by C M Weller
"They know."
"Murder."
"They know your secret."
"Death."
"They're laughing."
And so on. No one rat overspoke another. No one rat said anything twice.
Some masters, Sahra could tell, were cracking faster than others. The boys, especially, were nervy and jittery. Looking onto shadows and breathing quickly and startling at every small noise.
Sahra almost felt sorry for them. They didn't have much in their lives. Most of them were abandoned at hatching and had subsequently lead a life of crime before the military gave them a hope at a longer future. And then they were sent here, to a place riddled with curses and malevolent spirits, and possibly under siege by an alien God.
But then she looked at their claws, and their weapons, and their pain sticks and their sharp, sharp teeth. The masters had all those weapons.
All the humans had were their faith and their brains and a bunch of tricks.
Then she didn't feel sorry for them at all.
*
Six days had passed since the last 'curse'. Graak was on his guard. So far, the last two curses had been a week apart. And today was the seventh day. He breakfasted on instant food, reconstituted with water from a small still he'd installed in his tiny living space.
Something told him this would not be a simple 'curse'.
He'd barely got rid of the yellow colouring in his hide. The halls still reeked of human blood. Whatever happened next... it would not be easy to clean up.
He dressed, as usual, in his uniform. He didn't bother with much in the way of civilian clothes. He never had much respect as himself. Uniform spotless, he strode out for the morning meet.
There were four officers waiting on parade. Picked out in the assembly space according to their rank and number.
Graak broke protocol and gestured them inwards. "What the hell's going on?"
"Sir," said a Taan. "I bunk with a lot of others in security and... the rest of my bunk-room's sick."
"Sick."
"Yessir."
Graak checked. Almost all of his staff were down with some mysterious ailment. He found through a quick search that the able station crew were down to less than the minimum necessary for smooth running of the station.
They would have a tough time keeping things together until the crew recovered.
His comms squawked into life. The voice of the four-star Kuin in charge of everything. Tagri'idan. She, like him, had taken paranoid precautions with water and food. "There is a disturbance in my meeting space."
Graak flinched with his other able staffmembers as his own walls lit with human scrawl. "Let me guess. Letters of fire, combined with an astonishing volume of sickness calls?"
Other departments were calling in. He could hear the clicking as they queued up against a higher power.
"It's happening in meeting rooms all over the station, isn't it?"
"Exactly, ma'am."
She sighed. "Get on with it, then." The call disconnected, leaving him with multiple messes to catch and not enough hands to catch it with.
And words of fire on his own walls.
You have been weighed and found wanting.
*
The humans called it Murder Week, because it was the week they could all get away with murder. With almost all of the masters sick, they had no time to stop their slaves doing anything they liked.
Even Mama just walked into a storeroom and walked out again with two boxes of ration baggies for her pantry.
Even though the holy law said, thou shalt not steal, almost everyone with skin was helping themselves to what they liked. Crops went missing from the plant rooms. Food went missing from the masters' farms. Bottles upon bottles of alcohol vanished from the shelves of bars and pubs.
Some even stole the jewelry off their sickened masters' sleeping bodies.
And weaving through the chaos were the shockingly-sober rebels, claiming victory and asking for donations to the cause. Each carried a bucket and many slaves, not knowing what to do with their new-found wealth, threw it in the offered container.
There were other riches, though. One night, everyone had a Tu'atta delicacy called steak. It was a master food that was also good for humans, though it was better for humans if it was cooked longer.
Darvan presented Mama with a master's necklace, and hung it on her head like a crown.
Mama cried just to look at it. "Give it to the rebels," she said. "You know what the masters would do if they found me with this."
"So make sure they don't find it," said Darvan, still a little loud for all the healing his ears were doing. "Sahra can help. She done hid her pet for near to a year."
"Pet?"
Sahra had the sense to swallow her mouthful before she spoke. "Dangit, Duvi! Sometimes I could outright just smack you."
