Jet heard the howling of the slaughterdog as he woke that morning. Its eerie rasping cry of rage and anguish broke through the dreams like a siren and Jet started awake, jerking in the bed and slamming his elbow into the concrete wall.

  He fell back into the rough sheets swearing quietly; not too loud. The heavy snores of his bunk-mates surrounded him and he dare not wake them. He allowed himself to sink back into the cool rustling cloth and listened; through the high, small window he heard the usual morning sounds. The sea breaking on the rocks, the chirruping of the sea snakes, the cries of massive flocks of birds heading to and from their breakfast. And the wind, always the fitful ever-changing wind whistling in the high places and the crags.

  Holding his breath, he listened until he heard it again; the angry howl of a trapped beast. Definitely a slaughterdog. Curious, Jet couldn’t get back to sleep although he probably had half an hour before the taskmaster would arrive. Instead of trying to snooze he slipped out of bed and pulled on his loin-belt, then as quietly as he could he left the long dorm.

  The concrete building where the slaves slept was at the very back of the resort property, where it butted up against a steep cliff. Here the packed dirt was cracked and littered with trash and only salt grass grew in sparse and weary clumps.

  Remnants of a bonfire from the night before still smoldered up against the vertical cliff face. This was their little corner of nowhere; the only place the slaves were allowed to relax.

  The sky was the color of steel and morning had not quite come, which meant the heavens were thick with stars. There was no other world in the galaxy like Banta for its sky; for the planet lay at the center of the dense Harath star cluster. Enormous, young supergiant stars filled the skies so densely and so brightly that night was twilight, and even in full daylight the enormous golden stars could be dimly seen.

  It was breathtaking. The great ghostly white gas giant Moorkoor filled a full quarter of the heavens, serene and featureless, hiding behind drifting veils of mists which rose up from the ground to water the planet. It did not rain on Banta, but every morning fogs spilled down from the high crags to cover the world in mystery.

  The ground was damp from the mists, but they had already begun to recede; they would be gone by dawn. Jet struck out quietly through the fog across the slave yard, jogging to the old half-broken gate which would lead him to the supply yards and loading docks. He used his ears as well as his nose to sense the area around him, wary of being caught, but he had little fear of it. No one was lazier than a slave except a slavemaster.

  He followed the sounds of whimpering and snarling until he smelled it; the stench of a predator, which automatically made his hackles rise and the scales on the backs of his legs and tail bristle. Taking deep breaths he slowly crept around great stacks of cargo, starship pallets which had arrived the night before and which now waited under tarps for the workforce to arrive. Coming to the final pallet he peered around the edge of it, and saw the beast in a great beast pen. It had been delivered in a vast cage just like the rest of the cargo.

  The beast stiffened immediately and looked at him. Tiny amber eyes in a hideous head, half hairy boar and half hippo, hairy and massive. It snarled at him and, touched by some ancient instinct, Jet tensed and only realized he was holding his breath a few fast heartbeats later.

  He clenched his jaw but did not move, staring it down from behind the pallet. There was nothing between himself and that beast but a wall of tensosteel mesh which looked about as reassuring as cheesecloth.

  It snarled, then yelped; a high-pitched, very specific sound which acted on Jet’s nerves with the precision of a doctor’s hammer. He jumped, then forced himself to relax. A warning and a promise; that it would destroy him if it could.

  Yah, it knew he was prey. It may have even noticed (slaughterdogs were unnervingly smart) that his wings were hobbled. But he smiled slowly; today the tables had turned. Humans came by the thousands to the shores of Banta’s tempestuous seas for two things: the excellence of the resorts, and to see a slaughterdog. Often to kill one. He was willing to put down money that this creature wouldn’t survive the week.

  Somewhere distant through the muffling fog he heard the slam of a door, the loud cheery note of a human voice greeting another.

  Everything in his body seized up and he felt the hard knots in his back muscles, from years of painfully hard labor, spasming from the stress. He ignored the slaughterdog. There was one predator in the galaxy a thousand times more dangerous…

  …Man.

