by C M Weller
Being just the right amount of stupid. On purpose.
And she knew Mama had heard about it when she started screaming names. Sahra heard her before she saw her, up at the front where the trays and the spoons and the cups went away. Screaming out the names of all her sibs except the babies, and even her name.
Sahra pretended deafness, and Dotti tapped her hand for attention to point Mama out. Then she waved to Darvan and they both made their way up front. Both hurrying to finish the stuff left on their trays on the way.
Other Mamas were rounding up their families, too. Which meant all the women were calling names everywhere. Sahra could see Dotti doing exaggerated signs for her family.
Groups clumped together. "What's happ'nin'?"
"The masters are going to be angry," said Mama.
"But what 'bout the say-vyer?"
"Shush! If they hear us plotting, we're dead."
The masters weren't there. They were never anywhere near humans when they ate. Anyone who spent a lot of time in the tunnels knew that. "But--"
"They have ears everywhere."
"But--"
"Snitches," said Mama, and that was the end of the argument.
Snitches. Sahra and her rats had sorted out who the snitches were amongst the rats, but... they had no way to tell from anyone older. And since anyone could be a snitch, nobody could really trust anyone. There were supposed to be some snitches who even snitched on the snitches.
Sahra wrapped her arms around the littles and said, "So whadda we do?"
"Whatever we're told. And only what we're told."
That was how Sahra knew her own Mama was not a snitch. Exactly following orders was the only kind of rebellion a threatened slave had.
*
Graak knew a great secret. There were no snitches. No one human ever constantly betrayed their fellows for a better life. He had a group of them who were bribable, and each within their limits. All of them would commit small betrayals for food, for a blanket, for a little extra that was so abominably pitiful that Graak could easily afford to pay them off.
The highest currency amongst his little group of traitors was tea. One sachet of fermented, dried leaves was enough to make them say anything. Though he was careful, now, to offer lesser bribes first, and pay them off with the tea, afterwards. They would lie until their tongues fell out if they knew they could get tea for it.
He also knew not to contact them directly. He sent one of his staff to go collect them, and then interviewed them out of sight for less than half an hour before sending them back with whatever wealth he decided their information was worth.
Not one of their informants earned their tea, today.
It was unfortunate in the extreme, but there were times when nobody knew anything.
And all that came out of the humans he employed was nonsense about a savior and judgement from their weird god. Three gods for the price of one. Only humans could come up with something so... disorganized.
Graak sent the last of them away, empty-handed, only to find a nervous Taan vibrating with anxiety outside his office door.
"What is it?"
"Sir? There's... a disturbance in the slave feeding room."
"A riot?"
"No sir."
"Then what kind of disturbance is it? Spit it out, male!" Graak almost instantly hated himself. He had once vowed he would never use his own gender as a pejorative... but that oath had broken the day he found out that it was expected of him to do so. And necessary to maintain respect amongst his fellow Tu'atta.
"They're... they're sitting still, sir."
In the end, he went down to see.
Every last slave had finished eating. The feeding room was clean. And every last slave was lined up neatly. Against the walls, between the tables and bench seats. Kneeling with their hands on their heads and waiting for orders.
The silence was terrifying.
They were all just... waiting.
Not one of them moved as he and the Taan moved between the lines, inspecting them. He picked a paler slave. "You! What's happening?"
"We follow the law. We follow orders. We wait for escort and assignment."
The Taan actually bought out a small reader from his pocket. "It's in the rules, sir. See? All slaves must wait in an orderly fashion for escort and assignment once a task is completed."
Graak looked. It was a real rule. A rule that was never rescinded and, in fact, had never been followed in his lifetime. The slaves knew where they should be, and they went there. They knew what they should be doing, and they did it.
But today, all sense of autonomy had fled.
Following an ominous vision of his future, Graak checked the rules and, yes, that escort was to be conducted by the forces of security. Already stretched to the snapping point by actions and inactions of his fellow Tu'atta alike.
