The Bird and The Dragon

04-332 Dorthorviken

The forest sensed the steel cutting through the soil, mycelium, and underground filaments. It sent forth a spore cloud making the man hold his breath under the hood covering his face. The fabric of the hood and its filters were manufactured of the fibers produced in the southern forests. The fabrics were difficult to dye, and the cloth shone too white in the light, highlighting it against the dark trunks of the surrounding rows of trees.

Patrik, or strategej Patrik, as the 31-year-old was officially called, wore dark trousers and a coat with large pockets. His equipment was harnessed on top of them: a belt, a small backpack, a sword, and a knife. In addition to these, he was holding an oblong package in his gloved hand.

Patrik had straight features and the strict bearing of a heartless man. His severe attitude towards responsibilities showed in the expression of his thin face. He smiled rarely, laughed seldom and the shadow of the first vertical wrinkle had already cast itself between his eyes.

If the face had been livelier Patrik could have been considered a handsome or at least a nice-looking man. His eyes were cloudy green and turned brown when shadows hit them right. His skin was kissed to a shade of toffee by the sunny days spent in the south. The haircut was short and neat, but still, the suns had found a way to bleach the ends and the brown carried lighter streaks.

The spores flew for a while and there was movement in the trees as the birds took wing to transport their silent messages. Patrik wanted to shoot all the winged ones to the ground; to stomp them under his soles to break their fragile bones, to ensure that the information they carried in their beaks or feet or dragons know where would be absorbed into the soil. That way the messages would reach the target trees only as a distorted echo, conveyed by the ground.

Patrol’s original objective had been to destroy this forest’s growth zone, to prevent its production from competing with the northern metal wells. Patrik had a feeling that the forest knew what he was planning. He would have postponed the operation, but they had received a message yesterday telling them to complete the objective as soon as possible and to be on their way towards the south and the city called Haven.

Patrik crushed a lone leaf under his sole. It crumbled into powder and changed its color as no ordinary plants did. The trees sucked substances from the ground and air, processed them, and secreted them to their leaves and hard, smooth trunks.

One was not supposed to let the forest grow towards water, but the rain was not considered dangerous. It was forbidden to urinate against the heart trees. The vines with small, light leaves were harmless when they crept along the branches, but the same plant turned dangerous to touch when growing on the trunk.

There were many rules, practices, traditions, and rituals related to the forests, and Patrik, born and raised in the north felt suspicion towards the organism. He hated the trees growing in the even chequered pattern, he detested the lack of undergrowth, and above all else, he loathed what the forest represented. The ones who planted the forests had tried to kill the dragons and the dragon Agiisha was the one whom Patrik served. Or would serve as long as the dragon served his people, the ainadu.

Patrik’s mother Marya, was a rich and influential woman from the north. She had created her fortune in commerce and retreated to the arts. Patrik had no father, or at least his father didn’t care about Patrik’s existence. Patrik had accepted the issue without questioning it, for his birth had been his mother’s will. The most important thing was Patrik had inherited both his father’s intelligence and the raw power that dwelt in his blood.

Patrik had the skill to command the world, to bend it around his will. It was the blessing dragons had bestowed upon their people. Patrik and his father and Patrik’s siblings carried this power as unusually strong.

The original inhabitants of the Watergate considered such skills as witchcraft, as works of the ash demons, and believed the ainadu to be the purgatory monsters, the gatekeepers of the netherworld. Patrik tried not to mind the religious fanatics, who imagined the end of the world had happened 332 years ago and everything after that was the afterlife.

It was true that the war had shut down the artificial intelligencies, dropped the orbital cities to their gravitational doom, and engulfed the planet in ash and the excretes from the uncontrolled industrial organisms. It all had happened two hundred years before the ainadu arrived, but the suspicion did not die easily.

Patrik thought the people of the south knew nothing about the demons. They did not understand the pain and ghosts that filled Patrik’s mind when working with the resonance of the dragon power. Even opening his eyes to the resonance; looking through the dragon eyes, and concentrating on the flowing energies, was taxing to the mind. The majority of the ainadu avoided using the power of their blood.

Ainadu were not witches or monsters from the end of the world. Only the dragon had been here before and it had paid the terrible price from the war. The ainadu on Watergate were the survivors of a rebellion, dragged to this planet by the whim of their dragon.

Ainadu’s end of the world had happened a hundred and eighteen years ago. This half-dead planet, infested with dragon killers, was their only future. Now one part of that future depended on Patrik to burn a few rows of these living-dead machine trees. He squared his shoulders and looked at his men. They needed to hurry before the tracks in Haven cooled down.

Four men were digging a hole to reach one of the roots. This was the third attempt, for they were searching for a certain root; ‘size of a man’s thigh, smooth, with no side roots and growing from every third full sized side tree towards the forest’s center line’. Patrik had memorized the report, but he doubted that the description was as sketchy as everything else he was told about this forest.

