Chapter One: Outlook

He strode purposefully through the cobbled streets of Havectaat sol Ropaek, an unexpected wind making clutch his long, brown trench-coat even tighter against his chest. With the setting of the second sun, the next few hours would see the temperature plummet well below the freezing point of water. Soon, the city streets would be deserted.

As he turned to walk down an alleyway, the sudden warming glow of hundreds of ornate purple and golden lanterns made him smile wistfully. Suspended by wires across the streets or hanging alongside houses, it mattered not where they were; the sight was truly beautiful. They swayed gently in the evening breezesf; flickering as each flame trembled and shimmered gently in time to the distant melody of the festival performers.

Up ahead, Ropaek Square still bustled with activity. A crowd had gathered around the centre of the large open area; from their dress, he judged them all to be local residents who had braved the cold to enjoy the celebrations. Atop a pole decorated lavishly with garlands and baubles of festive colours, a Baurrikan piper stood, perched precariously above the crowd as he played the traditional tunes. A tambourist and a pan-player (both of them Chorman) stood around the pole, their faces covered by highly decorated masks, as they accompanied the piper. Painted dancers whirled and spun to the rhythm, mingling amongst the crowd, spreading small trinkets and sweets to the children. The youngest ones squealed with glee as they playfully fled from the performers – their laughter eventually turning to shrieking yelps of dismay whenever they were apprehended by their parents.

He paused for a moment, leaning against a lightpost near the outer edged of the square to watch the display. He had come to know so many of them – personally and professionally, he reflected; although he doubted they could ever realise just how large a part they had come to play in his life. Throughout the years, they had served as his extended family; a comforting constant in comparison to the ever-changing environment of fleet service. He had spent the majority of his shore leaves in the city; so many so, that it felt almost natural to, for instance, simply sit by the fountains in the streets and converse with the baker, or walk along the river bank to the south in the morning mist. So often, he would catch himself forgetting his identity, his true self, until the stars would call him out from his dreams. He would become restless with longing to ascend once more to the cosmos. Louise had always understood.

He left his position at the post, distancing himself from the square as he continued to his destination: the large cathedral on the outskirts of the court. It towered above the buildings of the area; an impressive (if not somewhat intimidating) testament to the Karthijk faith. Approaching the large, cracking double-hinged doors of the behemoth, he let his fingers stray on the surface of the wood for a moment before knocking on its coarse, weathered surface. He stood, straightening his coat and tugging at the brim of his cap as he waited for any sign of a response. A full five minutes would come to pass; his polite yet increasingly urgent rapping eliciting naught but feelings of frustration on his part, and a fist-full of rather sore knuckles.

Sighing, he let both hands fall heavily against one of the large, metal ring-like handles of the doors. Refusing to wait any longer, he decided to risk the anger of the residing Holy Fathers and enter without an attendant escort. His hands still resting lightly on the cold chipped metal handles, he slowly curled each digit around the ring until he held it firmly in his hands. He pulled forcefully, expecting some resistance. Like many of the older entranceways in the aged city, the Church doors often became difficult to open during the colder seasons.

Despite his actions, the doors remained firmly shut. A howling gust buffeted his form as if to mock his pitiable attempts. Concentrating, he renewed his efforts, causing the ancient wood to moan and creak in protest of his actions. The door grating and scraping unpleasantly against its stone frame, he barely managed to pry an opening large enough for him to fit through. He entered quickly, without crushing his ribs, half-stumbling into the darkness.

The door shut almost immediately, clipping at his heels. His first tentative footsteps into the reception echoed like the thunderous clopping of the great hoofed carriage beasts; such were the acoustics of the structure. Or perhaps it was just his own heart, pounding in his ears.

It took a few moments for his eyes to adjust to the dimness of his surroundings.

The main public chamber of worship was deserted. Guiding himself by the faint flames of the candles which hung from the ceiling, he sidled through the rows of benches to the far corner.

He sat, silent and unnoticed in the pews of the far corner of the cathedral for quite some time. He became lost, somewhere deep within the now unhurried and abstract thoughts of his consciousness. Inhaling deeply, he allowed the smoky, herb-and-spice incense snaking lazily from the many censers in the Church wind through his senses as he sought to tune out his surroundings. He let himself to wander aimlessly without sense of direction through his mind as fought to not think about the significance of the day, but instead to simply observe.

