by J. S. Fields
She made it five steps before a loud CRACK came from the ceiling.
A thick andal root twirled lazily downward from an opening in the floor above. When it hit the dirt floor of the containment room, smaller roots broke off from the main one and embedded themselves in the ground. Moonlight filtered down through the opening in the ceiling. More importantly, the wood in the upper stories of the palace was now available to her.
Adzeek clasped his hands behind his back and closed his eyes. He nodded, his body taut. The Dulan knife dropped from his hands, landing an arm span away from Arik.
“The andal speaks,” Adzeek murmured. “I listen. If you find Corccinth, tell her I did my best with you two. I know it doesn’t make up for her tochter, but perhaps it is a start.”
Long, thin spines were beginning to grow from the tops of the smaller roots. They were short at first, but after several heartbeats, the room was filled with sharp quills, each as long as Emn’s arm and glistening black in the scattered sunlight.
“Andal has spines?” Emn whispered, so shocked that Adzeek’s words melted from her mind.
“It doesn’t,” Arik said.
Adzeek’s concentration wavered, and a spine from the andal pierced Arik’s bonds, separating the plastic. Immediately, Arik reached out and ran a finger down the length of a nearby spine, carefully avoiding the tip. When he reached the base, he grasped the spine and broke it off. “Sometimes, sentinel trees grow around andal, when it grows wild. These are their spines.” Arik turned the spine over in his hand and then looked towards Adzeek. His eyes unfocused, and Emn thought she heard faint whispers leaking from his mind into hers.
“The palace always comes down just before the move.” Arik gripped the spine tightly in his fist. “Do you believe in dreams, Emn? Do you believe in gods? That we’re all meant to do something? Or maybe the andal just controls us all, or makes suggestions, and all we can do is follow.”
“Arik!” Emn broke into a run, tried to grab the spine, but Arik jerked away. Before she could try again, he had Adzeek’s robes parted and the spine at his back. The whispering in her mind turned to incoherent shouting.
“Monstrosity,” Arik spat as he plunged the spine into the male eld.
Emn couldn’t breathe. The air was suddenly heavy and thick with humidity. The crowd’s voices turned to anger. More black spines began to spring from the andal stem, some diving deep into the male eld’s flesh. Adzeek remained motionless, the pool of maroon blood at his feet absorbing into the dirt. Unlike the spines from the smaller roots, however, these did not stop growing at a given length. Instead, they continued their progress, running through Adzeek’s hand and into his throat and back out again. Several pierced his abdomen and a large cluster shot directly through his head.
Arik backed away, rejoining Emn. The spines grew longer, split Adzeek’s body in half, and pinned each side to the wall. “It’s over,” Arik said. “The reign of terror from these Eld is over, and we won’t let the new ones make the same mistakes.” No emotion chased the words. There was just the simplicity of the statement, the blood pooled on the floor. The sounds of screaming came from the throne room.
“He didn’t… I don’t think…” Emn stuttered, trying to form coherent thoughts. There was something else going on down here. Eld Adzeek could have killed her, but didn’t. He could have killed Arik, but didn’t. All the flares could have simply been killed while they were unconscious. Why bring them here? Why torment them? And why would the andal kill an eld?
Arik wiped his hands on his shirt and looked up at the broken ceiling. “As long as they live, we can’t. We have to stop the cycle, Emn, and if we can get through the move without the Eld, then maybe we have a chance at really changing things.” He pointed to the stem. “We need to go up, find the other flares. We can use the spines as a ladder. The ones on the opposite side of the eld aren’t growing anymore.”
Emn looked up the trunk. Small roots continued to branch and sink into the dirt floor, and the spines were multiplying quickly. If they stayed put, they would likely be impaled. Climbing seemed their best option. She’d focus first on getting out and finding Atalant, Nicholas, and the other flares. Dealing with dead bodies, even those of the rulers of Ardulum, would have to wait.
She didn’t want to step into more trouble, however. Emn reached out with her mind to the floor above, checking for cellulose. They appeared to be just one floor below the main palace level, as she found copious supplies of andal and other woods and—
“Nicholas!”
