Slave of Akrona Part One

A soldier is enslaved on an alien planet

This science fiction novel features romance but is light on erotic content. It's the story of a young soldier from Earth captured by an alien species and sent to the mines of Akrona to live among slaves. But this warrior from another world is no slave. The book is being presented in 9 parts.

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Chapter One

FROM THE DEBRIS FIELD

The castaway floated through an endless void. His battered spacesuit no longer provided visuals. The sensors were off-line, the com link silent. The recycled liquids had grown stale. What little physical sensation he felt was sporadic, mixed with long periods of deep slumber.

How long have I been in this state of nonexistence? he wondered. Days? Weeks? It was difficult to think.

Why am I not dead?

His thoughts wandered back to the last few minutes of the battle. The alien battlecruiser was bombarding Earth from high orbit. Burning forests. Pulverizing cities. Earth's small defense fleet had slowed but not stopped the invaders, and now only a desperate ploy might save the planet from conquest.

When was that? How long ago?

He remembered standing alone on the bridge of his half-built spaceship when an energy blast tore the vessel apart. But that had been expected. Necessary to the plan. He floated free of the shattered hulk to hide among the wreckage.

The battlecruiser loomed closer, six hundred meters long, fifty meters in diameter. A fearsome juggernaut that Earth's fledgling technology had been unable to stop. The hull gave off a blue glow. A neutralizing energy screen that had frustrated every weapon the fleet had deployed.

The planet was below him, much of it shrouded in black smoke. In the other direction, barely visible as tiny streaks of light, Earth's remaining warships were ambushing the invasion's supply transport. In a battle that had started in the moons of Jupiter, the invaders had underestimated their prey, and now they were paying a price.

Forced to break off the bombardment, the alien battlecruiser was rushing to the assistance of their beleaguered companions when a small enemy warship got in their way. An enemy they quickly brushed aside, or so they thought.

Drifting through the battlecruiser's energy screen, the young soldier's brain had suffered a short interruption before the biological nature of his wiring brought him back to consciousness. And the nuclear warhead tethered to his belt survived the transition as well.

Once inside the enemy's neutralizing energy screen, the battlecruiser was just another warship. A mass of technological devices and life forms enclosed within a thick hull. He hand-cranked the nuclear warhead's battery back to life until the ignition sequence showed ready.

Should I trust the timer? he remembered thinking.

He had promised to use the timing device rather than set the bomb off manually. He was barely twenty-nine years old, a daring leader with high hopes and a bright future.

But what if the timer doesn't work? Is one life such a great price to save a world?

He set the timer, hoping it would work despite his doubts, but his hope was quickly frustrated as glare from the sun obscured the timer's readout.

Was the timer counting down?

He shaded the readout with his hand trying to see if the priming sequence had activated. It was no good. The glare was so bright that even his meteor suit's sophisticated sensors couldn't detect the readings.

The timer is probably working, he thought. It tested fine in the lab. If I jump free now, it still might be possible to escape the blast. Maybe. No. I shouldn't take the chance. This trick will never work a second time.

Tears welled in his eyes as he looked toward the world he was trying to save. He regretted how his death would affect his wife, who didn't take loss easily. His friends would mourn him. He had spent his whole life knowing he might eventually die in battle, but this was more difficult than expected. It's one thing to hold the line against a fearsome enemy, but to push a switch in cold blood? To suddenly vaporize into countless sparkling atoms?

It couldn't be helped. This was his plan. His responsibility.

An airlock opened on the side of the alien warship as an enemy head poked out, the long narrow face visible through the transparent space helmet. The large black eyes were staring in surprise.

Now that his presence on the hull had been discovered, there was no choice. The Arikhan soldiers would soon be swarming out. Grey had never truly believed in a religion. Those who had raised him thought such superstitions foolish, but he had his doubts. To not believe felt so dogmatic. In his experience, life was full of questions that science would never answer.

He said a prayer. A prayer for his family and friends. For his world and the future he might have had if fate been more kind. And he put in a word for himself, asking that his faults, of which there were many, might one day be forgiven. It was Thursday, September 2nd, 2088. The warhead was ready for activation. He pushed the lever.

How long ago was that? He didn't even know if his sacrifice had been worthwhile. Did the bomb go off? Was the warship destroyed?

The floating seemed to go on forever, interspersed by long periods of dreamless sleep. Then, at last, there was a new sensation. The deathlike cocoon was no longer drifting. There was noise on the outside, muffled but clear enough not to be his imagination. He heard a thumping sound.

What's going on? What happens next?

Nothing happened.

Sleep came again, lightly this time, with nightmares exciting his breathing. If his body wasn't so dehydrated, he would have been sweating.

He woke up. Something was banging on him. Or on the suit. There was a grinding. Cutting. Drilling. The visor broke loose and, in a blinding flash of white light, his eyes were free of the darkness. He couldn't see at first, it was too bright, but gradually he made out two humanoid forms hovering over him. He was in a white paneled workroom. Power tools were attached to the walls. Enclosed shelves prevented containers from spilling to the floor. He was in a spaceship. An engineering department. A voice was speaking, but it wasn't an Earth language. It was Arikhan.

"The thing is alive," a croaking voice complained, the final word cut by the angry lash of the alien's long gray tongue.

Grey squinted against the light. The technicians leaning over him were bipeds, slightly more than two meters in height, with leathery brown skin reminiscent of large lizards, but they were not reptiles. More birdlike, with stubby bill-like noses, high cheekbones, and darting black pupils peering out from pale yellow irises. They had muscular arms, flexible legs, thin necks, and narrow heads. Their hands were shaped like claws, each of the four digits ending in hard, pointed nails. Webbed membranes covered the sides of their heads instead of hair, and only holes showed where their ears should be. The thin mouths hid evidence of ivory fangs well-adapted for tearing meat.

Grey had met Arikhan before. What he knew of their eating preferences could be unpleasant.

"Can we claim it for our pens?" the other alien asked, the dialect marked by a distinctive provincial accent.

"The Linyet Leader must decide," the first replied in disappointment.

"None expect a living specimen," the hungry one said. "Perhaps only we should know? Who found it if not us? Have we not earned first taste?"

"We have earned first taste, yet the Linyet Leader awaits our report. She will not be pleased if our words lack truth."

"Where am I?" Grey asked in English, his throat so dry the words were barely whispered.

He felt dizzy, more asleep than awake, but even with his senses dulled he still preferred the aliens not know he understood their language.

"Seartan, it speaks!" the male alien shouted, jumping back from the workbench with twitching shoulders.

"By Sherra's mystery," Seartan said, reaching for a weapon mounted on the wall.

The alien need not have bothered. Grey realized now he was still in the Quexelian meteor suit he had worn during the battle, the suit's hibernating functions having kept him alive while drifting in space. But he was too weak to get up, even if he could free himself of the suit's grip. Talking was difficult. Thinking even harder.

"Faytro, what tongue does it mutter?" Seartan asked.

"The words are unfamiliar. Not Akronos, nor any of the cursed marauder languages," Faytro said. "The thing must be barbarian."

"Does that mean we may taste it?" Seartan asked.

Faytro snapped his moist tongue sharply against the roof of his mouth, indicating a negative response, and used a steel wedge to pry the suit open. Eventually the chest plates spread far enough apart for the unusual occupant to be removed.

"The thing has no meat," Seartan sighed with disappointment.

Faytro pulled the prisoner from the suit, laying him on a nearby workbench where Grey saw the outfit for the first time. He was shocked at its condition. The bulky outfit was charred. Bent. Expended. It was no surprise the aliens hadn't expected to find a living creature inside. As a mangled piece of space debris, it hardly looked worth salvaging.

The meteor suit hadn't permitted underclothing. Except for his gold wedding band, he wore nothing as he lay on the workbench. It didn't matter to the aliens. They would no sooner clothe him than they would a cow or pig, humans being primarily an exotic food source. And he had to agree with the alien's assessment; his body was wasted to skin and bones.

