"Khai" by Stephen Holts

Rain was falling lightly in a mixture of mist and drizzle. Even still, there was enough of it for there to be a white tent hanging over the funeral. Wayman watched the rain collect, and then drop from the edge of the tent to the puddle in the grass next to him. He had stopped listening to the funeral a long time ago and was instead watching the rain.

He watched as the heavier rain drops splashed into the puddle every minute or so, while the mist constantly sank in, sending tiny ripples running all around the puddle. The wind would blow every now and then, allowing mist to kiss Wayman’s face and hands, giving him a chill that ran through his body. Rain was always present at a Sierian funeral.

Wayman wondered if it was in fact the wind rain that gave him chills, or the fact that this was his ninth funeral this year and it was mid February. He stared at the banner with the dead boy’s face on it and sighed as guilt settled in like the mist on the tent.

Wayman settled into his favorite chair in his study. It croaked with age as he settled in, reminding him that he needed to replace it. He smiled. For years he’d been telling himself to replace that chair, but everyday he forgets until he settles into it again at the end of each day.

He felt something underneath him. When he pulled the folded piece of paper out from under him, he instantly began to cry. It was the program from the funeral he had been to the previous weekend. He was so young.

He sucked it up, buried his feelings, and chalked the death up to part of his job.

Keep it together, Wayman. He willed himself. There will be a new one tomorrow.

He was wrong. It was another week until Wayman met Khai. He seemed extremely young; no more than 14. His silence intimidated Wayman. He seemed like a rock, in face and in manner. Never speaking or showing any emotion. He knows why he’s here, Wayman thought.

Wayman sighed. That was just his life.

Wayman’s father was an engineer and to keep Wayman safe, he taught him everything he knew. Engineers are specialties, and specialties are safe from both of the treacherous fields that are forced upon those who aren’t: soldier, or slave.

Wayman’s training was nothing passed the creation of lasers. When his father died, the only thing he inherited was a pack of blue prints. Guns. That was the business. He didn't realize it until after his father died, but now he knew that they weren't engineers innovating new technologies, but simple workers assembling weapons; and his father left Wayman the most dangerous one.

When Wayman had first seen it, he instantly knew that the blue prints were nothing but parts of a weapon that made even the most elaborate war machine look like a water gun. That's why he had me learn lasers. He had thought.