Galactic Champion

by Dante King

  The spider-thing started leaking brown stuff right away. I guessed the fall was more than it was able to take. Also, the bug’s innards smelled like hot trash. There was no way the thing was edible. Just for good measure, I grabbed my rock and and chucked it hard at the thing.

  When the rock hit, the big bug popped, spraying its brown gore everywhere. I dived out of the trajectory of the exploding spider-thing and landed under the fronds of a big shrub. I waited until the spattering noises stopped before lifting my head. Definitely not something I wanted to try to eat.

  I stood, being cautious not to get any of the guts on myself. If any of the creatures on the planet hunted using something resembling the sense of smell, the vomit-like odor of the… sky-spider would certainly attract attention.

  No, not sky-spider. It had been a “teloc.”

  I’d never seen a teloc before, and I couldn’t recall ever reading about them. Still, I knew the name was accurate. Exactly how I knew, I couldn’t say.

  Well, maybe I could. The Lakunae. They’d said I’d have memories of their memories, and knowledge of the teloc seemed like whatever the hell they’d been referencing. They’d also said I’d have strength of their strength, so I figured I’d found out what that meant, too.

  For now, I had to keep moving before the breeze shifted and the nasty smell of teloc guts found its way up my nose. I decided to avoid the elevated position and the creatures around it. If even half of the vines I’d passed were actually teloc limbs, then I’d be in trouble. They seemed to favor the high ground, so I avoided the jungle and stuck to where the land sloped into what was almost a valley.

  I walked for another half-hour. The sky—what I could see of it—was noticeably darker. I was either near one of the poles of the planet, or the thing spun like a top. Either way, I didn’t have much time before I’d be at a serious disadvantage. I needed to keep going, but I also needed to formulate a plan, just in case I couldn't find shelter before nightfall.

  Then I found something new, something I had to study for a few seconds because I couldn't believe my own eyes: the remains of a campfire. The ashes were cool, so it had been out for a while, but it was undoubtedly someone’s cooking fire. Little, pure-white bones scattered the area around it. When I picked one up, I found gouges and scratches on it. Something had used a sharp tool to remove the meat.

  At first, I thought it must be another survivor from the Revenge. It made sense, and it was what I hoped for. But military personnel were trained to leave no trace of cooking fires when in unfamiliar territory. Had the fire been used by one of my shipmates, they would have done their best to hide any evidence they were ever there. The only other explanation was local, sentient life.

  All the aliens mankind had encountered before were, at best, semi-intelligent. The smartest ones were the Xeno, but even they ran mostly on instinct. The campfire was evidence of something different.

  As I stalked further, a new odor began to overpower the earthy, flowery scent of the jungle. This one smelled more dangerous than any so far. It was sooty and acrid. It smelled of industry, and as I walked, it became so heavy that I had to stifle a cough. Something was burning, and unless it was one of the trees I’d seen so far, which I doubted, it wasn’t wood.

  It might have been coal. I’d never actually smelled a coal fire. Everything on Mars ran on fusion, fission, or batteries. Either way, any center on this planet able to create that much stink must have had a degree of technological proficiency. Industry was the only thing that came to mind, and where there was industry, there was a lot of workers.

  A little further, and the smoke became thick enough to see rather than just smell. The trees thinned out, and their trunks and leaves took on a sickly, brown tone. Some of them drooped, as though they hadn’t been watered in a long time. I thought it was more likely that they were being poisoned by the black smoke trapped within the canopy.

  I decided to get a closer look. I searched the sky for the darkest patch of smoke and headed in that direction. Even if the locals turned out to be unfriendly, gathering intelligence on their numbers, equipment, and apparent disposition would be helpful.

  I slowed my pace and used trees, bushes, and shrubs as cover. It wasn’t long before I found the first building. The structure was roughly square-ish, and, based on the rust, appeared to be inexpertly constructed of corrugated steel. There were other materials I couldn't identify. What I could see, however, were bits of tech mixed in with the trash.

