Firestorm: Galaxy On Fire, Book 3

by Craig Robertson

  “Bargains at twice the price,” I said with a wink.

  “I’ll not inhibit ya payin’ more, just na less.” Though it was apparently new to her, she tried to wink back.

  After closing the door, I took stock of my accommodations. Serviceable, eh? If she thought so. A bit threadbare and dirty to achieve that level of acceptability in my book. But, what the heck, I didn’t need the room. It was only going to be the place to pretend to sleep because I was such a normal Ugaly dude. If anything tried to bite me during the night, I’d be awake to bite it back.

  I sat alone at breakfast the next morning, mostly because there was only one other guest and he was about to leave when I came in. Maybe he left because I came in. I wasn’t too sure, but I also didn’t care that much. He hopped onto a cart drawn by what I came to learn was a dovotan and clopped down the dirt street. A dovotan was an ox-like beast, just as drooly and smelly as they were back on Earth.

  The innkeeper, Fessilda, whom I’d encountered at the desk the day before, turned out to be the cook and wait staff too. After I sat, she plopped a huge mug of some steaming hot liquid down in front of me. “You having the full fastbreaker?”

  I could either ask what it included or say yes because it didn’t matter. If it tasted terrible, I could dial down my gustatory input sensors.

  “Sure. Big day ahead.”

  “You be wantin’ the town crier?” she asked nodding in the direction of a crumpled pile of four-page printed material.

  “Why not?”

  “Cause it’s a piece a trash full a lies to please the Amadant that’s why. But I’ll let you see fur your’n.”

  Before she returned to the kitchen, she dropped a copy on my table.

  Page One. Headline: Fottot Towns Folk to Keep One Dovotan Each. The article went on to say the kind and all-powerful Adamant were allowing each household to keep one beast of burden. The rest were to be turned over to official government agents for proper reassignment. Hmm. Sounded like reassignment to dinner.

  Another front-page story concerned an elderly man's problems with his neighbors. He had disputed the boundary with the family to the north for years. Upon learning about the issue, Pack Subleader Ardanwi ordered both families executed and took control of both parcels. Troop barracks had been erected there already. Ten to fifteen thousand soldiers would live on the adjoining farmland within one week. At least justice was swift, if not just.

  The rest of the tabloid contained nothing of interest. Mostly it was a list of local leadership and how to officially get in contact with it. The Adamant’s crop and livestock quotas were posted along with a handy list of consequences should the targets not be met. Death figured high on the list of repercussions, but a few offenses were apparently insignificant enough to only warrant maiming or imprisonment. Such a fair-minded lot these hounds were.

  One notice caught my eye. There was to be an auction of farm equipment held by the local magistrate that afternoon. There was no mention as to the origin of the auction fodder, but I doubted it had been community-spirited donations from the locals. Prices were listed in the range of a five to ten percent increased monthly quotas or as days of slave labor. All unsold items would be burned. How very efficient.

  As I was setting the paper down, Fessilda dropped a massive plate in front of me. It landed with a thud. If I visually subtracted off the garnishing leaves and tiny pots of something that looked like jam, there was surprisingly little substance to the fastbreaker and even less protein. Ah well, androids could be choosy, since it didn’t matter. Maybe she’d give seconds if I joined the Clean Plate Club? Not bloody likely.

  After trying everything I was offered, I was even more glad I didn’t rely on it for sustenance. Fessilda was not an accomplished chef. What wasn’t burned was undercooked, and what wasn’t greasy wasn’t served. I started to wonder if I’d get the runs even though I lacked a lower GI tract. I polished off my tea and headed out to see what I could see. The town wasn’t exactly bustling, but there were more people out and about than I saw the previous night. And swarms of LGM. They were like a green river flowing in every direction. Where a local and an LGM came near, the local invariably detoured or stopped. No glances or words were exchanged between species. For their part, the LGM seemed to speak amongst themselves very little. Busy, dull little worker bees, that’s what they were.

