Story #16 - Mist Opportunity

Mist Opportunity

Tarm Chany was a patient man but after raising six children on his own, this last just might be the death of him.

“But why, Papa?” Vrae's tiny voice carried up to him from his lap; she would soon be too big to sit there.

“You know why,” he had calmly said these same words hundreds if not thousands of times to children all over the village, “your brothers and sisters have told you. I've told you. There is nothing good beyond the mists. To go through them is to die.”

This wasn't a question up for debate, but young children always wanted to push their boundaries, and none more so than Vrae. She'd been precocious from the start but when Old Man Lowe's daughter had gone missing, he had no choice but to step in and take her. Lowe was half a step into the grave and there was no way the Council could let him care for his granddaughter on his own.

Since he'd done it so many times before most heads looked in his direction and he was happy enough to take the responsibility on. Having a little one around kept his thoughts away from her, and that was just as well with him.

“But has anybody tried?” Vrae's face twisted with effort, one blond lock pulled over her shoulder to gnaw on while she spoke. She was determined to see this through. “I mean, what if we sent a bunch of men, with horses and lights and a messenger bird? They could tell us what they see out there and let us know if it's safe!”

Tarm shook his head; other young ones had suggested much the same thing and in years when the Council leaden toward the liberal it had been tried. To a man, not one of the patrols had returned, and no carrier pigeon was ever sent.

“It's been tried, little one, but the men never come back. To go through the mists is to die.” The repetition was making him weary; one thing of many. Fatigue was closing in, but he found he didn't really mind.

“But...but...” the blond lock was being massacred now. Vrae was determined to find something no one else had said, something she could use, “people come out of the mist!” She said it triumphantly, eyes lighting up and hair falling from her mouth.

“Yes, Vrae. Maddened ones. You've seen what they wear, how they act. They cannot even speak a civilized tongue. We protect them, as we should, but we are not so foolish as to think the mists can be challenged. The realm of death may relent and sent us those it does not want, but we will not tempt it.”

“Fine,” she huffed, crossing her arms, “but this stuffy old village is so boring!”

Tarm couldn't help but smile. He'd said much the same thing when he was her age, but all made their peace with it eventually. Well, most did. Every year or so one or two would wander off, tired of the village and its comforts, tired of a life they deemed “too boring”.

The hall door banged open to admit Summer and Vrae bounded off his lap, ignoring his groan of protest as her heels dug into his thighs. Levering himself up, he made for the window. The sun had reached the tree tops and night was coming, outlining the mists along the village in a silver glow. They seemed closer than they had ten years ago, more foreboding.

He shuddered and drew the blinds. To go through the mists was to die

***

“Cylar! Get back here!” It wouldn't make a difference, she knew. At fourteen, her son assumed he knew everything about the world they'd settled on, thanks to the holovids the ship had been able to supply. She knew better; there had been a human colony here for the better part of fifty years and still there were secrets to discover, oddities that could not be explained, and Cylar was running headlong into one.

Palming her RetroActivator, Syndra Kal brought her still-running son easily back to camp. The Retro had been implanted in his shoulder when he'd arrived and only she held the key – it was standard for all parents to have one, here on the outer worlds.

Thanks to his speed when he'd been Retro'd, Cylar was still moving when he rematerialized and managed to run straight into the side of the CampurTech they'd borrowed to get out here. Syndra hid a smile behind her hand. Her son would not be best pleased to be made a fool of, a male trait only magnified by his age.

“Lunch time,” she announced calmly and he shook himself off and slunk to the table.

“Stupid trip,” he grumbled, “dunno why I have to come just because you want to.”

“You needed the air, Cy, and you know it. Too much of that recycled nonsense makes you weak.” There was no evidence for that, just something she felt better saying. She'd grown up outside the domes, and while there might not be hard scientific evidence, she knew it was for the best.

“I was almost there, you know,” he spoke softly now, as if trying to placate her.

“I know. And you should know better. The mists in that valley are deadly. We don't even know what they're made of.” Simple truth, this time; the were of low concern on the planet, but they were a mystery.

“But people come out of them!” He said it as if that should encourage her.

“Strange people, Cy. People who can't even talk and barely have the technology to survive.” She waved a hand at him, “Eat your lunch, and find something else to do afterward.”

She glanced out over the rolling hill just to their west. It was a good vacation spot, so long as he'd do as he was told. To go through those mists was to die.

- D