The Roots That Chain Us

Part 2/2

    I’m alone in Siffa’s office, my cleaning hurried and sloppy.

    The Vel’ett I stole has long since died, it no longer emits light. Its roots are dry and still.

    But here, on the table before me, stands a fresh one. Recently plucked from the hive-stacks along the wall, it pulses with fierce color.

    There must be a pattern, a code.

    I study it intently: how the colors shift, how the pulses travel along the roots. It seems random. But it cannot be. This is how they store their secrets.

    “Your Master has no warriors?”

    The voice startles me.

    The Vel’ett tumbles from my paws, rolling across the floor.

    I spin around.

    A warrior stands in the doorway.

    “Are you Omi?” he asks.

    My chest tightens.

    I have been found.

    They come for me, as they did for her.

    He blocks the only exit.

    He’s small for a warrior, but still carries two holstered guns.

    I measure the distance.

    I will have to go through him.

    He wraps a paw around the grip of one gun.

    “Don’t,” he says calmly.

    I freeze.

    I must think.

    “We have only one. Tobla,” I stammer. “He accompanies the Master on his errands.”

    “Ahh… I see,” he says. “It is their arrogance, you know? That’s why you still roam freely among their secrets. The fools.”

    The words shock me.

    No one speaks of the Masters like that.

    I hold my tongue.

    It must be a trap.

    A test.

    “You shouldn’t say such things,” I say carefully. “The Masters are merciful... and kind.”

    He glances at the Vel’ett on the floor.

    “You don’t trust me,” he says. “That’s wise.”

    I remain silent.

    “Then listen closely: you’ll find what you need among the poorest and eldest of the Masters. The mind-terminals were not always like this,” he gestures at Siffa’s terminal. “Find the old ones.”

    He turns to leave.

    “Then come find me,” he adds. “At the Glass-Dome. We need someone with your... freedom.”

#

    I avoid the main avenues, lit by hanging strips of blue bioluminescent moss.

    The warriors enforcing the Tikai curfew are easy to evade: their routes predictable, their movements noisy.

    Few Masters venture out at night. They retreat to their chambers, basking in artificial light before beginning their dark respiration.

    They do not sleep as we do, but they soften their senses. And they seclude themselves. To enter a Master's chamber during this cycle is to risk death, a silent asphyxiation. But I have never seen Siffa interrupt his.

    My greatest threat, I think, is not the Masters.

    It is the Tikai.

    I head for the wave-breakers: the walls that protect the city in the middle of the flood-plains. Here, the city changes. No domes. Just stacked blocks, piled haphazardly atop each other. The few Tikai sleep in tents outside. Some Masters have a single slave.

    Those who spot me, skulking in the shadows, pay me no mind.

    I scale one of the tallest stacks.

    From up here, the city stretches out before me in a soft blue glow. Outside the walls, a great river churns in the moons’ light, spilling into the dark sea.

    Mud and debris cover the flats between river and wall. The moons command the tides: times of fertile soil and times of roiling waves.

    To the west, hills rise into mountains, swallowed by green jungle.

    Blue lances of light streak across the night sky in the distance: ships launching into orbit.

    Funny, how I never knew. How I never wondered at what lay beyond the walls.

    Now, I climb here every night.

    I let the sea breeze caress my fur.

    She would have loved it.

#

    The block houses have become familiar, three to five chambers each, depending on their size. A feeding space. A respiration chamber. A workspace. Every block has mind-terminals, always like Siffa’s.

    But I don’t give up.

    House after house. Grid by grid.

    I search entire neighborhoods, for hours each night.

    It is not in vain. I collect parchments and leather books. I gather Vel’etts. I even steal a gun. I stash it all in our secret place: my memorial to her.

    I learn.

    Even if their truths are twisted, like snakes coiling back on themselves until even the Masters believe their own lies.

    Word by word, I build my understanding of the Human.

    But my time in the lab is limited.

    Tonight, I search a new stack, working methodically upward.

    Tikai see me. They do not care.

    On the top floor, I slip silently past a leather curtain into the block.

    Inside: a treasure trove.

    Piles of dusty books. Mounds of decaying scrolls. More knowledge than I have ever seen in one place.

