Misc. Bits

The Child of d'Dahjlonica

AN Update: Winner of the December 2022 Beyond Sol contest, The Child of d'Dahjlonica.

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The Great Carcass-its steel hulking blight-casts long shadows across the lush greenery of d'Dahjlonica.

I wipe sweat from my brow and allow my body to slump against the rocky outcropping. I look down at the steep cliffside, and my stomach turns over. I try to stave away the thought of the inevitable descent. As I avert my gaze from the drop, it is drawn back-as always-to the Great Carcass.

"It used to swim among the stars," my mother told me when I was a little girl, the two of us huddling next to the fire. "It brought all of the grown-ups to d'Dahjlonica before you were ever born."

"Will it ever swim again?" I remember asking, my eyes wide with naivety.

"No, Veronica," she said in response. Even as a child, I remember the weariness on her face.

I stand and take a deep swig of water, my only respite from the heavy tropical air. I am careful to stopper the brilliant magenta pouch-crafted from the hide of a Fauna 92-to avoid losing a single drop of the precious liquid.

I remember the fanciful tales of water back on Earth. The village elders claimed to have never dug a single trench nor made the long trek to a distant well-that they merely turned a knob for an endless supply of sustenance. The other children of d'Dahjlonica stopped entertaining such foolish thoughts many cycles ago.

I return to my work, water pouch slung across my back. I trudge through the harsh undergrowth, a pair of thick moccasins my only protection from the toxic nettles and grasping vines-Flora 212 and 690. I instinctively grasp for my axe, tucked into the hilt of my breaches. It is there, as I knew it would be. The weapon-crafted from the village forge-will be my only hope if I happen upon a Fauna 1. I shudder thinking of the yellow eyes and segmented body.

I begin to veer west, trusting my many cycles wandering this land to guide me to a hilltop. I am proud of my intimate and instinctual knowledge of d'Dahjlonica-even if I hope beyond hope that it is one day rendered useless.

My parents never approved of my vocation. "You should learn to work the land, Veronica," my father used to tell me. I could hardly blame him. He lost many in those first cycles: to the elements, to the Fauna, but most of all to the hunger. The proudest achievement of the First Generation was the grand harvest of Flora 40-d'Dahj Melon. One could hardly blame him for his pride in averting the extinction of our people. But he could never limit my dreams to becoming a melon magnate.

The muscles in my calves begin to protest-proof that my instincts have yielded the desired result. The ground below me becomes steeper, betraying the beginnings of a hillside. The foliage thins as the rich black soil is replaced with exposed rockface. The incline gives way to verticality, and my two-legged hike becomes a four-legged clamber.

My excitement drives a dogged pace, even in the face of exhaustion. It is how I have always been. Just one more kilometer. Just one more overlook. Just one more crater.

Where others' faith crumbled, mine remained as resilient as the iron trunk of a Flora 7. For many years, the village saw my faith with a mix of bemusement and sympathy. But, as my adolescence gave way to young adulthood, these sentiments matured into resentment.

"The Winter Cycle is nearly upon us!" I remember Elder Brown yelling at my father. "We need every able body for the harvest, not some fool's errand!"

"Listen to yourself," my father pleaded. "This is no fool's errand! If she finds the SKC-"

"It's gone, Lionel!" Elder Brown yelled. "It's been damn near 20 years of searching the Great Carcass with no avail! It's time to give it up!"

To my parents' credit, they always defended me. Deep down, I knew they agreed with Elder Brown and the other villagers. But that wasn't enough reason for them to crush my spirits.