by Ian Woodhead
A pair of claws curled around his wrists and pulled his limp body into one of the cells. The Velicion lifted Ryan onto the bench and sat him upright then ran back out of the cell. He blinked once, twice. That movement alone felt like an achievement.
The Danu crouched in front of him. “You are an astonishing individual.” He turned his head. You two will need to shoulder the burden. At least until Lady Light de-entangles their merged souls.”
“What does that even mean?” asked Villas.
Even in his vegetative state, Ryan heard the panic in the little man's voice. He wanted to soothe him, to explain to Villas that everything was going to be alright. Odd, considering he didn't have a clue how could that even be so.
“It means we have to carry him, Villas,” replied Todd.
“What's the point? We're still in the same situation. Apart from the weird blue lightning that left your friend's fingers, nothing has changed, apart from the Marauders are now about to open that outer cell door!”
The two men took an arm each and wrapped them around the back of their heads and lifted me up. He found that if he focused, he was able to keep his head facing front. They both took a single step forward then jerked to a sudden stop when a flash of searing red light flashed past the open cell door.
“Is that a Velicion weapon?” cried Villas. But, but that's impossible!”
Todd chuckled before urging Villas to continue moving closer to the door. The Danu ran out just as the huge Velicion moved into view. He now held a device which more resembled part of the creature's reptilian anatomy than some kind of weapon. Ryan dug into every energy reserve he could muster and turned his head a few degrees to the right, towards the now open door and he saw those hateful fiends, the others called Marauders. Three remained intact. The Velicion's body part gun had reduced what looked like another two other Marauders into piles of smouldering lumps of unrecognisable innards and molten metal.
They were the same type of being who he first encountered back on his home planet. The two men holding him hurried past the Velicion who fired off another shot. The Danu, who now also possessed a smaller weapon, pushed all three of them into the next cell. Before he left them, he passed Todd another weapon. “That is for the binded one when Lady Light allows him his freedom of movement. The Danu leaned forward and lightly kissed Ryan on the forehead. “I will see you in my next body.” He left the three of them and a moment later, Ryan heard another energy weapon being discharged.
“Where have the weapons come from?”
Todd shifted his position slightly and Ryan saw another panel open on the far side of the wall.
“It opened a moment after you fell to the floor. Not quite another exit but the second best thing, wouldn't you say, Villas?”
The little man let out a heavy sigh. There are no human weapons in there I see.”
The open panel contained another eight assorted weapons, of types that Ryan had never seen before.
Todd laughed. “Or course there isn’t. What did you expect, Villa? Think about the timescales. When that was installed, our species were still painting in caves and wearing fur.”
“Even so, I still would have preferred to not stay in here, babysitting.”
“No, you would have preferred to have run out, leaving all of us to die.”
Ryan heard more weapons fire but this time, he did recognise the sound. The Marauders were firing back! The Velicion ran into the cell. He took up position by the edge and fired again.
“We can't escape through the main door,” he said. Two more take the places of the ones I kill and this ancient weapon is not recharging. There are three shots left, maybe four.
Barnaby poked his head out from the cell opposite. Ryan had forgotten about him.
“Fire again. Two more shots down the middle of the corridor,” he said. “I think I have found a way out of here.”
The Velicion looked straight at Ryan. “What do I do?”
Why was he asking Him? Ryan didn't have the answers. It then occurred to him that the Danu wasn't with them. He opened his mouth. “The Danu?” he croaked.
“His bravery is why I am still here. He killed three Marauders before their filthy weapons killed him. Ryan, do I do what the human asks?”
“No, no way,” hissed Villas. “Barnaby is a Sons of Argo sect member. He thinks the Velicions are a Danu genetic experiment and anyone who isn't a cultists are nothing but parasites.” He looked straight at Ryan. “The maniac actually believes that the Marauders are doing a good thing here! Trust me on this, my friend. I know what I'm talking about.”
Ryan nodded. “Shoot,” he uttered.
The little man almost dropped Ryan at the same time as the huge creature fired once, then stood up moved a little further out then fired again. Just before he did discharge the weapon, Barnaby darted out of the cell, ran over to the open panel and plucked out a small grey cube, lying beside a gun very similar to one the Danu gave to Todd. He then ran into their cell. Two shots from the Marauders flashed down the corridor, both of them slamming into the open panel, turning everything in there to molten slag.
“I hope you know what you're doing!” hissed Villas. That's it, there's no more weapons left and the Velicion has one last shot, thanks to your stupidity.”
Barnaby glared at Villas before he grabbed Ryan's wrist and turned it over. Villas tried to stop him only for the Velicion to intervene.
“Good idea, human. Perhaps you are not as deluded as I first believed.”
The grey cube vibrated in Ryan's palm and several dull yellow dots appeared on the top face. The Velicion ran over to the side of the cell and ran his hand along the wall. “Here, this is the best place. Stick it here.”
“What is going on?”
Todd hurried over to the far cell corner, taking Ryan and Villas with him. “Have you never seen a compression mine before?”
