Hevun's Rebel

Hevun's Rebel

  C M Weller

  Copyright 2013 C M Weller

  ISBN: 9781310100765

  Other works by this author:

  RTFM

  Nor Gloom of Night

  Good Boy

  Blowing Bubbles

  Scavenger

  For all the girls who climb the trees

  and skin their knees

  and have adventures

  no matter what they’re wearing.

  Sahra was on the opposite side of the station to Ore Processing when it blew up. She, like all the other tunnel rats, closed her hands over her ears and stayed rigidly stock still until the echoes died down. Alarms, shrill and piping to human ears, were still filling the air with their near-musical noise.

  She knew what to do. Follow procedure, and maybe nobody would get hurt.

  No smoke in the air. Good. She had to take herself and as many other tunnel rats to the nearest checkpoint. Sahra re-oriented herself and hollered, "Ullyully uxinfree!" At the top of her lungs. Human code for 'come out of hiding and follow me, I know the way'.

  Important things had to be communicated quickly or they wouldn't be communicated at all.

  Sahra crawled slow and patient, hollering, "Ullyully uxinfree!" At every tunnel seam. Those following her, big or small, joined the chorus once they were on her tail.

  Once out, they lined up with their carts disconnected from their body-harnesses, neatly by their left sides. Sitting down with their ankles tucked under their bottoms and their hands on their heads. They had to remain that way until a supervisor got to them and told them what to do.

  Disobedient slaves got shot.

  Sahra was starting to get pins and needles in her hands and feet when a supervisor turned up. She knew better than to look at them. Looking was a sign of aggression.

  "Well. Two dozen little rats all lined up in neat rows," said the supervisor. Their boots stopped roughly in the middle of the area where they were all parked. "Who lead you all to this place?"

  Sahra felt more than saw the forest of hands pointing towards her. She tentatively raised her clumsy-hand to don't-shoot position just past the top of her hair.

  "Stand, animal."

  Sahra stood, still with her clumsy-hand just above her head. Still with her eyes firmly on the supervisor's boots.

  "Report."

  Sahra was still not very good at the language of her masters. It was easier to speak creole, but the masters never liked things being done easy. In order to refrain from 'um's and other rude noises, she spoke slowly. "The essploshun, aftuh, foller orders, me."

  Some of the older ones were trying not to laugh.

  She tightened her better hand into her hair and did her best to keep the clumsy-hand raised, even though it shook. "Shout out, me. Go to safe, me. Wait, me."

  Some of the not-so-older ones were also trying not to laugh.

  Sara felt her face fill with even more heat.

  "Hands down, animals."

  Sara was glad to drop hers, but she didn't sit. Even the spongebrains knew to only do what was told.

  "You. Ugly yellow-hair. Come to the front."

  Sahra picked her way to the front. Kept her fingers knotted together and her gaze down to boots.

  "Look up at me."

  The supervisor said it in perfect creole.

  Sahra began quietly crying. I'm sorry, Mama. Here I come, God.

  Inch by careful inch, Sahra's view climbed up the supervisor. Past the funny ankle of all the masters. Past the real-knees and the twitching tail. Up past the belt and the ammo. Up past the merits and medals, and the weapon in the grip of one casual set of claws. Past the collar and finally to her face.

  Males had a crest of spikes. The females occasionally dyed some of their scales interesting colours. This one did not.

  "Report again in your own language," said the supervisor.

  Sahra tried not to panic. Keep to the facts as she knew them. Tried not to trip over her own rebellious tongue. She failed on the last one. "Somepin done 'sploded an' aftuh it were over, I call't an' made m' way t' th' clos'st chicken point an' sat m'self down. M'm."

  Giggles escaped a few of the sitters.

  The supervisor's empty claws poked her in the ribs, squeezed an arm, and finally turned Sahra's head this way and that. "Always thought the really pale ones were dangerously inbred..." she murmured. She hissed between her pointy teeth. A noise of disappointment. "Gather your carts, all of you. Line up and follow me to the weigh-station."

