by Ehsan Ahmad
WILD SUN
Copyright © 2019 by Ehsan Ahmad & Shakil Ahmad.
All rights reserved.
Published by Uproar Books, LLC.
Reproduction of this book in whole or in part, electronically or mechanically, is prohibited without written consent, except brief quotations as part of news articles or reviews. For information address: Uproar Books, 1419 Plymouth Drive, Nashville, TN 37027.
All persons, places, and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
ISBN 978-1-949671-20-9
Second digital edition.
To Jd’A
PREFACE
A farmer walks onto a ledge while attending a rooftop soiree. The cityscape is luminous. Slowly turning around, the farmer shouts, “Toss me a coin?” at a lively crowd. “Spent all of mine on fine art,” a banker replies. Another guest tosses a shiny coin well over the head of the farmer while their unattended glass of champagne blows off the skyscraper and shatters in midair. The farmer steps down and enters an elevator, the attendant pressing an unmarked button. Doors close and promptly open to reveal a museum floor. The glint of a small rolling object draws the farmer toward a painting adjacent to the outline of a rifle on the wall. The painting depicts a rooftop soiree and its description reads “Fine Art.” There appears to be someone standing on the ledge of the rooftop. The farmer leans in farther, but a shiny coin directly below standing on its edge—neither heads nor tails—gives pause.
End of this surrealist lark for now.
You must have many questions. Yes, this tale does have something to do with our debut novel Wild Sun. No, there’s no intended, fixed meaning behind the plot or characters. Here we have a sequence of aimless vignettes with interacting, ambiguous characters. Nonetheless, you have undoubtedly filled in many blanks for the farmer, banker, guest, elevator attendant, and perhaps, the city itself. Young or old? New York or London? More importantly, why a farmer?
We each construct our own world for the story from archetypes, from experience, from history. And yet, our individual worlds will inevitably overlap in compelling ways because we all draw from shared archetypes, from shared experience, and from a shared history continually referencing itself in the present. And thus, the question becomes: Are we imposing our own version of the world upon the story or is the world imposing its own version of the story on us?
We are reminded of the words of novelist and activist Arundhati Roy for many reasons:
“Writers imagine that they cull stories from the world. I’m beginning to believe that vanity makes them think so. That it’s actually the other way around. Stories cull writers from the world. Stories reveal themselves to us. They commission us. They insist on being told. Fiction and nonfiction are only different techniques of storytelling.”
Wild Sun is not an aimless series of ambiguous vignettes but a coherent, character-driven novel rife with purpose and meaning. Unlike the farmer’s tale, the story of Wild Sun existed first outside of ourselves in the form of universal themes such as empire, slavery, oppression, and the perseverance of the human spirit. These themes were not created by us—they’re far, far older than we are—but they came to us from the world and commissioned us to tell their story.
Why us? As young brothers, we bounced from city to small town, hoping the roots we were looking for would naturally form beneath us. We were the first-generation American children of Pakistani immigrants—and with every new environment came new questions about ourselves and our place in our insulated community, in America, and in the world. We weren’t afraid of big picture questions, and we strived for a sense of meaning. And throughout it all, the alchemy of brotherhood continued to furiously transform our individual pursuit for personal understanding into a connection to our tribe.
It is the tribes we live in that become our universe. They are our shared world, the world that imposes order and meaning upon the random, ambiguous vignettes of life.
Ultimately, Wild Sun is filled with characters trying to understand who is and isn’t part of their tribe—from those who think it should encompass everyone of all species to those who see themselves as standing alone against the universe. This is the story that chose us, and we have done our humble best to capture it in words exactly as it appeared to us.
From our earliest days, we’ve been obsessed with an artist’s ability to genuinely move another emotionally. Our own artistic passion was always for storytelling, although not originally novels. We traveled from continent to continent, played in indie rock bands, ascended a variety of business ladders from corporate to startups, became wedding filmmakers, wrote screenplays—almost always together. In typical Ahmad Brothers’ fashion, our creative sessions tended to scale rather quickly, with every thread creating countless other threads which we’re always eager to explore. In the cauldron of writing a backstory for a screenplay, the embers of the Wild Sun series emerged. Our inspirations for critical elements of Wild Sun range from indie sci-fi films to post-industrial progressive music.
In many ways, our lives right now may feel like a surrealist lark with the notable absence of plot and necessary descriptors. A pandemic, social unrest, climate change. So many tribes in conflict with each other and from within themselves. The process of imposing structure and meaning upon it all is what transforms our personal experiences into stories. Stories are important. Stories can help.
Corvos, the Earth-like planet of our story, also finds itself in an unprecedented era. An unimaginable and oppressive force ravages the resource-rich planet and its inhabitants to unknown ends. The people are powerless, or so they think. And yet, for all their technology and wealth, their enemies are just another tribe of fractured and flawed individuals, some better than others, some worse.
