A Bellicose Dance

by Patrick M J Lozon

  The Signites seemed to avoid him with more vigor than before.

  They were afraid of him. He was a freak. To hell with them anyway.

  The guards were also wary of him. They tended to use the whips on him more frequently. But they had little effect. His back, bearing the scars of uncounted lashes, turned tough as leather. He had long since grown accustomed to the pain.

  Nothing physically would hurt him anymore, just the loneliness, and no flogging could match that pain. He had to keep focused on escape. He had to develop a plan. First, he must move onto a job where he could be running machinery. He had to win the supervisor’s favor. He was no mole. The only way to do this was to work hard, keep up the pace. Never slow down.

  Shifts passed, he hustled when the others dragged their heels. He knew they thought him insane, and maybe he was.

  But it worked.

  The supervisor ordered a change. Ryan was promoted to driller, taught to handle the large, cumbersome plasma drill. The tool was extremely heavy and required a considerable amount of strength to drive it into the solid granite wall. Only the big aliens and the machines seemed capable of doing this job.

  He would not be beat.

  Shift after shift his arms hung limp at his sides as the machine strained every muscle in his body, but the drugs continued to do their work. His body compensated, reacting from necessity. His strength increased, along with his skill at handling the drill. Soon he was able to make the tool an extension of his arms and was able to cut through the rock face with ease. All the time he worked, he watched, looking for patterns and routines in the movement of the guards. Plans of escape continually turned within his mind.

  He learned to understand his captors, understand their language. They talked amongst themselves in a mixture of native Xilozak and Trinarieit. Their verbal enunciation was coarse and guttural, thick with a slurring accent. It was difficult when one had no frame of reference. But he was determined. He constantly eavesdropped on conversations and practiced his pronunciation under the camouflaging noise of the boring machines.

  Ryan was listening in on a conversation between two Xilozak borer drivers, when he noticed a Signite watching him - a bit too carefully. He memorized his features, half-expecting he was a mole, looking to get another freebie from the guards.

  He would have to deal with this before they caught onto him.

  The next shift the same Signite was on cleanup duty between two borers.

  A strange coincidence, or a special arrangement? If he was being watched, things would be reported, lies if not truths. He knew what had to be done, and he was ready.

  He waited on the guards cautiously. When they left for their break, he dropped his drill and sprinted. The Signite didn't see him coming, until it was too late. Ryan grabbed him and yanked him off the borer's decking, down in between the two immense machines. In one sudden, savage pull he had the man between the cleats. The gigantic metal rollers crept ahead steadily, threatening to crush the Signite's skull.

  The man yelled something at him in Signite, but Ryan had him pinned, with no way to move.

  The man was a mole, and he was going to get him killed. He had to die.

  But instead of struggling, the man relaxed and waited. The hint of a smile traced upon his lips. His gray eyes stared back intensely, not with hate, but with indifference.

  Doesn’t seem right. A mole would be begging by now, pleading for his pitiful life.

  He yanked the man free just as the rollers were about to crush him. The Signite let out a laugh, his gray eyes dancing. Ryan let him go, perplexed at his behavior.

  This one was either extremely brave or an absolute idiot.

  "What's your name?" he asked.

  The man only looked at him.

  Shit. You’re speaking English, you fool. Speak Trinarieit.

  He attempted it again, in a rather poor Trinarieit. "Name?"

  "My name is Bosn. Bosn Garious Amerida Don. Troop 91017 of Dranoke Division. Why didn't you do it?"

  "Maybe I should have. You - mole?"

  The man laughed again, lines crinkling on his face.

  "Are you?"

  A movement caught his eye. The guards were coming back. It was time to move. The Signite noticed. "We'll talk again, friend," Bosn stated, already moving to the borer's ladder.

  Ryan sprinted back, feeling a bit strange.

  He had called him ‘friend’ – a mole wouldn’t have said that - was it possible that he had found someone he could actually talk to? He did not expect this, especially not now.

