Liberator
A short story
by
Dr Robert Rich

   Trom was exhausted by now, but struggled ahead, squeezing through gaps in the undergrowth too small for an adult, certainly too small for one of the Masters -- but oh, not too small for a Garadon.

   Above him, the forest sang.

   A deep, melodious roar suddenly rose into a soprano shriek, to fall away again, over and over. Everything was gray, everything was moving, although down here, the merest breeze blew in his face.

   He looked up. The tops of the tall tubetrees were being tossed about like Grandmother's featherduster when she shook it out. Well, no-one would follow him into a storm, and with luck the rain would come before he was missed, before they got the Garadons out.

   He eased his way past a cutberry thicket, making his small body as thin as possible so he could slip through the gap, callused fingers carefully holding the canes between the vicious thorns.

   Over the roar of the wind in the treetops, Trom heard a mighty cracking noise. It started way up high, and he heard it descend faster than the shuttle at landing time, then the ground shook to a terrible THUMP. His hand jerked in response, and he felt his skin tear. "Ow!" he cried, but couldn't hear his own voice over the howling of the wind. He licked the yellow blood oozing from the back of his hand, then oh so carefully disengaged the wicked, crooked thorns from his clothing.

   Licking his wound again, he moved past the thicket, into the clearing that had been his goal for half the afternoon. The castle was only an hour's brisk walk from here, but he'd gone in a big arc that would hopefully fool the trackers.

   The giant hollow log was just as he'd remembered it, same as last winter, though the rank grass was taller around it. The first time he'd been here, there was no clearing. That was when Dad first took him hunting, and had shown Trom the mighty tree, reaching above the canopy, and told him that this tree was ready to die, showing the signs of dark decay on the green trunk. Hunting had been Dad's job for the Masters, because he knew all about every living thing. He'd been right too: on their next return, the tree was down, and Trom had explored the hollow stem for a long way. At the base, he could stand upright at full stretch then, but now that he was older, he had to shorten his body to fit.

   Well, Dad was gone, the Masters had killed him after the breakout. Trom shuddered at the memory. It had been planned, oh, so carefully, when eight of the Masters were away in the shuttle, and in the middle of the night all two hundred people had escaped, running in every direction. But the Masters had returned in a hurry and used their cursed off-world magic and recaptured everyone. They'd killed thirty-eight people doing this, and afterwards forced all the survivors to watch while they tortured twelve others to death. And Dad was one of them, torn to pieces by a pack of Garadons.

   Insides churning, crying within, Trom forced his mind back to the present, away from the terrible memories. The fallen tubetree was still here. He'd got to it before the rain.

   Still thinking of trackers, he was careful about placing his feet in the grass, then took the big step up into the hollow.

   At first, it was pitch black there, and he felt rather than saw a movement. His left hand snatched for his knife, but his eyes were rapidly adapting and he saw it was only a Kabu slitherer. It had retreated, and was holding up its head, undulating it from side to side. The wide mouth was open, showing jagged teeth.

   "It's all right, little sister," Trom said breathlessly, not that slitherers could hear, even if the wind wasn't deafening the world. He sat down on the soft leaf litter, where he could still see outside.

   The slitherer settled after awhile, lowering its head.

   Trom was hungry. He'd slipped away without lunch, so he unhooked the bag hanging under his arm and opened it. He pulled out a piece of meat and cut a chunk.

   The Kabu opened its mouth, and its tongue tube flicked out, smelling. Trom cut and threw a small piece. Neatly, the slitherer swayed to the side, caught and swallowed the morsel.

   Trom continued to eat, throwing the odd piece to the Kabu. Gradually, the animal came closer. When his meal was finished, the boy scrabbled around in his bag until he found a bottle of water, and drank about half. The Kabu opened its mouth and swayed its head side to side. "No more," Trom told it.

   Unafraid now, the slitherer slid towards him, curled up next to the boy, then laid its bright green head in his lap. He gently scratched it along its back, and was sure the animal was pleased. "You're a Greenie, like me," he said. His hand was the exact same color.

   The opening to the hollow became a blindingly bright flash of incandescence, and almost immediately, the earth shook with thunder like the collision of planets. The Kabu disappeared within the depths of the hollow.

   When Trom could hear again, the wind had dropped, but its wail was replaced by the mighty drumming of rain on the log.

   His body went slack with relief: he should be safe from the Garadons now. He just hoped the water wouldn't flood the hollow.

***

   Jackson scowled at the unlit fire. He flicked the 'on' button of his com and barked "Ligla!"

