepped into the salt flats that marked the border of the village. Jura'hajj couldn't be found on any official maps, although some satellite pictures would mark and label them correctly. The watcher assumed it was because of the relatively low outsider foot traffic in the area- there were few bold enough to venture across the harsh terrain, even under the careful eye of a true L'hinean guide. Some merchants were willing to make the trek; the local artisan crafts could turn a substantial profit when shipped to the outer frontiers. The pronounced crystals crunched under her bound feet, leaving orange prints in their wake. A few pillars of smoke could be seen just over the next dune. It was the prime time to be in the market. Nighttime was fair too, but traders preferred to sleep then rather than keep a stall open. Others still liked to gather around fires with their harems and sing together or tell stories and drink past the darker hours.
To her left stood a small dwelling. Carved out of the same rock that kept her safe last night, the sight of it eased her mind. The local council recognized that the edge of the flats were the true borders of the town, but Wahasha truly felt at home whenever she saw the little red hut on the other side. To her right were more residential areas, carved into the side of a great orange cliff. She knew this place to be where the more privileged and high-merited resided. People like elders, veterans, and even a few watchers were allowed places there. Her disdain for it had only grown since she'd lost to Andega. There was little doubt in her mind that she lived there just to look down upon everyone else. Not that she cared, of course.
She tapped the side of the rig with her rifle. "Wake up, everyone. We're home. You all know what to do."
The weight on her legs ceased almost immediately as the seekers vacated their pouches and spread out into the air. Each one had a specific set of dwellings to visit before the end of the day, but they could do it largely at their own pace. It was no longer her concern. As a watcher, her duties were fulfilled as soon as she crossed the border into the village.
She marched over the final dune and gazed over her home. Rectangular mudbrick buildings made up the majority of residences below the cliffs, their red walls glossy in the sunlight. All the roads in town were made of the same bricks, but covered in a special hardy enamel to keep them glistening, even after being covered in feces from the assorted beasts-of-burden that would walk them. Many of these streets were barely visible through the mass of tarps and blankets that made up the market tents. They didn't bother with walls to surround them- anyone willing to attack them on their home turf would have to sire an army of Vanguards to even be registered a threat, and the wildlife could be dealt with easily by the town guard. One of which, it seemed, was heading right towards the seeker.
The town guard was made up primarily of ex-military L'Hineans. Their no-nonsense reputation often proceeded them to outsiders, who would be known to avoid them carefully. Wahasha knew this reputation to be mostly misconstrued, although she acknowledged that the ignorance of the local culture that outsiders tended to show was likely a factor in their framing of things. The uniform was minimalist, to say the least. They all wore a low-cut shirt and a pair of leather pants that ended just below the knee as well as gossamer masks to cover their entire face. She knew that inside that mask was a nano-weave aperture camera with a full heads-up display that could help spot a tonkai from 10 iops away, although she herself had never worn one. A small cloak was used as a sort of parasol to shield the exposed flesh from direct sunlight without being restrictive- however, it could be extended to cover the rest of the body like a cloak for purposes of blending into the sand. The colors were an amber hue to match the surrounding dunes. This one carried a long, cruel-headed halberd, although most opted for a less complex battle spear.
The guard removed her mask as she approached. Her face was a mirror image of the watcher's own, but the color easily differentiated the two; Wahasha's skin shone a deep maroon, whilst the guard's was more a light terracotta with a patch of puce freckles spread out from her nose. The cilia visible underneath her hood were styled in a unique triple braid, clearly thrown over her shoulder as to show them off. She looked up at her with her deep brown eyes and cocked her head left, a gesture of friendly familiarity, and smiled.
"Naardha," Wahasha called to the amicable guard, returning the gesture.
"On time, I see. Saw Hei fly over my head not a minute ago," responded Naardha. As she got closer to her, the guard's grin dimmed. "You aren't looking all in one piece, my friend."
"I'm fine. Just some sore feet is all. Next time, I'll forget the cheap shoes. Bare feet serve me better."
Naardha gave a look of dismay. "You know the limp is not what I was talking about," she sighed. "Your aura is off. Is something..."
"I'm fine." Wahasha's tone became more directly assertive, a clear attempt to avoid further incquiry.
She'd caught Naardha unawares with her aggressive retort. "I... Are you alright? Really?"
Wahasha measured her next response, and decided to lie again. So what if Naardha would catch it instantly? "Yes. Feeling sunny today. All is right in the world." She couldn't hide the grinding in her teeth as she forced the last words.
Naardha looked perturbed; the ruse hadn't worked in the slightest. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"Positive?"
"Mhm."
"You don't look..."
"So?"
Naardha was close to giving up. "Look, I speak to you as a friend..."
"Yeah?"
"...you don't have to keep everything bottled..."
"Mhm."
"...up. I can be here for you..."
"Okay."
"...if you just let me."
"If I want anyone to mine out my thoughts, you'll be the first to know, sure."
Naardha wasn't pleased with the exchange, a feeling she made known with a huff and a repositioning of her stance.
"Let it be known when you're ready to talk to me. And I mean really talk. It's been this same back and forth for the past few weeks..." She stopped herself and threw up her hands in frustration. "Just... UGH! Fine." She then stormed off, her face now the same color as her freckles.
Wahasha almost put out a hand to stop her, but steeled herself at the last second, instead massaging the center of her face. Her heart felt heavier as she trudged along towards her abode.
. . .
The watcher brushed aside the tarp covering her doorway and stepped into the dwelling. It was all exactly as she'd left it, unsurprisingly. The bottom floor of her pad was one large, square room. Each corner had its own function, as was the way she and Kehme liked it. The entrance was a particularly empty quadrant of the ground floor, with little more than a rack for footwear and a set of hooks on the wall to hang her rig, which she promptly did after removing it outside the house so as to get through the door. The second quadrant was the kitchen. An island dominated this spot, and right above it, an impressive collection of cutlery and assorted pots and pans dangled. These were primarily used for sandfish and vegetables. Around it along the walls were wooden countertops, and below those, assorted cabinets. She'd have liked them more if they didn't cost a small fortune to acquire, not to mention install. She'd have done it herself, but with a labor intensive job like hers, she didn't want to have to bust herself up every time she felt like she had free time. There wasn't much on top of them: a couple stacked platters, a wooden soup bowl, a box of cooking utensils such as spatulas and ladles, and a jar of homemade savinshchi, a purple liquid used to grease and season pans. To the left of the island, the countertop was interrupted by a simple low-rad stove. She didn't trust the higher end electrics that had become all the rage since they'd become more widely available outside the better-established L'hinean cities; there was nothing like sandfish fried on a classic low-rad. Further into the room was the lounge and entertainment areas. These were considered to be two different quadrants by Kehme, but she used them as essentially the same thing. The lounge was separated from the first two quadrants by a flowing silken sheet, intricately patterned and beautifully designed by one of the best sets of hands in the village. Behind it lay a collection of long couches, cushions, and throw blankets. It was from here that she'd turn on the holo-vision to pass time. Although connections were thin out here, she happened to have a tall enough abode to reach a consistent holo-net signal. The holo-vision itself was dated, and had to be manually wired to the outside where the receiver array sat idly on the roof. More cushions sat directly in front of the screen node- a circular object on the wall that projected the screen out- and a remote was buried somewhere underneath. And it all smelled like wethet flowers.
She pressed a green, hand-sized scanner node next to the doorway. The tarp suctioned itself to the outside wall upon activation, effectively deterring any unwanted visitors. Not that she was afraid of that. No one would bother with her for a while, and if seekers wished to speak with her, they'd use the upstairs balcony. Plunking her pack on the island, she unceremoniously plodded her way over to the lounge and fell back into the largest cushion available and put her hands over her eyes. What a long few days that had been.
It was the first expedition she'd taken since the incident, and she'd never felt so out of it. She could barely recall the whole journey she'd just taken. Most of it felt like a slide show, chopped up bits here and there, of happenings and hazards. And then there was getting home. Her "talk" with Naardha just a few minutes ago. Shit. It'd only made her feel worse, brushing her off like that. She was genuinely invested in her well-being, she knew as much. But to talk about her trauma? To face it, head-on? It was a strange concept to her. You didn't share feelings like that. You shrugged them off, moved on. No-one cared about your feelings out here unless you were a seeker, or a diplomat you could gain something from. To share this, even with a close a friend as Naardha, even with Fyse, was out of the question. What would her idols do? She'd tough it out, wouldn't let it bother her. She'd just forget. Relationships could be forged again if she just set her mind to it. Forget about Kehme. No need to talk to anyone else... Just forget about him...