"Um," said Darvan. "Oops?"
Karl, as the eldest man in the house, laid out the law. "Go and call it in. Might as well see what's been taking food off'a us."
Sahra didn't argue. Just went to her best nook and opened the hatch to the little tunnel where Simy liked to hide. "Y'awnout, Simy. We done been busted."
*
Simy dawdled on his way into the relatively open space of Sahra's favourite sleeping nook. He knew some kind of retribution was going to happen. He did not resist Sahra's hands, nor her slightly-uncomfortable squeezing grip.
She didn't want him to go. She didn't want what was going to happen next, but she had to obey. There were rules in her society about obeying the eldest male. He wrapped himself over her left shoulder and squeezed in response.
"This is Simy," she croaked, her voice barely audible. "I love him."
The assembled family boggled.
"You found a Moshikaan slime dog?" said the mother.
"...yes'm...?" Sahra squeaked.
"Do you know what happens t' someone who tames one of those?" said one of the elder males.
"...'es..." said Sahra.
"You coulda been freed..." said an older sister.
Sahra clung tighter to him. Salt water fell from her eyes. "...'ut th'n I wouldn' be w'f y'all no mo'..."
"Aaaawwww..." said the mother, lunging forward to scoop her up in a hug, with him squashed between them. "My poor little sweetheart..."
Simy wriggled out from between them. Even though it was nearly impossible for him to get crushed, he didn't like the sensation. The other humans stared at him as if he might start spitting up gold. He felt like he was presented on a platter with a bed of lettuce.
Simy cooed nervously.
"M' rat patrol knows 'bout him," said Sahra. "Um. He don't like bein' crowded, none."
"Your... rat... patrol."
If he was confident in talking, he could have warned her about saying too much. Instead, he draped himself across her shoulders.
"Um." Sahra backed off from her mother. Stood in the middle of the circle of her family. "I'm... sorta kinda involv'd... wif th' rebels."
The mother crossed herself. "God have mercy."
The eldest male stepped forth. "What do they have you doing? Running messages? Planting bombs? Drugs?"
"Naw, none o' those," said Sahra.
"Par'n m' bad words, Mama, but she's a gol-dang stra-tee-gi-cal genius. I'm jus' a Lieutenant, but I gotta salute 'er. She's nearly a whole dang admir'l."
"Darnit, Duvi!" Sahra made desperate, cut-throat motions with her hand while he was talking.
"How long?" managed the mother.
"Um. You 'memb'ur the ore processin' thing?" said Sahra.
"...ye-es?"
"Since jus' aftur then."
Their mother crossed herself for the third time this evening. "Jesus, God and the Angels... My little girl..." she shook her head. "Are you mixed up in these... curses?"
Sahra bit her lip. "Would it be bad?"
There was a long silence. The entire family shifted awkwardly on their feet, except for the littlest ones, who kept trying to pet Simy.
/> The mother began crying. The big, fat tears that could not be stopped. "Sahra Johnston," she said at length, "I don't know whether to kiss you or smack you."
Murder Week, indeed.
*
Many were still down from the mystery stomach bug. The station's entire industry had ground to a halt and essential functions barely limped along. Graak had only half his guards, but six of the best were guarding the Majestrix.
Sooner or later, whatever this was would strike at the very heart of the empire.
He also had a list of the 'traditional' curses and the ones that had so far struck the station. They didn't match, of course. An exact match might have been something of a boon to his fellow Tu'atta. A plague of locusts would have gone down a treat, right about now.
The morning meet went off without a hitch. No further letters of fire appeared.
This was the seventh day. Something was going to go crazy.
Everyone else recognized the pattern. They knew that this was the seventh day since the last 'curse', and that they were overdue for a new one.
Even the criminal element was keeping itself in check. Which made Graak uneasy. When the criminal element quit working, it was because they knew something bigger and nastier was going to go down.
