A Bellicose Dance

by Patrick M J Lozon

  Everyone slid down under the cover of the crates to avoid the branches and leaves that constantly swept over the deck in whipping lashes. Time and again, Ryan heard strange sounds bellow over the rover's engine, cries from creatures deep in the jungle. He wondered if he could survive a night out here, what his odds were of ending up a food morsel. He checked the guard again. The Xilozak was squatted down tight against the deck, his eyes wide, gun ready.

  He was scared. Really scared. What had he done to deserve this post? Looks like he would give up his arm to be down in the rover right now. Maybe he should try an escape right now. But if he jumped, he would probably break a leg. He could grab onto a low-lying branch when the rover went under one. That would work. But once he was free, what then?

  A growl reverberated from the pit of his stomach.

  He was hungry. He was thirsty. Where could he find water? What could he eat that wouldn't kill him? Old Noteeth had said that they would feed him well. Maybe he should wait. Wait and be a slave. That was ridiculous. Now was the time to move.

  The rover bounced vigorously as it traversed a formidable sinkhole. The guard turned in Ryan’s direction, slightly startled, and seemed to notice him for the first time. He growled, motioning with his blaster to move closer to the center of the deck.

  Instantly his ideas of escape fell apart. He crawled over to join the others, finding a protective area behind a large piece of machinery.

  They came to a clearing. The machine ground to a halt with an audible screech. Ryan strained his neck to look out in front. Ahead of them lay a fence that used lasers instead of stone. It was well over 50 meters tall with alternating beams at least a meter in depth that ran horizontally from post to post. They were spaced no more than a meter apart for the full height of the fence. Their phosphorescent reddish glow lit its perimeter on both sides, cutting through the murkiness.

  He could hear a high-pitched hum emanating through the air, like he was near a major power line. The smell of ozone made his mouth water.

  The rover had arrived at a gate. Two towers stood 10 meters apart, rising up another 10 meters higher than the fence. Ryan could see lights and movement at their top decks. The dark outline of large pivot guns jutted out, muzzles pointed into the jungle, apparently ready to handle any hostile visitor. Ryan peered down the horizon along the fence. There was a similar tower another couple kilometers down, just barely visible, its lights dimmed by fog.

  The fence was either a very elaborate means of keeping slaves in, or a necessity to keep something else out. Probably the latter.

  Something crashed behind them. Not too far away. Low thuds. Looking up, he could see the tower guards running out onto the decking to position the pivot guns. The sounds were getting louder. He could feel the vibrations through the deck.

  Whatever was coming, was big.

  Ryan fought down a sudden urge to yell at the driver to get moving. An instant later the beams disappeared in front of them, opening an access between the two towers. The engines roared and the rover lurched through. In a moment they were free of the jungle and whatever it contained. Ryan let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

  He turned back and watched as the gate reactivated. He noticed, just for a split second, the whole fence, from horizon to horizon blink off and on - a temporary unsteady shimmer as the power grid readjusted itself. And then the pivot guns started firing. The ground shook as each pulse blasted a white-hot stream into the dense jungle, focusing on roughly the same direction from which they had come. Blast after blast burned into the foliage, lighting up the area with small explosions and fire, but whatever they were firing at never appeared.

  Out of the frying pan…

  He turned to view the approaching town, as the rover raced over a brief stretch of blackened, cleared jungle. They slowed to a stop when they reached its outskirts. The streets and modest buildings were alive with Xilozaks and Txtians drinking and fighting. A town not unlike the one they had just left.

  They were parked in front of a huge building half-made of old stone from an ancient temple and the rest constructed of large black polished blocks of granite. Two stone columns stretched up in front of the building resembling an architecture employed in Roman Coliseums.

  The head Txtian marched out and signaled to the guard. The Xilozak grabbed one of the Signite men and almost threw him off the rover.

  The ride was over.

