Misuri was soon running through the withered, once ablaze forest around the marshes, a foul smell in the air. It had been set on fire in a desperate and final attempt to eradicate its dwellers, the Em-som Hakkart – the standing wolves, highly territorial breed. Cause, unwillingness to comply. Insurgency. Tamelessness. An Act drafted by the colonists had made it illegal to be so. Not that Em-som Hakkarts were anyone's friends. His presence must not be felt.
Bluish dark sky above, stars glimmering here and there, clock-brain prevalence inoperative.
Down a slope he struggled with sharp, protruding rocks, unstable pebble sediments, and a booming heart. He had to slow down, but couldn't afford to rest. At night, the risk was greater, for Omirions couldn't see in the dark, but the Em-som Hakkart could, and well. It was customary for them to roam wild races across their Helela'Ar to ensure no one ventured into it. The pile of rocks with standing branch-hands had been a clear indicator he was trespassing, and trespassing into a riddle and a maze, for this region wasn't called the Uncharted in vain: no one knew their way around, nor how many Sons of Fear had claimed it.
He reached a creek at the bottom of the slope and bent over, a rigid expression reflected back. Hand in a cup, he tasted, then drank thirstily, looking around, his hearing stretched and bent to compensate for poor nocturnal vision. Up he stood, feeling old in a place unwanted, then leapt over the water and in a few strides was on top of the high slope, running again, trees past trees past trees, over miles of barren, cold land, slopes and hillocks to all sides, trees bent and gnarled as if upon him.
Faintly he could hear the highway, a certain low swish from air propulsion. Would it keep going through the night to guide him from afar?
Stitches. Very cold sweat. He'd been running for hours and was out of breath. Leg muscles, fatigued. His heart condition had worsened. All medication was in a drawer back home, whatever that was anymore – most likely an overly-investigated, arid array of rooms where his kids' laughter would never sound again. Angry tears, jaw set, back leaned against a tree. Deep breath in. Again. Again. Chest lowered slowly. Misuri blinked, then listened keenly. Nothing but the wind.
Maybe if he walked for a while, he could recover some strength...
Clock-brain prevalence remained inactive despite all attempts, so he went cautiously onwards through the dark. A creak under his step – a whoosh – a lasso – and he was hanging upside down twenty feet above ground, the wind – not the wind: voices, wind-like voices talking amongst themselves.
"Ke-na'Na ri?"
Startled, he saw wind entities in the faint moonlight, climbing branches, approaching him.
"Ke-na'Na ri wa-ta?" they were asking.
Petrified, panicked, Misuri's eyes followed them each, all veil-like presences, breeze in their eyes. He tried to bend, grab his legs, loosen the grip. Pointless.
"Unanaa Em-som Hakkart."
Male voice. Dominant.
"I'm not an Em-som Hakkart," he retorted, hoping they could communicate. "I'm an Omirion."
A whirl of wind-voices rose through the air. Barely perceptible, he heard the name uttered again.
"Yes," he said, clock-eyes mechanism focusing to better grasp his interlocutors. "I'm a Son of Time. Omiran is my Maker."
"Omiran," murmured the wind; then, "You must keep silent."
All sounds ended. Hanging still, Misuri remained quiet. A growl, followed by calls. Em-som Hakkarts. Running feet, large strides by the sound of it. The leafless trees were dense, but were they dense enough? Another sequence of running feet. Pack's divided in regiments. Then in the distance sounded a thunderous howl, its echoes rippling through the branches. Voices. An incomprehensible tongue. Two-three distinct pitches: one commanding, one unintimidated, another more docile. Clear hierarchy. Another howl, longer. Set the hair on his skin on end. One, two, three... five... He counted seven, partially-overlapped responses from different places around him; then the regiments went off on their patrol.
"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.
Pushing this momentary hopelessness out, he reactivated clock-brain prevalence and computed a sequence of running and walking stages across the distance left. Tracing the journey with his eyes, he drew a deep breath in, leg circuits adjusting, deep breathing pattern initiated, body leaning forward – and he was off.
The race was on.
Lightly, he was zooming over barren land in large strides, pretending it was the Planetary Circuit, that he was rested, that Tarla and the kids were waiting in the tribune, that it was all for a noble cause; past no trespassing warnings and over creeks he went – he wasn't thirsty, energy circuits having inhibited the need, compensating with pure energy, – up and down slopes, warnings, the sound of his breath and steps clear and rhythmical, power enhancement coordination optimal.
I call upon Omiran, Clock of the World, Central Intelligence that is known as Time.
72 times he attempted, golden eyes-mechanism on the road. Breathing pattern, stable. Subtle currents throughout his body. Clock-brain prevalence had noted an efficiency increase of 5%. Larger, lighter strides.
I am that which I run into and that which runs through me, he encouraged himself. I am one with Omiran.
Body tension loosened.
I am an instance of Omiran, running in the shape of me.
Tension alleviated entirely from sides; strides leaner and faster.
I am the wind – he leapt onto a fallen trunk over a rivulet, faint creak under his boot, and launched himself onwards; speed increase, 18%, – I am all that time has to offer, as I hold no resistance to it –
Instantly, his ear circuits depicted a heightening and doubling of his pace against the soil – now tripling – overlapped running sequences, his steps different from all the others – he was being chased by Em-Som Hakkarts.
A wild speed boost. Wind hissing in his ears. A howl. An answer. Another. Echoes. A leap and a race down a steady slope, howls answering from everywhere.
I am the Son of Time requiring assistance. I am that which you are –
An unsuccessful leap over a wider watercourse – abrupt speed reduction, system computing, re-coordinating, legs adjusting to running through new environment – angry growls behind; a long, loud howl.
They avoid waterways.
Once out, he enabled speed reduction and recalibration sequence, muscles still twitching from thermal shock, clock-brain prevalence rerouting power enhancement to system optimization – his body was growing warmer, and he allowed for a gradual speed increase toward prior levels – distant, but still very close howls behind him.
He tried again: I am a Son of Time, urgently requesting assistance.
Narrowly, Misuri avoided a knitted rope-trap that rose before him, eluding it just in time. Speed increase, compulsory.
I am part of Omiran –
Leave behind that which is not you, came a reply.
So Omiran does respond.
Power adjustment in leg muscles and joints, he bolted onwards, another pack of Em-Som Hakkarts now chasing him – seven, by the sound of it. He didn't turn, but persisted in his goal.
I am a Son of Time, acknowledging my clock origins.
His eyes were tired, perhaps, as a fine pellicle stretched out before him, shifting and blurring the surroundings, and as he blinked and leapt through it, he lay foot on softer ground, bushes and brambles around, no watercourse in sight. He'd been teleported.
Turning, he listened keenly. Faint swishing sound. Air propulsion. Highway nearby.
Show me the way.
On, came what he now knew was Omiran. Time was speaking.
He hastened, invigorated, his strides larger, senses heightened. Five time-bands within sensory range. No sign of Em-Som Hakkarts. 17 hours to takeoff. He was in good time.
Soon he needed to make a speed reduction to facilitate system recharge and run overall metabolism analysis. His algorithms had somehow improved: better response rates, faster recharge. System nonetheless revealed a further deterioration to his heart muscle, which was now functioning at 68% capacity. Computing recommended the additional speed reduction necessary for recovery, whilst energy circuits were busy sewing nets into the strained tissue. At constant speed, it would reach 72% again in 3 hours. That was acceptable. Every point below 70, however, exponentially increased the risk of irreparable tissue damage and sudden in-depth fissure. He was responsible with his health condition, for his rescue operation depended on it.