He was going to have to apply for more staff. Not even a week after receiving the last batch of academy-fresh green sticks and enlisted male orphans. Of those, all of them needed further training before they could climb halfway towards being merely hopeless.
He assigned some of those green sticks to the job of escorting the humans to their appointed check-in points. They couldn't muck it up by much.
*
Sahra knew the tactic. Obey they rules when they slowed things down. Disobey just enough to be annoying, but not enough to earn death. Be slow. Be stupid. Be deaf. Be harmless. Be lesser.
Sometimes, you had to fight those who kept you down by being weak.
Sahra dawdled as she walked. Going slow, getting almost tripped up and slowing others down. Giving some an excuse to stop and gawk. And, in one feat of genius, falling into a screaming fit when she tripped up into a guarding Taan. She howled and howled that she didn't want to die. And the more the Taan tried to soothe her, the more she howled.
It made everyone stop and stare for ages.
The Taans were not allowed to have the big guns, but they did have pain sticks. Five of them hurt themselves and wound up flopping on the floor before one had the bright idea of just carrying her, kicking and screaming all the way, to her check-in point. A few of her fellow rats had the same idea. it only stopped when the masters ran out of arms to carry the struggling rats and one of them figured out which end to hold the pain stick by.
They were late for check-in of course.
The masters waiting took one look at the Taans and the screaming rats and blamed the junior officers. They had to hand everyone treats to get the noise down and stop waves of panic.
It was the quickest she had ever been strapped into a cart rig.
Nobody on the rat patrol went searching for scrounge, they went to one of the many secret places the rebels were busy taking over.
"What're we gonna do?" one of the rat patrol asked when they got to the meet area. "We ain't gonna meet quota!"
"So we don't," said Sahra. "They know we ain't goin' make quota. They figger we'd be tryin'a get to all the best stuff. So we get the big stuff. Mass credit. li'l bits o' metal. Stuff we only go for when we desp'rit."
Lila, one of Sahra's old bullies, was the first to stop staring with her mouth open. "I get it. Coz we is desperate!"
"Take yer tricks, team five," Sahra gave out orders. "Team three, sortin' cartloads. Team one, spyin'. Team four, bash up some'a that paneling fer mass credit. Team two, noise patrol." Which was scuttling through the tunnels with rattles, making enough noise for four times their number and then some. "Brains, in an' thinkin' fast. We need more plans fo' next time an' better."
Sahra and a bunch of the real wiley ones, including Lila, settled around to their best seats to talk. Sahra picked out a different spot, every time, gathering Simy in her arms and stroking him.
"Dang it," said Cerl. "Alluv our best stuff goes all crosswired on us."
"Those fahr letters shoulda put the fear a' God up 'em."
"We need spooks they's afraid of."
"No. They know how t' handle their spooks. Our spooks make mo' sense
cuz'uv....um... cause we want them to be scared of us," said Lila. "We want 'em to think our God wants 'em gone."
"Exac'ly."
"Wha' bout plagues?" asked Fae. "Eva was tellin' all 'bout how God freed up the chosen people in the way-long-ago. He sent down plagues. Like... locusts an' blood rain an' all sortsa stuff."
"Masters'd eat the locusts," mumbled Jen into his hand.
"Awright, so some plagues're worse'n others," said Fae, counting on her fingers. "Um. Lessee. Wat'r turned t' blood. Plague o' frogs. Plague o' lice. Plague o' flies. Disease. Boils. Hail o' fahr. Locusts. Darkness. An' then th' death o' the first-born." She held up seven fingers. "We need seb'n of sumpin' as gonna scare up the masters."
"Sumpin' unnatural?"
"We already got a whole buncha boys cookin' up inna in-cube-eight-ors. That can be one...?"
Sahra spoke since the first time she took her perch. "When they gonna hatch?"
"Coupla months. Why?"
"Then it's curse numb'r seven. We gotta work up to that."
