Withûr We

by Matthew Bruce Alexander

  Alistair finally nodded and started to don the new clothes. The other man rushed over to him and waited to receive clothes of his own.

  “I can get used to green tattoos,” he said with a chummy smile and a relieved sigh.

  A horseman from their newly adopted tribe, without sparing a glance at him, responded, “You won’t be getting tattoos.”

  The man regarded him sullenly but said nothing.

  By now the final group of horsemen had arrived, distinguishable from the others by the bone earrings and nose rings they sported but otherwise in the same condition: missing teeth, unwashed bodies and multifarious scars. They immediately moved among the new arrivals, inspecting them with an air of experience. A few they grabbed and spun about, but it was a purely physical inspection. They gave the same regard as to a leg of meat at a butcher’s.

  “How many females?” asked one of the bone rings, his accent revealing him to be a native speaker of English. He had more bones than the others of his group. Many were threaded through his light brown skin at the forearms and legs, while at least ten small bones depended from each ear and softly clinked together with his movements. A large bone pierced his jutting nose, and each eyebrow had a bone threaded through the skin lengthwise. His head sat on a squat, thick neck and his chest was robust and well muscled. His legs and arms squirmed with the flexing of muscles when he moved.

  One of the green tattoos answered, “Almost fifty. One’s old, though.”

  “Keep her. She can probably cook.”

  As the man with multiple piercings moved among the newcomers, he was given a special deference, even by members of the other tribes. It was a begrudging, fearful deference, even from his own men, and by his walk Alistair thought he was quite pleased by it. He came to stand in front of Alistair and looked the former marine up and down, hands on hips.

  “You’d do better to come with us.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s already picked his tribe,” growled a green tattoo.

  With a shake of his head, the man said, “Guess I got here too late.”

  The horsemen set about dividing the females after an intrusive inspection. The men with the bone piercings divided the women into three groups. The other two tribes picked which group would go to the pierced men and then haggled to allocate the rest. It took half an hour to finish, and then the process was repeated with the two hundred men from the less numerous of the male groups. When this second process was finished the more athletic men were given some clothing; the women were given only shoes.

  There was an almost palpable sense of relief among the men who came to join Alistair. A few engaged in some lighthearted conversation, but Alistair remained aloof, eyeing the proceedings with distrust. The bulk of the horsemen from the three tribes now encircled the remaining men, several hundred strong but unarmed.

  The youngest Ashley felt an alarming presentiment. “I don’t like this at all,” he softly muttered.

  The stabbed banker lay still, moaning only slightly, his hands covered in dried and fresh blood as he clasped his midriff. Gregory, yet to dress and still holding the midsection, softly spoke to him. Alistair could hardly hear them over the chatter of men introducing themselves to their new companions, smiling congratulatory and relieved smiles and shaking hands. The women huddled together, humiliated and silent. Moving to the edge of the group, Alistair clenched his fists as he watched the horsemen. A few of the slighter men, mostly the young, were sent to join one of the three other groups, arriving with the same sense of relief as their fellows. Unlike the women, these men were not even given shoes.

  Wellesley came to stand next to Alistair, wearing what looked to be a thin, coarse woolen tunic and leggings with moccasins. They watched as the group of unchosen dwindled. Then the horsemen, the hundred or so not busy sorting out the chosen ones, faced the increasingly anxious older and physically frailer males. There was a moment when the horsemen sat still on their horses, and then, in unison, they quickly and smoothly grabbed their bows.

  “No!” yelled Alistair, and Gregory, startled, looked up from his ministrations.

  “Keep your mouth shut,” growled a warrior and he moved to Alistair to grab him by the bicep.

  The horsemen all fitted arrows to their bows. Alistair ripped his arm from the grasp of the man who had accosted him. “Move!” he yelled to the quailing captives.

