The Empty Warrior

by J. D. McCartney

  O’Keefe’s funk was broken by the arrival of the evening meal, when as usual, he and the few others with choice jobs in the colony were served first. The vacant and hungry eyes of the rock breakers stared greedily, following the extra portions the others received with their eyes, oblivious to the men that carried them. Most of the chosen few took their larger rations and huddled together in one corner of the barracks, by the entry, where the security of numbers allowed them to eat without fear and in relative peace. O’Keefe noticed while watching them that the dog that had been lying there had, at some point during his discussions with Lindy and Steenini, evacuated the spot where the inmates now sat for their repast. The absence made him a little nervous, but he felt sure the guardian still loitered out in the corridor, just in case one of the two inmates that might have witnessed him hiding the gun beneath his pants got talky about the whole thing. Only O’Keefe and one other man brought their more generous rations back to their bunks, where O’Keefe, as always, gave his meager extras to his two comrades.

  Around them, others looked on in envy, but by now they were all well aware that O’Keefe was able to walk the complex at night in the company of the dogs while suffering no maltreatment in the process. Additionally, the story of the missing trusty had worked its way back to the barracks. The many retellings of the tale as it had circulated through the colony had transformed the Earther’s role from suspect to undoubted perpetrator, and magnified many times over the supposed violence spent on the Akadean in the name of O’Keefe’s aberrant thirst for revenge against the little man who had dared to confront him. By now the Akadeans in barracks 121 feared O’Keefe nearly as much as they feared Elorak. He took comfort in that knowledge, relatively certain that none of them would dare to cross him.

  His extras for the evening consisted of some hard bread and a small handful of moldy cheese which was cut into bite size squares. Lindy and Steenini wolfed down the scant morsels ravenously. Complementing the expanded rations O’Keefe now received as a result of his favored status was the use of a utensil, a spoon, which he now used to break apart the familiar block of indeterminate sustenance that lay in his soup. The hard and desiccated composition of the brick soaked up the gruel, while the gruel in turn softened the hard fragments of nourishment into something that was, if not at all appetizing, at least more edible. O’Keefe dipped his spoon into the bowl and began to rapaciously devour the stewy mixture. It was only moments before he was scraping the last bits out of the metalware and into his mouth. Then he licked the bowl, knowing that even that tiny bit of nutriment might mean the difference between life and death, especially with the arena looming in his near future. He rose to take the bowl back to the two servers, but instead of placing the spoon inside it, he lifted a corner of his mattress and placed the utensil beneath it before making his way to the front of the barracks.

  Once there he handed the bowl to the cart pusher. The underling took it, crouched, and stowed it inside the cart. He was then very careful to make a notation on his pad that the dinnerware had been returned. He stood, and waited for a moment for O’Keefe to hand over the final item that had been issued him. Finally the Akadean spoke. “I need the spoon,” he said expressionlessly.

  O’Keefe leaned in toward the cart pusher, and spoke slowly, in a tone laced with belligerence. “I didn’t get a spoon,” he said.

  The man breathed deeply and looked away, but in a moment returned terrified eyes to O’Keefe. “They count them. You know that. This will mean trouble for us both.” He extended a now unsteady hand, palm upward, toward O’Keefe. “I need the spoon,” he said again, this time pleading.

  O’Keefe stared at the man, who again dropped his eyes. “You don’t listen very well, do you, my little friend?” he said. “I told you I didn’t get a spoon.” He turned and walked back to sit next to Lindy on the pilot’s bunk. The cart pusher said nothing more and remained at the front of the barracks, looking lost and forlorn.

  When everything else had been collected, the two kitchen helpers started to approach the bunks, no doubt with the idea of somehow retrieving their missing utensil. O’Keefe rose from his seat and turned to face them, sneering at them like an angel of death as he did so. They promptly faltered, retreated a step, and then turned to make their way back to the food cart. There was a short, muffled discussion between them before they chanced a last look at O’Keefe, and then left, pushing the cart from the barracks and proceeding to the next stop on their rounds.

