by Various
He crept down the hall towards his own bedroom, finding the door ajar but his wife fast asleep. He let his helmet plunk to the bedroom floor, the sound much louder than he anticipated. His wife, now stirred, turned her tired eyes up towards him.
“You’re late,” Fila said—a near weightless comment. In the dark she was but a silhouette, lit by the dim glow of the waiting nightlight. Merah leaned over to kiss her forehead, pushing her curly hair back behind her ear.
“There was trouble,” he said, rising, continuing to strip down. He shook off his dusty uniform, letting it join the combat helmet upon the floor.
“The warehouse again? More food stolen?”
“No, not that.” Naked, Merah slid under the covers, his wife turning to press against him. “A riot and a murder.” He paused before reluctantly adding, “The murder of a rain dancer.” His wife bolted upright, clutching tightly to the onyx rune dangling from her necklace.
“What happened?”
“We’re not sure, yet. There are several different versions we received from the crowd. A lot of shouting back and forth at first, but I was too far to hear. It doesn’t appear any different than the last… few. A sign of the times.”
“Did you check on the girls?” Fila asked.
“Yes. Dinner… did everyone have enough?”
“Yes,” she nodded, curling back down into his chest. “And you, did you eat?”
“I’m fine,” he replied. “It’ll be an early day tomorrow—I’ll grab something before I leave.”
Merah expected to hear her protest, but instead was met with a heavy sigh.
“Rain will come. Soon the rain will come.”
• • •
From the aft of the supply transport, Merah watched the flatlands pass by, stretching for miles on end, eventually dropping off the horizon without so much as a ridge. The vehicle left a swirl of scattered dust in its wake, blotting out the remainder of the supply convoy that followed close behind.
What remained to his sight was nothing but the ruins of a once lush landscape. Withered grasses and crippled shrubbery stunted upwards from the parched earth. Farms wrought with failing crops clung desperately to cold gray factories. Tenders picked their way amongst the rows, their great skeletal frames hovering over the fields like giant spiders.
The scene abruptly broke to a smoldering, blackened ruin. It was the product of countless unquenched fires, remnants of the heat lightning that taunted them with promises of rain. Smoke hung like an ugly fog, bringing scents of charred timber into the transport.
Across from Merah, squeezed between his fellow guardsmen and the supply boxes, Sehran stared down at his feet. The other soldiers joked and carried on as they passed the time; Sehran had not uttered a word during the hour long trip. Merah wondered about his friend; his jovial nature lessened with each rainless day.
The transport began its deceleration, bringing Merah’s attention to the window once more. The first sandstone houses of the fringe villa Dakaiha pressed into view, the small huts displaying only the faintest hints of the technology boom. The revisions were mostly automation and updates to everyday devices: new lighting, faster datastreams, and efficient conveyances. A few mobiles cruised down streets that had been only horse-drawn just a few years past. However, despite Dakaiha’s changes, it was a far cry from the lightning paced overhaul of the major cities.
The transport came to a hissing stop; Merah braced against his seat as the landers found their balance. The landing ‘thumps’ of the convoy followed like small tremors after a quake. There was silence for the briefest of moments, then hinged doors churned open, the blinding noonday sun barging into the back of the vehicle.
“Alright, let’s get a move on,” Tenjan, the head guardsman, yelled.
The Corinsan guard filed out, one by one. Merah stepped off the loading drop, setting a boot upon the sandy floor. Already gathered were the expectant faces of a crowd of hundreds. Lean and hungry looks greeted Merah.
Men, women, children, and elderly all waited for what rations were to be had. They each hoped to scrape by for one more month, week, day.
Merah began the process, receiving the first box from the transport and placing it on the ground. Box upon box soon followed as the Corinsan guardsmen took to the relief effort. The crowd gathered closer. Sehran, logbook in hand, took stock of the supplies.
“Why not just hand them out?” an onlooker shouted, edging his way to the front of the crowd. He wore his long hair back in a ponytail, his sharp nose jutting out before him like a knife. “Just hand me one.”
