Short Story: Infection

I just finished uploading my entry in Fictionate.me's second writing contest. This one is themed around worldbuilding. I absolutely encourage all of you here who write to enter! 

They extended the deadline to August 19th, and the entry is free! Check out the rules here: https://fictionate.me/p/worldbuilding-short-fiction-contest-july-2022 

Here's my entry, Infection (also posted below): https://fictionate.me/books/F3D76139-2F54-4CA8-8DB5-6E70935E864F You can vote on the story by clicking the heart icon and boost the visibility by leaving comments. Thanks for your support!

Sa’tiel tried to recall the last time she’d gazed upon the thrice moons without the haze of clouds blocking their beauty. Twelve seasons, at the least. The dense canopies of the Ngahere Thicket prevented any clear viewing of the evening sky.

If only her travels were destined for such ornamental ends.

She gingerly brushed the lining of her mask with her fingertips—a delicate contraption constructed with a frame of clear river water, fresh sprigs of grass, and the petals of a dozen recently bloomed flowers—and breathed deep. There was nostalgic comfort in the myriad scents.

One step forward. Another. The moonlit stone was ice cold against Sa’tiel’s bare feet, and she bunched a handful of her thin cloak at her throat. Seasonal elements had never affected her this way. Many droughted summers found her comfortably relaxing in a cool spring; winters thick with snow were spent lounging against the warm fur of the mighty raiona.

This bridge and the many designs of the Idegens rebelled against Aludra’s gentle nature.

Two more steps. A heavy sack swung at her side; the weight made worse by its contents. Tiny thrusts struggled against the thickly woven confines. The motions accompanied by an erratic, otherworldly groan—a pitiful mewling of dual voices.

Sa’tiel tightened her grip on the sack and steeled herself, searching for a new focus as she continued forward. Anything but the uncomfortable chill in her veins and what was inside that bag.

She’d nearly made it halfway across the platform—halfway to the Idegen Citadel. One of three bastions throughout Aludra. Marvels of Idegen technology that towered over their respective territories with impregnable walls and materials that mimicked the look and feel of stone. All uninvited guests were subject to fatal consequences should they test the citadels’ defenses.

A low, gurgling hymn rose from the pitch-black cavity beneath the bridge, overwhelming the whimpers from her burden. Even in the light of both suns, it was impossible to see the bottom of the canyon surrounding the enormous dwelling. Sa’tiel had witnessed many of her brethren step willingly over the bridge’s edge into the darkness; even still, the song was carried to her ears, lulling her fears. She shivered, and the alluring melody shivered with her.

Her steps faltered to the side, leading her closer to the platform’s edge. The voices struck notes that resonated with her deepest desires: the warmth of the sun on her skin, the songs of birds in the trees, Zæle’s strong embrace. All of them hers, should she join their ranks—

Brilliant white light washed over her petite form, flooding the dark threads of her cloak and exposing her face to the moons. With one hand, she shaded her eyes and looked up. She blinked, the siren call of those who dwelled below evaporating. Flickering stars in an array of colors blinked at her in return, and a long-abandoned memory resurfaced.

Not stars. Electricity. Watchers.

The chill disappeared in ten heartbeats, and the bundle at her side stilled.

State your name and species. The words formed in her mind, adjusting tone and nuance to fit Sa’tiel’s mother tongue—an Idegen advancement that perplexed citizens native to Aludra.

Sa’tiel inhaled, inviting the sweet floral scent of her mask to the front of her mind. Slowly, the anxious knots in her stomach loosed. One more breath and she formed the shape of her reply.

Sa’tiel. Nymph.

There was a pause, as if the watcher above was taking careful measure of her statement. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other and wondered if she appeared as little more than a speck of dust to the watcher overhead. At last came a slow response. What is your business?

The bag stirred and lurched. She concealed it beneath her cloak. I need to speak with Pacome Sarki.

Do you have an appointed time?

She tightened her grip on the sack and took another deep breath. Behind her, a swell of gryphons took flight from the Entabeni Mountains. Their powerful wing beats mimicked the pounding of her heart. No.

Then let us choose one now.

She frowned. I choose immediately.

A brief silence, then, That is impossible. The Sarki will not be available for three days.

Sa’tiel ground her teeth. She’d spent four days making this journey, and they were running out of time. This cannot wait for three days. I must meet him now.

Sa’tiel, I insist you turn back to await your appointed time. Unless, of course, you wish to join the hymn.

The light flickered and her heart skipped. She thrust the bag forward, free from the protection of her cloak, and inviting the bright light to review its contents. Pacome Sarki and his court are in danger. I must see them immediately.

