“B-b-better than… Legion armor. It f-f-flies.”
“It flies!” whispered the Khan with delight. “As in… jump jets?”
Jebba nodded. He was suddenly hopeful as he considered the Khan’s deep brown eyes. All about him the other zhee, hooded and turbaned, closed in to hear what was being said.
“And there’s ma-ma-more,” stuttered Jebba.
The Khan made a kind face, indicating that Jebba should go on.
“A base. Out beyond the wastes. They’ve built you a war base. T-t-t-training. Equipment. Tactical sensors. Cradles for the sh-sh-ships. P-pow-powerful defenses.”
The Khan stood, rising above the uncontrollably shaking human, and Jebba stared up at him. Stared up hopefully, believing that he might survive. Because that was the end of the message. Save one last… nuance.
“The House of Reason has built and provided all this in secret,” he began. His voice calm. All of this was memorized, and he had it by rote. This was the thing he’d come tell them. Been sent to deliver. And saying it now felt like a kind of absolution of crimes. He was done. He was no longer important. The zhee would hear it, be grateful, and turn to the task at hand. Jebba would be forgotten. He might even just slip away to safety. He would return to the halls of academia, and he would never leave again. He promised himself that desperately.
“They only ask,” he continued, “that you destroy the… the…” He faltered. “The Empire… and save the House of Reason. If-if you do…” He thought about adding “Oh Great Khan of Whatever.” But he didn’t. “There will be more.”
The Khan nodded.
There was delight in his eyes.
A fire roared within them as he turned and spread his arms. Suddenly he cried into the upper reaches of the tent. Hee-haw-shrieking the terrible blood-curdling zhee war cry. And then all the zhee followed him into the throes of ecstasy, howling murder with madness at the roof of the Grand Pavilion and the stars beyond.
As though promising the galaxy all the final destruction the zhee had ever promised it.
Jebba remained mercifully forgotten beneath all the madness.
For long moments this barbarian terror filled the entire court, echoing out and over all the surroundings courts, and passages, and secret gardens. And when it was over, a silence fell across them all as the Grand Khan stood, paws on hips, staring out and over his fevered subjects.
And then, as if suddenly experiencing some new thought, the Khan turned.
His eyes fell on Jebba with what only a zhee knew was special delight.
“You are done,” he stated simply. Once more he knelt to the trembling Jebba. Those tremors now came only intermittently. “You have studied us?”
Jebba nodded.
“You love our rich culture?”
Jebba nodded again.
“Our ways?”
Jebba nodded. Maybe all those dreams of being the one the Khan trusted were suddenly possible again. He nodded desperately, gazing into the Khan’s large dark eyes like a lover. Like a savior. Like a true believer.
“Then let me show you something… sacred to us.”
The Khan’s eyes fluttered as he drew out his silver damascened blade once more.
“This indeed is a great privilege for you, my little teacher. Now you will know us in our truest of forms.”
And with that, the Khan began the Paradise of a Thousand Cuts. And of course, he was a master. Jebba survived, screaming and begging, but he survived all nine hundred and ninety-nine cuts in the hours it took.
It was the thousandth that was the kindest.
08
Synth Mines
Herbeer
Owens held a fortune in the palm of his hand. The value of the synth he’d just painstakingly rubbed and crumbled out of the sandstone walls was beyond anything else he’d ever physically held on to before—and he had wrapped his mitts around some pretty cutting-edge tech in his years in Dark Ops. He gently placed the black flakes—the consistency of gold leaf—into the tiny collection pouch on his belt.
He had collected about two grams, by his count. Assuming there wasn’t too much crumbled sandstone riding along with his synth. Still another gram to go, and then he could report in and get a sleep reprieve. Six glorious hours before he was forced to get up and get back at it—usually by way of a vicious kick by a Gomarii or one of their black-hearted human colleagues.