  Sahra dashed through the smirks and giggles of the other tunnel-rats and scooped up her cart. Someone had filched a few things off the top while the supervisor had been busy with her. Soon enough, if Sahra knew patterns like she thought she knew patterns, the cough-calls would begin.

  "(cough-stoopid-cough),"

  "(cough-dirt-dumb-cough),"

  "(cough-spongebrain-cough),"

  No I aint, thought Sahra. I just aint good at showing I aint.

  She did her best to keep her eyes on the tunnel-rat in front of her and her feet clear of those behind who were hell-bent on making her look worse in front of God and everybody. Sahra never looked at the elderly male who sorted and weighed her haul. She never saw the one who roughly pressed her better hand into the cleaner-grubs, and then onto the palm reader. And after that, it was up to her to take off the harness and hang it on a hook, then take off her clothes and run herself through the cattle-scrubber.

  All her fellow rats ignored her, now. Shrieking and cavorting through the cold sprays of soap and chemicals and recycled water. Sahra did her best to scratch the dirt off as the conveyor belt took her from one end to the other.

  Mama always said, We may be low, but we know how to stay clean.

  Sahra picked up a fresh sheath at the other end, struggling into the itchy, cheap fabric that had been washed a billion-and-forever times and had never once lost its bite. Suffered through the rough handling of another supervisor as they checked her hair for crawlers.

  And then, lining up against the wall while a very bored supervisor scanned their faces before sending them all to quarters.

  They all marched in neat lines until they were in the areas where only the slaves went, and then it was a mad tangle of arms and legs and shrieking bodies as they all ran for their homes. Sahra was not the fastest. Not by ages. There was never enough food to go around and the babies got in first and the elders got it next and by the time it got to those in the middle, the bully got the bigger share.

  But at least it was good to be home.

  Mama was mending clothes and didn't even bother to look up at Sahra's "I'm home."

  Three of the elders were trying to make the info-station work again on bits and bobs and sneaked parts that could've been worth their lives if they'd gotten caught. A cluster of girls were playing with each other's hair and Darvan was leaning against the wall near Sahra's favourite sleep-nook.

  "Where you been, spongebrain?"

  "Workin'."

  "Oooh, claw marks," Darvan poked them.

  Sahra didn't even bother showing pain.

  "They feel you up? Musta decided you're too scrawny to eat. Tu'atta love t' eat all kinds'a rat."

  "EY!" said one of the four fixing the info-station. "You call 'em the masters or else they eat you. They got eyes an' ears ev'rywhere. Show respeck."

  Sahra clambered into one of the little spaces she knew where Darvan couldn't poke and quietly worried if anyone would notice if she wound up gone for good. Between eleven older sibs, five younger ones, and this years' Papa, Sahra wondered if she could just run off and live on her own for a change.

  Except...

  She had no idea how to do it.

  She needed Mama for cooked food. She needed the masters for t
he credits to even get food. Or shelter rights. All her earnings from her work went to her family's account, and as far as she figured, it would stay that way until she turned twenty and got placed somewhere else.

  Mama must have finished up her sewing, because Sahra could hear the noise of the little kitchen. Clattering and clunking. And orders.

  "Karl, Leyna. Table. Darvan, dishes. Kara, Laura. Chopsticks. Elle, Fai. Tidy up. Judi, chairs. Paul, tools! Mari, Netta. Wash up the littles. Sahra?"

  Sahra emerged from her hiding. She knew her job before Mama announced it. "Here."

  "Babies. Tod?"

  Tod was Seventh-Papa. A name he had only amongst Sahra and her sibs. It was the only way to keep it straight, what with the masters trying different things all the time. "Yes?"

  He was also the only human in the house who was not a Johnston. Everyone took their family names from their Mamas.

  "Keep an eye on the littles and the babies and keep them out of trouble."

  Everyone had a job, except the babies. They were too young to understand. The littles, Una and Tessi, were still in training and not strong enough to help with the babies. Even though they still tried to.

  Sahra praised them whenever they did good things.

  Tom and Ben tried to climb her, even though they were getting too heavy for Sahra to carry them like that. They didn't understand that things changed or didn't want to understand and enjoyed making Sahra hurt.