  I wandered inconspicuously for a few hours, mostly getting the lay of the land. I also wanted to prove to myself I could be present in public without getting arrested. I was killing time until that afternoon’s auction. I wanted to see how closely the locals worked and how they interacted with the Adamant.

  Right on time, a panel of three Adamants, NCO by my guess, pounded their paws in the podium and called the proceedings to order. There were many LGMs milling about, along with a handful of locals. The LGM were staring blankly at the items to be auctioned. The locals stared intently at the ground.

  “The first item for auction is this hay binder. It works well. Let the bidding start at five percent of crop quota for two months,” said the dog in the middle.

  A green mitt went up.

  “I have five for two.”

  An LGM said quietly, “Five for three.”

  “Do I hear five for four?” I didn’t see anyone flinch, but he said, “I have five for four.”

  “Six for four,” said a local.

  “Your bid is rejected. We took this binder from you because you were short on your last two quotas,” said the central Adamant.

  “But without it, I’ll be short again,” the fellow whined.

  “If so, you will be executed. Do I hear five for five?” He waited only a second to slap the counter top. “Sold. The next item is…”

  I inched toward the farmer whose bid was rejected. When I arrived, he stood right where he’d been, shoulders drooping, mouth agape. He was in a world of hurt.

  “Sorry to hear of you troubles, citizen,” I whispered.

  Suddenly realizing it was I who spoke and it was to him, he turned to look at me. “I failed to make quota and paid with my machine. The Adamant were right to take it.”

  Ah, he figured I was trying to get him to express resentment.

  “And if they kill you next month, you’ll sing the same tune?”

  He furrowed his brow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied, and he stormed away.

  Okay, cross making friends with Mr. Sour Puss off my to-do list.

  The next few pieces went quickly to LGMs for what seemed like bargains. Then again, what did I know? The final item was the largest. It was a solar-powered electronic harvester. It resembled a child’s toy to me, but it was probably a big deal here.

  “The bidding will start at ten percent for six months,” said the barker. That was a pretty high price.

  It took a moment, but finally an LGM raised a digit.

  “Ten for seven?”

  “A week of slave labor,” said a woman behind me.

  “The current bid would be three weeks of slave labor,” responded the Adamant without emotion.

  “Three weeks,” shot back the woman.

  “Do I hear four weeks or ten for seven?”

  An LGM said, “ten for seven.”

  The woman slumped.

  The Adamant looked to her. “Do you bid four weeks?”

  She began slowly shaking her head. At barely a whisper she said, “I can’t pay that much.”

  Out of my mouth to my great surprise, popped, “Two weeks for myself and two for my wife.” I pointed to the woman as I backed up quickly to stand by her.

  “Do I hear more?” Again, in an instant he slapped his paw. “Sold. The winners please report to me and provide their names. Sentences will commence at dawn tomorrow.”

  The woman stared at me with burning fury. I think she wanted to bore right through my fool head with her eyes. She locked her elbow in mine with a jerk and pulled me forward. In a voice meant only for me, she hissed, “You’re going to get us both
killed.”

  “No…” I started to respond, but she stomped down on my foot to silence me.

  I contemplated saying ouch, but decided she might have a point about us being in mortal danger, so I canned it.

  We stood in front of the Adamant until he decided we’d waited long enough. “Names.”

  “Cellardoor Pontared and husband,” she said through clinched teeth.

  “Husband is not an acceptable name,” he snapped back.

  “Josbelub’s his name. Josbelub Pontared,” she said casually.

  “Does he speak?” snarled the Adamant.

  “Of course, I do. I’m Josbelub, just like the lady said.”

  He tapped a screen. “We show the Cellardoor, but not the Josbelub. Please clarify.” He looked right at me. His paw slipped to the top of his side arm.

  “My man was away at the time of the census and retuned but two days ago. He hasn’t had time to registrar yet,” she said quickly.

  “That was quite some time ago. Where could he…” he focused on me instead, “where were you all that time?”

  I replied quickly, “I was at sea.”

  Simultaneously, Cellardoor pipped in, “He was away trading.”

