Mourning Ember

by Odin Oxthorn

  He could only nod at the question, finding the gentle voice of the medic strangely intimidating. They delicately took his fingers, passing a scanner over his skin. With a fretful tsk, they produced an array of salves and serums from their pockets and balanced the jars on their knees. Opening a packaged cloth, they began to wipe away the dirt and fluids from his skin. Adrenaline soothed the pain from the scrapes endured from his tumble. Even the thorns embedded in his skin were unnoticeable to him. The strange discoloration of his blood did not even register until he looked down.

  “You’re a lucky one,” they purred as they continued their ritual, dropping dots of green liquid from their portable apothecary and rubbing the ointments into his wounds. They then took out an instrument and placed it over his wrist.

  With a sudden jolt, a cooling sensation flood his veins. The medic finished their work by wrapping a stretchy black tape around his hand, deftly weaving the band around his fingers, taking care to cover each piece of exposed flesh.

  “Th–thank you,” Garrett managed. The medic smiled and resumed their post behind him, nodding to the warlord, who was still leering.

  The engine stopped with a violent halt, jerking Garrett with a start. The jaws of the door crept open, revealing a steel cavernous fortress. The warlord shifted their glance expectantly, and Garrett struggled with his gelatinous legs. One of the soldiers finally pulled him up and bolstered his exit from the vehicle.

  They stood in a hangar bay, the same grim aesthetic as the internal walls of Fariem’s laboratory, this time in militant navy blues. He was guided down a network of halls, his brain running around in circles as he struggled to visualize a map of the facility.

  He was stopped at an imposing reinforced door, no windows revealing the contents of the room ahead. The warlord hit the control button, and the thick sheet of metal slid aside to reveal a remarkably comfortable living suite, complete with a kitchen area, lounge, bedroom, and bathroom facilities.

  Garrett looked up at the soldier, who motioned him inside with a nod of their head. He eased himself into the nearest chair and attempted to release the fist in his throat or keep from passing out. The door silently closed behind him, the clicks of locks cycling shut.

  The front wall warped, shifting into a transparent glasslike material. The warlord was seated on the other side, tapping the intercom control.

  “What is your name?”

  “G–Garrett.” He flinched at the question.

  “Your full name.” The warlord’s eyes narrowed.

  His lips twitched as he pried the disdainful surname from his throat. “Galavantier.”

  “Are you a fugitive, Serr Galavantier?”

  His cheeks flushed in both fear and ire. “How dare you assume that!” The snarl left his mouth before he could contain himself.

  “Answer the question.”

  “No.” He crossed his arms to hide his nervous shaking, praying that he recited his lie convincingly.

  Moments of silence passed as the warlord eyed him over, discerning his posture. “Why are you here?”

  “I–I arrived with Nara… erm. Ela...” Shit. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “With Savant Elam when she landed on the planet.”

  The warlord leaned back, muting the channel to speak with the other soldiers. The suspense was tearing at his body, sending his thoughts racing through tides of inescapable dread.

  I should never have left Prism.

  “You will remain here until either your sentence has been passed or someone can speak for you.” The warlord finally spoke. “Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Serr’Maht.” The honorific twisted over his tongue, and the warlord raised an eye at the clumsy salutation.

  “There is a computer for you to summon necessities. Feel free to utilize it and the instructional guide should you need it.”

  “I–thank you.”

  The warlord gave one last scan of uncertainty before the wall shifted back to solid, leaving Garrett to simmer in his anxiety.

  Oh, fuck, what do I do now? Sickly green clouds began to whirl over his vision. Water. I need a drink.

  He peeled himself out of the chair, taking wobbling steps toward the kitchen sink. He leaned heavily on the counter and pulled himself into the basin, wrestling with the controls until a stream of cool water jetted from the faucet. He rammed his cupped hands in the stream and consumed fistful after fistful of the crisp liquid. He splashed the surplus over his face, attempting to steady himself.

