Nomad: Freedom Is Never Free

by Todd Brill

  His mind recoiled at what he thought was the most realistic hallucination he had ever experienced. He had to lie down in a fetal position on the ground to stare up at the darkening sky. He didn’t dare walk around in his semi-drugged state for fear of losing his off-balance footing. The doctors and guards would be angry if he hurt himself. He was an important part of their research: a mouse in a maze, but an important mouse.

  He could hear the aliens murmuring. They didn’t talk much but when they did, they used muted whispering or low voices so he couldn’t quite make out what they said. It didn’t matter anyhow. Ted had to keep reminding himself that this was all just a drug-induced psychosis or something. It’ll be over soon, and I’ll have an amazing story to tell people when I wake up. What a trip!

  While he laid there waiting and staring at the dark-purple sky, Ted’s hands sank into the ground beneath him. It was slightly moist and crumbly and the strange grass released easily as he tugged on it.

  Tugging. That’s what he was waiting for. It should be here soon.

  He pulled some of the grass out and held it up in front of his face to take a closer look.

  Nomad had seen a lot of different plants in his life but had never seen anything like this. It was like regular lawn grass but thicker, longer, and had a silvery blue-green striation with tiny veins of silver that looked like streaks of lightning. He thought he also saw a faint bluish glow but it phased in and out of sight. Maybe it was just a side effect of the drugs or the experiment and it would pass. Ted figured it was just his brain playing tricks on him. Grass doesn’t glow.

  He sniffed it. It smelled like grass. He contemplated eating some like he used to when he was a kid but thought better of it and dropped it back onto the ground where it landed with a thud. He chuckled. Drugs.

  The fog was lifting from the shorelines of his mind and he realized it was getting colder. The thin gray robe they had given him to wear wasn’t very good at keeping him warm, especially when he was lying on the damp ground. The sun had gone down and a purple twilight was settling in around the increasingly quiet camp.

  Ted sat up and rubbed his arms and shoulders. He swatted some dirt and grass from the back of his shaved head and gathered his legs up to hug his knees. Looking around the camp, he saw that most of the aliens were leaving the main yard and making their way into small wooden shacks that were haphazardly spread around the outskirts of the camp, but not too close to the fence line.

  He looked back at the gate he had come through. Several armored humanoid guards stood watch and were talking quietly among themselves. They looked mostly human except for their lanky arms and legs, their elongated skulls and long fingers. They wore black and red enamel armor with matching helmets and had small devices on their black belts that looked like pistols. They also had terrible-looking black batons with phosphorescent-red tips. Ted had a good idea what the batons were used for and it made him shudder.

  The nerve endings in Ted's body were re-awakening. The drug-induced numbness had faded to a dull thrum. He was thinking more lucidly now but he was still unsettled and confused. It would be dark soon and he wasn’t sure what to do. Should he try to enter one of the huts? What about the tugging? The white plastic world? Was he going back soon? Maybe he should just wait a little longer. But it was getting colder and darker and he preferred familiar fluorescence over the dark cold.

  Ted tried standing up. At first, he wobbled as his disused legs and remaining disorientation caused the ground to shift beneath him. Even that small effort caused him to start breathing heavily. His time in the white-plastic world had atrophied his muscles, though he had never had problems breathing before.

  “It’s the atmosphere,” a low baritone voice said beside him. Startled, Nomad turned to see a thin humanoid standing beside him. The alien looked like the guards. He had long, thin fingers and limbs, human-looking eyes and facial features, and wore a thin, gray robe. Nomad also noticed the alien had six fingers and toes on each hand and foot. But he wasn’t a guard. He was a prisoner in this place like him.

  “Sorry if I startled you,” the alien continued, “My name is Ungo. What’s yours?”

  Nomad just stared at Ungo, unsure about what to say to an alien. I come in peace? Take me to your leader?

  “They’ll all just call you ‘New One’ until you give them a name,” said Ungo, gesturing toward the huts. “So to fit in, you should give them your name. It doesn’t have to be your real name if you don’t feel like it. When I first arrived, I gave them a fake name too -- just because I wasn’t sure what was going on. It’s not good to lie, but I understand. We were all new here once -- just like you.”

