Episode 10
The moon of Lehen was actually not the first celestial body chosen to be colonized. Centuries ago, the first colonists wanted to land on Sinyambar. But not long before landing, the colonists changed their mind. While Sinyambar was beautiful, it was arid. Conversely, Lehen, while a barren moon, has vast subterranean caverns filled with fresh water. It was too enticing; it made survival so simple.
Many of these caverns are only accessible with government grade mining equipment. Some caverns don’t have oxygen. Some don’t have light. Some, though, people can get to from the surface, have air pockets, and have light. These few caverns were not often visited by the colonists, however, because the water was ice cold. As a moon, Lehen does not have a hot core, so the water had never been heated. The few colonists who had gone swimming reportedly could only withstand the cold for a few hundred pulsars before losing feeling in their extremities. By a thousand pulsars, their limbs were completely numb. If one survived in the water to the two-thousand pulsar mark with their head above water, they supposedly wouldn’t be able to tell they had a body below their neck. Yet none of those swimmers had ever felt as numb as Arihan did when he saw his godmother’s limp, bloodied body in the infirmary.
Arihan had never thought about why he worked medicine for others for free. It was like questioning why he was born with a dark skin color. He didn’t care, because it just was. His godmother saved his life, so he wanted to save others. His godmother’s sacrifices and guidance gave his life meaning, so he wanted to give purpose to others. His godmother’s care and love gave his life fulfillment and enjoyment, so he wanted to give joy to others. He never questioned why he wanted to do those things, because the reason was always right beside him. But now she was gone.
Arihan tried to numb his anguish with painkillers and workaholism. No patient was sent away, no time of day was too late, no sleep could be had when there was someone to help. After fifty light cycles, he was ragged. Jittery, sleep deprived, addicted to painkillers, and with no control over his thoughts, one word would flash in Arihan’s mind over and over and over again. Senseless. Planetary killing his godmother was senseless. Planetary raiding the monastery was senseless. Planetary harassing the few charitable people on the moon was senseless. The whole reason that Planetary was in this sector was senseless. Planetary’s violence was senseless. Arihan couldn’t quell the resentment, bitterness, or rage that built up inside of him. He never lashed out or showed it publicly, but murderous vengeance, as ice-cold as the water buried deep beneath his feet, spread throughout him. Arihan vowed to destroy Planetary Security.
What that meant, he didn’t know. But he knew he needed his faculties back in peak performance. He locked himself in a room for 9 light cycles to go through withdrawal from his painkillers. Monastery workers heard crying, thrashing, vomiting… but Arihan didn’t give in. His anger gave him focus. He came out of the room hungry, but clean.
Arihan carefully began recruiting other monastery workers to his cause. He started with the younger generation. The younger generation didn’t remember a time without corruption, violence, or hopelessness. None of them trusted Planetary. Even if they weren’t directly against the security forces, they all had a friend, family member, or acquaintance who had been abused by a planetary officer. The older generation was more difficult to convince. They remembered the past times when Planetary would provide safety for charitable workers. They remembered when Planetary were mainly volunteers from people they knew, worked with, lived with. Despite much of that changing, the elders were tired. They had no strength left for revolt, only for gentle charity.
Soon, the monastery was in the middle of a cultural war. Arihan had the support and voice of roughly half of the monastery members, most of them from the younger generation. They were in agreement and unison about their goal. Arihan would put it in surgeon’s terms. If the monastery truly wanted to help people, why not root out arguably the biggest source of distress in their lives? People would often chat with Arihan while he treated them. He heard their stories. Even when the people didn’t experience direct violence, it was other things. Less tangible things. Yet they were there, like symptoms of a deeper disease. Prejudiced confiscation searches. Harsher punishments than those in the Design receive. Keeping people in custody longer than necessary so they’d miss work. Arresting people for offenses people in The Design don’t even know are illegal. Arihan had heard these stories before, but ignored them. His focus was on the health of their bodies, the health of their souls, finding peace no matter the circumstances. But now Arihan’s peace was gone. He vowed to fight, so others wouldn’t have to.
Martial arts were outlawed anums ago, but Arihan knew martial arts were apart of his ancient cultural history. Apart of the history of the monastery itself. Long ago, textbooks on ritual and technique were hidden away among old artifacts, and overlooked during the governmental crackdown. Planetary Security was looking for datapads and dojos, not deteriorating manuscripts. Arihan blew dust off a page.
What he couldn’t legibly read, what he couldn’t find, Arihan created. He found he was quite good at these invented parts. He would remove the artform from the martial art, and use his knowledge of the body to create efficient and effective martial movements. Arihan extrapolated movements from the page to the air, imagining a revolutionary fighter in front of him, facing down Planetary Security. Each limb of the fighter controlled by Arihan’s pen, a scalpel with which to cut into the enemy. How best to dissect the target? The surgeon took over; a ligament sliced here, a pressure point struck here.
Arihan thought about finding the most efficient way to achieve these strikes, limiting the movement and strain on his fighter’s body. But he sort of liked the art of the ancients, the dancing motions, the extra flair, the tasteful statement. Leaving the flashy, flowing movements from a bygone era in his new martial art just felt right. They cannot erase history, they cannot erase culture, they cannot erase us. They cannot erase me.
Arihan stood, and straightened the creases in his coats. He sent a summons to his most trusted men and women. They had training to do.