  The arrows flew from taught strings, pierced the flesh of men too subdued and humiliated to resist, and as cries went up blood dripped down. The men were finally moved to action and those not dead, dying or too seriously injured tried to escape. Before they got far a second volley of arrows cut into them, and then a third and fourth, and all but a few fell to the ground. Alistair ran towards the horsemen as the screams and wails of the dying enveloped them all, but the apparent leader of the pierced tribe, as if waiting for this move, rode to intercept him.

  “I don’t think this one is going to be as useful as we would like,” he declared to no one in particular and he dismounted to face Alistair. “Perhaps we should settle things right now.”

  While a small group of the warriors now waded among the dying men, dispatching them with perfect callousness, a few other horsemen of the three tribes gathered around Alistair and the other, eager for a show.

  “Are you a coward,” Alistair spat at him, his voice quaking despite his efforts, “or do I get a knife?”

  “No,” chuckled the man, “we’ll do this barehanded.”

  “Suits me,” Alistair shot back, blushing and gritting his teeth, increasingly aware of a developing audience.

  Supremely confident, the man removed the bones from his body. A second warrior from his tribe grabbed one of the naked men and tossed him to the ground in front of the leader. The leader held the bones out to the man who quickly understood and accepted them into his trembling hands.

  “Away,” said the leader with a flick of the wrist after he deposited his collection. He stripped off his animal-skin shirt, revealing a tattoo on his left pectoral. It was the same as Alistair’s, an intricate circular design with eight points spaced evenly around the perimeter. Over two of these points, the one at the top and the one forty five degrees to its right, a small star was tattooed. There was an expectant murmur from the horsemen and the man sported a confident grin.

  Alistair stripped off his shirt, exposing the same tattoo, except all eight of his points sported a star. The murmur from the men grew louder and Alistair’s opponent’s eyes popped open.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing!?” he finally snarled, throwing a fist at Alistair and pacing in front of him like a caged tiger. “You think I’m afraid of you? I don’t care how many stars you have, I’ll tear you to shreds!” He pounded on his own chest with a fist. “You wouldn’t be the first son of a bitch and you won’t be the last. You try throwing your weight around here and I’ll cut you to pieces. You think you can intimidate me? You think you can show me your little tattoo and make me scared? I’ll crush you and forget you like all the rest.” He held out a forearm and pointed to the holes in his skin. “I’ll put your bone in my arm like a thousand others! I’m running out of room but I’ll make a space for you! You think you’re special? You think you can intimidate me?” He said the last with another thump to his chest and he spun on his heel and left Alistair standing there. “That son of a bitch gets near me, I’ll kill him,” he swore to his men and then, upon mounting his horse, rode off towards the cluster of new arrivals chosen for his tribe.

  The man who held the collection of bones looked about uncertainly and finally decided to head in the direction of his new leader. A murmur came from the horsemen of the other two tribes and one of the green tattoos sidled his horse next to Alistair.

  “Nice to have you on board,” he said with a smirk. He looked to be a pureblood East Asian and his accent, though slight, sounded it.

  As Alistair dressed himself, he asked, “May I inquire as to the purpose of that slaughter?” He was br
eathing heavily but he kept his tone civil.

  The friendly grin disappeared. “Welcome to Srillium. There’s not enough food to feed everyone they dump on us. Simple as that.” So saying he nudged his horse in the ribs and wandered off.

  Wellesley was at Alistair’s side a moment later. “What the hell just happened?”

  “Pecking order.”

  The cadavers were skinned and the flesh stripped from the bones. The meat was passed up to the men on the tower, who were joined by a handful of other men, and some supplies were brought out. It looked like they were going to cure the meat. The bones from the bodies were also passed up to the tower guard, as were the skins and the organs. Sitting on the ground among his fellows with his arms on his knees, Alistair watched the process without expression. In the sky a fireball appeared as another transport made its way to the surface, but it would land many miles away.