Barnaby did as the Velicion asked before joining them. The Velicion then spread his bulk over them all. A dull crump popped Ryan's ears. The Velicion ran back over to the open cell door and fired off his remaining shot. Both Barnaby and Villas ran over to the wall, leaving Todd to pick up the weight. Ryan had now recovered enough strength to at least hobble across the floor. The compression mine had blown a hole straight through the cell wall.
“Be just our luck if there's a squad of Marauders waiting for us on the other side.”
Ryan lifted his head. “Then we'll take care of them too.”
Chapter Seven
The View from Saturn
The journey from the entrance lair to his foot of his throne took the slave three tenths of a cycle. Even at that relatively brisk speed, this one had not spilled a single drop of Trasker blood onto his polished, marble floor. The Marshal Governor, Di-Malok, the Prime Executor to the Imperial fifty-first fleet of Deathbringers and Twelfth in line to the throne, dug his claws into the flesh-chair to stop himself from bowing to the temptation of flicking the side of this little Bayan's yellow furry head, just to see if he would fall over.
Chances are, if Di-Malok's forearm claws did hit the slave with any force, he would end up breaking its head. Bayans made such good slaves but they were so fragile. He hated waste and as this one performed its duties impeccably, it would be a shame to break it. Finding another one, especially out here, in the arse-end of nowhere, would be problematic.
If he stood, the top of his little slave's head would reach the Governor's scaly crimson chest. Completely harmless, docile, loyal, once they were broken in and very intelligent. When their kind encountered this species, Millennia ago, the first Dionion scientist who set foot on their homeworld, after the shock troops had massacred and eaten millions of them, concluded, after a few more were dissected and studied, the few which remained should not be used to feed the troops. The scientist believed they could be tamed and used to perform many tasks and chores. That lone scientist unwittingly saved the first sentient race discovered by the Dionion empire from extinction.
He staye
d motionless, with only his bright yellow eyes moving. They followed the progress of the mammal as it hurried towards the entrance lair. He admired its nerves, it must strain its little heart every time it left his side, terrified that its master would suddenly call it back in order to be punished for whatever imaginary slight it had committed. Di-Malok knew from listening to his several Mid-Executers that tormenting their slaves was sometimes the only pleasure they could find out here. The question to whether they were sentient was no longer in doubt. They believed this special and almost unique trait is why they made such excellent slaves and why the Mid-Executers gained so much enjoyment out of tormenting them.
This place, this forgotten star system, light years from any other civilised system, on the outer edges of their magnificent empire was not the worst place they could have dumped him to rot. Unlike certain other 'punishment' postings at least this one did have a few comforts. So it was not quite up to the luxurious lifestyle he was used to in the Imperial court but perhaps that could be seen as a good thing? Being waited on daily had made him fat and slow, both in body and in mind. Di-Malok should have seen the betrayal coming. Looking back, all the signs were there for all to see. Only, he chose to ignore them. Could anyone really blame him for not believing that his own father would want him dead? He took a delicate sip of the Trasker blood and almost spat in back out. At least back home, the slaves knew how to prepare the liquid correctly.
“It is not a pressing problem,” he growled. “I can show these savages myself.” No, that might not be such a great idea. Him amongst a group of shivering, cowed, delicious chunks of warm walking meat would ultimately resist with him having no slaves left to cook his food and badly prepare his favourite drink.
Blood, such a joy to taste and yet, such a curse to share. Maybe not so much a curse. If Di-Malok had not been the son, then it is certain that the lesser lord would have repurposed his body into one of the Imperial warrior amalgams or, knowing that old bastard's dark humour, more likely into a piece of furniture. How magnanimous of him to banish him to here instead.
Without realising it, he had pushed every forehand claw all the way through the side of his flesh chair. How inconvenient. Di-Malok had wanted to allow the flesh-chair to settle into its new position before hurting it. He slowly eased his claws out of the warm material. They all left the chair with an audible pop. He ran his long black tongue along his claws, licking away the residue while so trying not to lose his temper at the thought of his own father actually even contemplating murdering his only son just because the wizened old bastard felt threatened by his son's success.
Just like a whole host of other lesser lords, His father dreamed of sitting where their Emperor now sat. As the naming ceremony had yet to commence, those leering, simpering back-stabbing fools were using every devious trick they knew, just to gain favour with their Emperor in the vain hope that their name might end up of the final list. It made him sick. None of those two-faced bastards were worthy to lick the throne's legs never mind sit in it.
It was best that he was out of it, at least for now, as their despicable behaviour was only going to grow more and more out of control, the nearer to the final day arrived. Alliances will be made and broken in the same day. False evidence, implying a targeted Lord of some fictional crime will be planted. The position of royal food taster will become the most dangerous task for the house slaves. Blood will be split. That much was certain. Some of the lords from the more barbaric sections of the Empire employed more direct methods of using off-planet assassins to ensure the more favoured Lords ended up dead.
Di-Malok relaxed just a fraction. Today was not the best time to start getting upset and itchy over a situation that he could not control. For him, a battleground meant warriors fighting head-to-head, using the weapons they were born with or manufactured or repurposed weapons to defeat your enemy. Dropping a vial of poison into your enemy's drink or getting some sneak to push a blade into their neck bladder while they slept was just not right.