"Where am I?" Grey asked in Arikhan, fighting a temptation to add a clip to the edge of his words as the alien scout Mordari had always done.

The male alien studied him coldly. The Arikhan did not appreciate surprises. None would describe them as a curious race, nor an inventive one, having taken their technology from conquered worlds. But Grey knew they could be crafty, and this alien was clearly wondering what a strange food creature was doing floating inside a piece of space junk.

A third alien arrived wearing a long white tunic and carrying a black leather satchel. Unlike the slate gray tunics of the technicians, which were frayed at the edges, this tunic was crisply pressed. The slender female peered into Grey's eyes, stuck a gloved foreclaw down his throat, and poked him hard in the abdomen. Grey replied with a grunt and tried to push the annoying claw away.

"Give it water," the intrusive alien ordered.

"Yes, yarbel ky," Faytro said.

It's a doctor, Grey realized. He looked out a porthole, trying to fix their location. Was Earth nearby? The moon? Had the alien invasion proved successful after all?

"Quickly!" the physician demanded. "Food creature, my name is Pamaro, yarbel ky of the Link. Do you understand my words?"

Grey had to think, which wasn't easy. He wanted to sleep again. Link was not a group word for the Arikhan. Could it be the name of their ship? Impossible. Other than the battlecruiser, the only surviving enemy spacecraft was a colonial transport called Bhast. Both of the escorting warships had been destroyed. There was no fifth ship.

"Link," Grey whispered.

"Yes, the Link," Pamaro said. "Where did you come from? Are you from Akrona? Were you trying to escape? What happened to your vessel?"

Faytro returned with a container and a tube, then sat Grey up and helped him sip the fluid. It tasted like brackish water. He spit some out.

"Not so much at once," Pamaro cautioned, taking over the duty. She helped him drink slowly, studying for clues to his origin.

"It has no water for many days. How long was it out there?" Pamaro asked.

"The thing passed through the gate three seasons ago in a debris swarm. We found it while clearing the 12th degree approach," Seartan said.

"We thought it salvage," Faytro added.

Gate? A stargate? Grey wondered.

The Quexelian entities had told him of stargates. Intense rings of resonant energy established around a sun, permitting interstellar travel along subspace dimensional paths. But Grey knew Earth had no stargate, and even if the technology was available, assembling the complicated energy fields was said to take years.

"It's an interesting creature," Pamaro said, forcing a greenish liquid down Grey's throat. The fluid was thick and tasteless but for a lingering beefy tinge. Grey felt a burning inside.

"Sad the metallic covering is ruined. It may come from Gorthan, or perhaps Ballor," Faytro said.

"This creature is not Gorth or Ballorian," Pamaro said, using a scanner to study Grey's biology. "Human, obviously, but it carries genes not in our database. It may be from Rog."

"If the marauder world sends spies, much will be the retaliation. Too long has been the truce with those treacherous food creatures," Faytro complained.

"That is for the Council of Warriors to decide," Pamaro cautioned.

Grey was only able to follow bits and pieces of the exchange, his Arikhan not sophisticated enough to comprehend many of the subtleties, but the word spy wasn't hard to decipher. He would have liked to know more, but soon he was asleep again.

* * * * * *

He woke up, gradually realizing he was no longer on a spaceship. It was a planet, the gravity similar to a large moon. The room was dark but not blacked out. Small, like a cell.

"The prisoner moves," a guard said outside a metal screen.

The tall Arikhan was dressed in a common blue tunic that hung nearly to the knees, khaki trousers, and high black leather boots. A sidearm was holstered on its hip. The glint in its large black eyes displayed a contemptuous curiosity.

Grey sat up to take a deep breath. He felt a little stronger. There was a trace of green liquid on his lips. No doubt a nutritional concoction from the yarbel ky. But he was still incredibly sleepy. He had hardly opened his eyes before he wanted to doze off again.

Someone had put a scented pad beneath him to absorb waste matter. He had always thought the Arikhan an orderly species, but this exceeded his expectations. The cell had a tiny window high up on the wall and a thermos of water lay nearby. A brown blanket with an itchy texture lay across his legs. He had no clothes.

Soon a broad-shouldered military official arrived, sliding the steel grid open and squatting to study the captive. The alien had intense black eyes and wore an olive green tunic decorated with three silver swamp leaves. The insignia of command. The alien's skin was a leathery brown but highlighted with blue around the neck, cheeks and chin, indicating a higher caste than the average Arikhan foot soldier.

"I am Cordaris, Varbatro Leader of the Akrona Contingent," the veteran commander said. "For whom do you spy?"

Grey pretended not to understand the question, though he grasped most of it. The alien leader waited a moment before striking him across the face with the back of his clenched claw. Grey blinked and tried to shake off the blow. He was struck again.

"Speak or other means will be discovered," Cordaris said.

"I not spy," Grey said in broken Arikhan. "Don't know. Confused."

The alien hit him harder. Blood swelled in his mouth. Grey perceived little choice but to accept the beating. What could he say? He didn't know where he was or how he got there, and his last conscious act was setting off a nuclear warhead to destroy an Arikhan battlecruiser. Hardly an act likely to endear himself.

"What is this? An ornament?" Cordaris asked, noticing the slender gold band around Grey's finger. The ring slipped off easily. "There are etchings within the band. If the scratches are words, we will decipher them."

"Slaves have no written language," the tall guard said.

"They did before the conquest. Confess, spy. This trinket has betrayed you," Cordaris said, waving it in Grey's face.

"I sorry, being of great superiority. I lost. Not spy," Grey answered, putting his forehead to the floor.

Cordaris raised the clenched claw again but held back. The submissive creature before him did not appear courageous enough to lie. Nothing but skin and bones, it could barely kneel without losing balance. Cordaris lowered his fist.

"Tomorrow, be ready to speak," Cordaris ordered.

Grey was brought more food. Not much, but enough. It had a strange aftertaste. Drugs? He ate it anyway.

The next day Cordaris returned and beat Grey again, this time at greater length. Grey still played dumb, and the effects of his drugged food made it easier.

Typical lizards, he thought, using the derogatory nickname they had gained on Earth. They want information, but drug my food, believing it will make me compliant. They don't understand people who are willing to die rather than submit.

After the third day, Cordaris sent a surrogate to do the beatings, an ambitious junior officer named Amartro. The assistant was stocky and strong, but not very bright. His face was wider than average for an Arikhan, the black eyes set deeper. The skin was a deep brown with no trace of aristocratic blue. Only one bronze swamp leaf showed on his dreary olive green uniform.

"You will speak," Amartro demanded, pinning Grey against the wall and punching with a closed claw.

Lacking any sense of subtlety, Amartro seemed to believe that force alone would achieve his goal. Sometimes the prisoner was beaten several days in a row, sometimes with days of solitude interspersed between the interrogations.

Accustomed to more clever adversaries, Grey came to view the Contingent minions with ill-disguised disdain. As the sparse feedings continued, giving him just enough strength to endure the questioning, he fixed it in his mind to forget everything. To forget his name, past life, and anything else Amartro might find interesting. He learned to use the drugs, draining his mind of useful information.

Several weeks later, even the Arikhan came to feel their efforts were futile.

"You show much fortitude, food creature," Amartro said one day, crouching comfortably outside the cell.

Grey looked into the black eyes, sensing a change. Having failed, Amartro had decided to change tactics. Knowing that Arikhan, as a rule, would rarely resort to guile, Grey was surprised.

"Take this," Amartro said, sliding a roll of baked grain across the floor.

Grey studied the roll for the briefest moment before eating without comment. It was good.

"You must tell me your secrets," the ambitious guard said, lashing his tongue lightly.

