Son of Time - Science Fiction Short Story

New Signs of Trouble

A Darhol – half amphibian, pale blue skin, eyes light, a treacherous smile – stood behind him. A look of surprise. "Oh, my, might you be-?" The Darhol paused mid-sentence, then hurried closer. "Race Champion? 1795.2, .3, and .4." Broad smile on thin, long lips; eyes flickering. "I'll never forget you run past Gala Amirion in the nick of t – what am I saying?" An apologetic laughter. "A Son of Time must always be on time." His long arm reached for Misuri's shoulder, the strong, three-digit hand squeezing gently. "You must give me the honor of a long chat in the cafeteria of this... poor village station." Gesturing in the air, he cordially pointed to the glass-enclosed hall.

"Thank you, but I must decline." Misuri made for the door.

The Darhol whirled and stood in the way out. "You must forgive me for insisting." A smile. "It's a rare honor, indeed. What must I do to make you oblige? Anything?"

Misuri didn't like the sound of it. "I'm in a bit of a rush. Now, if you'll excuse me."

In vain. The Darhol'd planted himself in the doorway. "I don't easily accept a no."

"I can see."

"My way or my way." A gross smile.

"No," said Misuri on a firmer tone. He mustn't draw attention upon himself, nor annoy the Darhol, for he might report the encounter to the authorities. "I'm leaving."

"Any chance I might accompany you, talk for a while? My way, modestly accommodated around your sovereign and supreme way?"

"I'm on a pilgrimage. Sorry, no company allowed."

The Darhol seemed stunned. "Pilgrimage?" he muttered quietly.

Misuri nodded. "To find myself in the midst of all selves in ClockWorld."

Now he was sure the Darhol would report him, but couldn't waste a moment more. Tarla counted on him.

"A pilgrimage through the village of Ímhala?" A grimace.

"It's always the simple that eludes us." Misuri slipped out.

The Darhol stood petrified to a side of the entrance, no smile upon his lips. Now he was dangerous.

Hastening off into the night, Misuri felt suddenly dizzy and fell to his knees. Two energy bands, like two arrows shot in parallel and opposite directions, were zooming past his ears. A stretch in his chest. Alarms. You are sentenced to life imprisonment. Metallic sound. You're beautiful. Sour taste in mouth. Run! The voices trailed off. Like a string vibrating, sounds fused and echoed on.

"Tarla," he heard himself say, and drew a deeper breath. His face was in the dusty road. "My dear." Barely a whisper.

He stood up. What'd happened? It took him a while to regroup, feeling as though all the parts that made him had long been scattered away from him.

I choose to reintegrate all that I am back into myself and to leave out all that is not my real nature.

What were these words crossing his mind? Whence did they come from?

Your actions contradict your choice, came Omiran's thought. Leave behind what you are not.

What am I not?

That which no longer serves you.

The Darhol was standing on the step outside the station, watching keenly. Misuri caught his gaze. The humanoid amphibian approached.

I am not fear.

Then do not run.

A steady energy flow into Misuri.

I am Time.

Then you know what to do.

"Troubled, are you?" asked the Darhol.

I'm not trouble. Clear, resolute gaze. He wasn't sure what to do yet. I'm clarity. I'm what I choose to be. He shook the Darhol's hand. "I left without saying farewell." No smile on the Darhol's face, but Misuri was growing confident. I won't fear you, Son of Ettí, the half sea-cat. I'm not fear, thus it's insane to act fearfully.

"Sir, you must allow the Council Doctors to assist you through this stage."

"My healing runs deep within my being," answered Misuri. "I no longer fear."

"I place myself as your provisory guardian, until better-qualified assistance is reached."

A momentary silence. No fear in Misuri's eyes indeed. "Not necessary, sir. I'm quite well. Now, if you'll excuse me."

He turned. The Darhol seized his arm.

Act calmly.

Eye in eye, Misuri said, "You're attempting to hold a Race Delegate against his will, which is punishable with incarceration. I'm fully aware of my being and may choose to spend my time as I please, a right granted to me by the Unified Law of ClockWorld Races."

Still not letting go, the Darhol loosened his grip.

"I request you no longer seize me, so I may be on my way."

Clear, unwavering tone.

The Darhol loosened his grip, letting Misuri go. "My apologies. Your behavior's deceived me into thinking you required medical assistance."

"I do not. Farewell."

"Farewell." I must call the authorities.

Do so.

He'd guessed the Darhol's intention, but didn't fear it. He had a greater guide, teaching him to no longer behave contrary to what he was. And he was not a Son of Fear: he was a Son of Time. Turning, he bolted into the night. No stitches in his side. No worries or pain. He was a Son of Time, hence part of the eternal, uplifted and drawn through spacetime at astronomical speed by a strength not his own.

The village Ímhala was small, thus quickly left behind. Speed, increased. No pain.

I will save Tarla.