  As swiftly as he dared, Jet hurried back to the slave dorm. The Taskmaster was coming a little early; probably because of the dog. They’d handled dozens like it, but every time moving a slaughterdog was dangerous and someone usually got hurt. Nor would it be the humans which ended up in triage.

  Compared to the others of his people, Jet was smaller and faster than most. That helped him as often as it plagued him; he was able to slip back through the yards and the creaky old gate, and dive into his concrete bed, nearly without a sound. He managed to not wake any of his dorm-mates, and had just pulled the rough sheets up around his pointed chin when the front door banged open and Taskmaster Lorin stomped in, his muddy boots getting their floor dirty.

  “Alright, everybody up and in the yard! Move! Come on, let’s go, last one out doesn’t get breakfast!” Lorin’s voice boomed and echoed in the concrete hall.

  That made them move. Fast. Lorin was a mean bastard, and he was serious.

  Jet gasped and darted a second time out of his bed, ignoring the fact that his sheet had gotten caught on one horn. He yanked his head free and heard it rip but couldn’t spare the trouble for it. All the other Bantans were bigger than him, meaner, and stronger; they shoved him back as they all poured out of their beds and stampeded for the big doors.

  Desperately as he was batted down again and again he saw that they intended to make him last by force; but Jet ducked between the door frame and two of the others as they got jammed and started to swat at each other. He made it out.

  Old Vorka didn’t. Looking back, Jet’s heart fell as he realized the old man of the crew had been last. Again. Slow and weary, Vorka was always falling behind. But he was Jet’s friend; he was kind and patient where the others were competitive and callous.

  Jet’s stomach twisted in guilt as he saw that Vorka hadn’t even tried to race everyone for the door, he just shuffled out with the same pained walk that he always used, barely able to lift his feet anymore. Nor did he look up. Before he’d even rolled out of bed he’d already accepted the fact that he wouldn’t be eating anything for the first half of his day.

  The old one noticed Jet’s pained look and smiled just a tiny bit at the corner of his mouth. Standing with Jet in the back of the crowd, he shook his head with a glance that said, ‘don’t worry about it boy.’

  Jet shifted his weight uncomfortably and started to plan a way to steal some food for Vorka.

  “Alright! Listen up!” barked Lorin, pacing slowly back and forth at the front of the crowd of looming, grumpy Bantan slaves. All of them were nearly twice as tall as the human, and a great many times his weight, but they dare not push forward or get too close to him. They gave the man space; respect here was enforced.

  “We have a busy day ahead of us! There’s two cargo-loads of supplies to put away first thing, and after that we’ve got three tour groups coming in. Resort’s going to be crowded. I want all of you moving at peak productivity!”

  A few impulsive groans escaped the sleepy crowd. It seemed like every day was another emergency, every day they had to work past their endurance just to keep up, and they probably wouldn’t. If they fell behind in their work, Lorin was known to withhold dinner, too.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  “Fuck,” grumbled Kor in Dudan, the trade language of the Batana. It was one that humans usually didn’t know, so the slaves found it safe to mutter in it between themselves.

  “Komo; I want you to take the first team. Break into four; I want two teams on the pallets, one on the yards, and one on custodial! The place is a mess! Move it!”

  Komo stepped forward as the human walked away without looking back. The huge dark brown Bantan was the Slave Lead, more or less Taskmaster Lorin’s assistant, and he did all of the real work. The only thing Lorin really did was walk around with a cup of coffee, yell at everyone, and give them more work off the top of his head just because he felt like it. They loathed him.

  Komo however they respected. He was smarter than Lorin, a lot calmer, and at least tried to work things out logically. He usually failed because the positions he ended up in were impossible, but they gave him honor for trying.

  When Komo opened his mouth, the booming voice which came out echoed off the cliffs overlooking the resort. He was one of the loudest Bantans, and considering the fact that the smallest of them was nine foot tall, that was saying something.

  “In your Teams! Red, Blue, Yellow, Green,” he pointed to four quarters of the blacktop and the slaves grudgingly shuffled themselves into position. Jet and Vorka moved to Green Team with the rest of the ‘defectives.’

