Eyes Tight Shut.

The sum of a man’s worth was far less than Kalen had thought.

Five credits. That was his worth. His masters sold him for five measly credits. Not even enough for a full day’s meal.

The skin of his neck chafed where the metal collar bit into his skin and his wrists oozed hot blood down his fingertips to the soft, beaten earth.

The sky was dark, cloudy, and his breaths came out as steam into the icy air, burning up and out his dry throat. Kalen heard nothing, but the shivering howls of the wind and the jangle of the chains around his neck.

“Hey,” someone said from behind him. Or almost nothing.

He ignored the call, strange as it was. It wasn’t common to find anyone who could speak English in any capacity. The language had been dying for decades and only a few left in the known galaxy could speak it.

“Hey. I’m talking to ya.”

“Then stop talking or we’ll be getting trouble soon,” Kalen said, casting worried glances at the heavily armed walking machines pulling at his chains. The person kept silent.

The great iron gates of the Landeran City loomed overhead, frames perched on overhigh, cloud-wreathed mesas, bearing down like angry gods.

Beyond that, the Western Market stretched as far as the eye could see. A hundred and more merchants, traders and slavers milled about. They set stalls into the ground, hammering until they unfolded, metal twisting, stretching till small buildings stood in their place. Automated caravans made of curious metallic rocks that glinted with ever-changing colors hovered down the snow strewn tracks, yet even so the great market seemed muted and hushed compared to some markets Kalen had been to.

The guards stopped them at the gate.

Landera boasted nothing but half ice deserts and half scorching barren grounds as far as the horizon stretched, but was a useful trading point between the outer belt of this solar system and the inside. Security was lax but, of recent, every gateway to and from major cities had closed down to all but the most urgent of businesses. Some idiot had taken to freeing slaves and punishing slavers for the heck of it. ‘Justice’ he called it. Like anybody asked him. Like it was so hard to understand how often slaves depended on their masters to stay alive. The nerve of some people. Kalen’s blood boiled to think of it.

Machines built into the booth at the side of the gate beeped in intervals as each person passed underneath its sensors. The chip under his skin, one centimeter to the left of his second cervical vertebra, burned and seared his skin as he passed underneath.

The guard nodded and Kalen sighed in relief. Sometimes, newly sold slaves had issues with chip identification. That was always a pain in the arse.

He grunted in surprise as someone crashed into him.

“Sorry. Wasn’t looking.” Kalen recognized the voice, and it was most unwelcome.

The person spoke into his ear, this time with a whisper. “If you’s agreeing, I can get you out of here. Every one of you.” Then he fell back in line with the rest of them.

Kalen craned his neck to get a look at the person, but the machines had begun walking again and pulled at his chains.

Get out? Why the hell would anyone want to get out of a new job, free food and a roof over their heads? Count him out. He wouldn’t have anything to do with that nonsense, thank you very much.

The air shimmered as he passed through the invisible barrier separating the market from the outside. Warmth seemed to seep into his bones, and the hurt in his throat lessened with every new breath. Snow still fell but here it was gentle; downy flakes floating through the air to melt against his skin with ice cold kisses.

Now that he was closer, he realized the square was more woods than market. Majestic trees sprouted at random between stalls and buildings, pulsing with bright lights—purple, gold, green…

Kalen touched an overhanging leaf, watching the bioluminescence shiver through it in wonder. His hand numbed and then throbbed with a dull ache when his blood-crusted fingers lingered too long. A defense mechanism or something.

The collar tugged hard against his neck and he forced his tired legs to trudge on.

His heart ached when he sniffed, catching the sharp scent of peppers and spices native to his home. His first home.

As he walked, he reveled in the chaotic noises; the shrill screeches of the music-makers in corners that were more nuisance than song; the bold drum of feet against the metal ground; soft thrums of force fields behind which relics of gold and silver and ornate artifacts sat. It reminded him painfully of home. Peaceful and beautiful.

Perhaps leaving the life of a slave had some merit. Perhaps it was time to go home again.

Kalen slowed, waiting for the one behind to catch up.

“How are we doing this?” he asked when he heard the soft thud of bare feet and rattling chains behind him.

“I knew you be coming to your senses soon.”

It was easy to hear the vague accent behind the broken English. Likely an easterner, or else from one of the closer colonies to the east quadrant.

Kalen cast a cautionary sidelong glance over his shoulder. A woman. The voice belonged to a woman. Suddenly, he wasn’t so sure about this.

“You’re that one, aren’t you? The one on the broadcasts.” He fumbled to remember her name. “What’re you called again?”

“You’s meaning what the Ministry is calling me, right?” She snorted and grinned as if she found the whole thing amusing. “Warbringer.”

He refused to call her such a ridiculous name.

“Here’s the plan. You’s already been bought unlike the rest of us, so you be having a direct pass inside the masters’ coffle. That’s advantage.” The quicker she talked, the more of her accent bled through and the harder it was to understand. She pressed something small and round with red rims into his palm. “Plant this on one of the masters’ personal guards. It’s taking care of the rest. If you wanting to survive, head through the alley and run. Don’t look back.”

