The UnFolding Collection Two

by S. K. Randolph

  Keeping his eyes on the disappearing feet ahead of him, Stebben clambered up the ladder. A rough hand hauled him up the last two rungs and shoved him toward a dark, low passage.

  Herded along with the other boys, he kept his eyes down and his ears open. Ahead of them, the slaver blew his nose and grumbled to himself about the foul smell in the hold. He stopped outside a vertical hatch.

  “This is your lucky sun turning.” He pointed to the hatch. “Through there you’ll find showers. Clean clothes are laid out in the next cabin. You have a quarter chron to ready yourselves.”

  He pushed the door open. “Strip and throw you rags in the barrel in the corner. Keep your boots. I’ll be right here, so don’t try anything stupid.” He nudged the first boy through the hatchway. “Move. We don’t got all turnin’.”

  Once the panel clicked into place, the boys eyed each other. The tallest put a finger to his lips and pointed at the hatch. He stripped, dumped his clothes in the barrel, and turned on the shower. When neither Stebben nor the other boy moved. He beckoned them forward. “Hurry,” he mouthed.

  Stebben slipped his money pouch into his boot, then stripped and joined the others. As the water pounded the dirt and the smell from their bodies, the oldest boy pulled them closer. “Don’t know what they want us for, but be real careful, especially of a guy with a whip.”

  The hatch panel slid open. The slaver entered and stood, hands on his hips, looking them up and down. “No talking.” He folded his arms across his chest and glared.

  Stebben stepped up to the air jets and allowed the warmth to dry his body. In the next cabin, clean underwear, socks, and gray shirts and pants lay on the bunk. He didn’t need any prompting. Soon all three boys were dressed and escorted to the galley, where they were immediately put to work.

  The man at Stebben’s station handed him a scrub brush. “Seems we have elite guests joining the Chief Mate for evening meal. We ain’t fixed real grub in turnings. Go on, scrub up them vegetables. If you’re quick and good, you might not have to go back to the hold.”

  A second man sauntered over and leaned on the counter. “Hey, Kinner.”

  “Hey, yourself. Ya find out what’s up?”

  Keeping his voice low, the newcomer said, “Found out who’s on board.”

  They leaned closer. Stebben kept his eyes on the vegetables in the sink and his ears tuned to their conversation.

  “Mocendi League.” The man scowled.

  “You gotta be joking,” murmured Kinner. “Why would they be interested in a slave ship?”

  “Heard two attendants from the League ship gossiping. Seems their boss is lookin’ for someone.”

  “Sure would hate to have ’em lookin’ for me. They say who?”

  “A boy. Say he has the talent to become a DiMensioner. ’Magine that…a potential DiMensioner on board this old crate.” The man looked Stebben up and down.

  Kinner peered at him. “You got the talent, boy?”

  Stebben gave him a blank stare and resumed his scrubbing.

  The man laughed. “Guess not, huh. Well, I got the boy’s surname… Sol or Stol or something like that.”

  The scrub brush clattered into the metal sink. Stebben reached for it. A hand gripped his wrist. He forced himself to look at the man who had brought the news.

  “What’s your name, boy.”

  “Teeg, sir.”

  “Surname?”

  “Donjor, sir.”

  The man’s eyes searched his face.

  Kinner nudged his friend’s arm. “Let him be, Nolan. We’re bein’ watched.”

  Stebben ignored the impulse to rub his wrist and picked up the scrub brush. Like his father had taught him, he kept his thoughts masked. The rhythm of scrubbing filled his mind.

  The men worked beside him, cutting and preparing the vegetables. Their intermittent conversation told him much. He stored the information away to consider later. Right now his stomach rumbled with hunger. It had been forever since he’d had more than gruel. His mouth watered as savory smells began to fill the galley. After the meal was prepared, he joined the other boys to wolf down a plate of food. Then cleanup began.

  By the time, they were escorted to mattresses in the crew’s quarters, he could hardly keep his eyes open, or so he let it appear. Curling up on his side, he made himself relax. It didn’t take long for the sounds of sleep—soft, intermittent snores, a mumbled word, the swish and scratch of a crewman shifting position—to indicate it was time to move.

  Grateful for a mattress on the floor, Stebben grabbed his boots, tied the laces together, and hung them around his neck. On hands and knees, he crept toward the latrine at the far end of the bunk-lined quarters.

