Seluk: "War Pawns"

Something I've been working on for a little while now :3 It was originally a strange dream I had, which I evolved into it's own novel. This is what I have so far XD
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If there is one thing I will remember from my time spent in this war, it will not be the nagging sorrow of having left family behind, the slew of new and strange faces met in my travels, or even the fear that crept through me like spiders through my veins when I first received my summons of enlistment. No, the one thing I will always remember is the ear-splitting crack of a rifle followed by the almost immediate sensation of a white-hot bullet slicing through the left side of my waist with the precision of a scalpel. The tiniest whiff of scorched flesh escaped through a sliver of an opening in my fingers pressing tightly over the wound. Blood roared through my ears so loudly that I could not even hear my own cry of pain, and when I collapsed into the earthen mounds dampened with blood I could only lay there with tears streaming from my tired eyes and fresh blood seeping from between my fingers. My thoughts galloped far away from this land of smoke and ash to a tiny farm settled in the far corner of a grand spherical world, a place of warmth and comfort. I thought of the faces I had left, the people who’s hopes hung by threads as they watched and waited for their boy’s safe return. I felt my own exhaustion lull me into a false peace. I enjoyed the eerie calm washing over me as I thought of her fingertips on my shoulder, a simple but loving gesture I had not expected from her that night. My heart lurched at the thought of never being able to know what forever would mean for us, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my father thought these things too as he lay dying in an uprooted field of scorched craters much like this one.

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As children, we are immune to the worldly woes of our parents, and we remain unburdened, for the most part, by hardships faced. As a boy my only worries revolved around a strict time management of my own fabrication. I was always looking for new and creative ways to combine my long list of daily chores so I could finish them in half the time and play longer. In the days before the war, no Seluk had much else to worry about. We lived a safe and simple life under the Riflek’s care.

Our creators and masters, the greatest intellectual minds of this galaxy, grew lonely in their isolation from neighboring cultures and, in their divine wisdom, gathered together the strongest and most able-bodied fauna of the land and merged them to give birth to the Seluk, my people. They shared with my people their knowledge, and in return the Seluk vowed to use this knowledge to serve the Riflek in all of their needs. In return for granting them life, sentience and intellect, my people pledged their lives to creating for the Riflek a paradise. This is the tale we were taught as children, the story of our origins.

As a boy, I accepted this when I first heard it in school. This was the way of our world. The Riflek were wise and beautiful beings, who lived in lofty cities so high above the world they could stoop out over their porches and touch the stars, and we were their ever loyal Seluk servants, creatures of the earth brought to life. We breathed the free air through blunt muzzles, felt the wind through our shaggy manes, the sun on our sheer coats and the earth under our hooves, and we always remembered our places in this world. My father, in particular was a devout follower of this ideal.

To him, our farm, even our house, was a temple that reflected our undying loyalty to the Riflek, and he kept it in such detailed care that I would wonder if he was obsessed.

“If I am, at least it’s the right thing to obsess over.” He would say whenever I asked, “I want Imza to be remembered as an honest and loyal name.”

Our family name, Imza, was my father’s only other obsession. We would always go on about how a man is only as good as his word, and a man’s name is his word.

“Words are the most powerful weapon we have in this world, Adelais,” he would always tell me, “sharper than blades and far more precise than any plasma bullet they manufacture today. Use your words, but fear them as well.”

I did not understand until much later in my life the true wisdom his words held. Looking back on those days, I wish I had listened to him more.

I don’t remember the exact time of day my father received the letter that would change our lives. Those summer days as a child melded into one blissful era after another, as they are prone to do. I remember walking inside, for whatever reason, to see my parents both at the table discussing with low voices a matter that appeared to be quite serious.

The small family parlor stood as a barrier between me and the kitchen table, and the adults were too engrossed in their discussion to notice the bright silver Seluk boy standing in the doorway

I didn’t catch their entire conversation when I walked in, only small fragments, and with an insatiable curiosity I strained to listen.

“Out of the ordinary…”

“Not designed…”

“Alone…”

“No, there has to be some mistake!”

I had never heard my mother take such a tone before. Her voice trembled, and despite the anguish in her words, she was eerily quiet as she spoke.

“M-Mom?” I couldn’t keep the words back.

I knew this wasn’t a conversation I was meant to hear, but the emotion crowded the room with eerie negativity, stagnating and coagulating in the air and choking me. My father looked up from over the electronic tablet in his hands with no readable expression on his dark and mottled gray face, and I knew in that instant something was horribly wrong.