The Last Dryad: The Complex

by Sarah M. Cradit

  Copyright © 2016 Sarah M. Cradit

  Cover Design by Shoutline Designs

  Editing by Kathy Lapeyre

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  I- Wezlei

  October 1, 4 AS (Ama Seldova)

  Wezlei almost didn’t mind the taste of blood pooling in his mouth. Between his teeth, under his tongue, even tickling the roof of his mouth. To bleed was to be real, and to live. As long as the coppery warmth continued to flow, he was alive. When it stopped…

  Well, it would stop. Of that he had no doubt, and there was little consolation to be taken from deceiving himself into hope, or believing in some veritable deus ex machina to sweep in and save the day, like he’d read about in those crumbling Greek novels written on paper… the ones his father left behind. Wezlei had taken Tariq’s most prized possession. Never mind that this “possession,” wasn’t Tariq’s to own, or Wezlei’s. He could no more claim this possession any more than the possession could claim him.

  Except, when said that way, he saw the point and the possibility.

  He wouldn’t think of her by name. Tariq and the other Metas—mostly Dhampir, like Tariq, but also a Punisher, maybe even a Necromancer—had ripped out his left ear implant, which had been the only barrier protecting his Human mind from them invading and searching around as they pleased. He had his own barriers, created by an emotion even more powerful than their rage.

  You don’t need the money, his mother had said when he agreed to come to this cursed place. Of course, she would say that. He knew no one so skilled at creating a life with so little, and she had crafted many maternal illusions for him in his youth. He almost hadn’t realized how destitute their lives were of anything beyond love. Almost.

  Almost was what pulled him into a career of piracy. Almost had lured him here from his safety and mother on Raxu, with promises of a hundred thousand S-Co for only two-and-a-half years of his presence in the Complex, an amount of money that would change their lives a hundred times over. His mother had worn the same frock since before he was born, without complaint, washing and drying it each night before slipping into the same nightgown. With this money, Wezlei would buy her fifty gowns, all as different as could be. Bright magenta. Blood moon orange. Whatever she wanted. He would buy her anything, for she had given him all she had.

  How he had wanted his mother to meet… No, don’t think the name. Don’t even go near it. Don’t give them that, too.

  Every inch of his body was throbbing in exquisite pain. How many bones were broken? Better not to think of it that way, perhaps. Focus on the positive: He still had bones that were not broken.

  My silly, curious Human. My handsome, wonderful, kind Human. My heart.

  Ah. And there she was. Her lilting, languid voice. Her intentions. Wezlei had tried, against the pain, against being utterly broken, to keep her far away from this moment. She didn’t belong here, not in body or spirit. He would protect her, and his memories of her, to his dying breath.

  But, as always, she had something else in mind.

  “Kill him already. We’ve wasted hours,” the Necromancer barked. He curled his lip, disgusted, though not with the abuses they’d heaped upon Wezlei, but rather something of a more personal nature. As if he was late for dinner with his family, an unspeakable injustice.

  “The only waste is the months of treachery not a single one of you caught,” Tariq hissed. His translucent skin peeled back over his face in a sort of feral snarl.

  That was the thing about Dhampir, thought Wezlei, because focusing on inconsequential observations seemed the best way to endure whatever they had in store next. The vampire race could pass for human, except when very angry, as the villain in this story was now. Tariq, instead, resembled the renderings of what early Humans–before the wars and Project Extinction, before they left Earth—thought aliens might look like. Little did they know.

  The Necromancer turned away at the reprisal. The Punisher laughed, a bold move that raised one of Wezlei’s bloody brows. The other Dhampir appeared scared, as they should. Wezlei wondered how many of the Complex’s citizens knew that their law enforcement, the Climintra, was actually run by a band of thugs. All these creatures, in their black uniforms with the crimson AS emblazoned on the right shoulder… were meant to stand for order… but had done nothing but enact chaos. And now, they’d imprisoned him in his own store, exacting their justice in a dark back room where no one would ever know the truth of what happened. He would get no trial, for he’d committed no crime against the laws of the Complex. His offense was crossing the wrong creature.

  “Nor you, as I recall,” the Necromancer dared in response, and Wezlei, for a moment, forgot he was about to die and instead brightened at the prospect of an epic pissing match between the two predators.

  Tariq growled, and all but the Necromancer had the good sense to recoil. “You swore a vow of blood. I own you, Kiernah. As I own all of you. As I always will.”

  The Necromancer—Kiernah—rolled his eyes in continued defiance, but stiffened. Wezlei nearly felt sympathy for him. A vow of blood was for life. Although he was fairly certain the Necromancer would beat the hell out of any Dhampir in one-on-one combat. Clearly, the Necromancer knew this too. The blood vow would keep him from ever harming Tariq, his master. It would prevent any true treachery. Apparently not a smart mouth, though.

  He owns all of them. All the Intra, she had said. Wezlei hadn’t really all-the-way believed her until he was surrounded by a sea of uniforms that should have given him comfort. Even so, maybe she was wrong. There had to be some who were good. Probably hundreds. Before him stood only a half dozen.

