Flux

he found it hard to concentrate on the words—the print seemed to squirm and crawl like insects—so eventually he gave up and tucked the book away. He briefly considered bringing out his drawing things, but then his jaw nearly unhinged itself with an enormous yawn and he lay down, inhaling the scents of Ennek and himself as he drifted off to sleep.
    He was awakened by pounding footsteps and rough shouts. It must be the storm, he thought sleepily, not as alarmed as he might have been. Perhaps the effects of the tea still lingered. But then it occurred to him that if they were caught in a storm, he would surely feel it; and now all he felt was the normal pitch and sway of the sea, a more or less gentle motion that seemed to have settled permanently in his body.
    Miner scrambled inelegantly to his feet, getting tangled up in the bedclothes as he did, and then simply stood there, rocking slightly, his heart beating so rapidly it was difficult to hear anything but the blood rushing in his ears. But he did hear things: more footsteps, several thundering crashes, frantic yelling, and one piercing scream.
    Miner had learned to fight when he was young. His father had taught him basic swordsmanship when Miner was barely old enough to hold a weapon; it was assumed by all that Miner, like his father and his father’s father, would join the Guard when he reached adulthood. Of course he had, and although he never became a stellar fighter, he managed well enough with a variety of weapons and even with his bare hands. But that had been so long ago—over thirty decades!—and Miner wasn’t the same man he had been then. The last time he had wielded a weapon was when, overcome with rage and stupid grief, he had tried to assassinate the Chief, the father of his dead lover, Camens. The Chief had survived and Miner had been punished, and now he was weak and scared and unarmed.
    So he simply crouched in his hiding space uncertainly, much like the Mouse in the story he’d read the night before. But the Mouse had been eaten by the Cat, and now loud voices resounded in the passageway outside Miner’s room. The voices were calling to one another in a language he didn’t recognize, something guttural and consonant-rich. Miner looked around the small cabin frantically, searching for something he might use to defend himself.
    But before he could think coherently, the door crashed open. Two men came crowding through the opening. They were tall and wiry and wild-eyed, with dark beards tied up in knots and strange, colorful clothing. They carried swords and they looked surprised to see him.
    One of them, the one with the billowy scarlet shirt, shouted something unintelligible at Miner.
    Miner stood as straight as the low ceiling permitted and tried not to appear terrified. “I don’t understand you,” he said. It was the first time he had spoken to anyone but Miner or Thelius in 300 years.
    The man growled something at his companion, who jabbered excitedly back. They both looked at Miner again, this time more slowly, and their lips curled up into smiles as they focused on Miner’s neck above the blue-green sweater he wore: at the heavy slave collar, permanently attached.
    “Come here!” demanded the shorter of the two men, whose shirt had broad vertical stripes of emerald and gold. His accent was very thick.
    Miner took a step backward, which meant he was pressed up against the wall. “Bugger off,” he said. And then, because he felt like he had nothing to lose at this point, and because he was horrified to think about what had become of his lover, he yelled, “Ennek!!” But there was no answer. Miner ducked and tried to slip past them, knowing it was hopeless but preferring a quick death to the alternatives. But these men were well practiced at such maneuvers, it seemed. The red-shirted one slashed at Miner’s upper arm, not very deeply but enough to hurt, causing Miner to instinctively duck away. And when he did so, the man in the striped shirt was there to catch him, dropping his sword so that he could hold Miner’s arms behind his body. Miner squirmed and kicked. He had a moment of savage glee when his bare foot connected with Red Shirt’s groin and the man grunted in pain and doubled over. But then Stripes locked a strong arm around Miner’s neck, choking him, and Red Shirt recovered enough to stick the tip of his blade directly underneath Miner’s left eye.
    “No move!” said Stripes, letting go of Miner’s neck.