Absit Omen by Aadzrian

Even to a soldier, blood could be a heady thing.

Aadzrian had never really had a problem with it; then again, never before had it assaulted every sense of his with its sheer, unfathomable size. There could not be this much of it in the universe, never in one place. Reason said that blood could not exist within a floor of blood, walls of blood, a ceiling of blood- underneath it there had to be something- but reason wasn't acquainted with the peculiar stench. It tickled the nostrils the way a barbed wire whip tickled your back.

He realized distantly that he was going to be sick, not from sight or smell or from the taste (taste, he had nearly forgotten taste) of it all, but simply from the realization that there was nothing else. A featureless landscape of blood that inner knowledge told him stretched from here to forever.

And then, abruptly, the vision ended.

It wasn't the first time he'd seen it, not since that day where he'd idiotically agreed to look at his own future to sate someone's curiosity- he could no longer remember who. Had it been Franceza? Well, he couldn't ask her about it; he couldn't speak to the real Franceza trapped within her incomprehending eyes. Those whom he loved were fast becoming memories.

"Shut up, you self-pitying –git-," the Timonae told himself aloud, voice thick and groggy with sleep. Ah, this time it had been a dream. Tirax stirred beside him, but didn't wake for once, and absently he reached over to brush back the younger man's hair. There was no reason to wallow in angst, considering how lucky he was. Hadn't he known what his future would hold anyway?

Quietly, Aadzrian swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat up. Slow, deliberate movements wouldn't wake Tir, he'd discovered, if he was very careful about them. Stealing a glance to either side of the Fox's crew quarters- dead quiet, at this early morning hour- he reached into his bunk's cabinets.

There it was, a battered (well, he preferred well-loved) book on human anatomy. It was old, but the man he'd bought it from reassured him that humans hadn't changed that much in the last 25 years, so he'd read it with confidence. Or tried, at least; it proved a torturous reminder of why he had ended up a soldier. He had no brains to speak of for anything else.

After three or four pages the Terran started swimming before his eyes, and frequent dictionary consultation slowed him down even further. After a couple weeks he was sixty pages into the five hundred, and each was a battle. He wanted to weep in frustration at the knowledge that this was the simplest and most basic thing on his list of books, a book on a subject he was already even familiar with. But resorting to Timonese books would just prove he lacked the skill to master a second language, let alone put the information he was slowly learning to any use.

"Doctors have to deal with a lot of blood, right?" he whispered to himself, appreciating the self-reassurance even when he knew how foolish it was. You couldn't become a doctor just by reading, no matter how many books you read. And he didn't want to try learning by –doing- when he might only hurt people worse.

He was being selfish. -Nobody- really wanted to fight forever, but someone had to do it. He knew the necessity, knew that some people could be stopped by absolutely nothing else. And he had a talent for killing, a stomach that could stand what had to be done, and enough control over himself to realize (these days) when the last resort was. He was absolutely ideal for what he was doing; pursuing dangerous jobs, fighting when he had to, trying diplomacy first.

But he'd had enough of hurting others already, and the thought of a lifetime of it was making him weary. He wanted to fix, to repair, to mend, to heal.

The words on the page were incomprehensible now to his tired mind, looking like scribbles as much as actual letters. Aadzrian closed his eyes, and smiled faintly to himself. If he'd been born smart, maybe he would have become a great doctor like Snowstreak. And if pigs had wings, getting pork tenderloins for last night's dinner would have been a lot harder. He would be content; after all, he was strong and young, he had friends and lovers and Tirax most of all, and he was doing good in the way he was suited for. Maza had not touched his life more than Lin, in the end.

It was later than he'd thought, he realized when his eyes opened again- or perhaps he'd fallen asleep sitting up, craned over the dog-eared tome. With noon threatening in an hour or two, he tucked the book away and softly kissed his still-sleeping better half. A quick note advertising his destination, and he slipped away to wriggle into the undersuit of his MCA- no, Ace's MCA, really- for its ventilated coolness. A good number of waterskins, fastened about his waist, and a billowing cloak to shade him from the sun. A pack with rations and more water, and the Timonae set off.