  Tariq focused his gaze, a warning, across his followers one last time before turning back to Wezlei. The rest of the room melted away. Here they stood, only them, two creatures who wanted the same thing, but for very, very different reasons.

  “I won’t ask for your last words. Your mind is bare to me. I see nothing of interest.”

  Wezlei rolled a pool of blood around in his mouth, worked it into a ball, and spit it on the floor. It narrowly missed Tariq’s foot.

  “A poor, pitiful mother. Flowers. So many pretty flowers. Truly, flowers? You are a fearsome pirate!” Tariq cackled. His followers joined in, moments later, when his own laugh continued as an invitation.

  Botanist, you oaf. Wezlei said nothing. He prepared another ball of blood and spit.

  “You see… you have nothing to say. You possess nothing of value to me. Not anymore. And never again.” Tariq turned to the creatures hovering behind him. “And you? Do you wish to hear what this Human has to say?”

  An obedient cacophony of various forms of hell no resounded. Wezlei, for all his situation meant, realized he was still the most fortunate creature in the room. He would die a free man. They would live and die as slaves.

  Tariq slowly returned focus to Wezlei. His own skin stretched further, elongating his skull in the back as if he might pull his head into an anvil. “My wife awaits.” He t
hrew back his head, revealing descending fangs longer than Wezlei’s fingers.

  Wezlei drew one last deep breath. It would hurt, but the pain would be over quickly.

  But he would get his last words.

  “Do as you wish,” Wezlei spat, understanding the implied consent and permission would enrage Tariq more than anything here so far. Good. Let’s end this. Goodbye, Mother.

  Tariq dove for him.

  Aerwen, Wezlei thought.

  II- Aerwen

  June 5-6, 4 AS (4 Months Earlier)

  Did a creature possess an infinite number of tears? Was there a moment where the sadness reached a limit and the tears would end? Could they truly continue on, unabated, for eternity?

  Aerwen asked herself these questions daily, often as she huddled in the plush window seat of their suite in the Forest Dome (a deceptively beautiful home in comparison to the life she led within it). Tears, both fresh and ancient, rolled down her light green cheeks. For years, on a daily basis, she had grown weaker, but this descent had accelerated upon entering the Complex six months prior. On their home planet of Creda, a lush and coniferous forested land, her persistent proximity to nature kept her ever regenerating, no matter what abuses Tariq heaped upon her. Here, in this false, crafted world of gleaming illusions, she was fading.

  And she was dying.

  She hadn’t told Tariq this fact, though whether or not she should, it had plagued her for months. His concerns for her began and ended with how much money she could make him. Theirs was not a relationship of love, and never had been. She was his. Bought and paid for. One of the last of the Dryads across the entire Seldova solar system, she would die a slave to a Dhampir.

  Aerwen never asked herself how it had come to this. Her entire life had been a series of betrayals. Her father, high in the Dryad Council had—until he was the only one in the Council after the Dhampir abducted them, one by one—murdered the Dhampir that came for him, only to let his wife, Aerwen’s mother, take the blame when he fled in cowardice. Aerwen’s mother handled this no more gracefully. At her trial, she appealed to the Dhampir, Tariq, a pirate with his hands all over law enforcement and the judicial system, and exchanged Aerwen for her freedom. Her own daughter. The last known female Dryad on Creda who was still of breeding age and thereby the single remaining hope of their race.

  Funny, almost, how the presidents constantly talked about the war between Humans and Metas being a threat to both kinds, when she had witnessed more strife with the various Meta races than any she had seen involving Humans. Metas had been at war with one another far longer.

  How she yearned for the haven of ancient oak trees of Arda, to reside again amongst the branches and the rich scent of the detritus forest floor undergrowth rising to their kingdom in the sky. Hours and hours caught in thrall to nature, swaying to the soft, enfolding arms of the earth, the sun, the sky.

  Now, the only kingdom in the sky was the towering spires of the four housing domes of the Complex, power watching over them all from The Eye. Her oaks were replaced by artificial air, water, and a farming area that didn’t exist at all before all the test subjects had shown up.

  She would die dreaming of Arda, for she would not last the remaining two years they had as part of their agreement when they signed on to the Complex. What Aerwen would not do, ever, was voice the name of her haven to her “husband.” And she would not tell him she was dying, for she was ready to be free of the abuses and the nightmare that never seemed to end. She was ready, and it wouldn’t be long now.

  The synthetic light of the Complex dimmed to announce the approach of night. Tariq and the other light-sensitive Metas would come alive soon. This was their time.

  Aerwen sighed and wiped the last of her tears away. She wouldn’t give those to Tariq or his clients, either. She would endure every last agonizing moment without handing them any more of herself than she’d already done.

  At her husband’s command, the injustice of “entertaining” Four Metas had earned Tariq twenty thousand S-Co. Aerwen ached all over, but it was her soul that had taken the worst of the pain, as was always the case.

