Writing Samples

My body hurts. I just lie there, shield tied to my off-hand, sword lying a few meters away, as I stare up into space. This rock that I’m on, no one cares about it. The fight is out there, on the ships floating across the void. Painted against the backdrop of space, I can barely see them. Flashes of light signal close-quarters fire from ships or mages, but I’m far enough away that I can’t really see individual soldiers. My suit’s indicators blink in my peripheral vision, warning me of “suit power at blah blah percent” or “suit integrity compromised at blah, blah, and blah.”

It won’t matter, I’m out of the fight. As soon as I got thrown far enough out that my suit couldn’t hook into the ship’s gravity any more, it was over. I’m lucky I even landed on something this close. I had to use my emergency suit jets, so one of those indicators I’m ignoring is probably something to do with that too.

Wait, is that… What is that? A streak of fire crosses the sky. It’s really close. Another streak joins it, then a third. They’re extremely close, far outside of the battle space.

I finally stand, my muscles protesting against the strain, and use my visor magnification to zoom in on the spots of light. Three ships; three Ungoli droppers; coming this way.

Am I really worth that much dead? I guess the queen’s brother is worth a lot dead. Why are they sending so many troops? Couldn’t they just hit me with a ship’s gun?

The realization dawns and my stomach turns. They don’t want me dead, they want me alive.

Deny your enemy any advantage. They won’t take a political prisoner today. I walk over and grip my sword, its power indicator appearing at the edge of my visor as I grab the hilt. Barely any charge left, and no mage in sight on this barren asteroid to charge it. I’ll just have to rely on old-fashioned arm strength. I move through a few sword-patterns, testing the way it moves in the micro-gravity of the asteroid that my suit is amplifying. After a moment, I survey the rocky landscape and select a hill to stand on.

Three impacts shake the ground, and I turn around. The droppers have touched down hard in typical Ungoli fashion, sending out clouds of pebbles stirred up by the landing and by the air jets aimed at the ground just to make the dust swirl more dramatically and obscure the exits of the ships. Ungoli begin to burst from the cloud of dust, charging toward me.

The initial wave are those skinny ones, long-limbed half-breeds scrabbling at the dirt. They crawl across the surface of the rock, galloping toward me quadrupedal, weapons clipped to their backs. Behind them, the true Ungoli appear through the swirling dust, hulking creatures in their horned helms wielding warhammers, waiting for the chaff to tire me out so they can sweep in and take me.

 I twist the pommel gem to ignite my sword, gripping the handle of my shield so the golden sun on its front shines in their evil faces. My sword sparks, then goes dark. The old fashioned way it is then.

The Ungoli can’t hear me through the void of space, so I don’t bother to speak. I don’t bother to spout the normal warcries, “for the queen!” “Death to usurpers!” “For house Narinna!”

Only ghosts listen in the void. I make my final prayer and raise my sword as they begin to draw their weapons, near enough for me to make out their toothy snarls through their visors.

My sword ignites, white energy crackling up and down its length.

Maybe it’s ghosts and gods that listen in the void.

“Hali, are you awake?”

Haliru’ah opened her eyes. Fis’akru lay across from her, on the adjacent flat, his eyes glittering in the tiny light coming from the door. “Yes, child. Are you hungry?”

“No Hali, I have questions.”

Hali sighed. She lifted herself up, propping herself on two of her arms and peering through the darkness at him.

“Are these questions that should be asked of the Dreamwardens?”

Fis’ arms wiggled in that way she knew meant he was nervous about something.

“I don’t think they would like to hear my questions,” he said.

“Ah,” Hali understood. “You have questions about the states of being. What are your questions?”

“Why do we wake?”

Straight to the why of it all.

“Well,” she said, “do you want the answer the Dreamwardens would give you?” Sensing the young one would want to discuss at length, Hali lifted her body up off the cushion and ambled over to the light switch.

“I want the answer that you would give me,” he said, twisting to keep his eyes on her as she went. “I don’t want the religious answer, I want the true answer.”

Perhaps I need to limit my intake, she thought, noticing for the first time she was using all her arms for locomotion, instead of just four or six. Her body had grown large over the past few dreams.

She flicked the switch using one of her short arms, then ambled back to sit on the cushion next to Fis. “Scoot over, child.”

He scrabbled, shifting his bulk and rolling to give her more space to lay herself against him on the bed. His smaller body was hot against her side. She wrapped him in a comforting hug.

“The religious answer is the true answer, child. Please don’t speak such heresy, even to me.”

