CassaDark

Chapter 1-1

Chapter 1

“We give him back to the desert. Say-vee!”

Bassan dug fingernails into his palms. Unable to look away, he focused on his uncle and mother holding the urn high. His mother closed her eyes and Bassan wished to do the same. Nausea welled up in his guts and he shifted his gaze to the urn.

Such ornate carvings. Fitting for a former prefect.

The urn tipped. The contents flew into the wind and away from those gathered. The ashes swirled in the breeze, spreading wider with each passing moment. The sight mesmerized him. Say-vee. Transformed. Changed. A life so full reduced to such tiny particles…

A gasp tore his attention from the ashes. Tears streamed down his mother’s face. Seeing her resolve broken, Bassan’s slipped. Great-uncle Orellan was truly gone. Unable to breathe, or even move, his body stiffened. Trapped in the moment, Bassan reached out with his mind.

Fingers curled around his and Bassan returned the grasp with gratitude. The delicate touch on his mind matched the hold on his hand. He closed his eyes. Sirella.

I am here, she thought.

Unwilling to show weakness in front of Sirella, he took a deep breath and opened his eyes. The urn now in place atop the pillar, his mother and uncle stood facing each other. His Uncle Istaner’s expression remained guarded, but Bassan noted the quiver in his chin. He dared not look at his mother again though. Intent on the urn and the sandy-red hills behind it, Bassan held still.

“We pray you might receive and care for him until we meet again.”

Emanating from the far right, the presiding cleric’s words landed with a dull thud in Bassan’s heart. Until they met again? It would be a long, long time.

A soft moan escaped from his mother, and his father stepped forward. Uttering a sob, his mother fell into his arms. Bassan dropped his chin and fought against his own tears. Orellan might have been Istaner’s father, but his mother regarded the man as her own father, and he’d acted as both great-uncle and grandfather toward Bassan.

So unfair. Why do people have to die so soon? Maybe our ancestors knew how to cheat death a few years.

A hand curled around his arm, pulling him close. Comfort poured from Sirella. Bassan let his head drop against hers. And why does it have to hurt so much?

It hurts because you loved him. There’s no shame in that.

Sirella’s thoughts filled him. Bassan clung to her gentle and caring support, grateful for her presence and the ability to communicate in private with their minds.

Still hard to watch it upset my mother so much.

She offered no response, only continued comfort. As she’d done for years. So much quiet strength in his girlfriend’s tiny frame. Bassan needed to draw upon that.

He took a deep breath and gave her fingers a squeeze. I need to be strong for my mother, he thought, releasing her hand and stepping forward. Thanks.

Bassan approached his parents, determined to show a brave face. His mother moved away from his father, her tear-stained face turning to her son. With a sob, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Bassan held his mother close. Years of devotion and support flashed through his mind and he tried to convey those feelings to his mother. Her arms tightened.

You were always his favorite.

Stunned, Bassan didn’t know how to respond. His mother didn’t appear to need an answer, much to his relief. Sighing deeply, she released him and stepped back. Bassan’s father pulled her close and she wiped away her tears. Resignation and acceptance flowed from his mother’s thoughts and Bassan wished he felt the same. He didn’t deal well with loss. Or change.

Sirella fell in beside him as the crowd retreated from the funeral shrine. Most of Ktren’s population had turned out for the ceremony. A feast was planned afterwards to celebrate Orellan’s life.

Not that I feel like celebrating.

Use the time to remember him, then.

He fumbled for her hand. You always know what to say.

She squeezed his fingers in response, the digits so petite in his hand. My mother’s family always spent time reflecting on the deceased afterward, sharing stories to uplift and adventures to honor. Your great-uncle was the prefect for many years. He touched countless lives. There will be much to share about him this evening.

Is that a Kintal tradition?

I’m not sure. It could be Arellen.

Sharing stories. My great-uncle accomplished so much in his life. Will people have time to discuss even half the events?

That sent his thoughts down a new path.

I wonder what people would say about me? ‘He was a quiet kid who saved the eleven races when he was ten’?

Bassan observed the throng of people around them, most of whom knew him for that single event fifteen years ago. And outside of him being the commander’s son, they knew little else.

Yeah, that probably sums up my life.

* * *

“You’re stepping down as commander?” Bassan said. He reached for the kitchen counter behind him, the news catching him by surprise. His father had commanded the Cassan base on Tgren for most of Bassan’s life.

“Son, it’s time,” his father said, running fingers through grey hair. Bassan stared at his father’s head, watching the pale strands fall into place.

When did that happen?

“I scaled back my duties years ago to spend more time with you and your mother. But it’s time I step down and focus my energies on her. Neither of us is getting any younger. And I want my final years spent making your mother happy.”

A force hit Bassan’s chest. “Father, you’re not…?”

His father waved his hand and shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”

“Mother?”

“She’s also fine. I want to give her everything I possibly can in our last years, though.”

Bassan’s arms dropped to his sides. Last years? His great-uncle’s funeral the day before filled his mind.

I’m not ready to lose either of you.

His father smiled. Bassan gritted his teeth and brought up his shields. Too late, of course.