  I crept a little closer and paused as I took in the sheer number of structures in the clearing. I could see all the way down a street, or alley. As far as my vision allowed, there was nothing but shanties. Most were either dull gray or rust-red, but others had smatterings of faded colors. One yellow-painted piece had a black shape painted on it, which resembled something a Federation squadron might use as a logo. It didn’t look like anything in particular to me, but it was distinct from the rusted garbage around it.

  Most of the houses had more trash piled on their roofs. Some of the pieces resembled bits of fuselage. Others appeared to be swept-back wing parts from a kind of aircraft. There were boxes that could have been computer equipment, bundles of tangled, colorful wires, and lots of bottles, weaved baskets, and rubbish.

  But what really caught my eye were the creatures that populated the area. Each had lean torsos with four arms stretching into three-fingered hands with stout opposable thumbs. Their leathery skin was mostly gray. They resembled goblins from ancient literature.

  Some of them carried piles of trash, mostly on their wide, hairless heads. Others were followed by miniature versions of themselves—probably offspring. All wore rough-hewn garments that also appeared to be made of trash. And they were all filthy. They probably smelled bad, but the smoke prevented me from finding out how bad. I didn’t mind.

  The vast majority scuttled back as a larger alien of the same species walked by. It wasn’t the alien that impressed me; it was what he was carrying: a rifle. It didn’t look like any model I knew, but the frame, the barrel, and even the grip, made its purpose clear.

  It was designed to kill. The local species were intelligent enough to craft ballistic weaponry.

  The firearm looked as if it might be in decent shape. There were lights along the side, and they were bright. If nothing else, it had power, though I had no idea what it used for ammunition.

  I debated darting out of the bushes and disabling the goblin to take his weapon. But a move made in haste could rouse the whole town against me, and I had no intention of being pursued back into the jungle. Also, where there was one wielding a rifle, there’d be more.

  I tore my eyes from the device and crept further along the edge of the town, observing the locals while making sure they couldn’t do the same to me. I stopped when I saw two familiar things.

  The first looked like a waterskin. It appeared to be made of plastic, but it hung from a nearby tree branch and had something like a stopper at one end. Under it, one of the aliens appeared to be sleeping. A tool resembling an ax lay next to it on the ground. I took both and crept back into the woods.

  The liquid inside the skin was water. It tasted clean and fresh. The ax was a little light, and its head was small for my taste, but it was many times better than the rock I’d been carrying around. I almost felt bad for taking them.

  The goblin owner would wake up and wonder who’d done it. He wouldn't suspect me, but if he was the typical intelligent kind of creature, he’d think one of his own species had stolen it from him. There’d probably be a fight. I hoped I wouldn’t miss it. Watching how they fought would give me valuable insight. Plus, with their long, skinny arms, it would probably make for a good laugh.

  I continued my sneaky trek around the town and through the trees until I found the source of the smoke: a long, tall, gray industrial building with two big smokestacks towering high into the air. This one was different from the little huts the aliens were using for shelter. It looked constructed of red concrete and almos
t blended into the surroundings. I was far enough away that it was difficult to determine how tall it might be, but my best guess was 20 yards and at least that wide but three or four times as long.

  Some of the goblins were carting piles of trash up to a conveyor on one end, which fed the material into the building. The smoke suggested that they were smelting the metal and burning everything else away. I scanned the building and its surroundings for elevated positions, lines of sight, and potential cover before examining the aliens, their clothing, their homes, and their trash. My best guess was that it was some kind of power plant or refinery, but there was no obvious indication of what they were making.

  They could have been smelting the scrap back into raw material for someone else to use, which would suggest a commerce system. It could be simple bartering or as expansive as the Federation’s banking and market system back home. I needed to learn more.

  I began stalking further along the edge of the town. The darkness kept my shape hidden in the huge trees and random pieces of garbage around me.

