by Liam Clay
“I served under Vorashia - the Pros' leader - for almost a decade, so I know her style. She will put three or four soldiers inside that circle. When it falls through, they will drop down firing. If we can take them out quickly, this could still go our way. But the rest will come at us like a bat out of hell, so be ready.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Tikal asks. “Slap them to death?”
Ugly sighs. “I don't know - hit them with the weights or something.”
Everyone scrambles to arm themselves. Tikal and Lucy both claim bench press bars. Francis takes a pair of dumbbells. Amy rummages around in a beaten up footlocker, and emerges with a pair of steel-capped boxing gloves. I pick a chain with a circular weight tied to one end. Amateurs continue to enter the gym as we’re doing this, spreading out in a circle around the plasma-digger.
We are under no illusions about how useful weights are going to be in a gunfight, so we take up positions behind the speakers that flank the dancefloor.
“Maybe we'll get lucky and these bastards will kill each other.” Francis says to me.
“I heard that!” Chaste calls out.
“Oops. Er, go Amateurs?”
But she is no longer paying attention, because the enemy is nearly through. The digger is humming with supercharged energy now, pumping vibrations through the floor. Then the circle falls in. Ugly flips a switch on the robot's side and dives for cover. The digger fires a beam of oversaturated blue light straight into the descending steel. It disintegrates before our eyes, taking three Pros with it. A deluge of liquid steel sluices down onto the robot. Its body cracks, ruptures and then explodes, sending all four legs flying across the room. One of them hits Dunce in the arm, breaking bones like brittle chocolate. The walls reverberate with the man’s screams.
And into this fiery hell drops a woman. Long-limbed and spider-like, she is sheathed in polished plate armor that shines silver from within the flames. An ammunition string runs from a backpack to a two-handed gun she holds low at the waist. I wait for Vorashia to greet her former crew members - but she is less sentimental than me. And apparently so are the Amateurs, because gunfire erupts all around. More Pros drop into the room, and everyone's armor is put to the test. Within seconds, the Tub's hull is perforated with bullet holes.
Someone throws a grenade at Vorashia. It deflects off her visor and bounces up into the trapship. The explosion destabilizes both vessels, and we drift to starboard. Then our nose drops and I'm airborne, tumbling across the chamber. An armored Pro appears before me. I swing my chain. The plate cracks his helmet and he falls into fire. Then I'm tumbling down the corridor and onto the bridge, bumping up against the pilot's chair.
The Tub's rounded viewport is a single sheet of tinted glass that stretches up and over my head. Through it, I see what must once have been a major oceanic port. But its vast concrete docks are now the site of a vertically stacked city of colorful shipping containers. Movable cranes loom over it all, their warning lights glowing like sullen eyes. Stick figure people crawl over this landscape; if we crash land there, hundreds will die.
Luckily for them, we are falling toward a sulfuric bog just shy of the port. But at our current trajectory, no one onboard is going to survive the landing. Pulling myself into the pilot's chair, I grip the joystick and drag it backward. The Tub's fans shift position, and we pull up slightly. But with the trapship riding our back, the weight is too much to overcome. All I can do is watch as the bog grows to fill the viewport.
We crash down like a meteorite, kicking up huge gouts of yellow-gray water. The impact cracks the viewport like an egg. Granules of tinted glass mix with mud splatter to create an apocalyptic rain. The Tub's neck breaks next; which may actually be a good thing, as it allows the vessel to plow a furrow along the bog's surface. A hundred meters ahead, the port's concrete edge forms a breakwater five meters high. Shipping container taverns have been lined up along it, and drunks are watching open-mouthed as we careen toward them, totally out of control. The breakwater is close now. But at the last second, one of the trapship's claws digs into the muck, causing both ships to spin sideways and roll over. There is an insane moment where I'm hanging by the Tub's joystick, gazing down at bubbling gray death. Then we flip over again, landing upright next to the port and its crowd of onlookers.