  “Red and Blue, get on the yard. Yellow you’re on the dog. Green, get sweeping.”

  Jet rolled his eyes, not surprised. His Team usually dealt with trash and cleaning unless they needed extra hands for an unusually huge load of cargo or something. They were the catch-all Team, the extras, the least valuable slaves and least respected.

  Turning from the others, the group of the oldest, smallest, and most worn-out headed for the warehouse. They knew the drill; grab the brooms and the carts, head for the buildings.

  “Jet, Vor, get the cans,” said Yurn, their Team Lead.

  “Hey, it’s good luck,” muttered old Vorka in Dudan when they were out of earshot of the rest, “no toilets today! Maybe there’ll be something to eat.”

  Jet winced. For a Bantan to even think such a thing…! They were carnivores, predators, and anything left in a trash can would have been rotting there all night… the very thought turned his stomach. He countered with, “maybe there’ll be something dead on the beach.”

  The old man laughed at the ridiculousness of their situation. Their wings hobbled so they couldn’t fully open them, limiters on their legs so they couldn’t run, they were forced into the position of scrounging for carrion like a scavenger.

  One might wonder why they laughed. But it is times like this that humor is the most needed; when there is no freedom. When there is only pain. That is when the jokes are constant and all talk is lighthearted. They laughed together around the fires at night; they told stories. There was no other way to bear it.

  So began that day, as any other day. The slaves of the Owan Komar Resort hurried through their morning chores, always aware that more work awaited them than was really possible to do in one day. They’d try of course; they’d get most of it done, and that only by breaking their backs and cutting as many corners as possible before Lorin noticed. If they were unlucky, he’d punish them for it. If they were fortunate, they’d purchase one more precious day of peace with their blood and their sweat.

  None of them lagged. If they worked slow, they’d end up working all night long. Since they wanted at least an hour of rest before bed they always hustled. So the hours passed swiftly and the small orange sun rose; and before they were quite done with their morning rounds the claxon was going off for breakfast.

  All of them stowed their tools and their carts, threw the last trash bags into the compactor, and ran for the slave cafeteria. All of course except Vorka. He just sat down by the beach, on the dirty end by the cliffs where the resort stored half-junked hovertrucks, and stared at the frothing water.

  Jet was determined to steal him some food. As they entered the cafeteria he saw Taskmaster Lorin counting the slaves and making sure that old Vorka wasn’t among them. When the boss saw that the old man hadn’t even tried for the cafeteria, he nodded in satisfaction and almost smirked. As if it pleased him somehow.

  Jet tried not to stare at the human as he stood in line. How could he…? How could any sentient creature enjoy the fact that an old man, too slow to get out of his bed with the young ones, would go hungry for no other crime than the fact that he was just old?

  He did not make the mistake of assuming that all humans were like Lorin. He’d met his share of aliens; humans of course, Heranom, Kratz from the neighboring star system, the odd Nabandi or D’varek or even rarer and stranger folk. Most of their clients were human though, because humans ran things. They ended up with all the money and could afford to travel to another planet just to spend a week at a resort.

  Nor were all of the Taskmasters such louts. Jovaine was decent, Kelly was stupid but fair. It was only Lorin who was an absolute disgrace of a human being. Yet somehow it was such men that ended up in power and remained there the longest.

  The Bantans were given their portions. They all tried to ignore the fact that it wasn’t real meat. It was protein chunks, dyed red, and it pretty much tasted like the seaweed it was originally made from. But they pretended. It filled them up, even if it didn’t bleed.

  They ate in the yard; there were no chairs or tables for the slaves. Sitting on the blacktop or on the partially emptied pallets, or on crates, they wearily chewed through their portion. Jet wolfed his down as fast as he could without getting a sore stomach; he had to get back to work before the rest.

  “I wonder if this is what spacers eat?” Gagul asked.

  “Yah,” Kor answered in a low growl. “It’s what they eat. There’s no real meat up there.”

  “What’s it like?”