The trip to the Faux's ruins out in the Demarian desert wasn't so bad with the aid of a guide, as it was hard to miss these days. He'd made the journey more than once, and though it was always risky to visit the Sand Mother, he'd made it there and back with no permanent harm done. The shuttle flight lulled him to a brief nap once more, but when it landed he felt refreshed and energetic. Smiling simply because he could, Aadzrian crossed the landing pad and felt the cool of the early night air. He hadn't overslept -too- much, it seemed.

His usual guide was nowhere to be found, and few people seemed interested in leading a Timonae out into the Sand Mother on vaguely stated purposes, but at last he encountered a scruffy kit who knew the place and would do it for a meal before and after. They shared a haunch of roast dribgib, smelling divine, and Aadzrian smiled wider at the sight of how much his young companion enjoyed the meal. It was almost as good as tasting it himself, since he'd grown accustomed to his brain's vagaries. Damage to... some nerve or another. Some doctor he would have been, huh? He couldn't even remember his own old injuries.

The silence between himself and his young guide seemed companionable as they went to rent a small ship, just big enough to carry themselves and a sand buggy to the approximate location. Evidently some of the local pilots had grown superstitious about flying over the crash site; an hour out by buggy would do for him, however. A bit of haggling and it was done, the soft whirr of the engines accompanying them out over the sands. The silence continued, and Aadzrian thought perhaps it was growing strained, but his guide stared out the window with single-minded eyes. Just when he ached to say something, anything for the simple sound of voices, their shuttle began to descend.

Fifteen more minutes- how much of life is spent waiting? Less of his, perhaps, than most people's- and they were rumbling through the sands. He was a fairly terrible driver and he knew it, but his nameless young friend couldn't drive and navigate at the same time, and so they put up with his overcorrecting steering and the shower of sand that cascaded over the vehicle from the tires. After a while he settled into a rhythm that almost made his turn behind the wheel palatable, and definitely made the sudden looming of the hill on the horizon a surprise.

"Te Faux," he told his still-silent guide as they climbed toward it. "Te bes' ship t'ere was in te uny-verse, at leas' to me. Te people who help me and ask not'ing in return. I do no t'inked I payed t'em back very wel. But ah, I has tried, and per-haps t'at counting for somet'ing, huh?"

No answer, but Aadzrian shrugged it off. He was fairly used to the bemused silence of people who thought he didn't make any sense, and he couldn't really blame them for it.

The two halted about ten feet from the spaceship, and the Timonae stood there quietly gazing. It was hard to believe anyone had survived the ride in that cradle of twisted metal, let alone everyone, but he knew whom to thank. His debt to her had really just risen over the months since he'd been freed. It seemed she probably wasn't coming back, this time, and again he mentally reviewed everything- anything he could have done differently- perhaps words he hadn't known how to say-

He was so distracted with that repetitive silent litany of shortcomings that he failed to hear his guide softly sneaking up behind, and the discharge of the stun gun directly into his back came as a complete surprise.

In unconsciousness, he dreamed for once of nothing.

But slowly, creeping in through his ears and fingertips, sensation slunk back in. The line between slumber and awareness eroded under the stealthy assault of things distantly perceived; the jolting feel of the ride (smoother than when he had driven), the low moan of the engine, a distant louder echo of more powerful machines. The impression of motion abruptly stopped, and after a moment Aadzrian perceived with dumb confusion that he was now lying down. Grit- sand. He was lying in the sand.

"Sorry," a voice said, and then the buggy's chugging motor retreated into the distance.

Tentatively, the Timonae opened his eyes. It was pitch-dark night now, probably nearing midnight. He was sheltered between two dunes, two completely unfamiliar dunes, presumably somewhere between New Alhira and the Faux. And his head felt as if someone had stuffed it full of cotton, then thrown him underwater- everything distorted, slow.

