Chapter Seventeen #2
"How easy do you think it was to bury two mates? Do you think it was easy losing everything because of your inability to say a simple word?"
My chest squeezed in like I couldn't breathe. "I didn't have the control you think I did."
Or did I?
"Did you ever attempt?"
"Yes, but... not as much as I should have."
"Then the blame is also yours."
The truth hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Parker stood in the distance, leaning casually against a carved sandstone column while speaking to a tall and muscled Sandari balancing a long blade on an extended finger. She spun three times, as if a ballerina, and the knife never fell.
Zephyron's purple eyes flicked toward Parker briefly. "We will speak more after I traverse the slope."
Parker waited until Zephyron stormed off and approached slowly. His camera followed obediently. "Everything okay?" he asked, his tone light.
"Did you record that?"
"Not this time." He paused. "It was a joke, but I did hear it all. Again."
"Why are you here?"
"It's the festival! Where else would I be?"
"I mean, next to me. Us!"
"Well, if you must know, the documentary is on an alien planet and interesting enough, but I need a 'je ne sais quoi' if you will, where people won't say it's watched because it's on Sudo.
I thought the Sandari knife dancers might have an angle, but beyond incorporating dance and thrown blades into a form of martial arts.
.. no. If you don't mind, I'll tag along.
Maybe you'll do something impressive like you did back on Earth with the mining suit. "
"Let's hope not. The last time I did 'something impressive,' I flooded the desert with Zerlites."
We were soon directed to a cliff, and the sandy slope below rippled and shifted down in constant smooth waves. It reminded me of indoor surfing pools back on Earth. "What is that?"
A taller female couple turned to face me. They were similar, beyond the left's orange fur and the right's redder tint.
"This," said the orange one on the left, "is the Path of the Gold Dust Woman." It was still weird to hear the translations. The implant matched mouth or snout movements when possible, yet sometimes it came off as a dubbed film.
Her red-furred partner continued. "The sand is shifting because the gods and ancestors themselves breathe under it. Is it not magnificent?"
"The winner," the first added, her tone reverent, "will be blessed greatly."
"And the first to reach the bottom and bathe the statue will receive her favor. The higher the wave, the more blessings in return." Her tail swished behind her. "It has been many rotations since anyone washed the jeweled eyes. We hope to see it once before we lie hidden in the ground."
I followed their gaze to a statue at the slope's base.
The Gold Dust Woman was a large statue carved intricately into a jagged sandstone pillar and chiseled to have fine stone fur and a flowing gown.
Grooves shimmered and caught more sunlight than I expected.
They must have been filled with golden sand from years of victorious Sandari, then more recently, from Volardi honoring their ritual.
Zephyron stood near the starting point, his posture stiff. Three-foot-long tapered boards lay, each smooth, polished, and not unlike Human boogie boards.
An older Sandari appeared on a high pillar. Tessith. Instinctively, my hand went to my abdomen, feeling the same stomach I had for years. Maybe he was right, the pregnancy wouldn't take. There were other options, but Zephyron and I wouldn't be under the sheets anytime soon.
With a clipped voice, Tessith explained the rules: get to the bottom first and spray the giant statue with sand. He then scaled down the pillar using his claws.
"Is this enough for your documentary?" I asked. "Favor of the gods, a race?"
"Sliding down a hill?"
"There was a pod race in Star Wars."
Parker scratched his chin in thought. "What people liked about it were the accidents."
He raised his hands defensively, though the smirk didn't fully leave his face.
"Hey, I'm just saying! If it bleeds, it leads.
I'm not the one who'd be watching this back home.
You know our species. Tell me the traffic doesn't crawl on the 405 when there's an accident, even if it's not blocking cars. "
"Just add epic music."
He responded, but I couldn't make it out over the noise swell as Zephyron stepped forward. Back on Earth, people played to the crowd, or just had that 'look.' I didn't expect this to be Interstellar WrestleMania, but he looked as if he were somewhere else, or wanted to be.
I've seen surfers lose their focus and then get knocked out by a wave. What if he loses it here?
Parker fiddled with the camera. "Ready?" I asked.
He smiled. "Absolutely."
The Sandari competitors waited in a line at the shifting sand slope's edge. Most wore intricate desert garb accented with metallic threads to reflect light. Their pointed ears twitched in anticipation, and golden gazes went out, focused on the challenge ahead and below.
One stood out.
He was smaller, younger, and probably in his late teens. His clothing was clean and without holes, but with no ornate decorations. His lips pressed tightly together, and he breathed in deeply.
Out of curiosity, I queried my implant, reading. "Karel of the Outer Settlements," I whispered. His simple clothes made sense now. More information came. If he won, he'd raise his family's status.
I wanted Zephyron to win, obviously, but this kid already seemed like 'my people' back in Georgia. Wonder if they also like—
Parker's camera clicked once, then twice, before its red-and-chrome shell split open and folded inward, plates locking into a streamlined shape like a Transformers toy.
Wings unfurled like curved blades. What had been a quirky hover-drone in the shape of a retro muscle car became a sleek, avian missile, all predatory angles and thruster ports.
Then it took off, cutting through the air like a bird of prey.
"Parker?"
He fumbled with the controls on his wrist console.
"Stop!" he shouted. "It's not me! It won't respond!"
The camera shot forward, zipping through the air in a smooth, deliberate arc.
It aimed.
At Zephyron.
His sharp eyes narrowed as he registered the incoming threat and stepped into a fighting stance. The camera didn't strike his chest or head as I'd feared. Instead, it dipped and zeroed in on his right leg.
A sickening, wet crack echoed through the canyon as the drone slammed into Zephyron's shin and shattered his kneecap. His leg bent the wrong way, folding with a crunch that turned my stomach. He hit the ground, sending up a puff of golden dust.
Around us, the crowd gasped as one. The Sandari competitors recoiled, ears flattened and eyes wide, watching their once-imposing competitor writhe in agony.
Two tall and muscled knife fighters threw blades, landing between seams in what was now an armored missile. It soon sparked and smoked. I ran over and kicked it so hard I nearly sprained a toe, but it rolled down the slope. Shifting sands soon buried it.
"Why..." Zephyron's voice wavered, low and confused.
The announcer cut through the shock, calm and oblivious: "The race will begin in forty breaths. No exceptions."
My implant converted the timing: less than three minutes.
***