Her hands felt wet as she removed them from her face. Come to think of it , her face felt damp as well, and her vision had gone all blurry. She sat up and looked down at her hands as large teardrops fell into them, pooling in her huge palms. She remembered vaguely a holo-film she'd watched at some point, a scene in which the character lost a friend, or roommate, or loved one; he'd walked in, looked at this room of extravagant finery, filled with furnishings and decorations, enough to make your eyes scream; and he sat in this room of everything and announced to no one, "Gods... its the most empty it's ever been." And so she choked out as well, into just as empty a room.
She felt heat rising in her chest, her head, her whole body as she rose from her seat and stomped up the stairs. The burning in her eyes just made it worse. She could see the steam from her nostrils flowing out, a steady stream of angry-hot vapor as those same eyes fell upon the training dummy in the center of the second floor room. She'd constructed the dojo area for herself for this purpose. She didn't bother checking whether or not it was properly secured to the floor. The next second, the entire dummy was wobbling to and fro, having hit the ground the instant after she slugged it. She wanted to tear it apart. Bash it to pieces. Bludgeon it until it was nothing but a puddle of gore in the sand. She put more energy into her fist, saw it turn a bright red as it hurtled, slow motion, towards the dummy again. And again. And again. Why the fuck wouldn't the tears stop? Why am I not just letting go?
"WHY AM I SO FUCKING PATHETIC!?"
Her hands burned more than her eyes now; the acrid tears had seeped into fresh sores on her knuckles. The dummy had started as a head and torso, one of which was now missing, and the other looked like it'd seen better days. She slumped against the wall, head in her hands, shrieking again in the bitter display of a catastrophic meltdown, an art form in itself, a beautiful mess dressed in nothing but shades of red. And just like that, the world had turned a shade of blue; the anger subsided, replaced by an oppressive drabness.
She felt her legs crumple under her and she collapsed under the weight of this new gloom, spreading out over the floor like a dirty rug. Who would ever want her? The unobtainable, untouchable. Pitied, but avoided. If anyone saw her like this, they'd be justified in thinking just that. Her merit was all but gone, but her worth was only in her work. And she couldn't tell a soul about her plight. What good would it do? They'd shun her even further, strip her of more than just her merit and mate. What would happen to her house? Her flock? Watchers were the thickest skins, the hardest heads, the toughest of the tough. No one needed a watcher with a temperament of broken glass, who couldn't even be trusted to pay attention to her surroundings if she was just weeping all the time, like an entitled male that loses his favorite cup. She turned to her side and curled into a fetal position. The room was the most empty it had ever been.
. . .
She lay there for hours. The sun now shone through the upstairs window, illuminating her emotionally crushed form almost perfectly. She still didn't feel like getting up, but the warmth from its rays began to stir her from her tedium there on the floor. The lights in the room shown faintly still, brightening the darker corners of room. She still heard the sounds from the street outside, the market bustling with voices and heavy footfalls. She turned towards the source of light, slowly rising from the soggy spot she'd created in her despair, and walked towards it. There was no glass in the window, only a silk-like screen between her and the outside world. A panel on the wall beside her controlled the amount of light and sound that came through it, but she didn't have the mind about her to mess with it at the time. She gazed with half opened eyes over the village.
Seekers darted about the rooftops, an indication that they'd completed their own slurry runs, and now had more time for recreational activities. She recognized most of them, although none she saw were of her current flock. Her particular district's flock was overseen by a different seeker, although membership of flocks would change on a whim. Some of these individuals had been with her before on different runs, but none recently. She was a more seasoned watcher; these waterseekers were a bit of an older bunch. Typically, they'd opt for working with the less experienced watchers until they understood the ropes. After a certain number of runs, the watcher would be appointed to younger groups of seekers. The apprenticeship was a system that had been in place since the profession began, at least according to religious texts, but seekers had a say in who they trusted with their lives; such was the case with Fyse and Palahi.
She pushed the screen out of the aperture and leaned on the sill. The weight was lifting from her gradually, and she was starting to see clearly again. Her vantage point gave her an excellent view of the market. This time of day was the most lively, the streets teeming with the village peoples, seekers and L'hinea alike, all free from their daily responsibilities for the small bit of time before the sun dipped below the dunes. It was times like this that she'd sit on the roof and appreciate the sunset. She breathed in deeply the sweet-tasting fumes rising from the food vendors, letting the pleasant evening market air fill her lungs, and slowly released it back into the world, letting it take all her woes with it.
She rose from the windowsill and looked back over the room. The dummy was a mess of synthoplast fibers sticking out all over like a thick deformed bush, and its head had rolled into the far corner next to some lounging cushions, a large dent clearly visible on the left of its skull. She'd fix the thing later- synthoplast was easy to reform, but it would take a bit of time to get the desired dimensions. She picked up the head and looked into its empty sockets. One was caved in- she could tell she'd knocked it clean off with one punch. She wished she'd used that caliber punch a few weeks in the past instead of waste it on an inanimate object after the fact. She mashed it onto the broken torso at an odd angle, like someone had just tickled the dummy's neck with a feather. She couldn't help but smile at the odd figure she'd just created.
Walking downstairs, she hit the light button on the wall. Thin strips of lights illuminated the floor from the base of the walls, while a single bright circle on the ceiling lit the rest. Another sizeable investment, and yet another one she was glad she made. The chembulbs had come in a shipment right after she'd received the house, so she had to scrape up what she could to afford and install them before the merchants were back out in the sands. She walked up to her rig and examined her rifle, lain right beside it. Its aggressive venting shined in the chemlight as she racked the bolt assembly back to a half-cocked position. It needed some serious cleaning- the chamber was red with sand and the trigger felt abnormally tight.
She cleared the kitchen counter and began stripping the weapon. The thing was nearly an antique- it had belonged to her mother before her, and her mother's mother before then. That said, older style ballistics never seemed to go out of style, and materials for ammunition were widely available, even out here in L'hinea. Or, she thought, especially out here in L'hinea. Most of the weapons she'd seen out here were old-fashioned ballistic magazine-feeders. Children were taught to self-load casings from a young age, and taught to shoot not long after. The skill was considered more than necessary. Even the males were taught how to use firearms, although males she'd seen that actually owned one were few and far between. She removed the box magazine and took a look at it, inspecting it for damage, and finding none, leaned over to the rig and grabbed the two spares she kept on her. The rifle was a top-loader with the fire control group in front of the trigger assembly, so she was careful about the magazines. Damaging one could be disastrous to her hearing and vision, for obvious reasons. They each held 8 rounds of 600 SpireStar- enough firepower to obliterate most adversaries her size, and nearly knock her teeth out every time she pulled the trigger. The sights of the weapon stuck out horizontally from the frame, a wide open circle with a web of metal criss-crossing the center. A cheekpad, worn and tanned with age, allowed her to aim down the sights without causing herself too much discomfort. These were adjustable as well, and she often wondered how they managed to stay intact when she fired it. The grips were custom-made to fit her hands, and textured for better ergonomics overall; this choice had been made after she'd received it as her mother's first-union gift to her and the original handle scales snapped off during the first few test shots. The gun itself was tall enough to reach the middle of her chest, and heavy to match. She pulled a drawer out from underneath the counter. Inside was all her tools- oversized pipe cleaners, a miscellany of brushes and sponges, and a hand press. She began with the pipe cleaners and went on from there, pausing only to turn around and switch on the holo-vision as to have a calming source of background noise. Something felt off to her; she could smell it on the evening air. Maybe it was wishful thinking that she'd get any real rest at all today, she thought to herself over the digitized sound of idol Miri Sobeka singing her heart out to a crowd of noisy, rainbow-colored fanatics.
. . .
This was it. The last piece. She'd stripped the rifle down to its finest parts (not that there were pieces that could be considered "fine" by common metrics; even the springs were the size of fingers in the model line) and put it back together again, cleaned it out til it shined like new. She just needed to put the trigger pins in place...
A rhythmic thump at the wall startled her, and her fingers slipped. The pin missed the assembly entirely and jammed itself under her fingernail. Her eyes widened in pain as she squeezed her injured digit. She started blowing on it to numb the pain. Answering the greeting at the door was the first order of business, however, so after doing this for a few seconds, she hid her hand behind her back and clenched her teeth into her best fake smile.
The thumping came again, but this time it didn't go unanswered. The microfiber tarp went limp and her visitor pushed it aside. A hooded figure stepped into the room. She recognized the mask underneath immediately.
"Fahar?" she blurted, before he waved his hands in way that expressed his intention for this meeting to be a confidential one.
"Yes, yes. Ra Uhmar, I have concerns I must share." Through his mask, she saw his eyes, deep and blue like a cloudless night sky, filled with angst. "It's about my mate."
Wahasha knew this male. One of Palahi's partners. When she'd first bought the tortured seeker, Fahar was the first healer to see her. He'd made a reputation for himself at that point, not to mention that they had known each other prior to this as friends- or, as much of a friend as a male and a female could be in their culture without having to endear themselves to one another. Not one year later, and Palahi had hitched herself to him as her first, and an agreeable stable hand as her second. However, due to this union, it would be frowned upon that he'd speak to her alone. She deduced that this must be an urgent matter for him to risk so much of his reputation due to infidelity, as untrue as the assumption would be.