Owens understood that the synth mines were a hellhole not because the Republic didn’t know the extent of the conditions, but because they wanted it to be a place of suffering and hopelessness. Work until your hands feel like they’ll bleed. Until you can no longer even make a fist. And if by some feat you manage to ball your hand up while sleeping, you’ll have to work to pry it apart upon waking. It was a life of neuropathy driven by the constant finger-work required to remove the synth from the veins that ran through the sandstone. Only you could never go too fast or rub too hard, otherwise the synth’s miraculous ability to replicate itself as whatever it is mixed with would kick in, ruining the synth by turning it into so much worthless sandstone.
Sand scrubbers, as the prisoners took to calling themselves, worked to make riches for others—and to avoid a taste of the energy-whips. If a Gomarii felt the urge, for any reason, or no reason at all, the blue energy whips would crack mercilessly. And they didn’t take anything off of it, didn’t go soft so a miner could still meet quota.
It was a miserable life.
Arching his back, Owens could hear bones popping as he stretched, hands on his hips and eyes looking up at the low ceiling dug out of the rock. He was covered in sweat. The mines ran from hot to cold with little rhyme or reason. He wore a stained olive tank top and tattered fatigue pants—the remnants of the same uniform he’d worn into the place. His Legion jacket had become one of the guards’ prizes not long after his shades were destroyed. It hadn’t bothered him much at the time. He’d expected to lose it when they issued his prison outfit. But the mines were run on the ultra-cheap. No prison uniforms. The clothes on your back would do just fine.
The very use of prisoners in the first place was part of the ultra-cheap mindset. It seemed clear that sophisticated bots could do a quicker job of mining the fragile and precious synth. But they would be more expensive—and less punitive. No, this was a place of starvation rations. You slept in the cave, relieved yourself in abandoned shafts where the veins of synth had dried up, and suffered through the temperature swings.
Most nights, Owens really would have liked to have that stolen jacket.
“Okay, one more gram to go. Back at it, Ellek.”
He’d taken to talking to himself. It had only been a couple of weeks, but it seemed somehow necessary. A way to stay sharp until Keller arranged for his release, or—barring that—he was forced to make his bid to take over the place.
If it came down to it.
He began to rub the tips of his fingers softly against the sandstone, causing tiny crumbles of sand to sprinkle down onto his boots.
He missed his wife.
Squinting at the wall, shrouded by his own backlit shadow from the portable lights strung up behind him, he came upon a thicker-than-usual vein of synth. He rubbed with more intensity as the matte-black substance that seemed to absorb light grew and grew. This was by far the largest concentration he’d yet seen. He’d have no trouble getting his remaining gram with this vein. In fact, he reckoned he would have no trouble meeting his quotas for weeks with what was before him.
Of course, this was both good and bad. Good, because it would easily fill his quota for today—and, if he was patient, many days to come. This was the proverbially “honeypot” the older miners always seemed to dream about. It was bad because now he would need to guard this rich find from other miners looking for an easy three grams. As tedious as collecting the synth was, finding it was often the more difficult part.
Well, he would just keep working. He had the strength, still. He could hide the extra somewhere even though the rule was y
ou turned in everything you had, even if you were over quota. Of course, there was no reward for additional production. And no one ever went over quota.
Owens would hide it and hope the Gomarii didn’t perceive his secret through those weird, blue, tentacle-like appendages. They were able to read emotions, it was said. But more than that, those tendrils somehow gave the Gomarii an idea of the measure of a person. Were they fighters? Cowards? Proud? Quislings? Supposedly, that’s what made the Gomarii such good slavers. They knew who would serve willingly, and they knew how to break those who would not. The tendrils revealed all.
“Revealed that I could kick their asses,” Owens chuckled to himself.
In contrast with the way they dealt with other prisoners, the Gomarii apparently had a rule never to be around Owens with less than three people. The legionnaire figured they sensed how dangerous he was, sensed just what would happen if they pushed their crap too hard with him. Unless they had sufficient backup.
The joke would be on them. He could kill three guards in his sleep. He had, in fact, been doing just that. They were his favorite dreams.
