Character
TAG: Lesha Weirr
He kept his eyes closed.
If he held them tight a little longer, he could pretend to himself he was still sleeping. It didn’t matter that the first light of the day had started to tug at his eyelids, itching to be noticed. It didn’t matter that the first chirps of the morning birds had begun to call across the sky. It didn’t matter that the first whiffs of caf were crawling across his nostrils.
If he kept them closed, he could pretend to himself that he was still sleeping.
The first gnarl of the day called out. It was a mid-ranged timbre. Sharp. Sonorous. Whooping, almost. It was most definitely a Mott. Dak smiled to himself. He waited patiently before the others called back in response. With near fifteen offspring, each Mott mother had precious few moments without being hassled or nagged at by her ‘Stubbers’, as Dak referred to them. It wasn’t a scientific term, other than that it described their stubby legs perfectly. This particular herd had six breeding females and the one male.
‘Lucky fella’ thought Dak to himself, earnestly hoping to catch a few moments more sleep.
The chorus of young Motts squawked in response. They were hungry this morning-they’d likely gotten through all the vegetation rations that were placed in the large troughs available to them and the first job of the tending staff would be to fill them up again. Wet grass stank something rotten and he didn’t understand how they could shove their snouts in without so much of a wince. He sighed.
He opened his eyes.
The stark whiteness of the ceiling reminded him where he was. His own room. This was his bed. He travelled so much he sometimes forgot. He’d wake up, expecting to hear the sound of the animals and he’d come face to face with one of the rangers, snoring soundly next to him as they travelled through hyperspace. Nothing quite like staring into the void as it rushed at you to wake you up with a start.
The sound of his alarm went off.
Typical.
He always beat his alarm. It was a habit; one he wasn’t sure where he had formed. But a habit, nonetheless.
He placed his hands to his forehead and massaged the temples gently. He felt hungover. He hadn’t touched alcohol in months, but he felt dehydrated and sleepy. It was likely the after affect of spending too much time in the swamp-habi the day prior. The fumes created by the vegetation was enough to make anybody giddy, let alone a giant of a man like Dak. His muscles ached from the labour of the day, too much lifting and grabbing rouge ‘stubbers’ as they made off to their mothers. They were being tagged so they could be tracked and kept a record of. They would likely be moved off to other conservation projects at some point or utilised in the agri-worlds found in the area. They weren’t uncommon but a good stock was always hard to guarantee. These were excellent stock.
He pulled himself up from under his covers and hit the pad, silencing his alarm. He looked at the time. It was hour 7 of the cycle. It had taken him a little while to get used to the 26 hour cycle-some time in various space stations and placements meant that one had to adjust quite drastically to time zones; time was quite fluid in the mind of the spacefaring traveler.
He followed the smell of the caf to his food preparation area and hit the switch to begin the slow but steady pour into his favourite receptacle. He waited a moment, letting the aroma linger in his nostrils before sipping the jet-black liquid the sweet yet bitter taste all too associated with long journeys, sleepless nights, and heavy parties. That was all in his past now-it was just a useful hit to start the long day ahead.
The long day ahead, he thought. Since the formation of his own enterprise, The Fordite Xeno-Zoological Foundation, Dak had been occupied every waking hour. The leasing of the land from the Planetary Administration on Scarif had been straight-forward. X amount of money leases x amount of land. Scarif had plenty of that spare but Dak had needed access to the coastal waters. That had cost him extra. There had been no end of support from contractors, builders and designers, all plying their technical trades in the singular act of building a brand new Biodome and education centre. It had all the making of a terrific sanctuary for various mammals, reptiles and birds, the coastal portion used to house those creatures found in the sodium rich waters that Scarif could offer. Once it was established and ready, he would open it to the public to increase revenue streams and provide education about conservation.
Today was a special day. Since the Cataclysm, as the news casters had dubbed it early on, the planet forge world Vylmira had sustained catastrophic numbers of casualties. The up, if there was such a thing, was that he had been able to acquire a breeding pair of Vylmiran Hounds. The female was towards the end of her gestation period and the only time to move her was now; any longer and it could affect the security of the young pup that had been growing for 18 months. The male was coming along to provide more pups when needed. A solitary female wasn’t usual, and he would be looking to procure some more to form a small pack. Like the Motts, Vylmiran Hounds worked together in hunting groups.
The transport was due to arrive at 10, local time. Their distance from the capital meant they had to add an hour to accommodate the zoning of the sun out this way but that didn’t matter too much; space time was very tricky, Dak thought.
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Dak walked with purpose through the main concourse of the ‘Welcome Centre’, smiling at various employees. A mixture of scientists, other Xeno-Zoologists and administrative staff milled about, making sure the various daily tasks were undertaken with care. He turned onto a walkway, glass panels lining both sides. As he walked through, the cases showed large amounts of vegetation, reptiles and even some insects crawling about the various branches, trees and shrubs that made up this part of the exhibition. He didn’t have to walk this way, but he liked to check up on things.
