Town of Escaped Slaves

Previously

The room we came to was calm, I would say. It was large and sprawling; I could see the distant walls but could not guess as to their distance. The noise I had heard came from motors on the ceiling. The floor was occupied by a shantytown; tents, kiosks, and some wooden structures that actually looked rather old. There was a single bright light overhead, which seemed as bright as a sun.

The opening we saw it through was placed perhaps some twenty feet above the ground, with a stairway leading down; the twenty feet we had was high enough to see over everything, so that no building obstructed our view.

I say it was calm because there wasn’t much activity, other than the machinery overhead, which moved at a relaxed pace. The noise was present, but it wasn’t overwhelming; it may be that like the noise the engine always made, the people grew used to it. And there were people. Thousands groggily moved from building to building, or stood talking or waiting, and I suspected there were many more in the tents and buildings, or many who were hidden by the structures. It did not dawn on me until I was resting in a bed somewhere in Zion, that this was the first time I’d seen so many people. Whether this was a great impact upon my spirit I cannot say.

I turned to Arthur who held a look of amazement. “What is this?” I asked, and he turned but didn’t say anything, “Do you even know?”

“I heard that the escaped slaves had built a town underneath the tower, but I assumed it was further down. No one could ever find it, none of the guards. I think it is because it wasn’t underneath the tower. Even slaves can’t coexist with the cryonauts.”

I wanted desperately to ask who the cryonauts were, but it dawned on me. He spoke the name as though they were monsters, animals. I recalled the book I had read in the bedroom, about the people who came from below. “So they are like us? These citizens, I mean.”

“No, they aren’t at all. You were a slave for but hours, and I was more of an employee. We must be careful not to divulge our true identities. The sword: hide it well.”

“How?” I asked, and then remembered a book I had read. I removed the hilt from the rapier and took the sheath from my belt. I held it like a cane, and I prayed it would be a well enough disguise.

“Good idea, now follow me and perhaps we can evade notice and blend in as slaves. We are both dirty enough that we may pass.” Arthur started down the stairs, “Pray that we are not seen,” he said with a backwards glance.

I did not want to tell him my pessimism. I felt that the stairway we descended was in full view of the city, and that the door we came from was one that was seldom used. It seemed likely to me at the time that anyone who even half-witnessed our descent would warn some authorities. Yet, when we found ourselves at the foot of the stairway, I soon discovered that we were unnoticed.

The area beside where the staircase ended was open, and I saw that the floor looked like grass but was perhaps too perfect of a green to have grown in the room we were in. I bent down and tried to pull out, but felt it rooted firmly to the ground. I saw that it was fake; made out of some kind of plastic.

Arthur had not stopped and I almost failed to see him as he vanished around the corner of one of the tents. I hurried after him, faking a limp so that my cane looked justified.

When I caught up with him I realized that we were now amidst a great crowd of people. There were shops all around us, stands with hanging fruits, meats, and jewelry. People shouted (often in languages I did not understand) to one another. I looked around, stupefied. They were dirty, grimy looking people. I will not fail to mention that I thought they were ugly things; I did not take into account their predicament, that their fathers and mothers were slaves, and that they had their first chance at freedom. Their clothes were tatters, none of which were white. The closest thing I saw to attire of my color was something light grey, and I realized that it was the same thing Arthur was been wearing, except on someone who faced away from us.

Arthur called out, “It’s you!”

This person in the grey turned around immediately, and I realized she was a woman. Her eyes stared back at us, and all I could see was condemnation. She opened her mouth to scream, and I drew my blade suddenly, slashing out at her in a flash of steel.

I had decided that she was going to tell everyone who we were, that we weren’t slaves at all, but merely people passing through. Even though she didn’t say it, I knew that we were but stumbling marauders, who may attack them, or reveal their location to the slave masters above ground. We were none of these things, but how was she to know? I will swear until the day I die that I heard in her throat a call for help, and if that had gone out, we would have swiftly been outnumbered.

