by A. J. Ross
His passion, anger, and the alcohol in his blood directed his unsteady steps. He didn’t think, he just went straight to Penny’s door. His heart was racing as he pounded it with the side of his fist. “Penny,” he shouted. “Penny, open the door now or I’ll break it down.”
The house was dark and silent inside, but Lincoln didn’t care. Raindrops had begun to fall from the dark sky sprinkling lightly onto his hair and shoulders. After pounding the door a second time, he lifted his leg and kicked it. He heard the splitting of the wood from the impact. “Penny,” he shouted as he continued to pound the door. He braced himself, and using all of his strength kicked the door a second time. It flew open and smashed into the wall behind it. Lincoln stared into the darkness. By that time the rain had begun to fall in buckets, and he was soaked.
He walked into the house leaving a trail of muddy footprints on the tile floors. Everything was silent, yet somehow different from the usual silence of night. It was an eerie and alarming silence. He took cautious steps to the wall and flicked on the light switch. He blinked a couple of times as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. Everything in the living room and kitchen seemed normal. He turned on the light in the hallway and made his way to Penny’s room.
“Penny,” he called evenly. He was fully aware now, and the effects of the Mürk had all but disappeared. Something wasn't right. He and Penny had known each other most of their lives, and she had never been a heavy sleeper. There was no way his commotion at the front door would not have woken her. He reached the end of the hallway and stood in front of Penny’s door. The light in her room was on, and he could see it seeping out from the small space under the door. He turned the knob and flung the door open.
There was Penny lying face up on her bed, eyes open and staring blankly into nowhere.
“Penny!” Lincoln rushed over to her. There were empty medicine bottles with Griician writing on the labels next to her bed. He gently shook her, “Penny. Penny, can you hear me?”
Penny’s blank eyes twitched ever-so-slightly. Cradling her upper half, Lincoln placed his hand over her mouth. Though it was faint and hollow, he felt her breath. She was still alive. He scooped her into his arms and loaded her into her wagon outside. He bridled the horses as quickly as he could and took her to the nearest hospital.
Lincoln sat in the waiting room feeling everything and nothing. There was so much emotion brewing inside of him, but he lacked the energy to indulge it. He was numb. On one hand, he knew he should feel afraid for Penny, or even blame himself for her actions. Normally he would have. Today though, he just felt uninterested. Uninterested in the reasons for her actions. Uninterested in her recovery. Uninterested in the idea he should have to pity her, as if she were the victim. Penny’s near-death condition had not been able to wash away the bitter aftertaste of what was in his opinion, justified anger. He sighed deeply and buried his face in his palms as he sat and waited for the doctor to bring him any news about her condition.
After another hour or so, the doctor called his name. He stood quickly, having dozed off only minutes ago. “That’s me.”
The doctor smiled affectionately. “I have good news and bad news.”
Lincoln nodded, raking his fingers through his damp hair. “Could you give me the bad news first?”
The doctor spoke sympathetically, “Well, her brain is completely unresponsive right now. There is only about an eight to twelve percent chance of recovery, which means whatever relationship you had with her before, is over. If she, by some miracle were to regain some of her cognitive ability, she would still be unable to care for herself, and would probably have no memory.”
Lincoln’s eyes were wide. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You said there was good news,” he exclaimed.
“And there is,” the doctor replied reassuringly. “The good news is, the baby is fine. We can keep Penny alive as long as necessary for the . . . ”
Lincoln’s own thoughts drowned out the sound of the doctor's words. Penny was pregnant? By whom? When had this happened? The guilt which had previously been nonexistent suddenly began to manifest itself. How could he have been so cruel to Penny? Only hours ago he had gone to her house and kicked open her front door in anger. Who knows what he would have done if she had actually argued or fought with him?
“ . . . but as long as we take care of the little lady, she’ll be just fine.”
“She?” He repeated as he refocused his attention on the doctor's words.
“Yes,” the doctor smiled warmly. “You’re going to have a daughter.”
EIGHT
One Mission
Lincoln stood before the general, trying to hide his trembling as he tightly clenched the handle of a weapon he had once seen slice through molecules of air. He didn’t know what was more terrifying, the weapon, or the fact that he was the one holding it. Tsamiit examined him, walking slow circles around him, condemning his weakness with her silence.
They were training in a large white room on the first base. There were bright round lights all around where the ceiling and walls met. Black circles were painted on the floor in the center of the room. The one on the outside was the largest, with each circle within it getting smaller as it came to the middle. The circles were spaced about a yard apart, and Lincoln stood right in the center.
“Draw your weapon,” she commanded.
Lincoln examined the handle. The blade was not present, otherwise he would have heard the burning. The handle was the color of Ivory, but not the material. There were signs carved into it, but he couldn’t read them. He was perturbed, and afraid Tsamiit might decide he was incapable of learning the Fiie, and go back on her word to teach him. He had no idea how to extend the weapon.
Tsamiit snatched out the Fiie holstered at her left shoulder and swung the blade in Lincoln’s direction. He flinched, lifting his hand to block the impact. It never came. He opened his eyes. He could feel the intense heat from the exposed blade he held in his hand. The blade extended about a yard. It was light weight, but he could feel the difference from when the blade was retracted. He looked again at the handle and wondered how he had extended it.
