Circle
By jinnis
Sharia holds the frail body of the child, cradling the slim girl in her arms until the convulsing limbs come to rest. Dark alien blood trickles from the wound in her side, and the little being's complexion turns from turquoise to an ashen grey.
Her mind wanders back to another planet, another war, and another girl. As a child of seven, she had been lucky to survive the fiery rain from space that obliterated the settlement. The troops that found her sent her to an orphanage, but the invaders arrived before she found time to settle in.
The girl in her lap opens her eyes wide, the inner lid rolling back to reveal an indigo, pupil-less eyeball, and moans, trembling fingers reaching for the bone dagger at her side.
"No, little one, I won't hurt you." Aware the alien girl can't understand, Sharia tears a piece from her scarf and guides her charge's slender hand to press it against the wound and staunch the bleeding. "You're in no state to fight, young sparrow."
Just like herself, the day Kazai found her. Yet he had burdened himself with a wounded and starved child, offspring of a different species with whom he had only one thing in common: They were alone and desperate, delicate feathers, ragged and tossed around by the hurricane called war.
With the rest of the scarf, she bandages the girl's rump. Then she rummages through her bag for a squashed nutrient bar. The girl coughs, a rough, painful sound, but nibbles at the food, and Sharia offers her canteen, guides it against pale, chafed lips.
"Is that better? Do you have a name?"
No answer, just that unreadable stare. Tears brim in Sharia's eyes and she rubs them away with her palm, leaving wet tracks in the soot on her skin. Kazai is long gone, the one who taught her to carry her head high no matter what—and how to wield a weapon. His teachings carried her on, but she never let herself dwell on memories. Too easy it is to lose focus and fall prey to hopelessness.
Still—what remains for her, here at the end of a voyage across the galaxy? After all those endless and nerve-wrecking transfers? After brutal wars and broken treaties, flaring hope and stale promises? Is this just another turn of the circle?
No, it might be the end. With all dreams abandoned, what remains is another dying child in another dying world. But where is the honour in this all?
She brushes a strand of knotted blue hair out of the girl's face, places her on an insulation blanket and covers her with her own jacket. "I'll be back." She keeps her fingers crossed this will not become an empty promise.
The girl stares at her with indigo eyes and then mutters a single word. "Ashai."
Honour. It is one of the few words of Boka she picked up, wondering if the concepts were similar. Time to find out. Sharia smiles, an almost forgotten warmth spreading in her chest. "Ashai, little bird." She picks up her weapon.
With their group of mercenaries decimated beyond reason, they should have abandoned the mission days ago. Still, they carried on, stubborn, caught in their hopeless warrior ways. But no longer. Sharia remembers now what's right.
The killing has to stop. Now.
YOU ARE READING
Tevun-Krus #89 - SamuraiPunk
Science FictionWhat would it have been like if Samurai warriors had used something akin to lightsabers? Yeah, writing in this sub-genre could well be like writing Star Wars in Feudal Japan. The time period doesn't have to be way back, of course, nor does the techn...