She brought her voice down to a whisper as she drew the tarp behind him to maintain their already tenuous privacy. "What about her? Palahi should have made her rounds by now."
"Exactly! Oh, Ra, I fear the worst..."
It bothered her to hear him using her union name. Younglings were born without a second name, a union name. There were exceptions for higher merit members of the local council, who passed their names down as long as they maintained their family merit status, but generally, a second name was chosen by one's mate as a name to represent and celebrate their bondage. Ra was merely a title given to females in a union. Fahar's insistence on using Ra Uhmar to refer to her was, possibly, an attempt to make her feel supported by another's rejection of the law of the challenge, but it only made the bitterness in her heart more intense. Not that she could focus very well on that right this second- she was still attempting to hide her obvious physical pain. And she was failing.
Fahar gave her a quizzical look. "Are you... okay?" he inquired, noticing the grinding of her teeth.
"OH, yes, I'm fine," she lied.
He sighed, and she knew she hadn't been able to hide herself from him. "Let me see it. I mean your hand."
"It's really nothing I can't fix myself."
He rolled his eyes behind the mask. "Nonsense. I'm a healer, just as good as any seeker, if not better. Don't tell anyone I said that," he chuckled.
She gave him her hand. "See? Just a small mistake! Easily corrected. I can deal with it once we're done-"
He pulled the pin straight out, not giving her time to finish. His hands began to glow a neon orange, first flashing, then dying down to a soft red. She didn't even have a chance to feel the pain of the pin being removed. He put the piece back in her palm and looked back up at her. "Look. Wherever she is, she hasn't any respite. She hasn't come home, and I fear the worst. My intuition is very rarely incorrect."
The watcher was surprised. Palahi, as shy as she was, never missed a chance to be with her partners. Ever. And certainly not after they returned from a water trek.
She must have paused for too long, because now he clasped her hands in his, more desperate. "Why do you not answer me? Where is she? Do you not..." He trailed off. "You... you don't know?"
She pondered for a second, bewildered. What should she tell him? She didn't know anything in particular that would be of any use to him. If she was missing, then... "Why didn't you talk to the town guard? I'm sure they can find her if they look. She gets lost sometimes..."
"In her own home? Do not take me for an idiot," he snarled, his aggravation beginning to bubble up as his desperation turned to rage. "The town guard? What good would they be? And aren't YOU supposed to be responsible for my lover?"
"Yes... yes, I am... I-I'm sorry, I..."
"Where is your head, watcher? Where are your eyes? My love trusts you with her life, yet when I ask you if you know where she is, you can't even TELL ME?"
He held her hands in a vice-like grip for what seemed like an hour, his tiring eyes drilling into hers, but not finding the answers they wanted. He relaxed his grip after a while and let his hands fall to his sides, his head to his chest. Wahasha looked more puzzled than ever, but a sense of dread began to creep in.
"You know, she received a message the other day."
"What?"
"From the slavers to the east. Jusanek. Same as last month. They always say they want to take her, take her away, back to her home." He looked back up at her, his mask slipping to reveal the deposits of sulfur beneath its orifices.
But she was already caught up in her own internal calculations. Where and when had she last seen Palahi? Did she go missing before she even got to town, and she just didn't notice? There was little reason to believe that the Hendija clan had reclaimed their seeker, seeing as it would pose a great risk to their safety where they to attempt to pass nearby the village without alerting the town guard to their presence, and she knew damn well it would be near impossible to disguise themselves- seekers couldn't be kept in cages very well, so they instead have them on leashes, suspended above their caravans. Without a watcher rig, it was the only safe way to transport them without posing a fire hazard to all participants, as they would simply use their innate electric energy discharge to alight wood or turn and metal cage into the energy equivalent of a live wire. This wasn't even factoring in that to even intercept her, they'd need to pass through prime tonkai territory, which was a dangerous gamble all in itself over one traumatized waterseeker. She ruled this out almost immediately. How about the cave? She hadn't seen Palahi in the cave, and she'd felt the weight difference when she'd left...
She walked back over to the rifle on the counter and slotted in the trigger pin with a satisfying click. She'd need it.
"Don't worry for her, Rao Sahil. She'll be back before the moon rises to the tip of the northern cliffs," she murmured colorlessly, not turning her attention away from the weapon in front of her. She heard him place his head in his hands. "I haven't been myself lately," she added halfheartedly.
"I understand."
"My head hasn't always been on my shoulders for the past few weeks. I know. I've been distant, and my attention is being split at more times than are convenient."
"You lost my love."
"Not for long."
"I meant that in more ways than one, and you know it. My partner will never travel in your company again. Not if I have a say."
"And I'm going to salvage what little dignity I have and pick her up. I think I know where I left her. She will return before the moon reaches the tip of the northern cliffs. You have-"
"Your word?" he choked out wearily. "I don't know the value that carries anymore."
"I don't care what you know. And you won't ever have to speak to me again if you like. But I'll get her home safe, whether you believe in my word or not."
She racked the bolt on her rifle and pushed the tarp out of the doorway, uninterested in hearing the rest.
. . .
Moving without the rig was liberating, both physically and mentally. As she bounded over the dunes of her home towards her objective, she couldn't help but feel a sense of freedom hidden under the angst and anger of her current bind. She forced more energy to her legs, feeling them pump beneath her as the ruby glow from under her flesh lit up the sand. She could make in minutes what she could do in hours with the rig. The sun hadn't even dipped below the horizon, and she was already more than halfway to the cave.
There was no doubt that Palahi was intelligent enough to survive during the day, but the night could pose different challenges. As long as she made it to the cave in time- and there was little doubt the watcher wouldn't- Palahi would be fine. That is, if she was still biding her time in the cave. No, she wouldn't leave the safety of the cave. If she was left behind, she'd hunker down in the closest spot. She was prone to panic, but she wasn't stupid. Balmorra protect her, she thought. How could she have been so absentminded? This was her life, the basis of all her merit. Foolish! She was bound to lose it all, because she couldn't get over her own emotions. But there was no reason why Palahi should die in the middle of a desert. She'd bring her back home, merit or not. This was no longer about her.
It took her almost no time at all to reach the cave, and she easily spotted the ridge it was carved out of over the hills. She let the energy in her legs mellow and redistribute itself. The silence in the area was deafening. Not a good sign. She raised her gun warily and climbed to the top of the ridge.
Around the entrance was a series of tracks and worked sand, some burned to glass; she spotted a dark patch nearby, not burned, but slightly shiny; the rock face itself didn't have any scratches she didn't recognize, which was the only reassuring thing about the scene. The sun was a quarter of the way below the horizon.
"PALAHI!?"
Nothing but an echo.
She jumped to the ground, taking a closer look around. The tracks were shallow, most likely made several hours ago, and by a vehicle with sizeable treads. Trawlers. Her worst fears were all but confirmed. Trawlers were older tech, used primarily by Jusanek slavers. Large treads allowed them to traverse the desert lands with ease, and they could carry a lot of extra cargo if need be. She counted 4 sets of footprints; three wore boots or shoes, and the largest set was barefoot. 3 outlanders of unknown subraces, and one L'hinea. She was sure there were others, at least three others inside the trawler, as the vehicle required three different technicians to run properly. This was part of the reason the Jusanek preferred what most others would call junk- anyone wishing to steal from the Jusanek required a significant amount of technical acumen and a team of at least three individuals. The numbers would work in their favor most of the time.
The dark patch of sand was her biggest concern at the moment. She leaned down and poked at it, feeling the clumped texture of the sand, then put her finger to her mouth. The taste of sulfur mixed with the tingling sensation of iron danced on her tongue. Oh no. Blood.
There had been a fight. The melted sand indicated a seeker-created electrical storm, and the footprints, a battle formation. The largest of the group had taken point to distract and take excess damage, whilst the other three sat back and tried to fire through the electric barrier (a noticeable line of burnt ground marked where she assumed Palahi had thrown one up) with whatever weapons they had available. The blood would have come from the seeker- wounds caused by the electrical storm would have cauterized immediately, or the pulses would've burnt the target to a crisp. The placement of the blood spot put Palahi on the retreat towards the south. The trawler's tread-marks went that direction. Seekers were exceptionally difficult to track, due to them not leaving any discernible footprints or outward environmental indicators of their presence. What likely happened post-action was a brief regrouping of the slavers, and a subsequent chase.
At the very least, it looked like she hadn't been caught yet, but she was wounded, and judging from the size of the mark on the ground, it was serious. She trusted her ability to tend her own wounds, but she wouldn't be able to go far. The town guard had jurisdiction over most of the area, but they wouldn't get anywhere in time. Weather was a large part of her planning process, and she'd managed to miss a large storm on her water run, but the trawler would allow the slavers to tough it out, and it would cover up their tracks. It was a smooth play on their part. "Fuckers," she thought out loud to herself. She had to pursue them, no later than now.
