Roask awoke to the pleasant sensation of sun warming his skin and bright light pouring into his chamber. The ceiling of the pyramidal structure viewed from within was translucent but from the outside seemed like solid stone. The previous night’s solar spectacle was replaced with an early morning sky. The natural rhythms of darkness and light was thus followed in the abodes, and with no artificial lighting, encouraged a circadian harmony. From outside a morning call was issued, the gleeful voice of its orator spreading in every direction in perhaps what was a morning ritual of the dohaidens. It was another Dohaiden poem:

Rise and shine all through the day

A starry night has gone away

Share your dreams with all around

Until the air is full of sound

Roask yawned and stretched his arms before propping himself up. His stomach growled, the pitch falling from high to low like the moan of an angry tomcat, upset with an unknown stranger encroaching into his household yard. Roask slipped on a pair of moccasins and headed outside. The tables, barrels and other implements from the previous night’s festivities had all been cleared away and there was a sweetness in the cool air. A number of Dohaidens could be seen exiting their grey pyramids, some alone and others as groups, all heading to a forested area that neighborhood the open, green plain. In their hands they held brightly colored jugs, the hardened clay painted with natural dyes, green grasses grew from the base of the cylindrical containers and partially covered the feet of elephants, giraffes, and a host of other wild animals.

Roask was curious, it seemed like a morning custom of the dohaidens, not a single one headed to another location, and he hurried to catch up. As they penetrated the wooded grove, the glistening water of a brook could be seen through leaves, quietly murmuring its profound poetry and nurturing the surroundings with life. Patches of light and grey stones filled the brook, and, without hesitation the Sitmians began refilling their reserves of water and drinking, replenishing their fluids from the crystalline source, unfouled by the contaminants of industrial exploitation and waste. Overhead the outstretched white wings of the flying dohaidens could be seen, circling above the brooke and slowly descending, gracefully landing in the nearby prairies.

A number of retractable feathers withdrew from their bodies as they landed and the long, white wings folded behind their backs as they too marched with their pots to the brooke. The marine dohaidens as well joined, emerging from their island pyramids and diving into the great lakes that bordered the wide green plains before emerging again. Their form was fascinating, it appeared that their legs could become interlocked, and like the dohaidens gifted with flight, a number of fins and scales would appear out of their skin. As their legs interlocked, their feet morphed, becoming like the flukes of a dolphin or whale, from their back a dorsal fins emerged and their arms acted as pectoral fins.

After the party filled their vases and pots, they marched together down a long trail, eventually leaving behind the brook as the ascended a strong mountain gradient. They were entirely, the sweet scent of eucalyptus kissed the air, and the song birds seemed to light up at their sight arrival, congregating and appearing like small, bright flowers in the brush around. Suddenly, the dohaidens broke out in song. From their satchels they pulled out their instruments, their pace picking up as they began drumming and strumming through the forest path. It was a sight to behold as Roask struggled to keep up. Though he had shed some weight and become more fit since his exodus from consumer society, the Dohaidens set the bar quite high. He curiously listened to the lyrics:

Bath in water from below

Geothermal molten glow

Crimson mantle lava churns

Steamy hot but never burns

Roask had never met a group so entirely artistic, it seemed like it was part of their religion or identity. Sculptures dotted the plains, paintings could be seen on exposed rock and trees, and the dohaidens periodically filled the air with music and poems. As the group continued up the mountainside, Roask noticed steam billowing from a chain of rocks, the misty steam cascaded over the boulders with milky white tendrils and miniature clouds before disappearing in the cold morning air. After a few more minutes of ascent and pools of interconnected hot springs appeared, nestled among the boulders and trees of the mountainside, hidden under the canopy.

The dohaidens took off their outerwear and unabashedly slipped into the steamy water, bathing one another, relaxing and drinking from water filled jugs. The spring had a milky white tone and was rich in minerals and salts that cleansed the skin, feeding it with vitamins and nutrients while replenishing its youthful vibrance and tone. A boulder that sat in the center of the largest pool had been sculpted into a statue, a nude woman with long straight hair leaning on what was shaped as a cloud, closing her eyes with a subtle, half smile in a state of complete repose. The dohaidens disappeared into different portions of the spring, the children splashed around under the watchful guise of the elders as groups of lovers snook away into more secluded sections. Roask took off his cloak despite being embarrassed by the state of his stomach in comparison to the slim creatures and slowly entered the water. It felt like thousands of tiny palms began massaging him, their warm hands working through the tension and strain he housed within his body.