Emn heard the cry in Atalant’s voice from somewhere above. Her chest tightened. With the palace coming down, Atalant and Nicholas were in desperate risk of being crushed. Emn searched for the pilot, tried desperately to make a connection, but she could not locate Atalant’s mind.
“We have to find the other flares, Emn,” Arik said. He was now well above her, his right heel teetering on a short, fat spine. “Then there are the other elds. Loose ends. Other things we need to deal with.”
Emn grabbed a horizontal spine on the main root and began to climb, ignoring the cellulose that bled over her hands the moment she made contact with the andal. “There’s only one eld left. Asth and Adzeek told me that Savath had passed. Regardless, I have to get to Atalant and Nicholas. After that, if we combine our skills, we should be able to rescue the other flares. Then…then…” Emn trailed off. Then what? They’d overthrow the government? She wanted a home, not anarchy.
“Not anarchy,” Arik agreed. He reached the top and scrambled onto the floor, bits of wood flaking off as he kicked. “We take control. We make this planet a home for everyone. You could live here, unafraid, with your friends. Even the subspecies would be welcome, if you desire. There would be a place even for your Neek, Atalant.”
“How…?” Emn didn’t finish the question. She reached the battered remains of the floor above and cautiously leapt from the root to a patch of solid-looking floor. Arik’s words continued to tumble in her mind. It was so tempting to think of what they could accomplish. A real home for her and Atalant. Freedom for the flares.
“It sounds like a dream,” she returned.
“Not a dream. An eventuality.” Arik placed his hand on her shoulder. “I know you don’t like the methods, but there is no other option. The planet moves tonight. It can only do so with all three elds in place to direct the andal. Without a strong governance, the planet will break apart in the move. Everyone will die, Emn. Everyone. But we are flares. We have all the Talents. We can be that governance, remake Ardulum. We don’t have to hide.” He took his hand away and looked at her. “Now is our time. We will be the Eld Ardulum needs. Without us, everyone will die.”
Emn imagined then, living with Atalant in an apartment in the capital, Nicholas stopping by to visit during trade runs with his own ship. She imagined shopping in the market square in a sundress, bare arms showing and no one staring—people chatting with her about mundane things without their eyes darting across her exposed skin. She thought about being judged on her interactions with people, not on her potential to destroy. She thought about having control of her body, her mind, her Talents. It was what she had always wanted, wasn’t it?
Except maybe what she wanted wasn’t the most important thing right now. She had to help move a planet, had to teach the flares to use their Talents so Ardulum itself wouldn’t spiral into space. Finding Atalant was part of all of that, but she couldn’t allow herself to become myopic. She was partially responsible for Adzeek’s death. She had to deal with the consequences.
“I’ll help, but we have to find Atalant and Nicholas in the process. Where do we begin?” Emn asked as the trunk they’d just climbed up expanded, sealing the hole in the floor. A root covered in curly, black bark spun off and twirled past an open door and into a hallway.
“Where the andal leads,” Arik said. He took Emn’s hand. “Let’s go.”
Chapter 27: Eld Palace, Ardulum
Cellulose isn’t our greatest weapon—it is our only
weapon. How has this planet not progressed past our last visit? What in the name of andal have these people been doing during these last centuries? Worshiping us makes no logical sense if it hinders social and technological progress.
—Overheard conversation by an attending Neek in the Eld’s Chambers, fourth lunar cycle, 230 AA
A COOL BREEZE skimmed past Atalant’s face, and she opened her eyes, completely disoriented. Hadn’t she been in a room with Nicholas? Wasn’t the Eld Palace falling down around them? How had she ended up lying on a thick pile of leaves under the immense canopy of an andal forest?
Atalant sat up and brushed her hair. Brown leaves crinkled against her fingertips and fell lazily to the moss-covered ground. She brought her fingertips to her pants to rub away the inevitable, congealed mass of leaves and stuk, but was surprised when her skin slid smoothly over the fabric. Confused, Atalant studied first one set of fingers and then the other. Both were dry.