    I stuff two scrolls into my bag. I’ll return for more.

    I press deeper, drawn by curiosity. It doesn’t feel like a Master’s home. It’s filthy. Crumbling. Mold-ridden.

    Except one chamber.

    Vel’ett receptacles cover every surface, floor to ceiling, glowing faintly. Only a narrow path winds through them, ending at a strange machine.

    A half-sphere of steel sits balanced atop a tangled nest of glowing roots that inch outward, stretching toward the receptacles.

    I approach silently, holding my breath: a Master is in the next chamber.

    I pull myself up to the rim of the sphere and peer inside.

    A writhing pool of slick, dark roots churns below. They shift, as if reaching. Light pulses faintly, irregularly.

    I extend a paw and touch the nearest one.

    It’s warm and wet.

    It curls slowly around my fingers.

    Then my wrist.

    It pulls, gently.

    I let it.

    The roots coil around me, drawing me down until they cover my face.

    In the dark, I realise my mistake.

    I can’t breathe!

    I try to pull free.

    The roots hold fast.

    I strain, kick, panic—nothing.

    My lungs burn.

    I spasm and struggle, but they do not let go.

    A thick tentacle slips into my mouth, down my throat.

    I choke. Gag.

    I can’t move.

    I can’t scream.

    Is this how I die?

#

    I am in a void, a blue-white eternity stretching into infinity.

    I can breathe. I can move. I can feel my body, yet I cannot see it.

    Where am I?

    “How can I serve you, Master?”

    The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere at once. The soft, lilting cadence of a female Tikai.

    Does she think I am a Master? There is no one else here. Can I fool her?

    What do I say?

    I summon my best imitation of imperial command, the voice I’ve heard echo from countless domes.

    “Access a Vel’ett,” I say.

    Instantly, a grid blooms before me, suspended in the air, woven from light and shadow. In the center of each dark hexagon, a Vel’ett floats, gently rotating. Above them, names and numbers in the Master’s script, settling into place.

    “The one on the top left.” I tell her.

    The grid slides aside, replaced by a new window: an endless column of titles cascading downward like a waterfall.

    I try to focus.

    When I fix my attention on a line, the list halts there.

    The Climate and Biomes of Chlorava V.

    “Open it,” I command.

    The entry expands.

    It is a book without pages. Just flowing text, fluid and endless, scrolling downward as I read, as though the machine can read my thoughts.

    Secrets.

    They are here, beneath my finger tips.

    More than I could learn in several lifetimes.

    I return almost every night.

    An hour, sometimes two. No more.

    There is too much at risk.

    I search the Vel’etts.

    I sift through the archives.

    I dive into the web: the mycelial net that connects every mind-terminal, branching like roots beneath the earth.

    I learn history. Biology. Politics.

    But most important of all,

    I learn the language of the Humans.

#

    “You must free me,” the Human says.

    Her name is Alia. A warrior. She once flew through the endless black between worlds. A battle, long ago—the Masters won.

    “I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t. Siffa would know. He would punish us both...”

    “Is that what your kind does?” she snaps. “Cower beneath the Masters? Too afraid to fight for yourselves?”

    I flinch.

    “Where would you go, Alia?” I ask. “You think they wouldn’t see you? That they’d just let you stroll through the gates? This world belongs to them.”

    “So I rot in this goddamn cage until I die?” she cuts in.

    I fall silent, thinking. There must be a way.

    “What about the other Humans? Can they not help you?”

    “Maybe… if they even knew I was here.”

    “Can’t you send them a message?”

    She tilts her head, eyes narrowing.

    “We could…” Her voice softens. “If you got your hands on an Entanglement Array. But do you know how vast space is, Omi? This is the center of their empire. By the time any ship arrived here, if it ever did, I’d be long dead.”

    Of course… I hadn’t thought of that. The Masters drift between stars like seeds in the wind. But Humans live brief lives, even if they feel like an eternity to a Tikai.

    But if we could communicate...

    She leans forward, eyes sharp.

    “But Omi... we’re not just fighting for ourselves.

    The Masters enslave every species they meet.

    We would free you, too. Even if you can’t help me, help your people.

