It sounds crazy, but... here we are, aren’t we?
On this crazy planet where it seems like so much more is possible than there ever was on the ship only a few short years ago. Neither Bashir nor Malcolm say anything to indicate that they’re talking to each other, but watching the interaction from the sidelines...
I don’t know how else to explain it.
Even if Bashir was just pretending, Malcolm is too young to simply play along without clear direction, and why would Bashir do something like that anyway?
I can’t see it, not with a child who went through something very real to him. It’s something to think about. Watching, I file away the experience with all the other information I’ve gathered in the mental cabinet labeled “shit I can’t explain.” It’s getting kind of full in there.
I watch a little longer until it feels too much like I’m intruding on what should be a private moment. Looking at Maeve, I nod and she responds the same, deciding silently that it’s our cue to leave. The rover should be ready to go soon anyway.
We leave the nursery as quietly as possible, though I honestly don’t know if anything would break that locked-in stare between Bashir and Malcolm. We stroll back waiting for word that it’s time to go.
“Have any idea what was going on back there between Malcolm and Bashir?” I ask.
I’d noticed an odd look on Maeve’s face when she took in the interaction. Not that I blame her. It was odd. She sighs, looking around as if to make sure nobody else is within listening distance. Instinctively I look around too.
“Unless someone has bat hearing, I think we’re good,” I say softly, stepping closer.
She smiles briefly, but it fades as she leans down toward me, lowering her voice anyway. I lean in to make sure I catch every word of her quiet voice. Whatever she’s going to say, it’s clear she doesn’t want anyone else to overhear it.
“I’m not sure exactly what was going on back there, but...” She stops, hesitating.
“But what?” I prompt. “I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t think something was going on.”
She nods, biting her lip.
“Yeah, you’re right.” She clears her throat, stepping even closer until she’s almost whispering in my ear. “There...might be more going on than we can see.” I follow her hand motion as she gestures down to her ribs. “Ever since that meteorite glass fused with my ribs...Padraig and I share dreams.”
Tilting my head to one side, my pulse quickens.
“You share dreams?” I repeat, making sure I heard her correctly.
I wasn’t expecting her to share such an intimate piece of information. She nods, a flush creeping across her checks, her chin dipping down, but she doesn’t stop. She crosses her arms over her chest in an almost protective gesture, then plows on with what she has to say.
“I know it sounds crazy, but we do. And the dreams aren’t the only change since then. We’ve also developed a telepathic...sense I guess you would call it. A... knowing. A feeling that sometimes blooms into visions that we can’t quite understand. At least not yet.” She shakes her head, her gaze turning distant. “I know how it sounds, but I’m at a point now that I just can’t hide it.” Her eyes focus on me again. “And I don’t know if I should, not with everything else that’s happening.” She turns to look back toward the nursery, nodding in its direction. “Case in point.”
Cupping my elbow with one hand I tap my lips, thinking hard on what she shared. I turn this new information over, examining it in the light of everything else I’ve heard and seen. It sounds crazy. If we were on the ship it would sound completely bonkers, but we’re not on the ship anymore.
We’re on Tajss. After everything I’ve seen here, it doesn’t sound so impossible, not anymore. That’s a good indication of exactly how far down the rabbit hole all of us already are.
“I believe you,” I tell Maeve as we resume walking. I can’t stop myself glancing around, but we still seem to be alone. Even if anyone is watching us, we look like we are chatting about something as inane as the weather. “We’ve all seen some crazy stuff.”
She chuckles quietly, exhaling heavily. Her face relaxes as she shakes her head and drops her arms back to her sides.
“Isn’t that the truth,” she grimaces. “Sometimes I wonder if my past self would even recognize me.”
“I hear you.”
Fact is, experiences change people, and we’ve all been through some intense events at this point. No way could we all come out the same on the other end. I ponder that as we settle into a comfortable silence. But my thoughts switch over to the topic we just discussed.