“Please stand back and wait your turn,” Serhan replied, looking up from his logbook just long enough to gesture back towards the crowd.
“Need to let us starve a few seconds more, huh?” the man continued. “Keep your little grip on our throats?” The crowd met his shouts with the shuffling of a few nervous feet by some and a smattering of agreement by a few others. “I work for my share, unlike you coddled reachers.” Sehran ignored him, concentrating on his task, but Merah could see his friend’s shoulders tense.
The ponytailed man gave a grunt, waiting. Merah watched him in passing glances as he continued to stack. The man was talking to another member of the crowd, but his eyes never left the supply boxes.
Then, suddenly, the man gave a curse and reached forward for one of the boxes.
In response, Sehran dropped the logbook to the ground, his hand moving to his belt, bringing the riot club to bear. Just as quickly, he brought it forward, swinging in a wide arc. The club caught the ponytailed man across the side of his face; bright ribbons of blood splattered the boxes. He crumpled to the ground.
“Get him out of here!” Tenjan screamed, shoving Sehran towards the transport. Merah grabbed his motionless friend, dragging him backwards as the crowd surged against the guardsmen.
• • •
“Will you just sulk over your ale, then?” Merah asked of Sehran. “Is that why you brought me here?” Sehran did not reply, his eyes boring holes in the mug before him. While the relief effort continued in Dakaiha, they had been hastily shuttled back to Corinsa.
Merah had thought to try and get his mind off of things; Sehran had been quick to suggest a quick stop over for a drink. However, ‘quick’ had lengthened considerably, and ‘drink’ had spawned untold multiples. Still Sehran said little.
“They’re going to cover it up to save face,” Merah continued. “You know that, right? You’re going to get off scot free.”
“And?” Sehran slurred over his ale, wobbly gaze settling on Merah. “What do we owe them?”
“He was just hungry, Sehran,” Merah replied. “They all are.”
Sehran considered that for a moment, his attention flitting around the bar; Merah followed his friend’s eyes. The number of patrons was surprising given the time of day—a testament to the desire for escape.
“Maybe I did him a kindness then,” Sehran said at last. “He won’t have to sit and watch his children starve.”
“You killed a man!”
“One less mouth!” he growled. “Our rations grow thinner and thinner. Each passing week they cut a little more from under us. You’ve seen it, Merah,” he said, a sharpness in his voice. “Maybe you’ve had just a little less so your children get their fill?”
“We do what we can, Sehran. My brother is working on a way out of—”
“Your brother? Ha! It’s his damn…”Sehran bit his tongue.
“His what, Sehran?” Merah asked. He did not reply. Merah shook his head. “Spout your nonsense to someone else. I’m headed home.” He started to rise.
“When was the last rain, Merah?” Sehran cut in. “Tell me?”
Merah paused.
“A long while. What would you have me tell you?”
“June sixth. Six months. Happy anniversary.” He paused. “You know how I know, right? Guess how I know?”
“I think it’s past your bedtime.”
“Jessaca,” Sehran said plainly, l
eaning back, folding his arms before him. Merah lowered himself into his chair and tried to peer into the turning wheels of Sehran’s mind.
“That’s my niece, Sehran. What business have you with her?”
Sehran let out a crooked, self satisfied smile. He cast his hazy eyes around the room before leaning forward in his chair. With two fingers he motioned Merah closer.
“June sixth,” Sehran whispered, “the day Jessaca was born. Hasn’t rained a day since. Not one.”
“What of my niece, Sehran?” Merah’s voice came in a growl.
“Feels like a strange coincidence is all.” But it wasn’t all—Sehran had a look in his eyes that Merah had not seen before. It spoke of desperation, masked in conviction.
“She’s an infant, no more.”
“Yes. She is at that. You know we give her no fault.”
“We?”
Realization passed over Sehran’s face. His lips pressed shut as he chose his next words.