    Someone has to light the spark.”

    I force myself to leave. I’ve already stayed too long.

    But her words linger.

    We were not always slaves.

    I will find a way.

#

    The war has lasted generations.

    The Masters pushed against Human borders, but found a far tougher foe than the lesser civilizations they devoured without effort. Yet in a war fought by billions, across countless worlds, there is no victory, only ruin.

    Planets turned to ash in an unending struggle, left uninhabitable to all. Neither side relents. Neither can retreat.

    We are like driftwood in a river: swept along and crushed by the currents. Fodder in battles where stars are shattered.

    It is true: once, we were equals to the Masters. But their society advanced faster. The chaining was subtle at first, then ruthless. Over generations, over thousands of years. Until nothing remained but docile slaves.

    Still, I have tried to awaken them, to make them feel.

    They do not listen.

    My anger breaks helplessly against generations of subservience.

    It is not fear that chains them. It is something more dangerous: indifference. A numb surrender. The Masters’ cruelty is a fact of life. The Tikai do not question their place, do not raise their voices, do not dream of more. They bow their heads and endure.

    I feel like I am screaming underwater. There is no one to hear.

    It does not matter how much I learn if I remain powerless.

    One option remains.

    A risk.

    Maybe a trap, waiting to snap shut around my paws.

    But I must try.

#

    I have been to the Glass-Dome several times but I never see the warrior who summoned me.

    Today feels different. Siffa was agitated, excited. He sent us out hastily, just before the morning Feeding. At least I will be spared the noon sun.

    This time, I am not alone. Sibu and Eki accompany me, each clutching a sealed Vel’ett. Even Tobla escorts us.

    Masters blanket the domes, slowly shifting around the circumference to always face the rising sun. Tikai scramble, spraying them with water. Slush drips down the mounds, spilling into canals. We weave between the Masters and Tikai flooding the avenues.

    The great Glass-Dome lies covered in earth at this hour. Prestigious Masters bask in the sunlight, guarded by an army of warriors encircling the structure.

    We wait in the shaded tent. Masters come and take the Vel’etts. I do not see the warrior. I linger, trying to peer deeper into the dome.

    “Come, Omi. We must not keep the Master waiting,” Tobla says.

    I run outside after them, the sun blazing after the gloom.

    Something small and hard smacks my temple

    A pebble bounces on the floor.

    I skid to a stop, searching for the assailant.

    There, at the base of the Glass-Dome, stands the warrior.

    He is not alone.

    His gaze pierces me.

    He mouths a single word: “Night.”

    I tear myself away and try to catch up to the others.

#

    That night, I slip back to the Glass-Dome. The streets are empty and quiet, the air still and cold.

    I hide in the canals, sinking into the cold, oily slush near where I last saw him. My fur is wet and clinging to my sides. The smell of decay is overwhelming. But crouched in the dark, the patrols don’t see me.

    I spot him, skulking, glancing from side to side. He doesn’t see me.

    “Here,” I whisper.

    His eyes dart around, then lock on mine.

    “What…” he stammers. “Don’t be ridiculous. Get out of there, Omi.”

    I climb out, thick mud dripping from my fur.

    “Look at you!” he laughs. “Come on, younglin, follow me.”

    He has his own room. Not a barracks, an entire room to himself. A large, comfortable bed with soft linens. A chest for his few belongings. Colorful cloths draped over the clean, smooth walls.

    I gape.

    “Perks of the job,” he explains.

    He offers me juice, which I accept gratefully.

    “Now, Omi,” he says, settling in. “Tell me about the Human.”

    I do.

    Before I go, Eshar presses a bag into my paws, filled with Vel’etts, dark and unmoving.

#

    I have placed an empty Vel’ett on a receptacle. I hope Siffa won’t notice. Now I must wait for it to absorb information, to steal Siffa’s secrets.

    Meanwhile, I attend to my duties, heart pounding.

    I scrub the floors, feeling the human’s eyes burning into me. Alia has learned to be patient, no longer banging against the glass as soon as I enter.

    “We must deliver a message to your kind,” I tell her.

    “You do?” she stands. “Why?”