She began trudging up the hill, following the treads. She was smart to not have left her other gear at home- her telecator, Balkinyet jerky, sticky lamp, and water bottle were still on her person. The telecator was her first objective. She pulled it from the gear bag. "Contact Naardha."
The black cube she held in her hand lit up a bright blue, and a circle appeared over it. The visualizer pulsed with the delicate sounds of pings, signifying a standby.
"Te?" The visualizer gyrated as it received the call. "Wahasha?" The voice sounded tinny, but the tone itself was tinged with concern. "Are you doing we-"
"Not now, Naardha. I have a situation."
"Do you want to talk about-"
"Slavers. They have Palahi. I fucked up, Ra Onhya, I fucked up so badly..." She was losing composure, choking on her words. The lump in her throat felt as if it was trying to jump out of her mouth.
"Slow down. What?"
"They have her. One of my seekers, you know the one... the one with the scar, and the eating disorder, yes? And, and, and I left her be-behind. I d-d-didn't mean to. I swear-"
"SLOW DOWN! Just tell me where you are. Are you home?"
"No, no..."
"Where are you?"
"I'm... at the cave, headed, ugh-guh... south." It was like being strangled. Her speech was incoherent; she wondered how her friend could even understand her at all.
"What cave?"
"Mu... Map. On my desk. At home. Coordinates, um... I swear, its marked on the- guh- map."
"Yes?"
"Up-upstairs, on the desk. Labeled. Egh... can't miss..."
"Just hold on. I'm on my way. Don't move from where you are. I'm coming to take-"
Wahasha clicked the button on the side and the visualizer disappeared as the cube returned to its original flat black. She stumbled for a minute or two. The emotions were assailing her yet again, but she had to hold it all in. There was only forward now.
. . .
Stealth is the art of subversion in combat, the ultimate weapon of the greatest warriors. She didn't remember much from her old town guard training manuals, but as she understood it, the military was taught the same claptrap. However, it stood to reason that more clandestine actions would be left to the smaller individuals. Her size made sneaking around all the more difficult. She didn't know what she'd do when she caught up to the slavers- she hadn't thought that far ahead. She'd get Palahi back. No matter what.
The sun had fully dipped out of sight, and its final rays had nearly disappeared as the new moon began to rise, barely visible against the dark blue of the night. For the second night in a row, she ignored the sky's hues and expressions in favor of broiling in her own thoughts. They snaked out of her ears and wrapped themselves around her neck, clouding her eyes over with darkness deeper than all her surroundings. Useless, worthless, without any merit to speak of; a nobody that couldn't even save herself or the ones that she loved if her life depended on it; a wretched, blubbering wreck whose idols would spit on her if they ever actually knew what kind of person she was. A failure of a daughter and a failure of a mate. It felt like she was slogging through a mire, and the only thing she saw were the tracks she followed.
She'd been ignoring the telecator for the past hour; it buzzed lightly against her leg yet again, the infuriating sound ringing in her ears. Why hadn't she just dropped it at this point if it bothered her so much? She pushed that thought aside, but she knew she couldn't keep letting it go off every few minutes. It'd drive her mad. The buzzing continued. She waited a few more moments and finally gave in.
"Te?" she answered, still moving forward.
"Wahasha." The voice on the other end didn't belong to Naardha. This voice was richer, deeper, but with a sort of edge to it. She knew it. Her already boiling blood should have turned to steam by now. "Are you there? You... okay, out there?" Andega's middling manner of speech had a tone that matched Naardha's disquietude. It irked her to no end.
"And what do you want? How did you receive my contact information...? It- it doesn't matter. Leave me-"
"Wait. Please." What was her game?
"Give me one good reason. One. Why should I let you- you- ARGGGGGHHHHHHHH! Why should I listen to you at all?"
"I- I know how you must feel." Another needle under her skin.
"Uh huh. I'm sure you do. Yes, yes, tell me how you know so much about me. About how I feel!" Silence. "I'm fucking waiting!" Her own voice quavered with a primal rage. She felt the energy she was storing flare up and spread all over her body as it began to glow a dull red. Why stop it? Why hold back?
Andega cleared her throat. "I'm not going to say sorry." What? "...well, I am, but Gods know it's the last thing you want to hear right now." The neon-red gleam in her arms weakened. "Look. I don't know if I'm the right person to say this, but I know it's the right time for you to hear it. There are people with me right now that are here for you. You think they don't know, they don't notice, but they know you. And this... isn't who you are."
The warmth became stronger again. "You... you took who I was. I have nothing because of YOU! You're right about one thing. You aren't the right fucking person to talk to. Why didn't you... just leave me the fuck alone? Why me?" she stammered out. The audacity of this mouth-breathing skuma-a! "In what universe did you think this would be a good idea, huh? I suppose you hold your negotiation skills to the highest esteem, right? You-"
"I KNOW!" Again, she was caught off guard as the energetic radiance subsided. "I know. I need to talk to you. In person. It's about... everything. No, I'm not trying to get any further with your mate-" Wait. Her mate? By all established law, Kehme belonged to Andega. To even acknowledge that Kehme wasn't hers, even after she so publicly humiliated her in that fateful challenge, was... No. What was she playing at? Worst of all, she sounded... sincere. "-or anything like that. I can't talk about this now. Around these people. I'm in the patrol, looking for you. Come home. Please."
Yes. Yes. Home. The anger was still there, but it waned, too weak to influence. Maybe there was something to talk about. A sound of grinding machinery was emanating from over the dune, but she didn't hear it too well. The patrol could finish this. Maybe it was time to settle down and talk. The sound of disturbed seekers tickled the edge of her consciousness. It's what Troubel would do.
She turned her head to see two bright points of light shined straight into her eyes. She shielded them instinctively, but halfheartedly. Had the patrol caught up already?
"Te?"
"Who's there?" Andega's voice responded from the telecator.
Not the patrol. Then who...?
It was all too late when she heard the sound of a round chambered, not in her gun, but in...
There was a flash, then another, followed by pain, then...
. . .
Tsalka lowered the gun as the villager stumbled over in the sand and lay still. "Down," she shouted to the rest of the trawler's occupants. That was much easier than she'd anticipated. And what a show! This crazy fucking chern-brain had been following them somewhere close to an hour and a half. The batteries in the vehicle needed to cool, dammit. Turning back and eliminating the threat was the best option here, but she was a little hesitant to be taking on a L'hinea that stood at least two heads above her own. But damn. That was a clean shot, and a quick kill. Well, she wasn't entirely sure of that, but from the way she keeled over without so much as a twitch, it seemed like a clean cut, open-and-shut encounter. Just business, at the end of the day. She jumped off the footrails on the side of the vehicle and went to inspect her handiwork.
"Hey! What the fuck are you doing?"
She turned back with a groan of disappointment. "I'm just making sure I hit something vital. Don't want big red over here to jump up any time soon."
"She looks dead to me from here. That's good enough for me. We don't have the fucking time to sit around." This elicited another groan, and the unseen speaker's tone grew more impatient. "The informant has already given us the heads up on the incoming patrol, and we need to outrun them now while we still have the night on our side. Consider this a warning. Do you want to be left behind, or do you wanna have a place to sleep tonight that isn't going to turn into a gory art project by morning?"
Tsalka looked back at her query once more. She could've sworn she saw movement, but it was likely a trick of the light. Shaking her head, she turned back to the Trawler. "Yeah, yeah, I'm getting in."
. . .
Blood on her tongue. All over it. All she can taste. Red. Red like her vision. Red below, red above. Pain in her side, in her stomach. Her mind began to focus again. Focus more on the pain. Gods, the pain. She rolled over and grasped the spot she felt it the most intensely. It was wet. She felt a sense of deja vu, like she'd been in this way before. Yes. Just last night. But there was a difference. She had someone there to comfort her then. Now she was alone. What happened? She saw lights... The trawler. Had to be. Then a bolt sliding back, a round chambered. Two shots. Both hit. A silhouette standing over her, then talking. About her. And about safety. Who were they? Slavers. Scabs upon the planet. Kidnappers of Palahi. That's why she was here. Palahi.
She staggered to her feet as her body burned the color of wine. The energy was different this time- more defined, amplified. Her motor functions snapped back into action, senses heightened. She could see as if it were day, and hear the desert around her hum with life. And she could hear the trawler not far from her. Ignoring her wounds, she pressed on as rage filled her head, ready to burst forth.
. . .