  O’Keefe hopped up on his bunk and lay back with his hands behind his head. “Well,” he said, “that ought to do it.”

  He had never been so right. Less than an hour later Elorak herself stormed into the barracks while the noise of multiple diesels echoed in the corridor. She was backed by her assault bot, several dogs, and a dozen or so lackeys, all armed with wooden clubs that appeared to be pick handles. The smaller of the two food servers stood meekly among them. Every man in the room immediately rolled from his bunk and fell to his knees, crowding the walkways between the rows, everyone pushing frantically against one another for a spot of rock floor on which to touch their foreheads.

  “Everyone up,” Elorak commanded. “I want everyone lined up against the wall. Quickly!” She gestured furiously toward the forward wall of the barracks as she spoke. The men rose and started a shuffling jog toward the front of the room. One of them was stepped on by another and murmured a complaint. In response, Elorak drew her weapon as if by reflex and loosed an unaimed bolt in the general direction of the comment. It caught a man—not the one who had spoken—in the left bicep and exploded his arm, covering that side of his chest with thick, crimson gore. The man stood dumbstruck for a moment, staring at his severed lower limb that now lay on the floor beneath him, before grabbing the bleeding shreds that hung from his shoulder in his remaining hand and dropping to his knees. The pain finally registered in his brain and wrenched a diaphragm-deep scream from between his lips.

  The others, sensing what would follow; rolled, jumped, or dove away from where the man knelt, leaving him alone in an ever-widening circle of his own blood. Another blast sizzled across the room and the man’s chest exploded. His head and remaining arm separated from the rest of his body and landed with dull thumps behind his now twitching pelvis and legs. His shrieking ended abruptly, the mouth on his now disembodied face frozen in mid-scream. Blood gushed across the floor and under other men’s boots as they moved quickly toward the front wall, while moments later vomit mixed with the spreading cruor as two nearby men threw up the paltry contents of their stomachs at the sight.

  Elorak marched to the nearest one and pushed the blaster into his face. “You weakling,” she hissed derisively. “You defile this floor again, and your blood will be joining that of your mouthy friend. Now get in line.”

  The man clasped a hand over his mouth, swallowed the bile in his throat, and obeyed.

  “I trust,” Elorak continued, “that there will be no more disruptive comments from you loathsome worms.” She pointed at the cart pusher who was being held by the upper arms between two of her toadies. “Bring him forward!” she commanded shrilly.

  The lackeys unkindly hustled the cart pusher up to the front, turning him roughly to face the line of men. “Now tell me,” Elorak said softly, yet with malignant scorn, “which one of these insects purloined one of colony’s valuable spoons?”

  The man looked up and down the line, his visage that of a trapped animal, his gaze immediately settling on O’Keefe. He raised a trembling finger to point at the Earther. As he did so, amusement seemed to play about Elorak’s lips. “Where do you sleep, Earthman,” she snapped.

  O’Keefe was suddenly afraid and unsure how to respond. If he gave up the information too willingly, the woman might know something was up. But if lied he would almost certainly die on the spot. He stalled for what he hoped was an appropriate amount of time, then shrugged and said, “Last row, first tier, second bunk, your worship.”

  “Check it,” Elorak snarled.<
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  Several of her toadies immediately jogged to the indicated bed. They tossed the mattress aside and readily found the spoon. One of them grabbed it and trotted back to where Elorak stood, being careful to drop his slender club to the floor before he entered the assault robot’s killing radius. He fell to his knees before her, raising the spoon up to her in his palms like a religious offering. “I have it, your worship,” he intoned obsequiously.

  “Good. Now you and you,” she said, pointing toward the kneeling man and another nearby lackey, “take it and this incompetent simpleton,” she gestured toward the cart pusher, “back to the kitchen.” The kneeling toady did not move quickly enough to satisfy her, so she planted the sharp toe of her boot in the middle of his chest, the impact causing him to careen over to one side. The spoon clattered to the floor beside him. “Go!” Elorak screamed at him impatiently.