  The dog’s hand fondled his pistol grip.

  “I was away at sea trading. I went to Harmark. The return voyage was one big storm blowing in the wrong direction. I nearly sank more times than I barfed.”

  One of the other Adamant snickered at my response.

  “Silence, Wedgelet, or you’ll serve by their side.”

  That wiped the mirth off his muzzle.

  “Very well. Registrar today, and both of you report to the sewage plant at dawn tomorrow. Any questions?”

  “No, sir,” she responded for us both. With that she tugged me away as fast as decorum would allow. My new wife sure was a bundle of nerves.

  SIX

  Finally, they were roughly pulled from their seats and walked a long way into some structure. Mirri couldn’t tell if it was a ship or a ground-based structure. After being tossed into metal chairs, they were left alone, or at least in silence, for nearly an hour. A door opened, a chair squeaked, and their restraints were removed.

  There sat Malraff behind a desk, scribbling with an old-fashioned pen on paper. She acted like she was unaware the teens were there.

  After a few minutes, she set her pen down and leaned back in her chair, stretching and smiling.

  “Ah, there. Now I’ve finished all the official nonsense. Now for the fun portion of the project.” She folded her paws and looked to the teens. “I’m certain you have a million questions. I’ll answer none of them. The project you’re involved in and the acts of participation required of you will be made clear at the time they arise. Fortunately, foreknowledge is not required for your full and complete participation.

  Mirri sat up straight. “You saw how close Jon Ryan came to saving us and killing you. I warned you before that if you harm us you’ll regret it. I will repeat that warning one more time. Release us or die.”

  Malraff bobbed her head as if seriously considering Mirri’s threat.

  “Let me think about it no,” she slurred into one sentence. Then she giggled at her witty response. “My dear foolish child. Uncle Jon came as far as he ever will to freeing you or laying a finger on me. His luck was better than he could have prayed for. In addition, he will never find us. If he can’t locate the three of us, he cannot make the world right, now can he?”

  “How could he have found us before?”

  “While that might normally be an excellent point, it is not relevant here. Yes, it was stunning that he located you. But he cannot repeat that magic. We are in a place he cannot know of and could not breech, were he to find its location by divine intervention.”

  “You’ve been warned,” Mirri said harshly.

  “Well thank you for that courtesy, child. I’ll make you a promise. If he finds us and stands in front of us before you are dead and gone, I will put this gun,” she patted her sidearm, “to this part of my head,” she tapped her temple, “and blow my own brains out.”

  “As that will likely be a chaotic moment, maybe you'd like to practice once or twice right now,” Mirri braved.

  “Enough sarcasm and disrespect. Tomorrow, the idiot physician the idiot emperor assigned will arrive to meddle and get underfoot. At that point, we will settle in with a vengeance to find out what we wish to know. Until then, I invite you to rest, relax, and refresh as my honored guests.” She jerked her head to one side while glaring at a guard.

  The kids were lifted from their seats and carried down a short hall. Two adjacent metal doors slid open, and one teen was thrown into each room. Then the doors snapped shut with a resounding clang. Mirri quickly took stock of the room. It was harsh and sparse. A bed without a mattress and a hole in the floor. There was a water spigot directly above the hole. That was it. Ah, she thought, how the mighty have fallen. From the lap of luxury to the pit of despair all in one day. She was left alone the remainder of the day. They served a correspondingly sparse meal several hours later, but at least she was otherwise undisturbed.

  Mirraya awoke to two surprises. One was that she had fallen asleep on the impossible bed. The other was that Sentorip was rousing her.

  “Wake, Mastress,” she said softly. “The high seer calls for you.”

  Mirri sat up and rubbed her face, taking a moment to orient herself. “What, no bath?”

  Sentorip smiled faintly. “No. The high seer is less fussy than His Imperial Lord.”

  “Plus, with the mess she plans to make of me, why bother, right?”

  Sentorip got a profoundly concerned look on her face. “Don’t even joke about such things. The high seer is stern and direct, which is to say she’s Adamant. But she would never be cruel.”