I don’t know if she’s thinking about everything she just said, but I can’t help but try to look at her experience in terms of the bigger picture and what I already know.
Whatever is happening with Padraig, Bashir, and the dragonlings is fascinating. New and uncharted, it’s something beyond the purely scientific, beyond what we’ve been taught to expect from the world.
That doesn’t mean it’s any less valid though, only something we don’t quite understand yet. Something that could turn everything we think we know on its head. I push that thought away to think over later. There are more finite, relevant particulars to focus on now.
Like Malcolm’s dreams. I wonder how they tie in with Archion? What in them caused him to react the way he did? There is no doubt in my mind his reaction was in response to what the little boy described in his dreams.
Unfortunately, I don’t think asking Archion directly would get me anywhere. He holds everything close to the chest. And it might make him close up even more to ask something so pointed, to poke at something that’s clearly a sensitive spot. That really wouldn’t help right now, not when I’m going to be spending so much time around him on this trip.
More than that I’m going to have to rely on him both to get us to the Order safely, and maybe to protect both Nora and me while we’re there. Once there, I have no idea what to expect.
I can’t face the subject head-on, but I know there’s something going on with those dreams that he’s not being open about. I’m going to have to practice patience while working at this puzzle. Luckily, I know how to play my cards right when opportunities present themselves.
I’ll take a cue from Archion and hold my thoughts close, for now. Shoving my hands into my pockets, a smile forms on my face as a lightness blooms in my chest. This trip is starting to look more and more interesting.
I can’t wait.
5
Khal
The younger Zmaj’s cobalt-blue eyes widen with the realization he moved a fraction too slowly to avoid my blow.
Good. He’s learning to gauge the ebb and flow of battle, but that doesn’t mean that I hold back, however. His head snaps back from the force of my blow and he stumbles, then using his tail to buy himself room by swiping at me, rolls to his side and stops in a crouch.
He turns his head and spits blood onto the sand floor of the training space. I can’t suppress a grin. There’s fire in this one. Good. I wouldn’t hold back anyway. The only way to improve is to be beaten by those better than you. The thousands of bruises I’ve had from Archion and my other brothers taught me that well. If I hold back it will only slow him, which will not help anyone.
Still, I let him rise to his feet. He watches me, cautiously wary, as he should be. He touches his jaw, rubbing where I hit him, then he nods. His hands tighten on his lochaber, wings flutter, and his weight shifts onto the balls of his feet.
It’s too obvious. He must be better. I lower my lochaber, opening myself, inviting him in with an apparent opening in my defenses. Foolishly, he takes the bait, but it’s what I predicted. His speed is impressive. He races in, lochaber low, cutting up toward my jaw.
I see the certainty on his face. He believes he has found an advantage. His commitment to his action is impressive, if stupid. Sliding to one side I rap him hard on the wrist with the blunt end of my lochaber, sending his weapon flying aw
ay.
It lands in the sand with a muted thud, but I only peripherally hear it. I’m focused, more focused than I ever remember being in a battle. All my frustrations rise within me and I attack. Laser-point strikes, blow after blow landing exactly where they will do the most good.
He dodges but I hit two out of three times. There is a harried look in his eyes. He was not expecting such speed or such precision. In truth, I have never been more precise before. My mind and body are one, my arms and legs moving almost of their own accord, thoughts and actions melding seamlessly, tirelessly.
My muscles thrum with the thrill of it. I could fight forever. I could fight an entire army myself and emerge victorious. It’s a foolish thought, I know, but I am drunk on this new state—the root of which I know. I refuse to think too deeply of what is fueling my power.
He ducks, slips, and rolls to the side, barely avoiding my downward swing. The blade of my lochaber cuts into the ground where he was a second prior. He scrambles backward, trying to get away. There’s desperation on his face but more fear. The scent of it fills my nostrils. He stumbles across his dropped lochaber, grips it tight while leaping up and back, using his tail and wings to put some distance between us.
