After Falsharran (working title) - Opening chapter

2. Isaac

“I implore you, my friends, to remember the days of the gold shores of the Occlavian coast and the burning beach at Sorsia. Remember the tales these lands taught your eyes, so different from the books they wandered prior had. Remember the warmth on your fingers and in your hearts as you touched the shale cliffs that your ancestors touched. And most of all, remember the beseeching smoke of the battles we shared, and do not let it choke you. We are all fighting for something bigger than ourselves, our wives and lovers, or even our children. This nation is ours, and in repayment for its embrace you owe it something extraordinary. Our enemy does not understand sacrifice for their nation – until the arrival of the Elders, no one had seen fit to breach their soil in all history. Their arrival has seen fit to bless some among you with gifts, the most extraordinary gifts, and you will use them well against oppression. Now, more than ever, we are ready to advance, and claim back this land for good.”

At the base of the great ship Falsharran in the city of Sorsia, thunderous cheer rang out. The ancient ship stood so tall that for half the day Sorsia’s southern bloc lived in its pervasive shadow. Over the past seventy years, the roots of the Elder’s prize vessel had not only grown deep beneath the grounds of the Occlavian capital, but within the roots of a society forced to embrace its presence.

At the base of Falsharran’s vast southern gates, framed by the familiar multi-limbed twin statues of Tek and Sat, at least 100, 000 people had gathered to hear the speech of the charismatic General Ciln. The crowd, which was bursting beyond the perimeters of the city’s central square, was stood too far away to notice that when Ciln delivered his addresses, his passionate delivery betrayed the deep, dark crags in his normally stoic face. His short salt and pepper hair too had recently begun to tale on a whitish shine above the ears. The members of the crowd furthest away from the stage had to make do with his commanding voice ringing out from the abundance of speaker systems set up around the square’s perimeter.

Ciln had been referred to among his more jealous or cynical members of the party in earlier years as a ‘poster boy’ for the liberation front on account of his rugged good looks, but his appeal now, in his later years extended to almost everyone. He wore his usual dark blue fatigues, and a battered black gleave strapped down his left arm. His left shoulder was protected by a matte black carapace, and at his right hip was strapped an old caliber pistol, the kind that rarely saw use anymore. As he spoke, he often waved his arms in a confident fashion.

From this stage at the base of the grand alien ziggurat, the young soldier Isaac observed the throng. If his emotions had been shaped from clay, then their appearance right now would be a single amorphous mass, a culmination of every shape ever seen in messy collision.

The speech of his leader to an eager audience still lean from hunger set something alive in him, as they always did, but today in particular, he felt a real sense of progress. Now more than ever, his lands seemed ready to take back their name.

As the applause for his general began to die down, Isaac unfolded the tight cloth wrapped around his wrist and withdrew a smoke, then secured it again tightly in a double knot.

The cloth was yellowed and ragged. It had a picture of a wolf’s head on it, with an old Occlavian proverb above its ears, which translated as “A born grey cub shines white under color of moonlight.”

He lit the stick with a small flame from his forefinger, and breathed in deeply. Wispy clouds cast over the red dusk sky of the city of Sorsia. Isaac drew tight the cords of his heavy hooded jacket, and buttoned himself to the neck. The General continued:

“We have our allies. Our unity with the Elder race is both symbolic and symbiotic, and we are to accept them as the progenitors of the Occlaviat nation if we are ever to succeed. Those among you who have responded in the past with fear to our new kinsmen will, I hope, change your ideas in the future. They sowed their seeds in this planet millions of years ago, and their interest in our lives and our culture, so recent in comparison to their own, is humbling. I extend my thanks to them, and want you all to welcome Searcher Olmn to extend to you some words of unity.”

The General stepped down from the podium, and all eyes turned to Searcher Olmn, who slowly raised his seven foot frame from a seat to the side of the podium. He was wearing the traditional robe of his Elder House, bright white with a red hood, and under his sleeves he extended out his four powerful arms to wave. On them were the ornate gauntlets ordained to him by his House that he always wore in public. On his small blue eyes, set in his long, grizzled face, the old Searcher wore special goggles to amplify his failing spectral judgment. His skin fluctuated between blue and green as he began to speak:

“I want to extend to you some warm words today,” he began in his deep and commanding voice. “This nation means so much to you all, and your anger is just.

I will remind you, as I’m sure you have heard many times, that this nation is but a small part of a world that means so very much to us. We do not perceive time and place in the same ways as you do, and as such integration has been long and difficult by your definition.

We still have so very far to go. This world was the salvation of our race. Your General calls us the progenitors of this world but we cannot accept such distinctions. I will only ask that when you think of your Adrianic neighbours, attempt to separate the actions of their leaders and their people as you go about your quest for independence.

Your species is born of the same earth and your blood spills the same shade. Don’t fail yourselves, as the lastborn of my planet did those millions of years ago. The General can see the emotion in your faces, but I unfortunately do not perceive your passions in the same light.

I can see your genetics and I see your memories take shape above you like a cloud. When you are at your angriest, I even see its storm. Do not feel discomfort in this, it is not intended as an intrusion. I look out onto this crowd and I can see the achievements of your ancestors, and everyone they ever loved and hated. I smile on your swords.”

With this, Searcher Olmn left the podium to a more muted applause. The Gods of the Falsharran gate seemed for a moment to shift. A soldier a little younger than Isaac named Solis Gartian approached Isaac as he finished his tobacco. Solis prompted his with an open pack and Isaac took another stick.

“Interesting speech,” said Solis playfully.

“One for the ages,” returned Isaac, taking a quick puff.

“Was wondering if you wanted to head over to the Battente quarter, get a few drinks with me and Khasan. The General says we should make the most of the festivities before we get stationed at the border. If we don’t get stationed close there’s a good chance I ent going to see you for another year, two years, who knows how long.”

“You go on ahead, I’ll catch up with you later tonight. I need to talk to the General.”

“You think you’re going special ops?”

“Looking likely but you can never tell with the General. I’ll let you know later man, go have fun.”

“Yeah well…good luck, Isaac,” said Solis, who swept back his long blonde hair with his fingers, put his cap back on his head, and turned towards the throng. Without turning back he added, “Just make sure you get your broken down face over to Battente tonight!”

Solis took his assault rifle, held it above his head and shouted out to a small audience of his soldier friends, “Liberation!” as he left the side of the stage. The soldiers returned with a salute of clenched fists. Isaac took the butt of his second tobacco stick and clenched it tight in his hand, incinerating it. General Ciln was still shaking hands with city officials, no apparent end in sight.