Tsamiit retracted her blade and returned the weapon to its holster. She said simply, “You must use the Fiie with purpose.” She resumed her slow walking in circles around him. “This is not a weapon like the things of man. Only basic skills are needed. Your sense of purpose teaches the Fiie. It must become an extension of your motives. It is the wolf and its master. Which are you?”
“I am the master,” he replied confidently.
“Master of what?” she asked. “Your emotions? No. Your abilities? No. Your strengths? Weaknesses? No. Your future? The lives of those you love? No. If you are not master over any of the things that matter to you, then you are master of nothing. To wield the Fiie you must become the Wolf. Do you think he will forego millennials of instinct to bend to the will of some emotionally fragile master? No. He is free. Your weakness does not lie in your inability to master your world or the worlds of those around you. Your weakness lies in your endless wasted efforts to do so.
You must become a creature of instinct; of survival, measuring all things and reacting in an instant. Because, If you do not. . .” In an instant her Fiie was in her hand fully extended and gliding towards Lincoln again. He raised his weapon in self-defense. The blades collided and smoked where they touched. Tsamiit’s eyes peered at Lincoln from just above the blade of her Fiie, “I will kill you.”
Lincoln trembled but held the Fiie strong. His eyes met Tsamiit's. He understood her warning to be less of a threat, and more of a common-sense briefing on the dangerous reality of the situation. She would not wait for him to grasp each concept or movement, not because she wasn’t patient, but because there was simply no time. He had less than two months to become at least halfway capable with a weapon the average Griician spent most of their life trying to master.
The training was intense to say the least. Each day Lincoln went home wi
th fresh burns, some mild, some severe, all over his body. Tsamiit hadn’t given him the courtesy of starting with a dummy sword, and though he knew she held back when sparring, she did not hold back enough to protect him from contact with the Fiie. He was struck with it several times a day. She used a level two, otherwise she may have killed him.
He wore pants and long sleeve shirts each day to hide from his mother. If she knew he was training with Tsamiit instead of sitting at the round table conversing with the council, she would be mortified. He would speak with her briefly when he came home each night. Forcing a smile, he would try to ignore the dwindling adrenaline from his training session. He had a very small window from the time he came home, until the time the pain would set in with a vengeance. He would shut himself in his room and tend to the most severe burns, which would blister. He would gag each time he plunged one of his mother’s sewing needles into a large rubbery bubble on his skin, draining all the liquid.
Most nights the intensity of the pain kept him awake. His mind was dulled from lack of sleep and his body was sore all over, but it didn’t matter. He maintained his routine of training for eight hours, returning home to disinfect his blisters, bandage himself up, ice his sore muscles, suffer through an intermittent painful night's sleep, then start over again the next day.
During training, his senses were set on survival. He was attentive to Tsamiit's every word, and careful with each move. She taught him to travel between the circles, using the spaces to measure his footing. He learned how and when to put the weight of his body on his front leg, and when it was necessary to move it to the back one. Certain combinations with the Fiie called for exact core balance. Other maneuvers could be performed with less force, and he would shift his weight accordingly.
There were one-hundred and sixty-eight basic combinations, and Lincoln put his heart into learning them all. It was more than just fighting, Tsamiit taught him urgency in the use of the weapon. The Fiie army was accustomed to battles where they were vastly outnumbered, and this was reflected in Lincoln’s training. The goal of every combination was to eliminate the obstacle as quickly as possible, in the least amount of movement, and immediately engage the next.
He would forget about the pain of his blisters and the purplish-black bruises on his arms, legs, and ribs. There was nothing in the world that compared to the power he felt whenever he held the Fiie in his hand. Moving with it was a delicate dance and it filled him with passion.
The Fiie was a living weapon. Tsamiit had told him it was to be an extension of him, and he now understood the literalness of her statement. He felt at times the Fiie would move on its own, but in the exact way he desired. He felt connected with it apart from the fact he held it in his hand. It acted according to his will. It was a complicated thing to explain, and he wondered if he was imagining it.
Tsamiit drove him harder and harder, yet he came home with less and less burns each day. He knew he was getting stronger and faster, but would he be strong enough? Fast enough? In less than two weeks he would present himself to the Lawreiis. The only gift he would receive from it was one matching his own efforts. Each day he struggled with all of the strength he had in him. He didn’t need to be the best warrior. He only needed to be good enough to face Rahilius.
Braii had found the first element she needed to carry out her plan. Each day, a frail Kayorian boy would bring her food. As she ate, she noticed he would stand in the corner watching her with wide yellow eyes. The boy was incredibly skittish, and if she made any sudden movement, he would jump as if he were expecting her to strike him.
He wasn’t scaly like the full grown Kayorians. His skin was lumpy and a pale green. His hands, feet, and cheeks were almost completely white. Braii could tell the boy was undernourished and had suffered much abuse at the hands of the Kayorians responsible for his care. Unlike the Grii, Kayorians were not united by species. They were much like humans in that they felt no obligation to care for others solely on the merits of them being human. Kayorian society was no different. The child who fed her each day was a slave.