From behind him, Owens heard the shuffling of footsteps. Whoever it was, they were trying to be quiet—and doing a good enough job of it, if going up against untrained ears. That wasn’t Owens. He reached down and picked up a chunk of stone that filled his palm like a seamball. He took the rock with him everywhere, his great equalizer in a world without blasters. Except for the guards.
The footsteps halted, and Owens heard a somewhat ragged breathing still several meters behind him. It wasn’t the sound of a Gomarii—absent was the electric crackle of their whips. A prisoner then.
So far, the gangs that vied for control of the mines—or at least what passed for control if you ignored the guards—hadn’t bothered with Owens. There really wasn’t much to fight for. There was so much space, so many shafts and caverns to mine, that you could wander for days without seeing another being. It was only the need for food and the fear of being caught alone by a guard that kept people close to the central complex that housed the guards. From what Owens had seen, the only time these gangs congregated was when they’d found a rich deposit of synth. In that case, wandering into the wrong shaft might cost you a beating, if not your life.
The stranger was still standing some ways behind Owens.
“Find your own vein,” Owens said over his shoulder.
“Don’t hafta.” The voice was wizened, like that of an old man.
Owens turned around and saw an ancient-looking old coot holding up a bulging collection pouch, fastened loosely around his neck by a cord. The old man shook it back and forth as if he were ringing a service bell. “Got my quota for the next few years, right here.”
If that bag was full of synth, it was an impressive feat. More than likely it was just a bag of silt. The old codger seemed a few grains short in the head. Something about the look in his eyes. Far away. Not in the here-and-now. But whether the synth was real or imagined, flaunting or proclaiming it was foolish. Owens knew that much. A dishonest or desperate man would have no qualms killing the geezer and taking his prize.
Owens was an honest man, and he’d rather kill himself before reaching the point of desperation or depravity where he’d consider murdering a man to make his own life easier.
“Well,” Owens said, turning back to his work, “I’m still a gram short. So if you’ll excuse me…”
Owens worked in silence, still aware of the old man’s presence behind him. He resisted the urge to tell the old codger to scram, and focused on the work in front of him.
Eventually he heard the shuffling of another set of feet, followed by a predatory, heavy breathing.
He turned around. A massive drusic now stood just behind the old man, filling much of the tunnel. It didn’t escape Owens’s notice that the massive ape-like humanoid was equipped with a whip of the same type as the guards’.
The drusic let out a snuffle of air that sent dust particles flying.
“Hey, Orpe,” said the old man.
“Crux,” said the drusic, his voice so low that it sounded more like one monotone rumble. “Got your quota?”
“Same as always,” Crux answered.
The drusic nodded at Owens. “How ’bout him?”
Crux smiled faintly. “A gram short, wasn’t it, friend?”
“Yeah,” answered Owens. He held the rock behind his back, squeezing it in the palm of his hand, assuring himself that it was still there. The old man—Crux—didn’t seem concerned with the large alien, but Owens certainly was.
Wiping its nose off with the thick black fur of its trunk-like forearm, the drusic gave another snuffle. “He with you?”
Crux drew his mouth down into an appraising frown. “Nope.”
The massive beast of a humanoid gave a growling chuckle and stepped forward, eclipsing the old man. It removed the whip from its side and said, “Let’s have the two grams you already got.”
“Sure.” With such a large vein behind him, Owens readily agreed. He tossed his pouch at the feet of the drusic.
The alien seemed taken aback at how quickly Owens acquiesced. Did it not realize its own size and strength? Or did people just refuse to roll over down here in the mines, even if it might cost them a beating? Owens didn’t care much… until the drusic began squinting at him.
“Move,” the creature demanded.
Owens scratched his cheek. “Where? Little crowded in here.”
“Lemme see that vein of synth you’re standin’ in front of.”
Owens shook his head. “Nah. Take your two free grams and leave while you still can.”
The drusic released a primal scream and cracked the whip, which charged electric blue and buzzed with energy. But it was a clumsy attempt at show. In these close quarters, Owens didn’t think a whip would be of much use. Of course, a drusic rarely needed much help in a physical altercation. Its slabs of musculature did quite well in a fight.