  “Nomad. My name’s Nomad,” Ted replied slowly.

  “Welcome, Nomad. I wish we had met under different circumstances, but here we are imprisoned together in this terrible place,” said Ungo, gesturing to the prison grounds vaguely.

  “In prison?” asked Nomad, looking around. It looked and felt like a prison, but he had been hoping it was the drugs distorting his mind, and not the terrible idea creeping into his consciousness like a silent spider.

  “I know you’re probably a little confused still. It’s normal. It’ll pass,” said Ungo.

  “You’re an alien,” said Nomad, looking back at Ungo, “How can you speak English? How can we understand each other?” Ungo reached out slowly and tapped the dimly glowing blue button attached to Nomad’s robe.

  “Translator,” he explained. “They pin one on each of us to make it easier to communicate. It’s easier than learning every language spoken by hundreds of different species.”

  Nomad fingered the small blue button and could feel it humming faintly. It was glass-like and opaque with no obvious openings or screw-holes. Did it use batteries? How did it change what he heard?

  “I don’t think I’m really here,” said Nomad, rubbing his temple with his right hand and frowning. Ungo made a low-pitched clicking sound that reminded Nomad of a chuckle.

  “You’re definitely here, Nomad,” he replied. “If I had some money for every time I heard a New One say that…” he trailed off, smiling.

  “I was in the white lab when I saw this place but I always went back. Now, I’m here and I can’t seem to get back,” continued Nomad.

  “You’re not going back,” said Ungo. “Why don’t we go into the hut and talk about it?” Ungo motioned for Nomad to follow him and he did. Walking through the rows of huts caused Nomad to start breathing heavily. He wanted to ask Ungo more questions but he couldn’t catch his breath and his legs were still trying desperately to collapse beneath him. It was all he could manage to stay upright and stagger toward the hut in the growing dark.

  The dew-soaked grass made his feet cold, and he realized he had tight-fitting sandals on. When had they put those on him? He could hear the swish of the wind through the huts and the rattle of their loose wooden boards. They were drafty and obviously not very well built.

  “At night we have the huts to help keep us a little warmer,” explained Ungo, “but they aren’t much.”

  “Uh huh,” replied Nomad between rapid breaths.

  “When it gets really cold, they give us warming stones for the huts. Just enough to keep us alive to work -- but not much more.” Nomad glanced around the camp at the ramshackle huts and the huddled aliens inside them. Cat’s eyes. Pointed ears. Too many limbs. Not enough limbs. None of them were human -- not that he could see much detail in the gathering darkness.

  They finally reached a nearly empty hut and Ungo stepped inside and gestured for Nomad to follow. Nomad stepped down into the small, dank hut and saw several huddled shapes resting on what appeared to be bunks lining the walls. They were built of the same brownish material that looked and felt like smooth metal but had a grain like wood. The air in the hut smelled of dirt, stale sweat, and the unmistakable stench of urine.

  Some of the aliens looked at Nomad when he entered, and he nodded at them, trying to regain his breath.

  “This is Nomad,�
�� said Ungo to the room. “He’s the New One who just arrived today. He’s still having problems breathing and hasn’t quite accepted that he’s here yet.” Several of the aliens sat up or turned toward Nomad. Some muttered, “Hello” or “Hi” while others just turned away and said nothing.

  Nomad felt a tugging at his sleeve and looked down. It was little Yola again.

  “Hi, Nomad, I’m Yola. Remember me?” she asked as she grinned up at him. He couldn’t help but grin back.

  “Yes, Yola, how could I forget you?” he rasped. “You’re the first alien I ever saw.”

  “You’re not the first alien I ever saw,” Yola replied. “There’s lots of aliens and weird things in the camp, right, Mom?”

  “That’s right, dear,” said Yola’s mom standing in the shadows behind her. “I’m Danik,” she said. “I’m sorry you have to be here, Nomad. This isn’t a very nice place.”