  She got a wet washcloth off Mari, because there was already four people in a bathroom meant for two at most, and gave the twin boys a going-over before sitting them in their tall-chairs. David was easier. He was still working out what legs were for. And he was lighter and smaller, so there was less of him to wash.

  Sahra seated him, too, and gave the washcloth back to Mari with a quick, "Thanks." She hurried to her place while her elder sisters ended their babble of conversations one by one.

  Only the babies and littles got tall-chairs. Everyone able to sit still for a whole meal got padded boxes, and some were taller than others. Mama and this-years'-Papa just got pillows.

  Sahra watched the dishing-out. She could tell who had a good day or a hard day by how much of what they got. And she could tell the same about who'd been less than good during the day.

  It was stoo for dinner. It was always stoo. The only things that changed about stoo was the stuff that had gone in it.

  Tessi and Una had caught some evriyong, a pest everyone said that the masters had bought with them in the long-ago. A lot like humans had bought rats, by accident.

  Humans liked the taste of evriyong and the masters liked the taste of rat. It should have been fair, but no human was allowed to keep evriyong, not like the way the masters bred rats.

  Sahra counted how many of which bits went around. Just like chicken, everyone had a favourite bit of evriyong.

  Seventh-Papa got three necks. Mama got two. The babies and the littles got theirs all mashed up so Sahra couldn't tell.

  Darvan, Sahra noted with triumph, only got the gristly forelegs. And he hated gristly anything.

  Sahra got mostly broth and vegetables, but Mama somehow saved her two tails. The thanking and the blessing was pretty ordinary, tonight. Just the everyday wording. Nobody had done anything really interesting, then.

  They all ate quickly and quietly. Sahra had to focus on finding things to chew out of her bowl while watching the rest of her family so she wouldn't get trouble for drinking her dinner too early.

  "Sahra, we eat our food, we do not play in it."

  Except there wasn't much in there to eat. She put her chopsticks down and picked up her bowl, drinking the broth quietly.

  "Sahra..."

  "Tod," snapped Mama.

  Sara finished the broth and showed Seventh-Papa how little was left in her bowl.

  "You're excused," he grudgingly allowed.

  The info-station squawked and sputtered, making half her family jump.

  "...blow for freedom," said the low voice of someone. "our agents... (sizz) ...victorious."

  Everyone was looking at everyone else. Sahra sat there with her mouth open and her hands pressed flat on the table. She'd never heard anything like this before. No-one was allowed to get up without Mama or current-Papa's say-so. It was the rules.

  "Tonight... (whreeee) ...ore processing centre, killing... (dattledadattle) ...oppressors including the vicious freak known as Eon. Celebrate, for tonight our.... (hiss) ...struck at the heart of the Majestrix herself."

  "Someone turn that off," said Mama.

  "(swowr) ...been known that the decadent... (zzwish) ...entertained herself in base ways with the shape-shifter--"

  Seventh-Papa stretched over and pulled a wire out. The info-station gave a final shriek and fell silent.

  Chills played up and down her spine.

  "What wuz that?" Sahra asked.

  "(cough-spongebrain-cough)," managed Darvan. Then he smiled and said, "Excuse me. Gristle."

  Mama puckered her mouth at him, but did no more.

  "Just a bunch of idiots tryin' to change the natural order," said Seventh-Papa. "Pay it no mind. All of you."

  "But he said they were the ones blowed up ore proc'ssing..."

  "Butts are for smacking if some little girls don't shut their mouths. We didn't hear nothing about nothing. Understand?"

  Sahra tried to think of a better way to protest that didn't start with a 'but', and had to shut her mouth. "Yes'm," she lied.

  She watched the rest of her family eat while she filled up on water. Seventh-Papa knew something he wasn't telling. Mama knew more. And she was scared. The elder sibs knew enough to be scared, too. Except Darvan.

  *

  Lockdowns were the worst. Family credit quickly shrank into debt and everyone got in everyone else's elbows and drove each other mad. At least this one was over quick. Just a day. Enough to halve the family credit because all anyone could do was sit, talk, or eat.