The bridge is a disaster. Gray slime is oozing through holes in the floor, and sparks are flying everywhere. My friends are somewhere further back in the ship. But the Tub's neck is crushed and unnavigable, and so I’m left to focus on my own survival. By standing on top of the pilot's chair, I am able to get my forearm onto the roof. But I simply don't have the upper body strength to climb out. Instead, I sit in the pilot's chair as the water rises, hoping it will buoy me to freedom.
But I won't have to wait that long, because fanboats are making their way toward us from the port. Most belong to bar patrons, and the bog briefly turns into a giant game of drunken bumper cars. But the first vessels reach the Tub soon enough, and now strong arms are dragging me up into clean air.
CHAPTER 7
I've never liked the term 'salt of the earth'. But my saviors are undeniably salty. The substance suffuses their clothes, their skin, and their personalities in equal measure. I am transported to a fanboat and laid, roughly but not violently, in its bottom. It can be assumed that the rescue operation becomes more complex after my extraction, as significant sections of the Tub and the trapship are on fire. But from my position it is impossible to take in details. I may also be in a state of mild shock, because the world doesn't seem to be functioning as it normally does. People talk to me, and my mouth answers without consulting my brain. I'm fairly sure that the words prisoner and lockup cross my lips, however. After that, my rescuers' treatment of me takes a marked dip. I am slapped in the face, hauled up a greasy ladder, and tied by the neck to a horizontal post. Locals sip their drinks and look on, untroubled by my plight. The stacked building blocks of the shipping container city paint a cubist picture behind them.
Before long, both crews and all of the prisoners have been brought ashore. Incredibly, there don't appear to be any further casualties; maybe my joystick intervention did some good after all. Vorashia is the last up the ladder. Even coated in sulfurous mud, her plate armor looks phenomenal. And when she removes her helmet...
The woman's hair is the color of volcanic rock, as are her eyes. Marble cheekbones overshadow craterous cheeks and recurved, poppy-red lips. She would be gorgeous, except that her lower jaw is a pattern-etched sweep of burnished steel. Whether her face has been rebuilt following an injury or altered to match the woman within, I don't know. But the sum effect is brooding, calculated and dangerous. Her gaze roves over the concrete flats, and settles on Ugly.
“You!”
And now she’s gliding toward him with long, powerful strides. The mohawked slaver makes no move - and in a moment of insight, I realize that he is paralyzed with fear. But before she can reach him, a fat man with heavy jowls steps into the way.
“You know the law as well as anyone, Vor. Fighting is not allowed in the Outpost.”
“Don't spout your precious policies at me, Stavros!” The woman spits back. For a moment, she looks ready to gut Ugly where he stands and damn the consequences. But then she re-evaluates, and her next words are served cold.
“As you all know, this worm used to be my 2IC. But then he mutinied, setting off a bomb inside my ship. And now, thanks to him, I have lost a second vessel as well. He deserves to die for what he has done.”
“What I have done?” Ugly says, voice quavering only slightly. “How about the things you did, every day that I worked for you? We’re all slavers now - there’s no getting around that fact. But you enjoy breaking people down, making them feel less than human. I mutinied because I couldn't stand by and watch you play your games any longer.”
Vor shrugs. “Some people are meant to rule. And others, to serve. You can see it in their eyes, like a code written into their DNA. But I will not be lect
ured by a weakling like you. And if I cannot claim compensation in blood...” Her silvered arm sweeps around to point at us. “Then I claim these prisoners instead.”
“They belong to me!” Ugly protests. “And our ship was destroyed too, as you can see. Without the money these bodies can bring in Ninetown, I will never be able to afford a new one.”
Stavros looks from one slaver to the other while the crowd chatters excitedly. This is far better entertainment than they expected today.
“How about this?” He says at length. “Each of you will take turns picking from among these slaves. That way you both get half, and of the type of stock you prefer.”