“Perhaps they will kill each other off. That would make life so much easier.” He took another sip of the Trasker blood. It still tasted bitter but not quite a revolting as the last time. Was he getting used to the taste already?
Let them play their stupid and pointless games. He had faith in their great leader and if Di-Malok could see through their childish charade then surely so could the Emperor. No, he was best out of their way. At least in this system, he believed that he could make a real difference.
Di-Malok planned to make their Grand Emperor sit up and take notice of him without having to resort to playing court politics. He had only become the system's latest Marshall Governor for eight cycles but had already figured out that this system's untapped resources could bring about a new golden age for the Empire. The mineral wealth alone, buried under the inner rocky worlds were vast enough to almost double the size of their Imperial fleet of warships. The gas giant held enough fuel to power these new warships of centuries. “With this new ship fleet, the Empire could finally grind our ancient enemy into dust and finally retake the systems lost to us all those aeons ago.”
This system also contained one more hidden gem. A single inhabited planet which just happened to be populated by what had to be the tastiest animal that he had ever had the pleasure of eating. He did not know why human meat had such an intoxicating effect on his tastebuds, nor did he care. He did know that Di-Malok could not get enough of the stuff. The meat would be worth a fortune back home. If he could figure out a foolproof method to smuggle some of it past border quarantine and get it into the claws of a couple of his trusted contacts then even if this posting failed to live up to his hopes, at least when he returned, Di-Malok would be set up for life.
The future could wait until he had, at least, understood what happened to the governor preceding him. On the surface, by running through the collected data from the previous fifty-thee cycles of conflict with the indigenous species, he proved to be utterly incompetent in completing even the most basic of operations. It catalogued campaign after campaign of failed invasions, of defeats by an inferior enemy and an unforgivable amount of troop casualties. It read like a step by step guide on how to prepare for the Imperial interior cardinals and to await punishment. Which is exactly what happened. The previous Marshall Governor suffered the most hideous of executions only usually subjected to their disobedient slaves. They repurposed him.
Di-Malok, with his Imperial court upbringing knew that the surface only showed what was meant to be seen, to reveal another truth, one had to peel away the many layers. Di-Saloth came here, riding a wave of celebratory triumph. The young Dionion warrior put down an armed rebellion on an outpost even more remote than this one. His field promotion from Tertiary Line Holder to Subsidiary Troop Commander brought him to the attention of this quadrant's Governor General who believed the young warrior had the mental strength to take over this posting.
This surface description needed little scratching to figure out the poor bastard had been set up for this job. Clearly, the warrior had not gained enough experience to undertake such a heavy responsibility. Yet, it was equally clear than even though the young Dionion was not ready for the position, he should still have been able to achieve some measure of success. This record of his exploits made it look like the Governor General had placed a Bayan slave with a leaking brain in charge of this system.
So, did the last governor have an operator than he never knew about? It did make sense to Di-Malok. Although he had not dug too deep regarding the Dionion's service record, he was still confident that it would show him nothing too spectacular, but one aspect that was bound to stand out would be the lack of ineptitude.
Di-Malok left the flesh chair, grinning at the sound of it breathing a sigh of relief. As he turned, he saw that his claws had caused it some significant damage, enough to still be showing. It appeared that its self-repair nano-modules were not as efficient as they advertised. Or perhaps he ought to be more gentle with the flesh chair an
d treat it like a Bayan slave? He barked out a short laugh. That was not going to happen!
He grabbed the metal beaker and downed the contents before striding over to his wall-mounted control and conquer station board. Nobody was going to try an operate him, that much was certain. Di-Malok had witnessed and, indeed, played too many of these pathetic games whilst inside the royal court and the lords, both lesser and upper were experts at in their chosen field and he had learned from the best, just as the ones who thought they could control him was soon to discover.
His arrival here might only be counted in single digit cycles but Di-Malok had not been idle. He tapped his own hastily installed intercom bypass which connected him straight to the Comms deck aboard his own ship. He activated a soundstress field around him and ordered one of his personal Bayan slaves to bring their guest up to his command room.
Once his slave acknowledged, he commenced with his next task. With the soundstress field still in place, he opened up a vis-package which arrived moments before he retired to his command room. His inbuilt optimism ensured that the many procedures that he had already placed would have worked without any discrepancy or errors but of course, his inbuilt optimism had to fight with Di-Malok's inbuilt realism and the latter nearly always won that battle, mainly because his inbuilt optimism was nearly always wrong. He believed that the dichotomy of that very emotion is what kept it going.
The vis-package had travelled many millions of miles, all the way from the interior of the fourth planet in this system and it contained, he hoped, his own personal account of his forces assault upon that base, currently held by the Terrestrial coalition. One of the procedures that Di-Malok had installed will have edited the account recorded from the many security cameras dotted about the interior of the base.
He sat on a lesser chair and settled down to watch the account while sighing in annoyance that he could not do this while in his comfortable flesh chair. It also raised a niggle of annoyance that he had finished his drink too. Di-Malok pressed play and promised himself something a little more nourishing and tastier once the vis-package had performed its function.