He lands lightly but he knows he’s beat. Defeat screams from his posture, the slump of his shoulders, the tremble of the lochaber in his hands. He’s no longer fighting to win but for the dim hope of surviving my wrath.
Enough. It’s time to finish this. It isn’t right to take out my frustration on him. I feint a forward attack then shift to the left. I strike three times, once on the shoulder, another on his forearms, and one precise, hard blow to his thigh. He drops his lochaber and his leg buckles. As he falls his uninjured hand scrambles for his knife, only to find the sheath empty.
I flip his knife around in my free hand and lay its sharp edge against the skin of his throat. As his pulse beats hard against the unforgiving edge of his own blade, his eyes lock with mine. He swallows carefully, staring at me.
I do not move. Do not give an inch, waiting.
“I concede defeat,” he says carefully, his voice low as he attempts not to press further into the knife. “I concede.”
There. The end. I nod sharply, stepping back.
“Good fight,” I say automatically, flipping the knife once again in my hand so the hilt is facing out.
I offer him his weapon back. His hand is shaking as he retrieves his knife, sliding it back into its sheath. I turn to leave him to his humiliation.
“I appreciate the sentiment, but it’s clear I’m not skilled enough,” he responds with calm humility.
Turning my head to look back at him I laugh, a barking, unexpected sound.
“True enough,” I agree, turning back to him. “Yet.”
I appreciate that he isn’t allowing his resounding defeat to overwhelm him.
“Thank you for taking time to offer your instruction,” he says, planting a fist into the open palm of his other hand and bowing so low he’s almost doubled over.
He’ll do well, in time. Before I can continue the conversation, a hush falls over the assembled crowd. Following the gazes of those in my line of sight, I turn toward one of the tunnels leading into the practice ground. The jewel-toned robes identifies the approaching figure as one of the Council.
As the figure emerges into the light I realize it’s Tashak.
Why is he here? Why would one of the Council deign to appear at a routine practice?
I watch as he closes with the rest of the fighters. His appearance alone is enough to halt the sparring matches, rows of flowing robes coming to a standstill as the other Zmaj stop to watch in silence. Waiting to see what will happen. I’m not surprised. A high enough rank can stop any activity flat.
In moments it becomes clear he is making his way to me. I keep my face neutral, wondering what we could have to speak about so soon after our last conversation. Is there news of my brother? My hearts dance in their cage, my blood running hot.
As he comes up to me I place one fist in my palm and bow without taking my eyes off of his. Respectful but not overly. He nods his head in acknowledgment, his deep amethyst eyes calm and in control.
“What brings you to the training grounds, Councilor?” I ask politely when he does not immediately launch into his purpose.
My patience is thin and even with one so far above me, I have little to spare.
“I wish to discuss your impressive service, Khal,” he replies.
He glances around at the large number of eyes trained upon him. It doesn’t faze him to be the center of attention. It seems clear, to me at least, that he relishes in it. The color at the edges of his scales deepens and he pitches his voice to be heard by all of them.
I don’t. A prickle runs along my scales, a slightly uncomfortable itch formed by so many eyes on me at once. I replay his words, thinking. Discuss my impressive service. I don’t have to be particularly sensitive to understand it is a clear and deliberate insinuation. The Council is considering me for a promotion.
“I see,” I reply on autopilot.
I do not know what else to say. My brain is almost at a complete standstill at the unexpected topic. My feelings are...mixed. I never thought my reaction to such a discussion would be so lackluster, but it’s difficult to ignore the reason why this discussion is happening.
My brother was my hero. No, is. I’ve always regarded him with a heady mixture of awe, admiration, and love. He cannot have simply...disappeared. No, he is too skilled. Archion is a powerful force. Impossible to defeat—a truth I’m well acquainted with. The trainee I bested has no idea. Archion is twice the warrior.
“Your skills in combat are formidable,” Tashak continues when I don’t elaborate. “As is your strategic mind. We believe...”