Essayist and playwright James Baldwin may have interpreted these conditions best:
“For no kingdom can maintain itself by force alone. Force does not work the way its advocates think in fact it does. It does not, for example, reveal to the victim the strength of the adversary. On the contrary, it reveals the weakness, even the panic of the adversary. And this revelation invests the victim with passion.”
A coin actually has three sides. The obvious heads and tails, black and white, but also a thin third side that gives the coin depth—the gray. That is where we chose to write this story. Thank you for making it—and us—part of your shared world.
Here’s to the missing rifle and bursting champagne glass.
—Ehsan Ahmad & Shakil Ahmad
September 2020
1
Cerrin had waited a long time for the river lilies.
Early in the season they were too soft and she’d never have reached the far bank. But having watched for the last month, she knew they would be rigid now, the dark green skin hard to the touch. Even the smallest lily was eight feet across; they formed an unbroken carpet across the water, flowing past at quite a speed.
Cerrin was moving a lot faster. She charged down the slope, heart pounding in her ears, grass thrashing at her legs.
Twenty-five, twenty-six...
That’s how long the siren had been going; she guessed someone had spotted her climbing over the wall. The Vitaari on patrol duty would be ready, but Cerrin knew they couldn’t get to the river in under eighty seconds; it took them that long to power up and launch.
Thirty-one, thirty-two...
She had to reach the thick forest on the other side. The guards couldn’t see through the thick canopy from the air, and on foot they were slow. If she got across, she could get away.
Cerrin altered direction slightly to make sure she was heading for the island. It was small and covered with trees, but she would move quick
er across solid ground and there was only forty feet of water between it and the far bank.
Her last step was inches from the edge. She launched herself into the air, clearing the closest lily easily, landing in the middle of the next one. Water had collected on the surface. She skidded but did not fall, used her impetus to keep her body moving.
Forty-one, forty-two...
She leapt onto the next one, disturbing a flock of yellow-beaked hyatha on the island. They flapped away into the still-dark sky.
This lily was weak. The middle of it folded, her foot almost tearing through the base. But she dragged herself clear, reached the edge, leapt once more.
More surface water. Both feet went at the same time, and she came down on her backside. It seemed to take an age for her to get back on her feet and go again. She was close to the island when she heard the hyatha squawking. That meant they were coming.
Already? Don’t look back.
She jumped onto the slick, grassy bank. As she tried to throw her weight forward, her right foot slipped. She clutched a handful of branches from the nearest tree and hauled herself up.
Ikala, god of battle—hear me, see me, help me.
The engine screamed as a guard swooped down. Sounded like just the one. Cerrin heard the combat shell’s jets strike the water as she charged on, dodging through the narrow trees. The Vitaari wouldn’t actually fire on her, she knew that—they never had before. Then again, with the help of their cursed machines they wouldn’t need to.
Don’t look back!
Judging by the noise, the guard had landed and was simply smashing his way across the island. Cerrin stumbled through a thorn bush and glimpsed the water ahead. A slender tree trunk came flying over her right shoulder and struck another, showering her with berries and twigs. She looked up as the trunk plummeted toward her. She dropped low, threw her hands up to cover her head.
But no impact came; the trunk had lodged itself in the branches. She set off again.
The guard bellowed something in his own language. As a clear path opened up ahead, Cerrin stole a backwards glance. He was blundering through the trees, the bulky metallic suit tangled in vines and branches. Cerrin might have felt happier had she not known they usually operated in pairs.
Picking her spot carefully, she jumped out onto another solid lily. She caught her first sight of the red-leaved scorra bushes on the far bank.
Not far now. I can make it.
Suddenly she was in a patch of smaller lilies. She landed hard, and her foot went straight through. Fingers scraping at green fibers, she pulled her herself out of the water and leapt again.
Two steps, jump, land. Two steps, jump, land. Her legs were aching, her throat tight. The lilies ahead looked wide and strong. Five more, maybe four.
Now she could hear the howl of a second engine, and it came at her quicker than the first, blocking out every other noise.
Three more lilies. Beyond the last of them was a thick patch of scorra. She would dive straight in, scramble through, stay low.
She threw her arms out as she landed, ran on, leapt again.
Two more.
Water blown up by the jets blasted at her back. She could hear something beeping.
One long step took her across the lily. She leapt, landed well. The bank was only feet away. She could almost touch the leaves. She ran, jumped—
Something big and impossibly strong gripped her right ankle and lifted her. She screamed as her momentum was stopped in an instant. She fell forward, then hung there, blood dripping from her ankle and rushing to her head. She felt a bone splinter in her leg, pierce her flesh.
Cold water hit her face. The pitch of the engine altered as she was lifted higher.
Ikala, god of battle, strike with me.
She pulled the tiny dagger from her belt, pivoted upward and spied the giant white fingers gripping her leg. She stabbed at one of the silvery knuckle joints, but the blade broke.