The sunlight streamed brilliantly through the large stained-glass window behind the altar, engulfing the cathedral in soft, flickering amber tones. They seemingly danced and flitted through the hazy atmosphere of the Church; a thousand tiny lantern-carriers riding gaily on the wind’s back as they tumbled from wall to wall. Through the panes, the sun blazed fiercely as it began to dip behind the great, gothic pipe-organ. It stood, impressively silhouetted against the sunlight, a testament of skill to those who had crafted it. Its aged, twisted metal cast the room in mysterious, twisting shadows.

As his eyes traced the sharp, imposing shapes of the instrument, he was struck by the intense contrast of pure light and shadow. It was as if Kaesra herself were dying with the setting of the sun, he thought; flaring her wings in a blazing corona of potent reds, blinding whites, electric yellows and creamy oranges; one final act of defiance blasting at her fate. He envisioned her fabled struggle as she was forcibly ripped from the sky by the curling, smoky claws of the night. Her spirit broken, she would surrender to Casseil of the underworld, and fall blissfully into the shadows. How glorious it would feel to give in; to welcome the silent embrace of dusk.

He mentally chided himself for entertaining such improper, pagan thoughts inside a house of God. However, like Kaesra, he too could no longer delay the inevitable. His sunset, to extend the metaphor, had come.

The faint creaking of a distant door did not register in his ears.

The increasingly common occurrence of such hauntingly elegiac internal dialogues had left him somewhat distraught of late. In the far corners of his mind, he battled with indecision over whether or not they should prove reason for alarm. He had never been a fervent follower of the Karthijk dogma, his right fringes reasoned. His one true faith and loyalty was to the Empire and the IMRF, its future and its principles. He was foolish to harbour such inappropriate feelings of guilt. But was he truly not Karthijk? His left fringes interjected. A commanding, yet gentle voice stirred him from his reverie, disallowing any further exploration of his ever digressive tangents of thinking.

“Your thoughts distracted, my son”

“Father Lantross,” he said, rising from his seat as the older man approached him. “I do not mean to be discourteous, but… I was not expecting you”

The holy man drew a thin smile, his face crinkling openly. The various lines traversing his papery skin deepened from the motion, as if it were a gesture his features were more than familiar with. He clasped his hands to the front of his long, white and gold cassock as he examined the man who stood before him.

He was a Chorman of a somewhat imposing stature (were he to guess, he would have placed him at roughly six feet in height). His skin was of an evenly pale complexion, its fairness a sharp contrast to the thick, black hair that grew almost wildly from his head, framing his ears in shorter, dark spurts. His golden eyes stared directly into those of the priest; steely, sharp, yet reserved. He wore a thick, heavy, brown trench coat which draped squarely from his broad shoulders almost to the tiled marble floor. Beneath the obscuring coarse material peeped fitted white trousers which had been tucked neatly into a pair of knee-high, well-polished black boots. From his groom, he reasoned that this man was probably from one of the Imperial Force divisions. An impulsive flare of anger suddenly surged through him.

“Curious” he mused quietly, his practiced face managing to display a convincing look of deep thought. His smile returned suddenly as he addressed his odd guest. “Garesh, child of Bitenja” he said, his steps echoing in the carved ceiling of the Church as he slowly advanced. “There are few who attend Church at such holy times without reason.” He paused, his tone slightly inquisitive. “Pray tell, whom were you expecting?”

The man smiled tightly, inwardly grimacing at having been identified and classed by his accent alone, yet not wishing to insult a man of the Church. “Forgive me Father, for my intrusion this hour. I wish to speak with Kren Aurelian before nightfall.”

Father Lantross stood silently, the smile having slipped from his face as his words left his mouth. He stared downwards at his feet, as if contemplating a response appropriate for a man of his position. As he spoke, the man noted that his voice had adopted a bitter, scathing undertone that had not been absent from his earlier phrases.

“You are a Karthijk man, are you not, my son?” he asked, his face still lowered as if he sought patience from the cold, marble tiles beneath his feet.

“I am” he replied evenly, not knowing to where this conversation was being directed. The Father slowly raised his head to meet the eyes of the man in front of him, his lips drawn into a tight, thin smile.

“Then you must know that our Kren is engaged in Klaren-maasra,” he replied, “and must not be disturbed if he is to experience enlightenment”

The man bowed his head in a gesture of respect, yet did not surrender his efforts.