He smiled at one of the junior staff members in their khakis as they attempted to count a particular bunch of daring turtles, each of them clambering to get to the fresh food that had been put down for them this morning. Dak smiled at the staffer and gently walked round them, not to disturb their arduous task. He turned right into an open atrium, various corridors leading off to other parts of the administrative block. He made a heading down the largest, towards the central office of the Xeno-Zoo.
The doors fshed open, a burst of air hitting his face. The air made sure that he was free of anything biological that may have clambered onto him; you never knew what was likely to escape. He took in the banks of computers, arrays of data panels displaying each zone, habitat and area of the park. He found a large gathering huddled round one monitor, the image of a pair of Cartusion Whales flicking across it. The pair were ready for their own birthing rites and soon there would be, with luck, another young pup swimming in the seas. The area was protected from any naturally occurring predator that might be found on Scarif, still allowing for a large swathe of water to be allocated for the various marine life that was protected and studied there.
It had cost a lot of money.
Dak sat at his desk. He tallied the various communiques he hadn’t yet answered on his walk in. He liked to have his head out a data pad rather than gawping at the screen. He liked to enjoy what he had built and wanted to be as far away from the corporate side of things as possible. Near-two-decades at Locke and Key had taught him as much as he needed to know about corporate businesses and he found them, in no uncertain terms, hostile.
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It was nearly 10. He looked at his display and smiled. On the screen was the blueprint for the enclosure that would hold the two hounds. They would need space from each other, especially as ‘Mr Hound’ was more territorial and likely to need to chase and kill. ‘Mrs Hound’ was going to be held up somewhere, resting before the imminent birthing period. He’d need to think of names soon. He always liked that part of the job. Often, the wardens of each enclosure got the chance to name newcomers to the group, but he had insisted this one. There was a little more diplomacy involved in this transaction.
With the formation of the Abrion Pact all but settled, Scarif and her neighbours were tying themselves closer with political and economic policies to ensure each other saw favour in the murky region they called home. Vylmira, with its recent troubles, had seen fit to give Scarif two of their most famous animals, their likeness’ synonymous with the planet itself. They would settle into their new habitat, carefully mimicking the natural setting they’d find themselves in on their native world.
‘Vyl Hounds’ were prized for their size and strength, large, tall and muscular beasts that were sometimes seen as companion creatures for guards. Once they bit, you were in the deepest of trouble. However, Dak didn’t think these would be aggressive. He had a way with animals. He couldn’t explain it. He felt a sort of calm about him when he wanted to and felt like he could almost tell them soothing thoughts, reassure them. It worked most times. Maybe they could read his body language, or smell something about him. Either way, it made for excellent handling of animals for the most part. It didn’t work on the insects, but the large mammals seemed to respond pretty well to his calming nature.
He stood, making for the large area reserved for transport ships. All sorts of agricultural supplies, food stuffs, meat for feeding, barrels of this, pallets of that, arrived daily through the Shield Gate and this traffic alone had made for an agreeable Planetary Administration; the tax revenue on the dockets and licences was a rip off but Dak paid. It was worth it.
He watched the skies, usually clear around the Zoo. It was under a strict- “no fly” area, another boon from the Planetary Admin that had cost yet more money, so any incoming traffic was intended for the sanctuary.
Beep
It was ten. He smiled, the excitement in his stomach reacting with the caf he’d drank some hours earlier. He felt like a ten-year-old boy again.
Ten-2
It was late. He hated lateness but he forgave the pilot. There was so much traffic and admin to go through at the Shield Gate that most visiting ships were delayed. He waited patiently.
Ten-8.
He gritted his teeth. He looked around, the other wardens and even some of the administration staff had come out to see this new arrival. There was even a reporter from the local holo-news set up to catch the moment this important shipment arrived.
Ten-22.
Dak was walking to his ship, his data pad activated. The courier had made sure that the signed dockets were completed correctly, and he could see the ping of the cargo on the map.
It wasn’t at Scarif.
It was stationary. Way outside of Scarif’s territorial space. Anybody out there was on their own and Dak wanted those hounds. He’d want to hurry. He didn’t know what he was doing but he wasn’t going to let those hounds be stranded out there until somebody else managed to stumble upon them. They weren’t emitting an emergency frequency. Which meant they were either dead, stranded or disabled. Either way, none of these boded well for the precious cargo.
Or the Pilot.
He laughed to himself. The human was always the afterthought. The helpless lifeform was blameless when it came to actions of sentient life and so he prioritised them over others, often over himself. He always said if there was a fire in the Zoo, he’d be found charred clutching whatever he’d found to rent open whatever cage he could access in time. He was reckless but he believed in it. He had to protect those that couldn’t protect themselves. Above all things.
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Lesha Weirr
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