"Tell me what to say, and I will say it," Grey meekly agreed. Though without sincerity, a lapse he hoped the alien would fail to notice.

"The secrets must be yours. I already know my own secrets," Amartro said with a sly dipping of his eye-rings.

Finishing the bread, Grey sat cross-legged in the center of the cell, tipping his head down.

"I will say what you tell me to say," he repeated.

"Then you will die," Amartro threatened.

"It has happened before," Grey replied.

* * * * * *

"Shall it be sent to the pens? It might be worth slaughtering if the butcher can add enough meat," Sub-Leader Talatron asked, a waddling disgrace to the bronze swamp leaf on his tunic.

Cordaris, Talatron, and Amartro stood outside the cell, apparently contemplating a decision. Having grown up on a lunar mining colony subjected to lighter gravity deterioration, he had spent much of his early life underweight. That changed when he finally visited Earth, though he didn't reach 5'10 until his early twenties, and didn't weigh 175 pounds until years after that. Women generally found him good looking with his unruly brown hair and thoughtful gray eyes. He weighed considerably less now.

"It may yet be a tool of the marauders, or a test by Central Planning of our diligence," Amartro warned.

Cordaris lowered eye-rings, gazing at the prisoner in contemplation.

"Feed it for a few days, then send it to the mines at Karak," the Varbatro Leader ordered.

"The creature is too weak. It will not survive a season in the mines," Talatron protested, thinking the stubborn animal might have just enough flesh on his bones for a decent lunch.

"It shall be as Sherra wills," Cordaris said, ignoring his subordinate's suggestion with a sharp click of his tongue.

"As Sherra wills," Talatron agreed with reverence.

Cordaris dipped eye-rings in respect. Amartro silently walked away. Grey knew Sherra to be the most honored deity of the Arikhan, the goddess of their prosperity, but it was the first time he remembered her intervening on his behalf.

The sun was not yet up when he was escorted from the concrete cell several days later. Days in which he had mostly slept. The guards had obeyed the order to feed him, usually a thick gruel, but he didn't mind. He had never been particular about what he ate, and he had decided the whole experience was just a fevered delusion, so it didn't matter.

The floor beneath his bare feet was cold. Of the two armed guards, one was portly and shorter than most Arikhan, the other a head taller than Grey but unusually thin. They were not well-dressed, their common blue tunics showing age and leather boots requiring polish. The smaller guard, Larbatro, did most of the talking, expressing satisfaction at getting away for the day. Colatron, the taller of the two, said little but didn't disagree. Neither spoke to their prisoner or expected much of him.

After tying Grey's hands behind his back with a leather strap, the shorter guard put a rope around his neck and pulled him toward the door, but they received enough cooperation that dragging wasn't necessary. As he stepped outside the crude cinder block building, Grey looked up at the dark sky, searching for the comforting stars of home. He thought he should be able to see several of his favorite constellations, but they weren't there. None of the stars looked familiar.

Even before sunrise, the air was warm. A small yellow moon was visible above the horizon to the west. Judging by the gravity, Grey felt the planet might be smaller than Earth but larger than Mars. Akrona? He tried to remember if Mordari had ever mentioned such a world, but she had rarely discussed the extent of the Arikhan Empire.

They walked down a crude path between two wooden maintenance shacks, reaching the foot of a long asphalt runway. It was an airport. Or spaceport. Probably both, and not very large, having only three hangars. Grey recognized a sho'kara set on the edge of the tarmac, a large cigar-shaped Arikhan cargo transport. The airbase was surrounded by simple rock walls, guarded by an occasional stone tower. The conquerors of Akrona appeared to have little need for high-tech security.

He was led to an area where several boxy ground vehicles were parked, all hydrogen powered, none bigger than a standard Earth ground runner. The six-wheel transports, known as a sho'kara, were large enough for eight passengers and a modest amount of cargo. Painted in a dark maroon with jagged yellow stripes on the doors, the protective coating was beginning to peel. Grey was pushed into a rear compartment and the hatch locked. The vehicle was fast but noisy. Either poorly built or poorly maintained. The Arikhan were not known for their engineering skills. He rolled on his side and went back to sleep.

The red sun was high in the late afternoon sky before the vehicle slowed to a stop. The hatch opened and Grey was pulled out, blinded by the blazing light. The heat felt good on his pale skin, at first, but without protection it quickly became uncomfortable.

"Forward, food creature," Larbatro said, pushing him toward a ramshackle building perched on a low hill surrounded by tall leafy trees. The one-story structure was made of slat-board, the roof covered in gravel and tar. Much of the green paint that had protected it from the elements was missing.

Grey complied with the guard's order as best he could, but his legs were weak, the warm air difficult to breathe. It felt strange having no clothes, public nudity not being part of his culture. He tripped going up the rough stone steps, scraping his knees, and had to be dragged into the comparative coolness of the headquarters.

It wasn't much of a command center. He noticed a large meeting room, a cramped bunk area to the left, a kitchen back to the right, and a few offices located down a rear corridor. The floor was sanded wood. The walls were poorly painted in drab jungle green. The beam ceiling showed traces of sunlight, stained where it leaked in the rain. After seeing the impressive military outpost the Arikhan had briefly maintained on Europa, Grey could hardly believe this shabby cabin was inhabited by the same species.

"What skinny piece of meat is this?" a broad-shouldered alien said, storming into the main room where Grey had fallen on the floor. The alien appeared to be a high official with intelligent red-brown eyes and the voice of authority. The olive green tunic indicated a post of leadership but there were no lapel pins to indicate rank. His skin was a dry blue, unlike most Arikhan, who were brown.

"A prisoner taken by the Contingent Leader. Cordaris sends it to your mines," Larbatro explained.

"Does the Contingent Leader now interfere with production?" the annoyed official asked.

"Yes, Sarden Leader Gamtro," Larbatro said, boldly straightening to full height.

"Hold your place, ranker. Even a lowly camp leader may put such as you on report," Gamtro warned with a sharp glare, his cheeks flushing.

"Do so, but still must you accept this gift," Larbatro insisted.

The guard defiantly clicked his tongue and kicked Grey in the ribs, rolling him over to Gamtro's leather-booted feet. The prisoner lay flat on his stomach, not moving for fear of being stomped.

"It has no meat. Take it to the pens," a tall guard said, emerging from the rear corridor wearing a brown leather tunic and tan trousers. A yellow swamp leaf indicated he had once been a warrior before being reduced to this obscure outpost.

"Nabbatron, if the slave has no meat, what good is it in the pens?" Colatron replied, offering a rare remark.

"What good is it here?" Nabbatron protested.

"Perhaps it will be eaten by your slaves? No doubt they long for a taste of blood in their mort," Larbatro suggested.

Gamtro rapidly clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, an Arikhan way of expressing amusement, and waved the guards away. They hurried back down the flagstone steps to their sho'kara and departed before the Sarden Leader could change his mind.

"Get up, food creature," Gamtro ordered.

Grey struggled to his knees and put his forehead to the floor in the posture of submission. Gamtro was pleased.

"Give it water and put it to work," Gamtro ordered his subordinate.

Without another thought on the subject, Gamtro returned to his office where an old wooden desk and a communications globe awaited his attention.

With hands still tied behind his back, Grey was taken to the outside steps and allowed a drink of cool water from a copper faucet. He considered begging to have the bonds removed, but decided not to. He was too weak to provoke trouble for which he was unprepared.

From the staircase atop the hill, Grey saw some of the sprawling mining camp on the other side of a narrow valley. Karak looked to be several thousand acres of dry brush and scrub forest stretched below a long series of steep cliffs. Vibrating pale blue energy waves, probably a force field, surrounded the entire area.

