Ka-saat Fal - #1

The Winds of Ka-saat Fal

-1-

Warmth.

Farae's clawed hands stirred the cracked, tender leaves.

A child, sleeping beneath.

“Gods...” Farae's whispered, trembling as the pieces suddenly created a reasonable context.

The burning village, the ozone-filled air... The bodies, scattered like pebbles across the gray and tortured char. No wild beasts had power to create flames and death... No. Another lowborn settlement of zephyrs, torn apart by their own kind. Raiders, the Commander called them. Though Farae understood the meaning of the zephyr word, he couldn't fathom the purpose behind it. To destroy and plunder to sustain an existence of destruction and plunder... Farae knew of no other lifeforms that enjoyed such a brutal lifestyle. Farae enjoyed keeping distance from conflict, but sometimes his rank as Executor required such dangers. Farae was rannik, and still a monster to the common zephyr eye. Most, himself included, stood more than two meters tall; all were heavy built and swiftly designed from ears to tail. According to the off-world zephyrs, the rannik descended from ancient, passive, overgrown house-cats... Not that Farae knew what a 'house-cat' was, or cared.

And for the word 'passive', he cared even less.

The smoke that rose above the o'oka ferns on that particular fog-clouded morning pulled him closer, regardless of his instruction otherwise. Farae read the reports, he knew the odds of survival against colony raiders bearing plasma-based energy weapons. But he also knew the violence had passed. He knew the flying daggers had gone, carrying their corsair death bringers with them.

And a zephyr boy slept beneath the leaves.

Farae quickly swept the foliage from the buried form. Pale, white, hairless except upon his head, a miserable, matted brown. Young. Too young. No more than two moon-lights, for certain. His dress, merely the thin rags of night-dreams, described in detail the swiftness of the massacre. Though rannik and certainly not a medic, Farae understood enough of zephyr physiology; the burns and dark-purple sores that covered the poor creature's body didn't bode well for signs of life. Kneeling upon the ground, the rannik removed his hood and pulled the boy free from the ground. Like a babe, Farae nestled him in his thick and furry arms while a long and sensitive ear listened for breath. Heartbeat.

Weak.

But alive.

The zephyr communique strapped uncomfortably across Farae's forehead beeped quietly three times before a familiar voice echoed within his head.

“Executor Farae, this is Somulst Station, do you copy? Again, Executor Farae...”

“This is Farae, Somulst.” The coarse language still felt strange to his tongue, although he'd spoken it for nearly four lights, longer than he'd spoken rannik.

The zephyr voice paused.

“Executor, the Commander requests your status. Your GP signal shows you close to the third-quadrant conflict area. Can you confirm?”

“Confirm,” Farae said, watching the boy's clear, emotionless face with his own. “Expand third-CA boundary to my location. Raiders destroyed a small colony here, not more than a few hours ago.”

“Sir, Station regulations prohibit exploration within five clicks of conflict areas-”

“Somulst, I found a young zephyr, injured but alive. Are there any medical craft available?”

“All HAWKs are currently away, Executor,” the Station monitor said, a bit too quickly. “Again, Station regulations prohibits exploration within five clicks of conflict areas, please withdraw immediately. Any survivors of raider violence should proceed to the designated aid terminals inside their colony ship and await military personnel.”

“He is unconscious, Station, and there is no terminal. There is no ship. I request to stay with the boy until a transport can pick us up.”

Farae's dark blue eyes saw further than any zephyr with an infrared visor, further still in the relative fog and miserable rain... This colony's vessel, apparently, had returned to the Aether, and a large blackened crater memorialized its voyage. No colony ship, no long-range communication. No communication, no help. The attack had come so quickly, the colonists didn't have time to even send a distress signal.

A single recurrent thought crossed his mind.

What fool chooses to live an arm's length away from annihilation?

His regular answer crossed next.

A desperate one. Desperate for freedom.

The boy in Farae's arms shivered in sleep, his face expressing terror and dreams beyond. Instinctively, Farae took the boy's limp hand and held him tighter. Alkairi nights rarely held hope of warm welcome or comfortable stay.

The comm remained silent for a few more seconds before a crackle returned.

“Executor Farae, request denied. Return to Somulst Station A-SAP. A HAWK patrol is scheduled to pass over third-CA in six hours and will rendezvous with colony survivors.”

“Survivor, Station.” Farae's growl grew stale. “I found a survivor, and I cannot leave him here alone.”

A pause.

“Again, Executor Farae, return immediately to Somulst Station. A HAWK patrol has been assigned to pick up any remaining-”

“Ka-saat Fal!”

He quickly tore the communique from his brow and cursed. Though he disliked using his homeworld's sacred name to curse anything, zephyr 'regulations' simply required cursing. Repeated, angry cursing.

The boy would die alone in that forest clearing before morning; no doubt the beasts would come to clean the mess raiders created. A worse fate, however, awaited the boy if Farae took the poor boy back to Somulst Station. Besides dangerous colonization along the conflict zones, a lifetime sentence in the ayer mines presented the only alternative for a lowborn zephyr of any age, though more especially the younger. And a zephyr doomed to mine ayer may well inhale razor blades and die immediately without suffering. Farae would never forget the terrible noise of a young zephyr man drowning in his own blood, his lungs and throat torn to ribbons by airborne crystal particulate... A process that took months, perhaps years. An end always came, though, and no one, rannik or zephyr, ever really escaped constant exposure down there, no matter the amount of filtration between lung tissue and crystal slivers.

Farae knew. He'd become an executor, a peace officer, at the age of twenty-three zephyr years in order to escape the terrible caves. Through rannik hardiness and a bit of luck, he only suffered from the occasional bout of Zephyr-named 'pneumonia' and uncontrollable coughing fits.

“Don't worry, sumat,” Farae found himself whispering aloud, calling the boy what rannik fathers call precious rannik children. “You'll not have my fate.”

Carefully, he replaced the communique on his head and reconnected.

“Somulst Station, this is Executor Farae. I...I am returning to station. The young zephyr is dead, and I can find no other survivors. Request salvage team, if possible.”

“Copy that, Executor. Rendezvous with HAWK wing Epsilon in Sector five-three-seven in four standard hours for retrieval. Out.”

Four hours. Not much time. Hopefully it will be enough.

Just then... a thought came. A curious thought, one that hadn't showed itself for some time. Something the elders taught rannik children, something about salvation. Salvation that never arrived, but salvation still.

Though the boy's closed eyes darted about and trembled in dream and mist... Farae had to know. He raised his thumb and gently lifted one of the child's eyelids. Just enough to see.

Red. Deep crimson red.

The sun sets, the stars fade, fear overtakes the last remnants of the 

waning moon,

The light-clouds gather, and eternity begins to fall.

The coming days and nights of constant terror and silence arrive,

Shrouded in the waking forms of those from beyond.

Then echoes from the dark fly from the furthest reaches, consuming all other

 lights and sounds,

The joyous chants of glory and seasons reflected from red-stained eyes.

The swords and shields and weapons of war held by all Creation's hands,

Signal the stirring of 

The Winds of Ka-saat Fal.

“Maybe,” Farae told the zephyr boy. “Maybe there is hope for both of us.”