I listen, attempting to fully absorb the words, though my attention is halfhearted. I’ve been eager to rise in the ranks for a long-time, frustrated at always being delegated to act as support rather than as a lead. It’s been my singular goal, but not like this. I’ve never wanted to replace Archion but instead sought to fight at his side, to be his equal in the eyes of our brethren.
No, I don’t like what this discussion signifies. The weight it carries, what caused it to occur at all. I know it’s not because the Council suddenly noticed I have the ability. I’m not so egotistical that I can believe that. The timing is too telling.
It’s Archion. Where is he? He’s been gone too long. Saying it or not, they’re writing him off as lost. I can’t do that, not yet. I want him back more than I want any kind of promotion or recognition from the Council.
I have dreamed of this moment for so long, year after year, but now that I am receiving it...
I’m hollow. Empty inside, my mouth dry as if I were the one taking in mouthfuls of sand and not my erstwhile opponent.
“… a promotion is long overdue. You will be promoted to full Scout, with all the requisite honors of this…”
He continues talking, but my thoughts wander and I’m only dimly aware of what he’s saying. When he finishes he places a hand on my shoulder. Twice in as many days he’s touched me in such a friendly manner. Meeting his eyes, I see the truth written there.
He hasn’t announced it, but the Council has decided. They’re not adding a Scout, they’re replacing one.
“Congratulations,” he says, smiling broadly.
His hand tightens on my shoulder and he exerts pressure, turning me to face the assembled warriors of the Order. They cheer and applaud, slamming their tails against the packed sound. It’s deafeningly loud. I turn to Tashak and salute, then turn to the warriors and repeat the gesture. They applaud louder.
Tashak lets me go and walks away. The warriors come forward, slapping my back, shaking my hand, all of them happy and congratulatory. I play my part, accepting their well-wishes, but I’m distant from it. Disconnected, like it’s happening to someone else. I’m a puppet going through the motions.
When the last of them have come
and had their say, I slip out of the training grounds and climb the surrounding wall. Staring at my home across the roofs of our hidden dwellings.
It was a strategic decision to hollow out parts of this cliff for our outpost. The homes and communal buildings beyond the cliff itself are made out of sand and stone. From a distance, the village blends into its surroundings, hidden, camouflaged from danger.
Multiple staircases lead up to the various levels and rounded doorways, dome-shaped dwellings situated next to more rectangular ones at the top. Nothing is built perfectly straight and orderly—another decision to make our construction less easily recognizable from afar. The eye searches for simple patterns.
I admire how we disrupted the expected. Windows and doors spaced unevenly, not shaped in the same way. The courtyard behind me, used for sparring, is on the ground level, spacious and walled in to keep it hidden. The top of each wall is lined with walkways for guards. There are some always posted, set to protect our base.
On either side of the courtyard we cultivate vegetation, both edible and not. All life has purpose. The irrigation system put into place leaves room for beauty as well as practicality. Even apart from simple utility, it’s good for morale. Good to see life can still exist, still grow, on Tajss.
The Devastation scoured the planet, killing too much. But even before those catastrophic wars, before that final death knell, Tajss was dying.
The planet we knew to be sentient was being overworked, its resources plundered at an alarming pace. When the First of the Order voiced their objections, it didn’t simply fall on deaf ears. Oh no, nothing so benign as that.
In return for the warning that was already coming too late, the government and those in power launched a calculated smear campaign to malign the Order’s name. It was a direct attempt to keep us at the fringes of society, and it worked. We were pushed aside, considered a cult with no value, brainwashed by stories without any basis in fact.
The attempt to save Tajss was a complete and utter failure. Money and power are not evil in and of themselves, but they certainly can fuel it. They can be a reason, an excuse to do the unthinkable, to remain shortsighted.
Dragon’s Temptation: Red Planet Dragons of Tajss Book Fifteen Page 4