  The toady scrambled to gather up the spoon and regain his feet, then nearly sprinted to where the cart pusher stood. Then he, along with his comrade, hustled the man from the barracks.

  “Down! All of you!” Elorak commanded, and the men dove to the stone as one, all of them trying to separate themselves from O’Keefe as much as they were able. O’Keefe, keeping his forehead to the floor, turned his head slightly, and could see the Vazilek woman amble casually over to where her lackey had discarded his pick handle. She bent down to retrieve it, then walked slowly toward O’Keefe, gently slapping the wooden shaft against a gloved, steel palm as she approached. O’Keefe turned his eyes back to the floor, hearing the click of Elorak’s stiletto heeled boots come closer until they stopped directly in front of him. There was silence in the barracks, the only sound being the slow thwack, thwack, thwack of the club against Elorak’s leather covered prosthesis.

  She placed the sole of her right boot on the top of O’Keefe’s head, grinding his forehead into the dusty stone. “You stay right where you are, Earthman,” she said softly. Then louder she commanded the others. “The rest of you get back to your bunks. And don’t move once you get there. If I see one of you so much as breathe, you’ll be joining your friend here in the arena tomorrow.”

  The men rose to their feet skeptically, still unused to being free to stand in her presence, and began to slowly make their way en masse toward their beds.

  “By all the gods…,” Elorak muttered through clenched teeth. She grabbed the blaster from her boot and fired another random volley through the crowd, miraculously missing everyone this time, but hot splinters of rock exploded into the now scrambling throng as the blast impacted the wall, the ricocheting shards opening deep cuts on several of the men.

  “Get in those bunks, damn you,” Elorak screamed. The Akadeans burst into frenetic movement, clambering pell-mell over and around each other, some diving into their beds while those who slept higher on the tiers fought each other for places on the rough and rickety ladders that were nailed up against the stacks of bunks. When all had found their places they lay motionless, petrified by fear.

  O’Keefe felt the pressure on the top of his head release as Elorak removed her boot. There was utter silence in the room for nearly a minute. Finally the Vazilek spoke. “Well, my would-be stonliata,” she said. “I have hardly begun to treat you well, and already you reward my generosity with theft.”

  As she spoke, she flipped up the pick handle and allowed it to rotate between her fingers in a long arc. At the bottom of its circular path it struck O’Keefe squarely in the temple. Blinding pain shot through his cranium. He winced as the back of his clamped-shut eyelids turned bright red. His teeth ground with the effort required to refrain from crying out. The fibers of his every muscle tensed as a near uncontrollable desire to rise up in attack radiated from the deepest primal pits of his brain. Tears leaked from his eyes as he fought the instinctive impulse.

  “Why, why, why,” Elorak continued. “I liked you, Earthman. Why did you feel the need to steal from me?”

  “I intended to kill a man,” O’Keefe croaked into the stone. “He pissed me off. I was going to sharpen the spoon and use it to kill the bastard.” He paused, and then added in as insolent a tone as he could muster, “your worship.”

  In return Elorak swung the pick handle so hard it elicited an inadvertent grunt from her throat. It caught O’Keefe on his left side, just above the kidney. The blow knocked him over onto his right hip where he writhed in agony. As he rolled he thought he could see the dogs around Elorak almost imperceptibly tauten. They seemed ready to strike.

  “You insolent pile of excrement,” Elorak spat. “Despite the fact that it may be of some little cost to me personally, I will enjoy watching you die. Bring him!” The dogs relaxed as she stalked from the barracks, her lackeys wrestling O’Keefe to his feet and dragging him from the chamber.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX:

  A Time to Kill, or Die Trying

  O’Keefe awoke with his hands tied behind his back, his legs bound at the ankles. He tested the ropes and found them to be knotted securely. He lay on his side, on the floor, in the same position he had worked himself into the previous evening, the only position he had found that was not so uncomfortable as to deny him the respite of any sleep. The stone against his skin was cold and gritty to the touch, and grimy in spots with his blood. Elorak’s lackeys had not been gentle when they had pushed him into what had then been a pitch black chamber. Their shoves had keeled him over onto the unforgiving floor like a tree chopped from its roots. And there was also still the pain from the blows inflicted by the goddess herself. He struggled to move into a seated position, but, with his hands bound, he found he was unable to easily do so. At length, and with more than a little expenditure of effort, he managed to roll his body over an elbow so that he lay on his back.

