by James Somers
Four metamen remained standing with the pantheran prisoner fastened to the pole between them. They wore disheveled clothes, tattered and full of filth. None of the four seemed particularly happy about their appointment, or for their being left behind while the others got to enjoy the chase. But none of them had any desire whatsoever to face their leader, Hannibal, to be reprimanded. The cyborg leader only had one punishment for disobedience, and they all knew it well.
Each of them wore, upon their bodies, a piece or part from those which had been reprimanded in the past—a cyborg cast to the fury of the whole group and torn apart like sharks rending one of their own in a feeding frenzy. Parts were scarce commodities, and metamen obtained them anywhere they could.
The sea sent a strong wind across the road, which blew through the tall grasses growing in great fields to their right. The green and yellow stems of the grasses appeared to roll in waves as the wind currents pushed and released them again and again.
The cyborgs watched as the last of their raiding party disappeared into the trees one hundred yards down the dirt road. A distant rumbling on the road caught their attention. They maneuvered their heavy prisoner in order to view the path behind them. A wagon approached from the distance. Those among them having optical implants saw a boy sitting in the seat of the wagon and a huge panthera pulling it like a horse.
Many thoughts ran through their minds: should they drop the prisoner to fight, should they run away, or try to call the others back? But they never had the chance to implement any of these possibilities.