Everyone was going through the lawful motions. Waiting.
And so was he.
A snapping noise startled him and made a civilian shop-owner scream. More snapping noises. Like the small fireworks used in demon-banishing ceremonies. All over the main concourse. One by one, vent guards fell from their places.
And there it was. The curse. The plague.
Thousands of evriyong poured out of the vents. Maybe even millions.
Graak ran for his office, punching up views on his monitors. It was all over the station. Vermin. And, he noted, a vermin that the Tu'atta found abominable and disgusting. Much like the Egyptians found locusts or lice.
Pestilence and vermin. Those, he noted, matched.
Then every blank wall burst into flame.
The same words of fire.
You have been weighed and found wanting.
*
Once again, there was plenty to eat. The male Om'r security chief had solved the problem of thousands of evriyong everywhere by getting every human not already someone else's pet to capture the pests. It was a week of plenty.
Second-Papa was back, and he was very relaxed about talking at the table. But just in case they did not mention anything to do with the rebels.
Tonight, like the last three nights, was evriyong stoo. And there was no need to ration any bits because even the babies managed to come home with at least one lizard. Mama even cut out the gristly bits, setting them to dry in case of a later food emergency.
Duvi kept looking over at them as if he were figuring ways that Mama would never be that desperate.
"Crazy news, I been hearin'," said Second-Papa. "Haints and spooks and the holy spirit hisself been rainin' down judgement on our overlords."
"We ain't 'lowed t' talk about that," said Laura. "Could be snitches anywhere."
"Don't smell no tea in here," said Seventh-Papa. "Must mean there ain't no snitches in this house."
"Tea?" said Sahra. "Whazzat?"
"Fermented leaves, steeped in boiling water, and then drank all down. Some have it with a slice of lemon. Some have it with cream. Some add sweetner. Me? I don't see the point. God gave us water and that's plenty."
"Euw," said Tessi at the description of tea.
"Have you drunk some?" asked Sahra. Was her true-father a horrible snitch?
He must have seen the look on her face. "The masters put me with a snitch for a few years. She made me drink some. Tryin' to teach me it's good. Y'know. Like they do." He paused for effect. "Made me puke mah guts up and shit through a straw."
"Da-an..." said Mama.
"EEEEEUUUWWW!" Sahra shrieked, along with the littles and the babies and even Mari and Netta.
"Never touched tea since. And you can never make me take any."
Sahra breathed relief. She didn't want a snitch in her family.
"You look a little too relieved there, Twinkle," said Second-Papa. He didn't have a good memory for names and called all small children 'Twinkle'. He called elder children 'Sweet-thing' and grownups either 'Pal' or 'Hun'. Pal for the men and Hun for the ladies.
"Snitches are bad," said Sahra. "They dob you in for any ole thing, jus' so they can get a li'l more. It's wrong to trade people f'r luxuries."
"Dang straight," said Second-Papa. "Don't you sweat none, Twinkle. Your true-daddy's true-blue."
But a snitch could say the same thing. She was glad Mama's secret-shiny and Simy both were hidden and safe. Something that big? A snitch would practically kill themselves to tell a master.
She didn't want to test him, either. Best to let him think everything was normal. Pretend she was just another slightly-dull child slave among thousands just like her.
And fall back on old habits.
Listen. Watch. Learn. Think.
*
Another week. Another disaster due. Graak stared at his ceiling and contemplated the novelty of rolling over and pretending he was dead. He did not want to deal with another curse. It was becoming a monotony. The curse would blindside him with its novelty, then there would be calls from all over the station, demanding his presence to personally unravel that which mere instruments could not.
His nose had a reputation for solving crime that he could do without, today.
And tomorrow, despite his best efforts to find anything, he would have to organize cleanup and deal with the inherent problems therein. That, combined with battling the everyday hassles of keeping all citizens on the orderly path to prosperity, made him a weary, weary man.
