by Eric Thomson
She took him up a short flight of steps and through a simple door into the eerie silence of a building that smelled of incense and waxed wood. Daran stopped in the antechamber and held up her hand.
“Remove your boots.”
“Why?” Zack asked, more out of annoyance than anything else. He already had a good idea of what was about to happen. No matter where and on what planet, dojos always smelled of incense and waxed wood.
With a speed that surprised him, the silahdar whirled around and punched him in the stomach. He just had time to tense his abdominal muscles and turn what would have been a painful, if not disabling strike into something that elicited a brief grunt.
His instinct was to hit back harder, but he managed to remain still, understanding that retaliation would have been seen as mutiny. On a planet where slavery was a vibrant commercial undertaking, any move against authority likely meant death or something that might make him wish for a quick end.
“A slave does not question orders,” she said, anger and contempt dripping from every syllable.
Decker obeyed, all the while watching Daran from the corner of his eyes. He figured he’d be tested and tested hard, but hadn’t known when and how it would begin. Now he knew. When he’d bared his feet, she pointed at the open inner door, through which he could see a large, gray exercise mat.
“You will stand on the triangular marking, as if you were in a military ceremony, and wait for your next order. You will not move other than to breathe and blink your eyes.”
“Yes, sir!” Decker barked in his best Marine command voice.
“You will also not speak. Unless you are permitted to do so by your betters, such as myself or the Swordmaster, you will signal acknowledgment of your orders by bowing to the one who gave them.”
He wanted to ask how he would indicate that he didn’t understand an order but realized that she expected the strictures she was laying on him to come into effect the moment the words left her mouth. It was up to him to figure it out. No doubt he would soon receive a command he couldn’t execute without further clarification and then they would see how he handled it.
Decker bowed to Daran, bending his torso at the waist until he was roughly thirty degrees from the vertical, deep enough to acknowledge what he judged was her status among the silahdar. It was obviously sufficient.
“You may go, slave.”
He entered the training room and stopped at attention on the red marking, eyes looking straight ahead at the intricate carving of what he assumed was a mythical creature on the far wall. Without appearing to move, he let his muscles relax and started breathing in a slow, deep rhythm. The next test might come in many forms, and he could do nothing more to prepare than center his spirit and calm his body.
A faint noise sounded somewhere to his left, like that of a blade drawn from its sheath. He should have guessed that this would be how it started: the title Swordmaster was descriptive enough.
Bare feet moved quickly on the mat, and he felt a presence behind him just as the air above his head was parted by something swinging at the speed of a turbofan. It came close enough to his scalp that his already short, sandy hair had probably been shortened by another millimeter. Decker remained stock-still, eyes fixed on the carving as if trying to bore a peephole through the wood.
A being, clad in black, danced across his line of sight and a sword blade swung past the tip of his nose, leaving behind the scent of oiled metal. The swordsman suddenly stopped and drove the point of his weapon straight at Zack’s right eye, stopping it a hair’s breadth from the surface of the cornea.
The ex-Marine didn’t flinch, and the blade disappeared downwards until he felt its pressure against his groin, as if it was about to slice him from crotch to navel. The pressure increased, and Decker began to fear they would geld him after all, but then blade and swordsman spun out of sight.
He forced his tense muscles to relax again and blinked a few times to lubricate dried-out eyes he’d been holding wide open while he was being used as a fencing post. The dojo had fallen back into absolute stillness, with not even the hint of another being breathing somewhere out of his view. The minutes passed as they often do, at the rate of sixty standard seconds to one and if anything, the silence deepened to the point where he felt his irritation grow even further. Yet he had no choice but to endure with all the patience he could muster. On this nameless planet, he was nothing more than a slab of meat until he’d proven he was worth more than his weight in dog food.
The blow to his left kidney, when it came, was utterly unexpected. His assailant had moved with such stealth and speed that he’d had no time to prepare. Decker bit back an agonized grunt, struggling to remain still. All of his instincts screamed that he needed to defend himself, if not retaliate, but he managed to keep his eyes on the far wall and his arms hanging loose. A succession of blows followed the first one, each carefully applied to a different part of his body, each measured to cause pain without permanent damage, and each designed to break through his stoicism.
One hit on a particularly sore spot, thanks to the tender loving he’d gotten from the reivers weeks ago, made him stagger, but he regained his original posture quickly, hoping that he wouldn’t get additional punishment for having moved without orders. The hope was in vain. A calloused hand struck his face hard enough to split the skin on his right cheekbone, leaving behind a sting that spread up to his forehead and down his neck.
It was sufficient to force his head to the left, and that unauthorized movement earned him a similar slap on the other cheek. He forced his eyes back on the carving and waited for the next strike, but nothing else came. The same stillness descended on the dojo again, broken only by Decker’s increasingly labored breathing.
“You will assume a fighting stance of your choice,” a raspy voice commanded in thick, guttural Anglic from somewhere to his right, “and you may look around.”