She screamed again. The hand moved, turning her toward the Vitaari guard. The combat shell boosted his height to twelve feet, the bulbous metal limbs magnifying his already huge bulk. Through the transparent helmet, she could see the leering stare. He was known as Stripe because of the blue streaks tattooed across his face.
He was grinning.
They gave her thirty days in the cage. It was a rusty old thing hung from a solitary tree next to the mine path. A few of the other workers risked a nod as they trudged past, but none of them said anything. Most of them had been in Mine Fourteen for many years. Cerrin had been there only two, one of the newest arrivals. She was proud of that.
For the first week, she had to sit; the ankle was too weak and painful to stand on. The Vitaari surgeon who fixed her up at the infirmary had told her she was lucky. The hands of the combat shell could easily crush a human, but Stripe had not snapped her ankle, only fractured it. The surgeon said that wasn’t the only reason she was lucky: after three escape attempts, anyone else would have been eliminated. But the governor of Fourteen had been told that the building of a new mine in the Great Forest was going ahead. A scout ship would be dispatched there soon, and she would be on it.
No one else in Fourteen understood the terrain and the creatures of the Great Forest like Cerrin. She knew it; the Vitaari knew it. She helped them because it got her out of the camp and back to where she wanted to be, even if only for a day or so. Some of the other prisoners hated her because of it, but she hated them, too; they had given up.
At the end of the second week, Governor Yeterris came to visit her. Even amongst the invaders, he was tall, nine feet at least, with a lean, powerful frame that belied his age. He was wearing his usual outfit of flowing white robes with a golden chain around his neck. The translator was attached to his collar. It used what was known as trade or Corvosian—an unsophisticated but widely spoken language that enabled the disparate tribes of the planet to communicate. The Vitaari had insisted that only trade be spoken by their captives; Cerrin had known only a few words when she arrived but was now fluent. The translator got most words and meanings right, but it used only the one impassive voice and caused an awkward delay.
When Yeterris arrived beneath the cage at dusk, the last of the returning day shift gave him a wide berth. He clearly felt no need for either a weapon or a bodyguard. The dying rays of the sun lit his silvery skin as he looked up at her.
“They are feeding you well, I trust?”
Cerrin had learned how to handle him—with grudging cooperation. She alone in Fourteen had an alternative to absolute, unquestioning subservience.
“They are.”
The food was in a sack at the back of the cage. She’d had to ration it carefully, but there was enough. She had plenty of water, too, and had even managed a shower during a rainstorm.
“Fifteen days left?”
“Yes, Governor.” She stood up straight for him, even though her ankle hurt.
“I do like your hair, girl. It’s as dark as my daughter’s.”
Yeterris had complimented her before, but only when they were alone. At six feet, Cerrin was one of the tallest natives at the mine, male or female. The guards often told her that with some “proper” clothes and some skin coloring, she could pass for one of them.
“Can I trust you to behave yourself from now on?” Yeterris continued. “There will be other senior officers joining us on the next scouting mission.”
“If I gave you a promise, you wouldn’t believe me.”
The governor paced around, hands clasped behind him. “If you try anything like this again, the consequences will be most unpleasant. Three attempts? Three, Cerrin? It simply cannot be tolerated. I will not allow you to disrupt the smooth running of this installation in such a way. So, I ask again—will you behave yourself?”
Cerrin wished she had her old bow in her hands. She would launch an arrow straight into that veiny neck and watch the black blood flow. With a hundred more like her and the favor of Ik
ala, they could take Mine Fourteen: slay this brutal bastard and every last one of his men. But there were no hundred warriors. There weren’t even ten.
“Yes, Governor.”
Sonus knew what was coming. He leaned his drill against the cavern wall, removed his gloves and took a long drink from his water flask. Tanus arrived out of breath, face smeared with dust from his morning’s work. There wasn’t much chance of being noticed down here, but he would have only minutes to spare.
He was a large man with thinning hair and a blunt nose. Like Sonus, his overalls had been gray to begin with but were now almost as black as the terodite they drilled out of the mountain. He cast a brief glance at the impressive haul Sonus had cut that morning.
“What you said about the dump—the parts in there. Do you still think you can—”
“I should not have mentioned that.”
“How long? How long to make something we can use?”
Sonus sighed.
“How much damage would it do?” Tanus took a step closer, shadowing Sonus’s face. “Listen, Rinus isn’t up to it. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. But you...”
“I shouldn’t have said anything. Yes, the materials are there to create some sort of crude device, but it would be hard to locate them and almost impossible to put them together. And what’s the point? One weapon?”
“It’s a start.”
Sonus held up his hands. “I’m sorry. I can’t help you.”
“Can’t? Or won’t?”
“What difference does it make?”
Tanus shook his head. “I saw you—trying to avoid me yesterday. I saw you, with them. Like some little pet, fixing their machines in return for light shifts and better rations. You make me sick, Sonus. You would rather help them than help us?”
Sonus said nothing until Tanus turned and walked away. “I’ve made some calculations.”
