The officers exchanged quizzical glances.
"The Yonathael Alekzandyr?" the second officer asked. "As in, the founder of Alekzandrya?"
Yonathael nodded. "Uh-huh."
The second officer whistled, and the first one laughed nervously.
"This is beyond high treason," the second officer said to his comrade. "This is like what you get when suicide rapes a coup d'etat."
"Have you any idea what the penalty is?"
"Yes, I do," Yonathael grunted. "I'm well versed in law, now, please, can we get on with it?"
"Why the rush?" the first officer mockingly asked.
"If you want to, I mean it's not my rear that needs covering anyway." The second officer clasped the impelling choker around Yonathael's neck, as his partner fixed the cuffs to his wrists.
He had a limited range of movement. His hands couldn't move more than six inches away from his body, but he could carry them low, at his leisure. It didn't take long for them to gather the appropriate documentation files and load him onto a helo. Before the night ended, he was on his way. Most would feel relieved, heading in a familiar direction to a familiar place. Yonathael stared contritely at the helo's floor.
He didn't like the idea of home.
Ma'Aukja.
(Brotherhood)
Hydarkua, in the Mouidan mountains east of the desert of Khaz;
Schiivas, the 1st day of the month of Suras;
Early in the 453rd year in the Seventh Epoch of their mutual home, Dyjian;
Towards the end of the Prince's stay, that is, Rollond, with Ashenzsi.
It was the pleasant, spicy-sweet scent of burning hasiba wood that wafted through the air. The Kyusoa arranged themselves around the bonfire. They stretched out their arms and spaced themselves from one another accordingly. Then, in concentric rings, they danced in circles around the fire.
Their music, from the strum of their stringed instruments, to the wail of their horns, the sigh of their reed-flutes and the rhythm of their drums, roused a sense of belonging in Rollond. As he sat with Ashenzsi and the older Kojas, he wanted to go down there and join the dance. He wanted to spin around in circles and move, left-left-right-left-right-right-left, with them around the twisting, towering flames that burned dark crimson and vibrant hues of cyan and green.
When one got dizzy and tumbled out of the ring, another jumped right in, immediately falling in lockstep with those dancing around them. It was a display of unity amongst themselves, how they followed each others movements with exacting precision. And yet, each one did their own thing.
Waves of longing buffeted Rollond as he watched, and noted that:
They are — 'complex.'
They are sophisticated in their own way.
Just a few days with these creatures reveals more about ourselves than them. They're far from human. Yet I can't shake this feeling that the reason they're far from us, is because, despite seeming simple-minded and driven by instinct, they're above us.
It's hard to accept. I don't like thinking that Ashenzsi, on an existential level, is greater than I am. I'm no peddler of philosophy, but I can't help it. I mean, when he sits down next to me just outside our 'home' that we share in common, I often wonder if he feels the same way.
It's worth asking, I think. There is this thing in my mind. It's like an unbreakable glass door. I can peer through it and silently see what he's up to, or I can 'knock' and see if he'll answer me. I've taken to calling it 'pinging', because when he does it, that's exactly what it feels like: a splash in water, ripples, and a considerably unimposing, gentle ring.
I knock on the feral door.
He meets me and peers through his end. 'Tsche — yes?'
'You ever think about Humanity?'
He flicks his ears. 'How do you mean?'
'Like, how we are, you know, in comparison to your kind?'
He looks past me to see where I am. 'You have your strengths. Whatever you set your minds on, you do, like us. Yet you are a stubborn species, not like us. You think the world is yours, alone, to do what you will. You destroy our homes, invade our territories and take our precious things; capture us like mere typhods; beat, humiliate, skin and kill us; our children you hate, and keep like pets. So we hate you. But we respect that you have life, like us, and hope, maybe one day, you will change. Then we can share our precious things, and hopefully you will share yours with us.'
'Do you hate me?' I ask.
'You have proven different. I hope you remain that way.' He smiles.
I hope so, too.
'I don't get it,' I say. 'What's all the dancing for?'
'Appraisal,' he said. 'This is the meaning of the Virgin Price, that the shojen, proficient in what he does best, is given his worth and becomes a koja. See, look!' He pointed at the ambo, as the kyusoa's dancing came to a stop.
Several young males were lined up on the raised platform. Some of stood tall, proud, their shoulders squared, staring dead ahead with an almost stoic, stern visage. Others were giddy, and couldn't stand still as Tschoka stepped onto the ambo. She held a bowl of something dark, oily and ink-like in one hand, and a brush in the other.
She took her time with each one, kissing him on the forehead, she spoke with him briefly, then dipped the brush in the oil-ink and wrote on his belly starting from his navel and moving outwards. On his chest she appended what it was that merited his value, and ultimately made him a 'grown man'. Afterwards they joined the others, and the music and dancing resumed.
I rubbed my chin. 'What would, say, an outsider like yourself have to do to get one?'