  Exceptional night of entertainment! Tariq declared, without looking at her. He waved his wrist implant over the scanner and smiled as their—his—bank balance appeared on the screen.

  Entertainment, he called it, as if he were not a pimp. Rape, she called it, for she would not allow him to ever smooth over his crimes with softer words.

  Four, though. Four was double what he normally put her through on a given night. And why? They had money for a dozen lifetimes. It could not be that.

  Then Aerwen realized she knew. It wasn’t Tariq; it was the clients.

  The effect for the clients had surely waned over time. Coitus with a Dryad produced a euphoric high that could last weeks when the Dryad was in good health. Their connection with nature filled them with the power of the very earth, and sometimes even the Dryad’s powers transferred in limited bursts. The subject could heal for a short time, or grant wishes to their friends. But she was no longer healthy. She was surprised the clients got anything at all from their time with her anymore, save perhaps fleeting moments of authority and aggressive domination over a creature who could not fight back. Four men had raped her tonight because she could no longer produce the high they desired. Four would eventually become six, and six would become…

  Aerwen’s breath seized in her chest. She would die before that happened.

  Light ascended on their world once again. Daytime. Her solace. When Tariq slept, and the whole of the Complex was safe, and hers.

  Yes, she would die soon. Maybe even before their time in the Complex ended. But she would not die in complete despair.

  Aerwen pulled on a cloak and slipped out for a walk.

  III- Wezlei

  June 6, 4 AS

  Wezlei squinted against the harsh glow of the morning light. Not a warm, beating sun from home, but it was a fair replacement.

  His baskets were already half full. Belladonna, hemlock, lily, fern of anguish. Hundreds of other species of plants he’d learned to cultivate from his botanist mother. Many were classes others wouldn’t touch, or come anywhere near. In the wrong hands, they could lead to death. In more skilled hands, they created so much more.

  Upon entering the Complex, residents were allowed one small bag of personal effects. Many brought articles of sentiment or practicality, but Wezlei had filled his with gloves and salves and treatments he would need to handle these delicate, very precarious plants. He was no Dryad, but he had learned to create ointments that healed even the worst ailments. But he also sold items of a more sinister nature in his shop, Uni Flora Obscura, in Main City.

  Wezlei honored his mother by assuming her trade as his own. He had also found a profession palatable to him for the thirty-six months he would spend here, which had not been easy. One did not simply live five years as a space pirate and then settle down into normalcy.

  Wezlei had considered applying for the Intra. It might seem counterintuitive to pursue law enforcement when he was a form of criminal, even though criminal was a strong word with many meanings. Years before, he’d come across one of his father’s books—the only possessions of his father’s that remained—an old tale about an ordinary man called Robin Hood, who took from the rich and gave the spoils to the poor to equal the class balance. Wezlei read this story over and over, thinking of the chasm of disparity between the higher classes and the poor in his own society. The less fortunate worked to make the rich even richer, and never saw their share. As he grew older, a man capable of providing for his family household, he turned to a life of piracy, not from greed (though he did crave the moderate comfort more money brought him), but from a desire to even their own playing field on Raxu. Or at least within his own society on the planet, a burgeoning village called Houston.

  Yet there were problems far greater than the ones close to home. Nearly two hundred years ago, Humans had been forced to leave their lone planet of Earth after
a nuclear holocaust, unaware of what they might find but with no choice except to search for an alternative… or their race would be wiped from memory. They traveled space for almost forty years when, in 3950 AD, the group discovered Seldova, a system of seven uninhabited planets. Humans settled on the first planet where they found breathable air and fresh water, a perfect place to rebuild. They called it Wreston.

  Meanwhile, the Metas—races upon races of creatures, from Dryads to Warlocks to Necromancers—were forced from their own planet, in another system, and also came across Seldova. The Metas set their sights on the planets Pinao and Famiil in 4112, but the Humans, experiencing a population surge and in search of more space to expand, had begun to populate there as well.

  Thus began a twelve-year war between Humans and Metas, one that ended with an uneasy truce between the two, and an equal share of planets for each side: three to the Humans and three to the Metas. Only one planet remained uninhabited: the desert wasteland of Lorn.

  The truce also produced a shared government consisting of both Humans and Metas: The Ama Seldova. A new era came along, and the calendar began fresh. The world started over in 1 Ama Seldova.

  Words and sentiments did not change the intense hatred a decade of war had wrought upon both races. The Ama Seldova knew this. And, soon enough, they found what they believed was the perfect solution.

  The Complex.

  A two-and-a-half-year experiment, even though those words were not used, not publicly. The question behind the intent: What if we forced the races into a place they could not leave for a set time and encouraged them to co-habit? Everyone but the Ama Seldova understood they couldn’t press two enemies together and say, Now, kiss. But the stars in their eyes could not be denied, so the enticement came along next: Commit to the plan full time, no more or less, and the reward would be a hundred thousand S-Co.