“We?” Merah asked again. He could see Sehran mulling over his options.
“Look, Merah. I shouldn’t have said… just stay away from it. Okay? Things are stirring.”
“What things?” Merah grabbed at the front of Sehran’s shirt. “What things, Sehran?”
“Don’t worry, Merah. It’ll be made right, you’ll see.” Sehran shook free of Merah’s grasp, stumbling out of his chair. Merah rose to follow, but Sehran pushed onward, losing himself in the crowd.
• • •
“Brother,” Garrad Jan said with a smile, “have you come to see your niece at long last?”
“You know I planned to earlier,” Merah replied. “Out in the reaches it’s getting harder…” he stopped. “No, you are right, no excuses. I should have made the journey five times over by now.”
“Then I will expect you five times more over the next month,” he laughed, the deep rumble shaking the golden hoops decorating his ears. Merah could only wonder at the stranger before him; the city had changed Garrad, right down to his adopted accent. His wealth and rise to the role of Princi-Rajah had done their part at completing the transformation.
“Where are Fila and the children?” Garrad asked.
“Unpacking in one of the guest rooms. I wanted to talk to you first.”
“Always business? I make my life of that, Merah. No, I think my daughter will want to meet her uncle first.” With a bejeweled hand he reached over to clasp Merah on the shoulder, directing him down the hall.
The foyer opened into a rotunda. Sunlight cascaded through skylights, penetrating into the gold-rimmed fountain below. The power tubes wrapped like vines around the walls, carrying the phosphorescent lifeblood of the palace with their passing. Merah’s footfalls echoed in the cavernous space, sounds sent running down the four adjoining hallways.
Garrad led him towards the east-most hall, the ivory pathway facing the morning sun. A glass archway rose several stories above them, extending to a graceful peak amongst the palace rooftops. Merah had marveled at the scene before, but found the current version rather lacking.
“Where are the skyreach trees?” he asked. “The birds?”
“Such things wither and die,” Garrard replied. “I had them removed before they had the chance.”
“The tradition…”
“Traditions are crutches for society past. Even they grow old and tired.”
A pair of guards stood in front of the final set of double doors, crimson sashes proclaiming their stature as the Princi-Rajah’s personal bodyguard. They parted as Garrad approached; he gave a cursory nod and reached for the doorknob, turning slightly, placing a finger over his lips, motioning for silence.
The door opened into a nursery, oddly quaint against the backdrop of the palace. Walls were colored in shades of pink, decorated with intertwining patterns of white lilies. The phosphorescent tubes wove between petals in fine strands, wrapping the patterns in the warmth of their glow.
Together they crept to the crib where Jessaca slept, lightly bundled. Only her face was visible above the quilt, no more. Merah looked down, mesmerized, unable to think beyond the sleeping wonder before him: A face of metal, moving gears and connecting wires, faint blinks from the multicolored LEDs, wrapped in the phosphorescent strands. All placed into a tight bundle, shaped into an image of humanity. His niece.
Merah shook free of the image. He pulled Garrad towards the corner of the room; his brother’s smile soured as he caught the look upon Merah’s face.
“We need rain, Garrad,” he said in hushed tones.
“Always business,” Garrad replied. “No time for simpler things.”
“Things are growing desperate—even worse out in the fringe. People are starving. There is talk… dangerous talk.”
“The rain will come,” Garrad replied. “Sooner or later—”
“It must be sooner. People lose faith in our ways. Gerrad, another rain dancer was murdered. ” His brother’s look did not contain nearly as much surprise as he would have thought.
“Times change. See how the Gods have spared my daughter,” he sneered. “Maybe we do not need them anymore. Maybe the time of the rain dancer has come and gone. Why hunger when there is no need for food? Jessaca is our future.”
• • •
Merah stood upon the terrace, staring down at his brother’s city. The heights of the Rajah penthouse offered him a towering view of the rooftops below, the city of Adantan stretching as far as the eye could see.
