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jeriendhalThe Ferin, Creo, the Gene Mage, and Dream Stalker are all copyright Peta Hewitt. Inspired by the picture "Albino Ferin" (link: http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/28261973/), drawn by Cheeko (link: http://cheeko-001.deviantart.com/)
Her first memory was of the Gene Mage, his face looking down on her, as she lay nestled on her sleeping pad. Her next was of Arla, her nurse, who was always there when the Gene Mage was not, her grey face old, lined, and kind, her topknot dyed a bright yellow.
“Am I a Creo, like you?” she asked Arla one day.
“Do I have a tail? Are you grey?,” Arla asked, and told her to eat a little more food, for she was often sick, and had trouble holding it down sometimes.
“No,” she admitted, and that was that. She was proud of her tail, and she often made the Gene Mage laugh when she hung from it in the trees, or swung from branch to branch in her dome.
She knew she wasn’t like the Gene Mage. The Gene Mage was tall, and green, and handsome. She was small, and her skin was white, and she had a tail. Though she did have horns like he did, even though hers moved and his didn’t.
When she was old enough to understand what she wanted to know, she finally asked, “Who am I?”
“You are a Ferin,” the Gene Mage said, and bade her to sit still on the table, while he poked her with needles and glued sensors to her chest, in yet another round of “testing”, whatever that was.
“What is a Ferin?”
“Your race, which I created,” he answered.
“Are the more like me?” she asked.
“There once were,” the Gene Mage said, and then he looked very sad. So she gave him a hug, and he patted her on the back and said everything was all right.
When she a little bit older, she told him, “I’m lonely.”
“Why, little one?” he asked, “Don’t you play with Arla?” He was sitting beside her on a bench in the dome. It was her dome, and was very large, with grass and spade leaf trees all around. Which was nice, except sometimes it seemed too big, as if it had been built for more than just her.
“Arla is very nice, “ she told him. “But I’d like there to be more like me. More…” What was the name again? “More Ferin, please. Can you make more, like you made me? Arla can’t climb in trees like I can.”
“Not yet,” the Gene Mage said. “Someday soon, I hope, but not yet.”
More time passed. One day she was playing hunt and flee with Arla in her dome, when the old Creo suddenly kneeled down, as a tall, red-haired woman of the Gene Mage’s race strode in. She hopped up onto a tree branch, as the woman came closer.
“Come down, little one,” the woman said. “I wish to see you properly.”
She didn’t want to obey, but she had been taught to always do what her elders told her, so she came down.
The woman cupped her chin in her hand, and smiled. “Brother Gene Mage has been hiding you from me,” she said. “I can now see why.”
“Brother Gene Mage would rather you requested permission before entering my facilities, Dream Stalker,” the Gene Mage said, entering from the opposite doorway.
“I didn’t wish to be a bother. And I was curious how your attempts to recreate the Ferin were progressing,” Dream Stalker said.
She couldn’t have said why, but Dream Stalker bothered the young Ferin girl, so she backed away, and ran her hand through her hair. She was a big girl, as Arla had once told her. She didn’t need to run to the Gene Mage for every little thing.
“They progress,” the Gene Mage said.
“Are you experimenting with their pigmentation?”
“No,” the Gene Mage said coolly. “That was an unexpected byproduct.” He looked down her and drew Dream Stalker towards the doors. “Allow me to explain it to you…”
A day or two later, she was alone with the Gene Mage, being tested once again, and asked, “What did Mistress Dream Stalker mean?”
“About what, little one?” the Gene Mage asked.
“About re-- re-creating the Ferin. You mean you really will make more like me?”
The Gene Mage looked sad once again. “I would like to, but I do not think it is possible at this time.”
“But you made me!”
“Yes, but…” The Gene Mage sighed, and brought up a picture on his display screen. It showed… people like her, dozens of them! Except they were grey, not white, but that didn’t matter because they were real! “These are my Ferin. The original Ferin, you might say. It took a thousand years for them to reach this stage of development, a proper form to allow us to harvest their Bion.”
“What is Bion?” she asked.
“All Ferin… all proper Ferin, create Bion. It is a form of living energy, which they can produce for either defense, or to power machinery.”
“Can I do that?”
Now the Gene Mage looked very sad. “No, little one, you can’t.”
She was puzzled. “Why not? Is it because my skin is white, not grey?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The Gene Mage sighed again. “A very long time ago, something terrible happened. All of the Ferin who came before you were k-- they died. They died, and I was forced to flee without complete copies of my genetic samples and notes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“All the Ferin were gone, little one. I was forced to use what I had in an attempt to recreate a thousand years of effort. After four hundred years, the end result is… you.”
She frowned, uneasy. “Do you mean… I’m not right?”
The Gene Mage shook his head. “That isn’t exactly correct. You are an experiment. I did not seriously expect to achieve success on my first attempt when I decanted you.”
“But there’s no one else like me?”
“That is correct.”
“And there never will be?”
“Like you, no. But the children I will create, building upon what little success I could achieve with your genetic structure, will be closer to the original Ferin form. And the ones that come after them will be closer still. And after that… who knows?”
“Oh,” she said. She sat down upon the grass. “But must I always be so lonely?”
The Gene Mage smiled. “You have me, do you not, and Arla?”
