Starchild- Exile, page 13
He thrashed, and the pain cut deeper than before. His fingers spread apart, each of them trying to flee.
He screamed.
Suddenly, he didn’t care what Saira would think. He didn’t care if there was right or wrong.
He would pay any price to escape.
10. The Miin
They walked single file.
Liink was second in line.
He’d come on this mission to prove himself and gain the honor of an abiisu. It meant everything to a warrior like himself, but so far all he’d earned was a blow to the skull.
His tail subtly curved back and forth as he strode, a feature that provided exceptional balance. His form was long and lean, the muscles of his six appendages strong and supple, constantly ready to spring into attack.
His companions wouldn’t understand. They were humans.
Humans dominated the galaxy, thanks to the Photoss giving them a head start. Physically they were among the weakest of conscient species, but their ruthlessness kept them ahead. Though that was only a general trait. Liink liked all of these humans.
Ever since he was just a little cub, he’d been taught that the honor of an abiisu was the highest achievement. He had dreamed about it ever since.
When he returned to his clan, they would ask him the story. And instead of telling him the story of his own abiisu, he would tell them of Dray’s, how the old man had sacrificed himself so the rest of them could escape.
Then they would ask Liink why he had not been the one to stay behind.
He would have no worthy answer.
They would call him a coward, and he would feel shame instead of honor.
He shouldn’t have let Dray stay behind.
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Liink looked at the pilot in front of him.
Staring at anyone’s back made him want to pounce.
The pilot was quite large for a human, but Liink still could’ve beaten him in an unarmed fight. As long as Liink struck before the pilot got to the pistol strapped to his hip. The two of them had hardly spoken on the flight to Toar, except for one awkward encounter while Liink was trying to meditate. Back then, the pilot had been wearing an intimidating mask. Now he seemed like a real person. He seemed to prefer not talking, which gave the two of them something in common.
And yet, as they set out, walking across Toar’s wasteland, the pilot had offered this unsolicited explanation: “The atmosdrive has only a half dimension of thrust: forward. It relies on fins against the air to steer. So we can get by just fine down here, but out in the black, we could only go one direction—if we even made it that far. The zentisal drive is more powerful and has three dimensions of thrust: horizontal, vertical, and zentisal. We’ll need that to maneuver past the sentries.”
Liink didn’t know a lot about flying. It wasn’t part of his culture, so he was glad to learn this without having to look ignorant by asking. Ignorance didn’t complement honor at all.
He sensed the light steps of the Prophetess behind him. She’d escaped her prison garb and now wore a pair of pants and a textured black shirt that fit her perfectly. He didn’t like having anyone at his back, though, even someone held in such high honor.
When they first began, the sun had been on the rise. Now it rushed to high noon. It felt strange to walk under a sun that moved.
Liink’s mind drifted back to his problem.
Any miin who wanted a position of dignity in the clan was expected to complete this heroic trial: to save the life of a worthy other and have that person sing the story to the Council of Elders. That meant Liink had to find circumstances where lives were actually on the line. Many reached old age without ever achieving an abiisu, but Liink was the son of Chief Adiin. His older brothers had all done it. He was the tenth surviving son and the last. He had to do it too.
If he saved anyone on this team, his people would finally honor him. If he saved the life of the Prophetess, his father might actually honor him. That was why Liink came on this mission. That made him eager to get back home to the revolution. He needed another chance to prove his heroism. But maybe this mission would still provide the chance.
Abii brought up the rear, the man who’d organized the mission. Liink called him that as a sign of respect, even though the others didn’t. On the flight to Toar, Abii seemed to have adopted Liink as a pupil, eagerly teaching the tenets of the zhani from a new perspective. He’d given the pilot some lectures too. Now he wore a pair of heavy black goggles that covered his eyes in front and around the sides. They’d become popular among kids, or the knockoffs had. They called them Shadowlyss goggles and wore them as if their eyes had something to hide. Fortunately, that made them not too unusual a sight.
The group remained quiet as they travelled.
Talking voluntarily wasn’t in Liink’s nature. Being shy wasn’t honorable either. His father had counseled him to improve on this weakness, for honor was earned with words as often as with actions. Liink turned his lengthy neck, which ached from the blow he’d taken, and glanced toward the back of the file.
And then, for the sake of honor, he took a dare: “Abii, I have been contemplating.”
The Prophetess, between him and Abii, looked at him. Or maybe scowled, like she didn’t like hearing Abii’s miina name, or like she didn’t respect Liink. Of course, she still felt ill. Maybe it was just that. He thought he’d caught her sour glance in Building 13 too though.
“About what?” asked Abii.
Although Liink felt quite unsure, he spoke anyway, hoping to be commended. “That maybe we should go back for Lord Admiral Dray.”
The Prophetess replied, maybe with a hint of disdain—it certainly wasn’t honor: “Why do you keep calling Benton Abii?”
Liink had faced unearned spite from humans before, which justified his desire to stay quiet. It stung more coming from her though. “He was given that title of honor by my father.” Liink bowed his head, defeated. He wasn’t worthy of honor. Maybe he never would be.