  One of the green tattoos rode up to the assembled recruits to address them. “Congratulations,” he said in an unfamiliar accent. “You made it. Some of you have been chosen to take the test to become full warriors of the tribe. Those who don’t make it will be servants to Gamaliel. Some of you will have to proceed without footwear. We were not expecting to have so many of you. You will all be dressed and fed when we make it back to camp, a few hours to the north.”

  At the mention of food Alistair’s stomach gurgled.

  “The trek north will serve as your first test. Those who cannot make the trek will be left to die.” The man surveyed them from left to right and then nodded. “Move out.”

  The horsemen from the three tribes went separate ways, though about a third from each tribe stayed behind. This left, in Alistair’s tribe, about thirty horsemen leading sixty to seventy warrior prospects, fully clothed; sixteen women, naked with shoes; and about a hundred and fifty entirely naked men. Without any command, the group fell naturally into marching order: horsemen first, followed by new warriors, followed by the women and then by the naked men.

  Chapter 46

  “How long were we in hibernation?” Wellesley asked as he stared at his feet plodding along.

  The question roused Alistair from his brooding reverie. “Greg, you were clean shaven when we left, right?”

  “Close, I think.”

  “If those are modern hibernation pods… Greg’s got about two day’s worth of beard… probably two cycles. If the pods are older it was less time.”

  “Two cycles? So I’m thirty one cycles now? Why does it take so long?”

  “All the stops along the way. And your body is still only twenty nine.”

  “I wonder how your revolution is going,” Greg mumbled.

  “It might be over by now, for better or worse.”

  “Revolutionaries, eh?” asked a voice, and Alistair turned to see the one so eager to join them. “They’re some of the most common here, they say.” He held out a hand which Alistair shook. “Clyde Oliver Jones, Earth. Australia.”

  “Alistair Ashley, Aldra. Arcarius.”

  “I’m Gregory Lushington,” said Greg, and he stuttered a moment, as if about to say his suffix and then deciding not to. “This is Ryan Wellesley. We’re all from Aldra.”

  “Can’t say I’ve heard of Aldra.”

  “Aldra’s not an important system in the scheme of things,” said Alistair.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” grouched Wellesley.

  “Listen to your mate. No one gives a shit about Aldra on Earth.”

  “We’re fighting the war against Kaldis!”

  “You and everyone else. Take it from me, mate, no one knows you’re out there. I thought from your accents you might be Canadian or something.”

  “It’s an English-speaking system,” said Alistair. “I’m sure some of our ancestors were Canadian.”

  “What are you here for, Clyde?” Gregory asked.

  “Oh, a few crimes I didn’t commit. Nothing for it now; just have to make the most of it. What’s a guy gotta do to get some clothes around here?”

  “Be a soldier or a doctor,” Alistair said.

  At that moment the horsemen called a halt. Most of the new arrivals, especially those without shoes, sank to the ground to rest, massaging their aching soles. The horsemen pulled off a short distance to confer among themselves, and Alistair warily eyed them as the resting marchers began to chatter.

  “We can’t get there fast enough,” Clyde intoned to no one in particular. “I could eat just about anything at this point.”

  “Some water would be nice,” said another man.

  As Clyde chatted in a charismatic way and anyone within earshot leaned in to listen, Alistair eyed his fellow prisoners. They could have wound up there for any number of reasons, whether petty theft, murder, white-collar crimes or getting caught on the wrong side of a political coup. They might have been innocent or guilty, but as he took in their appearance he imagined most were guilty and the traditional lowbrow criminal. Hardened and rough, many looked like men prepared for a fight in any circumstance, ready to provoke one for amusement’s sake. They looked at the world without pity or remorse, like they didn’t care one way or another about most things, as if nothing could touch them and they were not interested in touching anything or anyone else. The look in their eyes often exuded the flat simplicity of men of low intellect.

  There were many exceptions, ones no doubt found guilty of something other than a street crime, or perhaps wrongly convicted. These men, untempered, lacked a shell to hide their nervousness and uncertainty. They pitied their fellows and eagerly sought pity for themselves as compensation. What they attracted was disdain and the attention of brutes looking to flex their muscles.