There didn't seem to be any security within the enclosure itself, only small groups of weathered tents and huts. Sparse gardens were fed from a lake toward the northern end of the compound. Beyond the enclosure to the south, as far as he could see, was nothing but rugged mountains and thick forests. No tracks, no roads. Nothing resembling civilization.

A poke in the back told Grey to move. He gingerly walked down the steps to a dirt path, then across a flat area and over the railroad tracks to the main gate three hundred yards away, splashing his feet in a shallow creek. The rope around his neck hurt as the guard pulled him through a door and up a short flight of stairs into a red brick building. Grey was glad to be inside away from the glare of the sun.

The two-story gatehouse towering above the main entrance to the camp appeared to be the Arikhan contact point with the workers. Out the long broad windows, he saw a network of aluminum tracks bearing ore carts. The tracks appeared to link together just inside the gate before exiting to a long cement loading platform. From the platform, a larger gauge of tracks ran north where a long pylon bridge crossed over a bluish river before disappearing into a vast prairie. Grey guessed there must be processing facilities beyond the prairie, but it was only a guess.

As the sentry pushed him down on rough wooden floorboards, Grey realized that solar powered fans were cooling the building. The plaster walls were painted in the same drab green as the commandant's office. A staff of eight Arikhan sentries were seated on stools around an old communications globe located in the corner, their attention so riveted to the broadcast that he was ignored.

Grey soon realized that all of the sentries were generally lean and similarly dressed in brown tunics and patched gray trousers. Most were between six and a half to seven feet tall. Their rawhide boots were worn.

"An official announcement from the Council of Warriors," a grim voice said from the viewer.

Grainy images appeared in the globe, first of an Arikhan military official, then a picture of an Arikhan battlecruiser. Grey recognized the warship. The last time he had seen it, he was standing on its hull.

"Terrible news, brothers and sisters. The rumors are confirmed. For the first time in living memory, our courageous forces have met with defeat. The invasion of Sol has failed. Farre, Timik, and even Bellerophon, are destroyed," the official said.

Grey noticed the announcer had the shiny dark blue skin of an aristocrat, though even commoners sometimes showed bluish traces, especially when flushed with excitement.

"Bellerophon!" several of the guards exclaimed.

"How can this be?" their sub-leader asked, a female better dressed than the others. "Too well was Bellerophon constructed. Too strong were her arms."

"Your questions are worthy," the high official said, not specifically to this group, but to millions of Arikhan who must have been wondering the same thing. "Much did our forces prevail against the Sol inhabitants, despite loss of the armed escorts, and a lush world of blessed resources lay before us. But a curl struck in stealth at Bellerophon even at her moment of greatest triumph. Demonic magic was practiced, and all aboard were lost. But take heart, for the foul curl was slain, never again to darken our prospects. One day the food creatures of Sol will again be subject to Sherra's mercy."

Grey noticed the high official wore broad silver leaves across her red tunic and spoke in a soothing fashion to soften the impact of the distressing report. He had thought the Arikhan a tougher species. Maybe they had been, he decided, in their past. Before the riches of conquered worlds began to spoil them. The image vanished, replaced by a cloudy screen.

"Not for two generations shall we again tread the path to Sol," a sentry whispered to his comrades, a middle-aged Arikhan with plain features.

"It could be more, Bortro," his sub-leader warned. "Sol is a primitive world without a stargate, inhabited by vicious barbarians. Long will it be before we venture there again."

"Romtra, what of Bhast? There is no talk," Frontra asked, an older female with delicate eye-rings and a pensive gaze. She was the tallest of the females, with long arms and a powerful frame. Perhaps a warrior in earlier times.

"Sad indeed the fate of a colonial transport without escort," Sub-Leader Romtra answered, her opinion meeting with respect. "A thousand of our brothers and sisters must now beg the mercy of food creatures."

Romtra's remark brought much anger.

"We should slay them all," Nabbatron said, the largest Arikhan in the room. "Too weak were our forces. Too much was our confidence. Now the food creatures abide in victory."

"The fate of Sol is for warriors to decide, not sentries of the rear echelon," Romtra lectured.

Nabbatron spun on his heels and left the room with a disgruntled thrust of his shoulders. The others were not unhappy to see him go.

"The Council of Warriors will need more warships, better and stronger than Bellerophon," Bortro said. "If work orders are placed, our production will increase. Duty on Akrona may once again bring prosperity."

"Resources are not what they were a hundred years ago," Frontra cautioned. "Akrona no longer builds warships as in the past. Our labor is much depleted. Too many workers are sent to the pens."

"Production may fill a few orders," Romtra said without much confidence. "Perhaps cargo ships, or courier vessels."

"Let us hope. What promotion may we receive on this Sherra forsaken rock?" Bortro complained, heavier and older than the others.

"Do not blaspheme," Romtra scolded. "Sherra forsakes none of her children. And forget not the prophecy. From the mines of Akrona will be forged the Sword of Sherra. We thought Bellerophon, forged from the minerals of this world, had fulfilled the prophecy. Our greatest triumph may yet lie ahead."

"Blessed is the wisdom of Sherra," the group chanted.

Grey tried to gather bits and pieces of the conversation that seemed to apply to him. Particularly the part about the destroyer of the Bellerophon being killed.

If I'm dead, what am I doing here? he thought.

He tried to shake off the haze pressing against his brain, but still felt sleepy. Nothing around him seemed real except the blows of his captors. This must be another nightmare, he decided. At some point, I'm going to wake up. I hope it's soon.

"What's that?" Romtra said, pointing at the prisoner near the door.

"Nabbatron brought us a new worker," Dhartro said, younger than many in the room but slighter than most.

"It looks like half a worker," Romtra remarked, gaining clicks of amusement from her staff.

Grey glanced up as Romtra squatted down to run her claws through the shaggy brown hair hanging over his forehead, pulling his head back. She was older than her staff, slender but sturdy. The webbing around her head was growing thin. Romtra stared into the prisoner's blank expression, the gray eyes empty.

"It will not last a week. There is no meat," Romtra said.

Romtra untied the rope around his neck, probed the soft flesh with momentary interest, then took out a thick bronze collar and positioned herself to fasten it around the prisoner's neck. The moment he saw the ring, Grey panicked and kicked fiercely at Romtra's midsection. Bortro leapt forward, seeking to pin the prisoner down. Grey twisted, kicked Bortro in a sensitive area between his thighs, and struggled to free his hands, fighting on instinct alone. Frontra joined the fray and eventually the three of them managed to hold the prisoner down long enough to secure the collar.

"The thing is stronger than it looks," Frontra observed, the large female sentry breathing heavily.

"A fighter. Maybe it will last longer than a week," Bortro said, the husky male's eye-rings bent in pain as he clutched the injured area.

"Apparently the creature is only docile until provoked. Keep the paws tied until you release it into the compound," Romtra said, also breathing hard.

Pinned to the floor with Frontra sitting on him, Grey wasn't listening to the conversation. None of it made sense to him.

Once again dragged into the blinding light, Grey passed under an arch into the compound. Frontra led him on a short leather leash, moving slowly because the food creature appeared disoriented.

"You are sent to the lowest camp," Frontra said, veering toward the southern end of the enclosure. "The mines are hot. Work begins at sunrise. No work, no eat. Attempt escape and you die. Obey the rules, perhaps you survive. Do you understand?"

Grey did not respond. He did not understand. Nor did he care so long as no one was hitting him.

"Do you understand?" Frontra repeated. But she saw he didn't. His eyes held a glazed look. He stumbled over the rough dirt path like one wandering in a fog, his tender feet pained by small stones.

They walked for a long time, following a line of ore tracks toward the rocky, tree-studded cliffs above the mines. As they traversed the compound, Grey vaguely noticed a series of widely spaced campsites. Nearest the gatehouse, the tents looked better maintained. Several even had raised wood floors. A handful of people, mostly women tending the gardens, were clothed in sparse cotton tunics or animal skins. They seemed to be growing a crop similar to wheat and a variety of odd-looking vegetables. There were no tractors or plows, only hand trowels and a few shovels.