Slowly he sat up and checked his pockets. His wallet was still there with all his photos of everyone, thank Lin; the money was missing, but he hadn't had too much on him anyway. His PDA was also gone, which was a sore irritant. So much for calling someone for a ride. Well, he still had two feet, and he could climb onto them pretty easily, dust himself off and take stock of his surroundings.

Featureless desert, as far as he could tell. Luckily, the kit had been more after money than sadism, and had left him his compass. If he wasn't too far out, he could probably walk it. So first he knelt, closing his eyes, and softly entreated, "Lady, please weave me a path between these dangers, shielded from your sister's gaze." There was one single credchip left in one of his many pockets, and he flipped it into the air, burying it where it landed by way of small tribute.

Only then did he rise and pull out the compass, consulting it carefully. Angling himself to face New Alhira and taking a drink to wash the sand from his mouth, he set off walking.

The first hour or so was fairly pleasant. The night was clear and dry, and comfortably cool without the blazing twin suns to fry him. He set a quick pace, and covered enough ground that his footsteps disappeared in his wake as he crested a dune, and the next, and the next. But the sand tugged at his boots, trying to claim his feet, and the monotony began to grow tiresome.

Still, he walked. He walked, and walked, and walked. Only the nascent soreness in his limbs told him he'd made any progress at all; that and the fact that the mountains did loom nearer on the horizon. But he wasn't prone to giving up, and so he kept walking even as dawn began to streak the sky.

The soft light of the rising suns cast an orange-pink glow over the sands, and Aadzrian halted in his tracks. The featureless sea of sand, tinged faintly magenta, was luridly suggestive of that vision that dogged him so often lately. "The future can be changed," he said softly aloud to himself, surveying the sand. "I decide my own path."

Yet even knowing the flaws and failures of his second sight, he doubted his own words. He could never be content with a life that didn't have a purpose beyond his own gratification. He'd thought long and hard on it, ever since he was freed from Tomin Kora. And always his conclusion was the same: he had no special talents beyond entertaining and fighting. When would he accept who and what he was?

Shaking his head firmly, he set off again. Thoughts whirled in his brain, irritation at himself, annoyance with his guide- he tried to suppress it, after all the kit was hungry- and the befuddled wistful voice that whispered to him lately that maybe he really should go back to school and give it another try. None of that mattered half as much as actually getting back to New Alhira in one piece, and he couldn't allow his vigilance to lapse.

Still it seemed impossible to fully concentrate, with the blankness of wide empty sands spreading out in every direction. He had no real idea where he ws. Had Razor walked this way, some number of years before, intent on proving himself? Had Tirax, looking for him, laid down in the shadow of one of these dunes for a moment to write those messages?

"You are betraying the crew. You are betraying Ace. You are betraying me. I will shoot to kill if I have to."

He didn't need his PDA to remember that phrase. Even though they'd taken him back, forgiven him every time, he knew he hadn't been much good for the Faux. Maybe it was for the best if Ace didn't come back, if she took the Fox and left. For a moment, he let himself think that it might be for the best if he stopped walking, too. But reason quickly interceded, and with a snort he moved on.

After a while, the sun's continued progress upward began to soak him in sweat. He found himself pausing to drink often, the weight of his waterskins noticeably lessening. Everything was blinding, the twin suns drowning him in heat and light. Still, he followed his compass, only stopping for any length of time when his belly demanded it. His supplies might last him another full day of walking, if he was careful with the water.

But it seemed that wouldn't be necessary, as the mountains were looming closer and closer in the slanting afternoon light. The kit must have driven him much of the way back, perhaps wanting to give him a fighting chance to make it out. It was a small kindness he could appreciate. Relaxing as he realized safety was probably about another hour or two away, he slowed down and let himself walk at a more comfortable speed.

It was while he was sauntering the last quarter-mile or so up to that trail in the hills that he heard the rumbling. Slowly he turned his head back over his shoulder, reluctantly confirming- yes, that was the sound of desert bumbler hooves; yes, there were quite a few of them; yes, the sound was the polyphony of the whole herd charging in a panicked stampede his way.

