Son of Time - Science Fiction Short Story

Roaming the Uncharted

Misuri was soon running through the withered, once ablaze forest around the marshes, a foul smell in the air. It had been set on fire in a desperate and final attempt to eradicate its dwellers, the Em-som Hakkart – the standing wolves, highly territorial breed. Cause, unwillingness to comply. Insurgency. Tamelessness. An Act drafted by the colonists had made it illegal to be so. Not that Em-som Hakkarts were anyone's friends. His presence must not be felt.

Bluish dark sky above, stars glimmering here and there, clock-brain prevalence inoperative.

Down a slope he struggled with sharp, protruding rocks, unstable pebble sediments, and a booming heart. He had to slow down, but couldn't afford to rest. At night, the risk was greater, for Omirions couldn't see in the dark, but the Em-som Hakkart could, and well. It was customary for them to roam wild races across their Helela'Ar to ensure no one ventured into it. The pile of rocks with standing branch-hands had been a clear indicator he was trespassing, and trespassing into a riddle and a maze, for this region wasn't called the Uncharted in vain: no one knew their way around, nor how many Sons of Fear had claimed it.

He reached a creek at the bottom of the slope and bent over, a rigid expression reflected back. Hand in a cup, he tasted, then drank thirstily, looking around, his hearing stretched and bent to compensate for poor nocturnal vision. Up he stood, feeling old in a place unwanted, then leapt over the water and in a few strides was on top of the high slope, running again, trees past trees past trees, over miles of barren, cold land, slopes and hillocks to all sides, trees bent and gnarled as if upon him.

Faintly he could hear the highway, a certain low swish from air propulsion. Would it keep going through the night to guide him from afar?

Stitches. Very cold sweat. He'd been running for hours and was out of breath. Leg muscles, fatigued. His heart condition had worsened. All medication was in a drawer back home, whatever that was anymore – most likely an overly-investigated, arid array of rooms where his kids' laughter would never sound again. Angry tears, jaw set, back leaned against a tree. Deep breath in. Again. Again. Chest lowered slowly. Misuri blinked, then listened keenly. Nothing but the wind.

Maybe if he walked for a while, he could recover some strength...

Clock-brain prevalence remained inactive despite all attempts, so he went cautiously onwards through the dark. A creak under his step – a whoosh – a lasso – and he was hanging upside down twenty feet above ground, the wind – not the wind: voices, wind-like voices talking amongst themselves.

"Ke-na'Na ri?"

Startled, he saw wind entities in the faint moonlight, climbing branches, approaching him.

"Ke-na'Na ri wa-ta?" they were asking.

Petrified, panicked, Misuri's eyes followed them each, all veil-like presences, breeze in their eyes. He tried to bend, grab his legs, loosen the grip. Pointless.

"Unanaa Em-som Hakkart."

Male voice. Dominant.

"I'm not an Em-som Hakkart," he retorted, hoping they could communicate. "I'm an Omirion."

A whirl of wind-voices rose through the air. Barely perceptible, he heard the name uttered again.

"Yes," he said, clock-eyes mechanism focusing to better grasp his interlocutors. "I'm a Son of Time. Omiran is my Maker."

"Omiran," murmured the wind; then, "You must keep silent."

All sounds ended. Hanging still, Misuri remained quiet. A growl, followed by calls. Em-som Hakkarts. Running feet, large strides by the sound of it. The leafless trees were dense, but were they dense enough? Another sequence of running feet. Pack's divided in regiments. Then in the distance sounded a thunderous howl, its echoes rippling through the branches. Voices. An incomprehensible tongue. Two-three distinct pitches: one commanding, one unintimidated, another more docile. Clear hierarchy. Another howl, longer. Set the hair on his skin on end. One, two, three... five... He counted seven, partially-overlapped responses from different places around him; then the regiments went off on their patrol.