by L. E. Horn
She knew it as a pipe dream because no Farr had ever been killed by a Dancer, and a Dancer couldn’t escape the gory ritual. Some women even killed themselves rather than continue with the Blooddances. Lianndra’s only solace involved extending each Dance as long as possible, making the Fang work for their blood.
The Coliseum exit led to a small cube of a room, its smooth walls blemished only with a single vertical bar suspended from the ceiling. The bar sprouted a handgrip, and at her touch, the cube moved. It whisked her through the guts of the enormous ship to the human slave quarters.
Her shoulder ached. I’ve had worse, but I should get Tania to fix me before I crash.
Lianndra headed for the medical bay located close to where the transit cube always dropped Dancers. Sometimes the medtechs met her at the cube. The Dancers carried from the Coliseum rarely made it to the medics; their bodies vanished as though they’d never existed. There were no human funerals on the Motherships.
Tania greeted her with a gentle smile and a shake of her head when she saw the blood on her shoulder. “Not too bad this time, hmm?” The medtech talked to her patients regardless of whether they participated, but Lianndra liked her. Tania’s gray hair and wrinkles were rare in the slave quarters where most women were under thirty-five. She remained one of the few women whose expertise deemed her valuable as something other than a Dancer.
Lianndra sat on the med table, grimacing as Tania cut the remnants of her tunic away from the slashes across her shoulder.
Tania placed her bare arm along a bizarre device hanging from a bracket on the wall. The length of a human forearm, it flattened and curved to fit and had a nozzle-like point on one end. As soon as the medic’s arm made contact, it molded to her.
“Hold on,” Tania said as a small cone with a fine tip extended from the pointed end of the device. She began to trace Lianndra’s wounds with the tip as a green beam reached out to stitch the edges together.
Lianndra’s fingernails dug into the table’s surface as the technology sealed her wounds. Repairing the abused nerves, muscles, and skin always hurt, and she’d passed out more than once when healing more serious injuries. Without this technology, the women would have to go days, weeks, or months between Blooddances. The apparatus healed the wounds but could not replenish the blood loss. A few bad injuries, compounded by the strenuous workouts of the Blooddances, often led to the demise of a Dancer.
It seemed like forever before Tania disengaged the healtech to lay it on the shelf behind her.
“Thanks, Tania. Easy one today.”
Tania sniffed. “Wish they were all like this.” She grabbed something off the counter and approached Lianndra.
“Blood work? Again?”
The medtech shrugged. “Orders. They want blood more often. No idea why.” She drew the sample and waved Lianndra on her way. “Off you go. Stay out of trouble.”
Lianndra smiled before heading down the corridor. I’m hungry as a horse. Time to refuel.
EVERY LEVEL OF THE MASSIVE Tlok’mk Mothership performed a different function. Above the slave quarters existed an entire level dedicated to the genetic manipulation laboratories. Within one of these labs, a purple-skinned alien hunched over the console on her desk, the leathery lips of her long snout curled. Heavy footsteps from behind alerted her to the approach of another, older Fara.
Xoek’sank turned as her superior approached and called her name. The older Fara frowned at her datapad, and Xoek’sank felt a stab of unease.
“We have just received new orders from the elders concerning the next wave of Tier-5 subjects.” The older female’s forehead furrowed. “The war coordinator has requested an increased level of genetic manipulation for the new slaves.”
Xoek’sank experienced a flush of anger. More unwelcome meddling with my Tier-5 program. By tradition, the manipulation lab dedicated itself to emergency tweaking of subpar slave species: those requiring fast-tracking through the system. Not for the Tier-5s, who represent five generations of human selection and careful genetic manipulation.
Having the offspring of their genetically enhanced subjects born and raised on their home planet allowed the enhancements to develop naturally. It took time to evolve a species as diverse and valuable as the humans. They represented a significant investment.