Leaning his head on a well shaped rock, Roask looked upward at the ceiling of trees. The trunks were like erect hairs, growing from the tender skin of the land. His eyes felt heavy as he continued to stare at the slowly waving branches and trees which shifted like a thousand fans on a musky night. His eyes closed and he fell further into a sort of trance, the voices seemed to distance themselves, shift further and further away as he entered that strange realm between waking consciousness and sleep, where concepts of time and self begins eroding but are still somewhat intact. After drifting off completely, Roask came to his senses and noticed he was alone in the spring. He got up, dried himself off and put back on his clothes before heading back to the Dohaiden village.

As Roask exited the canopy of trees that extended from the base of the mountainside, he noticed groups of dohaidens seated in rings on the valley floor. In front of each was a tombstone or pillar like object over which they shifted their fingers. Roask approached one of the rings, and, studying the stone structures, he noticed it was filled with a black, iridescent liquid, displaying strings of symbols which changed in response to the movements of their fingers. They periodically consulted one another and seemed to be collaborating on a project. A hologram appeared near the center of the ring, a number of blocks slowly shifting around which they focused on periodically, their concentration totally focused as they continued their work.

Tanaka headed down the path to the lake, hovering in a reclining chair as his feline trotted about, at one moment following him and at the other wandering independently about. He was once again alone, left to his own devices and back to his usual existence of genetic experimentation, virtual fantasies, monitoring consumer data trends. He slowly hovered down the mountainside. It was the dead of night but no stars were visible, only moonlit clouds moving like an eerie apparition, slowly carried by the wind. As he neared the treeline branches appeared like a mass of dark, twisted fingers reaching upwards from Hades. The surface of the lake was difficult to make out, but as Tanaka approached its edge, he could listen to the quiet shifting of the waters and the subtle shine of the moonlight on the water.

He did not hesitate to stop near the lake’s edge but instead continued, hovering over its surface until, near the center, he paused. Tanaka began whistling and studying the water below. From his pocket he withdrew a bronze colored ball on which he tapped a few buttons before dropping it into the water. The ball lit up, displaying the silhouettes of a number of fish and as it descended further below into the clear lake. Tanaka then tapped a few controls on the side of his reclining armchair. A window emerged from the boundaries, effectively converting the chair into a viewing submarine as it descended below towards the green light on the lake’s bottom. A long, water dragon rushed past the craft, curiously acknowledging the intruder of its waters. Its scales were bioluminescent, blue in color and roughly shaped as an eel or lizard, with fins that aided its maneuverability.

Tanaka grinned, proud of his matured creation. It was the result of genomic software capable of manipulating DNA, developing stem cells into another of his engineered species. He called out through the speaker of the unit. “I trust you’ve accustomed yourself to the bigger tank”. Recognizing Tanaka’s voice, which had been imprinted on the creature in its infancy like the image of a mother duck to her duckling, it quickly approached and made a number of gentle squeaking and purring noises that penetrated far through the water like calls of a whale. The dragon began twirling around in glee, making figure eights, curling, and spiraling to display its mature features. The scales were like the shingles of an ancient chinese temple’s roofing, brightly colored like scales of a venomous, snake. On its head a feather crown blossomed and long whiskers sailed through the air like the tendrils of a flying kite.

The shuttle eventually landed on the lake floor, the water dragon continuing its acrobatics, disappearing into the distance and calling to express its happiness at being reunited with its maker. The submarine rested next to the green illumination orb, its halo lighting up the pebbles, soil, and grasses of the lake floor and began attracting fish, which appeared like a murder of crows. Tanaka made more calls and waited. He knew they were shy, but they should arrive soon. Sure enough, on the periphery of the light, Tanaka noticed an eyeball surrounded by black and white stripes that formed a disc shaped face. He quietly cooed to them in the same voice he used during their incubation period. They approached cautiously, their long, giraffe-like necks appeared, followed by their horse-like midsection which boasted three pairs of long, muscular appendages.