"Damn it all!" Tsalka shouted at failing power cells. Their haul quivered and squealed in fear. Good. They should be scared of her temper. Birken poked his head out of the engine room. He was a small Na'hk'ii hailing from Hili'lue, a western jungle. She didn't know why he chose to work for the Jusanek out of everything else available, but she wasn't paid to ask questions. His umber skin and red eyes were unique amongst his tribesmen, and he accredited these traits with his engineering and mechanical skills, particularly when it came to engines. Out of the whole team, she hated him the least.
"So, think they'll need replacing, they just overheating, or do I need to come out there and look at them myself?"
She sneered. "No need. They're just overheated. Get back inside, greasegrinder. If I need your help, I'll fucking ask."
"Borr's blood, what the fuck did I do to you? You're being real sour over there," he inquired.
"Psh." She relented a bit. "The big red I took down 30 minutes ago. Would be lying if I said I didn't want one of those pearls."
"Another trophy for the necklace?"
She reached into her vest and yanked out a string necklace, adorned entirely with teeth of all shapes and sizes. It was a pride piece, a reminder of victories, and a form of proof of her merit within the team. "I would have fit it in right-" She pointed between center pendant piece, a fang from a massive tonkai that she'd cleaned in front of that seeker cave they'd stopped at earlier that day, and a slightly smaller incisor from some Beljensiki bigwig she'd brained in his own office after he'd refused to pay the clan the agreed upon price for their work. "-here. I didn't see them very well in the light, but shit, if you're that gargantuan, you'd probably have some beautiful chompers, as long as you took care of them. But fuck, didn't feel like I had much a choice at the time. If I'd known we were gonna be stopping 30 minutes later, I would have just stayed and took my memento then, caught up with you afterwards. Would've taken me 5 minutes."
Birken grimaced. "Just keep it over there. I don't like looking at it."
"You've picked the wrong line of work if this upsets you," she scoffed condescendingly.
Another panel on the side of the trawler opened up next to Birken as another occupant stepped out into the warm desert evening. Imeste was the local guide, so to speak. This wasn't Tsalka's first time working with her, but she'd never really liked her blank expression. Too stiff for any sort of friendly chatter, she kept to herself, cleaning and polishing her facial ornamentation, or her weapons, or both. She wore her cilia in a single, thick topknot, and her skin was a deep candy red, with a bar ornament on her forehead and two studs on either cheek. She wore basic pants and a shirt with no shoes. Tsalka never understood the lack of shoes, but she also didn't really care all that much as long as she kept her alive. Her green eyes were always alert, scanning her surroundings for gods-knew-what. Those eyes were now coursing with energy as she stepped out further away from the trawler.
"What's up, stiff? Chernabog fart a mile away and it bothered you?"
She turned back an glared at Tsalka, eyes flashing neon before turning back towards the northern hills. "No. I'm feeling something different. Something we should take seriously."
Birken sighed. "And that is?"
"Don't know yet." She turned back to them again, and this was the first time Tsalka had ever seen an emotion on her face. She looked... spooked. "Didn't you feel it? On the air, like rain?"
"Not sure what you're on about," she deflected, but she felt something was wrong. She called the sense 'business intuition.' And it was always right. It was almost like the wind had changed, but there was no wind.
Imeste must have noticed her sudden discomfort. "You feel it now, too. Predators of some sort. Trawler isn't going to protect us from whatever that is. The aura is... too overwhelming."
"What's overwhelming?"
Behind them, the panel opened once more. She knew the voice belonged to the brains of the operation. She glanced over her shoulder at Yobe, a tall Noskate from the northernmost reaches of the L'hinea desert. They were technically not L'hinea, but their territory had been recognized as such after the end of the Red Snow. His skin was a ghastly white with ugly gray splotches on the arms and legs, only moderately visible from underneath his robes. Half his face was dominated by a single gash from the center of his forehead to the bottom of his right cheek. The eye was covered by a white cloth patch. She knew to mind her own business when it came to the scar in particular; the last person to inquire into its origin had gone missing, and his body was never recovered. She hadn't liked Meadi much, but being down a member had its drawbacks.
"Aura. Oppressive, almost. I would advise caution. I can't tell where it's coming from now- it's like it's... everywhere. But it came first from the north," replied Imeste, unfazed by his intimidating presence. "I would suggest getting everyone outside. The trawler isn't fast enough to outrun much out here, and I don't know if the plating can withstand a creature- or hux- of this caliber. We're going to have to face it head on."
He stared for a moment, then called back to Birken: "Keep working on the cells and the coils. We'll call for you if we need you, but consider them your first priority. Understood?"
He grunted a halfhearted "mhm" before descending back into the guts of the technical.
Tsalka readied her weapon and took a position behind the trawler while the rest of the crew exited the vehicle and rushed to their own sides. The air was heavier now, like someone had reached into her chest and squeezed all the air out of her lungs. The headlights on the trawler dimmed, then fizzled out completely. The only light came from the speckled sky. The stars seemed to wink mockingly down upon them, deriding their unease from the safety of proximity. What did they know of mania? Big hot balls of flaming gas and liquid, with no thoughts to speak of. What did they have to fear?
She heard a brush of sand in front of her, and she shouldered her rifle. It was a sleek design, a twin-barrel Strix-Enset Tactical Firearm, or as they called it in most circles, a SET-Fi. A wheel-like rotating box mag was loaded into the bottom of the gun, and both barrels would fire simultaneously with a single trigger pull. More rounds downrange meant better odds at hitting targets, and in close quarters, it meant putting twice as many shots in before an enemy could close the gap- something that Tsalka was all too ready to rely on shortly. She felt her cilia quiver and perspire as she peered through her sights at the origin of the sound.
The brushing came again, louder this time. "HEY! QUIT FUCKIN' AROUND AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!" she bellowed, in an attempt to call attention from the others to her her position. If she was going to die, she at least wanted her assailant to be turned into an abstract painting by a vengeful team instantly after the fact. "I'M NOT PLAYING!"
She tensed as she heard the sands shift once more before the culprit came into full view. The muscles in her arms relaxed as she realized she'd been screaming at an aloof trail walker. Its bulbous, goofy eyes peeked up at her from the sand as it whooped its response to her frantic screaming. She heard Okeslo, their northern mercenary, snicker behind her in her unique, nasally way that made it fairly obvious she wouldn't ever hear the end of it with her now. "Shut the fuck up, palenose."
"It was the eyes, wasn't it? Real frightening, huh? The way they look at you, like their skulls are just filled with soup. Nothing going on in there. Makes you feel real self-conscious, huh?" She snorted again. Tsalka didn't find it funny at all.
"Back to your post, huh? Nothing to see here."
"Sure thing. Make sure to let me know if you see any more trail walkers, for entertainment reasons."
Her footfalls, muffled my the sand, halted all too soon. Tsalka glanced back at her compatriot, only to find her staring dumbly off into the dark. "Hey, don't you have somewhere to-"
She was cut off by the sudden and loud obliteration of Okeslo's upper left torso.
. . .
The smoking shell hit the sand with a thud as the sound of the shot rang through the crisp night air. The target flopped to the ground, her chest and left arm all but gone, lifeless. The one in front of her stumbled slowly back, no doubt reeling from shock. Wahasha kept her steady pace, eyes trained down the sites of her steaming rifle. 6 left. A head popped out of the trawler, directly in her line of sight...
. . .
The mercenary fell into a heap upon the sand, but it didn't register with Tsalka yet. She'd heard the projectile zip over he head and... she stumbled back, staring at the pile of haphazard meat that was once Okeslo. She turned her gaze up towards the trawler to see Berkin peer out, gun drawn. He was yelling something, but he seemed so far away. Get closer to me, she thought. Her throat closed before she could say something. She wanted to tell him to stay in the vehicle, get back inside, please, for the love of the gods, stop; she opened her mouth but words didn't even form on her lips. Nothing but air escaped, a raspy breath, all for naught. He was dead before he hit the ground.
. . .
The watcher had broken into a full sprint now. Whoever was in the trawler never had time to react before his head was taken from his shoulders and splattered across the outside of the vehicle. 5 left. The waterseekers were screaming now, an eerie, wind-whipping sound swirling in her ears. She knew one of them was Palahi. There was no question.
She was on the camp in a matter of seconds. Another slaver rushed in her direction, this one of medium build and stature, their eyes shining orange behind an ornate visage of a screaming bird of some sort. She pulled the trigger. Click. Jam. There was no time to fix it. She grasped the end of the barrel and swung it like a club towards the beaked mask. She didn't feel the bullets from his gun, but there was no way they missed. She didn't care. It all felt so... sluggish. Their mask shattered in slow motion, all the white chips and chunks and gore so detailed, so defined. The limp body cartwheeled out of her way as she pushed forward. 4 left.