"An' to make 'em look like curses... we gotta make sure they stand out. So fo' a week, we undo ev'rythin' but the whiperers an' the incubators," said Sahra.
"So we need six mo'."
"We could breed up sum evriyong. Lots an' lots. And set 'em loose."
"Sure, we catch 'em live anyways. All we need is a tank and a load of crickets."
Eva, sitting quietly since they'd gathered, spoke up. "We already breed crickets and mealworms. They need less space and they have more protein. Adding some more cricket farms isn't going to stretch our resources."
"We need some impossible things. Like the hail of fahr."
Eva smirked. "Let me tell you a few things about the pranks you can pull in artificial environments..."
*
It was happening all over the station, but Graak went to the nearest one. Every rat at the check-in point was similarly afflicted. Each human child was stiff and twitching. Chanting in unison. Human words.
"Wet weather, yellow weather! Wet weather, yellow weather!"
"How long has this been going on?"
"We called when we couldn't frighten them into stopping."
So, not that long, including the time it took to have an argument about what to do next and calling the authorities.
Graak's own comms were full of chatter and, somehow, the synchronized chanting of the human children all over the station.
"What are they saying?"
"Wet weather... yellow weather."
"What sort of nonsense...?"
The children, to a rat, slumped to the floor. The chanting over the comms stopped cold.
Graak had just enough time to ask, "What the hell is going on?"
Then it rained.
It rained yellow fluid.
Not paint, not urine, not any liquid he knew on sight or smell.
It did, however, stain Tu'atta skin and make everyone look sickly.
A nearby wall caught fire. Burning without fuel, or smoke, but a chemical smell that almost overwhelmed the stink of the yellow rain. Then it blended with the stink of the yellow rain and made Graak feel nauseated. He did his utmost to keep his gorge from rising.
My, those letters were familiar.
Human scribble that allegedly meant, You have been weighed and found wanting.
*
Just like in the old stories, curses made things tough for slaves. They had to be scrubbed down with chemicals that made them all itch and burn. And the next day, they were all pushed hard to do their work.
Everyone came home tired.
Everyone smelled of the yellow rain.
Mama pretty much boiled up some random packets grabbed blind from her stores. All her sibs were too tired to talk. Sahra cat-napped between the babies jumping on her and tried to look forward to freedom.
The chosen people in the stories went through a lot before God helped set them free.
Seventh-Papa didn't come in. He was probably re-assigned. Mama didn't worry herself, and none of her sibs were that scared for him. In a few days, there'd be a new Papa. Someone who would have different rules.
In the meantime, they could talk at dinner.
Not that anyone wanted to, tonight.
She, Darvan, and whomever her rat patrol enlisted this week would have to cook up the next miracle.
The evening prayer was simply, "Lord, look after us in this time of trial."
The instant everything was cleaned up, everyone crawled into bed. Except Sahra. She wriggled her way into Mama's hiding-hole.
"Mama?"
"It's going to be okay, Sahra. We'll weather all of this. They need us alive."
"I know, Mama. It's just... It's miracles, isn't it? That must mean th' say-vier's comin', right?"
Mama sighed. "None's had the hubris to announce themselves. One man says he's the savior, and the masters would just shoot him."
"So... it's safer to be wifout a say-vier? I don't want nobody t' die."
Mama managed a smile. "Go to bed, sweetie. It'll be all right, tomorrow."
It didn't take long for the rest of her family to fall asleep. Sahra crept out, embracing Simy on the way, and passed on Mama's opinion.
There was a lot of work between now and the next miracle. They had to make sure everything was going to be ready on time.
*
Simy did not try again. He knew his little experiment had failed by the way Sahra was doing the exact opposite of what he told her.
It seemed one adage of the Tu'atta had some truth in it. You can't tell a human what not to do.
He tried subtler manipulations. Making anxious noises whenever she and her brain trust came up with something alarming on top of all the other alarming things they could cook up.
They were escalating.
Fissioning off each other and creating increasingly insane ideas.
Nothing he did was working to slow them down at all.