The report was based on another forest, an organism producing carbon fibers. The writers had assumed that the basic functions would be similar from forest to forest, but they had been wrong. Spores had already made one man sick; he was left in the base camp unable to walk.

Lance Corporal Ketsura was a career soldier suffering from the algae. He had picked it in one of his missions in the south. In his despair, Ketsura had turned to the southern beliefs and was nowadays carrying a blue wooden spiral hoping the olds of Watergate would heal him. Lance Corporal signaled to Patrik and the strategej approached him.

”Strategej, here is a root, but it goes in the wrong direction.”

Patrik looked in the shallow pit. The root was thick as the thigh of a large man, grey and smooth like a rolled cloth. However, it grew in the tree rows’ direction, not against them. Patrik dropped gracefully into the hole and touched the root. The matter was soft as dough and moved under Patrik’s hand like a pouch filled with lukewarm water.

Patrik felt the pressure. The oddness of the forest and the fear of getting caught were getting on men's nerves. They had spent too long in this area. The original plan had been built around speed, for the forest was patrolled.

”We will use this one,” Patrik decided. If it didn’t work they would disengage and try again on the route towards Haven. The strategej took a sharp metal cylinder and a packet of white powder from his package. He waved for one of his men, a conscript so promising that he had been chosen for this mission. Or more likely his father had paid someone to get his offspring to Patrik’s group.

Without a doubt, someone was pushing Kvenrei towards an officer career. Patrik considered it a futile attempt, for he saw the man’s name as an omen. Kvenrei was a good soldier, but he shared the trait of avoiding hard work with his namesake, Patrik’s younger half-brother.

Patrik guided and Kvenrei pushed the cylinder’s sharp end into the root. Some cloudy liquid with a pungent smell rose to the cylinder. Patrik poured the powder inside. The next step was to add water, so it reached the line on the cylinder wall. Patrik mixed with his knife until the powder had dissolved. Kvenrei watched with curiosity, but the others had retreated.

”It has to be activated before the injection,” Patrik said pointing his knife to the matrix in the cylinder wall.

“What will it do?” Kvenrei asked and Patrik considered if the young man was as talented with activation as his untrustworthy namesake. Patrik’s brother was already in Haven, but Commander Anhava had decided not to give the mission there to his hands.

“It spreads to the root system and ignites the trees on the forest edge. The carrying media is a metallic salt that reacts with the matrix.” Patrik took hold of his glove to get the work done but remembered the spores. He did not want any of the cursed half-alive micro-organisms into his bloodstream. Patrik had been chosen for the mission because his blood carried enough power. The amount of weaker blood would have been huge, and the internal security organization of the New Freedom operated with limited resources. People were not killed to feed a matrix. No spores were visible, and the air smelled only of soil, powder’s metallic bitterness, and men’s sweat.

Patrik took his knife, removed the glove, and cut open his left index finger. The tattooed matrix took the small power it needed from the blood. Red drops fell to the matrix and resonance was absorbed inside the carving. The residual blood oozed away, mixing with the liquid in the cylinder.

A dim glow marked the activation as it moved along the lines. When the glow finally reached the end of the matrix Patrik let the cut in his finger close. It was done, but no change could be seen in the liquid. The strategej could only trust his orders. He nodded to Kvenrei to close the cylinder and push the piston. The liquid flowed in the root.

Patrik decided to leave the pit open. He wanted to get his men away in case the liquid did something. Patrik had no reason to suspect his commander, but he suspected the forests in general and specifically the insufficient information this mission was based on.

Soon the patrol was advancing towards the forest’s edge using the cover of the uneven ground. In the ancient war, something had hit this place, crushing rocks and churning soil. The trees tried to keep on growing on their even rows, but a few of them were off as something in the ground prevented the programmed growth pattern from realizing. Patrik scanned the landscape for a reason for this end-of-the-world battle, but there were no signs of buildings. Maybe the forest had already been growing and it had been enough of a reason for the ancient bombardment.

They had already covered some ground and the forest showed no signs of the poison in its roots. Patrik had halted in the shadow of a rock waiting for a signal from the scout when the man behind him dropped to the ground, an oversized crossbow bolt piercing his heart.

Tall shapes in camo clothing appeared like specters manifesting from the shadows. Kvenrei was nailed to a tree by a bolt, his precious blood flowing to feed the roots. Patrik took cover and unsheathed his sword cursing silently. The nocturna had ambushed them and not a word in the report had hinted that those bastards were here.

The ambush was short and straightforward. Patrik opened his dragon sight and had time to revert the energy of one crossbow so its mechanism exploded into shrapnels. Someone was behind Patrik and instinct made him raise a sword to deflect a long knife. Patrik continued his movement to step past his attacker, to put his blade into the man’s armpit. The attacker was a head taller than Patrik, his reach was longer and much faster. Patrik fell to darkness as a fist contacted the side of his head.