   "Yes my Lord?" came her disembodied voice from the speaker. Of course, the wretched Greenie couldn't pronounce it right, they never could. It sounded more like 'Lowd'.

   "Why isn't my fire lit yet? It's past three o'clock, and I've told you that…"

   "My Lord, that Trom's job, you know he very reliable, I will be check."

   The wretched beasts always fractured grammar. "Just get it done. Or else."

   He disconnected. Within five minutes, a Greenie scurried in, carrying a basket of wood and kindling. After five standard years, Jackson still found them repulsive and ridiculous, with their queer three-legged walk, so he looked out the window at the wildly waving treetops below. Not that those things were proper trees, more like overgrown bamboo or something. But then he thought he'd better maintain discipline. "Hey you, Trom," he called.

   The bizarre little figure bounced upright from the fireplace. "My Lord, I Darry am," he said, or hissed more like.

   Now that he looked closer, Jackson thought that this fellow was a little bigger than the usual drudge. He could tell the females from the males simply because they were larger, but had trouble distinguishing them otherwise. Not that it mattered. "Oh. Where is that Trom, then?"

   "My Lord, nobody know. He maybe had an acce… addicent?"

   "Accident?"

   "Grandmother organised search for him. Nobody know where he is when I come."

   "He didn't run?"

   The thing's eyes swivelled and opened wide. Like a bloody snail, only there were three arm things on top of its head, each with an eye staring at Jackson. "Oh no, my Lord, he not dare!"

   Jackson turned away from the miserable creature and flicked on his com. "Ligla! Where is that Trom fellow?"

   A silence met him. At last she answered, the fear obvious even through the impersonal speaker. "Lord, we searching is."

   He had run, for sure. The Greenie scurried out the door, and Jackson sat down in front of the fire, putting his feet up. But almost immediately he found it a little too warm, and used the controller on his belt to turn up the air-conditioning. Only then did he change the channel on the com. "Hardy, you there?" he called.

   Getting no response, he called again, and a third time, before receiving a blurred reply. "What the hell do you want?"

   "You asleep, in the middle of the day?"

   The answer was more distinct. "Nah, I was in a vid. What the hell else is there to do?"

   Jackson laughed. "And how many times have you been in this one?"

   "Heh heh, about ten thousand."

   "Let me guess, the houris in seventh heaven?"

   "Well, pal, you had to land us on a planet where nothing lives that'd give me an erection."

   "You do have all mod cons laid on, my Lord. That reminds me, the reason I called is, one of the drudges has run, a little squirt called Trom."

   "We can't have that! And just when the others are up top. Leave it to me, pal."

***

   Ligla was one of a group cleaning the main entrance. She was polishing the banister on the staircase. When she'd been a boy, she'd resented the Grandmother not sharing the jobs, so had sworn to be fair once having transformed. And she'd kept to this, even after becoming Grandmother to the household of the Masters. Monsters more like. So, there she was, plying a soft cloth on the shiny wood, when Lord Hardy's voice blasted into the air. Naturally it was heard everywhere within the castle.

   "Listen here, you lot," he grated in his unpleasantly deep voice. "A boy called Trom has run. He will be caught and killed… killed slowly and with great pain."

   Ligla shuddered. The Master said nothing for a long moment, without doubt calculating to instill terror. He was succeeding too. She knew what was coming, and quickly descended to the next landing, retracting her legs and sensory pods. This didn't stop her from hearing "And of course you all need punishment too. Next time you think of running, think of this."

   Here it came: a sound of incredible savagery. Ligla knew it was too high for the Masters to hear, but it blasted into her being, pained her every cell, shook her to the core.

   It went on and on and on. And when at last it ceased, she found that she had soiled herself.

   She forced her sensory pods out, though she didn't want to. The others around her stunk too. No doubt every person within the castle was in a similarly bad state.

   She flicked her com to the general channel and spoke in her people's language, "My dears, go and clean up, change your clothing, then it's back to work." She was trembling inside, from rage and fear and lingering pain, but none of this showed in her voice.

   The Masters had an automated translation program, listening in. So, it wasn't until after she'd switched off that she said "Good for you Trom. And may the Devils take the Masters."

   Only, of course, the worst Devils of the old myths had come alive and WERE the Masters.

***

   Hardy took his finger off the button at last. That'd teach the little bastards! The only way to train animals is with strict consequences. He heaved his bulk out of the easychair. The first few steps were almost a waddle, he'd got stiff, but then he gained his stride. He went downstairs, past a gaggle of Greenies. He wrinkled his nose at the stink: they'd shat themselves, the disgusting beasts. He knew how that would distress them, particularly the females, and grinned. Nothing like aversive conditioning. Next time one considered running, the others would stop it. He hurried around to the back and out to the kennels.