    “Maybe they can’t help you… or me. But maybe they can help the Tikai. Maybe we can help each other.”

    She leans against the steel-glass, studying me.

    “I guess I have nothing to lose, do I?” she says.

    She gives me a set of stellar coordinates. A code.

    I memorize them.

    “How do I access an Entanglement Array?” I ask.

    She puts her hands on her hips.

    “How should I know?”

#

    This is the perfect opportunity. Siffa has been personally summoned to the Glass-Dome. He won’t return until nightfall, giving me enough time.

    I retrieve the Vel’ett, now glowing fiercely, pulsing with stolen light. It is warm in my paws as I stuff it into a bag.

    I run as fast as I can.

    Just a Tikai on an errand. Nothing unusual.

    Yet I feel exposed, as if the Vel’ett might cry out at any moment.

    I head for the outskirts, where the city bleeds into the towering walls.

    I find it: a single block house, far from the avenues, drowned in the perpetual shadows cast by the wave-breakers. Its walls are cracked, dirt pooling at the entrance.

    Behind stiff leather curtains, there are only two chambers.

    The first is empty, stripped bare long ago.

    I move toward the back, toward the respiration chamber.

    I freeze.

    Atop a circular stone dais lies the corpse of a Master.

    Its insides have spilled out across the floor, a collapsed heap of decomposing biomass. The membrane still clings to the dais like a punctured bladder, hardened now into glassy, undulating bark.

    The flower is shriveled, gray and brittle.

    A single flickering UV light bathes the room in sickly blue.

    I have never seen a dead Master. It reminds me how fragile they truly are without their machines to protect them.

    I give it a wide berth, skirting the dais.

    Behind it, beneath a pile of poorly arranged stones, I find the tunnel.

#

    I sprint down the tunnel, only stopping when it splits in different directions. Guided by the glow of bioluminescent moss, I follow the map.

    It’s hard to measure time, when all I see is stone and iron buttresses. But eventually, the path begins to rise, steeper than it should. Up and up.

    Until I reach a dead end.

    A rope hangs from above, disappearing into the darkness.

    I climb.

    At the top, I feel the heavy iron hatch with my paws.

    It doesn’t budge.

    I bang on it.

    Moments pass… until it creaks open, fierce sunlight blinding me.

    A strong, rough paw pulls me up.

    Tikai surround me, some with guns, others wielding spears and daggers.

    One is unarmed. A large female with patchy green fur, streaked in gray and bald spots.

    “And who might you be?” she asks.

    “Omi,” I say, rising. “Eshar sent me.”

    “Good. We’ve been waiting.”

    She holds out a paw.

    I hesitate, but hand her the Vel’ett.

    Only then do I realize where I am.

    The jungle.

    The ground is carpeted in soft moss, blue and green. Towering white trees snake into the sky, their triangular blue leaves refracting the afternoon sunlight.

    Parasitic plants hang from the branches, creeping along the bark, draining their hosts. Slimy, shapeless things. Like Masters.

    In the shadows, stone houses. Tikai houses.

    They gather outside to work: crafting, tending to gardens and herds of Mutii.

    They track our entourage with curious glances as we head deeper into the forest.

    Free Tikai!

    Right here. Beneath the Masters’ watch.

    Kika, their leader, guides us to a large dome of green concrete, nestled in an artificial clearing. The warriors flank us, quiet and alert.

    Inside, Vel’ett receptacles climb the dome’s walls like vines. On the floor, mind-terminals like the one I’ve used. Dozens of Tikai are linked in.

    “You’ve done well,” she says, placing the Vel’ett carefully on a receptacle.

#

    It feels like a feast.

    Food overflows, sweet fruits and tender meats, while dancing and singing fill the air. Laughter echoes through the forest. For a moment, I forget the weight I carry.

    There is life here. Joy.

    I wait for Kika, filling my stomach, watching younglings chase each other between the trees.

    She doesn’t sit. Doesn’t smile.

    She holds the dead Vel’ett in her paws like a rotting fruit, shattering my newly found peace.

    “Do you know what your Master does, Omi?” she asks.

    “Not exactly. I could never access his mind-terminal.”

    She lowers her gaze. The firelight flickers across her worn features.