“Not normal,” she muttered to herself as she looked around. There was no understory to speak of, lacking even small ground plants. The andal dominated, and Atalant wondered briefly if she was in a plantation instead of a natural forest.
“Hello?” she called out, loudly. “Anyone around? Nick?” The breeze picked up and carried her words away, chapping her lips in the process. “This is why we have stuk,” she muttered as she stood. “This is ridiculous. Where the fuck is everyone?”
Another breeze kicked up, this one sending a cyclone of dead leaves spiraling near her feet. Atalant kicked at it, but the leaf formation backed away, staying just out of reach. It suddenly occurred to Atalant that she was probably dreaming. As she looked around, pieces of her last andal dream returned. The trees looked the same, and the lack of understory was familiar. Mystery settled, Atalant leaned against a thick andal trunk, trying to will herself awake, and thunked her head on the bark.
Instead of a crumbly, rough surface, however, Atalant’s head met something wet and sticky. No longer relaxed, she pulled away and turned to see what bug or small mammal she had inadvertently crushed. Where her head had been, however, there was only a long, horizontal gash that looked like someone had cut a strip of bark away. Sap oozed from the wound, the smell and viscosity reminding her strongly of stuk. That was stupid, of course, because andal trees produced a latex that was nothing at all like stuk. Her mind was obviously having a great time with this dream.
“No sense in wasting a natural lubricant,” she said as she rubbed her fingers in the sap. She brought her smallest finger to her lips and coated them, easing the chap. “Much better,” she said, smacking her lips together.
Atalant wiped the excess onto her pants and looked back down at the ground. The little leaf cyclone was still hovering near her right leg, unchanged despite the lack of wind.
“What the hell are you supposed to represent?” she asked sourly. “My life?”
As if in response, the cyclone began to intensify, bringing in more leaves as it did so. Its core was thick with brown now, and Atalant could no longer see through it. It continued to grow in height until the top was just above Atalant’s head, whereupon it filled out sideways in a rough approximation of a biped.
“This is the part where the dream turns into a nightmare, isn’t it?” Atalant breathed. “Great.”
The leaves swirled tighter and tighter as they picked up the loose strands of Atalant’s hair and blew them in every direction. An opening formed near what Atalant considered the head, releasing a loud whistling sound. From within, Atalant was sure she heard actual words.
“We waited a long time for you,” the leaf cyclone breathed. “We know you through our brothers and sisters, through the seeds of our children spread long ago.”
Atalant blinked several times and opted to keep silent. She was fine unless the leaf thing started coming after her with a knife. Until then, why not indulge in a little dream absurdity?
The arm of the cyclone reached out and pointed to the gash in the tree trunk. “You accepted our offering, and we are pleased.”
“My lips were chapped,” Atalant countered. “What offer?”
“To accept the flaring is to carry the torch of Ardulum. We honor you, Atalant, for being what many could not.” A handful of leaves spun off the arm and stuck to the gash in the trunk, covering it.
Atalant squinted at the leaf thing. Was it her imagination, or was it not as compact as it was a moment ago? Moreover, why was she having dreams about being a flare? Courting a relationship with one was more than enough to bring her religion into a dangerous tailspin. Being one was just absurd.
“Protect us during the move, Atalant, and for future generations.” She was certain now that the leaf thing was destabilizing. “In return, we shall continue to serve as the trophobiont for the Ardulan people, as we always have.”
Atalant saluted. “Sure thing, leaves. I’ll just go be an Ardulan and move a planet. Why not?” She raised her hand to salute again when the cyclone stopped. The leaves that were left drifted slowly back to the moss and lay still. There was no more breeze, and for the first time, Atalant noticed the eerie silence of the forest, as if there were no other living beings except the moss, the andal, and herself.
That thought was more disconcerting than having an entire conversation with a pile of leaves. Atalant rubbed her chest, finding it suddenly difficult to breathe. Why was there so much pressure? She took long, deep breaths that made her cough. There was even pain in her legs now, which didn’t make any sense at all.