'He must be known throughout the Commune; he must do something great,' Ashenzsi said. 'Or else why appraise someone who is here today, and tomorrow he is gone? We much prefer our own blood. But if he comes and he does something grand, no matter where he goes, the pride of the Commune is with him. Why?'
'Just curious.'
Rollond stood up and patted his pants down. The Kyusoa made the best pants he'd ever worn. It was like having silk flowers massage his genitals, as he walked over to where the older Kojas gathered. None of them looked a day older than their young contemporaries. Not even Tschorra, who seemed significantly aged by his demeanor.
He stopped and got down on his knees. "Schyiqar," he said.
Their chatter ceased. Tschorra didn't say anything, he just looked at Rollond.
"I know I can help you with your human problem."
Tschorra arched his brows.
"I have a plan —"
The Schyiqar raised his hand, and Rollond shut up. "I will see you before the dawn. Come to my home, we will speak then. Be timely, for if my Tsamiiq wakes before you finish your point, you will not be considered."
"Right," Rollond said. "I mean — tsche!" He bowed, and went home.
Rest didn't come to him at all. His mind raced, back to the one warehouse and being crammed in the vents, crawling along until he came to another room. The surface had to have some kind of defenses. It had to, or else how would it defend against Kyusoakin raids? They wouldn't have these problems if it was a matter of kicking the door in and blowing the freigannen out of everything.
He noticed, when Ashenzsi sauntered in on all-fours with So'yi giggling on top of his head, that the music had died down, and everyone seemed to quietly return to their homes. After the two settled into their places, he dragged himself out of the bed, and started for the Tsamiiq and Schyiqar's home.
Even inside the mountain the night air was brisk. His skin rippled. The walk from where he stayed to their place was long. Still, he trekked from one end of the plateau to the other, with the homes that dotted the kyusoakin-made mesas. Finally, when he arrived, Tschorra was already waiting for him.
He sat on his haunches, and bobbed his head, greeting Rollond, and with a swish of his tail and the flick of his paw, he motioned for the man to sit. "Now, this plan of yours," Tschorra said.
Rollond nodded. He took a stick from a pile of dry kindle beside Tschorra's home, and
started drawing in the sand. He drew several squares and connected them with parallel lines, then drew a single line at the top and placed the warehouse's main intake chamber there. He pointed at the main intake chamber. "This is the main entrance. I'm willing to bet that most of the defenses for the entire facility are focused here. When they see you coming, they know precisely what to do so as to keep you out."
"Tsche, is true," Tschorra said. "We have not gained any advantage from here." He drew circles in the sand, representing his kin, and curved lines showing where they typically focused their strikes.
"So, here's what I know." Rollond directed Tschorra's attention to the subterranean sections. "There is a disconnected floor plan. The rooms are sealed, no way in, no way out, except for either the warp grid, or through the ventilation system." He pointed at the parallel lines he made, that connected each square. "Not every room is the same, nor do all of them house your kind. But I do know the deepest one does." He glanced at Tschorra.
The Schyiqar narrowed his eyes. It was wisdom and consideration that gleamed in them. "How many of us are you asking for?"
"There are those who burrow through the sand with ease. If you will allow me three of them, we can tunnel into the bottom chamber, quickly release whomever is contained there, and work our way up. I will be going with them, because once we breach the surface from inside the facility, I plan to set off the self-destruct."
Tschorra scratched his chest. "You have cunning in your rou'u," he said. "But she is not for you." He got on all his palms and shook his mane like a horse. Then he smiled at Rollond. "That is why, now, you must tell her yourself. I appreciate that you came to me, and I see your value. But she must see you for herself, with her own heart."
Dawn started to filter down from the skylight carved out of the mountain. Tschorra loped up the spiral of his home to the top where he sat, poised like a lion, his head held high and his shoulders squared. When the light touched him he took a deep breath, raised his haunches, and unleashed such a proud roar that even the great sharrs of Dyjian would lower themselves in respect. As soon as he spent the one breath, he took another, as deep as the first, and cried out again.
Soon enough, the entire Commune collected before him.
"Tschorra, enough," Tschoka snarled as she sauntered out.
He dropped down from the peak of their home, and he tried to wrap an arm around her and nibble her neck. She shoved him off, irritate that he summoned them all so early after their festive night.
"What is the purpose of all this?" Tschoka asked.
Tschorra strode over to Rollond and sat beside him. He looked him in the eye, then motioned for him to go forth with the cant of his head.
"My Tsamiiq," Rollond said.
Tschoka narrowed her eyes at the drawings in the sand. "You have been consulting with this outsider?" she asked Tschorra.
"I have a plan that will help with your human problem —"
"I am not talking to you!" she boomed. "Stupid Uunan, can't you understand? YOU are our problem!"
"Forgive me, I mean no disrespect, but —"
"How about you sheathe your tongue before I rip it out from behind your teeth!" She started for Rollond, but Tschorra got between them.