Maybe... just maybe... he should be doing more to help them. It wasn't as if anything was going to stop them at all. And, frankly, it would be much easier to help rather than hinder.
So long as he could help keep Sahra safe.
*
The black-haired pale human frowned sympathetically. "You don't look very well. Are you all right?"
Graak fumed. He had not been able to remove the unhealthy colour from his hide for a week. It had even soaked through his uniform and stained him all over. "My health is not important. We've had another case of burning letters. Associated with a phenomenon."
"Oooh. Really? Sounds fascinating."
Graak glared and, without looking, activated the playback.
"Wet weather, yellow weather?" the human tilted his head. "Odd thing for children to say. Did you know we have a verbal challenge that sounds very similar? We call them tongue twisters. They're made up out of phonically similar words."
"I don't care."
"Really? We have some good ones."
"Corvid..."
"Raven."
"Whatever. I need to know why these humans are doing that."
"I'm no psychiatrist. My only range of expertise is farming and driving a ship. The rest, unfortunately, is mounds upon mounds of trivia."
"Then what... trivia... could explain this nonsense?"
Raven pulled at his chin hairs. "Well... given the burning words... I'd thought you were in a lot of trouble."
"Really."
"Oh yes. When the Egyptians enslaved God's favoured people, He sent seven plagues against the oppressors. Culminating in a curse against the first-born."
"Seven. Plagues. I thought threes were significant in what passes for your culture. No offense."
"They are. But sevens are holier." Raven turned a palm upwards in a helpless gesture. "Seven days in our week, and the sabbath is meant to be a day off. According to ancient holy law."
"We can't budget for slaves to have days off. Too expensive."
"I'm sorry," said Raven. "I was under the impressi
on you wanted information. Not an argument."
A large shape loomed in the door. Another one of the traders.
"Oh, Captain; my Captain," Raven smiled. "I may be unavoidably detained."
"I have some spare blood of the innocent will pour."
"What?"
"I said I have some spare time and money. I'll be in the casino."
"No," said Graak. "You said you had some spare... 'blood of the innocent will pour'."
The trader captain smiled. "I didn't say anything like that."
Now Raven was slumped in his seat. "The blood of the innocent will pour out for all to see," he said, mouth moving like that of a puppet. "The dead and the righteous cry out for justice. The oppressors will see how much blood they have spilled..."
He jerked, sat up and stretched. "I'm sorry. I must have dozed off. That was very rude of me."
Graak stared. "What in the name of the gods is wrong with you?"
"Sir?" said Raven.
"You had a funny turn," said Graak. "Saying things about blood and justice."
"Why would I say anything of the sort?" frowned Raven. "I'm doing fine."
Graak naturally suspected some kind of conspiracy, but couldn't prove it. He did seize both of them and drag them forcibly to medical to see if there was anything that could be verified or denied.
The main concourse was in a stir. Random humans all over were spouting the same gibberish. Not just children. Adults. The elderly.
The blood of the innocents that the Tu'atta punished will flow.
The air filled with the scent of metal before he saw the first rivulet.
Thick, dark, viscous fluid. It looked like human blood, but it was a wall that was bleeding. It certainly smelled like human blood.
The human traders were kneeling and babbling to themselves. Asking that... angels passed them by? Graak sneered. Human nonsense had no bearing on the case. He scanned the fluid and found it chemically identical to human blood.
There was no DNA to trace, because the humans didn't have DNA to find in their veins. One of the many reasons why they were lesser and deserved slavery. Everyone knew it.
People were starting to panic.
Graak organized a quick evacuation of the area. He had to get everyone out before it turned into a riot.
And then one of the walls caught fire.
You have been weighed and found wanting.
*
The Taans had worked out how to use the pain sticks. Everyone was a lot more careful about throwing tantrums. They did whisper or cough words in the masters' tongue, much like they used to insult Sahra without getting caught out.
What they whispered were a few choice phrases that their whisperers also used.