“You—you know what I mean!” His voice pitched up as he shifted to keep her at arms’-length. “I don’t mean it as heresy, I just… I just want to know what you think, not what the Dreamwardens want me to think.”

“There is a reason why they want you to think that way,” Hali said, gently pushing away his fighting arms and drawing him close. He only resisted a little.

“They just hate when we think for ourselves or question the Dreams,” he complained as she drew him close again. He leaned his head on her.

“Our race has been following the Dreams since we were born from them, child.”

“Yes, I know that. I’m not questioning the Dreams, I want to know why we wake at all! Why do we even wake up, if the holy state is in sleep, in the Dream?”

“Have you ever taken sustenance in sleep?” Hali said.

Fis groaned. “Stop that! You know what I mean!”

“I do, but the example is relevant,” she said. “There are things we must take care of in waking that we cannot do in the Dream. Eating is just one example of that.”

“But the dohisa, they take their nutrients through injection so they can spend more time in the Dream.”

“They do, but that is a religious choice they have made to alter their lifestyle. One day if you choose you may join the dohisan order too.”

“And what about soldiers? They spend all their free time in the Dream!”

“Well, combat training is much safer in the Dream, there’s very little risk of injury when your body is not actually at risk.”

“Exactly!” Fis seemed to think he’d made a point.

Hali shifted, lowering herself off the sleeping platform. “Let’s go eat.”

The two of them strolled down the silent halls, into the auditorium chamber that served as cafeteria for the palatial estate. A servitor approached with two plates held aloft and followed them to a platform. It set the plates in front of them after they rolled onto the depressions in the platform that served as seats.

“I thought it was stew today,” Fis said, picking up one of the strips of sauced meat and lifting it to his mouth.

“There was a change of plans this morning,” the servitor replied, placing two beverages before them before moving off without elaborating further.

“Fis, one of the truths about waking is simply that the Dream is not ‘real.’” Hali scooped up a strip of meat, thought back to her earlier discomfort when she’d gotten up, and set it back down in favor of the roasted vegetables.

“It is real!” Fis said. He raised his head up to make himself taller. “We can use experiences in the dream in real life! That’s how I learned flying.”

Hali chuckled. “You just said it yourself. We can use things we experience in the Dream in real life, but in the end, it is not real life. Real is what we’re doing right now.” She reached across the table and patted his face.

He slapped her arm away. “You know what I mean,” he said, more insistent this time.

“I do know what you mean, but the truth is in what you have said, not how you meant it. Things we experience in the Dream are not real, though they seem to be real, and they affect our lives in many ways.”

The boy was silent for a few minutes, chewing his food with a vague expression on his face as he contemplated.

“But if it’s not real, why is it holy? What does it matter at all?”

Hali closed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh. Young minds could swing so far from one side of an argument to the other in so short a time. There were no gradual steps in logic with the young.

“Fis, why are you asking these questions? This is basic religion you learned as a small one. What’s the real issue here?”

He pushed his food around the plate in silence.

“Fis,” she said, softening her voice. “What’s wrong?”

“Why am I the only one left at home?” He didn’t look up at her.

“As in, why did your parents send your brother and sister away, while you are left here?”

He nodded. Now she saw the core of his concern, the backdrop his questions were framing.

“They’re out there doing ‘real’ things, and I’m stuck here with you and the Dream!”

Hali reminded herself the child was speaking out of his own conflict, that he didn’t mean it as the slap in the face she felt it to be. She took another deep breath before responding.

“Have you met your marah, yet?”

Fis ducked his head. “It has not yet appeared to me.” He went back to pushing his food around the plate.

“So you do not know the joy of the Dream in its full state of being,” Hali said. “Your marah will teach you things about the Dream you have never known before, things that will connect you to the holiest places in the Dream.”

“But when will I see them?” Fis threw himself off the platform, landing with a bump as he scrabbled away from the table. Hali scooped up her plate in one arm and moved to follow him back toward the sleep chamber.

They settled themselves on the sleeping platforms and closed their eyes. Fis settled into sleep in seconds, but Hali kept herself awake for a moment, questioning herself.

Perhaps it was time. She put her plate down, slid herself off her own platform and went to lay next to the boy. He would need the comfort when he awoke.

It was time for the child to meet his marah, his Dream Spirit. If he was old enough to be having this kind of identity crisis, he was old enough to learn the deep secrets of their people, to meet the great Sleeper and to bathe himself the creeping chaos of His thought, to know truly and fully what it meant to be Kyyrvak.

She closed her eyes and fell asleep. The Dream met her, and she went to find the great Sleeper.