   The dozen Garadons set up a loud purr well before he entered. He had his almost invariable thought at looking at them: A cross between a large grayhound and a six-legged tiger. Only they had a little of the appearance of a snail too, with the three sensory pods on top of their heads, and the stripes were green and gold.

   "We're going hunting, my little ones," he said happily, inactivating the force shield. It was handy, having a life form whose natural prey was Greenies.

   They followed him out through the tunnel. The wind hit him like a sledge-hammer, so that he had to exert all his force to walk to the garage door. A click of a button on the controller and he was in. He mounted a skimmer and backed out.

   The Garadons were already on the job, spread out, nosing the ground. More exactly, they lowered their heads so that the organs in their pods would pick up scent. Funny how evolution was parallel in function, he thought, but came in all different forms.

   Myrta, the lead female, set up a howl, and was off, directly to the north, the rest of the pack in hot pursuit. Jack Hardacre, we have a quarry! he exulted and sped behind them, the skimmer almost touching the tall grass. He had to hold the tiller over to resist the mighty cross wind. Another invariable thought came upon seeing the Garadons at speed: they looked like super-fast inchworms, bounding onto the three front legs, then the three back legs actually touched ground in front of the front legs, then another bound, on and on.

   The pack ran smoothly for about three miles, gradually veering right until the gale was in Hardy's face. He had to bend his head forward in order to breathe. They rapidly approached the forest, if you could call it that. Here the wind shrieked and moaned in the frondy foliage. Hardy swore: they'd have to slow now, probably down to the pace of the Greenie.

   Without warning, the world was lit up by a jagged spear of light, joining the ground to the skies, and Hardy was assaulted by a sharp, vicious clap of thunder. "Bugger!" he said, although his ears were too deafened to hear it. He stabbed at the canopy button, but was drenched during the second the cover took to protect him. The rain was like a waterfall, cutting visibility to nothing.

   Worse, the Garadons were useless now, without a spoor to follow.

***

   The air had chilled with the rain, and Trom huddled as small as he could. The Kabu was back, but of course no use in keeping him warm. To take his mind off his discomfort, he went over all the information he'd gathered over the past half year, since the breakout. After Lord Hardy had -- he quickly shut his mind to the horrific image of Dad being torn to pieces -- the Masters had captured fifty free people, and of course needed to train them. Trom had been too young to remember the time before the Masters, so had never received the special training, but by luck was one of the drudges assigned by Grandmother to help the newcomers. So, he had seen the training in process. The person had to be in front of a machine. The Master put a thing called a 'vid' into a slot, and although no-one else could see or hear anything, the person was given whatever sensory experiences were dictated by the recording. Intrigued by this, Trom had questioned the newcomers, who'd quickly learned the Masters' language, and how to handle various machinery, and all their duties.

   So, late at night, he crept into the training room, and started to explore the vid collection. At first, he'd been distressed by the loss of sleep, but hey, you can get used to anything. It was now part of life to sleep is short snatches when no-one would notice, and to awake one-third through the night, sneak into the training room and go through the next vid.

   He had learned lots, and once he had his plan, had returned to the critical vids. One of the biggest surprises had been to learn that what this lot of Masters was doing was considered to be wrong among their own kind. They had a strange concept, of being a 'criminal', and these ten large, two-legged people certainly qualified.

   So, Trom had waited his chance: a time when most of the Masters were on one of the frequent trips up in the shuttle, and a violent storm was approaching.

   He thought of all his friends back in the castle. They'd have been punished for his escape. He sighed, but told himself that if only he could succeed, he would end their misery. I must survive, for all our sakes, he thought.

***

   In his room, Jackson heard "Jacko!"

   "Yeah?"

   "Lost the little bastard. The rain's washed out the tracks. Call the others back fast, we need the shuttle."

   Swearing, Jackson got up, hurried to the alcove where the distance link was, and pushed buttons. It seemed forever until Henry's face looked at him from the screen. "What's the matter?" he asked.

   "A Greenie's run."

   "Get Hardy's pets to catch him."

   "Rain's washed the tracks out. C'mon back."

   Henry said a few blisteringly choice words. "Look, Tim's negotiating with a thief of a merchant, and the others are screwing their brains out in some brothel. I know for a fact that their coms are turned off, because I tried to talk to them half an hour ago."

   The door behind Jackson opened, and Hardy lumbered up behind him. Water trickled off him, puddling on the carpet. He said, "Henry, it's essential that the Greenies believe that escape is impossible. You want to do the shit work yourself? Crawl around in the tunnels?"