  He needed a place to think, one where his mind could not be read. With Mocendi on the ship…where? The shuttle bay might be my best bet, especially this time of night. When he reached the latrine, he slid the hatch panel shut. Padding across the floor in his stocking feet, he pressed his ear to a second hatch. Silence. He stepped into the empty passage and took a moment to get his bearings.

  One of the other boys in the slave hold had managed to swipe a floor plan of the ship. Stebben had memorized every detail. He closed his eyes and pictured the plan; then as quick as the flare of a flame, he made a telepathic search of ship. Before anyone could fasten onto his mental signature, he blanked his mind and moved quickly in the direction of the shuttle bay—a quiet, safe place to think and—a means of escape.

  Kinner and his pal had been most informative. The ship hovered above the planet of DerTah. At first light, a cargo shuttle would depart for the surface, pick up supplies, and return. Once it was safely back aboard and docked, the last opportunity for escape would be gone.

  Taking a circuitous route to insure that no one would second guess where he was headed, he arrived at the open hatch to the darkened shuttle bay. Assuring himself it was safe, he darted along the wall until he came to a barricade of cargo containers not far from the shuttle. Crawling behind them, he discovered a well-hidden gap between the rows. The narrow space between containers provided him with a way to watch activities in the bay. He sat in silence, his senses working overtime. All clear, at least for now. He jammed his feet into his boots and tied the laces. Then he settled back in the shadows to think.

  Sorrow, remorse, the knowledge that all he loved was beyond his reach clogged his mind. Memories almost drowned him: Papon, covered with blood, sprawled on the ground, the knowing in his mother’s eyes when she glanced his way, Chyneria disappearing up the ladder. Had I known the horrors of a slave ship beforehand, I would never have agreed to leave Roahymn on one. He frowned. I didn’t have a choice. Our only other option—trying to reach Deport Isle and the portal—would have meant capture. He knew this as clearly as he knew his own name. Now the Mocendi had boarded the ship.

  Footsteps headed toward the bay telegraphed a warning. He blanked his mind. Lights flared to life. Maras Tarbads strode into view, followed by several crew members.

  Nothing in Stebben’s twelve sun cycles had prepared him for the likes of a man like Tarbads. Mean and vindictive, he terrified crew and prisoners alike.

  Images of the man’s cruelty and malice over the past few turnings sent a shiver of dread up Stebben’s back. Cowering lower, he considered sneaking back to the barracks. Instead, he swallowed and wiped sweaty palms on his pant legs. Death would be better than what lay in that direction.

  The men went to work. Soon the shuttle was ready to leave. Stebben prayed for an opportunity to sneak aboard. Time would tell.

  A box on the far side of the bay toppled and landed with a loud thud. Stebben held his breath and peeked between the containers. Bright lights picked out the top of a head.

  Tarbads strode closer. “I suggest you get your sorry ass out here and make it fast.”

  The sound of scuffling preceded the descent of a second box. At Tarbads’ signal, a slaver shot forward and ducked behind the stack of goods.

  A howl of dismay announced the
appearance of a boy Stebben knew as Quin. The slaver deposited him at his boss’s feet.

  Tarbads unhooked a leather whip from his belt. One fluid movement uncoiled it. The snap echoed throughout the bay. “Stand up.” When Quin didn’t move fast enough, the whip slashed across his back.

  Stebben cringed at his shout of pain. Quin scrambled to his feet.

  Another flip of the whip caught him around the knees and sent him sprawling.

  “I said stand up,” Trabads growled and lashed out a third time.

  Quin’s shredded shirt clung to his boney back. Blood oozed from long gashes beneath its ragged strips. The whip snapped again and again until the boy lay motionless, his skin flayed and crimson.

  “Take him back to the slave hold. Get him fixed up. Don’t wanna waste good trading meat.”

  Trabads eyed his surly crew. “Take a break. Be back here in half a chron circle.”

  The men scurried away. One glanced back.

  “Whatcha lookin at?” The whip flashed out, caught the slaver around the ankle, and sent him to his knee. “Get your ass over here and clean up this mess.”

  The man unwound the whip from his ankle and stood up. Tarbads gave him a hard look. “Ain’t seen you before.”

  “Hired on at Roahymn.” He looked from Tarbads to the bloodied deck.