Closer to the mines, which were spread in a long fishhook along the base of the mountain, the camps looked poorer. An ore cart rolled past pushed by two burley male workers. Human workers, hardly different in size or shape than his own people. The workers wore collars as Grey did. They did not look up.

Near the southern end of the lake he saw a dozen women working small plots. Some had adequate clothing, others wore rags. A few children, all very young, sat quietly in the shade of some run down shacks. Most looked undernourished.

This isn't a work camp, Grey realized. These are slaves. It's a slave camp! He remembered reading of such things. It was said that some nations on Earth still maintained similar institutions, though nothing this extreme. Grey felt like he should be shocked, but the impact didn't register. He seemed to be watching an old documentary rather than observing a miserable reality.

At last they reached a decrepit camp pitched fifty yards from the foot of a granite cliff. The mine was nothing more than a rough tunnel cut into the mountain. Trees and bushes grew thickly along the top of the ridge, and a waterfall gushed down the side near the entrance. The creek continued running past the camp toward a vibrating wire fence two hundred yards away. Beyond the fence lay a lush green forest, small portions of which had been cleared away. Grey assumed the trees had been harvested to provide timber supports for the mines.

Set in a clearing surrounded by scraggily trees and blue shrubs, the camp consisted of a few old canvas tents. A large communal tent was held up by four corner posts and two tall center poles, the sides held down by ropes and stakes. Smaller pup tents were arrayed nearby. Only one person was in the camp, a young woman with her arm in a sling. Grey guessed her age at about twenty-five, though her figure was unnaturally thin. She had long auburn hair, sad brown eyes, and vaguely Asian features. She wore nothing but a bronze collar and a ragged yellow tunic.

"Greetings, Frontra," the slave woman said, kneeling on the ground in submission.

"Peace, Myra. Does the wing heal?" the alien sentry asked.

"Yes, mistress. Thank you for letting me rest it," Myra said, bowing her head before looking up. Grey detected respect in the slave's eyes but not fear.

"Damaged workers are not valuable," Frontra said. "Where is Garn?"

"Shalli takes him with her to the gardens," Myra said, glancing at the prisoner but saying nothing until asked.

"You should have more children. We have too few in this camp," Frontra said.

"Clagg would like more children, but food is scarce. This has not been a good year, mistress," Myra dared to suggest.

By her posture rather than words, Frontra seemed to agree.

"Garden allotments are improved for the lesser camps. More food will be provided if production improves," Frontra advised.

"Thank you, mistress," Myra replied.

"This is a new worker," Frontra announced, untying Grey's hands and gently pushing him toward the big tent.

"Excuse me, mistress, but it looks like half a worker," Myra joked.

Frontra clicked her tongue in amusement.

"It needs food, but make no rash judgment. The half-meat is stronger than it appears," Frontra said. The alien turned around and showed Myra a dark brown mark on her hip. Myra was surprised.

"He struck you?" Myra asked.

"Not so hard as it struck Bortro. It will be days before the old waddler walks upright again," Frontra said, apparently with satisfaction. "And Romtra's belly will grumble for a week."

Myra looked at the stranger again, trying to see something in his demeanor that suggested such a fierce temperament. Nothing of the sort showed. He was close to her age, desperately thin, of average height, and pale as a bleached bone. The masters had not given him a shred of clothing to wear.

"The food creature does not have all its senses," Frontra explained, anticipating Myra's thoughts. "It may have been drugged while in Contingent custody. In time, it will grow stronger."

"You are generous, Frontra. Always has it been so," Myra said.

"Not always," Frontra corrected before returning to the gatehouse.

"Welcome to Ferret Camp," Myra said in a language Grey didn't recognize.

He stood in one place, looking at the worn tents and a small cooking fire. Other than a few pots and water jars, he saw little else in the way of possessions. Unlike the tents near the gate, which looked newer, these tents were patched. The beds were made of straw tied with reeds into mats.

"Do you accept my welcome?" Myra asked in the strange language.

"Where am I?" Grey asked in English.

"I don't know your words," Myra said, making him sit down near the community tent. Switching to Arikhan, Myra said, "Do you understand the language of the masters?"

"I lost," Grey said in Arikhan.

"You have not been a slave long," Myra said in surprise, replying in Arikhan.

"Not slave. I--"

He reached up to feel the collar locked around his neck. On Earth, he was an engineer. A soldier. A leader. Now he was sitting naked in the dust of a slave camp hundreds or maybe thousands of light years from home. Beaten, confused, and bewildered. He wasn't anybody anymore.

Myra brought him a bowl of soup and slowly fed him with a tin spoon, noticing the empty look in his eyes.

"You need sleep," Myra said. "Eat. Take rest. What is your name?"

Grey thought for a long time, continuing to fondle the collar, but he didn't answer her question.

Near sunset, a teenage woman carrying a baby in one arm and a heavy basket of vegetables in the other returned from the gardens. Small-boned with long blonde hair and vivid blue eyes, the woman would have attracted attention in any culture.

Myra jumped up and took the baby with her good arm.

"How was Garn?" Myra asked.

"Fussy. I gave him tubers to stay quiet," Shalli said, thankfully setting the basket down.

"He grows quickly in his third year," Myra said, rubbing the youngster's red hair and making him laugh. "We must watch that he doesn't gain too much meat."

"The masters say children are no longer taken to the pens. They need workers."

"I don't trust the masters," Myra explained. Shalli nodded agreement.

"Who is that?" Shalli said, seeing a stranger sleeping in the community tent.

"A new worker brought by Frontra," Myra said.

"We have little allotment as it is," Shalli objected. "Wolf Camp is claiming much of the harvest. Raven Camp is making claims, too. Our share is barely enough to feed Clagg."

"Their arrogance is without limit. Before the cave-in, none would challenge Ferret Camp in such a way. Now our numbers are so few, we get nothing. Clagg will be angry."

"Even Clagg cannot fight so many," Shalli said.

"At least we had fresh tunics to wear in the fall. Wolf Camp shares none of the new furs," Myra bitterly remarked.

"What can we do?" Shalli said, tears welling in her eyes. "Our mine is played out. Our quotas unmet. The masters will not bend the share for a camp so poor as ours, and now they give us starving strangers to further weaken our hopes! Isn't it bad enough that Marne and his disgusting wolves grow more difficult to avoid?"

Myra put a comforting hand on Shalli's arm. All had noticed the Wolf Camp leader's unwelcome advances.

"Courtesy seems to mean nothing these days, but don't worry. Clagg won't let those savages touch his sister in such a way."

"I'd be sport for their torment pit if not for Clagg," Shalli agreed. "What do you know of the stranger?"

"Little, other than he doesn't speak our language," Myra said.

"He's mute?" Shalli asked.

"No, not mute. He knows a little of the masters' words. I think he's been sick for a long time. He has no meat."

"Fortunate for him to avoid the pens, but it's not good that he's so ignorant. Could he be a spy?"

"He's not a spy."

"He could be a spy. There have been stories."

"He's not a spy," Myra insisted.

"I don't trust him," Shalli said.

"You don't even know him," Myra said, shocked by her attitude.

"If he's a spy, the men will kill him."

"Frontra brought him to us. She would be displeased, and we have few enough friends among the masters," Myra protested.

Shalli paused in thought, looking again at the sleeping stranger.

"The mines are dangerous. Maybe there will be an accident," Shalli suggested.

Myra glanced over at Grey as he slept in the tent, knowing that Shalli would not be alone in her opinion.

As the sun set over the mountain to the west, the workers began returning from the mine in small groups, twelve men and six women. Eight more women and two young children returned from working in the gardens. All were curious about the stranger who continued sleeping soundly despite the noise.