Now, the elders risked these valued individuals by speeding up the mutation process, through the altering of adult genes in the manipulation lab. Their leaders dictated the Tier-5 human females be harvested ahead of schedule and put through the trials of the Blooddance. The most suitable would be subjected to further tweaking. Such rapid modification often proved dangerous for the subject, so the techs built an acceptable loss ratio into the lab’s statistics.
Xoek’sank disagreed with the decisions the elders made for the Tier-5s. One war does not justify jeopardizing generations of hard work. Now the elders, no doubt speaking for the war coordinator, want even more modifications done to the current round of Tier-5 human subjects.
The elders risked reducing the product’s value, which aggravated her. But the casual discarding of protocol concerned Xoek’sank even more.
Protocol exists for a reason, she thought.
Genetic meddling on such a large scale, and with tight timelines, might backfire and produce undesirable results. The modified slaves could be useless, resulting in the termination of the entire human generational project. The loss of time, effort, and currency could be substantial.
She opened her mouth to object but recognized the lack of a platform from which to do so. Her Tlok’mk superior already turned away, tapping on her datapad, making the necessary scheduling adjustments. Her superior’s forehead remained wrinkled in concern, but Xoek’sank knew the older female would not go against orders from the Chamber of Elders, even if those orders went against current protocols.
Have the implications of this decision been foreseen by minds greater than mine? she wondered. Foreseen and approved? Who is making these decisions?
Xoek’sank had many hours of frustrating work to go before she would be able to make contact with someone who might have the answer.
She dutifully turned back to her console to call up the lists of Tier-5 slaves scheduled to receive the enhancement serums, the preliminary process for the genetic manipulation. Hasty actions could lead to mistakes.
Perhaps—she felt the first stirrings of hope—there is an opportunity in this for my new friends.
AT THIS TIME OF DAY, only a few slaves used the large room the Blooddancers called the mess hall. Lianndra made a selection at the serving counter before perusing those present, searching for a familiar face. Over time, there were fewer slaves she could actually call friends. The realities of Dancing meant slaves died or disappeared all the time.
The Dancers tended to arrange themselves socially, based on characteristics they had in common. Lianndra knew everyone needed something familiar to cling to. She’d always been somewhat of a loner, maintaining only a few close friends as she’d grown up. Her time as a Dancer whittled her close friends down to one: Andrea.
Lianndra spotted a new arrival, known by the more experienced Dancers as a newbie. The young woman sat alone at a table, her hair in disarray, eyes huge and frightened, not touching the food in front of her.
I don’t feel up to a newbie initiation speech today. Lianndra spotted an empty chair well away from the girl, but her conscience interfered. She knew she’d been fortunate to enter her enslavement in a group, enabling them to figure out their new life together. This poor girl cowered alone. With a sigh, Lianndra braced herself before redirecting her steps to the seat across from the newbie. The orientation speech the Fang provided for new arrivals lacked in critical information, more a description of what the Fang expected from the slave, rather than a proper introduction to their new life.
The dark-haired girl didn’t look up as Lianndra placed her tray on the table and sat down. It turned out her name was Stacey, although it took Lianndra a while to get it out o
f her.
“Did you come in alone?” Lianndra asked.
If anything, the girl turned even paler. “There were five of us. When I woke up on the ship, the others were dead.” Her eyes never left the table as she spoke.
Wow, Lianndra thought. It was normal to lose a few slaves in transit. The drugs the Fang used were pretty toxic. But to lose so many? “I’m sorry.”
The girl didn’t reply.
Lianndra stared at the top of Stacey’s head. After a few moments of silence, she steeled herself and spoke. “Look, I hate being a hardass, but the truth of the matter is—you either develop a backbone and start looking after yourself—or you are going to die.”
The girl stared at her, her eyes huge and terrified.
Lianndra sighed. “I don’t mean to be cruel. It’s the simple truth. I want you to listen to what I’m going to tell you. It’ll help you understand your situation. Coping with it will be up to you.”