The crowd murmurs appreciatively, impressed by the fat man's solution. Ugly and Vorashia do not share their satisfaction, but they have no choice but to accept his decision. And so the surreal process of picking prisoners begins. Vor bullies Stavros into letting her go first. She moves down the line, cupping chins and staring into eyes. She dismisses Tikal, Lucy and Francis almost without pausing. Peace and Amy receive longer examinations; but they too, are passed by. And now it’s my turn. The slaver's gaze travels from my face down to the stump of my arm. And then she smiles, revealing filed incisors.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you? Rough clay, waiting for the right hands to mold it.” She turns to the fat man. “I choose this one!”
Stavros nods. “Do you wish to brand him now, or in private?”
“Now.”
Still gripping my chin with one hand, she detaches a black medallion from her belt. A feeding vulture is depicted on it. Activated by her touch, the metal turns a deep cherry red. Then she presses it to my cheek just below my remaining eye. Pain flares, and I try to wrench away. But she pulls me close, whispering sweet nothings until her mark has been etched into my skin. Then she releases me and cedes the floor to Ugly.
By the end, all of my friends have been chosen by the Amateurs. The only familiar face in my group is Timothy, the political scientist. But he has been unmanned by Vorashia's branding, and cringes away when I try to speak with him. The others are even worse, though. Most barely seem to have registered their disfigurement. Like cattle to the slaughterhouse, they are resigned to whatever fate awaits them. This is one of the darkest aspects of the human survival instinct. The willingness to give up your personality, your dignity and your freedom in order to stay alive.
When everyone has been chosen, one of the Pros pulls a length of chain from his pack. Then he depresses the carabineer that connects my neckrope to the hitching post. It springs open, and he reclips it to a link on his chain. He repeats the exercise with all of Vorashia’s selections while ignoring Chaste, who is doing the same thing.
“Don't let her inside your head.” The Amateur mutters as she passes me.
And then we're being led into the port. I see a few other chain gangs like ours, but most of the people in view are slavers. We march down streets lined with stores selling gear and supplies of all kinds. I study the shopkeepers as we go by, trying to imagine having a mundane job that supports such an evil industry. Are they riddled with guilt? In denial? Do they carry out small acts of kindness to offset the part they play in this machine? Or do they give zero shits about the whole thing?
Vorashia leads us to a shipping container fortress that rests on a wooden dock built out over the bog. Whispering instructions to one of her men, she departs on an unknown errand. We pass through the structure's main door and into a caged security checkpoint consisting of two locked gates in sequence. Everything is immaculately clean and highly organized. Our neckropes are removed one by one for transfer through the checkpoint. Once through, the prisoners are led to a door in the left-hand wall of the chamber. I am the last one to be processed. One of the Pros escorts me through the door, and I find myself in a cold, empty room. Then someone shoves me in the back. Too late, I notice the circular hole cut out of the wooden floor. My feet flail in empty space, and I fall into darkness.
I splash down into waist-deep water. Silt enters my nose and mouth, and I come up choking amidst a press of filthy prisoners. Thick stanchions rise from the mud, supporting the dock above, and walls have been erected between them to create a marine holding pen. The only light comes from the hole overhead, and from cracks between the planks used to create our prison. By my guess, there are over a hundred people here.
“Welcome to the Aquarium.” The Pro calls down through the hole. “There is only one rule. If anyone speaks, no one eats. Grunting, screaming and crying are allowed, though.”
Then the door that gives access to the room slams shut, and we are plunged into almost total blackness.
My eye slowly adjusts, until I can just make out the other prisoners. But their faces remain cloaked in shadow, turning them into inhuman apparitions. For the first few minutes, I keep expecting something else to happen. But nothing changes. The pen is so crowded that lying down would be impossible even without the water and mud. Thinking that having a wall at my back might make things easier, I step toward one. But there is a low snarl, and then someone punches me in the chest. Shocked by the silent violence of the blow, I huddle back into my original position.