Decker shook his shoulders as he spread his feet and flexed his knees. His body was throbbing from a dozen spots, not least his head, thanks to the beating inflicted by the unknown fighter. He had no doubt that it had been a master, if not the Master. It took real skill to cause that kind of pain yet leave a man virtually undamaged.
A humanoid slowly walked around him, keeping at a distance that was clearly out of Decker’s reach, and stopped when he was standing between the ex-Marine and the carving that had served as his focus.
The being was tall, but where Decker was thick with muscle, it was thin to the point of emaciation, yet the corded tendons and muscles under its dull green skin were clearly outlined. Two large black eyes considered him expressionlessly, or at least without any expression the human could identify.
It was hairless and had large angular ears on either side of a angular skull covered in elaborate tattoos, ears that twitched minutely as they adjusted to capture every last sound. The black clothing Decker had seen was a close-fitting singlet that bared the lower arms and legs, and the large, calloused hands and feet.
“I am Ktek, Swordmaster. You will now be allowed to defend yourself using whatever techniques you please.”
With those words, he turned into a whirl of controlled limbs and Decker found himself flat on his back without really understanding how he got there. Ktek stepped back to let him rise but drove at him again the moment Zack was up. This time, he was ready and managed a few defensive moves before the Swordmaster had him flying back again with a new bruise in the middle of his chest.
Zack felt his irritation give way to fury as he rose once more and prepared to charge at Ktek with all the murderous intent he could summon. Then, as if blinded by the revelation, he understood that this was precisely the Swordmaster’s objective. A cold hand extinguished his fury and for the first time since he entered the dojo, he felt calm.
Decker adopted a low stance designed to both stop Ktek’s next attack and then turn the power of it against him. His intent must have shown in his eyes for the alien took a step back and clapped his hand
s twice. A low rumble came from his lipless mouth, and he bowed his head briefly.
“You may go now, slave. Mala Daran is waiting for you by the shomen.”
Remembering the silahdar’s instructions, Zack bowed at the waist, this time deepening it to a forty-five-degree angle. When he straightened his back, Ktek was gone. Trying not to wince, he walked out into the antechamber where Daran, a sardonic smile on her face, was leaning against a roughly hewn wooden post.
“Put on your footwear.”
Decker nodded, expecting punishment for failing to bow, but she passed it in silence. Bending over to fasten his boots was an interesting experiment in anatomical design, as all the muscle groups involved in the movement bore evidence of Ktek’s tender mercies. He grimaced to himself, but when he got up from his crouch, his face was as bland as he could make it.
“You may just live after all,” she commented as they left the dojo. “Ktek was impressed with your self-control. He saw that he wouldn’t to break you anytime soon and ended the session earlier than he usually does. You may speak, by the way. I shall let you know when that permission is suspended again. Or perhaps you’ll figure it out by yourself.”
“How did you know Ktek was impressed?”
“He rarely laughs and claps at the same time. A clap signifies satisfaction, but the laughter modifies that to what he says his people call being impressed.”
Decker remembered the rumbling sound that seemed to originate deep in the Swordmaster’s chest and nodded.
“What is his species? I’ve never seen or heard of his like before.”
“We’re not quite sure. He says he comes from another part of the galaxy. Like most, he was taken and sold as a slave, though in his case, this happened well before my birth.”
“I think he kind of looks like an orc.”
“Is that a species known to humans?” Daran sounded genuinely curious.
“Only to those who indulge in fiction. Orcs don’t really exist.” He chuckled. “Or I suppose they do, but they’re not exactly the orcs humans have imagined – more like a cultural subset of our species than another one altogether. You said ‘like most.’ What do you mean?”
“Many are born into slavery.”
“Grow your own, eh? How about you? You’re human, but you don’t sound like you came from a human world.”
Daran shook her head.
“I was born into the silahdar, as were my progenitors but I was told my people do not come from your Commonwealth.”
“Lost colony, maybe?” He shrugged. “You speak Anglic well enough to understand, even if your accent is strange.”
“And many other languages besides that. Humans are preferred as slaves on many worlds, so our tongue has become somewhat standard.”
They walked out among the silent buildings as the light faded and, for the first time, Decker saw signs of life. Individuals and formed groups moved about with hushed purpose, readily identifiable as silahdar by uniforms resembling that of Daran in all but richness of texture. They also resembled her in the tattooing they wore on their bald heads.
“These are the trained soldiers,” she said, noticing his interest. “Recruits are confined to the far end of the garrison. They do not wear the Atabek’s uniform and are not permitted outside their barracks individually.”
“Is that where I’m going?”
“Our owner has not yet decided. He wished to hear from Ktek and after that from me.”
They came to a large building constructed of sturdy materials. Its window shutters and doors were unmistakably made of steel and Zack figured this was an armory of sorts; the next round of testing. His stomach growled just loud enough for Daran to hear and she chuckled.
“Food is not served for another hour, so you might as well tell your body to keep its silence.”
They entered the building and were met by a lean, hatchet-faced human female with expressionless eyes. She also had a bald skull decorated with tattoos and wore old but clean coveralls with the strange runes he’d seen before stamped on what had to be a name tape.