“Father, I was not aware that Kren Aurelian was occupied. However, I must insist my confidence that he will see me.” Feeling emboldened, he made as if to move past the cleric. He stopped mid-step, a hand gripping his shoulder tightly. That a minister (and an older one at that) possessed such speed and strength surprised him. He had hardly blinked, and yet, somehow, the elder man now stood before him, his fingers dimpling the fabric of his coat, his knuckles white. His large, belled sleeves, pushed further up his bony arm to his elbow, exposed years of ritual scars on his near-translucent skin. A wooden Gkhaaczfejlt spun slowly, dangling from his wrist by a hair-thin faerie-chain of golden metal.

“You,” he began, “will not disturb a divine experience.” Though simple, the carried intensity of his words rendered his voice hoarse and raspy. “I cannot allow it. God cannot allow it!”

“Sir I–”

“How dare you!” he screeched suddenly, shaking with a frightening rage. “How dare you address me as a common “Sir”!” He took another unsteady step forwards, stumbling slightly before regaining his balance. “Such impudence is damnable!” He noticed that the Father had begun to sweat rather heavily. His breathing had become laboured and drawn out. Beads of moisture pearled on his brow as a strange, mangled sound escaped his throat. A trembling hand extended, quivering as it rose as if to strike the face of the military man.

“Stand down, Nicolai!”

Further down a corridor to the right of them, a smaller, stout man in white and gold robes shuffled furiously towards them. The sudden voice caused the Father’s head to snap to the side. Seeing a chance to act, and in a move befitting of his captaincy, he quickly grabbed the man’s arms, twisting them behind his back as he struggled and thrashed like a captured waterfowl.

“Hold him steady” said the smaller man, as he pressed a loaded drugspray to his neck. A small hiss was heard as the sedative was released. With the drug in his system obviously having an effect, his jerking movements slowed gradually until he quietly stilled. He held the limp man, cradling him uncomfortably against his frame to keep him from collapsing onto the floor.

“Thank you,” he said, hurriedly stowing the ’spray in a pouchlet hanging from his belt as he shuffled towards the corridor from whence he came.

“Please,” he said urgently, “Can you bring him this way?”
Transporting the man as delicately as possible, the captain followed the stout Father down the corridor.

“Mind your head,” he said, opening the smaller door at the end of the hall to reveal a rather spacious stairway.

They emerged a few moments later on the second floor. This was indeed a different section of the Church; some sort of attic-hall, he guessed. It was much, much larger than the worship-chamber below.

The floor was crowded with makeshift cots and pallets; almost every bed occupied by a sweating, feverish being. Some were conscious, struggling against their restrictive straps which held them to their beds. Others slept, unable to hear the moans and whimpers that echoed in the rafters above them. A man in white and blue (a doctor, he presumed) stood in the far corner, talking to the Kren.

“Put him down, o’ there,” said the chubby man, gesturing to one of the free beds a few feet away before scurrying off to the other two men. Gently, he lowered the unconscious body of Father Lantross onto the empty mattress. He studied the man’s face. An abrupt rough throat-clearing caused him to look up into the sombre face of the doctor.

“I believe introductions are in order,” he said. His voice was dry and abrasive, suiting his thick, bushy eyebrows and long, wiry beard perfectly. He extended a rough, calloused hand. “Dr. C. L. Charcot. I was called to oversee the treatment of the patients within these…” he looked around, “…facilities.”

“Captain R. Faulkner, IMDRF” he said, standing to shake broad hand of the doctor.

“I don’t know why you’re here, Mr. Faulkner,” he began, “but I’m afraid you’ve come at a bad time.” He bent down over the now waking Father. From his jacket, he produced a white linen square, which he then used to dry the sweaty face of the bleary-eyed man.

“You’re from the Vital?” he asked, surprised to see the logo on the handkerchief. “This is quite a ways out for you, then.”

“I have clearance, Captain,” he replied, his frustration fairly obvious. “Transports aren’t just a privilege reserved for the military.” He returned the cloth to his jacket.

“Naturally.”

“Mind you, though,” he continued, “I’m one of the few to actually have it, and that’s because of the Imperial Medical Association. I’m doing call-rounds province-wide; six days a week, ten hours a day.”

“It’s less costly to encrypt one pattern–”

“–than to encrypt twelve. Exactly.” He wiped his brow on his sleeve, picking up a small medical sack off of the floor with his free hand.

