Rise of Rebel, Part 4, Subjugation

If slavery is not wrong, nothing is wrong.
- Abraham Lincoln

It had been impossible to adjust, being looked at like meat, like a dumb, obedient dog. Crammed in the tight quarters with the rest of the chained circles of slaves. Weeks and then months ground by, each second worse than the last. To some extent I felt bad for my behavior then, but I never knew what it would lead to. I resisted the guards, preventing our purchase because of my struggles. Growled at the interested buyers, scared them away. Slaves who came in after us were bought before us, Ammarian Holders and other "decent" slavers (according to Bulkar at least) left us alone like we carried a plague. Most didn't have to come close when inspecting the slave groups to know I was the problem, the guards let them know, and started showing us off to the worst of an already bad lot.

Rozor was the first to snap. I let his fists rain on me, wishing, hoping he would hit something vital that the guards missed, and put me out of this life. Without a family, without my family, I was nothing. Worth nothing, beaten, shunned, I sat outside the circle, but still chained to it. I slipped further and further into a depression unlike any I had faced. There would not be such an easy escape from this life.

Rozors beating did what the guard hadn't. Buyers kept coming through, and at some point I was too weak, too tired to make a stand anymore, to care anymore. We were purchased by some Angel Cartel toughs, the fact that we were simple labor seemed to meet their requirements, that we were all so beaten down, I'm sure that didn't hurt. By then I had lost weight and any muscle I had. They shocked, beat and collared us with electric collars for control on the journey through the smuggler gates of eve. The slight lurch in my stomach at each jump was the only thing that let me count the jumps, 33, to our destination. If that was in a straight line, or just a route to avoid customs....

The ship we were in rumbled into a rough dock and we were shuffled off the ship like so much cattle. Pushed and prodded still, we made our way to the small casino in the middle of the outpost. As the toughs took their payments for delivery to the casino's tables, we were taken by a new set of grim and humorless overlords, assigned menial jobs as if we were not there, in area's we had no idea how to get to. Then taken and beaten until we "learned some respect for our new masters." 


There was no escape, the outpost was isolated in dead space, that forbidden zone between civilization and the dark of space that somehow managed to be neither. It around then that with a final sickening hurt I knewI had been broken, and I worked as if my life depended on it, the deep dark depression now turning into something darker, something that made me want to excel at what they asked me to do, as if that would convince them to save me. I hated myself for it, but couldn't help it, I lived, I rejoined my brother slaves as another to their ranks. It was around then that a new leader of the facility, Thomas, showed up. He must have been the son, or cousin, of someone powerful in the Cartel. Power radiated off him like so much heat and the deference the guards gave him stunk of connections.

He took joy in "training the slaves personally." There was nothing any of us could do, right or wrong, to be spared. During the day we worked like janitors, cleaning up the aftermaths of parties, unloading stores from ships and slaughters when fights broke out. 


Uldrik had been the first to get a taste of the pain doled out by Thomas like candy. Our group was one of few on the casino, all broken men, scared of the fist, of the glance of the guards, or the bite of their discipline. It wasn't enough control for Thomas, he desired more. His men came to the small quarters the five of us shared, pressing the rag that passed as our door to the side for Thomas. He stepped in and looked us over, thumbing a single six sided die between his palm and thumb. The game, as it were, was explained to us, slowly, deliberately. He would roll a single six sided die. If he rolled a six he said, "Then I'll move on, all nice-like." At first you start out hoping for a six. This time I was a five, he rolled a two.

Uldrik was pulled from the room, wet smacks and thuds the only sounds we could hear. I cried, wishing it was me instead, that his pain was my fault, if only I had gotten us sold sooner...

Uldrik was deposited back in the room, bleeding from the eyes and ears, we did our best to cover for him, but he was never quite the same. He lost hearing in his right ear, his right eye kept a deep red hue. It was then that we started talking of escape, of some kind of life where Thomas, where these Angel thugs wouldn't own us anymore. Dreams of lost freedom. Foolish dreams.

Desperate hopes for men trapped deep inside dead space, in some system they didn't even know the name of. Some claim planning escape is almost as important as completing it, but planning for escape, for freedom, is false hope if there is no real chance of it. Bulkar had been the hardest to convince of the need to plan, but then of course we weren't with his precious god-fearing Amarr, who would "never let this kind of treatment of slaves stand." We were with the heartless Angles, we thanked their lack of toxins to control us. Physically, psychologically, it didn't matter.

Thomas had been initially sated by the damage he caused on the slaves. He still trained the guards how to "handle" us better. Their beatings were brutal, more so than before, but at least Thomas left us alone.