"We must know if he's a spy," Hernet said, the squat miner holding a stick of timber in his hand. The digger had short hairy arms with tattooed circles on the shoulders. A black beard set off his pale green eyes.

"Push his face in the creek," Cot said, the skinny stonecutter willing to volunteer. Big hands, long arms and a thin neck made him look awkward.

"Be patient. We are yet to hear his words. Have difficult days brought us so low?" Clagg asked, the giant hulk of a man unwilling to tolerate rash suggestions. With a bushy red beard, deep blue eyes, and a stature almost the size of Nabbatron, his presence commanded respect. Many hung their heads in shame, for none doubted Clagg was right.

"If he's a spy, he's a meatless one. Maybe we can trade him to Wolf Camp for some berries?" Hernet said, making everyone laugh.

"Should we wake him?" Shalli asked.

"No one will wake him until morning," Myra said, frowning at the suggestion.

"You're not the leader," Cot protested.

"Do you wish to find a loosening herb in your soup?" Myra asked.

Cot did not laugh, though many others did.

The next morning, just as the sun was rising, Grey woke from a restless sleep. There was unusual movement around him in the semidarkness. At first he thought it was his wife coming home from a late duty tour. He wondered what new problems might arise during the day ahead and happily remembered an experiment he wanted to try with the new step-two variable star drive.

He sat up with a start. This wasn't his sleeping chamber. The bed was straw, the roof a flapping piece of canvas. His heart beat faster with a sense of panic. The nightmare couldn't be true!

"The stranger wakes," someone said in a strange language.

"He's lazy to sleep so late. He'll eat more than he's worth," another complained.

Grey felt around for his clothes only to discover he didn't have any. As the light improved, he saw many others in the camp had little to wear. The men only had breechcloths and a few shirts. Several of the older women had thin cloth tunics, but some had even less. Grey reached for the collar around his neck, testing its strength. It couldn't be removed without tools and there wasn't a hacksaw in sight.

Someone laughed. Grey wondered if they were laughing at him. He started to get up but realized his entire body ached. The legs were sore. His arms bruised. His feet hurt and portions of his face felt swollen. He got up anyway and went outside to look at the fading stars. They weren't his stars.

Grey studied the people preparing for their workday, the camp lit by a cooking fire. They looked like normal humans. Some shorter, some taller. Some with dark hair, others light. Skin color ranged from peachy to dusky brown. Nor did there appear to be any anatomical differences. The only person he recognized, Myra, was busy serving broth to the biggest of the men, a tall muscular giant with a dirty red beard and pleasant blue eyes. Then Myra gave some broth to a small child hardly more than a three years old.

Myra glanced at Grey and smiled, then brought him a bowl of the foreign soup. None of the others smiled or made an effort to speak with him.

Grey didn't care. He wasn't supposed to be there. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he wasn't supposed to be anywhere. He had set off the nuclear device. Destroyed the enemy warship. He was supposed to be dead.

"You need food," Myra said in Arikhan, presenting the bowl.

Grey studied the hot broth for a moment before looking toward the scrubby prairie between the camp and the perimeter fence some hundred and eighty meters away. The wire vibrated in an odd manner, humming softly as it gave off a soft blue glow. Grey ignored the food Myra was offering. He turned toward the fence, walking slowly at first, then more rapidly, stretching his cramped legs into longer strides.

"Clagg, stop him," Myra said with concern.

Clagg began to follow as did several of the workers, but Grey was well ahead of them. He paused briefly when he reached the fence and studied the energy pattern. It was a force field, probably supported by an electrical grid, and nearly invisible, which explained why the enclosure appeared so open. He stepped back, took a deep breath, and threw himself against the shimmering wall of energy.

The pain was explosive, tearing through his nerve endings. He fell back, struggling to breathe, unsure how much of the energy field he'd been able to penetrate. Not very much, he knew. He crouched, caught another breath, and charged again, determined to push through into the forest beyond or die in the attempt. The pain was just as bad the second time, and after a few seconds, he tumbled to the ground, his body quivering. He rubbed his hands together, trying to restore normal feeling. His vision was blurred. He crawled to his knees, gasped for a breath of the cool morning air, and staggered to his feet, ready to lunge again. He was grabbed from behind.

"No, stranger, you'll never make it. No one has ever made it," Clagg said, wrapping his huge arms around Grey's shoulders.

Grey briefly struggled against Clagg's grip, but realized he couldn't break loose without hurting his rescuer. He wasn't prepared to do that. Not yet.

"You work with me today," Clagg said, switching to Arikhan.

"Work where?" Grey asked, his memory of the alien language improving.

Clagg was surprised the stranger not only knew the language of their enslavers, but practiced the inflections as well. Even Akronians never did that. It made Clagg suspicious.

"We go to the mines. There's much work ahead to meet our quota," Clagg said to his workers, waving them toward the cliff.

Grey followed Clagg back to the tents where the women watched with quiet curiosity.

"The stranger works with me today," Clagg said.

Myra gave Grey the bowl of broth again, watched him gulp it down without a pause, and went to pick up Garn. The curly-haired child laughed at Grey's wary expression.

"This is my son, Garn, and you met my husband, Clagg. We'll watch out for you," Myra promised.

"Do not trouble yourself," Grey said in Arikhan, clicking his tongue rudely.

Grey followed the tree-lined path toward the mine entrance, trailing behind several others who were already on their way.

"Don't get attached, Myra. He won't survive," Clagg warned.

"Try to teach him our words, Clagg. The sooner he accepts our ways, the better chance he'll have," Myra said.

"Always taking in the strays," Clagg laughed.

Inside the mine entrance, a musty storage room held the workers' tools. Grey found them primitive after the advanced equipment he'd used mining the mineral rich tunnels beneath Vitruvius. All were hand tools. Picks, shovels, wedges and mallets. Bolts for securing the timber supports, and stacked in the wide entry area, a pile of roughly cut beams. Grey noticed a number of old jackhammers in the corner, but they were in such poor condition they couldn't be used. There was no evidence that anyone had ever tried to repair them.

As they gathered their tools, each worker picked up a luminescent lamp, a filtration mask, and a pair of thick leather gloves. Grey noticed dozens of jars in a cabinet that held dry chemical bases. Though dusty, Arikhan lettering could still be seen on the labels.

"What are those?" Grey asked.

"We do not read the masters' writing," Clagg said.

No one else tried to answer Grey's question. He went forward to study the containers, but Clagg pulled him back, gave him a pair of gloves, and pointed down the shaft.

"No tools can leave the mine," Clagg warned. "To be caught in camp with a pick or shovel means punishment. Understand?"

Grey glanced at the tools but said nothing.

"You should have this," Clagg offered.

He handed Grey a ragged breechcloth made of two hide flaps tied together with leather string. It reminded Grey of something out of an old jungle movie, but he made no protest. Nor did he say thank you.

Grey trailed Clagg down a long twisting tunnel that branched off in a dozen places. He had the impression the mine was about ten years old, and though the surface minerals were nearly depleted, he knew enough about ore trails to guess there were still rich loads waiting to be discovered. Oddly, Clagg bypassed the more promising areas and went to the end of the tunnel. Behind them, two others were laying track to bring the ore carts closer to the work area.

"I'll dig, you load," Clagg said.

Grey did as instructed, feeling the heat of the tunnel. Ventilation was poor and soon he was sweating profusely. The filtration masks were so old they barely suppressed the dust.

"Water!" Clagg shouted after an hour or so.

Within a few minutes, Shalli came down the tunnel carrying buckets of water from the creek. She was sweating also, and for the first time, Grey realized she wasn't wearing any clothing except for her reed sandals. He also noticed Shalli was quite attractive, even by lamplight, with round firm breasts, a slender waist, long legs, and a bushy apex. Apparently, these Akronians were no different than the humans of his homeworld. There was likely a scientific theory for that. But he said nothing to betray his thoughts.