   "I know, you're the xenobiologist and all that, but it's just not on, leaving right now."

   "Xeno has nothing to do with it, pal. The same'd hold for dogs or horses or for that matter people."

   Henry's thin face suddenly lit up with a grin. "So, just tell the beasts in the castle that your doggies have ripped him to pieces. The escapee knows this is false, the wild pack he might join will know, but not our domestic animals."

   The knot in Jackson's gut dissolved. "You're right," he answered.

***

   Trom's entire body was stiff, and he had no feeling in his hands and feet. He'd woken from habit, one-third through the long night. Outside, it was still raining, but softly now. Well, he'd be dead if it wasn't for the rain, he could endure a little cold and wet.

   He jumped down from the edge of the hollow, his feet squelching in mud. Fear shot through him -- he hadn't thought of that! Now he'd be leaving visible tracks. But then, hopefully, they wouldn't be looking here.

   The sky seemed black at first, but he knew the path to the castle. Moving slowly, he found it, and by then the slight gap between the treetops was a lesser darkness. As long as the Masters took the Garadons north…

   He was exhausted by dawn, and hardly noticed when the trees around him became fully visible. The sky was still gray, the drizzle still fell on his sodden body, but now he could speed up to normal walking pace.

   He stopped at the edge of the forest, looking with dismay at the landing field. The shuttle wasn't there. Had they taken off already, to look for him? He doubted it. The castle was asleep.

   His plan depended on the shuttle returning, as it had after the breakout.

   He stepped backwards, and was startled by a hiss and a movement. He looked down, to see the Kabu. It had moved away, and now regarded him with three beady eyes. Trom felt a warm glow inside, and had to smile. "Good morning, little sister," he said. "You're right, breakfast time." He had food enough for now, and for lunch, but had expected to be either dead or successful beyond that.

   He ate, but sparingly. Still, he couldn't resist throwing a few small lumps of meat to the slitherer, who neatly caught each.

   If the shuttle didn't come back, he'd be forced to stay out in the open, at risk of discovery by the distance sensors of the Masters, or by the trained Garadons, or by a wild pack. He didn't know what to do: stay around in case the shuttle arrived, or hide again. "One day," he said to the Kabu, "I'll father children. Then I'll have my transformation, and give birth. And I don't want my children to grow up as drudges to the Masters." Only, he knew all too well that he was likely to die within the next day or two, tortured to death by Lord Hardy in front of all two hundred people.

   He sighed, extended his legs and turned back towards the log. He realized that all yesterday's cleverness was wasted: any Garadon could follow him from here. He reached out to the Kabu, who slid towards him. The animal readily climbed up his arm and draped itself across his body. Trom raised his rear leg and bounded fast along the trail on the other two. Before he was tired, he rotated by a third, so that his previous left leg became the rear one, and kept going. He reached the log after four more changes.

***

   The rain stopped just before mid-day, so Hardy loosed his pack of Garadons again. He took them to the spot where they'd left off the previous day, but of course the beasts were casting about without success. After three hours, they surprised a small herd of Wompers and brought down three. He let them feast on the things that hopped like kangaroos, but looked like three-legged barrels with three waving arms and no heads, then returned home. The Wompers wouldn't have been there if the Greenie was. I guess he's with a wild pack by now, he thought as he put the Garadons away. In his room once more, he made a suitably scary announcement. Some of the Greenies would see the yellow blood on the Garadons' feeding parts, and that would support the lie.

   He hoped that Tim got a good price for the load of diamonds. The sooner they could afford to get off this dump the better.

***

   Trom crawled as far up the hollow as he could, where it would be too narrow for even a small Garadon. The habit of half a year allowed him to fall asleep almost instantly. He awoke when the distant circle of light was dimming.

   The Kabu was curled up at the entrance, as if on guard. It reared when Trom approached, and he saw that it had a rounded lump at about a third of its length from its head. "Hello, little sister," he said, "I see you've caught your own dinner."

   The sun was shining outside, but already well down in the sky, between the stems. Trom decided to save his carried food, and returned to the cutberry thicket. He stuffed himself with luscious yellow berries. Then once more he made his way along his track, the Kabu draped around him.

   The landing field was still empty. Standing among the tall trees, Trom thought If they're not back now, they're staying the usual nine days. I hope I can survive until then. The good thing was, after all that time they wouldn't bother to hunt him with the magical heat sensing devices in the shuttle. He saw a distant movement: a dark uneven line surrounded by fast-moving dots. He was puzzled at first, then realized, that was the poor miners being herded back to the castle by the two Lords on their skimmers, and the pack of Garadons on electronic leads.

