Son of Time - Science Fiction Short Story

Roaming the Uncharted

"Kai-wa Narí ne sak-naa, num Em-som Hakkart," whispered softly the dominant breeze. "Kai-ari ash'ha num sak-naa, Omiran-Son!"

It was a blessing in a Tongue of Wind. Misuri shut his eyes, the frailest touch upon his skin bringing partial relief. Then the invisible rope was loosened, and he got safely back on ground, the barely-noticeable entities surrounding him.

"I need to reach Malinkar tonight," he pleaded. "Where-"

A breath of wind lifted dust into a fast spiral that pointed along an oblique path.

"Thank you."

Misuri went off in the direction indicated, unable to run or to think anymore. Now more than ever, he resembled a machine, but for the bitterness in his eyes. Everything was slowing down, the dark getting darker and the forest blurrier, at times distant, outside, beyond his closing eyelids. He almost walked into a tree, and as his hand was reaching out for support, dense air pushed back against it. Unable to comprehend, he gazed round; then as if to test a theory, his fingers made for the tree again.

"Touch nothing," came a faint voice from below, and something tiny, but indescribably fast disappeared from his heel.

I am fatigued and hallucinating.

Fear bid him on, however, and he obeyed the warning in his senses, hence trod on heavily forward, step after step, the cold groping round his face and ears, down his neck, into his spine and limbs. He was unable to run for warmth or hide from danger. Golden eye-wheels gleaming subtly under patches of moonlight that filtered through the barren trees, he strode onwards into the dark, no highway sound in range, the ground cold and firm under his sore body, temple upon root, eyelids shut.

He dreamt a strange dream, of wind entities shaping tidal waves around him, great walls from ground to sky, high and stable all through the night. Thus he slept peacefully, his scent concealed.

Breathing pattern, normal. Body temperature, adjusted to climate. Leg joints and muscles, healed. Misuri turned on his back, eyes still closed. Surrounding temperature, 17 degrees. Shifting breeze patterns. He wasn't alone, nor had it been a dream. Root under head. He opened his eyes and sat up at once. It was morning. Connecting to the nearest time-band, he knew he had 22 hours left to rescue Tarla.

Under the clear blue sky, the forest looked peaceful.

Now up on his feet, he observed his surroundings. Clock-brain prevalence, optimal again. The presence of four time-bands shaping as if it were a large square in the midst of which he was little less than a dot gave him some rough coordinates. The band on one side was most familiar to his senses, hence it crossed Bay – That's NE. One ran behind him, not calling for his attention. Third and fourth were more distant, S by SW, his inner workings warmer, leaning forth toward the angle between them. Destination, clear.

Though out of his visual range, perhaps intentionally so, the wind entities surrounded him still, as he could feel their presence. Hand on chest, Misuri opened his mouth to express gratitude, but the wind briskly sealed his lips again.

He nodded and went on his way.

Slope after slope, rising and falling in angles, he gradually upped his pace, Malinkar on his mind. Last night had been a valuable lesson not to push himself too far, lest he be drained and vulnerable when he most needed to be apt. He couldn't afford another system malfunction were he to save Tarla, be it the last thing he'd do.

Eyes open and ear circuits doubled: This is Em-som Hakkart territory.

Deepening into Uncharted, he came across many trespassing signs, one after the other, but still no sound. Highway's awfully silent. Time, however, is consistent and never unlike itself, thus Misuri kept going. Arriving at a high rock, he climbed it and looked out over the region, and what a glum view it was, of an ocean unending! At this rate, I'll never make it in time. He remembered the Baroks saying it'd take 17 hours to reach Malinkar by car.