In the place of a tail an elephant like trunk appeared, and as they recognized the face of Tanaka inside the submarine, their guard went down, trotting towards him like hippopotami. Similar to the grand serpent, they excitedly greeted him, jumping and chirping like baby lambs on their first days in pasture. Their trunks curled around from behind, and opened, licking the retractable glass screen of the hoverchair. Within the snake shaped trunks, rows of jagged white teeth appeared, each structured similarly to a harpoon or arrowhead, ideal for piercing in only one direction. “I surely can’t wait to see what you make of the Sitmians… They are quite gifted at hijacking consumer technology… but you will catch them by surprise, surely.”

Tanaka began his ascent and the creatures shifted off into the dark of the lake. The hover chair broke through the surface of the lake and Tanaka tapped a few controls, retracting the airtight window as he floated over the water. The surroundings of his mansion were used as an environment for his creations, he had entered the realm of gods, manufacturing consciousness and life, a creator of beasts both tame and wild, friendly and viscous. His most recent species would be used as implements in the Sitmian war. Entirely organic, would not rely on the host of technological components to which the Sitmian enemy had become accustomed.

Their gravitator bombs, metal detectors, radio scramblers and electromagnetic apparatuses would be useless against the stealthy, timeless hunting methods of the beasts. In an age where war has become a matter of technological prowess and capability, use of the primal, guttural, predatory instinct of the animal would amount to a revolutionary tactic. Tanaka relished in the image of his beasts stampeding, ravaging the enemy like the first chariots of Hyskos overpowering the pharaoh’s ranks. He imagined them storming into battle like the ironclad elephants of the Sassanids, their tusks towering over soldiers heads, tramping any obstacle in their path.

As he soared off of the lake, Tanaka met eyes with his feline, hanging in his jaws the corpse of a limp coyote. The cat purred and dropped the gray corpse, offering it to Tanaka as a display of gratitude and friendship. Tanaka halted and the cat rubbed his cheek against the side of the floating chair, wanting attention. “Ah, I see you’ve given me a treat. Very kind, very kind indeed. Shall we head back old boy?”

Jaffari woke the next morning and his first thought was yesterday’s nuclear detonation. Rage coursed through him, his blood like an instantly excitable gasoline, lighting up in explosive passion and energy at the slightest excitation from his constantly ruminating, analyzing mind. Squeezing his fist he began marching off, his desire for control and power unhinged, driving him beyond paranoia into states of extreme psychosis and megalomania. He immediately ordered an emergency convention of his top generals, his mind set to sweep through all of those under his command, thoroughly scanning for doubles, spies and other traitors.

Jaffari arrived at a table of six sitmians seated like samurai, cross legged atop a black rug. Red, zig zagged lines ran across it, the bright tones resembled those of a black widow’s underbelly, warning any predator of danger. Jaffari addressed the commanders. “I trust you all have received the news? That detonation has set us back months. How can we avoid this. I need action and ideas, quickly.” Jaffari tried his best to maintain composure as he thought of the countless other doubles that were possibly among his ranks. He peered into the eyes of his top generals as if they themselves were conspiring with the enemy or plotting amongst themselves to overthrow or undermine his command, like Caesar’s inner court before his untimely death.

Leamu, the previous Sitmian commander, stood up in bold defiance, a grimace on his face. “First, we could stop recruiting those subterranean termites to fight amongst us. Anyone could have seen such an outcome. A rash decision at best, I say.” Leamu had a grudge against Jaffari every since he had taken power, jealous and sour, he was constantly fomenting doubt and dissent among the rest of the commanders and generals. Leamu was tall, the hair of his buzzed head only partially concealing the brown skin of his skull. He had a sturdy build and a boney face with dark brown eyes set in deep sockets. His nose was shaped like the back of a horse, arched inward. A deep scar indented his right cheek and a tattoo surrounded his left eye, hundreds of small, black triangles that gave the illusion that he was wearing a pirate’s eyepatch.

Jaffari stared at the man, incredulous and unable to believe what he had just heard. He stood up and approached Leamu, and, without warning, grabbed his throat. The rest of the commanders were startled, jolted and tried to calm Jaffari. Leamu gagged and wheezed as Jaffari squeezed. Instinctively, he took hold of Jaffari’s forearms, trying to break loose. Jaffari’s eyes did not budge as Leamu began coughing desperately, his complexion shifting to a pink and then strong, red hue like the skin of an octopus or chameleon, camouflaging itself among trees or along a patch of sandy ocean floor. Rama stood up, and approached Jaffari, pleading him to release the man. Jaffari continued to choke the man with one arm and with the other shoved Rama back, who fell.