  Now Jet paused his hasty breakfasting, listening closely. So did everyone else. Kor was one of the few of them who had been to space… he’d been born there.

  “Cramped,” said Kor with disdain. “And it stinks.”

  The others were surprised. They urged him to elaborate, so he did.

  “You live in a box. A tiny box made for humans. Everything’s made for humans. It’s like living in a damned dollhouse. You have to duck to get through doors, it’s all child-sized.”

  “But what about the stars?” Demanded Kane.

  “What about them?” Kor scowled at him. “It’s like living under the ocean. You don’t go outside, there’s nothing outside. Literally nothing. There’s death outside. You don’t even look out, because…” here he hesitated, finding it difficult to describe. His jaw worked, and he took another huge bite of fake meat and chewed it a moment before he continued. “You don’t look outside because outside looks back.”

  “What do you mean?” they demanded.

  “Space… it’s like it’s… watching you. And it doesn’t want you there. It’s a place none of us were ever meant to go. You feel like you’re walking around in the domain of some god which never wanted you to be there, and is constantly scowling at you.” He frowned, finding this description inadequate, then shrugged and gave up. “I don’t know. I didn’t like it. I was glad when I was sold to the planet. We’re not meant to be out there. And you can’t fucking fly.”

  “We can’t fly now,” Gagul shrugged his wings, bound like the rest with a limiter.

  “Yah but you really can’t fly. There’s nowhere to fly; most of the time the holes you have to squeeze down are too small to even open your wings all the way.” He made a disgusted sound. “Even with the limiter, you can at least stretch.”

  The conversation turned after that, and Jet hurried to swallow his cheap simulation meat. But his mind remained on the stars. Since Jet was a child space had fascinated him. He’d daydreamed of going to the stars every night as a boy, laying under his window gazing at the brilliant heavens of Banta, watching the odd gleam rising or falling, the flare of starships coming and going from orbit.

  When he was done he got up and grabbed his janitorial cart, heading for the back of the cafeteria to deal with its trash; nobody commented. Nobody even looked. Everyone was always hustling in an attempt to just get a little time to rest at the end of the day. Rest, for a slave, was more precious than pay could ever be.

  That morning, Jet had purposefully directed Vorka away from the cafeteria trash and had forced him to leave it until last. That made the cafeteria workers mad and they shouted at him when he finally came for their cans… but it also meant the cans were full.

  Full of fresh stuff.

  Most of it was worthless garbage like vegetables, greasy paper, and wrappers of course… but his nose told him which cans contained treasures. The ones with useless trash he emptied into the compactor but the ones that were interesting he nonchalantly took behind the warehouse as if he was cleaning the bins.

  Which he did. But only after he had dug through the fresh kitchen trash finding all the meat scraps, and stuffing them into a bag.

  When he’d amassed a respectable amount of protein, and before the other slaves had quite finished their break (they dawdled as long as possible which worked to his advantage), Jet left the warehouse and, cautiously and swiftly, crossed the yards keeping out of sight of the Task House. Lorin was probably in there at his computer desk chatting with the bosses or the Resort management… he tended to ignore the crew unless he felt bored enough to come harass them.

  He made it to the beach without being spotted, and sat down by Vorka out of breath but grinning. With triumph he produced the bulging sack of meaty bits.

  Old Vorka’s nose worked, and he raised his eyebrow ridges. “Here now, what’s this? Fool boy you’re going to get into trouble…!” But despite his chiding, he reached for it eagerly.

  They shared the scraps, most of which were fat or less appetizing parts, but it was all real meat. How ironic that humans, omnivores which had to cook (and thereby ruin) their meat, were the only ones who got the real stuff.

  Jet made sure that old Vorka got all the best pieces. When they were done they buried the rest above the waterline, then hurried back to work and were at their carts before the rest of the crew.

  “Yore a good boy,” muttered old Vorka. “And a good smuggler.” He winked and they chuckled.

  The word ‘smuggler’ stuck with Jet. For the rest of the day he couldn’t help but remember the daydreams of his boyhood… to go to the stars and to become a pirate.