Anomalous Cargo - Chapter 9

[Fhg#1893]

"You're going to die if you don't get out of here." a voice whispered. Tred had experienced enough Split justice to know that this was likely. Then the voice seemed to be pressing something into his cracked and bruised fingers.

He was about to look down but the voice whispered sharply, "Don't look at it! Just keep eating. Do you know how to use a slug-thrower?" He grasped the heavy bundle and quickly concealed it his jumpsuit.

"No." he whispered back.

"Spast." said the voice quietly. "Have you ever used a lasgun?"

"Yes."

The voice spoke quickly now, "Okay. You aim like a lasgun. I don't have time to go into the finer details. There's two magazines there. Nine shots each. Slide one of the magazines up into the handle, and then pull the slide back to chamber a round. It'll click when you've got it right. Then just point and shoot, the feeding is automatic. Try to aim for the head. After nine shots you need to switch magazines. After the second magazine is gone, you're done for. Be careful, a slug-thrower makes a lot of noise. There's a ship docked for you at the auxiliary docking column. It's fast, but it has no weapons. You'll need to make a run for it out of Split space."

Tred's heart raced. He was about to ask how this mysterious stranger planned to escape this rocky hell, but it had disappeared just as suddenly as it had appeared. Tred looked around cautiously, but saw only the huddled masses of slaves trying to stomach small rations of foul-smelling rastar meat. The stranger had been right, if he didn't get out of here, he was going to die.

Tred Decker was no stranger to the inside or a Split prison cell, but by some miraculous twist of fate, the first time he'd been assigned to a scruffin farm. The work, while tedious and exhausting, it was not
particularly lethal. Ore-mining, which he'd drawn this time around, was widely regarded as the most dangerous assignment for a slave. The overseers were brutal in their administration of pain and suffering.
They often "made examples" out of slaves, even for minor incidents. And if the overseers didn't get you, there was always the endless stream of "accidents." And as if that wasn't bad enough, overseers frequently made "examples" out of anyone who didn't work fast enough. And fellow slaves could be just as deadly as hole in a spacesuit if someone rubbed them the wrong way.

Such was Split justice, brutal, deadly and unfortunately very slow. Suspects were presumed guilty until proven innocent, and so would be forced to work as slaves until such time as they could be brought before a patriarch. Most however, would meet some unfortunate end before they got that chance. If a being was unfortunate enough to be brought before a patriarch chances were good that they'd be horribly maimed or blinded, or otherwise disabled in some horrifying way. Sentences ranged anywhere from a set period of time being worked to death as a slave to being executed outright, which was considered a much more kind fate,
and so generally reserved for minor offenses. Major offenses, would put a being into slavery for the rest of its life, which was normally also very short, but much more tedious and painful. Of course, even if a being actually was found innocent, the magistrate would almost always sentence an innocent being to a period of slavery anyway, in order to recover the costs to the legal system. And since under Split law, a being forfeited all their possessions when first arrested, there was no way for a being to pay their debts without working as a slave, at least for some period of time.

His head ached with the dull throb of exhaustion. His fingers were stained with dirt, dust and his own blood. He guessed that he'd been in here for about a half a wozura now. He had been assigned to ore extraction, the most dangerous and difficult job on an ore mine. On an Argon ore-mine, it would have been handled by some sort of robot, but the Split seemed to prefer to use this job as an opportunity to weed out weaker slaves, since most would probably be injured by accidents, or succumb to the grueling work schedule. So far, he'd been lucky, but nobody would be able to endure much more of this. Slaves were accorded about five stauzuras for sleep, which was considerably less than an Argon ought to have. Tred hadn't quite determined the work rotation yet, but he was sure that soon he'd either be dead, or they'd move him to something else. That meant that he would have to make his move very soon. Since the work he was doing now was so dangerous, security was more lax than in other parts of the station. If he waited until they moved him, his chance might never come.

If Tred had any hope of experiencing freedom again, he'd have to risk breaking out of here. He cursed himself for allowing himself to be so careless. Getting hauled in for flying while doing spaceweed was so foolish, he could scarcely believe that he once had a reputation for delivering against all odds. Now, he only had a primitive slug-thrower and his survival instinct to help him in his quest for freedom. If the stranger
was telling the truth, he'd only have one chance. If Split blood was spilled, as it almost certainly would be, they wouldn't wait for an "accident" to get him. He only had to wait for his chance, and then hope that nothing would go wrong. He tried not to think about that. He would also have to avoid attracting the attention of any other slaves. They were very likely to sell him out in exchange for some privilege-maybe even a reduction in sentence.

When he got a few seconds alone, he unwrapped the bundle that the stranger had provided him. True to the stranger's word, the stranger had provided him with a primitive slug-thrower. It was black, cold, and mechanical. It didn't even use electricity for its operation. It was probably the only thing that the stranger had been able to get onto the station. A lasgun would have been detected by the station's internal sensors, but a slug-thrower wouldn't be noticed. But that wasn't very reassuring. Tred had only eighteen shots to escape. He could only hope that would be enough.

He wondered about this stranger. There was something odd about this situation, and he knew that he couldn't really trust his anonymous benefactor. Nobody just walked onto a Split mining station and just started handing out bundles with slug-throwers in them. Someone, or something had noticed him, and taken an uncomfortable interest in him. It gave him the chills, and worried him even more than this hell-hole. His emergency funds should still be intact, and so he resolved that, if by some good fortune he managed to escape, he would get himself disappeared again as soon as possible.

At the very least, Tred could resolve himself to his fate. Very soon he would either be free, or he would be dead. Either way was better than this.

[Syndrome]

Excellent, excellent! Are you a real author?

[Fhg#1893]

I used to want to be one. Still do. But no, I'm not a real author.

[Syndrome]

You certainly could/should be!

[SOTS]

Another excellent chapter. Starting to get quite jealous here lol

But seriously, keep it up! Tred's too jammy to die as a slave lol.

And @Syndrome: seconded.

[Hawk_308]

Ive been waiting for chapter 10 to comment ........ So you got it done yet

[Fhg#1893]

To all readers of my series, Anomalous Cargo:

Anomalous Cargo is NOT DEAD, I haven't abandoned the story, it will hopefully continue very soon.

Due to some rather pressing personal circumstances, I've had to take an extended hiatus from producing any more chapters, but Tred Decker's adventures are by no means over.

Stay tuned, something should be up within the next two weeks.

[collins50]

Thanks for letting us know whats happing.
Awaiting your next post.

[collins50]

It been a while sence you have posted a chapter,
hope you are well,
are you going to continue this story?