Can you drown in a forest? she wondered, trying to push something she couldn’t see off her chest. Her vision was getting murky, the trees blurring together into brown fog. Atalant rubbed her eyes, and when she opened them, all she could see was brown with hints of light peeking through. The pain was much more intense now—too intense to be a dream.
Groaning, Atalant opened her eyes, but it was too dim to make out her surroundings. She tried to move and realized she was on her back, not standing, and there was something on her chest after all. Her legs were caught as well, and sharp fragments of something were poking her back. She was also completely drenched in a viscous material she sincerely hoped was her own stuk.
“Hey!” she called out, her voice croaking. “Is anyone there? Can someone hear me?”
“Atalant!” Nicholas’s jubilant voice came from somewhere to her right. “You’re alive! I’m here, but pinned under part of the roof. I think I blacked out, too. I haven’t been able to break free. I am so glad you’re okay!” Nicholas’s words tumbled over each other, and Atalant smiled.
“Relax, Nicholas. I’ll see if I can get out. I think I’m fine.” Atalant tried to shift her hip, using the maybe-stuk as a lubricant to slide partway out from one of the beams that pinned her to the ground. She managed several centimeters before something shifted and the entire load slammed back down onto her, holding her more tightly than before.
“That didn’t sound good!” Nicholas called out, his tone worried. “Atalant?”
“Still fine,” she replied crossly. Her breath was wheezing now with the additional pressure on her lungs. She needed help fast. “Just had to have that telepathy shut down,” Atalant muttered to herself. “Never seems to be a god-like friend around when you need one.”
“Are you saying something, Atalant?” Nicholas asked. “I thought I heard you say something.”
“Nothing, Nicholas. Ignore it,” she replied. “Just trying to find a way out.” Atalant could feel her fingertips drying, which was not a good sign. If her circulation was being cut off, she didn’t have long.
Just in case that crazy woman screwed up the telepathy blocker, is there anyone who can hear me? I need help! she yelled into her mind, towards the place Emn used to occupy. The words spiraled in her head, but then slowly died away.
Atalant coughed again, wheezing as she tried to inhale. Suddenly, another crushing sensation overtook her, but this time, it was in her mind. A huge, multifaceted presence broke into her consciousness, tendril
s of thought, each distinct but feeding into a whole, curled into her brain. Atalant screamed—a full, well breathed scream—and brought her hands to her head, pushing in with her palms. Outside of her head, she could hear scraping and banging before the pressure on her chest eased and then disappeared. Opening her eyes, Atalant clamped her hands over her mouth and scuttled to the wall. She rammed her back against it as several large andal roots cleared away the debris from where she had been lying.
Her panicked thoughts turned to Nicholas, an image of him floating to the front of her mind. Instantly, the roots changed direction and moved to the other large pile of debris, where Atalant could make out one of Nicholas’s arms lying outstretched on the floor.
“Atalant?!” she heard Nicholas call over the din in her ears. “What is going on? Why did you scream? Did you get out? What…” As the last piece was cleared, Nicholas sat up and gawked, wide-eyed, at the roots that were standing somehow at attention, their tips pointed at Atalant.
The pressure in Atalant’s head was waning. The presence pulled back, the whispering faded to what almost sounded like a gentle rustling of leaves. Atalant gulped air and stared at the roots, unblinking.
“Fuck.” Nicholas said slowly. “Just…fuck. Where are they going? Where’s the puppet master of these roots?”
Atalant stopped rocking—having not noticed when she’d started—and brought her hands back up to her face. Stuk production had resumed, though looking around, she wasn’t sure where she would clean her hands if she needed to. She was sitting in a pool of the Ardulan pot-goop, her dress completely saturated and her hair hanging in wet strands that stuck to her face and neck.
“I am sitting in someone else’s stuk!” she yelled out, not caring how crazy she sounded. She shook her hands and feet and tried to wring out the bottom of the dress. The goopy-whatever just smeared further onto her skin. “Fuck this whole situation!” The scattering sound in her head began to grow louder. Atalant clamped her hands back over her ears, forgetting the slime that covered them, and put her head between her legs, trying desperately not to scream again.