  Drained of all energy, he leaned into the sink, letting the swell of his brain drop into the basin. He stilled his racing mind, slowing himself down until he could afford a thought.

  Nara’s going to fucking kill me.

  As if summoned by the forces of darkness, the front wall snapped to transparent again, revealing the smoldering glare of Nara burning through his spirits.

  He inhaled and raised himself up, discovering a shred of resentment within his throat. “Diplomatic immunity, I see.”

  “I hadn’t had the chance to inform the correct channels yet.” Nara scowled. “It hasn’t even been one week, and you already find yourself in jail.”

  He lurched toward the sofa and dropped face first into the exceedingly comfortable cushions. “No time, huh?”

  Nara belted off a half growl, half sigh, rubbing her temples in aggravation. “Don’t go there. I will see what I can do.”

  “I’ve been in worse prisons, I suppose,” he murmured gloomily through a pillow. “At least I won’t cause more trouble for you here.”

  “Are you being facetious?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I’d honestly ask the same of you.”

  “Not much. I’m just trying to stop a civil war, that’s all. But please don’t let the lives of the thousands on this planet hamper your comfort.”

  Garrett ground his jaw at her rebuttal.

  “You’re going to be here a long time.” She sighed. “I have no influence over the Council yet, and you are somewhat of a security concern, given what we are facing at the moment.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I will keep you updated with movement, but don’t expect anything.” The window snapped back into a wall, leaving Garrett to fester in his nausea.

  Chapter 7

  ##7.0##

  The sounds of the arena’s warm-up cycle stirred Bellanar awake. He groaned as his muscles nagged at him. How long had he been here? Days? Weeks?

  Each time, he was permitted to heal. Mostly. A residual tear of muscle here, the ache and bruises there. With each bout, his condition worsened, preventing him from performing in peak condition as each wave of gladiatorial combat whittled him down. The stabs of hunger added to the exhaustion, his fingers spasming in argumentative twitches as they strained for fuel.

  “Good morning, Tenacity.” Abberon manifested before him. “Before we begin, do you have anything you wish to share?”

  Bellanar rolled his eyes and pulled himself to his feet, rocking erratically as his brain sent a rush of vertigo across his senses.

  “Very well, then.” As if by clockwork, the corridors opened and a new entourage filed inside. But something was different about this crowd. “My combat instructors have been a little rusty as of late. And you simply can’t teach others effectively if you let your own skills dull.”

  The limbering rituals of the combatants displayed a much more rigorous fervor, an act that would have been considered a workout all on its own. Pairs and trios broke off to perform intimate dances of grappling plays. Arms slithered around arms, necks hidden against the attacks while each combatant bent and contorted to maintain control. Twist, bind, counter, twist, bind, counter. An immoveable stalemate that lasted for far longer than an unskilled bout ever could. They were not only masters of technique but also speed, executing maneuvers imperceivable to the outside observer.

  “You were not a combat expert in your time in active duty, were you, S
cribe?” Abberon commented, scrolling through a digital file. “Electronics, scouting, and sharpshooting, as far as my information tells me. Good thing I have you contained here.”

  Bellanar could hardly hear the taunt over the intensity of the fighting, the grunts and struggles as the teachers strained to outmaneuver one another. He could feel his nervousness sink into a churning pit in his stomach, his already fatigued muscles cringing beneath his skin.

  “By yourself, you won’t provide nearly a reasonable challenge.” Abberon rubbed their chin pensively. “Let us have your avatar run them around for a bit.”

  The fighters suddenly released their grip on each other, their gazes brought to a corner of the room. Soft patters echoed in the chamber as they circled the spot, cautiously approaching an invisible foe. Like a coordinated dance, they shifted the patterns of their stance, each synchronizing to their own individual strengths. Some spread their arms wide with open palms while some kept low to the ground with softened knees, establishing their comfortable center of gravity.