  Tarbads glowered. “If ya got something ya wanna say, speak up.”

  “What you do to the cargo is your business. Seems counterproductive to destroy it though.”

  “Counterproductive? Counterproductive? Where in SeDah did ya learn big words like counterproductive? Ya educated or somethin’?”

  The man laughed. “Nope. Just like to read.”

  “I guess I’ll just have to call ya Reader. Clean up the da’am mess and watch yourself, Reader. I might not be in such a good mood next time ya cross my path.” He rolled up the whip and attached it to his belt. “Keep your eyes peeled. Them Mocendi are sure we have their boy. If we do, there be others who’ll pay for him. Mocendi just take what they want.”

  Reader watched him go, cleaned the blood from the floor, and reorganized the fallen boxes.

  Anger and fear churned in Stebben’s stomach. With a shaking hand, he wiped saliva from his mouth. What if I— He stopped the thought before it could freeze him into immobility.

  The sounds of Reader’s cleanup came to a stop. Stebben held his breath and inched back to the small crack between the containers. No movement caught his eye. Just a bit longer and then—

  “Better get out here, boy.” The words, spoken in an undertone, barely breached the silence. Reader stood only an arm’s length away, his face neutral. “I won’t hurt you. Won’t turn you in either.”

  Stebben climbed slowly to his feet and stepped into the open, his heart wedged like a hunk of stone in his throat. The courage he had mustered to sneak down to the shuttle bay shot away like startled minnows in the stream where he used to fish with his father.

  The slaver put a finger to his lips and indicated the shuttle with the jerk of his head. A strong hand gripped Stebben’s arm. They ducked inside.

  “I’m expecting you have a plan to escape, boy?”

  Stebben glanced around the shuttle and back at Reader. “I didn’t think past getting this far. I can’t go back to the barracks, or they’ll put me back in the slave hold.” Defiance almost strangled the words.

  Reader again put his finger to his lips. He peered out into the cargo bay. Beckoning, he led the way down a short passage and into a storage cubicle. “Keep your eyes open. If you see or hear anything, warn me.”

  From his place by the exit, Stebben watched him kneel and leverage a panel free of the wall. The slaver waved him over and pulled him down beside him. A narrow crawl space ran parallel to the wall.

  “You’re going to hide here. I’ll put the panel back in place. One sound will give you away. One thought and the Mocendi will descend on you. Understood?”

  Stebben started to reply. The distant sound of conversation stopped all thought.

  Reader eyed him coolly. “Get in or go back to the hold.”

  Stebben crawled in and lay on his side. It was tight but if he didn’t move, he fit. “Why are you helping me?”

  “No time.” The man glanced over his shoulder. “When the shuttle docks, wait until you’re sure the crew has gone for a meal. They always eat before they return to the ship. You get out and as far away as you can.”

  Stebben started to speak.

  Reader shook his head and quickly replaced the panel. The sound of his receding footsteps melted into the noisy return of the crew.

  Stebben lay on his side, one arm stretched under his head and the other wrapped around his body. A metal ridge pressed into his hip, another stabbed the fleshy part of his calf.

  Tarbads’ rough commands rattled down the passage. Booted feet pounded into the cubicle. Stebben listened to the sound of cargo being stowed. The shuttle had already been fueled, so it wouldn’t be long.

  Another barked command caused a flurry of activity that echoed throughout the shuttle. Crewmen tramping by vibrated the floor. Stebben flinched and forced himself to lie still. A new voice penetrated the business of readying the ship.

  “I want to search the shuttle. Get everyone off and quiet.”

  Stebben swallowed and cleared his mind of any remnants of thought. He knew the voice—the Mocendi from Roahymn.

  “Gotta schedule to keep,” barked Tarbads. “Make it quick.”

  Activity ceased. Quiet settled over the shuttle and the bay. Nothing moved. Then, as subtle as the first light of the moon, Stebben felt the tingling of a mind probe. Energy palpated his entire body. Goose bumps skittered over his skin, down his spine, up his neck. Eyes squeezed shut, he fought to maintain control, to remain a lifeless, thoughtless lump of nothing—a part of the shuttle bulkhead.

