by Sean Allen
She had then flipped through the air, landing once on the second set of stairs before taking flight again and sweeping down with a vicious blow that cleaved Lerot and his Irongore in two. The halves of the heinous monster and its diabolical master stumbled back and forth, left and right in life’s last little dance before death cut in, and the pieces peeled away from each other and slammed into the deck on either side of the Mewlatai warrior. Finally, Kaela had turned to face Simon and sheathed her blade. She stood there for several moments, breathing heavily with emotion and the thunder of battle coursing through her veins; and then she spoke. “Come, my friend, let’s dress their wounds and then I’ll need your help getting my brother down.”
“He was your bruv?” Simon said sadly.
“Yes,” she said softly, “and we will honor him—it was a good death.” Kaela moved down the stairs without making a sound and, with Simon’s help, quickly set to work patching up Diodojo and Dezmara before tending to Kaelth’s body.
Kaela brandished her Kaiten at the pulsating thew as they moved back and forth from the bridge to the dockyard, and everywhere the growth retreated with muffled screeches. Even the tentacle mooring Fellini’s ship—which Kaela agreed to let Simon fly behind her—slithered to a dark recess somewhere when she threatened it with the sword’s razor sharp edge. All told, it took them three trips to get everyone loaded on board. Simon watched with strange fascination as Kaela wrapped her brother’s body in a shroud with foreign markings and laid him to rest in his own compartment in their craft rather than the infirmary. They were able to stabilize Diodojo—“tough lit’le bugga” was Simon’s muttered refrain—for the trip home, but Simon was worried about Dezmara: she was still unconscious and her pulse was weak. What really made him uneasy was the blood that continued to trickle slowly from her nose and ears despite their best efforts to stem the flow.
“Awe, c’mon, luv,” he whispered as he gently brushed the hair from her forehead with a furry hand. “Can’t quit on me jus’ yet. Haven’t had a chance to redeem myself, now, have I?” He kissed her forehead softly and walked out of the infirmary, down the main deck and into the cockpit to talk to Kaela. “Where we goin’ again, luv?”
“It’s Simon, right?” she said.
“’Sright, luv.”
“And you can call me Kaela,” she said with her brows raised, hoping Simon would get the hint.
“Right, then, Kaela, my luv! Where we goin’?” Kaela let out a heavy sigh and reached to start the engines.
“You’ll see when we get there,” she said. “Now, I fly fast, so try to keep up.”
“Oh, you an’ Dezmara are gonna be the best of mates,” he said. He was smiling, but then his cheerfulness faded. “Once she wakes up, ‘course.”
“The faster we get them to Tyrobus, the faster everyone will be up and healthy again.” She gave a strange glance toward the room where Kaelth’s body was, and it made Simon uneasy. He didn’t know much about the ways of the Mewlatai, and he doubted even Dezmara could fight her way out of their hands if it was necessary—regardless of whether she made a full recovery.
“Right,” Simon said, then trundled off to the Silverhawk.
The bay doors opened in front of them, and the spacescape had never looked so good. Simon smirked as Kaela’s ship passed slowly in front of him, cleared the doors, and then took off like a shot. “I know this game, luv! Played it for three years with the best there is, an’ now uncle Simon’s got a Silverhawk!” He punched the throttle, blasting from the dockyard and giving chase to the ship with the most precious cargo in the universe—his newfound friends.
Chapter 47: Exile
Dezmara was in that place beyond sleep, beyond unconsciousness. That place where her fragmented, rational mind (the mind that had been on since she woke up eight years ago) and her old mind (the one that had who-knows-what stored in its elusive depths from an entire forgotten lifetime) collided.
“It’s coming faster,” the mysterious voice said. “You’re getting closer.”
“Closer to what?” her rational mind demanded.
“Closer to what you were meant to be from the beginning; closer to what you once were.”
“What I once was?” rationality said. “What was I? What happened to me?”
“Why ask me?” the foreign voice laughed. “You already know the answers!”
“Then why in the hell can’t I remember?” Her rational mind was frustrated—always frustrated, conscious or not.