“We’re not going anywhere for a good many years,” his father said, his tone soothing. “But considering recent events, I need to give her more time. And that means resigning as commander.”

Bassan’s fists clenched but he nodded in acceptance. His father approached and grasped his shoulder. The lines around his eyes deepened with his wry smile.

“When you have a mate, you’ll understand.”

“Yeah,” Bassan said, his thoughts straying to Sirella. A fellow Kintal, Piten’s daughter loved him. Bassan cared immensely for the thin, pale girl. Her adoring eyes greeted him with affection the first time they met and never faltered in their admiration, even after fifteen years. They were not committed mates though.

His father nodded and turned away. Bassan’s mind returned to the present.

“Will you stay here?” he said, his words tumbling out.

His father snapped to attention. “Of course. This is our home. I won’t take your mother’s heart away from Tgren. Or my own.”

“Yours?”

Standing straighter, he crossed his arms. “Cassa was never my home. Tgren is where I belong. Despite its damn sand penetrating every crack and seal.”

Bassan smiled. His father had long complained about the gritty dust that permeated life on Tgren. Came with living on a half-desert planet.

“Our family and friends are here. You are here,” his father said, placing extra emphasis on the word you. “With your special connection with the ancient Kintal ship, I know you’re not going anywhere. Neither shall we.”

“You know I’m not leaving Tgren.”

That’s a change I can’t handle at all.

Bassan exited his parents’ dwelling and paused. Desert winds caught his face. Heat curled around his cheeks, blowing the shaggy strands of hair from his sight. Parched sand burnt his nose. The glow of the late afternoon sun, vibrant in the clear, dry air, caused him to squint.

He ducked his head and strode to his desert rider. Hunkering over the vehicle, Bassan started the engines and blasted off when they attained the appropriate charge. He couldn’t reach the sanctuary of his own home fast enough.

Not a chance I’m leaving Tgren! Not when the Kintal ship shows me so much. I wouldn’t give up slipping into the past for anything. Viewing previous worlds through the eyes of our ancestors—that’s the reason I stayed here for training rather than be shipped off to Cassa five years ago.

Bassan sailed past the Cassan base checkpoint. He careened through the streets of Tgren, mindful of pedestrians but determined to reach his destination in record time. Despite his frequent journeys down this path, he tried to increase his speed every time. The pale sand structures flashed by in a blur. The monotonous shapes and tone, causing one street to look like the others, might confuse some. Bassan knew the journey home all too well. After five years, nothing obscured the route.

He pulled up outside a two-story dwelling. Securing his desert bike in its alcove, he raced up the stairs to his flat. He hesitated at the door, his hand hovering over the press plate. All Tgren residences now boasted one, an electronic scanning device for entry, and his building received theirs recently. The merging of Cassan and Tgren culture now complete, the former manual locks represented the last vestige of Tgren customs. While Bassan appreciated the convenience, he wondered at its implication. What else would be lost of Tgren’s history and culture?

Think how much we lost of the Kintal way of life.

He shoved his hand against the device and waited for the chime. His door slid aside, and he entered the cool room. Slapping his gloves on the counter, he then brushed his hair with vigorous strokes, freeing the loose sand.

Father’s right, this stuff is everywhere.

Fighting the itch across his scalp, Bassan strode into his media and entertainment room. Tgrens called it the receiving room, designed for guests and socializing. Since he rarely entertained guests outside of Drent and Tarn, the focus of the room turned to multimedia and the center of all things visual and sound. With its windows, narrow though they might be, facing the mountain slope and open desert, Bassan found it the perfect place to relax.

Slumping onto the dark couch, a sharp contrast to the room’s sandy orange walls, he dropped his head against the cushions. The softness comforted him, and he closed his eyes.

“Music! Playlist ninety-three.”

A swelling chorus of music and vocals filled the room, its sound as alien as those who created it. Bassan drew strength from the rhythmic melody. His shoulders unknotted, and he smiled.

My first Kintal composition. And all from my memory.

His thoughts traveled back to that day. His unique connection with the old Kintal ship provided information in a manner no other could experience—a dreamlike state placing him in the body of one of his ancestors. In that moment, he gained full access to the person’s surroundings. Bassan often reached back into Tgren history before the ancient ship brought his mother’s people to the planet. Those moments, experiencing life as another race, thrilled him. It also revealed new data regarding the eleven races, which included his mixed-breed heritage, the Kintals. A blend of all races, people today knew little about them outside of the ten ancient ships. One such journey back placed him in the middle of a celebration. And on that fateful spring morning, he heard Kintal music for the first time.

His grin grew.

And I worried Mevine to death about replicating it.

After badgering everyone connected with the alien ship, including his father, Tgren musicians came in to listen to the music playing in his head. Replicating it required Cassan technology, and a Fesellan called in to add the final touches lifted the piece to perfection. His ancestors, his people, would be proud of the results.

But your music didn’t last. You sacrificed it all to save the other ten races. You let your own culture crumble, the particles lost in the winds of space. Why? Was survival of the others more important than your own? What about those of us who are Kintal now? Who are we, really?

No answer came. Just the emptiness of always wondering.

A beep penetrated the swelling music. His eyes flew open. “Music off.”