by B.T. Lowry
That night Pradah roamed the dirty city, heading vaguely toward its center. The streets were all but empty. People stayed in their stacked homes, sleeping or absorbed in virtual fantasies. Robots like huge insects inhaled the day's trash, to later dump in the ocean.
No respect for life.
It felt strange to be moving in the enemy’s territory without resistance. Pradah looked to the stars to glean perspective as he'd often done at home, but artificial light obscured them. Under his feet, endless pipes conveyed waste and sterilized water, blocking the earth’s energy.
He could no longer act as a chief. His people were drugged and drunk and his men had deserted him. The enemy had eroded the bonds that had held them together. Heyo should be safe, performing his ceremonies for the gods and the Creator, while Pradah fought honorably on chosen battlefields. Instead Heyo was adopting the religion of the enemy and Pradah was fighting like a coward. The Raiyans had lost their weapons, their prowess, their leaders. Their heart-lights were fading. This city sheltered no plants, birds or tortoises to remind them of the great intertwining system of life. The Creator imbedded reminders within every being and every moment, but the people here had twisted and obscured that writing. They'd hidden the stars, sucked up the rivers, obliterated entire species, and surrounded themselves with distractions.
Pradah arrived in the city's political center, a huge square lined with benches and fountains. Families lunched here during the day and tourists visited from other states, but now it lay empty. Ornate buildings ringed the square, repaired by Raiyan labor, infested with sculptures of dead men and women who were famous to the Ilunians.
Pradah knew that he was being watched from a dozen cowardly places: inside fake facades, light posts and the bellies of false birds.
Father, Uncle, Mother... Where are you now?
"I can't live like this," he whispered aloud. "We can't."
Farmer had pulled out, angry. He didn’t want to risk using his equipment again after the last bungled attempt. Gayant and Mahar were out. Mata was pulling in more Raiyans. Even today she'd kept her chapel open as repairs took place.
Perhaps Heyo was right, and the Creator planned to convert the Raiyans to some higher cause. After all, Heyo was regaining his abilities. Pradah hadn't been living the life of a warrior, but if he could be redeemed—
No. He grimaced at the statues staring down on him, heroes of a diseased civilization. He defied them. These people had done too much harm and he could never honor them, never submit.
Better to die while still myself than live like some groveling wraith. Let the government come down on me and my people. This one life isn't all in all.
He turned back, now sure of what he'd do.
Halves