  In a flash of movement, the choreography commenced. Strikes flew then swiftly changed course as the target moved. Each instructor played off the act of another, bouncing off each other’s shoulders and hips to aim for vital areas.

  The shadow entity would take its revenge, launching the soldiers backward with an explosion of force. Shrieks of friction echoed across the shiny floor as the units swiftly righted their footing, altering their course to charge in again. The bizarre puppet show of war continued as the soldiers battled with the unseen.

  “Now then, would you like to say anything?” Abberon taunted. “My ears are receiving.”

  Bellanar lowered his gaze, his spirits battered. He had one last chance for escape, and it was a long shot. With bated breath, he rubbed at his joints, stretching out what he could as his tendons cinched tight against his efforts.

  “Very well.”

  The collective suddenly raised their gaze to the sky, tracing an arc around the room as their gazes centered on Bellanar.

  Shit. Having played the scenario tenfold before, he had nowhere to run. He braced himself, rolling onto the balls of his feet to prepare for the confrontation.

  As the mob swarmed in, he bolstered his energy and focused on evasion, mud pulling at his limbs as he dodged and swayed. Dip, weave, shove, retreat. A weakened counter to push away and steal his ground back. But the masters were honed with skill, using the tiniest amount of energy to force him where they wanted. His stamina quickly waned, and his brain fogged, unable to keep track of punch after swipe.

  The chaotic patterns sent his arms flailing, his footing lost as he struggled to compete with gravity. A jab to the throat and a kick to a knee brought him face first to the cold, unforgiving ground. The soldiers pulled him to his knees. An arm wrenched his shoulder down.

  His spine crackled as a boot planted on his back. Heat surged through his face as his elbow twisted behind him, the pull of tendons as his arm was forced taut. A concussive force and a CRACK of bone sent blazes coursing through his entire body.

  He screamed as he shoved away, his searing arm dangling uselessly at his side. He dared a glance over his shoulder, only to find a pale jagged dagger poking through his flesh. A panicked gasp released from his chest as he frantically rolled over, dragging the limb behind him as it gushed vital fluid.

  Sweat beaded over his face as he panted for breath, the lashes of pain overtaking his thoughts. What will claim me first? Infection or blood loss?

  His eyes traveled to the attackers as they retreated, bolting for an illusion behind him.

  “How unfortunate,” Abberon taunted. “You can end this, you know.”

  The taunt barely registered in his mind as he felt the side of his cheek with his tongue. He took a grounding breath and clamped his teeth against the soft flesh. The quick shock of pain quickly subsided with the herbal sweetness of blood. Molars scraped against metal and plastic as he ground his jaw together. With a satisfying CRUNCH, mechanical fragments shattered, and he extracted a tiny device from the flesh with his teeth.

  The humans make such interesting inventions. He cackled as he rolled over to spit out the refuse.

  “That is a pity.” Abberon shook their head. “Unfortunately, I cannot guarantee your safety for the remainder of your visitation.”

  Rot in whatever palace you’re thriving in. Drained of energy, Bellanar once more succumbed to sleep.

  ##7.1##

  “When our final battle has ended, we return to nature.” Garrett traced a finger on the line as he recited. “The pressure of our actions pave a path behind us. We hope to guide the future, but even our greatest intention is wrecked with folly.”

  “That was perfect!” Prism clapped their hands together, the sound bouncing against the glass of the cell wall. “Your studies are proving to be quite effective.”

  It’s not like I have anything else to do, Garrett thought. “Thank you.”

  He pushed away the bitterness from his tone, grateful to have visitors despite their busy schedules. Even Fariem stopped by from time to time, passing him small assignments as well as teaching him about the plant life—what to avoid, what can result in a tasty snack. They even drafted experiments for him to construct, often leading to delightful trinkets to decorate the cell. Fariem still never used his real name, consistently referring to him as Ahm’Xant.

  He had asked Prism what the word meant, and they told him that it had roots in Xannat, with Ahm a nondescript honorific title. Loosely, it meant ‘Luck Charm.’