She sought to put him at ease. She would speak to him in soft tones each day. A simple hello, thank you, and goodbye. Then she began saving a portion of her food each time he fed her, and encouraged him to eat. After refusing her for several days, his hunger got the best of him. He began to take from her leftovers and eat. Every time he ate, his mood would brighten, and he would seem a little happier. Slowly but surely, she was gaining an ally.
While she worked on the boy, she also started to work on the guards. One afternoon she called the one outside her door, and he stepped into her room.
“Am I supposed to eat this?” she scolded. The little Kayorian boy who had delivered the food to her stood in the corner with fear in his eyes. She sent the tray flying in the direction of the guard. He ducked instinctively before it could hit him. Instead it hit the wall, painting it with food stains, and shattering the luxurious pirated porcelain dishes. She buried her face in her hands and began to weep. “This place is disgusting,” she cried out. “I can’t stand eating this garbage another day. I’ll just starve.”
The guard stood near the door alarmed and perplexed. He was accustomed to ignoring the cries of humans, but Rahilius had instructed him to care for this one. He didn’t know how long it took humans to die of starvation, but if it happened, he would face serious consequences when Rahilius returned. While he loathed the idea of treating her as the princess she was, he was more afraid of Rahilius.
“So what do you want?” he grumbled harshly.
Without a moment's hesitation she rattled off the most elaborate dishes she could think of. “And have the child bring it. I don’t want to see your disgusting face again or I’ll never be able to get it down.”
The guard snarled as he commanded the little boy to follow him out of the room. Braii heard the door lock behind them. She immediately went to the mess she had made and took a single, large, pointed shard of the porcelain, and hid it under her mattress.
An hour later the boy returned. He was accompanied with two other children carrying trays full of food. They set them on her table, and began to clean up the mess she had made. She took a dish from the tray and sat on her bed. “Hey,” she whispered softly. All three of the children looked at her. She could see the bones through their lumpy paper-thin skin. Her eyes met with the eyes of the child who would usually bring her food to her. There was hope burning in them. She nodded in the direction of the food, and the child rushed over and began to eat.
She looked at the other children. They were frozen as they watched the other boy help himself to the endless spread of delicacies. “Hey,” she whispered softly. Once again all of the children looked at her. She nodded in the direction of the food. This time, emboldened by the actions of their peer, they went over to the trays and began to eat. They stuffed the food in their mouths, one thing after another. She couldn’t help but feel a twinge of pain as she watched. She had never seen anything like this on Graiis. If this was the way Kayorians treated their own, she could only imagine what was being done to the humans. She felt fire burning in her heart as she reaffirmed her decision, “I will kill Rahilius.”
She kept up her routine, whining and complaining to the guards about every little discomfort or inconvenience, “This food is disgusting. These blankets are stiff. This dress is hideous.” And each day she would feed the child from her tray.
The boy had changed over the last couple of weeks. He was so much more relaxed. At times they would look at each other. She would smile and the boy would smile back at her.
One day, she sat on her bed, picking through the food on the plate in her lap. She had eaten her fill. The boy was helping himself to the remaining food she had given him permission to eat. She whispered as softly as she could, “What is your name?”
The boy froze. He looked at her with his big, round, glossy eyes. He shook his head slightly, “No name,” he whispered.
Somehow, she wasn’t surprised
. “Would you like one?” she asked.
The boy placed the biscuit he was eating on the tray in front of him. “Mothers give children names. I don’t have a mother, so how can I have a name?”
“Who said that?” she replied. “Just because you don’t have a mother doesn’t mean you can’t have a name. You know, I don’t have a mother or a father either. They died in a fire when I was very young. Grisian took me into his house and made me his daughter.”
“Will he take me too?” he asked.
Braii was taken aback by the genuine sweetness in the child's eyes. She smiled softly. “No. Grisian is gone. But if you like, I can take you and be your mother.”
The boy's eyes lit up like night stars and filled with tears. He smiled widely, showing a mouth full of crooked teeth.
She smiled just as wide. “Let’s see . . . I’ll call you Riian. On earth it meant ‘King.’”
Tears began to fall from his eyes in streams, and his chin trembled. He wept silently for a couple of minutes with his face buried in his hands.
She watched, but didn’t try to comfort him. She felt the uprising of her own tempestuous emotion over this matter that hit all too close to home. A tear made its way down her own cheek, and she quickly wiped it. Vivid memories surfaced. Memories of losing her parents and being taken to Grisian’s house when she was four. She had felt so alone, surrounded by Griician people who did not speak a language she understood, and did not display any perceivable emotion. In fact, they kept their distance from her.
Several months after being moved to the palace, Grisian began to take an interest in her. She remembered being afraid in the beginning. He would force himself to spit out words using his untrained tongue, lips, and vocal cords. He was trying to speak to her. She listened carefully, learning to drown out the screeching high and low-pitched sound of the utterance, and find the word inside of it. If she recognized the word, she would repeat it, and his chest would glow a beautiful emerald green. He would then place her hands on his chest and allow her to feel the corresponding idea vibrating within it.