  “I came from a prison,” said Nomad. “They all seem about the same to me. They all have ways of keeping good people locked up. Most of the time, those good people didn’t do anything bad. But kids definitely shouldn’t be in a prison.”

  “What were you in prison for, Nomad?” asked Danik, placing a protective hand on Yola’s shoulder and pulling her gently back from Nomad. She frowned.

  “Being free,” he replied. “The government doesn’t like people who live freely. Leastwise, they don’t like people who live without working and paying taxes in the normal way.”

  “You didn’t work? How did you survive?” asked Danik.

  “Well, I just did. I mean, when you strip away the house, the car, the Ming vase, what are you left with? Finding food and water is pretty easy once you know how. I made my own clothes from whatever scraps I could get; so what else did I need?”

  “What about companionship?” asked Danik. Yola had walked to the back wall of the hut and sat down to play with a ragged doll that looked like her but was male and had a faded gold crown on his head.

  “You mean like love? Or friendship? I had those things. You don’t need to work or have a house to have those things. There was Jacinda and Bobby-man, for instance. And of course, Freddy and Lou-Lou. You meet people. I’m meeting people right now, aren’t I?” he said.

  “I suppose,” said Danik skeptically.

  “I’m not a weirdo and I’m not a threat to you, Danik. I’m a lover not a fighter, as they say.” Nomad couldn’t remember the name of the song the lyric came from. Danik chuckled.

  “That remains to be seen,” she said, her brow furrowing again. “This place has a way of swallowing good people and excreting villains. But I’m sorry that you’ve come here. No good will come of it, I’m sure. I’m sorry, Nomad.”

  5

  Nomad found a dry place on the dirt to sleep for the night but tossed and turned for hours. When he finally got to sleep, it was fitful and filled with vague and ominous dreams he couldn’t quite remember when he awoke. They were white and bright like the lights of the lab but the faces of the technicians and doctors were all completely covered by large white surgical masks. They had no eyes, noses, or ears.

  In the morning, the prisoners were called to mealtime by a wailing alarm. Nomad shivered as the cold, damp grass made his feet wet. If he had to guess, he would say it was late summer or early fall here. Wherever here was. He still believed himself to be dreaming or in a drug-induced coma. Being on an alien planet was just a bit too far-fetched. He figured he would just wait and see what happened. Would the tugging pull him back? It was a waiting game now.

  The sun still hadn’t quite topped the white-peaked mountains yet. He stood in line with the other aliens and took a sadly familiar metal food tray and eating utensils from the table. When he finally saw the food he frowned in disappointment though he wasn’t terribly surprised. There was a choice of three different colored gruels: gray, off-gray, and dark-gray. There was no fruit, no bread, and certainly no meat. Not unless the gruel had some meat in it, but Nomad doubted it.

  “The dark-gray stuff tastes slightly better but might be hard on your system until you get used to it,” muttered Ungo behind him. “Best stick with the pale stuff for now.”

  Nomad followed Ungo’s advice. One thing he learned from his experience in the white-plastic prison was to listen to the other inmates’ advice. They had to stick together. He still wasn’t very hungry. His stomach churned from the events of the night before and from the lack of his happy drugs. He slapped some of the watery light-gray gruel onto his tray and made his way to the next part of the line. Hopefully, there was something more interesting in this line.

  No such luck. It looked like some kind of flatbread and had familiar-looking silvery blue-green flecks in it. Nomad took a piece and examined it before putting it on his tray. It felt hard and dense. He turned and looked at Ungo inquisitively.

  “Yes, they put the grass in it to keep us regular,” muttered Ungo. “Isn’t that thoughtful? Too bad it tastes like eating ground up tree bark.”

  “No talking!” shouted one of the guards standing nearby. The guard’s hand rested on his glowing red baton. It seemed to glow more brightly the closer his hand got to it. Ungo walked off toward the eating tables and sat down. Nomad followed, keeping his eyes trained on the ground.

  Yola and Danik were at the table and eating silently. Nomad sat down and spooned some gruel into his mouth. It tasted like runny paste and eggs. It wasn’t the worst thing he had ever eaten, but it was certainly terrible. It could hardly be called food.