Stacey’s lips twisted but she held Lianndra’s gaze, a hopeful sign.
“All right,” Lianndra began, putting her eating utensil down. So much for a warm meal. “The humans call these aliens Fang. Their real species name is one most of us humans can’t pronounce: Tlok’mk.” Her tongue staggered through the name, getting tangled in the glottal stop in the middle. “Fang do not have a home planet, they live in these massive vessels they call Motherships. We are in the belly of one now.”
Lianndra gestured around her. “The slave quarters are in the lower third of the ship. The Fang have a segregated culture. Males, known as Farr, live a life separate from the females who are called Fara. Fara are the brains—the technicians—the professional experts. Fara live in the upper levels of the ships.”
She had Stacey’s full attention. Ignoring the dark-haired girl’s wide stare, Lianndra paused to take a bite of her meal and continued while chewing. “The middle levels contain the Farr’s quarters. The Farr are the muscle. Bred as fighters, they become part of a vicious fighting force.” She took another bite of food. “The two sexes rarely mix.”
“As you may have noticed, the Fang are slavers.” Lianndra tried Stacey with a smile, but the effort fell flat. She sighed and continued. “They frequently engage in war with other alien species. Attack, conquer, enslave, move on, seems a typical Fang pattern. Lucky for us, most Farr are involved in these acquisition wars and spend a lot of time off the ship. It is possible they send the male human captives there as well.” When she looked at Stacey, the girl’s eyes were liquid with tears. Lianndra wondered if she knew any male captives.
Lianndra took a deep breath before continuing. “Fang seem to collect species the way humans collect stamps. I’ve lost track of the number of aliens I’ve seen as Fang captives. They seem to reserve the human females for their entertainment.” She took a swig of juice, while Stacey returned to staring at the table. Feeling frustrated, Lianndra continued. “The Farr come in from the war in shifts. While on leave, many seek to be entertained and to prove themselves in staged fights. Other than fighting among themselves, their only sources of entertainment are the Pitfights or the Blooddances.”
Stacey looked up again. Lianndra knew the holographic orientation mentioned the Blooddance even if it hadn’t explained it.
“Humans seem to occupy a special place in the captive hierarchy for Fang,” Lianndra said. “Fang take humans from our home planet in comparative secret without announcing their presence. They treat Earth as a giant slave nursery.”
Lianndra had no idea how many humans the Fang had enslaved over time. She only knew new slaves came in on a steady basis. Lately, it seemed the influx increased. “We see few human men on the Motherships. Only human females are housed in this slave enclave. But the women all talk of men being taken, so they’re likely being used on the front lines of the latest war.” As usual, talking of this led to thoughts of Michael. She swallowed a mouthful that suddenly tasted sour. “As you may have guessed, Fang are predators, but enslaving human females isn’t about food.” Lianndra pushed her plate away. As usual, when she thought too hard about the Dance, she lost her appetite. “They use us in the Blooddance, and it’s all about blood. Human female blood seems to trigger a physical release in the Farr. Most slaves liken it to sex, but it’s more likely a way to ease the violent energy in the resident Farr population. Otherwise they remain so aggressive they might start fights with each other. Not a good thing within the confines of a ship, even one the size of this.”
Lianndra tapped Stacey’s arm, willing her to focus. “Although the Fang always win, your goal is to extend the Dance for as long as possible. Longer Blooddances burn off the Farr’s energy and decrease the brutality of the eventual end. Short ones often end with dead humans. The more skilled the Dancer, the longer the Dance. The incentive for becoming skilled is effective and brutal—inferior Dancers don’t live long. The Fang either kills them, or they’re taken to the group parties in the private Farr residences. No human slave has ever returned from a private residence summons.”
Stacey had already been pale, but now she appeared white.