  When the relief shift came, Ryan searched for the Signite. He found the man sitting, alone, watching the others with those placid gray eyes.

  "Signite of Dranoke Division."

  He nodded. "Earthman."

  They clasped hands. The Signite's grip was strong.

  "Join me. I must say, I am glad you did not kill me - I’m not a mole."

  "You not mole."

  "Good. Glad you agree. Anyone tell you that your Trinarieit's pretty sad? Do you know Signite at all?"

  "No."

  "Alright then. Trinarieit first. I know it well, part of my training."

  They managed to get a rudimentary communication going. Ryan often resorted to drawing pictures in the dirt when he lacked the words. It was slow, but it worked.

  The shift went quickly, and each relief shift after that. Ryan's Trinarieit improved, and he learned more about his Signite friend. Bosn had been one of the last resistance troops stationed on one of Signus's moons. He had single-handedly taken out a Xi-Empire destroyer by rigging an array of explosives on the moon's surface. Simple physics really. The explosion blasted a large chunk of the moon into space and deadly shrapnel to the destroyer, effectively overloading her antimatter shielding, which then triggered a series of internal explosions. It then brought the mighty vessel down onto the moon's surface. For weeks the Xi-troopers scoured the moon looking for him. He eluded capture with only a small enviro-tent and a few meager supplies, managing to obtain water by melting down surface ice with a portable flash unit. His food supply dwindled to nothing after the first few days. He was literally starving to death when they found him. Bosn, beyond all odds, had fought on, even though he knew his own death was near and unavoidable. For that, Ryan admired him.

  Their meetings could not last. The flow of new recruits had slowed to a trickle. Signite's slave resources were on the decline. The mining planet held little allure for profit-seeking slavers now, for only the systems in the central quadrants surrounding Xilo would pay the exorbitant prices they desired. The numbers dwindled while the corpse count climbed.

  Death did not stop within the dark caverns of the mine, but the guards no longer killed so readily. Something began that was much more insidious than their brutality. They were giving up. It had been too long, and hope had all but evaporated. It’s all one had to do in here – quit – lose your will, and the harsh conditions would take care of the rest.

  It pained Bosn to see his fellow Signites, once proud men and women, crack and crumble, to slowly die from the inside out. Some would simply withdraw permanently inward, others would go completely insane, and walk in front of the borer...

  Ryan didn’t know what kept Bosn going. Maybe he had someone like Aviore. Maybe he made a promise.

  The times Ryan and Bosn managed to get together had become few, made difficult by rotating shifts. Labor shortage or not, the supervisor needed to maintain production. They often sacrificed their needed sleep in order to converse and review different ideas of escape. Most of these plans were simply too unrealistic to work, and they had to be discarded due to one major setback or another, but nonetheless, they kept at it.

  When the break came, it appeared trivial, almost unremarkable. The plasma drills were very old, and they needed constant cleaning and maintenance. A number of them had stopped working or simply exploded in the driller’s grip. The supervisor saw the need for a more aggressive maintenance cycle and the old mechanic, who Ry
an was initially assigned to, was in charge of this. The Txtian Overlord, heeding the supervisor's warnings, instructed the mechanic to step up the maintenance cycle. But the mechanic was already buried in work and did not appreciate the extra burden. He demanded his slave, and this time he won.

  When the mechanic arrived for his maintenance pickup, he had the guards round up the slaves from each shift. The old mechanic immediately recognized Ryan and almost looked happy to see him.

  "So you are still alive!" he growled.

  Ryan cleared his throat and began to snarl out his best attempt at some Xilozak language. "I am... able".

  "That's good. You've grown bigger, too. They feed you well down here. More productive that way. You are a smart one to stay alive so long. What do you do?"

  "I am a driller."

  "Do you know the plasma drills have a bad habit of exploding?"

  "I know this."

  "Then you will help me maintain them."

  "It is against the law to teach technology to slaves," interjected the supervisor.

  "How many drillers do you have left? Not very many, do ya? You want these fixed or not?" challenged the mechanic. "I already have enough work for 10 slaves. Maybe you can part with some of your supervisors then?"