The eyes of the entire Commune were on them. Dissent between the Schyiqar and the Tsamiiq was significant. To the common kyusoa it demonstrated that kojas were allowed to blatantly disregard their owners, and the carefully maintained dominance of the tyihas would be difficult to recover. It was bad enough their numbers were dwindling because of captures; Tschoka couldn't afford disunity.
"Has he turned you against me?" she asked.
"At least hear him out," Tschorra said.
She growled, but sat down and motioned for Rollond to speak.
"What I have drawn here is what I know of the layout of the warehouses. As I've explained to Tschorra, your kin are stored in the deepest chamber. If three of your kind that tunnel through the sand would come with me, we can easily breach the lowest room and work our way to the surface, whereat, I plan to blow the place into oblivion. I have come to ask you for these three."
She arched her brows and rubbed her chin with the back of her hand. "And who will support you on this?"
"I will." Ashenzsi stepped forth.
Tschoka skeptically stared him down. "You are willing to give your life on behalf of this Uunan?"
"Tsche," he said. "This, my ma'aukja, saved me. It is the least that I owe him."
Tschoka laughed and paced around in circles. "Madness," she exclaimed. "You know as well as I do that all Uunani are for selfish means!"
"That's not true!" So'yi's small voice struggled to match the thunder of Tschoka's, but when she sounded out of anger, the kyusoa near her stepped out of her way. She hopped up to Ashenzsi and held onto his shin. "What do I have that is of interest to him?" She pointed at Rollond. "Nothing! But if it weren't for him, neither of us would be here. Now he offers to help the lot of you. I say let him; since when have your efforts proved successful?" She had a point.
Finally, Tschoka sighed. She twirled a dreadlock around her finger. "Those who are as he requires…" her eyes roved over the gathered masses. "Show yourselves."
At the command of her voice, Rollond saw them change. It wasn't instantaneous with a flash of light or a whiff of smoke, but their bodies — some of them were mutable. It was amazing to see the elasticity of their skin, shifting like hot resin for the alarmingly rapid growth of bones, organs, and muscles; their bodies reshaped effortlessly.
By the end of it all, it was hard to believe. That they went from the human-like body, with hand-like feet at the base of their tri-jointed legs, a long tail, and stretchy torso, with noses like men and pointed ears like a jackal atop their heads, to the very expression of menace and hatred; these were the Sandwyrks, the Trap-jaws, the Cloud-razers, and innumerable other creatures around the world.
And Rollond was the first man to see it happen. There was a reason they raided villages and terrorized Man while in these forms. Men dread what they don't understand, despise what they can't control, loathe what they fear — most importantly, fear kept Man away from the stark truth.
"Choose your three," Tschoka said.
"You, and you, what are your names?"
Two were older males, their hardened exteriors adorned with well-earned scars.
"Begomzsi," said the first.
"Injolea," said the second.
Rollond nodded, and the third one he called by name: "Kiyurim!"
The three came forth.
"Today we free your people, tonight we celebrate a reunion. By this time tomorrow, they will regret how they disrespected all Kyusoa."
The thunderous roar of approval, the rolling clap of their hands, the shrill utterance of trilling tongues, all of it was music to Rollond's ears. His hearts fluttered.
Tschoka brushed past him. "Let us hope your actions are with your tongue."
The southern sun burned white-gold at their backs. Rollond had to shield the hologram that radiated from the palm of his glove from the sun. The moving blip was him, and the red splotches that sprinkled the desert were the wearhouses. He zoomed in on the one closest to them.
"Begomzsi, Injolea, we're going under." At the command of his voice, the two older Wyrks took their positions side-by-side ahead of him. They lurched into the sand as if it was water. Kyiurim followed them.
The tunnel was just wide enough for Rollond and Ashenzsi to lean near to Kiyurim's back and slip through the sand before it collapsed behind them. The Wyrks raced through the sand. They dove down as far as the lowest chamber, like Rollond said, and with astonishing ease, they broke through; the metal of the underground chambers cracked open like a smashed peanut shell.
It was just like the last one: the tanks were arrayed in meticulously straight rows, each one numbered, filled with that wretched goop, and the kyusoa floated, his toes at least a hand and a half's length from the tank's bottom.
Rollond dismounted
Kiyurim, and flicked his bony blade. "The glass should break easily, so be mindful not to slice anyone through. Ashenzsi and I will be up there." He pointed at the warehouse command. "I doubt we'll be able to get them all through the sand. When you've finished, wait for my instructions."
The three Wyrks rumbled and bowed their bodies to the floor.
As Rollond walked to the conveyor, the elegant sound of shattering glass mingled with the low rumble of his company's growls, and he continued on, as if in slow motion to menacing guitar rifts and imaginary explosions. He was grandiloquent.
Not a damn thing bothered him, as the breach sirens went off and the crew in the warehouse command scrambled. The lift lowered, he stepped on, and the lift raised.
An Elegy of Fate Page 13