  One time, he and Lou-Lou had to scavenge food from some dumpsters. They hadn’t eaten in a few days, so they were desperate. The leftovers in the dumpster were moldy, and Nomad thought for sure they were going to get sick eating it, but they had no choice. Actually, he did have one choice: eat it or starve. It tasted terrible and gave them really bad gas and stomach cramps, but they lived another day.

  The gray gruel was edible and tasted fresh even though it had a terrible texture and bland taste. At least it wasn’t moldy garbage. He wondered where Lou-Lou was now. He wondered if she remembered him or whether she had managed to escape that night. Was she part of an experiment too?

  “Too bad they don’t have any Tabasco,” mused Nomad, trying to dip his hard gray bread into the watery gray gruel.

  “What’s Tab-rasko?” asked little Yola sitting across from him. She had gray gruel dribbling at the corners of her little mouth. Nomad chuckled. Cute kid.

  “Tab-as-co. It’s a special sauce that’s really spicy and makes terrible food taste just a little better,” he replied.

  “I don’t like spicy food,” said Yola with a frown.

  “We have something similar on my world,” said Danik quietly. “We called it Yerrow. It was made from tano peppers and herda.” She stopped eating and sighed, swirling her spoon in the gray mess.

  “I’d like to try that someday,” said Nomad, sensing her despair.

  “I’m afraid that will never happen,” said Danik. She stood up with her tray. “Let’s go, little one. The alarm will sound soon and it’ll be time for work.” Yola plunked her spoon down into her remaining gruel-and-crushed-bread and let out an annoyed hiss.

  “Okay, Mom,” she said as she stood up, carrying her tray away from the table.

  Nomad turned to look at Ungo. He was busy slurping up his gruel interspersed with mouthfuls of bread.

  “Alarm? Work? What’s that all about?” asked Nomad.

  “We only have a few minutes to eat. Then they put us to work. They’ll find some kind of work suitable for you. Everyone has to work. Whoever can’t work, or won’t work, is put to death. If they don’t think you’re working hard enough, they’ll beat you with their batons. Trust me, Nomad, you don’t want to get hit with those things.”

  Nomad paused for a moment and then finished eating his breakfast. Just as he finished, a wailing alarm sounded and everyone who was still at the eating area rose and filed into the back part of the camp with their trays, depositing them on a conveyor belt that too
k them into a large tent.

  Single-file, they passed through a gate and into another area of the camp where several lines formed. Each line of aliens headed in different directions through more gates. Nomad thought they looked like cattle gates, guiding the cattle to different areas of the farm.

  There were guards everywhere. Six by the first gate and two by each of the eight secondary gates. Nomad couldn’t see where the secondary gates led.

  When Nomad passed through the first gate, his blue button turned red and buzzed angrily. One of the guards looked at him, grabbed him by the shoulder with lanky, strong hands, and roughly pulled him aside. They led him into a small shack off to the side of the common area and forced him to sit at a long table with several other alien prisoners. On the other side of the table were several more senior-looking guards without helmets or armor. They were wearing goggles and gloves with wires all over them. The wires nested around them and disappeared under the table.

  The guard leading Nomad left after forcing him to sit in a dark plastic chair.

  “You call yourself Nomad, is this correct?” said the officer across the table from him.

  “Y-Yes,” said Nomad, startled that the guard knew his name. Were they listening to their conversations?

  “This means wanderer; itinerant; a person without a permanent home. Is that the intent of your name?”

  “I guess it is,” said Nomad. “I’ve never really like staying in one place for very long.”

  “This is your permanent home now,” said the officer, tapping his wired fingers in the air in front of him. “Do you have any education or skills?” Nomad tried to see the officer’s eyes, but the goggles were dark and completely opaque.

  “Whaddya mean, like school?” replied Nomad, watching as the alien continued its tapping.

  “Mathematics? Science? Engineering?” the officer droned, sounding almost bored.

  “Not really. I…”

  “History? Archaeology? Anthropology?” the officer continued.