We didn't expect it to last; it didn't last. 

He came back, with the same die, only changing our numbers, he had a knack of finding the weakest of us each time. Bulkar came back with ragged, lazy knife cuts across his chest, mumbling incoherently to himself, it took weeks before he made sense or even spoke to the rest of us again. Rozor was next, his pinky fingers and small toes broken and splinted and then re-broken. The pain was to remind him of the grace that Thomas left him alive each day. It was weeks before he was allowed to get the nanobot medical injections to help heal his toes, his pinkies still turned at crooked angles to the rest of his hand. Rozor remained defeated, but still somehow defiant through all of it, drawing from some central core strength I wish I had. Somewhere along the line I stopped wishing for a six, and just wished for anything but my number.

My turn was next. Thomas strode in, and told me I was number four. Blind, callous hope spread through my body, four had never showed up on the die before, I was hoping to be spared. Then die stubbornly rolled to a stop on four, laying between us, slaves and master. Thomas looked unsurprised and his guards took me into the hall. I should have resisted, should have fought, but I walked meekly along with them.


He stood there, staring at me for a long time, and did nothing. I, in turn, stared at the ground, feeling his eyes on my head. His guards pushed me to the ground and Thomas stood over me, as if gloating, looking down at me as I knelt. I felt something deep inside of me stir, but I wasn't sure what, it was deeper than the fear, the depression, even hate, the sensation seemed somehow familiar, I knew it, but couldn't remember the name of the feeling. It rose as the moments crept by, I suddenly knew that it was hope, hope that this was all he needed from me, that maybe the others had been defiant, deserving in their beatings, that I was safe. I clung to it as the last emotion I had. 

Then blows came. Only after the hope was pounding in my chest. His sharp, hard kicks and knee's to my chest, compressed the air out of me explosively, and he never stopped for a instant, letting me feel each blow and creak as my chest took each blow. I kept my eyes closed, unable to take a breath, taking kick after kick, each one twisting that hope inside of me, driving it into my heart more effectively than any toxin could, cutting me open far more effectively than any knife. I started hoping that each blow would be the last, that I would live and serve just to avoid one more kick, one more knee...

When he was done, when we were done, I would have thanked him for stopping, for each breath, if I could have spoken. I had tears running down my cheeks, I remembering wanting to thank him for stopping, as if he couldn't stop before then, as if he did me a favor for beating the hope out of me at all. I spat out mouthfuls of blood from the gouges my teeth had taken out of my cheeks, but the tears were of happiness, I had deserved it, he was right to punish me. He had taken that brief hope and turned it into a twisted kind of fear, obedience. I'm not sure what my injuries were, I coughed up blood for weeks, my chest ached for months more.

Thomas never returned for Kolf, he didn't need to. Broken in spirt now, our quaint little escape plans were just the feeble mess that hoped for a empty container and deep dark space.

The exact spot we found ourselves now.

Rise of a Rebel Part 3

Previous entries Part 1 Part 2


Liberty: One of Imagination's most precious possessions.  
~Ambrose Bierce


Part 3


The casino shuddered under yet another impact, throwing Logan to the ground again.  The only thing on his mind was making it to a barely space-worthy cargo container, stumbling down the passageway to storage as the casino hummed with the mournful song of destruction.  A lack of food and sleep made each step harder, the last few months of living a slave on this casino slowly pulling from his strength.  The adrenaline kept him upright, warring with exhaustion combined with the dull thuds and tremors running through the small station from decompression and explosions kept threatening to push Logan to his knee's.


It was the thought of freedom that kept him moving towards perceived safety.  A few weeks prior a massive cargo container had been pressed into one of the cargo bay's.  It was pried open by the slaves assigned to the casino and contents used to resupply the casino.  Ever since then the slaves had taken out various other supplies, moving them into the always near empty cargo rooms in the Casino.  A single hatch had been left open for access, propped open by a simple mop handle.


Now that container represented their only way to escape, slaves weren't given escape pods, too expendable.  The slaves knew it and had all made plans to run for there if ever needed.  Things came into more clarity when security had been bolstered suddenly, a nasty man named Kruul stopping by for a visit they said.


Logan stumbled again, slamming his knee to the ground, the deck jumping, tossing him off his feat.  Strings of groans and the twangy snap of metal breaking filled the air.  The entry to the cargo bay was just ahead, the door hanging casually open taunting him as blood ran from his nose.


Limping steps carried him into the bay, another dark form in a room full.  The lighting was mostly out, only flickering emergency lights showing the doors and parts of the deck around the giant shape of the cargo container.  Rozor stood at the entry to the container, the small door propped open with a long wooden handle.  Nobody else was in sight.