“This is our chief armorer, Lora Cyone,” Daran said by way of introduction. “Lora, you are to examine claims that this slave is well versed in weaponry.”
The armorer examined Decker from head to toe with an unnerving intensity before turning to Daran.
“I’ll let you know when I’m done. If he’s shamming, it’ll be clear pretty quickly. If he isn’t, I’ll see how good his skills are, and that can take a while.”
The silahdar nodded and with an ironic smile at Decker, walked away.
“Okay, you,” she pointed at an open inner doorway, “in there, and you’d better not be wasting my time.”
With that, she led him to an open weapons’ locker and selected what looked like a carbine. She tossed it at him, and when he caught it, she crossed her arms and waited.
Zack went through the prescribed motions to ensure the weapon was safe, after spending a few moments identifying its various mechanisms, but when he was done and looked up at Cyone, he saw she expected something more than routine safety procedures.
He stepped over to a nearby table whose top had been thoughtfully cleared and methodically stripped the weapon down. When he had all the components he could take apart without specialized tools laid out in orderly rows, he began to examine them one by one, searching for whatever Cyone wanted him to find.
It was a subtle flaw, one that wouldn’t incapacitate the carbine for a bit longer, but it was something that a good armorer would deal with now rather than risk having it jam in the middle of a firefight. He held the receiver up to the light and nodded with satisfaction. That was it.
“The connectors are worn,” he told Cyone. “Maybe another five hundred rounds and they’re toast.”
She nodded but didn’t otherwise move, or change her expression.
Decker put the receiver back on the table and continued his inspection of the parts. He was too experienced to stop after finding one defect. If this thing was all original parts, there would be more. Someone pretending to have a master gunner’s qualification might well have ended it there and then, but not Zack. He found three more parts close to needing replacement. After he had shown her the final one, she uncrossed her arms.
“Leave it dismantled. One my techs will take care of the repairs. Let’s see how well you know chemically propelled projectile weapons.”
Zack looked at her in surprise.
“You mean gunpowder?”
She snorted derisively.
“You thought I meant methane gas? Did your training not cover primitive weapons?”
“Sure,” he replied, “I just never encountered any outside the School.”
“It may not be gunpowder in the way you think, but out here, chemical propellants are pretty standard. It’s easier to cast solid shot and mix up a good compound than it is to build power packs and mint pure copper disks, let alone machine a bore that will take plasma instead of a bullet.” Cyone sounded contemptuous.
“I guess I get that,” he replied shaking his head. “And I suppose I’m far from home, aren’t I?”
“You have no idea.” She opened another cabinet and hauled out a long-barreled weapon. This time, instead of tossing it at him, she motioned Zack over and showed him how the action worked. When he nodded his understanding, she handed him the rifle and stepped back.
Decker examined it carefully, turning the weapon over in his hands and running his fingers over its surface. It looked exotic, but there were only so many ways to design chemical propellant arms and most variations stemmed from physiological differences between the species using them.
“By the way, I’m Zack Decker. What do I call you?” He asked conversationally. “I don’t know anything about rank in this outfit.”
“Rank is a relative term in a slave army,” she replied, her eyes fixed on Zack’s hands as he began to disassemble the rifle. “Since we’re property, we have functions, not military ranks as such. For exa
mple, Mala Daran is called a sanjaqui, which means standard bearer in our owner’s language and her primary function is to be something like an adjutant. We call our owner ‘Atabek,’ which translates roughly as lord-father. Other slaves are called by other names, depending on their function. I am simply the armorer, and you may refer to me as such in Anglic, or use bekar, which is the proper term.”
“Cute,” Decker said, as he looked around for a tool to knock some sense into a balky part. “So I guess platoon leaders are called platoon leaders and not lieutenants. Sounds very egalitarian.”
“It is,” she replied dryly. “We’re all equally slaves and will be until the day we die. The equal sharing of miseries, you might say.”
“Been here long?”
“Long enough. We have a rule in this outfit, Decker. Slaves don’t ask each other about their past before they became chattel. If someone wants to tell you, they will. For some, remembering we have families hundreds of light years away that we’ll never see again is pretty depressing.”
He nodded as he examined the rifle’s breech bolt.
“Here’s your problem. The firing pin’s stuck. Either it’s seized up because it hasn’t been cleaned in twenty years or the spring is worn. It may even be broken.”
“With a Holkan weapon that’s seen a lot of use, you can generally bet on a worn-out spring. Leave it. My tech will take care of that one as well.”
She led him deeper into the armory and through a set of heavy steel doors. There, he saw racks loaded with large, crew-served weapons and fancier ordnance like missile launchers, automatic mortars and the like.
“I’m not going to ask you to troubleshoot any of these. They’re all in good condition, but I will describe the weapon. You can tell me how it’s best used and what characteristics you expect it to have on the battlefield.”
Recognizing one of the standard tests given to Marine master gunner candidates, Decker looked at the older woman with renewed interest. She saw the question in his eyes but instead of giving him a reply, she pointed at a large-bore piece.