If the girl can’t handle being told this, she’s never going to survive. “Some Dancers are more popular with the Fang than others. The more popular the Dancer, the more they participate. On average, a Dancer is lucky to last for a few years before exhaustion or injuries decrease their success. Sometimes good Dancers in their prime just vanish without an explanation and are never heard from again. We think those get sent somewhere else, maybe to the war.”
Stacey was silent until now. Finally, the girl said, “What do I do? I’m only nineteen. I don’t want to die. But I don’t know if I can do this Dancing thing.”
Lianndra stood, picking up her half-filled tray. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I’ll try to help you, if you’re ready to help yourself. Meet me tomorrow morning in the training hall at the third bell. Ask your ward supervisor. She’ll give you directions. My name is Lianndra. She’ll know me.”
She sensed the girl’s frightened eyes on her back as she walked away. I’ve done what I can. The rest is up to her. The truth about the new Dancers remained grim; they died in high numbers. It wasn’t lack of skill, but lack of ability to control their fear. Little did I know that my ability to think clearly during my shark attack would prove such a useful trait.
Her Bodega Bay memories led to thoughts of rescue from the shark, riding the chestnut mare on the beach, and—Michael. Giving herself a mental shake, she grabbed a biscuit off her tray before throwing the rest in the recycler. She’d be hungry later. Might as well save myself another trip to the mess hall.
IN A CORRIDOR ON A level far above the slaves’ mess hall, a Tlok’mk Fara paused in the shadow of an overhead beam.
Ewtk’fisk could remember a time when there’d been so many lights in the corridors that shadows did not exist. The latest war had gone on too long and drained many resources—with power cells being one of them. Now the corridors contained shadows.
Just like my thoughts, she mused.
Skulking around like this would have been inconceivable a short time ago. The Fara were proud of their open communication strategies. All voices heard. All voices heeded. This no longer seemed the case, and Ewtk’fisk acknowledged it had not been the case for some time. It had become apparent that a few powerful Fara made decisions for the many. The resources required for this prolonged war revealed her species endured strain in more ways than one.
Ewtk’fisk’s awareness of subterfuge came to her with startling clarity at the last Conglomeration of Ancients. Each Mothership possessed a Chamber of Elders responsible for major decisions. They held court regularly so all voices could be heard. Less frequently, the elders from the gathered Motherships met as a conglomeration. Some were present in person, others as holoimages sent from the other ships farther afield. This system had worked efficiently for many generations.
Sitting in the audience seats of the chamber room, Ewtk’fisk remembered when she first noticed the changes in the r
ank of elders. At one time, the years of experience required to accumulate wisdom would be evident in the clear signs of aging—like blackened, dull and sagging skin, as well as yellow-tinged eyes. Now the elders’ ranks glowed with younger members of her species, their skin still flushed with the violets of midlife. She thought it strange she hadn’t noticed the changes until now.
The voice heard at this moment by the Conglomerate of Ancients belonged to the Fara Superior for Ewtk’fisk’s area of expertise. She’d risen to power quite fast. The red blush on her dark skin appeared vibrant as she stepped before the elders.
Ewtk’fisk knew her superior had collected relevant opinions and data before reporting to the elders. Many Fara, including Ewtk’fisk, felt it time to concede the latest war. They’d passed on these views to the superior.
By ordinary Tlok’mk standards, this war continued for far too long. The Tlok’mk sometimes conceded defeat and moved on if the opponent proved strong or losses became higher than acceptable. Careful consideration of such factors had provided the secret to their success at plundering numerous colonies and worlds. The elders pushed the envelope with this war. They refused to back down even when forced to engage in a costly extended battle that relied on foot soldiers rather than technology.
Ewtk’fisk stood with her sisters at the latest Conglomeration of Ancients, listening to the superior present to the elders. What emerged from her superior sounded, on the surface, to be what Ewtk’fisk and her sisters discussed. As Ewtk’fisk listened closely, she recognized the subtle manipulation of the information resulted in an overlying message—no concessions. We will pull together to win this war.