She felt a poke from behind, digging into the back of her thigh. A tiny female, no bigger than her entire arm, drove her blade deep again, twisting it, expecting Wahasha to fall, only to see the wound close with a purple radiance around her weapon. She yanked it free to strike higher, hollering an irksome little warcry. The watcher didn't feel the knife at all, only hearing the diminutive little beast shrieking in frustration as she brushed them off her leg. Before she could stomp their head in, her head was unexpectedly thrown to the side. The impact was painless, but the momentum affected her all the same. She reeled away, another blow catching her in the stomach. This was clearly the L'hinea slaver she'd traced back at the cave. The facial ornaments suggested a level of renown, but from which tribe? She minded not. The slaver seemed painfully unhurried, slapping her rifle aside in an attempt to disarm her. Very well. She'd give them what they wanted.
She let her weapon fall to the ground, instead locking hands with the other L'hinea. The smaller slaver attempted to assist her friend, but to no avail; her knife had no effect, not even to elicit the watcher's attention. The large slaver's face contorted into a look of desperation- if she stayed in this lock, she'd lose. She slammed her head into Wahasha's, only to find her vision blurring, and the pain in her wrists becoming more pronounced. In a last ditch effort, she twisted her right arm under, trying to shift her opponent's balance. The watcher was having none of it. She yanked back, and the slaver found her hand free to punch, a freedom she quickly took advantage of, going straight for the stomach yet again. She realized her mistake as she observed her knuckles break against her belly, now much tougher than she remembered it being. Her eyes widened in stupified horror as she watched a dark violet pulse travel up from the watcher's locked arm towards hers, but it was too late to pull away. The surge of power through her arm was as instant as it was painful, as was the violent explosion afterwards as the glow reached its crescendo.
Wahasha looked at her hand, the energy thrumming through with the beat of her heart. The outburst had been involuntary. Her opponent teetered back, holding her shredded appendage. The energy had burst blood vessels all across her body, with bruises spreading from her stump all the way down her left side and up to her face as she howled in pure agony. She dropped and continued to wail as her skin turned from a cherry red to nearly black. The small slaver jumped off Wahasha's leg to help her fallen comrade, but she didn't get far before the watcher's arm began to throb again. She pointed her palm towards the fleeing combatant, only to watch them disappear in a blaze of light.
When the flash subsided, all that was left was a wide stain on the ground and a couple steaming chunks of unidentifiable flesh. 2 left. A tall northerner stood at a distance, adjusting his robes. His scarred face reminded her of a carved stone as he strode towards her, arms outstretched and pulsating with a green-blue light. She didn't bother wondering what his tactic was going to be. With the flock of imprisoned seekers' cries pounding in her head, she charged forth. She ignored the sand turning to molten glass beneath her feet, attempting to bog her down. Heat waves obfuscated her vision as walls of white-hot mirrors rose around her. Still, the slaver didn't budge. His last mistake. She smashed through an invisible wall of smooth glass between her and the slaver as she saw her opponent's face go from emotionless to astonished, settling on frightened, maybe slightly remorseful. Her arm oscillated yet again as she reached out towards him. As her hand met his neck and his back hit the defunct trawler, she opened the floodgates, channeling everything she had towards her destructive limb.
. . .
Tsalka kneeled in front of Okeslo's remains. She couldn't process what she'd just seen. A watcher, risen from the dead to exact her vengeance, murdered a trawler's worth of some of the best slave runners in the region, with nothing but a junk rifle and her bare hands. She hadn't sensed any sort of aura coming from her when she'd put her down earlier. What was going on? How could it all go so wrong?
She was brought back to grim reality by Imeste's tormented groaning for help of any kind. She shakily rose to her feet, feeling a wet warmth coating the insides of her pants- she didn't want to know- and walked numbly to where her final companion lay dying. The left side of her body was mostly dark brown now, like a rotten fruit. Strips of skin and splintered bone were all that remained of her arm, from the shoulder on. This was the first time she'd ever seen true emotion on their face. It wasn't just body language now, it was true feelings on display. And that feeling was despaired fear. She wailed again, quieter this time, losing whatever strength she had left. Shulka looked at her remaining hand, its fingers twisted at awkward angles and knuckles bruised, and wrapped her own hand in it. Imeste's hand tightened ever-so slightly around Shulka's. In what looked like her last moments, it seemed as if Tsalka knew her better than she'd ever known her before, better than anyone before her. She looked into those green eyes, one fogged over with the red of her blood, and knew everything she'd ever wanted, or needed, to know about them. They were fake biomechanical replicas. Implants. She probably had been blind at one point. She remembered what the ornaments meant. The bar, the studs, everything added up to her worth. She was a survivor. One thought to have failed. Respected, to a point, but shunned. A life of crime was an easy option, and all too enticing to someone like that. She'd given her skills out willingly to those who'd accept them, and then unwittingly become beholden to those who exploited her. What would she have become had she not been...?
Imeste quieted down further, and spoke, seemingly reading her mind: "I liked working with... clay. You can shape it... unf... into anything you'd ever want."
"What do you want?" Tsalka asked, as she felt a climbing stone in her esophagus. "What do you want, Imeste?"
She looked down in labored thought. "I never... eng... got to decide that for myse-eck-eck... myself, before." Her eyes turned back up into hers, shining with the stars in the sky. "A friend, maybe..."
The lump reached her throat. Now, she was the one choking out her words: "Why didn't you just fuckin' tell me?"
They both heard a shriek of fear from the trawler, saw the flash of light, heard the subsequent blast; Tsalka, perhaps rightly, assumed that this was the best time to lose the teeth necklace.
. . .
Trawlers were designed some time during the last millennium as means of rapid transfer of resources over dangerous terrain where air travel wasn't feasible. Other models were constructed for slightly different purposes, such as deployment vehicles, but in this endeavor they were outdone by more dated technicals. However, the original mercantile model stuck fast, particularly in the L'hinea desert regions due to its robust exterior plating and equally resistant internals. Slavers adopted it as their vehicle of choice when it was also found that they were nearly invulnerable to electrical interference, thus rendering most waterseekers' primary mode of combat utterly useless to decently trained mercenaries. But for all of that armor, all of that bluster, all of that reputation, it did nothing to stop Wahasha's newfound ability.
The gray-skinned slaver lay headless underneath a scorched tear in the side of the vehicle. Fluids trickled from small pipettes and sparks flew from ripped wires as the rest of the metal scar smoldered and smoked. There was little chance the trawler would ever crawl over the dunes again. The town guard would leave it out here to be disassembled by scrapsuckers, who'd sell parts to merchants, who in turn would sell these back to the Jusanek, and thus the cycle would once again repeat itself.
Wahasha breathed heavily as she more closely examined her arm. Gods, it hurt. It felt like someone was twisting all of her skin off from the inside as she cradled it closer to her chest. Grabbing it tightly seemed to ease the pain, so she tore the ends of the expired slaver's robes and tied it down. The glow shown straight through- it didn't look like she could do much about that. The rest of her body grew dimmer, but didn't completely wane. She'd have to figure that out later. 1 left.
She turned at the sound of wheezing, like a blown accordion deflating, releasing its final breaths. A seeker youngling, no more than several years of age, drifted down towards her belly up, as the rest of the chattel followed; a leaf fallen from a collapsing tree. The youngling was torched. Its folds of skin had melted around its formerly downy face, leaving only a grotesque visage of gasping torment. The limbs were not much different, with some of its fingers missing and more folds of skin being adhered to the legs.
The rest of the chattel flock crowded in from the air, watching her as she caught the youngling in its descent. The only sound anyone could hear was the labored breath of a seeker, too young to understand the path it was yet to take. Its red eyes caught her own as it lay in her arms, hacking feebly. Their gaze was enthralling. It held so many questions that she knew would go unanswered. And she was the only one to blame; and blame herself she did, as the youngling coughed its last, like a gust of wind blowing over the endless fields of the Place Where All Things Meet. Now there was only a deep silence...
A silence soon to broken by sounds to her left. She turned slowly towards the source of the noise. The first slaver she'd seen cradled the L'hinea close to her chest. She didn't need to wait for her eyes to adjust to the darkness to see the big one's skin was the shade of old tar, her eyes closed. The littler slaver's pale blue face was covered in tear-stains as she pleaded with no one.
"Hey... sniff... Hey, come back. Don't leave me... I need one too, you know... snuffle. You could've just told me sooner. Just wake up..."
She looked back at the flock. They stared at the watcher, expressionless. Through lack of training or otherwise, they had nothing to say. Wahasha didn't feel the anger, the rage anymore. She didn't know what to feel. She went back to staring at the child in her arms. It wasn't as if she hadn't seen seekers die before. But that was of disease, or beasts of the night, and neither of which were ever her fault. She felt like crying, but there were no tears left to release. Solemn silence spent staring into the vacant, glossy eyes of the newly dead, was the only thing she was capable of now.
As she stared, she heard the last of the slavers voice, only clearer now, as it began to sing.
"The fields purple, seen in sleep
Who knew of colors, run so deep?
Kin of mine, wake to-morrow
They'll still be here, need not sorrow.
