Slave

Our narrator starts his journey.

To catch a ship in the void is an exercise in patience. On this day our own ship, the Sæsteorra which means Guide Star, floated silently like a predator in a dark sea. Our prey did the same. They did not dare to run active sensors for fear of revealing themselves, so they did not know we were there. Both ships ran under no thrust, trusting to the powers of gravity as they orbit about the central star - a sad, dim, red thing - to deliver them. But unlike our prey, the Sæsteorra had been waiting. The Gateway that connects star systems can only be in one place, and we were watching for engine flare as they started their journey. There are only so many destinations, and only so many ways to get there. Traders are cheap. If they run a slave ship, they will choose the route to the next Gateway that uses the least fuel. If they must feed their crew properly they will choose a fast route, under power if they feel the luck of the gods to be on their side. This one traveled slow.

The image of the cylindrical vessel grew steadily on our screen as we approached. It was a dull gray, little more than a shadow. The boarding party watched, as we had for the last hour. The year was 527 and I was sixteen years of age by the reckoning of my home world. This would be my third boarding since joining the crew of the Sæsteorra. It was not a pretty ship, nor a new one. It had been built generations before on an unknown world by unknown hands, and much could be repaired. But it was a home and they welcomed me, providing I earned my air. My hope was to prove myself in battle, to earn my place among the gods in the afterlife. 

I was not dressed as a warrior this day, but as a pirate. My boots were heavy, their magnets unreliable. My lower half had no armor, only simple pants. The shipmaster had provided a vest and a helmet, both with breaks where a weapon had clearly dispatched the previous owner. But I had what I needed. I held to the cold carbon grip of my energy weapon, a medium range lance which was called Dracarípr. It had come with me from home, as did the blade on the back of my hip. The bravest warriors could kill with the blade which would cut through energy shields with ease, and their place in the afterlife would be assured. But we did not wear energy shields, and doubtless our enemies would not. I was not dressed as a warrior, for we were not warriors.

The screen lit with a bright flare, which settled down to a blue glow. Our prey had caught sight of us and ignited their engines, firing plasma into the void. Our Shipmaster had been ready, and we felt the sudden push as our own engines matched, then exceeded, theirs. The Sæsteorra left much to be desired, but could accelerate from a cold start faster than most anything else. The distance shrank between us and we prepared for battle. The man next to me, Orvyn, asked if I was ready. He had been a friend the last months and I liked him well. He was quick to laugh and quick to share. He called me Haldorr, as I was known at the time, though my real name is  Marcus son of Gallus. Names from the Old Kingdom raised questions I did not wish to answer.

These days I do not remember the names of the people I once knew. Orvyn was a friend, but the others were only faces. I do not remember days and nights with loved ones that I wish to recall. But I remember seeing the ship on that screen grow until we were next to it. I remember hearing my own heart racing as I sealed the breather mask. I remember the mumbling of prayers by those around me, and the sweat that had begun to drip past my eyes. The battle fever had begun. The Shipmaster and Crewmaster spoke on the intercom, announcing that the boarding would begin as though we did not already sense that. It was odd for the Crewmaster to remain on the bridge, but I did not think of it at the time.

With a sudden and jarring movement, we slammed into the trade ship. Outside, beyond the metal panels that made up the walls of our home in the darkness, our harpoons had dug into the enemy's hull. We had made contact. A loud screeching sound made its way through the thick double doors as Sæsteorra's boarding weapons cut into the enemy's ship, forcing a door. We could see none of this but knew it well enough. A sharp explosion marked the final step, pushing metal and wire and anything else left out of our way. Our own door opened and we raised our weapons and we rushed through to glory or to death.

The room we entered was dark, but my eyes adjusted quickly. It was a cargo hold. Trade ships were made mostly of cargo holds, especially on the outside, while crew quarters were in the middle. Crates were spread through the very large bay in a random fashion, piled and held under netting. Light panels on the ceiling and wall providing hardly enough light to see.  And we were not alone. 

There were a dozen of raiders that day. Our leader, Edla, was first through as was tradition. One can only lead from the front. She looked a fearsome sight, clad in articulated black plating. Her armor bore scars from many battles fought, all battles she had walked away from. I had never asked where that armor came from, or the small weapon with its rapidly firing plasma charges. Those were the armaments of the strongest warriors, and the fight it came from must have left many friends on the field. I do not doubt that Edla had many stories and much wisdom, but I will never know what she might have said had we been given more time.

We approached in pairs, carefully keeping to the crates as protection against attacks. No defenders of riches had appeared, but we heard noise and saw movement ahead. By this time half of us had made our way into the cargo hold. The other half waited in reserve, watching. 

The sounds and movement ahead belonged to crew members. Maybe three with small weapons, four unarmed. The weapons were quickly dropped. Altogether they raised their hands before them, some fallen to their knees, terrified. The Shipmaster must have sealed this room on realizing where we were boarding, and these poor workers were left to their fate. The surrendering crew members yammered in a language none of us understood. I do not know to what gods they prayed as our lances fired, taking them to whatever world awaits. They should not have dropped their weapons and I hope they were brave in their lives and can be forgiven.

My fellow raiders cheered as though they had won a great victory and began to sweep the area. Slaughter makes people bold, and those who had not entered the trader's ship came aboard. The hold measured perhaps forty meters to a side. The shipmaster had decided to sacrifice it in hopes we would leave. Our first goal was to secure this cargo, and begin transporting it to our own ship. Then we would see if the lust for battle had left us, or if we would push further through. There was not much freight here, it seemed nearly empty for its size and so we would probably demand more.

All of this ran through my head as a sound quickly dashed those thoughts. It was Orvyn, screaming. He had come through with me, near the front, but remained in the back as we swept the area and now he was at the breach where we had come through. The door onboard our own ship had shut. We had become trapped, and Orvyn was on the radio trying to reach our shipmaster to discover why. But he did not need to bother. I knew why.

The cargo bay was not empty. We were to be the cargo. Our own Shipmaster had betrayed us and we knew this as the Sæsteorra released its harpoons and began to move away, undoubtedly after some goods or credits had been transferred. The workers we had killed were a ploy to make us confident, to make us move deep into the cargo hold and leave the safety of our own ship.

And that is how I, Marcus son of Gallus, became a slave.