Logan drew closer to Rozor, noting the gash running down his arm, both of them stopping under the smallish door, long enough for another explosion to rock the casino, neatly sever the wooden pole holding the door open, slamming them both into the cargo container, their heads leaving neatly paired dents in the smooth metal of the container.  


It didn't take long for them to regain consciousness the way the container was being slammed side to side by explosions, hefted from the remnants of the casino like so much trash.  The cargo container's small power supply kicked online, some unused supplies jostling around, held in check by bright yellow cargo straps.

The silence of the container was broken by a pair of soft groans, just inside one of the service entries to the overlarge container.  Limited lighting spread tight cones of light across the empty space.  One light highlighted the bodies of the two men, haggard janitorial coveralls hanging off their bodies.  A long jagged cut bled down one's forearm, ugly red blood trickling from the wound, down the mans black skin,  pooling to the side of his arm.  The other struggled to his feet, using a long wooden mop handle to help him stand.

"Did you see anyone else?  Once the attack started, I just ran here."  Rozor nodded his head, sitting up from the deck of the container, checking the gash on his injured arm gingerly.  The wound didn't seem deep, just ragged.  Logan looked at his arm, then back to Rozor's face.  "What happened?"


Rozor removed his shirt and wrapped it around his arm, looking back over to Logan.  "Ran into security, they were headed in the opposite direction, spared the time to throw me against the wall, or maybe it was just the explosions.  I caught a glimpse of Klolf but he was being pushed along by that bastard Thomas towards the escape pods."  Tears slid down Rozor's face slowly, wiped hastily away by his fist. "There wasn't anything I could do, like a coward I just hid around the corner as he was pushed by...  I hope they make it..."  His eyes went distant as the container shuddered again, silence settling over the container.


Logan walked to the hatch they had come through, fumbling to check the seal of the door, looking at the small dents where the door had slammed them both inside and shaking his head, walking back to Rozor.  "I guess we just wait?"  Rozor nodded, sliding with his back to one of the bundles of supplies, shoulders slumped.  "Rescue, death or enslavement, take your pick.  Any is a better option than that place was."  He left the rest unsaid.  In roughly two hours the container would run out of power and turn into just another piece of space garbage.


Logan slid down to the floor, back to crates of carbon, plenty of time to reflect on everything.

Wordle

Pretty nifty tool, got linked to it from Flashfresh's blog!

Wordle

I put Rise of a Rebel part 2 through the tool and got this



Pretty cool stuff I think!
I will have to play around with it some more.
Definitely bookmarked.

Rise of a Rebel Part 2

 The family is a haven in a heartless world.  -Christopher Lasch


Part 2

Amongst crush of humanity a single figure lay still.  Sprawled on the deck, the slack of his chains taken up by those around him.

The figure lay unheeded, between groups, yet still linked to one.  Passed for dead by the people around him.  Fresh injuries clouded his face, the bridge of his nose crushed in, his torn shirt showing some of his ribs a deep black color indicating some internal bleeding, bruising spreading over his chest.

Briefly his eyes fluttered open for just one second before snapping closed again, contorted in pain.  Weakly, the figure attempted to move, arms and legs pinned to the side by the chains binding him to those around him.  His movements, so weak, failed to disturb those around him.

A few moments later he opened his eyes again, forced to confront the press of people, slaves, all around him.  Bewildered he tried moving his arms again, pulling hard enough on his uninjured side to attract the attention of a old man squatting close to him.  A slight shift of those around him granted the young man enough room to move.

Over the soft drone of conversations around them the old man spoke.  "We thought you dead boy."  Anger glinted in the eyes of the injured man.  "We had to carry you down here," the man gestured to the other men around him, a Brutor and two tall Siebestor.  "Chained and all.  What is your name?"  He offered his hand to help him into the group. Even with his age the elderly Brutor was able to help pull the injured Siebestor to an awkward squat.

Squatting now, he was still defiant despite his obvious pain, "I'm no boy, grandfather!  My name's Logan."  Logan coughed, after the outburst, blackened blood speckling his lips.  The older Brutor shook his head slowly, dropping Logan's hand with sudden anger.

"We are all boys in the eyes of god!"  Logan drew back, bearing his teeth, the other Brutor groaned, sliding his imposing arm between the two.  The older Brutor slid back a bit, grumbling to himself, inaudible over the sounds of the cargo bay.