  The buildings abruptly stopped and opened into a large, semi-circle area dotted with strange contraptions. Most were constructed with scraps, like the aliens used to build their houses. Others were built with roughly hewn sections of wood, probably sourced from the immediate jungle.

  The purpose of the contraptions wasn’t a mystery. They were torture devices. There were cages, stretching machines, and several that resembled stocks. Several stumps near the center of the clearing were obviously used as chopping blocks for beheadings. The sight made my blood boil.

  A new sound filled my ears, and I took cover in the trash-laden bush behind me. I waited, and the rattle of tinny drums grew louder. It was rhythmic and complicated.

  In ones and twos, goblins began emerging from their homes. They huddled together, some quarreling over who was going to get the best spot to see what was coming next. As a whole, they held an air of intelligence and pride. I wondered how they’d react to seeing someone like me. I was at least three feet taller than any goblins in the town. I also weighed twice as much. They’d probably find me as freakish as I found them.

  All eyes turned toward the sound of the drums as it became clearer which direction it was coming from. Two goblins pushed squeaky, metal carts with wobbly wheels. Two others beat on round scraps of metal, creating the drumming sound. Four others looked and acted like hard-nosed guards, while two more held an unusually tall goblin, skinnier than any I’d seen before. It was dressed in a loin cloth and grinned stupidly at the onlookers and guards alike.

  The two guards on the outside held rifles, while the two holding onto their prisoner carried spears. Behind them, a fat one was being carried by six other goblins. It was the only goblin wearing anything on its bald head. What it wore resembled a garish crown of many colors, complete with feathers and baubles probably made of broken glass. A small animal’s skull dangled in the back like it was interested in where they’d just come from.

  The one that intrigued me most was the prisoner. The guards ignored it. The spectators only stared. It, however, continued to smile, utter small yipping noises, and make a general nuisance of itself. I wondered if it was drunk, or, worse, if it had been drugged by its captors. It continued to make the sounds, and I wondered if it was laughing.

  A shadow passed over me, causing me to duck further into the bush. It was followed by two, then three, more. I looked up to the sooty sky above the clearing and spotted several large bird-like creatures with oily-black feathers. They began circling the clearing far above. I could hear their screeching noises and understood their nature. They were preparing to feed. It wasn’t the first time they’d heard the drums. They knew what was coming.

  The worst part of the situation was the silence. Once the drums stopped, none of the goblins made a sound. No coughs. No sniffles. Not even a fart. It was as if what was about to happen was either too terrifying or too solemn to speak.

  The two guards with rifles walked toward one of the cages and peered inside. I hadn’t noticed the body before—or what was left of it. The goblins, apparently, had thin bones, and the ones in the cage had been picked clean. I glanced toward the birds and didn’t need to guess how it had happened. They were still circling but were much lower—no more than 20 yards up in the air. I could hear the flapping of their wings and could see the sparkle from their tiny, black eyes. Their long necks and short, hooked beaks further confirmed their purpose.

  Whether the cages were designed with bars wide enough apart to allow the birds to reach into them or not, the aliens couldn’t escape. Each cage was only a foot and a half cubed—barely enough room for the victim to stand, let alone flee. The victims would be eaten to death. I tightened my grip on my new ax and heard the green wood groan under the pressure.

  One of the guards used an oddly shaped key to unlock the cage. The remains fell to the ground with a wet thud. The guard kicked and shoved the skeleton toward a small pit in the center. When the head fell away from the rest, the other guard gave it a hard kick, and it landed in the pit. The guard smiled to show it was pleased with itself. I wondered what expression it would make when I buried my ax in the top of its bald head.

  I was no stranger to capital punishment. Some people were too dangerous to leave alive. Some crimes were too egregious to punish any other way. However, torture was not only unreliable for the extraction of intelligence, but it was also unnecessary and inhumane. I reminded myself that the word “torture” might not fit the situation, as the creatures before me were clearly not human.