“Yes,” she agreed, “but no one like me.”
“No, no one like you,” the Gene Mage agreed. Then he added, “I’m sorry.”
The End
Her first memory was of the Gene Mage, his face looking down on her, as she lay nestled on her sleeping pad. Her next was of Arla, her nurse, who was always there when the Gene Mage was not, her grey face old, lined, and kind, her topknot dyed a bright yellow.
“Am I a Creo, like you?” she asked Arla one day.
“Do I have a tail? Are you grey?,” Arla asked, and told her to eat a little more food, for she was often sick, and had trouble holding it down sometimes.
“No,” she admitted, and that was that. She was proud of her tail, and she often made the Gene Mage laugh when she hung from it in the trees, or swung from branch to branch in her dome.
She knew she wasn’t like the Gene Mage. The Gene Mage was tall, and green, and handsome. She was small, and her skin was white, and she had a tail. Though she did have horns like he did, even though hers moved and his didn’t.
When she was old enough to understand what she wanted to know, she finally asked, “Who am I?”
“You are a Ferin,” the Gene Mage said, and bade her to sit still on the table, while he poked her with needles and glued sensors to her chest, in yet another round of “testing”, whatever that was.
“What is a Ferin?”
“Your race, which I created,” he answered.
“Are the more like me?” she asked.
“There once were,” the Gene Mage said, and then he looked very sad. So she gave him a hug, and he patted her on the back and said everything was all right.
When she a little bit older, she told him, “I’m lonely.”
“Why, little one?” he asked, “Don’t you play with Arla?” He was sitting beside her on a bench in the dome. It was her dome, and was very large, with grass and spade leaf trees all around. Which was nice, except sometimes it seemed too big, as if it had been built for more than just her.
“Arla is very nice, “ she told him. “But I’d like there to be more like me. More…” What was the name again? “More Ferin, please. Can you make more, like you made me? Arla can’t climb in trees like I can.”
“Not yet,” the Gene Mage said. “Someday soon, I hope, but not yet.”
More time passed. One day she was playing hunt and flee with Arla in her dome, when the old Creo suddenly kneeled down, as a tall, red-haired woman of the Gene Mage’s race strode in. She hopped up onto a tree branch, as the woman came closer.
“Come down, little one,” the woman said. “I wish to see you properly.”
She didn’t want to obey, but she had been taught to always do what her elders told her, so she came down.
The woman cupped her chin in her hand, and smiled. “Brother Gene Mage has been hiding you from me,” she said. “I can now see why.”
“Brother Gene Mage would rather you requested permission before entering my facilities, Dream Stalker,” the Gene Mage said, entering from the opposite doorway.
“I didn’t wish to be a bother. And I was curious how your attempts to recreate the Ferin were progressing,” Dream Stalker said.
She couldn’t have said why, but Dream Stalker bothered the young Ferin girl, so she backed away, and ran her hand through her hair. She was a big girl, as Arla had once told her. She didn’t need to run to the Gene Mage for every little thing.
“They progress,” the Gene Mage said.
“Are you experimenting with their pigmentation?”
“No,” the Gene Mage said coolly. “That was an unexpected byproduct.” He looked down her and drew Dream Stalker towards the doors. “Allow me to explain it to you…”
A day or two later, she was alone with the Gene Mage, being tested once again, and asked, “What did Mistress Dream Stalker mean?”
“About what, little one?” the Gene Mage asked.
“About re-- re-creating the Ferin. You mean you really will make more like me?”
The Gene Mage looked sad once again. “I would like to, but I do not think it is possible at this time.”
“But you made me!”
“Yes, but…” The Gene Mage sighed, and brought up a picture on his display screen. It showed… people like her, dozens of them! Except they were grey, not white, but that didn’t matter because they were real! “These are my Ferin. The original Ferin, you might say. It took a thousand years for them to reach this stage of development, a proper form to allow us to harvest their Bion.”
“What is Bion?” she asked.
“All Ferin… all proper Ferin, create Bion. It is a form of living energy, which they can produce for either defense, or to power machinery.”
“Can I do that?”
Now the Gene Mage looked very sad. “No, little one, you can’t.”
She was puzzled. “Why not? Is it because my skin is white, not grey?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The Gene Mage sighed again. “A very long time ago, something terrible happened. All of the Ferin who came before you were k-- they died. They died, and I was forced to flee without complete copies of my genetic samples and notes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“All the Ferin were gone, little one. I was forced to use what I had in an attempt to recreate a thousand years of effort. After four hundred years, the end result is… you.”
She frowned, uneasy. “Do you mean… I’m not right?”
The Gene Mage shook his head. “That isn’t exactly correct. You are an experiment. I did not seriously expect to achieve success on my first attempt when I decanted you.”
“But there’s no one else like me?”
“That is correct.”
“And there never will be?”
“Like you, no. But the children I will create, building upon what little success I could achieve with your genetic structure, will be closer to the original Ferin form. And the ones that come after them will be closer still. And after that… who knows?”
“Oh,” she said. She sat down upon the grass. “But must I always be so lonely?”
The Gene Mage smiled. “You have me, do you not, and Arla?”
“Yes,” she agreed, “but no one like me.”
“No, no one like you,” the Gene Mage agreed. Then he added, “I’m sorry.”
The End