And, just when things got back to normal... he'd get hit square in the face with another curse. A curse he couldn't explain, had to clean up after, and still do his job.
Thus, he fought to get out of bed. He dawdled over breakfast. He opened the floor in the morning meet in the hopes that someone had anything to say to delay his appearance on the main concourse to deal with whatever mess was happening this week.
And he still arrived on the main concourse ahead of time.
It was raining skin flakes and small parasites. Trash littered the floor. Shopkeepers and citizens alike were struggling with the vent panels. Which were mysteriously sealed shut.
The traditional method of waste disposal was not available.
"There should be words of fire," he said aloud. "Isn't this enough of a curse?"
Someone shrieked. He ran to investigate. The victim had been pouring a glass of water, only to find that the water was raw sewerage.
Every water tap was now delivering sewerage.
The wall behind him ignited with a soft fwoomp.
Tired of life, right at that moment, Graak turned to face them. They were the same as always.
You have been weighed and found wanting.
*
Once again, the rats were on the main concourse instead of in the tunnels, dragging their carts behind them and gathering all the trash they'd tossed out the night before. Sealing the vent hatches shut was a stroke of genius from Raven that meant that the masters could not clean up for themselves.
And, once they figured out why it was raining fluff, the masters were really upset that they couldn't dine at the restaurants without at least three rats staring at them with soulful eyes. And some of the really small rats kept wanting to play in the fluff instead of working. And some rats kept spreading fluff and gunk on any surface they touched... and they liked to touch anything they found interesting or new.
And, since rats hadn't seen a lot of the station outside of the tunnels, pretty much everything under five feet high got coated with sticky, grimy hand-prints.
Sahra's hardest task was keeping a straight face about it, pretending a curiosity about the masters' space that others actually had.
And, since any master'
s attempt to stop her and the other rats touching everything they could reach made the rats stop doing anything and throwing a crying fit... they pretty much had to let the rats do what they wanted so that they could do what was needed.
More than a few rats were sneaking little items into their carts that didn't belong there in the first place. Sahra did her best to stop them, because she knew what the masters would do when they were caught.
"It's okay," one of her lieutenants whispered into her actual good ear. "We got a plan."
She lead her to a forgotten vent behind something decorative and pried a corner open. It was just enough of a gap for the little things they were filching.
"See? Funds fer the cause."
"That's outright dangerous," whispered Sahra. "Y'all be careful. Real careful."
"We got about a hunnert vents like this in roundabout spots. Ain't no master goin' notice."
"Super careful," Sahra added. "I don' wanna be tellin' yo' mama how an' why you done got shot."
Nina grinned. "Gotcha."
Now her hardest job was not panicking every time she saw one of her rats sneaking stuff. And, since just about every slave alive was filching valuable stuff, Sahra snuck coins off of tables and put them in her less-able hand until she got near a special rebel-vent.
Of course, the lower-value coins became salvage for that special-brand-of-stupid game she kept up at all times. She let the word get around. Keep a few small and very inconsequential shinies in the carts because the masters expected a certain amount of petty thievery from the rats.
If they were going to rob the masters blind anyway, they might as well do it properly.
Then Lila started singing an old hymn full of blood and violence, about vengeance against the oppressors and the sort of really horrible things God did to the bad people. Only she sang it in the Tu'atta tongue.
Sahra joined in with the chorus as she filched coins and picked up trash. She hummed along during the verses, since she didn't know all the words, just yet. The masters didn't dare make them stop, and the ones paying attention were making horrified faces at some of the lyrics.
Good.
The more scared they were of God and his Angels, the less likely they were to want to rile Him up by hurting His favourite people.
The Om'r security chief stalked by like a haint turned flesh. Sahra did not flinch. Did not act guilty. Just curious, like any other rat seeing who was passing.
He passed her by. Looking for something - or someone - else. He was too busy to bother with another rat.
The Vasht around the corner, however, wasn't.