    “He makes weapons,” she says. “A virus. A disease that can spread unseen among the Humans. Built from the ground up, each nucleotide engineered to perfection. It will scour their worlds clean.”

    I drop the fruit in my paw.

    “Can you destroy it?” I ask. “This weapon?”

    “No… as long as the knowledge exists, it can be made again. Replicated. It’s not the weapon we must destroy, Omi. It’s the Masters.”

    She looks up, eyes burning with conviction.

    “We must warn them. Not to save the Humans. But in exchange for a future of our own,” she smiles sadly. “A symbiotic relationship.”

#

    It doesn’t take long for them to locate a suitable mind-terminal. Eshar finds me. He cannot move as freely as I can, so the task falls to me. I hold the knowledge, after all.

    A plan takes shape.

    After delivering my charge to the Glass-Dome, I set out toward my true objective.

    It isn’t far. The dome gleams even from a distance. Unlike others, which shroud their entrances in shadow, this one is drenched in light. Mirrors and lenses funnel the sunlight into its depths.

    Many Tikai serve its Master, Urut. But even he must bow to someone else.

    I wear the insignia of a warrior, borrowed from Eshar. In my paws, I carry a sealed Vel’ett. Strapped to my chest is the gun I stole.

    I walk with pride and purpose, inflating my posture to hide my size, while my heart pounds uncontrolled.

    I step boldly into the light. Warriors turn toward me.

    “I bring a message of great import,” I announce. “From Master Ooula himself.”

    I see it in their stance, the weight of that name.

    “The Master is in his office,” one replies. “Keep left until the corridor ends, then turn right.”

    Sunlight floods the interior, fading as I move deeper, but no one stops me. No one questions me. I walk as if I belong.

    In the office, I bow low before Urut.

    He does not recognize me. I hadn’t expected him to.

    He examines my insignia.

    “From Ooula?” he asks, taking the package.

    “Yes, Master,” I reply. “He said it was urgent.”

    “Then I will see to it at once.”

    He pierces the green membrane with a practiced pseudopod. The Vel’ett pulses in his grasp. He passes it to a Tikai, who scurries up the wall and slots it into a receptacle.

    I step backward, withdrawing from the chamber.

    Urut settles into his mind-terminal. He pays me no mind.

    I only hope the forged information is enough to fool him.

#

    I find a quiet chamber and wait, until night claims the sky.

    Tobla covers my absence. A full year has passed since I lost Zuka. He believes I grieve in our secret place, but he does not know the purpose that fills me, the rage that drives me.

    No Tikai should still be inside the dome after dark.

    So I slip back to the office, to the mind-terminal.

    I retrieve the device they gave me from my bag.

    I tug at the roots beneath the terminal until one tears free, oozing thick, viscous fluid. I connect the device, its snaking root gropes blindly until it finds purchase.

    I sit on the ground beside it and lower the bulky steel helmet over my head.

    It tightens.

    Too much.

    Pain blossoms in red flashes.

    Then I am in the void.

#

    I know now: the voice in the void is just a program. A hollow imitation of a Tikai, crafted to pander and obey the Masters.

    I waste no time on pleasantries.

    I issue commands, tearing through the archives until I find what I seek.

    I input the coordinates Alia gave me.

    I transmit the code.

    And reach out.

    “Can anyone read this?” I ask, in the Human tongue.

    The silence stretches, an eternity in the void.

    Then, at last, they reply!

    “Major Alia Simons, report.”

    I explain.

    Everything.

    About me. About the Tikai. About the Masters.

    About Alia, the Human still trapped in Siffa’s lab.

    And about the weapon.

    “You must delay them,” the message comes. “We cannot allow them to deploy a bioweapon.”

    “I cannot stop it alone,” I write. “Can you help me?”

    “Omi, we’re decades away, even on our fastest ships.

    We can help your people. We can give you weapons. Knowledge. Strategy.

    But the fight must begin with you.”

    “I am fighting,” I reply, bristling. “I’m here. I’m helping you.”

    “We know. And we are grateful, truly. But you are the key, Omi.

    You plow their fields. You feed their domes. You fight their wars.

    If the Tikai rise, their empire falls.