Aadzrian ran. All thought disappeared into the rhythm, one foot, then the other, eating as much ground as they could between them. His head start seemed to be slowly eroding, the ominous thunder of their hooves waxing exponentially behind him. He felt as if he was breathing fire instead of air, waterskins jangling harshly at his waist, half full- half empty? Whatever- sand treacherous under his feet. If he could just get up into the hilly path, narrow and steep...

But the world was submerged in sound, the ground vibrating under his feet, and he felt a moment's bemusement at the thought he should die to a herd of panicked cows. Perhaps that was all he needed- he couldn't tell if it was desperation or sheer indignation that lent a sudden fleetness to his feet. Up ahead were the foothills- he probably didn't have time to make up so high the slope would dissuade them.

So instead, he put all his trust in Lin, and using his long running start, he leapt.

His long fingers closed around a low branch of one of the hardy, gnarled trees that grew here on the very edges of the desert. Frantically the Timonae scrambled up, higher and higher, and clung to the trunk itself like a panicked cat. He had only enough time to ensure he was firmly wrapped around the tree when the wave of bovine flesh hit.

It was an unholy cacophony of thudding hooves, shifting sand, and terrified, braying moos. The bumblers were intelligent enough to try and avoid the trees, but the sheer press of numbers meant his perch received more than one shuddering blow. Aadzrian hung on in quiet desperation, feeling the trunk wobble and hearing the crisp cracking of shattering wood with every collision.

But every river runs to an end, and living rivers sooner than most. Even if it felt like an eternity, Aadzrian knew it took them only bare minutes to pass onward into the hills, scattering where narrow trails wouldn't permit the mass stampede. He saw no sign of what was chasing them.

He shifted, just slightly, and felt the tree teeter with even that minor displacement of weight. Very slowly, the Timonae looked down. The trunk had been nearly bashed to splinters, but from several sides- that equality was all that kept it balanced. Any redistribution of his weight, counterbalancing the most damaged angle through sheer serendipity, might bring his perch crashing down.

"...Aaah, crap."

Hardly daring to breathe, he began to wiggle downward. Inch by inch, and then his boot caught a slick portion of bark; just a moment of helpless scrabbling before he fell.

The thud of sandy impact on his back momentarily jarred breath away, but he wordlessly celebrated the fact he'd been only ten feet up. This jubilation lasted for the half-second before the tree began to teeter, swaying with a great groan. Aadzrian swore softly, gathered up his bruised and exhausted body, and rolled to the side. A great wave of grit swept over him as the tree crashed down, one branch slapping him with stinging fervor, the rest safely avoided.

For a moment, the Timonae simply laid there, baking in the setting sun. Getting up seemed as ludicrous as everything else that had already happened today. But eventually he knew he had to get on with it, and so he wearily rolled to his feet and trudged upward through the foothills.

Somehow, without being fully aware of it, he traversed bridge and mountain and jungle in a quietly exhausted stupor. He ran out of water just before reaching the great waterfall, and stole a couple hours' sleep beside it before continuing on his way. He lost one boot to a pool of quicksand within the marshes, saved from worse losses by the aid of another low-hanging tree branch. That bare foot trod on a snake only half a mile from New Alhira, but after he pulled it free from his heel and examined it he recognized it as non-poisonous, so he merely threw it off into the trees.

And so he arrived on the evening of the next day, nearly 48 hours since this ill-advised trip had begun, limping filthy and worn, sore and exhausted onto Sanctuary Avenue. Knowing that Tirax would kill him otherwise, the very first thing he did was trudge into the hospital.

The nurse didn't understand his wild laughter when she proclaimed him extremely lucky and more or less fine, needing only rest and proper nourishment. He wasn't really able to explain it, either- she was right, after all. Lin had heeded his prayers and watched him every step of the way. But the nurse had made him strip into a hospital gown for the examination, and though he was bruised all over, aching and pained, even the snake bite- not a drop of blood had spilled on him.

And that night, when he stretched out on a hotel bed for a nap before forcing himself to rise and go to Quaquan, the extremely lucky man dreamt of blood again.