“Part of you knows the truth, but doesn’t want to wake up.”
“Part of me knows the truth about what?”
“About who you are and what you must do.” The alien mind was always mysterious; this time, its tone was foreboding as well. Dezmara’s rational mind was buzzing. It could sense the smell of something burning. It wasn’t the acrid, charred smell of destruction, but a cool, herbal scent that made her feel tingly. She was becoming aware of herself again.
“Goodbye for now,” her old mind said. “We’ll meet again. Say hello to them for me.”
“Say hello to who? Who in the hell am I suppose to say hello to?” The voice of her old life was gone, and Dezmara felt like she was being pulled through a tunnel backwards. The edges of her consciousness blurred past her like phantoms, and she longed to grab hold of one and pull it closer to examine it, to shed light on where she had been and who she was, but her fingers passed through the mist and her lungs swelled to cry out in despair.
“Uhhhhh,” she croaked as her eyes fluttered open. The fog slowly lifted from her senses and she rolled her head to the side. She was in a room of some kind. The walls were lined with strips of wood, and warm fingers of natural light gently caressed her body as it glowed through paper-like squares between the wooden dividers.
“Easy,” a deep voice said from somewhere above her. “Take a sip of this.” Her head floated from its support, and Dezmara could feel the warmth of a large, fur-covered paw wrapping from one temple to the other as a steaming cup touched her lips. “Be careful, it’s hot.” The broth was strong, and as soon as it touched her tongue, she felt a shock of energy surge through her body. She looked up at the figure hovering over her, and her eyes went wide.
He was kneeling beside her on the floor and leaning over with the cup of broth in his clawed hand. His eyes were a mix of olive and golden tones, and they looked fearlessly out from either side of a broad snout flanked by whiskers at its end. He had golden-tan fur, and a shock of slightly darker hair danced untamed around his short, rounded ears, down his jawline, and ended in unruly patches on either side of his stout chin. His garments were a light blue, and they reminded her of a sky she had seen somewhere long ago, but she couldn’t remember when or where.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said as he lowered her head back down to the roll beneath it. “I’m a friend.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said with a scratchy voice. “You’re Mewlatai, aren’t you?” She didn’t know exactly how, but she knew the answer.
“I am Tryrobus of the House of Daelekon,” he said and then bowed his head slightly. He stood to his full height, which Dezmara figured to be somewhere around seven and a half or eight feet, and moved noiselessly to a small stone figure on the other side of the room. Dezmara crinkled her brow and watched with interest as Tyrobus drew out the smoldering branch clutched in the figurine’s mouth. He took the limb over to a workbench and crushed its remains into a mortar. He then retrieved a fresh branch from a bundle lying next to his implements and returned to the carving. The Mewlatai ceremoniously lit the end of the bough in a small candle burning next to the statue before inserting it back between the creature’s jaws. He padded back to the table, and as his broad shoulders cleared her line of sight to the shrine, she recognized the figure—it looked just like Diodojo.
“Mmmm, that smell,” she said as the herbal scent of the fresh branch wafted across the room in lazy, looping bands.
“The herbs in the broth and the incense have helped in your recove
ry,” he said without turning.
“You’re a healer, then?”
“When I need to be,” he said with a small laugh, “but I’ve had some help in your case.” Before Dezmara could ask him what he meant, the wall below her feet slid to the side and someone sauntered through. She recognized the face: it was her own when she was disguised. She could just make out the tips of furry fingers gripping the kranos around its sides and two pointed ears sticking over the top. Simon pulled the helmet to the side and smiled at her with a wide, toothy grin.
“Ta da!” he said triumphantly. “Welcome back, luv!”
“He’s been here every day, for hours on end, talking to you,” Tyrobus said as he worked at grinding the burned branch with his pestle.
“How’d you get the kranos?!” Dezmara said in amazement as she sat up and reached out, taking it in her hands to make sure it was real. It was.
“Well, it’s not the same one as before, luv. I built this one from scratch!”
Dezmara looked at him with disbelieving eyes. “Wow, Simon, that must’ve taken you forever…” She trailed off and became quiet. “How long have I been out of it?”