  "My supers are working full shifts."

  "Only because they drive the machines which I keep running. Do not quote The Law to me. If we upheld The Law out here, our Torzon would have disappeared within the great Towers of Zenux zadiis ago."

  The supervisor laughed, then shrugged and walked away.

  "It is settled, then. You will work with me on alternating shifts or when I need you. You will learn what is required, no more."

  "I only want to stay alive."

  The old mechanic only grunted. “Good. Grab these drills. Time for you to leave this mine.”

  The Xilozak left the mine with his new slave following behind, burdened with a load of equipment. He was pleased with the recent change of events.

  * * *

  The extra work was more taxing on his mind than on his body. He found himself sleeping less, becoming more excited as another plan came into place, a more promising plan than any other before. He studied the plasma drill carefully. He assembled and disassembled it time and again, trying to understand the inner workings of the powerful device.

  The mechanic's training was sparse and often given on a need-to-know basis. Ryan was taught the basics, mainly the cleaning and inspection of the units. He was instructed on what irregularities to look for and basic maintenance procedures. Only through carefully put questions did he manage to root out more useful bits of information from the shrewd mechanic. This was not easy, given his main understanding of the language was basic Xilozak commands and still very sparse Trinarieit. He often had to question the mechanic through physical gestures and found the Xilozak to be short on patience. More than once he ended up on the ground with a powerful back-hand from the weathered old alien.

  Ryan knew he could give this creature a beating, but decided to keep his distance. He understood this old lizard's temperament. He was not actually trying to be cruel. His basic nature was just more savage. It was this point that kept Ryan wondering about the Txtian-Xilozak combination.

  Their collaboration seemed almost paradoxical. They must each get something out of this relationship otherwise the two would have killed each other off long ago. The Xilozaks were the physically stronger of the two races. The Txtians, possibly the brains, but the real mystery was why were they in league? What kept them from killing one another? Was it some kind of ancient political treaty? Or maybe it was a religious thing?

  The questions plagued him, turning over and over in the back of his mind. He knew he had to learn the answer.

  There was a weakness here.

  * * *

  On his free shifts, he was assigned back to the mines. He kept his drilling work up to par, lest the arrangement with his shifts off at the machine shop be discontinued. Each one of those shifts was precious, a welcome break from the claustrophobic dangers of the mine, and an opportunity to learn how the Xilozak technology worked. By experimentation, Ryan soon realized that if he removed the proper parts and made a number of small adjustments, he could quickly transform the plasma drill into a deadly weapon. The problem was its range. Spanning only a few meters, it was still dangerously inferior to a guard's blaster. The plasma drill also required a vast reserve of power. To solve this problem, he secretly began to collect extra cylinders, marking new ones as drained and tossing them into the pile for recharging. Others he hid in deep recesses of the mine, placing them well away from the natural paths of any guard, or slave. He always moved cautiously, staying within the shadows. Only once was he noticed, and it was by one of the Kalmakan natives.

  It peered at him through the darkness, clicking its vocal cords quickly. Its reflective eyes regarded him with curious interest, studying him and his armful of cylinders, its head slightly sideways.

  Ryan watched it cautiously, slowly moving toward his drill. Other eyes appeared, more scuttling shapes in the dark. Tailed creatures moved with incredible speed, but quietly, light-footed and dangerous.

  He had the drill in his hand when the first one attacked, hitting him in the back of his head with something solid. Everything faded to black.

  He awoke laying in a rut, half-soaked in a puddle, a utility light swayed in the distance. A drop of water hit his forehead. He shook it off, slowly rolling up to a sitting position. Kalmakan voices carried out from the darkness, in whispers.

  Ryan felt the back of his head, making out a pronounced bump and small cut that was now bleeding. “What do you want, you little bastards?” He yelled out in Trinarieit.

  A Kalmakan came in close, face painted in colored mud, body covered in colorful rags. “One-called-man, our Nitche has seen you in his dreams. You have much to listen on, and little time.”