  His mind, ready to burst, burned. His eyes flew open. His ears pounded. A scream rose in his throat, pushed at his lips, pressed, pushed, filled him. Nothingness dropped it back into silence. The mind probe so intense it tore his being to pieces dissolved. He grasped his rapidly disintegrating self-control and held himself blank. The probe returned, skimmed his hiding place a second, a third, a fourth time, and disappeared.

  Sweat soaked him from head to foot. A trickle slid from forehead to eye. The sting of salt made him blink. The sound of lashes slapping cheek echoed in his ears. Footsteps headed his direction. They stopped outside the cubicle. The power of the Mocendi filled him.

  A disturbance in the bay leached it from his body. “Lift off now or miss Geran,” a voice called. The Mocendi’s attention shifted. Crewmen scrambled to their places. Tarbads shouted an order. The engines whined to life. Lift off and acceleration pressed Stebben into the bulkhead and brought a gasp of pain as his hip ground against metal.

  Every fiber of his being told him the Mocendi remained onboard. He dared not move or think. The trip to the surface of DerTah would take only a short time. Then the crew would unload what was to be left behind, load supplies, and then disperse for a meal —at least that is what Reader had told him. He swallowed and hoped he would not be found before he could escape.

  The subtle noises of the shuttle flowed over him, soothing his defenses, disarming his guard. Jerking himself back to alertness, he forced himself to remain a non-thing. The engines whined into silence, the vibrations ceased, and sounds of the crew unloading and refilling the storage space filled his ears. The shuttle grew quiet.

  In his crawl space, Stebben dare not move, but something else did. Four small feet scurried over his leg and along his body. A tiny nose sniffed his face. He opened his eyes to find a rat perched on his shoulder. The world muted into faint colors. His sense of smell quickened. Whiskers told him more than his eyes. The shift happened so fast he couldn’t track it. One second he was Stebben, the next a rat. His companion sat up on its hind legs and wiped its face with a paw, then dropped to all fours and scurried along the crawl space. It stopped and looked back.r />
  The return of the telepathic probe sent Stebben scurrying after it. Up ahead, his fellow rat disappeared around a bend. Hurrying to catch up, Stebben rounded the corner, felt a cool breeze, and tumbled into the light of mid-turning, landing on all fours on a tall stack of boxes. A rat nose poked around the corner of a crate. It wiggled and withdrew. Stebben darted after it and under a waiting truck.

  Behind them, the Mocendi appeared on the tarmac. A mind probe dissected Stebben’s brain like a hunting knife. His fellow rat stood on its hind legs and waved its forepaws in the air. The pain dulled. The cargo hauler hummed to life and the rat jumped aboard. Stebben scrambled up beside it just as the hauler pulled away from the shuttle and wove its way toward a large warehouse some distance away. A shout brought it to a halt. The rat leapt free of the hauler and shot down an open drain in the tarmac. Stebben scampered after it through a dark pipe barely large enough to hold his furry rat body. Angry shouts pursued them as they rounded one bend after another. Totally lost and wondering if the pipeline would ever end, he considered momentarily if he would be able to change back to his human form.

  His companion dropped out of sight. Stebben slowed. Sniffed. The scent of stale air filled the pipe. The squeak of the other rat called. Stebben crept to the end of the pipe and peered into a huge cavernous space. A large hand picked him up and placed him on the ground.

  Stebben looked out of human eyes at the man beside him. “Reader?”

  “Don’t just sit there. We have to move.”

  Stebben peered at his hand in the dim light. “How—”

  Reader gripped the hand and hauled him to his feet. “I can’t stay with you much longer. Let’s go.” He turned and strode through a man-high tunnel. A short distance along it, he stopped beside a ladder mounted to the wall, his lips pursed as he listened. Grasping a metal rung, he began to climb. Stebben peered after him. The ladder and the man disappeared into the dark roundness of a vertical tunnel. Fear propelled him upward. Above him, the muffled ring of leather against metal ceased. Several more rungs and his hands found Reader’s feet. He glanced up in time to see him step onto a narrow ledge. Belly to wall, Reader moved away from the ladder. Midway around the tunnel, he merged into darkness. Stebben climbed until his feet were even with the ledge. As he reached out to press his hands against the wall, he discovered metal handholds just above his head level. Stepping onto the ledge, he inched toward the spot where Reader had vanished. As he drew near the exit, Reader reached out, grasped his hand, and guided him into a horizontal passageway.