“Have you many other stops to make today?”

“This is my last. I was just leaving, actually. It’s been so busy… I’m three hours over my allotted time now.”

“Doctor Charcot – Doctor Charcot! Please – please wait,” came an urgent voice. Both men turned their heads to see the Kren hurrying towards them, almost stumbling over his dress garb. “Isn’t there anything else that can be done?” The doctor hesitated, clearly thinking about his response.

“Kren Aurelian; their minds are deteriorating. I’ve done all that medically can be done.”

“But Doctor, certainly–”

“Certainly what?” He sighed, walking towards the stairs. “I’ve already gone over the time I’ve been scheduled for this call. I’ve given you four extra cots, twelve new restraining beds, and I’ve exhausted my stock of benzodiazepines.” He paused. “Have your staff follow the directions I’ve left with them, and I’ll see you in four days.”

The old Kren sighed, his head and shoulders sagging. Some time passed before the Captain broke the silence.

“I suppose this isn’t really the best time, is it?”

The older man turned around, apparently having forgotten he was not alone. His face broke into a warm smile upon seeing the man who had spoken.

“Robert,” he said, blinking. “Garesh.” He shuffled closer. “You are a sight for sore eyes. Why, I had almost forgotten you were coming today.”

“After all you’ve done for Louise and I, I could hardly leave without a proper goodbye. We will miss you so very much.”

“She knows of my retirement?”

“I haven’t told her.” And he hadn’t. He had kept trying to find an appropriate time, but it never seemed to happen. “I hope you realise she will feel lost after you’ve ascended.”

“At first, perhaps. But she is a smart girl. She will understand that it is God’s will that I ascend.” He paused. “If we put our faith in Him, He will guide us through our most frightening times.”

“Has a date been finalised?” he asked. A pause, and then:

“I had planned to go ahead with schedule and have the ceremony take place in two weeks today. But with Nicolai ill, I may have to post-pone the date.” He sighed. “As if things weren’t complicated enough around here.”

“So I see,” he replied, looking around the room. “What do they have?”

He shrugged. “From what I’ve seen, the symptoms are all similar to rage; aches, fever, sweating, and delusions. And they all have bite markings somewhere on their bodies.”

“It’s probably some beast running around the town at night biting people.”

“Usually, though, a sedative administered twice daily takes care of it.”

“Usually?”

“I just don’t know. It seems that they’re developing a resistance to the drugs I’ve been giving them.” He sighed again. “The Doctor said that if I can’t keep them under control, they have to be put out so that they don’t pose a threat to the community.”

“I hope they catch whatever is spreading this… disease… before more people are affected.”

“I haven’t seen any new cases in twelve days.” He mumbled, walking over to a bench to sit.

“Surely they’ll catch whatever is causing this.” he said, sitting beside the Kren.

“Nicolai was bitten in the shoulder by a patient whilst we were trying to restrain her.” He spoke softly, almost as if here were afraid of being overheard. He suddenly looked at the Captain, his eyes saucer-wide and filled with turbulent emotions. “I hope and pray that this is not a Divine Punishment for letting Tyrrs settle here in Havectaat sol Ropaek.”

Captain Faulkner remained quiet, whatever thoughts he had on the matter remaining unspoken. He did not wish to begin an argument with the troubled old man on the last day he would ever see him.

Eventually, after a few more moments of silence, they exchanged farewells; a few minutes after that, Captain Faulkner found himself once more walking down the cobbled streets of Havectaat sol Ropaek. He checked his chronometer as he began the long, wind-blasted run to the transport terminal.

Unknowingly, a pair of glittering eyes followed his movements as he passed through the square.

Author’s note

Gkhfaaczfejlt – think of this as the equivalent of a crucifix. Basically, it’s a religious symbol.

Baurrikan/Ossxunai ≠ Nkathian ≠ Boshiac/Leshiac ≠ Tyrran/Chorman. These are genetically different species, referred to as races. However, Baurrikan/Ossxunai and Tyrran/Chorman are considered different races (socially) as well, even though fertile children can be produced between the pairs. The Boshiac/Leshiac are a species with a host/parasite relationship.

Please note that the characters in this fiction are not speaking English. The standard language of this fiction’s universe is Baurrikan unless stated otherwise. Because of this, you may see foreign words (i.e. I’ve made them up) that are used in normal conversation.

Hope you liked it! Feedback would be greatly appreciated.