I'll be there, ash in hand
Your love kept safe, 'neath the land
We'll walk as we are free.
If we are not, so it be
It is still us, you and me
Together above, as so below
I'll be there, of this I know.
We'll be there, ash in hand
Our bond kept safe, there we'll stand
As free as we can be."
A lullaby, short and slow, rang all throughout the clearing, over the lips of the shallow dunes and into the midnight zephyrs. Wahasha hadn't ever heard the song before. The ditties she'd been subjected to throughout her childhood had been a bit more blunt, and most of them she chose not to remember. As the lullaby came to an end, she pulled the youngling's eyes closed and set her down, drawing its mangled hands over its chest. Then something clicked. Palahi. She sensed them, somewhere close. Even with her senses on the decline, she could feel her through the haze of the rest of the auras surrounding her.
"Palahi? Where are you? I- I cannot see... please, I am here, I am here..." she called out as she sifted through the flock around her, looking for the familiar scar, the recognizable scent, the unmistakable ebb and flow of her energy. But it was not here. In fact, she felt as if she only grew further from it as she waded through the crowd of mouthless faces, all blankly and soundlessly gazing at her, tranquil judges of her actions. She almost didn't even notice them. They were obstacles- peaceful, but obstacles nonetheless. She brushed them out of the way as she strode further in, but she didn't feel like she was making any progress towards Palahi; she wasn't in the flock.
She felt the aura growing closer as she fell deeper into bewilderment. If Palahi wasn't here... If she's not dead... What happened? Did she miss something? A sense of dread built in her gut, and she brought her hands into view, still wet with gore. What had she done?
The sound of shuffling sand drew her attention back towards the dunes. She knew these auras before their owners stepped into the light of the busted trawler.
"Stay where you are," ordered Andega. "...for your own good. Please." The old soldier looked warily down the sights of her pistol, finger on the trigger. Her normally rich, wine-colored skin was pale, either for fear or cold; the military fatigues she wore were worn and hastily donned, with some straps undone and plates retracted; her red eyes looked focused. "Keep your hands where we can see them."
From behind her came Naardha, spear pointed in Wahasha's direction. Two other town guards, Dehaedi and Jjani, paced a wide circle around the three as they advanced on the last of the slavers. She could hear them pull her away from the body and apprehend her. "Hey, worry about her first! Pulse, pulse!" she demanded as they supposedly restrained her. At this point, she didn't care what happened to them. Palahi perched in view on Andega's shoulder, hurt, but very much alive. The seeker's shoulder was substantially bandaged, with no visible bloodstains on the wraps, but other than that, she was clearly safe and sound.
"Palahi... soft sweet..." she quavered with relief. She expected Palahi to come to her, gesture to her, or at the very least nod in her direction. She didn't at all anticipate Palahi's retreat as she withdrew from Andega's shoulder and instead hid behind her midriff. Her puzzlement intensified, then fed into the feeling of unbelievable horror even further waxing in her stomach. "Wha- what's-..."
"Wahasha. Stand down. Keep that-" Andega pointed the barrel of her weapon towards her bound hand- "pointed straight up and away from everyone. I'm going to need you to breath... in, and out, slowly now."
"This can't b-b-be happening..."
"Stay calm..." Naardha pitched in. "For Balmorra's Light, stay calm, and stay where you are."
She'd never heard of the phrase 'the straw that broke the camel's back,' but if she had at the time, she would have agreed that it certainly applied. She succumbed to the anguish and let out a bone-chilling scream, only to be cut short by a sudden and potent shock to her chest. The world swayed and blurred around her like an oil painting dripping off a canvas as she dropped into a well of blackness.
. . .
. . .
. . .
The veteran squeezed her chin between her thumb and index finger and stood in front of a bedroom door. How would she go about talking to him? What would she say? How will he respond to this news? Their camaraderie was only so deep; there were not many times when he would prefer to listen to her speak rather than throw another pot of ink in her face. The understanding had already been fostered, but the forgiveness... well, that was a ways off, if not completely unobtainable. Andega sighed deeply and slid the door open.
Inside was a mess of screens and parchments, used cups and plates, and one small seated figure hunched over the most crowded of desks that dotted the room. Despite the squalor, the smell was pleasant, like wethet flowers freshly picked from further hills. The tempered glass windows also didn't match up with their surroundings. The occupant had kept them spotless, and nearly always left the golden-brown curtains open. Diagrams and political posters lined the walls, held up by cheap synthetic adhesive tabs that had a tendency to fail. An elaborate workbench sat to the side, the only piece of furniture in the room that wasn't covered in his work, as it made up a majority of the mess. She took a look at one of the screens to her left. Stock reports flashed across the holovision while some beautiful, fresh-faced male spouted drivel about inter-colonial trade with the planet Systes IV. She would have found this strange not long ago- he wasn't at all interested in the intergalactic market- but now it was clear to her that it was a coping mechanism, and a sign that she was still having difficulties getting through to him, even if they both knew she was in his corner. A single biobulb hung over his immediate table, but she had installed a mount system that would follow him to his other workspaces on command by way of rails and a computerized electric motor with a self-sustaining power source. She'd done it all by herself- she hated having builders over, and she assumed with good reason that many of them would be entirely unwilling to do any sort of work for her of all people.
The figure himself was dressed in long robes. The only skin visible was has fingers, long and dainty-looking, but she knew these could be precise and firm if he wanted them to be. She still harbored scars from their first encounters not a month or so ago, when he drove one of those sharp digits straight through her calf, much to her astonishment. They produced the most impeccable handwriting she'd ever seen, not to mention the jewelry he'd been known for crafting before his... relocation.
He didn't look up from the smallest of the holovision screens in front of him as he typed away. "Well? Are you just going to barge in and not say anything?" She would not have guessed that he even noticed her come in, had he not spoken to her. "If that is your intention, leave. I don't have the patience to deal with you right now."
"You mean you're not in the mood."
"Those two concepts are not so different."
"I think you might want to see this."
She pressed a couple buttons on the holovision, and the feed shifted from a newsroom to a courtroom. It was a large, white stone amphitheater, its seats packed to the brim with historians, all looking to add whatever trial was taking place into their own personal records. On the stage itself sat a figure in a sharp, towering helmet adorned with various religious symbols and hanging ornaments. The robes they wore covered every inch of their skin, and the train was as wide as it was long. The absurd dress was mostly for show, but the helmet denoted a chair rank that she knew she'd never have a chance of getting into. In front of him, standing at a tiny lectern, was the tallest L'hinea she'd ever met. Adjacent to her were a set of seats filled by an assortment of people- she knew this to be the jury.
The Judge II Chair produced a metal-tipped staff and rapped it on the floor. The sound brought about an immediate silence to both the stand and the jury. All was still. Despite her height and the silly little lectern, the room made Wahasha look extraordinarily minute with how open it was; it probably didn't help that she was also placed at the lowest point in the room. The Judge couldn't have been taller than her thighs, but from where he stood, he had the biggest presence.
The Judge II Chair cleared his throat and spoke. His voice was marred by static- these holovisions were far from the best the market had to offer- but she imagined it didn't sound that much different in the courtroom itself. "The prosecution has told me that the witness scheduled to testify has declined the invitation to do so on account of 'personal issues.' Fortunately, we have enough evidence to come to a sound conclusion..."
The figure perked up in his chair a bit. Andega looked over and gave him a solemn frown. "Sorry, we're only catching the end of it."
"You're the arresting officer. Why weren't you there?"
"It isn't in official records. You know that."
"Right. Silly question." He let out a long breath. "I know she did it. There's nothing she could have said to change the outcome here."
Andega was silent. He was still for a moment, like he was caught in a thought. She heard his stylus clack down to the table as he scooted his chair over next to her, and she got the first good look at him she'd had in days. Kehme's purple eyes were glossy and underscored by mauve pouches of sleep. He clearly hadn't had a good nap in a while. A sinking feeling took hold in her chest. She was upset that she couldn't do more for him, that he wouldn't let her. He stared at the screen and turned up the volume in anticipation.
The static voice continued: "The jury has gone over the evidence and testimony, and have returned a verdict of guilty of 5 counts of first degree murder, 1 count of attempted murder, 1 count of manslaughter, and 1 count of reckless endangerment, without appeal. The evidence in this case was deemed demonstrable and empirically verifiable by every available medium. Now..."
Kehme knew what was going to happen, but she was still surprised when he clutched her hand and leaned on her arm. The pockets under his eyes looked even darker now, his eyes brimming up with fresh precipitation. Something in her snapped.
"Kehme."
"Yes?"
"If I could do something for her. Anything. Would you let me?"
He scoffed emptily. "Depends."
"What if I said she didn't have to go lose herself in the pits?"
"Then I'd ask if what you were doing was legal."
"Well..."