Grey would have liked to work harder but his muscles wouldn't cooperate. He had spent too much time confined to the Contingent prison. And the heat grew worse instead of better. By the end of the day, he was convinced he'd become trapped in a perverse version of Dante's Inferno. His fellow workers didn't care for the heat, either, but they were accustomed to the conditions. And though they talked often with each other, and joked with the females who brought them water, none spoke to him but Clagg. And even Clagg said no more than necessary. Grey noticed Shalli actually looked at him with contempt. It wasn't the first time he'd provoked that reaction.

At the end of the day, the workers poured out of the shafts, storing their tools before emerging into the fading afternoon light. The setting sun was beautiful, slowly dropping over the hill in a blaze of red against a clear blue-green sky.

Campfires were lit to cook the evening meal as the workers returned. When several who had been pushing ore carts to the front gate also came back, everyone sat down to be served. All seemed to have regular sitting areas except Grey. Myra handed him a bread roll filled with steamed vegetables that smelled quite good. The bread roll was snatched from his hands.

"None for you until you earn it. We have no food for lazy strangers," Cot said, tall and skinny with knobby knees.

"Cot, give that back," Myra demanded.

"Let him scrounge from the other camps. They can afford charity," Cot said.

Myra looked to Clagg, but Clagg shrugged. The situation was between Cot and the stranger to work out.

Cot held the bread roll above Grey's head, daring him to do something about it.

Grey looked at the unfriendly eyes watching him and decided it wasn't worth the effort. He backed away and returned to the mine entrance. Jagged rocks allowed him to climb up the steep hill along the side of the waterfall where he disappeared into the stunted trees along the crest of the ridge.

"That's the meanest thing I've ever seen you do," Myra scolded Cot. "And the rest of you should be ashamed."

"He's a spy. He only speaks words of the masters," Hernet said.

"I hope he starves. Then we won't have to kill him," Shalli added.

"Of everyone here, I should think you would understand," Myra said, her voice angry. Shalli bowed her head and walked away.

* * * * * *

Grey scrambled to a point on the hill where he could see most of the compound. It was better than two kilometers wide and several times as long. He guessed the total population at seven or eight hundred, most living near the western cliffs or north beyond the lake. Ferret Camp seemed a poor stepchild, being farthest to the south in the most barren area, but none of the campsites could claim riches. Even the Arikhan headquarters had been no more than a rough cabin with solar collectors for power. Akrona could not be a good place to serve, he realized, and knowing the Arikhan warrior spirit as he did, Grey guessed the sentries would much rather be someplace else. He knew the feeling.

The hill was mostly dry earth and sedimentary rock, covered by scattered trees that looked like oaks and thick clumps of prickly bushes. Around him, growing on the shrubs, he noticed a variety of small berries. Some were red, others purple, and a few were blue. They might be poisonous, but he was hungry and didn't particularly care. He ate several of the small red berries and found them bitter, then tried some of the larger purple ones that smelled like raspberries. They weren't good, either, but not as bad as they could be. He was pleasantly surprised to see many of the trees grew nuts.

As the sun finished setting, Grey found a dry sandy hollow at the base of a sandstone cliff that would make a good campsite. He pulled down several slender tree branches and peeled back enough of the pliant bark to tie them together, making a crude shelter. Just as he'd been taught during his days in boot camp. Little had he imagined how his military survival training would one day be applied.

The sun disappeared, revealing a sea of stars and a small moon. Not the same moon Grey remembered from before. This planet had two moons. He sat back against a crooked stump and studied the constellations for clues, wondering how he had become lost in another solar system. And how he might get back to the world he knew. The odds didn't seem good, but he wasn't ready to accept his unkind fate. Maybe he never would.

The next morning, the work crew arrived at the mine curious to learn what had happened to the stranger. They were surprised to find him already selecting the equipment he wanted, which included a pick ax. They didn't ask the stranger what he was doing or where he had been all night. He offered no explanations. Most of the workers hadn't even arrived when Grey started down the central shaft.

"Do not hurt yourself," Clagg warned as Grey's ax bit into the rock some hours later.

"It doesn't matter," he answered.

"The rock is hard here. There is shale farther down," Clagg said.

"I am not looking for fossils. Chop the shale if you want."

"You have no strength to break the rock," Clagg complained.

"It doesn't matter," Grey replied.

After a time, the heat of the mine seemed to grow worse. Clagg removed his blue cotton shirt as he began to sweat. Another young woman brought them water, a petite brunette hardly more than fifteen called Pie. Grey took no notice, drinking what he needed and returning to work. At the end of the day, as the workers made their way back to camp, he turned toward the mountain instead, climbing up the rocks next to the waterfall and disappearing into the brush. He didn't explain where he was going and no one asked.

* * * * * *

"Where is the half-meat?" Frontra inquired, making her rounds just before sunset. Myra seemed embarrassed. Many of Ferret Camp's workers looked away.

"He resides upon the mountain, mistress," Clagg replied in Arikhan, pointing to a clump of foliage above the mine.

"It seeks escape?" Frontra said.

"No, mistress," Clagg said.

"He does not choose to stay in our camp," Beknar said, an older woman with short-tempered words. Her face was prematurely wrinkled, the black hair tingeing gray even though she was barely forty.

"You know the rules. It cannot be fed if it does not work," Frontra said.

"He works, mistress," Myra answered, coming forward with Garn in her arms. "The stranger is weak, but he tries."

"It needs feeding. Why is it not here?" Frontra asked, a click of her tongue indicating her displeasure. Nearly Clagg's height, she stood with claws on her belt near the shock sticks used to control unruly slaves. Her black eyes searched for an acceptable excuse.

"He is a stranger. He does not want to be here," Cot said.

"He is a spy," Shalli said.

"You are insolent, sister of Clagg. With another, you would be punished," Frontra scolded, her thin eye-rings rising in warning.

"I am sorry, mistress," Shalli apologized, edging backward toward Myra.

"Forgive us all, mistress. The year has been hard with so many lost in the falling mountain. Our camp is not strong," Myra said, raising her eyes to meet Frontra's.

Frontra stepped forward and gently stroked her claw through Myra's soft long hair.

"Sherra does not abandon the faithful," Frontra said. "You are but food creatures, yet still a spark of her grace resides in you. Perhaps the stranger carries such a spark."

Frontra looked toward the hill, squinting against the setting sun. A moving silhouette along the ridge confirmed the newcomer was truly there and not dead in some cavern.

"I will not interfere. Work hard. Your quota is behind schedule," Frontra said, taking a final look at the camp before walking north toward Deer Camp a kilometer away.

"Frontra is kind to overlook your foolish words," Myra scolded Shalli.

"Frontra did not deny the accusation," Shalli said.

"If he's not a spy, why did Frontra not tell us?" Cot asked.

"She could have lied," Hernet said.

"The masters are not good deceivers," Pie disagreed, making room for Shalli to sit down near the campfire. "Their eyebrows twitch upon false words. Frontra rarely twitches."

"Then he must be a spy," Shalli concluded.

"You're all fools," Myra said, returning to the cooking.

"Why are we fools, my wife?" Clagg asked.

"Look at our camp, my husband," Myra said, holding up an old pot and a broken ladle. "We have nothing of value. Not even enough tunics for the girls. What is there to spy on?"

Atop the ridge, Grey prepared to spend his second night on the mountain in more luxury than the first. He returned to the burrow he'd started the night before and pulled enough leafy bushes together to make a brush cave, leaving an opening so he could study the stars. A nearby rocky outcrop allowed him to peer down on Ferret and Deer Camps.

Though hungry and tired, he resisted a temptation to pick the bushes immediately around him. There weren't that many, so he planned to cultivate them instead. There were more such plants farther up the ridge, along with some dry roots and soft nuts. He mashed the nuts with a flat rock, stuffed them into the roots, and ate the awful concoction along with sips of water from the creek. In time, he thought, I'll grow to like it.