The watcher’s unsettling silence sped her heart. Should they forbid her entry, it was simple enough to turn her to ash with their terrifying powers or remove the light and let the pit take her. But she had to try. For Aludra’s sake, she had to stand firm.

You may enter the citadel. Do not step outside the light.

The watcher’s light was a paradox of danger and safety; protecting her from the demonic hymn below while revealing her to all within the dwelling. After tucking the sack beneath her cloak, Sa’tiel moved to the center of the spotlight and matched the pace of her steps with the sliding glow.

Her breath caught as she stepped from the stone overpass to the gardens leading to the castle gates. Here, the flowers and foliage were confined to glass prisons, cropped and groomed to Idegen desires at whim. She clutched at her chest and closed her eyes. There was nothing more she could do to prepare herself for the debilitating sensation of losing her connection with Ngahere. The comforting hum of the thicket’s hundreds of ecosystems was replaced with stretching stillness. Her heart ached with the aromatic gasps from her mask, yearning for the familiar cradle of home.

You tolerated this feeling for years, a voice of reason gently reminded her. Endure it for a little longer.

The bastion’s gates had opened beyond her notice. She wiped the gathering tears from her eyes and passed through the yawning opening.

Her eyes adjusted. First to the darkness left behind by the spotlight’s absence, then to the glimmering Idegen beings moving about the great hall. Sa’tiel shared their general silhouette—two eyes, a nose, a mouth, a curved spine—but that was where the comparisons ceased. The Idegens boasted slender forms one to two heads taller, with two sets of arms and shining eyes. Thin, iridescent rivers cut through their flesh from shoulder to cloven feet.

One custom shared by the natives of Aludra and the Idegens was the lack of clothing. Where Sa’tiel and her kin saw it as frivolous, Idegen machines reacted to the flesh of their bodies; coverings hampered the connection. When touching an Idegen creation—the watcher’s ships, for example—the narrow lines in their skin grew to an intense radiance, like beings of pure light.

As Sa’tiel quietly maneuvered through the room, the skin beneath her cloak prickled and itched, irritated by the sudden exposure to foreign materials. How did I ever grow used to this?

A tall Idegen worked his way through the crowd, a delicate crown of golden, twisted vines denoting his rank. Beside him, a hairless, four-legged creature with a feline structure that reminded Sa’tiel of the powerful raiona padded along the slick flooring. Its spiked tail whipped back and forth, clearing the path of those who moved too slowly for his companion’s liking. Isilo. She tugged the beast’s name from the depths of her memory.

Sa’tiel stopped and steeled herself, her grip on the bag tightening, and waited.

“Zæle Amiir. Peaceful tidings,” she greeted him once he was within earshot. Greeting him alongside his title felt strange—hadn’t they forgone such graces not so long ago?

“What are you doing here?” Zæle snapped. Sensing his rage, a deep growl rumbled in Isilo’s throat.

“There is something that you and the Sarki must see,” she replied curtly, gesturing to the bag.

He looked from her hand to her face, his eyes widening a fraction. “Will it make me regret letting you go?”

So desperately did she wish a modicum of care behind his words. No. What she’d brought forth would make him regret letting her leave alive. “Possibly.”

Zæle snarled, baring his sharp black teeth. The lines on his sculpted body shone red. “Then turn around and leave, Sa’tiel.”

She flinched. “I cannot.”

“You are a fool—”

She brushed past him and continued forward. Eavesdroppers nearby whispered the first seeds of rumors, glancing between the seemingly stoic nymph and furious Amiir.

Pacome Sarki was in the midst of reserved talks with a circle of high-ranking Idegens when she approached. Long strings of silver dangled from their ears to their shoulders, designating their place as the Sarki’s confidants. Two glanced over their shoulders at the sound of her footfalls, their features cross with the interruption.

“Please, let her pass,” Pacome Sarki said. “We will resume soon.”

The circle bowed, then dissolved, making way for Sa’tiel to stand before the throne. The grand seat was crafted to react with the powered lines in Pacome’s flesh, making him the brightest object in the room. She bowed and squinted her eyes. It was like staring into both suns at once.

The Sarki stood, and the glow from his body and the chair receded. He gestured for Sa’tiel to stand tall. She blinked away the white spots in her vision and was greeted by the true form of the Idegen leader. He stood straight-backed with his shoulders square, peering down at her from a dais. A gold crown like Zæle’s circled his head, but his was adorned with a single clear gem at the center. Resting all four hands at his center, he said, “My watcher tells me you bring an unidentified species.”

A wry smile twitched at the edges of Sa’tiel’s lips. She was glad for the mask. “I suppose.”

“Father, this nymph doesn’t know what she says,” Zæle interjected.