  The rag-tag group moved quickly down the ladder. Another guard motioned them to line up and face their new sour-faced owner. The Txtian miner screeched and clicked a barrage of his native language. A small box fastened to his waist belt blurted out a language that Ryan knew by now must have been Signite, as the others seemed to understand what was being said.

  The owner pointed to the female at the end of the line. She didn’t move. Irritated the alien grabbed her and viciously dragged her in front of the group. Her eyes were large with panic and fear. She looked desperately at each of them.

  What could he do? They'd kill him if he tried anything.

  He looked away guiltily.

  The whip hit her back and wrapped around her neck. Again and again, it cut into her.

  With each slash, Ryan winced.

  She screamed in agony, then began to beg and plead with the Txtian master. The alien only chirped in amusement, waving its insectoid arm to continue the lashings. When the woman collapsed, he signaled the guard to stop. The thrashing had not lasted long, but its message was clear.

  The woman lay on the ground, bleeding, barely breathing. No one moved to help her.

  The Txtian glowed with satisfaction. He turned and marched back into his colossal house, dispatching his orders with a wave. The guard motioned to the Signite men to grab the woman and carry her. They marched through the town to a small building made of stone, then proceeded to crowd into a small room with a dirt floor. The Xilozak guard left them with a single menacing growl: Stay!

  The Signite woman had not stirred. Ryan stepped closer. The others moved to intercept him, glaring at him with an unbridled hate.

  It wasn’t his fault, and they didn’t do a damn thing to stop it.

  He glared back at them, but decided it was best to not push his luck. He backed away, found a corner, crouched down and buried his face in his hands.

  Wait. Nothing to do but wait.

  Within the hour another human slave appeared, bringing food, water, and clothing for each of them. The slave did not speak a word. He motioned to each of them to take the large bowls he'd brought, and then proceeded to dump steaming gruel into them. Water was served next in oversized plastic-like tumblers.

  Ryan gulped it down and inspected the steaming substance in his bowl. It had the appearance of lumpy cornmeal. He scooped it up with his fingers and found it tasted better than the plastic lumps they were fed in the ship. He gulped it down gratefully. The large portions served to fill him up. It was a comforting feeling.

  Each of them put on their new apparel. They were similar to overalls, fitting loosely, made of tough denim-like material. He didn't care what they looked like. It was good just to have some clean clothes on once again - some dignity.

  His brief satisfaction was crushed when another Xilozak arrived and signaled him to follow. The others looked on, and he swore they were smiling.

  Now into the fire...

  Ryan fell into step behind the alien. He was a strong, rough-looking reptile and he walked with purpose. Ryan had to move fast to keep alongside him. Once beyond earshot of others, the Xilozak finally growled something at Ryan. The alien's translator blurted out Signite.

  "I don't understand that language," Ryan stated flatly.

  The Xilozak grunted, knowing Ryan's response did not match the translator's setting. He made a few adjustments to the unit and repeated his Xilozak growl. This time it came out in what sounded close to German.

  "I still don't understand."

  The alien, now irritated at his unsuccessful attempts, stopped walking an
d savagely twisted at the controls to the translator. A common phrase began to blurt out in a myriad of languages. One came through in Earth-English, saying simply, "You are a slave of the Xi-Empire."

  "There!" announced Ryan, although the translator was already onto the next subsequent dialect.

  The grizzled Xilozak grunted with satisfaction and made a few more adjustments. The sentence repeated with a flat metallic squeal: "You are a slave of the Xi-Empire."

  Ryan nodded back.

  "Good. We know of your language. Slaver Tarvoks are often slack in their translation databases, but I know Zorlog, he is efficient and thorough. From now on you will forget your home language. It is Trinarieit you will learn."

  The statement was as much a command as it was fact. Translators were few on the colonies. Slaves had to learn their masters' commands quickly if they wanted to survive.

  "You will do what I say when I say it."

  The reptile resumed his brisk pace. Ryan again fell in behind. They navigated through a maze of buildings, then through a small yard littered with remnants of vehicles and pieces of machinery.

  A mechanic’s shop!