    Fight and we will come.

    We will free your worlds.”

#

    I fight in the ways I can.

    I try to rally the Tikai, but my words fall flat. Tobla’s son avoids my gaze. Whispers die when I enter. Others avoid me entirely.

    So I leave that task to others.

    The community in the jungle grows, slowly. Few Tikai join. But some are born free. Given time, we might raise an army.

    But to face the Masters head-on is suicide. Guns are useless, their shields bend energy. But pierce them with steel, and they bleed.

    Not battles.

    Ambushes.

    Poison in their soil.

    That is how we fight, until the Human weapons arrive.

    Until we are ready.

    So I alter the temperatures in the biovats. I contaminate samples. Crack vials. Corrupt Vel’etts.

    I slow Siffa’s progress, unseen.

    Killing him would be pointless. Others would take his place. His knowledge flows to the Glass-Dome weekly.

    Sabotage is my weapon.

    And all the while, we steal everything he knows.

    We send it to the Humans.

    They promise ships.

    Armies.

    They are the hope I cling to.

    A future I won’t live to see.

    But others will.

#

    The Masters are fragile. And complacent.

    It is the Tikai warriors that stand in our way.

    They protect them. They keep order.

    They are bred like Mutii: large and obedient. Trained from birth. Given privileges. Their loyalty is hard to break.

    So I shame them.

    I steal their weapons and pass them to Kika’s people.

    I deface their houses.

    I piss on the domes where the Masters feed.

    I make it known.

    The patrols have increased.

    The Masters remain blind, but the warriors feel it.

    They sense the danger.

    They fear punishment for the crimes of others.

    So they lash out, more cruel, more desperate.

    But they cannot find me.

    And in their fury, they spread my hatred.

    I scurry through the city, striking a new district each night.

    I sneak into domes, destroy mind-terminals, steal Vel’etts and shatter UV lights. I embarrass them and see them turn on each other.

    They can’t fathom a Tikai so bold.

    Old rivalries flare.

    Accusations spread like fire.

    I take advantage.

    I scream another Master’s name as I hurl fire at their vehicles, then vanish into the alleys.

    I sow chaos.

    Not much.

    I am only one Tikai.

    But now—some Masters know fear.

#

    There is a chain around the planet.

    Even if every Tikai rose in revolt, even if we killed every Master in this world, they would still be Masters over the skies.

    Ships. Satellites. Orbital batteries.

    They could wipe us out from orbit.

    They would rain down vengeance tenfold.

    And when nothing remained, they would descend and start again.

    The Humans are the key.

    They strike from above.

    We strike from below.

    But we are far from ready.

    It’s one thing to stab a sleeping Master.

    It’s another to face them awake.

    They wield weapons beyond my comprehension.

    Worse still, the implants all Tikai carry.

    A quiet time bomb, waiting for the press of a button.

    We can’t defy them openly.

    Not yet.

    But I take comfort in this: I am no longer the only shadow in the dark.

    Others have heard the call.

    The chaos spreads.

    The Masters’ roots weaken.

    I will paint this city in blood, if that is the price.

    All I need…is for the Humans to come.

#

    “You have to place them where it hurts most,” Alia says. “Factories. Labs. Spaceports. Maximum disruption.”

    She’s taught me how to make bombs.

    Crude. Small. But maybe enough to slow them down.

    “But won’t that hurt more Tikai than Masters?” I ask.

    “Omi… you can’t make an omelet without breaking a few eggs.”

    “Make what?” I frown.

    “It’s just an expression,” she sighs. “I mean… sacrifices have to be made. Tikai will die. Some by your hand. Some by theirs. Innocent or not, there will be suffering.

    But you have to fight.”

    I mull it over.

    “Shouldn’t we wait for the other Humans?

    Prepare and strike when they least expect it?”

    She pauses. Her voice softens.

    “Oh, Omi… you don’t know?”

    “Know what?”

    “I am going home, Omi…” her voice trails away.

    “Then… They are coming!” I ask, hope surging. “When?”

    “No, Omi.”

    Her voice breaks.

    “A treaty was signed.

    There is peace.”

    She looks away.

    “They… we won’t help you.

    I’m sorry…”