  A few of the clothed warriors-to-be, already feeling full of their new station, now commanded a few of the small, naked men to massage their feet. These slighter men, after some unfriendly prompting, complied with varying degrees of resentment. Alistair looked away in disgust and caught Gregory looking at him. They shared a disapproving look but said nothing.

  The horsemen returned from their discussion and passed out some canteens and morsels of cured meat to the newest warriors. These were eagerly and quickly consumed, and while the new warriors ate, the horsemen gathered some of the naked men at the back of the pack and took them off a short distance. Alistair and Gregory shared another look and Alistair came to his feet. A few of the others noticed him and followed his gaze.

  “They’re going to kill them,” Alistair said. “They lied to make them compliant and now they’re going to kill them.”

  “Don’t be a goddamn fool,” said a man, light brown like so many.

  “You wanna bite the hand that feeds you?”

  Alistair sat back down but kept his eyes on the proceedings. Once again the group of men was divided, this time in half. While one half was made to kneel the other was escorted a few yards away and then surrounded by the horsemen. The bows came out once more and Gregory grabbed Alistair’s arm. Powerless, Alistair watched as the men, compliant as sheep, perhaps incredulous, did nothing to stop their slaughter. After three volleys of arrows, the horsemen waded into the moaning and dying and finished the job with their daggers.

  “That will be us after the next shipment,” Alistair said softly, his voice unsteady. “We’ll be slaughtering helpless men. Unless we do something about it.”

  “And what are we going to do?” queried a man who sat near them. Of principally African descent, he had been speaking Mandarin with a partner but now addressed Alistair in flawless English and with a hostile tone.

  “This is life,” said another, a particularly brutish looking thug with scars on his face. He popped a last bit of meat into his mouth and drank from a canteen. “You do what you have to.”

  Sitting back down, Alistair fell silent and glowered, never taking his eyes from the horsemen who were now skinning the dead. Gregory, moved by events to express his passion in the first way to present itself to him, leaned into Alistair.

  “This is why I
didn’t support your revolution.”

  Alistair fixed a sharp look on him. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “This is your damn anarchy, Alistair. You take away government and this is what you are left with. This is what men are like.”

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alistair sputtered. “You’ve got prisoners forced onto a… oh, forget it! You have no idea what you’re talking about. If this is what men are like then why make some masters over others?”

  “If your anarchy could work, why is this always the result?”

  “This isn’t always the result!”

  The sun was almost directly overhead when they started their march. By the time the bodies were skinned and the meat packaged and given to the remaining naked men to carry, it was nearing the opposite horizon. Srillium II’s moon had a day about the same length as Earth and Kaldis, which meant it must not have been so close to the gas giant as to be tidally locked. The heat from the sun finally dissipated as their shadows lengthened across the plain. For the lucky ones, now that their bellies had something in them, the march became less trying. For the rest, starving and burdened now with the gruesome flesh of their fellows, the march became nearly intolerable.

  At one point Wellesley nudged Alistair and nodded towards the eastern horizon. Peering up, Alistair saw the great body of Srillium II rising into the sky. Only a small part of it was visible; the rest was below the horizon. When it did rise it would be much larger than the sun in the Aldran sky. Its reflected light would bathe the night side in a ruddy hue, possibly providing enough light to read by.

  A short time later, when Srillium was half revealed and the sun gone, though some of its light yet lingered, a troupe of horsemen emerged at a gallop from the forest before them. Possessing twice the numbers of their own mounted men, they were just as well armed. They let out a war cry that mixed with the rumble of horses’ hooves. The tattooed men pulled up and quickly readied their spears and arrows. The new recruits were pressed into service and Alistair and Wellesley found themselves side by side, the former armed with an obsidian dagger and the latter with a mallet of wood. Gregory was ordered to retreat back to the naked serfs.