Phoenix: Paying the Devil Part 4

For all the stars in the Empire don't fall in love with your chains.

Nesma had to push her hoverbike behind a stone, leaving her duster on it. It would only get in the way. She tossed the bag over her shoulder, dashing for the complex, knowing Zisbuz was already on the grounds planting the bombs. His training was serving him well tonight.

                She got over the wall quickly, using the cloak of the night to stay hidden, out of sight of the guards and the lights. She had to get to the slave houses get some of the stronger ones the weapons to kick off the fight before the bombs go off.

                The guards were tired from being worked all day longer than the slaves in the fields, causing them to make mistakes. It had been a foolish move on the Duke’s side. He tired out the people trying to keep him alive. He wasn’t a man who allowed any of his men to take breaks on the job.

                Nesma moved from shadow to shadow, letting her eyes work in the dark. The swinging lights from the towers weren’t getting close to her. Is he trying to die? Almost all the security was on the plantation was half done, hasty put up, or, knowing the Duke and his ego, he never believed anyone would come looking for him. He believed in his hubris he had covered all his tracks, but he would quickly find out he didn’t do that great of a job.

                She kneeled next to one of the poorly built sheds of the slaves, hearing a few of them coughing from the other side. She looked for the hall at the center of all slave’s burg where the elders slept. She watched a few of the youngest slaves stumble out of their huts, heading deeper into the group of buildings.

                Nesma followed them like their shadows leading her to the hall; a late meeting was being called.

                The hall had been nothing more than three huts put together with rotten wood and rusted metal doors. If it rained in this God awful place, then the whole roof would leak. The sandstorm beat against the walls was threatening to bring them down on anyone inside.

                The door to the hall open to a weak pool of light from the candles before closing again and Nesma stopped next to the door, taking a deep breath. She hated facing slaves, no matter their race. It reminded her too much of her hell before getting free.

                The nights of being raped.

                The hours of being made to dance for her masters.

                The terror of those masters who were kind to her, taking care of her, and giving her sweets. Those masters would treat her like a person before having sex with her. Even afterward, they were gentle and loving the best way they could be, but she always kept the hate of them in her heart. She couldn’t fall in love with her chains.

                Many slaves found a sincere devotion to those chains.

                Nesma stepped into the hall, being met by a wave of sweat, dirt, and blood attacking her nose. She looked over all the broken Kmoik and half breeds, some of them missing eyes, most of them cleaning wounds from the hard whips, and now, a few of the stronger ones standing up to stare at her. All of them wore the collars around their necks and wrists digging into their skin, the mark of a slave.

                “Who are you stranger,” an old Kmoik with a broken face pushed his way between the youngest of his slaves.

                “A friend,” Nesma said almost to a whisper. She held back tears; you can’t, you can’t do this. She had seen these kinds of slaves before in old life. She had taken care of them before they die of exhaustion. It broke her heart every time. This old slave standing in front of her would soon be dead if nothing would change.        

                “We have no friends,” the elder said.

                Nesma kept her hat hiding her eyes, afraid there were pools of tears building in them. She tossed the bag in the center of the room, letting a few of the guns fall out. Everyone gasped, not sure what to do and turning back to Nesma.

                “I am a friend who is trying to free you,” Nesma said.

                “We can’t be free,” the elder said. “If we pick up these weapons, we forfeit our lives.”

                “Not if you fight back,” Nesma said.

                The elder laughed. “Even if we killed the Duke, we will be haunted by the Empire.”

                Nesma smirked, “Not here in the Outer Ring; no one cares.”

                The elder shook. “You do not know what you are speaking of, stranger.”

                Nesma took a step forward, lifting her head to show her neck, where the black scar rested on her snowy blue skin. Everyone gasped as she lowed her head again and said, “I’m finishing my job tonight. I need your help, but he is dying one way or another.”

                Everyone started to look between each other.

                The elder stared hard at her, “And if you fail.”

                “I don’t fail,” Nesma smirk. “I got in here, I can get into his house, and I’ll get out.” She pointed at the guns. “Here are the keys to your chains. I don’t need all of you to fight, just some of you.”

                “Nesma bombs are ready,” Zisbuz whispered into her ear.

                The younger ones moved toward the weapons but stopped when the elder glared at them.

                “Father let us do this,” the youngest man said, standing beside him. “For mom.”

                “Come on, old man,” Nesma said, “do you want to die with chains on your wrists or die free?”

                “How do we know when to attack?” the elder asked, making her smile.

                “You will know the sighs,” Nesma said, opening the door, “just be ready.” She faded back into the dark, heading for the starship far away from the slaves hoping they would pick up the guns and not warn their masters. She prayed none of those old slaves were in love with their chains.

Author's Note

If you had made it this far, then I appreciate it, and before you start to tear my work apart (which doesn’t bother me too much), let me explain something. The most common critique I see is about my spelling and grammar. It is an understandable critique, and I do not blame you for pointing it out. After all, spelling and grammar are the tools in which we use to craft our work, like a paintbrush or a chisel. The artist must know how to use these tools well, but like an artist who has a tremble in their hand's somethings will never be perfect.
My tremble in my hand is caused by my dyslexia. It is something, no matter how much I learn, study, or works on, it will never go away. It is the reason you will find a good bit of spelling and grammar mistakes in my work. I ask you to keep this fact when you are about to write your critique.
Also, I feel the need to point this out, this website is like a journal for me. A messy journal I used to work out problems in my stories or to simply warm up before digging into my novels. I do not hire an editor for the work here. I do not spend hours and days pouring over these stories to make them perfect, that energy is saved for the project I plan on taking to market. Everything on this website is my world-building exercise or sketches for other projects.
I do hope you enjoy my work, but this website is not a publishing house for me, and it shouldn’t be for you either. Something to keep in mind as you write your critique.