He noticed the tree line ran all the way to the top of the hill a thousand yards away. By peeling strips off the branches, he could twist bindings to hold poles together for a more permanent shelter. He could also fashion snares to trap small animals, assuming he would need fur coverings when the weather turned colder. A fire pit could be dug back from the ridge that wouldn't be visible from the valley. He even considered making pots from the clay of the nearby creek, for the sand and silt was thick with a hardy red base.

Using the moon and starlight, Grey explored the mountain, remembering to save strength for the next day's work. The force field fence retreated far back into the interior. An old shack, long since abandoned, sat on a knoll above a derelict ventilation shaft. He probed the rundown shed, believing it to be an outpost once used by prospectors, and realized the markers he'd seen must indicate the area was off limits, suggesting why none of the human inhabitants ventured so far from their camps. Grey didn't really care about such admonitions. He never had. During his exploration, a second moon rose in the eastern sky.

Having eaten enough to satisfy his hunger, he returned to his new home, glanced again at the stars, and picked up a sharp rock, scratching lines on the soft sandstone cliff near the burrow. It was the beginning of a star chart. With luck, he would eventually discover where he was, and maybe even develop a calendar. Then, after rubbing the stubby brown beard that had begun to thicken in the last few months, he rolled over and went to sleep, knowing the project might take months to complete. It wasn't as if he had anyplace else to go.

* * * * * *

"You work hard," Clagg said in Akronos, helping Grey load an ore cart.

Grey hefted a boulder, his body sweating in the heat, the muscles in his back and arms struggling. Clagg went to help, finding the stone heavy. Grey returned to the end of the shaft, swinging the pick with practiced fervor.

"This is good ore. Richer than we have seen in years," Clagg said.

"Mountain generous," Grey answered with a stilted accent.

"You were right to dig here."

"If must dig, dig something good."

"You should come back to camp."

"I not welcome. Spy."

"We were suspicious, but that was a whole season ago. Frontra often asks where you are. We all wonder."

"I on hill. Everyone know," Grey said.

"Come back to camp. Eat real food. It will make you strong," Clagg encouraged.

"I strong," Grey replied, striking hard with the pick ax and cutting out a sizable chunk of rock facing.

Clagg nodded in agreement. The stranger had gained strength in the three months since his arrival, but more, he knew how to combine his strength with a steady coordination.

Shalli came down the tunnel carrying two water buckets hung on a pole over her slender shoulders. Clagg set aside his shovel, splashed his face, and drank deeply from a clay cup. Grey stood back waiting his turn, not bothering to look at the young woman. She was naked, as before. The camp could not afford to have the few tunics they owned ruined in the mines. On another world, Shalli would have been considered very desirable. Young and shapely, with long blonde hair and big blue eyes. When Clagg handed Grey the cup, he drank thirstily and went back to work without offering appreciation.

"Thank you, Shalli," Clagg said for both of them.

"He works hard. I don't think he's a spy," Shalli said.

"He's not a spy," Clagg agreed.

"Make him come back to camp. I'll cook food for him," Shalli said, watching in the dim light as Grey struck the wall again with even greater force. His shaggy hair was tied back behind his head with birch twine. The short beard was rough but trimmed using sharp flints found on the ridge. The strong lines of sweating muscle sparkled in the lamplight.

"I'll try," Clagg said.

At the end of the day, Clagg stopped Grey as he prepared to climb up the hill. The path was well worn now, his favorite handholds easy to find.

"Come for food. You don't have to stay if you don't want to," Clagg offered.

Grey had no desire to mingle with the people of the camp. His home on the ridge reminded him of his childhood on a remote lunar outpost before changing times complicated everything. Now he had nothing, wanted nothing, and spent his time alone dwelling among the stars, imagining himself in a better place. A place where he still had a loving wife, loyal friends, and important responsibilities.

"Come with me," Clagg impatiently said, taking hold of Grey's arm and dragging him toward the camp. It was a mistake.

Clagg hardly understood what was happening as Grey grabbed the big man's wrist, twisted him around, and then tossed him upside down to the ground with a thud. Nearly half again his weight, Clagg couldn't believe he had been thrown with such ease.

"You can't do that again," Clagg said, getting up and taking a step forward.

Grey didn't wait for the advance, but stepped underneath Clagg's outreached arm and flipped him over in a tight somersault. Clagg was fortunate they were on soft ground. Closer to the rock path, he might have been hurt.

"Maybe you can do that again," Clagg admitted, rubbing his butt.

Grey stood ready, feet apart, crouched for a number of different responses. Clagg noticed a predatory intensity in his expression that was unnerving. Almost like an Arikhan when provoked. Clagg felt sure he could beat Grey in a real fight, but it wasn't an experience he would look forward to.

"You don't have to come with me if you don't want to, but I would be grateful," Clagg requested. Then he smiled, the blue eyes sparkling.

Clagg started back to camp, Grey following a few paces behind but ready to bolt at any moment. Many were surprised to see him arrive, and not all were happy about it.

"We have a guest," Clagg said.

Myra smiled. Shalli was not disappointed. Beknar frowned.

Grey accepted a seat on a mat near Clagg and Garn, allowing the child to get close as long as he wasn't touched. Myra brought a loaf of grain bread dipped in broth. Grey hardly had a chance to taste the bread before Cot snatched the loaf away. This time Grey got to his feet, his eyes blazing. Cot held the bread high above the stranger's head.

"You're not accepted by this camp. We don't share bread with spies," Cot declared.

"Give that back, Cot!" Myra shouted, jumping to her feet.

"Be still, woman," Clagg said, pulling her down.

Cot was enjoying his teasing of the stranger. Grey backed off. Cot laughed.

"Cot is not afraid. You should not be afraid," Clagg said, grinning encouragement.

Grey hesitated as the camp looked for his reaction. None understood why Clagg was smiling except Grey, and all he wanted to do was leave. But he couldn't. He had worked with the men of the camp for months. Shared their labors. Their opinion meant something to him, even if he didn't choose to acknowledge it. A glance toward Shalli helped him make up his mind, the pity in the young woman's eyes making him angry.

"Leave now. We have no food for spies," Cot said.

Rather than answer the challenge, Grey grabbed Cot by his collar, put a foot in his midsection, and yanked forcefully as he rolled backward to the ground. Cot was suddenly flying upside down through the air, landing on one of the smaller tents. Cot was still trying to figure out what had happened when he found Grey hovering over him with a foot pressed against his throat.

"My bread," Grey said, reaching out his hand.

Cot handed him the bread. The foot was removed from Cot's throat.

"What kind of fighting is that?" Cot asked, checking himself for injuries.

"On my world, called judo. I not good. Study with priest," Grey answered.

Cot rubbed his elbows as Grey returned to his place near Clagg. Everyone in the camp was staring at him, most frightened. Even Myra looked worried when Garn went to sit near Grey, but to her surprise, he shared the bread with him. Garn laughed.

Though there was less talking than usual that evening, Grey could be seen listening intently, working hard to learn their language. He said little. After the food and a cup of watered grog, he was suddenly gone, disappeared into the dark night.

"He works hard," Hernet said.

"I think he's stronger than he looks," Cot said, rubbing his sore back.

"He would be good for our camp if we can bring him down from the cliff," Clagg said, pleased with the new attitudes.

"What's his name?" Shalli asked. No one answered. "Doesn't anyone know his name? He's worked with you for an entire season."

"I asked his name once," Clagg said, his voice subdued. "His face looked very sad. He said, 'I'm only stardust now."

* * * * * * *

The slave camp on a conquered world appears to have few friends and many enemies, the prey of a rapacious species. But until now, they had not known a warrior.