   He had a sudden idea. I wonder if the mine doors are locked at night? He couldn't expect to stay undetected and alive for the days until the shuttle returned…

***

   As Grandmother, Ligla had her own room. She squatted in her nest, legs retracted, warm under the blankets but unable to sleep. Poor little Trom, she thought, I wish I could do something! Horrific visions of Garadons tearing into people passed before her eyes. Since the coming of the Masters, she'd seen it happen more than once.

   She became aware of a repeated sound: a scratching on her door. It must have gone on for quite a while. She stood, bounded to the door and cautiously opened it. "Trom!" she said in complete surprise, but softly.

   "Shh!" he responded.

   She pulled him into the room and shut the door. "We all thought you were dead!"

   "Not yet. Might still happen though. I'll have to escape again."

   "But, but… Lord Hardy said his Garadons'd caught you. And they had blood on them."

   "Not my blood. Not yet. Look, Grandmother, I escaped because I need to fly up in the shuttle and use one of the magical things they have up in their ship."

   Ligla turned all three of her eyes on him. She was too surprised to speak. After an eternity, she managed "How?… How do you know things like that?"

   Trom explained about the vids in the training machine, his half-year of secret risk-taking.

   "If one of the Masters had caught you…"

   Trom mockingly waved his sensory pods around. "I checked for the first many nights. They never go anywhere near the training room. Anyway, now I know all about how to work their machines, and what kind of a life they come from -- oh, if I had the time to tell you!"

   "How did you escape? And how did you come back?"

   Trom unlaced his bag. A green head emerged, a tongue tube sniffing from a wide open mouth.

   Ligla bounded back with a wordless exclamation, but Trom said, "Just a Kabu, Grandmother. She's my friend." He reached past the slitherer and pulled out a coiled-up rope and a small rectangular object. "I noticed that Lord Jackson had two controllers, and he once lent the second one to Lord Tim. He returned it when Lord Jackson was away, and I was lighting the fire. So I took it. They'd never suspect that a Greenie can use one! So, when I was ready, I opened Lord Tim's window with the controller, passed the rope around the leg of his bed…"

   Ligla nodded her sensory pods to indicate her understanding of the foreign word.

   "…tossed both ends out, then climbed down. I pulled the rope after me and closed the window from outside. And last night, I hid in the mine and pretended to be a miner all day. Nobody knew me of course, the poor people are too tired after a day's work to socialise with us drudges. And I came in with them. When I want to go again, I can climb out of a window like last time. But for now, Grandmother, can you hide me until the shuttle comes back?"

   "You'll be safe here. But… but what can you do?

   These strange two-legged beings have us call them Master and Lord. In their own society, there is another name for them: criminal. That means someone who does things they are not supposed to. And there are special people to catch and punish criminals. I will talk to them."

   Ligla knew the meaning of 'punish'. Lord Hardy had used it, all too often.

***

   At last. Jackson watched the shuttle fall out of the sky and settle on the landing field. It seemed forever until the ramp descended, then eight figures walked down. He saw Henry turn and retract the ramp. Eight skimmers soon came into Jackson's field of view, no doubt called by whoever was the closest to the castle.

   Tomorrow, he and Hardy could go for a well-earned holiday.

   When the other nine came trooping into his room, Hardy was already waving an opened bottle around. They settled down to some serious drinking.

   He didn't know when the party had ended, or when and how he'd got to bed. Nor did he know what had woken him, at first. His head was splitting with pain, his vision was blurred and his mouth tasted like a latrine. Oh. I dreamed that the shuttle was taking off, he realized. That was the dream that had pulled him out of sleep.

   He staggered out of bed. He badly needed a drink, and saw a bottle on the window sill. There could be something left in it. He walked over, if his gait could be called walking, then his hangover was forgotten in his surprise: THE SHUTTLE WAS GONE!

   He found his com with fumbling fingers and eventually managed to wake the others.

   It was light by the time they were all together in his room, swearing at each other. Soon after the last one arrived, Jackson heard the roar of the shuttle. He glanced out the window, towards the landing field.

   Only, it was not their shuttle, but a bigger, more modern one. Its ramp descended, and what seemed like a small army emerged. They wore blue uniforms and carried weapons. The man in the lead took something from a bag, and Jackson saw his mouth move. Predictably, the distance link came to life. The face staring out of the screen was of a grim man, who grinned at them in a most frightening way. "My Lords," he said mockingly, "I am Detective Chief Inspector Calliway of the Regional Police. You are hereby under arrest for mass murder and a dozen lesser charges. Your tenure as Masters is over."