  Martians, the religious ones, believed that torture soiled the soul of the torturer. Even the non-religious citizens found it distasteful and understood the long-term harm it caused the people who performed the act. I decided then and there that the goblin, the vrak, must not be tortured. I would either kill it myself or set it free.

  I shivered with realization. Vrak. The word had come to my mind like an old memory, long forgotten. These things, the goblins, were vrak. That’s what they were called. It’s what they called themselves. I hadn’t heard any of them speak, yet somehow I knew their kind by name. The same had happened with the creatures halfway up the hill. The teloc.

  You will be granted strength of our strength, memories of our memories, and knowledge from beyond.

  This all came back to the Lakunae and my short interaction with them. I wondered if the colonel had been right all along. I wondered if he knew he worshiped a bunch of giant squids. I wondered if one of them was his favorite, or if he liked them all equally.

  I watched the guards drag their prisoner toward the now-empty cage. I began counting heads. I wasn’t sure what they were capable of. From the expressions on their faces, the spectators appeared to be numb to it. They hadn’t so much as blinked when a rotting corpse had been kicked into a pit in front of them. Torture, then, was a part of their everyday lives.

  The birds began to circle closer, and two alighted on nearby torture devices. They cocked their heads and watched the guard shove the giggling vrak into the cage, push the victim back when he tried to escape, and slam the gate shut.

  The rest of the birds landed and began dancing back and forth on their perches. They were excited, expecting a fresh, screaming meal sometime soon.

  The spectators seemed dazed, exhausted, and beaten. I sensed no passion or spark of individuality among them. It was as though they’d lived their whole lives in their current condition. I was afraid I might be correct.

  The six carrying the fat vrak slowly lowered it to the ground. It stood, waved to a passive crowd like some kind of holovid celebrity, and walked toward the prisoner. The birds tapped their short, black claws against their perches, dancing back and forth in anticipation. One, then the rest, began scraping the sides of their beaks against their perches as if the little creatures were sharpening knives in preparation for their meal.

  The fat vrak stopped in front of the cage, smiled a toothy grin—it had a lot of short, pointy teeth—and w
aved again at the crowd. The crowd waved back. The fat one began to gesticulate, thrust its hips, and wave its hands in an intricate pattern. The crowd began to do the same. Still, none of them spoke. The only sounds were their foot-stomps in the dirt and the rustling of their filthy clothing.

  The sharp crack of two sets of hands from each vrak clapping once in perfect unison sounded like an old powder-type gunshot. Whatever had just happened was over. The fat vrak got back on his vrak-powered carriage and, along with its guards, left. The crowd wandered away a short time later, still acting like they were in a daze.

  The birds took to the air two at a time and swooped-in, landing on top of the cage. The prisoner wasn’t laughing or making noises any more. It attempted to duck to stay out of their reach but couldn’t bend its knees far enough in the narrow cage. When two more landed on the ground nearby and came running at it, the vrak made a horrible hissing-gurgling sound that caused all the birds to scramble away.

  The flying scavengers didn’t go far, though. They seemed content to sit nearby and wait for their prey to either fall asleep or grow too tired and weak to hiss at them any more. Three of the dozen black creatures closed their eyes, puffed their feathers out, and looked as if they’d decided to take a nap. No need to worry; dinner wasn’t going anywhere.

  There were still two vrak milling about at the edge of the clearing, so I waited. The caged one watched them, and when the pair finally wandered away, slumped inside the cage. It appeared that the sour expression and slumped shoulders of someone who felt defeated was universal.

  A scavenger bird shrieked at the caged vrak. The goblin turned its big, flat head to the offensive creature and made a hand gesture that was obviously meant to be scathing and offensive.

  I still hadn’t decided what I was going to do, but one thing was sure: there was no way I’d allow the vrak to be pecked to death by scavengers. I scanned the edges of the clearing again and paused when the goblin stopped making the crazy sounds.