Owens ignored the scream as if he hadn’t heard it. “I said, you’d better quit while you’re ahead.”
The drusic charged at him.
Owens hurled his rock, striking the alien flush in the eye. With a ferocious howl, its palms clamping the wound, the would-be thief took a step backward.
Owens took advantage of the shift in balance, ignoring the gleaming and pearl-white incisors of the drusic’s open maw, and hurled himself, shoulder first, into the alien’s abdomen. The force knocked the air out of his foe. He reached up between the drusic’s legs and gripped its gonads tightly, causing it to howl again and drop to both knees, wracked with pain.
“I don’t usually have to take down beings as large as you,” Owens said softly into the ear cavity of the drusic. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t take you apart piece by piece. I know where all six of your testosterone-pumping balls are, and I can have you begging for death in minutes.”
As if to emphasize the truth of this, Owens jabbed an elbow just under the drusic’s breastbone, jarring past the relatively thin muscle to send shockwaves into the internal reproductive organ. Drusics were testosterone machines, but that came at a price.
Releasing the alien, Owens picked up his rock and bag of synth. He held out the bag to the drusic. “Take it and leave. And anyone else looking for an easy quota—you warn them about me.”
Still grunting, eyes watery, the drusic paused. It looked up at Owens warily, as though it were being subjected to a test. Finally, it reached out with a great hairy paw and snatched the bag of synth.
Crux stood to the side as the big ape-man limped out of the mineshaft. He gave a dry, one-note laugh. “About how I expected.”
“Whatever you say,” grunted Owens. He returned to his place at the vein and started over again. It wouldn’t take long to make up what he’d lost.
“You’re down two grams now,” said the old man.
“Looks like it.”
“Wanna know how I got so much?” said the old man in an insistent wheeze, again
holding out his own bulging pouch of synth.
“What, like some kind of mining tip?” Owens asked, attempting to sound cordial. He rubbed away more of the sandstone, trying to better expose the synth vein. His fingertips ached despite the calluses he’d built from so many trigger pulls. “Sure, old-timer.”
“Not a mining tip” said the old man with a half-chuckle. “I didn’t mine it. I took it from someone. We all did.”
Owens hadn’t yet discarded his rock, something he was thankful for upon hearing the word “we.” He spun around, expecting to see a gang where the old man had once stood alone. But there was no else there beyond the geriatric prisoner.
Crux pointed a knobby finger at Owens. “That was a Legion crest on your back shoulder. Wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” Owens said, scanning the area behind the man for signs of trouble. “What of it?”
“You were in the Legion?”
“Maybe I just liked to pretend.”
The old man let out a cackle. “Pretend to be a life-taker and heartbreaker? Well, I can see the temptation. You didn’t seem to be ‘pretending’ during the fight.”
“Got lucky,” Owens said. He wished his visitor would leave him in peace.
The old man laughed to himself. “Pretend. To be a legionnaire. The surest way to get every bone broken in your body is to get caught pretending to be Legion. We, uh, never took too kindly to that.”
“We?”
Crux tucked his bag of synth back into his raggedy vest and held out a shriveled arm as though he were flexing his bicep. He pulled back on the loose skin to reveal a faded Legion crest. “I was Legion, too. Fought during the tail end of the Savage Wars, if you can believe it.”
The man seemed positively ancient. Owens could believe it.
“So why are you in here?” Owens asked.
“Same as you and most every other leej in these mines,” said the old man. He spat on the floor. “Because they don’t want us out there.”
***
Owens followed Crux through a labyrinth of abandoned mining tunnels. It was pitch black, and he hadn’t seen any portable lights for at least ten minutes. It was even longer since he’d last seen a guard or miner. The twists and turns in this sheer blackness left him pretty well disoriented, no matter how much he tried to make a mental map.
Prisoners of Darkness (Galaxy's Edge Book 6) Page 12