  Three rovers, in mid-repair, filled three of the four available bays. Ryan followed the alien through the building, stepping carefully to avoid tripping. They entered a small room with walls layered with shelving crammed with gadgets of all shapes and sizes. A large cushioned bench, big enough to hold a Xilozak, sat in the corner with one of its legs propped up on a rusting hunk of metal.

  "I will allow you to sleep. Gain your strength. You will need it. Do not leave this room until I come to get you." He left without another word.

  Ryan lay down on the bench, sinking into its softness, and was asleep within seconds. It seemed to have lasted only minutes and the Xilozak was shaking him awake with a roughened lizard hand.

  “Get up, slave. I want you to clean.”

  Ryan complied, began to dig through the mess, moving equipment and tools, scrubbing the floor with water and cleaners found with a bucket. A familiar human slave appeared a few hours later to drop off a meal. The mechanic, not wanting to watch him eat, directed him back into the small storage room. The meal was salty, his drink bitter, and the break short, but his belly was full, and his body felt good, with the exception of the odd sudden movement reminding him of healing ribs.

  Later in the day, the ranking Txtian arrived. They called him a Torzon, a label similar to an old-Earth Overlord in many respects. He exchanged heated words with the mechanic. Ryan watched from around the corner, careful not to catch the attention of the pair.

  The mechanic's face was flushed dark green, and he struggled to pronounce each word, more than often ending in a slurred growl. Something strange happened to the mechanic. He began to hold his head in his hands like he was in pain. The Torzon chirped in delight and gave the big Xilozak a massive shove into a pile of scrap. The insect chirped a few more acidulous phrases and promptly left.

  The mechanic dug a large metallic bottle out from under a heap of debris and took two large gulps from it. Bloodshot eyes searched out and found Ryan. The old Xilozak motioned him over and flipped on the translator.

  "Bad news for you, slave. Seems the Torzon has no desire to keep to his word. I cannot retain you. You must work in the mines. In time, maybe, I will be able to get you back here, but not now. You must work hard. That is how you will stay alive. I know you have the will, that's why I bought you."

  He took another swig and burped loudly. "Time to go then."

  He rolled out a wheeled platform from behind one of the derelicts at the side of the building. It was nothing more than a rectangle wrapped in roll bars, with no seats. It didn’t seem to have any central engine or source of power. A large joystick jutted up from the floor.

  He motioned Ryan to jump on. "Hang on, slave."

  The vehicle jarred into motion and shot off into the crowded street. Xilozaks and Txtians alike jumped out of their way, growling and shaking fists at the mechanic, who laughed coarsely, enjoying the sight of them scrambling. It was not far to the mineshaft entrance, but the mechanic's recklessness ensured it was an interesting ride. Twice they barely avoided being crushed by the massive drilling machines racing up from the depths.

  They finally came to a stop near the mouth of the entrance. Another Xilozak met them, giving the mechanic an open slap on the shoulder. The mechanic responded with a toothy grimace - the challenged version of a smile. He instructed Ryan to stay put and left to have a long discussion with his friend. He finally signaled Ryan out with an impatient wave. "I have instructed my friend here not to kill you unless it is necessary. Do what you are told and you will live."

  The old mechanic stepped back onto the sled and sped off, fearlessly sliding between two large mobile ore processors roaring down the lane.

  * * *

  Ryan's mining experience began 10 kilometers underground. The friend of the mechanic turned out to be the shift supervisor, and his discipline was ruthless. Any slaves who could not keep up the pace were butchered on the spot by a large machete-style sword that the muscular Xilozak carried in a sling on his back. His victims lay where they fell, often left there to rot.