The sword had caught her in the stomach and neck, and she stumbled backwards into a kiosk, which she knocked over, sending its spherical fruits tumbling across the ground. The owner of the kiosk first shouted at her; “what are you doing? You’ve ruined it all!” Arthur grabbed my shoulder and led me away before anyone realized what had happened. We slipped around a corner, and then another.

I had a better view of this town of escaped slaves. Most structures were from fabric and twisted lines of metal. The tents themselves were spherical in shape, or else pyramidal. There were things made from planks of wood that had items displayed on them; I saw more than food and clothing as we ran from the woman whom I had murdered. There were arrows, axes, and swords displayed often. I saw a few pistols and rifles, which looked ancient, or crudely built.

More people passed us as we made our way through the twisting alleys of the settlement, and I stopped thinking of them as ugly. I saw the despair in some of their eyes, desperation in other’s eyes. They did not appear as I had supposed before; in a position which they had placed themselves in, but I realized that they deserved pity. Their predicaments were not self-imposed. Slavery was no better, and this place was only slightly better. How else could I have expected them to act, I do not know. My ignorance made me feel cold and flighty. I hated that I had come from the engine, and had not taken better control of my own life.

How could I discriminate against those who I accused of not taking direction in their own lives, while I was incapable of such action myself? I’d wandered around on my own, but had trusted first Livingston and now Arthur too quickly. These people had less opportunity than I had, and had taken it when it arrived. All the chance I had ever taken was crawling from the window. Since then, I decided that I had not been careful enough.

We found ourselves in front of one of the rare wooden structures I had glimpsed from the doorway.

He turned to me and forced the sword back into the sheath. And then he slapped me.

“You killed my wife,” he said. I expected him to cry; his eyes watered as though he might, but he squinted and I decided he was merely irritated by something in the air; dust perhaps. “Why did you do that?”

“She was going to get us killed,” I said, “I will not apologize.”

“You bastard!” He said. He grabbed me and tossed me to the side. I had not expected the force at which he chose to expend; I was tumbling to the side in the grass, on my back like a coward.

“Did you see the look in her eyes?” I asked him, sitting up, “She wanted to have us hung. I saved both of our lives, and you know it. If you hadn’t had acted so rashly,” I said, “We could have met her in better conditions. As it was, we would have been killed in the streets like fugitives.”

Arthur turned and walked towards the building.

“Where are you going?” I asked, and stood. “Don’t stop!”

He entered the doors and vanished from sight. I ran in after him, and found myself in a massive dining room. There was a bar against one wall, and tables all around, serving raggedy patrons. No one even looked at me, my face confused and the sword I held half-drawn. I was afraid then that Arthur would try to tell someone who I was. That he would buy his position back with my capture, and then I would be subject to whatever horrible slavery I had been predestined for.

I searched for him with my eyes, and could not see him. I wandered between the tables to the bar, and sat on one of the stools. This area looked familiar, at least. The bartender turned towards me, and I saw he wore a mask that was half-black and half-yellow. He looked at me through the eye-holes. “What will it be, Jack Carentan?”

“I’ll have your strongest beverage,” I told him. It did not occur to ask why he knew my name. I suppose it was unwise of me, as distracted as I was. My eyes had not even kept trained on him while I had told him what I wanted. I had been looking for Arthur.

“You’re quite lost, aren’t you?” The bartender asked. I looked at him and then realized how strange his mask appeared. “You’re supposed to be a soldier right now; fighting for Rasputina. You do realize that is her name, the slave woman who met you earlier?”

“What?” I asked. I got up and put my hand on my sword. “Who are you?” I asked him.

Two hands were placed on my shoulders from behind, and I turned to see two men wearing the same mask as the bartender.

“Do you know who we are?” Asked the bartender. He leaned across the bar top and grabbed my sword from my hand. “We are no one.”

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