The pilot chimed in, with what seemed like a dose of sympathy in his voice, speaking directly to Liink: “What does the title mean?”
“I think it’s a good suggestion,” interjected Abii, maybe not wanting to discuss his title’s meaning. “I’m not sure it’s feasible. Our plan to rescue Kalhette took millos and a lot of money to put in place. Just getting those IDs was… I couldn’t believe it.”
The group continued on in defeated silence.
The pilot walked sideways for a few steps as he pointed to Liink’s belt. “What’s that you got there?”
Liink’s hind legs were longest, and the place they met his spine was the highest point on his back. His chest split into two sets of shoulders, unlike a cramped human torso. His middle shoulders were broader and led to a strong set of arms. Above those were his smaller, more dexterous arms, and his spine bent down to meet them. This physiology tilted his back and head toward the ground, connecting him firmly to it. He wore a belt between his upper and lower arms, to which he’d clipped two weapons, both within easy reach of a cross-draw. One was a human pistol, but the question was about the other: “It’s a psykatana.”
“Show me.”
Liink looked curiously at the pilot. It felt strange to finally be speaking after keeping to themselves for so many cycles aboard the ship. He spoke in a lowly tone: “I can’t show you.”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t yet been gifted with fourth spectrum.” Surely the pilot knew that Abii and the Prophetess both carried similar blades and could readily show him.
“What’s that?”
“It means I don’t know how to turn it on.”
“So you carry a weapon you can’t use?”
“Reverence the light.” It was a stupid answer, too terse, as usual.
“Sorry, what?” The pilot’s friendliness seemed to be thinning.
“I carry this because it represents what we’re fighting for—light. It’s an emblem.”
“Oh. I see.”
Liink had a lot more to say on the topic. In the miina culture, being attuned to the Song was considered a divine gift. Some were destined to it and others weren’t—according to the will of the Kurosh. Abii had suggested a different paradigm: The Song deferred to choice, meaning the gods wanted individuals to learn by choosing. That meant one should study and master the nine spectra by his own initiative rather than simply waiting on the will of the gods. After hearing that, Liink decided that he carried the weapon as a means of practicing the Song. Yet for some reason, he felt content to keep all these thoughts to himself.
But that wasn’t honorable. To own and wield a hoard of words was honorable, so he decided to try again at striking up a conversation: “My father gave me my title too. Liink means ‘grateful for the child.’ Actually, it just means ‘grateful.’ The rest is implied.”
“I like it,” said the pilot.
As they walked, Liink’s six paws pressed into the dark charcoal soil of Toar. They were not so different from human hands. Each of his paws had three long fingers and a fourth that could twist into an opposing grip, and each of his twenty-four fingers had a retractable claw. He lifted one to scratch his neck, still proceeding on five legs, before he said, “I have seen that you guard your name, Pilot Skyreacher.”
“In my line of work, you have to.” He seemed done with the conversation.
Liink wanted to ask more, but he didn’t. It took such courage.
His long ears heard the footsteps of the Prophetess behind him, and he tried to sense an attitude in them. He didn’t just want to avoid her disdain: He wanted her respect. And that desperate hope convinced him to dare once more. He spoke timidly, curving his aching neck to see her behind him: “And you, my Prophetess. Do you have a miina name?”
She met his gaze for the shortest moment, then looked down, and said, “Not now.” With that, she stopped and waved for Abii to step ahead so she could walk at the back.
It stung.
He turned his cat-like face away.
He couldn’t even gain honor in a conversation.
No, she was sick. She’d been through horrible things in Building 13. Her attitude wasn’t personal. And yet, despite deciding this logically, the feeling was hard to ignore.
The pilot spoke in a gruff sort of upbeat tone, coming to the rescue while pretending not to have noticed anything wrong. “How old are you, Liink?”
“Sixteen percents.”
The pilot nodded, like it confirmed some suspicion. “And don’t miina live longer than humans?”
“Yes, if they die of natural causes. Lifespan is usually around a hundred and twenty-seven percents.”
“You’re lucky then.”
“Most miina don’t die of natural causes though.”
“Then how do they die?”
When Abii and the Prophetess began to talk quietly together, Liink felt safer, though still defeated. “Fighting against the PSD, fighting amongst the miina clans, fighting with the colonists.”
“You fight the colonists?”
“Historically, yes. Some think we should still be fighting them.”
“So why are you allies then?”
“I believe in the Prophetess. I believe we can change Solace forever and heal the conflict.”
Liink thought he heard her say something about him. His ear lifted, but when he glanced behind, her lips were still. Immediately his emotions assumed it had been another slight.
No, he needed to not let that spirit inside. He took a deep breath and exhaled, trying to release the feeling, to get it out of himself.
The pilot raised his skeptical eyebrows. “That kind of devotion seems… foolish, to be honest. You risk a lot on your faith in a human.”
“It is not a risk. In my culture, giving your life is considered an honor.”
“Why would that be an honor?”