  The elbow throbbed from the weight of his flank grinding it into the unyielding floor while his hands hurt from being momentarily crushed beneath him, but at last he was able to sit up and look around. His cell was roughly twenty feet square. The walls, floor, and ceiling all had the rough appearance of gray bedrock. It had no distinguishing features save the door, and it was merely a flat, solid rectangle of steel with a small, barred window cut into it. The light that now shone through that window was the only source of illumination. It was apparently morning in Ashawzut.

  He could feel the hard shape of the pistol pressing against his inner thigh, but had no way to remove it, and no place to hide it if he could have. He was in dire need of assistance. Pulling his knees up as closely to his chest as he was able, he pushed off with his feet and alternately used each cheek of his buttocks to crawl slowly across the floor until his back was up against the wall. Then with the wall there to support him, he was able to push himself to his feet and then hop, in an ungainly and unbalanced fashion, over to the door.

  There was a plentitude of activity beyond it. He could see little of what was transpiring, but he could hear the clank of many lizards moving about mixed with the sounds of different arena equipment being dragged across the floor. There was also, as he had hoped, one of the dogs present. She looked much like Regulus, only smaller and with grayish-white markings on her legs, chest, and face. She lay in the hallway against the far wall, her eyes riveted to the window of the cell door.

  As soon as O’Keefe’s face appeared through the bars, the dog’s ears stood upright as if she lived only to hear his voice. “Bring Regulus,” O’Keefe whispered, in a voice that even he could hardly hear. But the dog heard, and she immediately rose to trot away down the corridor.

  O’Keefe turned, hopped away from the door, put his back to the far wall and slid down until he was once again seated. He waited, each minute seeming like hours, while his bindings became more painful with every throbbing heartbeat. But at last he began to feel the tenuous but now familiar touch of Regulus’ mind floating at the edge of his consciousness, becoming more potent and concrete with each passing moment. Soon the dog was within range to communicate.

  We’ve got a problem, O’Keefe thought.

 
So tell me, came the immediate reply, so brimming with confidence that O’Keefe felt instantly buoyed.

  I have the gun, but I’m tied hand and foot. And there is no place here to hide it. They’re going to find it when they come to take my clothing.

  Do not worry, my friend, Regulus answered. The pack will protect you. See the door. It is small is it not, small enough that no dragon may enter. Some of your own, servants of the Slayer, will come to ready you for the arena. Once they are with you, it matters not what they find, because we will also be in attendance. It is normal procedure for members of the pack to be present when an inmate is readied for punishment; the dragons will see nothing amiss in that. After all, guards will be needed to watch such a dangerous prisoner as yourself. O’Keefe felt the laughter in Regulus’ thoughts. We will see to it that you keep the weapon, and we will make certain that those who see you with it will tell no one what they have seen.

  Regulus felt a lot more confident than O’Keefe did. You know, the Earther thought, there is a better than even chance that I will fail here rather than succeed. What happens when I’m dead out on the arena floor and Elorak still runs this place? Any of her lackeys that see this gun will implicate you in the plot; you know they will. How will you keep that from happening, kill them all before they can talk?

  Regulus’ thoughts exuded calm. There will be no need, he stated. What will they say? That we mere canines were colluding with the prisoners? Ha! The bitch of Ashawzut will never believe that. She will instead kill her own servants for allowing you to bring the weapon onto the floor undetected. We are but dumb animals, fit only to serve those who would feed us. We will look at her with cocked heads and puzzled eyes as if we understand nothing, and she will laugh at our accusers’ stories even as she butchers them. But that is irrelevant, as you will not die. The Creator will not allow such as her to rule in arrogance forever. Have faith, Achilles, and together we shall triumph.