Pacome Sarki smiled. “Was this not the creature you fostered not so long ago?” He blinked, the pupils in his golden eyes narrowing to slits. “Why speak of her so poorly now?”

Before Zæle could respond, Sa’tiel took the bag in both hands and spilled its contents on the floor.

A writhing mass of flailing arms and cloven feet squirmed against the slick floor. Sharp black teeth clenched and unclenched in its gaping maw, and the narrow lines etched into its body constantly shifted color. It hadn’t learned to walk on its unsteady legs, instead slithering in an awkward pile of limbs toward Zæle, snapping at Isilo’s feet. The guards flanking Pacome’s throne darted forward, weapons at the ready, but Zæle caught it by the hair, yanking it from the floor and narrowly avoiding a gruesome bite.

The creature screamed. The colored contours on its body blazed with the same intensity as the Sarki’s throne, and every piece of technology built to respond to the Idegen’s bodies glowed with it. The room vanished in a flash of white, leaving only the stunned shouts of Pacome’s court in Sa’tiel’s ears.

Zæle snatched the bag from Sa’tiel’s hands and shoved the wailing beast back inside. Despite the continued cries from the sack, the lights dimmed, and Sa’tiel slowly refocused on the beings in front of her with every blink.

“What…is that?” Pacome Sarki’s kind disposition was marred only by a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.

Sa’tiel inhaled the comfort of her mask before she replied. “It is a piece of Zæle and my offspring.”

“That’s impossible. You are not genetically compatible,” Pacome Sarki replied.

Sa’tiel had expected them to use complicated terms and phrases unfamiliar to her, as frustrating as it was. “In whatever words you’d like to use, Zæle impregnated me.” She clenched her hands into fists. “He infected me.”

Zæle stared for a long time at the squirming bag, then looked at Sa’tiel. “What did you mean by a piece?”

“Like the branches of a tree, this is one of many. When our—” She struggled to find the word. This was far beyond what nature intended. “When our daughter was born, she could do the same things within Ngahere Thicket that I can. She knows the languages of all species. She has the influence to make flowers, trees, and plants grow. She can breathe under water. But she also is unaffected by your technology and has more than once called out to a watcher, where it fell to its death.”

Pacome Sarki remained silent, but a gleam in his eyes betrayed that he knew which watchers Sa’tiel was referring to.

“This is our daughter?” Zæle asked with a shake of the bag.

“No. That—” She struggled to explain it in terms they would understand. “That is like an acorn from a great oak tree.”

“She’s making them on her own?” Pacome Sarki mused.

“Yes.”

“And these…seeds, they replicate your capabilities?” the Sarki pressed.

Sa’tiel glanced uneasily at the sack. “And yours.”

“How quickly do they grow?”

“There are at least one to two new ones every day. They’re taking control of the forest, and they’re coming to do the same to your citadels.”

“What does she plan to do once she reaches them?” Pacome Sarki asked.

Sa’tiel shook her head. “I do not know. If it’s anything like Ngahere, she wants to shape it to her liking. Every creature, cloud, and tree is in her grasp. Nature cannot exist without her permission.”

“Fascinating,” the Sarki whispered, descending the dais to stand beside Zæle. “Absolutely fascinating. This impossible offspring calls to our technology, and the machines respond without needing physical touch.”

“Father—” Zæle began but was silenced by Pacome’s raised hand.

“Your daughter has advanced our technology by hundreds—if not thousands—of years, Zæle. This could be the link between our world and Aludra that we’ve wanted for so long.”

Sa’tiel stepped back. The wonderment in his voice disturbed her, and the gentle way he caressed the bag perplexed her. “She will destroy everything we know,” she murmured.

“Perhaps not with the correct guidance.” Pacome took the sack from Zæle and gently cradled it. “Besides, we can try again with a sibling.” He gestured to the guards at his sides.

“Pacome Sarki!” Sa’tiel shrieked as four hands bound her arms at her sides.

“You’re making a mistake!” Zæle barked, storming toward the Sarki “Let her go.”

Pacome turned to his second guard and pointed at his son. “We’ll require him as well.”

“You’re mad!”

The guard was no kinder to the Amiir. He cast aside his weapon and wrestled Zæle’s arms into submission.

Isilo crouched, poising to leap at the guard holding Zæle. Pacome clicked his tongue and rested a hand on her head. “Submit.”

The beast relaxed, lying flat on the ground with a resigned purr.

“Pacome—” Sa’tiel’s scream was cut short when Pacome ripped the mask from her face. It spilled to the floor in a puddle of grass and petals. She choked on the metal-tinged air, her chest tightening with violent hacks.

“You should become accustomed to the Citadel again, Sa’tiel.” The Sarki chuckled. “Today, Aludra and the Idegens become one.”