“My people believe this life is a trial. Our light is being monitored by the Kurosh.”
“The Kurosh?”
“The gods. Have you heard of the Photoss?”
“They built my ship.”
“Yes. Well, the Kurosh created the Photoss.” Liink had become somewhat obsessed with studying these ancient beings. He loved it. In fact, when pursuing that, his need for honor simply vanished. It made him feel free. He felt like some vast, immortal secret lay undisclosed but within reach, perhaps in the very next scroll. Eventually he hoped to excavate one of their ancient cities, and that pursuit seemed to transcend honor. It seemed higher and purer.
“So you think they’re watching, waiting for us to die for one of their causes?”
Liink noticed he was starting to enjoy the conversation now. “For a good cause, yes.”
“Speaking as a friend, you should be careful who hears you say that—a lot of humans will think you’re crazy.”
“I know, but the number of people who believe a notion does not affect its truthfulness.”
“Why would the Photoss care what we do?”
“Not the Photoss. The Kurosh.”
“Okay. Why would they care though?”
“To see if we’ll create light and become worthy to join their ranks.”
“Their ranks?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” The pilot frowned.
“Even if you don’t believe, it shouldn’t affect your candidacy.” Liink wasn’t sure he should’ve said that.
The pilot gave a surprised look. “So you’re trying to live a good life, and maybe give your life, to prove yourself to these invisible beings?”
“Yes.”
The pilot glanced toward the back of the file. “Do Benton and Kalh believe in that?”
Liink nodded. “I would consider it an honor to convince you of our perspective.” And so would his clan. They loved seeing a human convinced of the rightness of the miina ways.
“You’re starting to sound like Benton. Don’t take it personally, but I’m a tough case.” The pilot turned his head to the side and gestured toward Abii—and his crusade. “How’d you get involved in all this anyway?”
“The Prophetess represents the colonists. My father represents the largest clan of miina. I am his youngest, most unnoticed son. I was sent to bring honor to my family.”
The pilot nodded again, this time with approval.
The sun made its dash for the horizon, and the light faded quickly. The rapidly changing light and the crawling shadows made Liink feel uneasy, and yet he felt some awe observing it too. The glow of starships appeared in the sky, descending toward and rising from the Citadel.
The Prophetess raised her voice from the back of the file: “How far are we from the Strand?”
The pilot shouted back: “We’re on the other side of the moon.” Before they’d left the ship, the pilot explained that Toar had upward of a thousand cities on its surface, so they wouldn’t need to worry about being recognized. Yet Liink still felt like his miina form might stand out enough to be a problem. It worried him. But he had to come along because the pilot didn’t trust him. Another strike against honor.
Liink lowered his voice addressing the pilot: “Earlier, I thought I heard you and Abii discussing our revolution—you do not believe in our cause?”
“It’s not that. I’ve just got my own cause.”
“What is it?”
“It’s difficult to describe.”
As they rounded the next rock formation, their destination came into view: the Citadel. From this distance, it looked like more rocks but with slightly less variation in their form. It stretched toward them, reaching with hovels and homes on the outskirts.
He still had a little time to convince the pilot. He seemed at least somewhat open. Maybe Liink could find some common ground to build upon. “What is something you believe in?”
The pilot shrugged. “That’s a big question.”
“In all your travels and in everything you’ve seen, did you never find pieces of religion you wished were true?”
“I’ll tell you what I believe: There’s something funny going on. No way this whole galaxy fell together like this by chance. But all this stuff about Photoss seems like guesswork, like a fun story someone made up. I don’t see why it should be any truer than any other story. Sorry for calling it like I see it.”
“I am honored to hear your thoughts.”
“So what I said makes sense?”
“Yes, but I still believe in the Song.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Perhaps if you did, you would believe in it too.”
“Maybe…” His tone was doubtful.
“The Song is all that is written,” said Liink. “It is everything that has happened, is happening, and will happen. It is everything that has changed or will change, and it is everything that will never change.”
“It sounds like you believe in everything.”
Convincing a human was never easy, and Liink seemed to be failing again. “I was quoting a verse.”
The pilot laughed. “Why don’t you tell me your thoughts?”
“Well…” began Liink, but he found himself speechless.
“Come on. Just shoot from the hip.”
“It’s… it’s a will. It desires things, just like you and I desire things.”
“So it’s a person?”
“I suppose. Or, at least, it includes a person. Or it’s like a person, with many cells working together. But it’s much bigger than our concept of a person too, I think.”
A nearby home was squat and round, with a primitive roof, bathed in the last rays of twilight, but what caught Liink’s attention was the human standing out front, staring at them, or staring at Liink.
“Okay,” said the pilot. “I’m following so far: a cosmic… uh… will.”
“It’s a force, like gravity, that draws all life together, just like we’re drawn to the ground right now. We’re all pieces of it, but if you summed all the life on every planet, the total would still just be a tiny molecule of the Song.”
“Okay. Bigger than us. That it?”
“The Song decides on outcomes.”
“Whoa. You’re saying it controls our choices?”