The man’s face began turning purple and he went limp, remaining standing only by the unrelenting grip of Jaffari’s veiny, muscular hand. The other commanders were so fearstruck that they froze, believing that if they came to the man’s assistance they too would share his fate. Rama yelled, “Jaffari, no, this is not you! Forgive him!''Jaffari released the man, who fell onto the floor like the coyote that had been dangling in that gargantuan feline’s jaws. Rama hurried over to the man and stabbed him with a needle of adrenaline, he jolted back to life and gasped for air, like a surfer tossed around for far too long in underground currents of a wrathful, stormy wave, making sounds of utter desperation inimitable under normal circumstances.

The man limped out of the candle lit cavern with Rama holding him up as he struggled to ascend the short latter out of the bunker. Droplets of moisture coagulated on the roots and muddy walls that appeared in the candlelight, the dripping of water the only sound remaining in the room. As he looked down at the rest of the commanders, their heads were sunk low, peering at the ground in front of them, shaking like a pair of chattering teeth in winter in anticipation of Jaffari’s next move. Though he had once formed a great spiritual bond with man, nature, and God, selflessly offering himself in the service of virtue and his neighbors, constantly emanating positivity and good will, he was not immune to the sickening plague infecting humankind --- the unrelenting disease of war. The symptoms; death, loss, suffering, and pain, indiscriminately targeted him as well as the rest.

Jaffari came to terms with himself and realized what he had done. The commanders were anticipating his next move like dogs guilty of trespassing a vacant table, trembling and lowering their eyes. Jaffari did not feel any remorse, for, though he knew he had become cruel, he understood that any sign of weakness could not be tolerated if he was expected to fulfill his duty as a leader. “I expect each of you to comb through your troops, analyze the internal biology of all of those under your command and take stock of equipment. Report back with the status of each investigation.”

Jaffari ascended the ladder and took another swig from his carafe as he entered a transport pod that shuttled him to his patch of woods, a patch of flat green jungle sitting at the top of a mountain. He felt the world caving in around him, convinced that the end was near. It seemed that his personal decline matched that of the world around him, and he felt that it would be useless to continue caring as he took another swig from his carafe.

Something had been keeping him alive, though. He had been dreaming. The eyes of a man, with asiatique features and healthy, dark brown skin had appeared during his sleep for many nights. A crown of feathers wrapped around the top of his skill and he communicated some deep meaning to Jaffari with the use of words. It was as if he was communicating with some part of Jaffari that he himself hardly knew, but, at the same time, was intimately connected with. The man kept Jaffari moving, kept him struggling, though for what reason he hardly knew. The power of dreams could not release him, they took a hold on him.

Another torrent of negativity consumed him as he imagined the intractability of defeating the technical empire he was facing. Any progress in the war temporary, any step forward was sure to follow two back. Even with his troops clear of imposters, he felt the intracacy and scale of the consumer millitary infrastructure, the torrent of bombings and the constant penetration of battles drones, and the lack of well organized and structured resistance would amount to the downfall of his newfound empire. Reports of a proliferation of nano-sized recorders, comparable in size to lice or other such miniature parasitic creatures, had surfaced. They latched onto clothing and the hair of troops, spreading effectively and capable of self replication. They were capable of transmitting audio data to the consumer command and eavesdropping on any conversation at a certain radius.

After staring blankly at his command pad while taking more and more swigs from his carafe, a cruel, sadness set in as the negativity faded. He felt a sense of quiet desperation in his spirit, a force that one could call the antithesis of passion, love, and hope. It was an urge that could best be defined as surrender, an urge to stop exerting. Without any tangible meaning to his existence, nothing that he could hold, nothing that he could feel, he simply could not convince himself of any reason to live. His people alone kept him alive, a desire not to leave them behind, to create a great emptiness and loss among them. He knew that despite his self corruption, the growth of a deep hatred and a deep fixation on conflict and struggle, he occupied a fatherly position in the eyes of his community, he was a caretaker, a wise seer. There was nothing left for him but to continue his fight, if not for himself than for something far beyond, perhaps something he would never know but discover.