Second Contact [Alien Nation #2] (#Wattys2019)

3

This was a beautiful planet, Rikar'Karit observed as she looked out of the tall, narrow window in her quarters. Though it was the first planet she could remember the fleet stopping for—there had been another, when she was very small—none of the old conquests from the propaganda vids had been quite so blue.

It was not in the narrow slice of the universe she could see today, though, but the light it reflected lit up what she could see—a great ring of dark metal, smaller construction drones swarming over it. Soon, the azure light of the Great Rift would smother even the planet's glow.

If Rinir'Enrit let them get that far.

After briefly closing her eyes and taking a deep breath to steel herself for the day ahead, Rikar slung her plain white robes over her narrow shoulders, straightening them until they hung just right. She still looked like a swaddled infant, though, since the robes had clearly been made for someone much bigger than her. Someone normal-sized. One would think the Temple would make acolyte robes in smaller sizes, since that was where everyone dumped their runts.

After a final check of her reflection in the window, Rikar left her dorm room, and two of her sleeping room-mates, behind as she made her way to the Sanctum.

There was a murmur echoing off the walls as she ascended the stairs leading to the long passage connecting the Sanctum to the rest of the Sentinel. Probably a hundred people leaving a service to ask for good luck in the coming battles, she reasoned as she passed a long procession of warriors. All bore their own glowing battlemarks, the stories of their victories woven into their carapaces with every stitch in an ancient script only the weavers could still speak. The blue patterns were the only spot of colour around her, so Rikar tried not to dwell on how even they had been won with blood.

There was something familiar about these warriors too, and it wasn't until she reached the end of the group, standing aside to let them pass, that it clicked. Bringing up the rear was Rinir'Enrit, her body radiant with battlemarks that set her carapace glowing with the fire of a silver star. She was holding the hand of a smaller boy – too small.

So that was Tirit, her grandson. Rikar had heard Rinir's daughter had produced a runt, but she'd never seen him in public before. It was kind of touching, really—one of the greatest warriors the fleet had ever produced, holding the hand of a child most would have cast away like spoiled food. Maybe there was hope for their people yet.

As she passed, Rinir'Enrit inclined her head in Rikar's direction, a movement so tiny it would have been too easy to miss had she not been waiting for it with bated breath. Though Rinir had barely glanced at her, the motion set Rikar's heart racing. The matriarch of one of their greatest warrior clans, the leader of the secret rebellion brewing right under the High Priest's nose, had acknowledge her! She knew her joy would light up the whole Temple if she had her own battlemarks. As it was, she could only return the gesture—it didn't even matter if Rinir could see it—and try to hide the spring in her step as she continued on her way.

Her good mood didn't last long, though. As soon as she passed through the simple arching doorway that marked the entrance to the holy place, she no longer felt the urge to smile. Her steps slowed and her shoulders sank.

She knew she could dream of rebellion and freedom all she wanted; for now, this was her reality. Cold grey walls dancing with spidery reflections of emptiness from the Minor Rift, the tear in the fabric of space that dominated the Sanctum; hushed voices and prayers whispered to the Abyssal; the High Priest kneeling in meditation on his pulpit overlooking the Rift, eyes closed but all-seeing.

She stood still and watched him for a moment, willing him to feel her stare on him and look at her for once. She wanted him to feel everything she put into her gaze. Not hate, exactly; but conviction. He and his Cardinals were the ones keeping the Tatiyrenka prisoner in this endless cycle of conquer, consume, repeat; the ones keeping them reduced to numbers in ships devoid of colour and life, in service to a god none of them had ever seen but to whose hunger they were slaves.