  The slaves were many, and very few were human. There were the lizards he’d seen before, very different than the Xilozaks, with tails long and strong and pronounced snouts. They seemed more at home crouching on all fours than upright, which made them suitable for this kind of work. Native Kalmakans were everywhere - small hairless beings, with three tails and four hands. They were not very strong, and for what Ryan could tell, not very intelligent. He caught glimpses of others within the deeper sections of the mines: large, dark creatures, with a strong distaste toward bright light. They were very few, but one could do the work of 10 of him. The guards kept them segregated from the others, an obvious sign they were dangerous. It was not until the third shift that Ryan understood to what degree. A Signite, too exhausted to notice, ventured too close to one while he was working. It happened in mere seconds. The thing attacked and literally ripped the poor man to pieces. The guards moved in quickly, their whips barely managing to hold it at bay. Their whips and the machete-style swords never stopped their slashing and cutting. They glistened in the low light, painted with the dark blood of the alien. More and more of the guards joined in with the frenzied viciousness of an out of control mob. In the shadows, Ryan could see the others of its kind. They watched quietly, warily. The creature's rage could not continue indefinitely, and it eventually succumbed to the unrelenting, merciless beating, until it was reduced to a butchered, bloody clump. The thing cried out pitifully in its last moments, beckoning to its brothers to come to its aid. None came.

  The guards left the corpse where it lay, and the slaves were forced to resume their work as if nothing happened.

  Ryan felt nothing for the savage death of the alien, or for the butchered Signite. It was no longer fear, but hate that clamped itself around his heart. He had little compassion left. He was empty. He was indifferent.

  Tracking slaves was done the old-fashioned way. Embedded id disks were too expensive. A simple branding sufficed. In the mines, keeping track of slaves was easy. After all, there was nowhere for them to go.

  It was a matter of passage for all of them. Standing in the lineup, they all knew what to expect. A Txtian stood ready with the glowing metal brand, just pulled from the fire. Ryan watched it all from an observer's point of view, disassociated. The pain came afterward, creeping into his mind like a thawing cold. They branded him twice: once on the back of the shoulder blade, the other on the calf of his right leg. It took many shifts for the burns to heal over, and more for the resulting stiffness in his muscles to dissipate.

  Their jobs changed with every shift, but they all held one common element - the work was dangerous. He was often ordered to go in between the gigantic cleats of the borers and clear away obstructing debris that could interfere with the machines as they pushed unrelentingly through the igneous veins. One s
lip would spell death, or worse, injury. Flying shrapnel was a constant hazard. Many times Ryan had seen a fellow slave get swallowed into the moving parts of the borer, or crushed under the cleats of the massive machine.

  But nothing stopped the production.

  Old Noteeth had been right about one thing: they fed them well. Mining was a business, and well-mannered slaves were considered a cost that should be managed properly. The slaves worked in shifts, with every 23rd shift off to allow them to regain their strength.

  Ryan was changing under the heavy work, becoming stronger, building muscle. It was subtle, almost unnoticeable at first. His injuries seemed to heal a little too quickly. He felt a little light-headed sometimes. He had to work to keep his emotions in check, often fighting to squelch the savage anger that overtook him.

  They were giving him drugs, most likely in the food. What they were, he had no idea, but they were a benefit in this harsh world. He tried to talk with the others, hoping they knew of the source. Seemed they were all Signite, and since they didn’t understand him, they didn’t trust him. They regarded him with indifference, often passing by without even acknowledging his presence. The few that would talk turned out to be ‘moles’ - friends of the guard, willing to leak any tidbit of information for a better meal, or an easier shift. He learned the hard way about these ones. Talk of escape resulted in 24 lashes. It almost killed him.

  Almost. No more looking for friends. He was alone.

  And so, he kept to himself, watching, listening. He grew strong, adding muscle mass with unnatural speed. Scrapes and cuts seemed to heal at twice the rate of normal. That was not the only mystery. The Signites showed little sign of change.

  Were they drugging him only?

  The other damned aliens noticed the change. He saw them watching him. Maybe they were scared of him. He knew he could snap a Xilozak’s neck in a second.

  He smiled at the thought.

  The resident doctor in charge of disease and pestilence control gave him special attention on one of his visits, but nothing seemed to have changed because of it.