Adantan had changed by leaps and bounds over so few years; midnight was no longer the time of dark, the time of rest: streetlamps, mobiles, and the faint glow of home lighting chased away the night. The phosphorescent tubes, chief contributor to the technological boom, were far more prevalent here than anywhere in the reaches. They wrapped around buildings, lined walkways, and slithered far into the underground, coursing paths of brilliant energy that cloaked the city as the flowered vines once had.
And they had given his niece a second chance at life. But what chance? What was she? Born so malformed, without hope of life beyond a few hours. Merah wondered if he would have made the same choice as his brother.
The glass slider rolled upon its track, admitting Fila to the terrace, her white silken nightgown fluttering in the wind. She came to lean upon the railing beside him, gazing out over the city below.
“You should come to bed,” Fila said, wrapping her arm around his. “We will have an early start tomorrow—the kids are looking forward to Garrad’s tour.”
Merah shook his head. “No. I don’t think we’ll stay. I think its best we head back.” He paused. “We’re needed back home.”
Fila gave a light laugh. “A good lie there. It’s strange for me too, to look at Jessaca and see our niece underneath all that metal.”
“I was wondering about that. If Tahire or Hanessah were born like that…” Merah trailed off.
“What would the Gods say if we made the same choice?” Fila asked. “I don’t know. I know what I’m taught. And I know we would have come to two different conclusions. But I can’t see either being ‘right’.”
“I’d do anything for our girls.”
“I know. It’s one of your better qualities.” She pushed up onto her toes to kiss Merah on the cheek. “Still set on leaving?”
“I don’t think I can be here. Its… this is not my world.”
“We can go home when you’re ready.” She paused. “Besides, you have done what you came here to do. Your brother knows of Sehran.”
“Yes,” Merah replied, suppressing his objection to the lie. Why didn’t I tell him?
• • •
Merah’s eyes shot open: A calloused hand was pressed over his mouth, a sidearm rested on his temple, and a heavy weight sat on his chest.
“Just stay still,” a voice hissed from above. “You are not to be harmed.” The man wore all black, his face hidden beneath a mask with only his eyes visible. “Look,” he man motioned, gesturing with his sidearm across the bed. “Stay still, oka
y?”
Merah followed the man’s gesture, finding his wife at the end of it. In the dim lighting he could see the frightened look in her eyes as she lie bound and gagged. Merah instinctively tried to reach out, but found that his hands were held tight behind his back.
Merah looked the opposite direction across the room, searching for his two daughters. He found them propped upright against the wall, tears streaking their eyes, bound, and shaking in their captor’s grasps. Tahires’s arm shook free, stretching towards him for a brief moment before it was grabbed and pressed behind her back.
“Just don’t move, alright?” the man above Merah repeated.
A moment later came the distant booms of thumper discharges; the palace shook under the concussive blows. The hand over Merah’s mouth released, the dark clad soldier momentarily lost in the events around him. Those holding his arms loosened as well; Merah shook free, but did not shout, merely motioned to the soldiers restraining his loved ones. He recognized a few of their eyes—fellow guardsman from Corinsa.
With an understood nod they released, his wife and children running into his tight embrace. He helped them with their gags and bindings; together they held tight against the chaos around them. Each boom brought his daughters closer into his chest.
• • •
The images looped over and over in Merah’s head; replay after replay he had watched, until the events lost most of their feeling and took on the cold, factual nature of a days old crime scene. He had offered what assistance he could to Garrad and the Princi-Rajah guardsmen. Who could he identify? Did he expect another attack? Why her?
The streamed images took place in Jessaca’s room. Everything was silent as she slept in her crib, the tubes offering a foreign tone to the otherwise peaceful room. Then a muffled boom of a distant thumper. Then another, louder, resonant in the palace walls. Jessaca’s illuminated eyes flickered to life, searching about the room. Another boom and the infant rolled in her crib, grasped upon the rails, and stood. She waited there, facing the door as the sound waves rocked the palace walls.