  The Kalmakan referred to as a Nitche was their colorful version of a ‘witch doctor’.

  “Make it quick then, my head hurts,” was all he could reply.

  The others started to chant in a low whisper, all in their native tongue.

  “One-called-man, you must travel deep into the South, past the roiling mounds and the boiling pits. You must find the path that traverses to the East and follow it to the Chaoi of Aelome. It is there, and only there, you will find a way home.”

  “How do you know what I’m planning? Bosn tell you this? What’s a Chaoi?”

  “Listen one-called-man, listen to the words I speak. You must set these things in motion, to free Kalmaka, you must go there.”

  Ryan regarded the strange mud-clad little creature dubiously. “Sure, head South, then follow the path to the East to the Chaoi of something or other. Got it.”

  The Kalmakan grinned, cracking the dried mud on its cheeks. “Only there you will find your way home. The gates will not allow you to pass. You must always follow the eyes.” He nodded at him, grinning ridiculously.

  Ryan raised himself up fully, stretching his sore back and rubbing his head. The little creature before him shifted back, eyes wide.

  “Alright, little witch doctor. I’ll follow the eyes, whatever that means. Is that all you want?”

  The Nitche nodded feverishly, then threw up his multiple hands to silence the chanting crowd. In seconds the smallish creatures were scampering away into the darkness.

  “Free Kalmaka,” ordered the Nitche as he stepped back out of the light. Then they were gone, as quickly as they had appeared.

  Ryan worried many nights about that encounter, although nothing became of it. The natives had not talked, no guards appeared to interrogate him.

  He was lucky yet again.

  He was living on the edge now. The small time-bombs hidden throughout the mine ate away at him. He felt his nerve slipping into a swelling panic, a dangerous, uncontrolled, phobic reaction.

  It was Bosn that saved him. Good old Bosn and his calm, cool reasoning. He pulled Ryan from the b
rink with his reassurances.

  “It will work,” he said. “We just need time.”

  Ryan's nerve returned with a savage quiet, the panic squelched as he worked the details of the escape plan. At the shop, he continued to tamper with the guts of the many plasma drills he serviced and was able to turn the meter-thick deep red beam into a bright pulsating blue. The laser activated gases extended far past their previous imposed limit to a long, deadly burning ray. By setting the plasma drill into a test loop, he managed to pulse the beam on and off, which extended the deadly shot of hot plasma up to almost 20 meters. The only setback was that the modified drill tended to heat up prematurely and its self-protective circuits forced the unit to shut down.

  He found the solution was right under his nose. The large mobile depth-charge plasma drills were often used to cut 20 meter deep holes in the blast area wall. These machines were wrapped with a half-dozen small cooling systems that kept the power systems functioning under the heavy load during drilling. One of these machines just happened to be in the mechanic shop under repair. After a night-time inspection of the drill, Ryan found he could easily disengage a single cooling unit from it and rig it up to a hand-held plasma drill. With some conservative testing, he found the outfit actually worked and was able to keep the drill's operating temperate to a low sizzle. The extra weight and size was cumbersome at best, and the plasma-drill had to be held at the waist for effective firing. Using some cabling and thick wire, he assembled a rig that bore most of the load onto his shoulders. Aiming was a chore and he needed to practice. The depths of the mines were the safest to do this, as long as he could smuggle the equipment down. He managed it a few times, although it was risky. He found he could stash the weapon into the larger mining equipment that was on its way into or out of the shop. Those opportunities could rarely be planned, and they had to be seized when the time came. It was in this way that he slowly diminished the small collection of stockpiled energy canisters from the various hiding places within the mine.

  The mobile waste movers and the levelers were the best vehicles for smuggling, although once the machines were sent down, they were put into service immediately. Anything smuggled had to be removed quickly, or it would be discovered. Bosn helped where he could, hiding or removing stashed cylinders and equipment. It was a dangerous situation, as slaves caught near any of the mobile machinery were suspected of tampering and instantly persecuted.