  “You don’t know what’s going on, do you?” Then it hit Mirri that they were almost certainly being monitored. She patted Sentorip’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. You’re probably right. I wake up grumpy sometimes, that’s all.”

  Sentorip smiled back.

  “So, I'm most pleasantly surprised to see you here,” said Mirraya.

  “The high seer does not have Descore here, even for herself.” There was clear judgment in her tone. Who didn’t need servants? “His Imperial Lord himself suggested Darfey and I come along to ease the seer’s burden.”

  Hmm. Malraff would be pissed at that. She couldn’t very well turn down an imperial offer, but if she wanted niceties, she’d have arranged for them herself. Mirraya worried for the Descore’s safety. They would never suspect how much they were resented by one very powerful, very mean Adamant bitch.

  “You are well?” Sentorip asked as she smoothed out the garments Mirri wore. No change of clothes was offered, so she was determined to have her mastress look as good as the situation allowed.

  “Yes, thanks for asking. And you two?”

  Sentorip furrowed her brow. No one had ever asked her than before. “Yes, we are,” she replied mechanically. Back to her usual tone, she said, “Come. It will anger the high seer if you keep her waiting.” She gestured toward the hole and turned her back to Mirri.

  They emerged into the corridor just as Slapgren and Darfey did also. A trio of guards awaited them. A grunt directed the Deft to move. The Descore remained behind without having to be asked. The teens walked a short distance to an unassuming door, and a second grunt indicated they should halt. One soldier knocked softly on the door, and it glided opened.

  “You may remain in the corridor,” called out Malraff. “Send the specimens in.”

  Slapgren whispered to Mirraya, “That doesn’t sound too promising.”

  Her eyes silently agreed with his observation.

  Malraff was leaning back on her desk, facing the teens as they entered. “School begins in earnest today, kiddies.”

  Neither responded.

  “Good, no back talk. Maybe this will be more pleasant than I anticipated.”

  For you maybe
, thought Mirri. She’d learned better than to give voice to her feelings.

  “Today you will each be tested. Various samples will be collected. Blood, semen, tissue biopsies, that sort of thing.”

  Slapgren glanced to Mirraya in horror, having clearly heard the word semen. He knew who’d be giving that sample. It was the how of it that concerned him deeply.

  “The idiot physician Pastersal will cling to me and be under paw the entire time. Hopefully I won’t have to kill him this early on, but I’m not in the mood for nonsense. We’ll have to see.”

  Malraff looked intently at them. “If you two pests behave yourselves and cooperate, today won’t be too bad.” Her lips curled to a snarly smile. “Tomorrow, not so much.”

  The door opened and a male Adamant entered. That he hadn’t asked permission clearly irritated Malraff. His fatal accident would now happen much sooner than later.

  “Ah, High Seer,” he said studying a handheld he was carrying, “I’m glad you’re here. We may begin immediately.”

  Malraff’s tense physical response predicted Pastersal’s longevity. She didn’t respond other than to point the Deft toward a pair of exam tables. That they could easily double as torture tables too was not lost on either teen.

  Needles of an impressive number and size range appeared. The teens were bombarded with pokes, prods, and other sharp impositions. Then Malraff handed Slapgren a plastic cup. “Semen sample,” was all she said.

  “Wh…what, here…now?” he responded incredulously.

  “Yes, here and now. Otherwise I’ll cut off your testicle to get the sample. Please don’t be modest.”

  “But how’m I supposed to …”

  “Point and shoot,” said Malraff. She then stared at Slapgren’s groin in anticipation of the sample gathering procedure.

  Fortunately, Slapgren, being in his teenage bloom, could generate a good sample quickly enough. He almost hadn’t been after Mirraya, sensing his humiliation, offered to help. That had nearly incapacitated him completely.

  Malraff snatched the cup from Slapgren without a word and handed it off to an assistant.

  “We require a brain biopsy now,” said Pastersal as casually as he might order a sandwich at a deli.