"Then I'd ask if it had anything to do with dropping this whole thing and returning her to me," he interrupted.
"Then I'd tell you I couldn't do that."
"So why even bring it up?"
"Because I might be able to buy her time. And a way out."
He straightened at this. "What do you mean?"
"She'd have to do it herself, for the most part, but I can set her up on a path which would earn her freedom, and it would give us the time we need." She looked him straight in the eye as she said this. "You don't want to abuse my connections. I know. Subtlety is paramount. But if you want..." Her thumb ran across his face to catch a stray tear. "...I can make sure she's safe. Only takes one call."
"Just one?" He couldn't keep the hope out of his voice, no matter how he tried. He hated showing her any vulnerability, but this was different to him, and far more important; soon, however, he began to catch on, and he frowned. "There's a catch, isn't there?"
"It could be dangerous. She might not be the same person when she returns. But it beats the pits, at least I think. It's up to you. Trust me, I would never try to hurt Wahasha. You know that. I love you, I really do, and I only want the best for both of you. This is the only way I can see there being a happy ending."
He chuckled dryly. "Those only exist in books. And not even in good ones."
But even he knew the horrors of the pits. Not much came out of them, save for a few vi-docs that reminded people why only the condemned were ever conscripted to be sent into the depths. It was a death sentence, for all intents and purposes. Perish, a slave to the state, and have your body torn to shreds by creatures unable to be described within the confines of language. She felt his grip tighten on her arm; there was no doubt he was thinking the same. A journey into the realm of Elara would mean that Wahasha was never set to return.
"Why?" he asked, unprompted.
"Hm?"
"Why would you do this for us?"
She looked away for a moment to collect her thoughts. "It's... complicated. I do love you as..."
"As you would another one of your trophies?" he remarked, perhaps a little too pointedly for her taste- although, in essence, she couldn't help but acknowledge that he was in the right to say that.
"Let me finish, please. I... Back during Red Snow, you know what I was?"
"No. And I don't want to guess."
"I was trench sweeper. A nobody. They'd only drop people like me in if they wanted a bunch of dirty shit done and wanted to look the other way. Wanted a group of losers that no one would ever notice was gone."
He narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean?"
She retorted with a mirthless laugh. "You might need to do some more homework if you think that the Vanguard were the only war criminals active during Red Snow. Things we did were off record. Unsanctioned. I wasn't working for the L'hinea High Table. The AUMO had their own plans. Red Snow was its opportunity to rid the Spires of its usurper and seize power in the region..."
"Why are you telling me this..."
Ignoring him, she continued: "...so they were willing to do pretty much anything. And that meant sending groups of morally bankrupt scumsuckers that could swing swords and shoot guns and obliterate matter with the best of them to do what they did best." There was a pause as she waited for another intrusion, but none came. "What I did best. During that time, I met the enemy. Talked and listened to them, and really listened, not just jumbling words and saying 'yes' to everything to pass the time. They said a lot about us as a people- our unwillingness to let males participate as they should, our stubborn beliefs, our strict, old-fashioned religion, our relative stupidity. 'Course, there was a whole lot of it that was pure shit. Hypocritical, delinquent. They just had most of it enshrined in true written laws, not out of some holy book. Didn't make them right- just made them different. But all of that talk gave me time to think. Why can't you live as I do? Not as a female, per se- you've got different junk and all- but as a person? There's so much of it that I find insufferable, from the double standards to the refusal of rights that people like me take for granted."
He looked stunned for a moment, stuck in mental processes, after which he switched his view towards the window. "Is that closed?"
The joke happened to catch her off guard, and they both cackled for a second. "I, uhm... I didn't know how you'd..."
"I knew you were trying to help us, I just didn't really know why. This clears it up, really."
"That was the idea." She looked back towards the screen. The judge was still in his own closing statement, something about a so-called "moral degeneracy of the current generations" or something or other. "My offer still stands."
He looked her straight in the eye for the first time. She understood it was an attempt to perform a neural chemo-link, but instead of resisting, she opened her mind to him and his senses. She wanted him to understand her feelings for him- not as a male, or as a fellow dissenter, even- as a person, with thoughts, emotions, aspirations, attachments. He had to know the plan. It didn't seem to take him long to suss out what he was perceiving. The horrors of the life she used to lead, the treachery, the greed, the bottomless wrath, all swirled in her mind, a perfect storm meant only for him. And, at last, a ray of light. A poster on a dilapidated wall on an empty street: "EMANCIPATE! ABOLISH! THE WORKERS OF THIS COUNTRY HAVE A VOICE THAT WILL NOT BE SILENCED BY THE COLD TYRANT!" She hadn't been in the dark about her actions. It was, put simply, a breaking point. A collision of morals and values, a battle against denial of personal sins and a desire to be... better. Then came the plan. She saw his comprehension in real-time; she hoped she'd made herself clear.
He blinked, severing the link. "I... I see." He then shook his head. "I still have a hard time believing this to be the best course of action..."
"This is the only way I can see. But it's up to you."
"That it is." This time, it was he who put his chin in between his thumb and index. It didn't take him long to answer. "Alright. If you trust your contact, I trust them."
With this, she got up and left the room. She had a call to make.
. . .
Kehme liked computers. The screens, the sounds, the utilities. It offered a sort of catharsis. He hadn't had this kind of tech just a month past, but it was one of the many methods he could utilize to comfort himself without Wahasha's loving embrace; not that it would ever compare, but that it was something for him to do that let him release everything in privacy. It was the way he could keep his activism to himself, and share it with the world all at the same time. It connected him to people all across the local system. Planets hundreds of light-years away in real-space were only seconds away from his fingertips through the holovision. Wormhole signal boosters used a quantum internet connection that got him further than he ever hoped to travel in the space of only mere hours. He could watch a Torvalbal game on Innesbo III in (relatively) live high-definition, or chat with another person on a dark matter research station in the deeps of space. He could even witness his last mate being sentenced to death, essentially, over a thousand kilometers away. The last point was of no comfort to him as he conceived it.
He wondered why her left arm was encased in what looked to be a large metal cast. It was sleek and shiny, freshly forged, with padlocked seems to match. Resting the thing on the table, she looked burdened by its weight. He'd known of her abilities when they chose each other, but they'd never been potent enough to warrant such heavy restraints.
What would happen to her flock, he wondered? Most of them were unbending in their loyalty to her as their sole watcher; it would be difficult for Lek or Fyse to find another watcher they meshed with, and even more so for Kotra, who was already considered to be next to useless by most professional standards. Her best bet at this point would be to go into service for a merchant group or a stationary city. No watcher had much a need for a lame waterseeker. And Palahi... he didn't want to think about her right now.
The door slid open and Andega re-entered. Beads of perspiration riddled her forehead as she sat down and set her head in her hand. It had been at least an hour and a half since she walked out, and at this point she looked positively beat.
"...Well?"
"All squared away," she croaked out, sounding spent, but relieved. "Called in some favors. Managed to avoid having to pay my own. Just watch."
The Judge had spent the abundance of time hearing closing statements and giving personal criticisms, but it was clear that this was theater and they were running out of show. As the prosecution finished their final grilling of the beaten defense, a tiny male with a single large flagellum curled behind his head scuttled towards the Judge's podium and whispered something into his ear. He recoiled visibly as the prosecutor paused in their speech to witness this courtroom oddity. They moved to the side and spoke in hushed tones as the whole courtroom hummed with low-spoken questions. He couldn't hear any of the subjects of these side conversations, but he imagined a majority of them concerned some sort of confusion as to what the fuck was going on. He wished he could see the expression on the prosector's face, but her three-pronged mask obscured it. Truly, a shame. He would have loved to see her Jusanek-bog face contorted and darkened by rage. Her intuition would be telling her right about now that things definitely weren't going her way.
After a few minutes, the Judge nodded and sent the messenger skittering back towards the door, then retook his position at the podium and cleared his throat. "I have just been informed that the defendant has been referred to the military entity known as the 101st. The sentence of Pitwork has been replaced with that of mandatory service to said entity. Time and service rendered is now at the discretion of said entity."
Two enforcers, both decked out in their bright-white plated regalia, entered through the front of the courtroom and marched down to a very confused-looking Wahasha. As they cuffed her and led her from the room, the last scene the feed showed was that of the prosector, fuming in the face of the Judge, throwing her hands in the air in nugatory fury. He relished her defeat for a little longer before the screen went black.
"Thank you."
"I only want you to be happy."
"Well, count me content as of right now. Not quite happy yet."
"Now we have no barriers to keep us from our goal. I'm sure achieving that will bring you some sort of joy."
"Won't rest til I'm free."
"I like that spirit."Iops: Notation for the Ausran measurement of distance in iops. Pronounced eye-awe-ps. For reference, an iop is roughly 1.07 miles, or 1.7 kilometers. Iopin: Notation for Ausran standard measurements.
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