He looked at her, skeptical. Small, messy black braids, bronzed skin and eyes glossy blue. Her face scarred and marred with burns that stretched from eye to lip.

She quirked her mouth and raised a brow when his gaze lingered on the disgusting rough patch on her chin for too long.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s do it.”

“Remember. After the plant, you’s going for the alley.”

“Right. Got it.”

Delete Created with Sketch.

The Auction House nestled in a valley between low hills, made of wood and gilded glass windows and bigger within than out.

Machines led them down a corridor, dark rooms to either side filled with bustling crowds of people, billowing smoke from pipes and luminescent pigmented mouths and steaming drinks that glowed in the pitch black.

The waiting room was small and cramped. The auctioneer—one of the few non-humanoids he’d seen since—inspected them for a few minutes, then directed the unbought slaves to line up in a booth near a raised platform.

As the machines unclasped his collar and his manacles and nudged him towards the stairs to the masters’ coffle, Kalen tried to catch the woman’s eye. She stared straight ahead as though he did not exist.

Right. That made sense. Wouldn’t want to give himself up too early.

The rest of the paid slaves were already packed into a small vestibule on a balcony where one of the masters sat. Only one machine guard stood here. Thank God for that.

He was familiar with this one. A Nightfire 32. Four meters tall and armed on both limbs with huge rotary plasma cannons. His former masters were fond of using these to hunt down ungrateful runaways.

A prickle of nervousness stabbed through him. He’d seen what those things did to insurgents. He wasn’t keen on being another example.

Actually, no. He wasn’t doing this. It was a terrible idea from the start, and he wanted no part in it.

“Master?” Kalen said, walking towards the bald, fat man in the chair at the furthest corner.

The man looked up at him, jowls quivering. “Hmm? Who are you?” he asked in semi-fluent Talish, the common tongue.

“Your guild bought me, sir. I have something to say.”

“Better be important or I’ll have you lashed bloody.”

“Yes, sir.” Kalen reached into his pocket and took hold of the round thing with red rims. “Sir, I’ve seen the lawbreaker. The one Ministry broadcasts call Warbringer. She gave me this.” He put the thing into the man’s hand where he gazed curiously at it. “I can bring her to you, sir.”

His master sat up straight and stared at him, interest gleaming in his eyes. “If this is a joke—”

“No joke, sir. She’s the one with the scarred face. Watch out for her when the auction starts.”

“If this is truth, you’ll be rewarded beyond measure, I promise you.”

Kalen hesitated for a moment, then steeled himself. “If it’s no trouble to you, sir, all I want is to visit my home planet for a while.”

“Where are you from?”

“Earth.”

“That territory’s been culled for decades now. It’s a wasteland.”

“Yes, sir, but it’s my home. The Ministry took me from my home as a child. I want to say proper goodbyes.”

His master waved over a slave, a dark-skinned man with dark tattoos over his bald head, and whispered in his ear. “So be it. You’ve done well. Standby for further instructions.”

Kalen nodded and stepped to the side.

A shrill cry from the auctioneer signalled the start of the auction. Slaves came and went, each more unremarkable than the last. These looked newly culled. You could tell from their pale, soft looking skin and thin limbs. Some of them cried. Kalen didn’t blame them. He cried too when he was first sold. He only realised later how secure being a slave was.

The woman shuffled onto the stage.

His master jerked a finger and the machine guard lept from the low balcony onto the stage with a resounding crash.

Several things happened in quick succession.

A loud, echoing crack broke the silence as the guard’s weight splintered the wood of the stage, a nearby shriek from the other slaves, the woman twisting out of reach of the rifles before slamming her palm on the guard’s metal casing. It stopped moving for a moment. Only a moment. Then it wheeled about and leveled its gun at his master. A bright flash later, blood splattered like paint across the walls. Only a smoking crater and black, steaming sludge remained where his master once sat. The vomit-inducing stench seemed to press over him like a vice.

Terror crushed his heart in his chest, blood rushing through his ears till he could hear almost nothing.

The woman climbed the machine and stared at Kalen, a frown worsening her ugly features. “Did you really thinking I be so careless to putting all my trust in you?”

This woman was fucking insane. He needed to get out. Get away.

Kalen took off, bounding down the corridor with speed he didn’t know he had.

He burst through the doors, into the marketplace, and turned down a long shadowed alley before his thoughts could catch up with the rest of him.

His heart hammered in his chest, blood boiling. He reached a dead end. A wall at the head of the alley with a large hole near its bottom. The heavy footfalls of the machines behind him shook the pavement.

Kalen lept head foremost through the gap and emerged into bright light on the other side.

Breathing hard and fast, he leant against the cool stone, relishing the chill against his burning skin.

Why didn’t that woman understand that not everyone wanted the same things as her? Why did she insist on pushing her ideals on others? Self-righteous bitch. Now he was homeless. Again.

The heavy whirr and stomp of metallic feet alerted him to its approach. One of the machines had found him.

He pried open his eyes. The inside of a plasma rifle barrel greeted him, smoke already rising from the tip.

“Oh.”

A sharp crack. A flash of searing pain. Then darkness.