“Some weeks now,” Tyrobus answered.
“Weeks!” Dezmara said in a low whisper.
“More like eight of ‘em, luv,” Simon said hesitantly as he wrinkled his face in preparation for Dezmara’s outrageous reaction. Much to his surprise, she just stared ahead of her with glazed-over eyes.
“Given me plen’y of time to work on the Ghost an’”
“You’ve got the Ghost!” she gasped.
“Yup, an’ The Bug! They’re both almost back up an’ ready to fly. Ty an’ his crew here are top flight, luv—top flight! They saved us from the Durax—two of his mates, Kaela an’ Kaelth—an’ they’re the reason we’re alive.” Simon looked over at Tyrobus’ back, and his face softened with remorse. “Not that I wanna bring up a sore subject or anythin’, Ty, mate, but thought I heard chantin’ on an’ off through the night comin’ from inside Kaelth’s tomb. Sounded kinda like Kaela, but I’m not quite sure. You know anythin’ ‘bout that?” Tyrobus continued to grind his herbs in silence without turning around to acknowledge Simon’s question. “Right, figured I might be out of line askin’. Sorry ‘bout that mate.
“Secretive lot, this bunch,” Simon whispered with his lips to the back of his hand. The door slid open and another Mewlatai walked through. He bowed to Dezmara, and Simon tipped over onto his tail and scampered back a few feet. “What the shite’s goin’ on here, then?!” he said.
“What’s the matter with you, Sy?” Dezmara said in a concerned voice, looking from the Mewlatai to Simon’s confused and slightly terrified face.
“That’s-that’s-that’s,” Simon stuttered.
“I am Kaelth,” he said. “It is my honor to meet you.”
“I take it from my tongue-tied friend here that I owe you my life. I’m the one who’s honored.” Dezmara bowed her head politely. She turned to Simon, who was still gaping at Kaelth, and nudged him in the ribs with her elbow.
“That’s impossible, mate!” Simon said. “You died! Killed by the Durax; rather brutally, I might add. I mean, I helped carry your corpse, mate!” Simon scrambled to his feet and took a step closer to try and uncover the mirage, but he couldn’t. Kaelth was there. His clubbed paw was still pressed against his stomach where Simon had first seen it back in the Duraxian compound, and his fur was still a deep orange with brilliant, black markings. It was Kaelth, but somehow he looked different, and Simon struggled to put his finger on it.
“Kaelth has passed into his second house,” Tyrobus said and then turned around to face the growing crowd inside the room.
“Yeah, well, whatever it is, he looks…older,” Simon said as he moved his head from side to side in examination of Kaelth’s face.
“That’s because he is older,” Tyrobus said.
“So, what,” Dezmara said, trying to understand, “he was brought back to life or something?”
“It might seem that way to you,” Kaelth said, “but to us, it’s just another step in the life we’re given. It’s part of our way.” Dezmara shook her head in wonder, and she could see by the look on Simon’s face that she wasn’t alone.
“There’s much you don’t understand about us,” Tyrobus said, “and that’s to be expected; our species is as unfamiliar to you as you are to us, and there is time. You’re still weak, and it will take some while yet before you feel whole again.”
“There’s something I don’t understand—well, actually there’s a lot I don’t get right now—but what I’m wondering, at the moment, is how you guys found us. I mean, in all of space, how did you guys know to come to… Geezus, I don’t even know where the hell we were with those bastards!” Dezmara said.
“It was a Durax outpost,” Tyrobus said, “called Aktuug.”
“Oh,” Simon said, “I’ve heard this part of the tale, an’ that reminds me. If I don’t tell someone you’re awake, he might start dislikin’ me all over again! Prepare to be a little more freaked out, luv!” Simon skirted around Kaelth. He was still leery about the warrior’s mysterious resurrection, and his head turned so he could continue to stare at the Mewlatai as he passed. Simon slid the wall open, put his thumb and forefinger between his teeth, and whistled loudly. A streak of gray and black darted through the opening and nearly bowled Simon over. “Oi! Whatchit, mate!”
“Doj!” Dezmara shouted.