The voice of the younger Brutor was low and deep, on the edge of being inaudible over the surrounding noise.  "Logan, now you've done it, gotten old Bulkar talking about religion again.  His family spent too much time with the Amarr before his current situation if you take my meaning."  The Brutor shot Logan a warning glance, shaking his head to forget the perceived insult.  "My name is Rozor, stay relaxed, the guards said you suffered greatly while trying to attack a pilot, they gave you some repair, stopped some bleeding, but be still," he pointed to the two Siebestor males to Logan's right.  "These are Uldrik and Klolf.  We are your new family so you had best get used to us.  Quickly."  Logan attempted to interrupt, pain flaring in his side.  Rozor continued on without notice.  "Before you ask, no we do not know where we are headed, where we are, or any of that.  Bulkar and I were born slaves, I have been sold more than once, Uldrik and Klolf don't talk much, but from what I can make out, rather, from what little they have said.  They were only captured a few months ago.  By the looks of you, your capture was more," Rozor gave a long pause, as if searching for the best way to put it.  "More recent."

Logan's body tensed radiating anger, and then pain.  Looking around as if to strike out at his captors.  Logan, for the first time, noticed the hundreds, if not thousands of others pressed around them.  Not all in sight were of Minmatar descent, but each cluster of slaves seemed to have only one nation represented.  Logan turned back to his new family, briefly sobered by the sight.  His voice on the edge of breaking, recounting his story.  "I was working late, fixing some drainage issues, when I returned to our town, there were men all around..."  Logan tensed again, eyes wild, surging to his feet, looking around him.  "Where is my family?"  He screamed, looking for a familiar face in the crowd.  He found none.  The weight of the realization and pain was too much.  He stood for a brief second longer, his eyes rolling up into his head, falling limply into the arms of his new brothers.

Rise of a Rebel Part 1

"The depth of darkness to which you can descend and still live is an exact measure of the height to which you can aspire to reach."- Laurens Van du Post

Part 1

The stars against the sky let me make out man-sized shapes against the darkness of the ground.  Amongst them struggled other shapes, invaders had come to my home!

My teeth bared, why would they come here?  Why now?  We had been free for so long.  I was screaming internally, pushing my body's reaction, hoping there was still time.

I ran forward, cool air blasted over my clammy skin, hurling me towards the men.  NO, they were not men, they were scum, SLAVERS!  Anger warped my mind, clouded my vision.  I reached down, wrapping my hand around the hilt of my cold knife, freeing it as I moved.  The deadly weight of it pressing into my palm.

There was a sudden quiet of purpose in my mind , a far cry from the choas that raged in it just moments before.  My body became distant, as if acting without my input. . .

Only a few meters away now, my body tensed.  I calculated the remaning distance between us indifferently, my anger still in control.  My growl reached my ears, it sounded strange, disconnected from me and inhuman.  The man turned towards the sound, but he was slow, too slow!  The glee filled me as I lept into the air, bearing down on him.  I thought his fate sealed.

Starlight bounced off his glasses, or goggles?  I was comitted in the air, anyone else would have realized my folly.  He was free to move.  With trained, practiced speed, his body propelled his arm up and out, his forarm striking at my wrist.  The pain of his blow shot up and down my arm, my hand spasming around the the knife.  Stars glinted off the deadly curve of the knife as it spun uselessly away over his shoulder.  His arm slid as it struck, hand twisting, strong fingers sliding down my arm, allowing him to circle slightly, using my forward momentum to twist me in the air.

The ground raced under my eyes as he flipped me.  I landed hard on my shoulders and back, legs snapping over my head for a brief second.  The force of my body landed on my shoulders forced the air from my lungs, blackness closing in on my vision.  The weight of my body briefly threatening to crush my neck, only to be suddenly released as my back and legs followed my fall, landing me painfully flat on the ground.  How had he moved so quickly, so effortlessly.  Fear consumed me, tears welling in my eyes.

I was caught exposed, attempting to protect myself.  I twisted on the ground, arms pulling up to cover my face in defense, while trying to catch another sight of the man. My ears warned me first, his footsteps echoing in my ears, spelling my fate.  I could tell he was moving quickly around to my unprotected sides.  I tucked, trying to curl into a ball on the ground to protect my ribs, but I was too slow again.  The force of his kick drove the remaining air from my lungs as if popping a baloon.  I heard something crunch with the impact and pain flooded my body.

I half rolled and was half tossed to my hands and knee's.  I attempted to gain my feet once again, struggling with my balance, the tang of blood filling my mouth.  My lungs screamed for air, pulling it in over the blood welling from the back of my throat, the pain of my ribs stealing each gasp.  The wait was mercifully short.  I was trying to see the next attack, unprepared I turned my head...  The tip of his shoe filled my vision...