  Prism closed the menu from their tablet. “Do you have any questions?”

  “Nothing I can think of.” Garrett shook his head.

  “Very well. Would you like an assignment, or would you prefer to continue on your own?”

  “I think I can manage to get a little further.”

  “Absolutely!” They stood up and scooted their seat under the desk. “I will see you next time.”

  “Prism…”

  “Yes, Ambassador?”

  He hesitated, unsure of what he was trying to convey in words. “Thank you for your patience.”

  “It’s no trouble at all.” They regarded him oddly. “You are quite an adaptive learner.”

  “I am not speaking entirely about academics.”

  “I know.” A smile graced their features. “Loremaster had told me of your trials before you arrived. You adapted to your situation to the best of your ability, and I adapted my teaching style to coincide. I think we came to a functional relationship, don’t you think?”

  Garrett looked at the table, knitting his hands. “My short temper was not excusable.”

  “Ambassador, if my skin were as thin as you imply, I would not have been made a Chief Scribe.” Prism winked and bowed. “Think nothing more of it. Until next time.”

  “Sure.”

  The wall blended back to solid, dissolving the last trace of the scribe’s shining smile, leaving him to simmer on the conversation.

  He closed the reading applications, mind too full to focus on learning. His time imprisoned gave him ample opportunity for self-reflection, but it was not a pleasant experience. The mind was not a fruitful place to be left alone, and the house arrest made his cabin craze itch.

  He started pacing about the room, tangles of his ennui brushing with loneliness. Though often incarcerated in his ivory tower whenever his antics impeded the progress of Galavantier business, it only took a few lines of code to break him free. Here, it was a near impossibility. The attempts to crack into the Ara’yulthr network left him frazzled and defeated.

  He eyed the console hungrily, forcing his will against the imaginary deities controlling the machines.

  “Ah, fuck this.” He flopped on the couch and raised his NetComm to his face.

  Previous searches on the system let him find the console program of the security system, or at least the equivalent. But the core programming was completely foreign to him. In contrast to the fabric-like linear stream
s of data that worked based on yes and no switch logic, this was more fluid. It utilized phrase command switches, like speaking a recipe to the machine. Codewords and euphemisms warped around symbolism while the machine replied with nonsensical idioms.

  He would love to get his hands on a dictionary that could show him the direct route to access instead of playing a haphazard game of Simon Says—where Simon changes his mind on a whim. But he was too cautious to search the libraries on his own for fear of raising suspicion, and he didn’t want to get Prism or Fariem into trouble to ask.

  There?... Maybe. Is this the… What the— The NetComm popped off his wrist with a snap of plastic. He furrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the tear in the band. Upon further inspection, he noticed tiny scratches wearing down the hinges of the strap. How the hell did that happen? Great. Guess I’ll figure out how to fix that… somehow.

  He resorted to holding the watch up by the undamaged strap, continuing his prodding experiments. A few strokes later, he hit a wall, no seam visible.

  “Fuck,” he growled, tossing the device on the couch cushion.

  Just when he was about to take a pity nap, his pocket began to vibrate wildly. He fished out the foreign transponder device he had been carrying with him, glaring at it with disdain. The screen flickered red and white, each spastic light increasing in intensity. What the hell?

  A surge of recollection jumpstarted his heart as the strange program continued its pleas. Bellanar! Oh, shit! What do I do?! Nara’s not going to answer me. Fuck!

  He ran up to the receiving window, banging frantically on the wall. “Hey! Anyone out there?” Help!”

  Frantic fingers smashed keys on the intercom system, hitting the Emergency Distress signal. Upon the summons, lights flared outside, and he could hear sirens ringing against the corridor.

  Moments later, the window opened, revealing a rather alarmed pair of guards staring at the distraught human in shock. One flipped the signal switch, and the clamor ceased, permitting a proper conversation.