Time goes by - how much, it is impossible to say. Aside from the sound of water lapping against stanchions, it is totally silent. The air smells of dead fish, sulfur and offal. How long are they going to keep us in here? Hours, days, weeks? Panic builds inside me, until it's all I can do to stay quiet.
To help combat my anxiety, I try to think rationally about what is being done to us. I suspect that Vorashia purposefully chose the most docile prisoners for herself. She must have thought that my injuries would put me in this category as well. And now she is training us to associate communication with pain and misery. So the slaver must want us to be surrounded by people, yet alone inside our heads.
Hours later, a woman begins to hack and cough. As night falls in the outside world, her condition worsens. She moans and thrashes in the water, obviously in the grip of a high fever. And then she starts to speak. It’s just disjointed rambling - nothing anyone could mistake for purposeful speech. But the moment she starts up, the other prisoners begin to hiss. The sound sends shivers up my spine. And then the woman's voice cuts off in mid-sentence. It is replaced by a low gurgling that fades slowly into silence. The hissing stops.
Oh my god, someone just murdered a sick woman for talking. What I wouldn't do to be back in the Amateur's lockup right now. Not long after the killing, someone enters the upper room. Only the weakest of light filters down to us; but after the blackness that came before, it hurts my eye. Footsteps approach the hole, and I hear the sound of a bucket being placed on the ground.
“I've got food and containers of clean water up here.” A man says. He is not the same one from before. “Except... I could have sworn I heard someone talking a while back.”
Silence.
“And as we all know, there is only one way to deal with a talker. Is that what you did?”
And now the hissing starts up again.
“You wouldn't lie to me, would you?”
The sound grows louder.
“Call me a softie, but I believe you. So here you go.”
The jailor holds the bucket out over the hole, careful not to let his face show. Then he upends it. Raw fish falls upon us, followed by a rain of small water bottles. Disgusted, I cover my head. But the other prisoners do the opposite. They reach up with both arms, trying to snatch the fish out of the air. And those who fail, dive into the water after the prizes that have fallen. Fights erupt. It feels as though I'm surrounded by sharks during a feeding frenzy. By the time it's over the jailor is gone, as is the light that accompanied his arrival. And now I am forced to listen as the prisoners feast in the dark. A body bumps up against my hip. It could be the sick woman, or someone who lost a battle over food.
The night grows older, and I start to get tired. But there is no easy way to sleep. I eventually find a method of floating that leaves my mouth above water.
But it is far from a perfect solution, and come morning I am delirious with fatigue. By the light of a pitiful dawn, I manage to grab a floating bottle of water. But I still haven't eaten anything at all.
During the next feeding time, I try to catch a fish. But with one hand it is next to impossible. The fighting is even more vicious this time. Another day without food, and I will have lost my chance to win such a contest. But during the afternoon feeding, I still can't bring myself to participate. To do so would be to lose some elemental aspect of my humanity.
That night, I almost drown multiple times. My limbs shake, and my mind casts hallucinations over this world of darkness. If I can't catch a fish during the morning feeding, I will not survive the day. But instead of nourishment, we receive a visit from Vorashia. I would recognize her voice anywhere, but the words are beyond my ability to comprehend. Through blurred vision, I see a rope ladder drop through the hole. Then a masked slaver starts to climb down. The prisoners flee before him, some ducking underwater in their desperation to avoid notice. But one is too slow. The Pro thrusts a long-handled cattle prod into the man's back. He spasms and falls into the water, just managing to roll over so that he doesn't drown. Only afterward do I recognize him as Timothy.
The slaver turns in my direction. But instead of attacking, he holsters his weapon and picks me up almost gently. At his gesture, a harness drops down from above. He straps me in, and I am hoisted up out of the pit. I will never forget the prisoners' eyes as they witness that ascent. There is nothing but base, animal hatred in those looks. And Timothy's are the worst of all.
.
“Do you know why I saved you from the Aquarium?”