Diodojo sped under Kaelth’s legs and nuzzled his face into the side of Dezmara’s neck and then leaned up against her shoulder with his flank. Dezmara reached out and caught herself to prevent being toppled over onto her side by Diodojo’s usual rough greeting, then she laughed. “Careful, Doj! I’m not quite as strong as you remember!” She stopped him as he turned to make another pass with his side, grabbing his face just under his ears and massaging with her fingers. He squinted his eyes happily and let out a rumbling purr. “Where was he? How’d you find him?”
“He told us where he was,” Tyrobus said.
“So he can talk to you somehow? Is it like a Mewlatai thing or something?” she said.
“It’s certainly something,” Tyrobus said. There was confusion in his voice, but before she could press him, he went on. “Diodojo is Maituk. They’re our ancestors. The earliest of our kind could still speak to the Maituk”
“So the little buggas could speak once upon a time,” Simon interrupted.
“Not exactly,” Kaelth said.
“The Mewlatai and the Maituk shared a mental link; they could speak to each other with their minds.”
“Great,” Simon said to no one in particular. “More things what can do odd tricks with their thinkers!”
“As the aeons passed,” Tyrobus picked up where Kaelth left off, “our evolution took us further away from the Maituk and the link weakened. Fewer Mewlatai were born with the ability to talk to our ancestors, and they could only pick up bits and pieces when the Maituk were expressing strong emotion. Kaelth has the gift, and Diodojo led him to Clara 591.”
“Okay,” Dezmara said, “that explains how you found Doj. Now, how’d you track me and Simon down?”
“Here it comes!” Simon said. Dezmara shot him an irritated glance, and he swallowed hard and hung his head like a scolded child.
“That’s what is most interesting to us,” Tyrobus said with an air of wonder. “He led us to you as well.” Dezmara looked at the big man for a moment without understanding what his words meant. “He’s told Kaelth—albeit in a crude fashion—that he shares a connection with you. His leading us right to you at the Durax outpost is proof that it’s true.”
“That’s…that’s…unbelievable,” Dezmara stammered.
“That’s not the half of it,” Tyrobus said. “Kaelth’s come to understand that, at sometime in your past, you and Diodojo have shared the strongest of links. The kind only experienced by our greatest ancestors in the earliest dawning of our kind—but it has somehow become harder to ge
t through to you.” Tyrobus was looking at her with interest that bordered on awe, and it made her a little uncomfortable that one of the most magnificent creatures she’d ever laid eyes on was staring at her like she was something rather special.
“The voice!” Dezmara realized. “The one that told you to wake up from cryo eight years ago! The one that told you your name! The one that told you you were Human!” At that moment, she knew Diodojo knew about her past.
“Did he say why the link was breaking? Or if we can do anything to get it back?!” She tried not to sound frantic at being so close to understanding who she was, but she wasn’t doing a very good job.
“I’m sorry,” Kaelth said, “but our link is mostly images and an occasional word or two. It’s not like having a detailed conversation.”
“I thank you, Dezmara,” Tyrobus said, “for bringing Diodojo back to the House of Daelekon…or to me, anyway.”
“You know each other?” Dezmara said.
“He is a direct forefather of the Daelekon line and has defended our family temple for many millennia.”
“Millennia?” said Simon.
“The Maituk do not have houses like we do, but they live long lives.”
“You can’t link with him in any way,” Dezmara said, hoping for another means to access her past, “being a direct descendant and all?”
“The Daelekon link has not been alive in my family for several hundred generations,” Tyrobus said solemnly. He hung his noble head, and Dezmara felt guilty for pushing her agenda.
At that moment someone she thought she should certainly recognize slid the wall to the side and stepped through the opening. Dezmara looked at him for a moment, studying him with a strained, puzzled look, and then she remembered. It was the guy the Durax soldier had tossed into her cell back in that horrible place. He was as small as she remembered, and he was wearing robe-like garments in the same fashion as Tyrobus and Kaelth. He stepped inside, and as he lifted his tiny hand at her in salutation, Dezmara remembered something awful about their last encounter. “The weapon!” she thought.