  Sahra didn't talk much when she was at home. Home was the place for sleep and washing and going potty. Nobody wanted to talk to her except Darvan, and he only wanted her to talk to make her look dumb. So Sahra hid until the all-clear whistle blared through quarters and then did her utmost to be out of the door and away from everybody.

  At muster, they put on her harness and gave her a necklace. String with a funny-looking card hanging off. They lined them up from youngest to oldest and showed them the ways they'd be going.

  The map showed the whole ore-processing place. And the tunnels around it.

  Sahra didn't know why they were sending rats through blowed-up tunnels, but she reasoned she'd at least get good pickings. Even mass credit would be good. Lots of loose bits.

  They had her going real close to ore processing, and strapped some other stuff to her head.

  "...ore should be cool enough to approach," said one supervisor.

  "I almost feel sorry for these dumb animals." said another.

  "Do you want to waste sensors seeing if this mess is radioactive? The animals are replaceable. We can always breed more. And the ones going really close aren't that useful, anyway."

  Wait. What?

  They pushed her on and ordered her in.

  What did they mean, not that useful? Sahra felt her cheeks heat up again. How could she have a chance to be useful if nobody let her try?

  Sahra stuck to the path the Masters had set her, wincing a little at the sharp bits she couldn't work loose and into her cart. There was no light. Sahra expected none and was more than used to finding her way around by feel.

  The inside of this tunnel was sharp and crumbly. It hurt her fingers to scrabble it loose on the floor, but it was better than hurting her knees and legs crawling over it. It smelled of old fire and didn't echo at all. Not even when she gave a whoop to see if anyone else was near.

  The answering whoops were small and far off.

  Sahra yelped and crashed halfway down a slope that the masters had not put on their map. She spent a heart-sto
pping minute sorting out which bits were tangled in what before managing to crawl up the gritty, stinging slide.

  Some of her finds were falling out her cart. Damn it. But she didn't want to go fetching if they had half a chance of falling back out again and the masters wanted this done quick.

  She'd come back on a free-range day. Yeah. And take her time. And beg for knee pads.

  Sahra froze. Something outside the sloping tube was making a noise. Not like water pouring. Like... sand and scrattle and someone making bubbles in their drink... all mixed up. And something knocking. In a pattern Sahra didn't understand.

  Her heart tried to leap out of her chest as she realized she was alone in the dark with something on the outside of her hidden place trying to get in. Something neither human nor master.

  "AINT NO HAINT GONNA GET ME!" Sahra hollered at the top of her lungs. She scrabbled out of the tube and a painful sprint beyond it before stopping to listen again.

  Distant knocks, and not a lot else.

  Stop and think. Haints were something Darvan used to scare Sahra of the dark. Except Judi had given her the magic words to make her not scared at all. Or at least, she had after some weeks of the whole family listening to her cry in the night. Haints were made up stuff.

  Think of what could be real.

  Rats could have got loose. They messed up everything they got into. And so did evriyong. Or it could've been both, having a fight in a bunch of wrecked stuff.

  Damn it. She missed catching some dinner!

  Too late to go back, now.

  They took off credit for backtracking.

  Sahra scrubbed and scratched a path for herself, wishing it wouldn't hurt, and wondering why it was getting slippery as she went onwards.

  Her hands and legs were throbbing by the time she came out the other side. She took a look at them while the masters checked her cart and the other things they put on her.

  Her hands and legs were red with blood.

  And dripping.

  One of the higher masters noticed and made a squawk of disgust. "Clean that animal up."

  A young male, judging by the newness of his boots and the sharpness of his claws, grabbed her roughly and scrubbed her hands and legs with harsh-smelling stinging stuff.

  Struggling would get her worse, so Sahra did her best to stay still and let him. He patched her hands and legs with bandages and sent her through the cattle-scrubber early.

  After that, another master took her off to sort fruit from the station gardens. It was all horrible stuff the masters liked and no smart human would even try to eat. And not just because they made humans sick. Anyone stealing off the masters was bound to get shot.