Teum is running out of patience, “Come on Malo, we’ve been working on this for three days now. Nobody said this would be easy, you have to keep trying.”
“I’d like too but between all the threads and the constant droning of that voice I can’t concentrate. And for the record, I heal fast but slamming into tree’s, rocks, and the ground still hurts.”
“Of course it hurts, that’s why I keep telling you to fall up and stop trying to fast travel on the ground. You can swerve and bob all you like up there and not get hurt.”
“Like that hasn’t been tried. What do you think I was trying to do?”
Teum shakes his head, “Honestly, from where I’m standing it doesn’t look like you’re trying at all.”
Malo sits down in the small crater he just made with his last crash, “Tell me again, how you visual time.”
“Ok, I’ll tell you again. It feels like I’m floating on a river, being carried by the current. It’s just deep enough that I can only feel the bottom with my toes. I can drag my feet along the bottom to slow my progress, that’s when my falling direction is altered. I picture myself diverting some of the river flow with my hand. I can divert some of the flow to a side or down or let it ride up over my hand to control my direction of fall. The harder I dig into the bottom with my feet, the faster I go.”
“Wow, I wish it appeared in my mind that simply.”
“Malo, you’re making this more complicated than it is. Describe those threads to me again.”
“My sense of time isn’t a river or flowing current at all. Time is made up of threads that extend from the beginning to the end. We are the ones moving, not the threads. And I don’t have one thread, there’s a thread for each part of me.”
“I never asked you how many… how many threads do you have?”
“One for each part… you know each piece of matter. I couldn’t begin to count them. And like I said before everything, has its own thread.”
Teum hits on an idea, “Wait, can you see my threads?”
“Sure. What of it?”
“What does it look like when I do this?”
Teum uses his spirit to drag his toes along the bottom of his metaphoric time-river and diverts the building pressure to rise at a 45-degree angle a few yards before dropping back to the ground.
“Your threads were pushed out of alignment with the rest. All of them together as one. I’ve been watching you in the hopes of figuring out why I can’t seem to get a grip on all my threads.”
“I see the problem; you’re making this too hard. Just because you can see all of these threads, that doesn’t mean you have to manipulate them all. I just realized that you are not visualizing anything. You are looking at the actual threads of time. You need to stop trying to grab those and visualize a single… we’ll call it a master thread; one that the others follow. Stop looking directly at the flow and use that imagination of yours.”
“A master thread, that the others follow. Right, I can try that. The voice in my head is telling me this is the stupidest thing she’s ever heard. I will kill myself trying and she would be grateful if I did that.”
Teum jokes, “That one sounds kinda lame to me.”
“Yeah, I bet she won’t get another shift.
“Hey, voice don’t take it so personally.
“Teum, this is getting weirder every day. The voice is begging me to take my life so she can live.”
“Give me a second to get my spirit-chorus going again. I wish it wouldn’t fade out after a few minutes.”
“Let’s get you in the air and we can work on that problem next.”
Malo hums and wills his spirit to do the same, the voice pleads to be listened to as it fades into the background. Doing this is similar to meditation he thinks and decides to stay in this state while he visualizes his master thread.
A change of perspective is needed. Malo imagines that the threads have an orientation in space, which they don’t but he’s going to stop looking at them for reference and use his imagination for this attempt.
He pictures in his mind a thick golden thread running through the center of his real threads and it extends up and down, he is sliding down the thread to mark the passage of time. Since he’s the one moving, he wills himself to slow down and slide up instead.
For a moment he feels weightless, before the sensation that he’s standing on his head takes over. He slows his rise until the feeling of weightlessness returns and holds himself there. A tremendous amount of pressure is building up around him, he takes that pressure and stores it in his hold.
Opening his eyes he sees that he has risen around ten yards straight up and is floating.
Teum wide eyed yells, “It’s not exactly flying, but I think you’ll get there. Now can you come down here and explain how you are doing the impossible?”
Somewhere in the Blood Empire
He has been away for close to a week. He left a subordinate in charge of the Pilot attached to Malo’s brain stem. All he had to do was torture the boy with an unending dialogue of degradation. The man in his efficient manor created a schedule and utilized a dozen of his most twisted playthings to speak to the runt.
Returning to find that two thirds of the man’s staff had to be killed because they learned of Greta’s betrayal was something he had not foreseen. Unmoved, by the loss, he gives the order to cease this campaign and re-takes the Pilots control. Then as an afterthought he orders each of the people that spoke to Malo to kill themselves in case they inadvertently learned any other forbidden knowledge.
Retaking control he looks through the runt’s eyes and is mildly surprised to see he is falling along a coastline. He is mastering his gifts swiftly considering his genetics.
He continues to watch through Malo’s eyes as he heads to Anapa to check on the fleet’s progress.
The Return is happening, that was inevitable. Their delaying tactics were never expected to work forever. Considering how close humanity had been six thousand years ago, the Free’er was pleased with his performance up until now. The final step is to supply the Free’er with an army to fight alongside his dragon.
The Empire of Blood’s navy, built from millions of sacrifices will be unstoppable.
City of Anapa, Capital of the Blood Empire
Reccy was squatting alone, as alone as you can be when you’ve been forced to live in a pen like a farm animal with hundreds of other women. Her first contraction has come, she will give birth soon. So will dozens more, the labored breathing of woman in various stages of childbirth fill the air.
The occasional cry of a baby taking its first breath can be heard almost once a minute now. A sound that once brought joy to every mother’s heart is now a dagger that cuts away at their will to live.
They’re not supposed to mind what happens to the babies, each of them born too soon, skin grey, eyes dull, crawling and attacking others within a day of being born. They would be shunned if brought home, there’s no place in civilized society for the Lost Children of humanity.
This is Reccy’s third time in 20-years to be forced to endure the pits, her husband has accompanied her each time and endured the same conditions until his contribution was completed. After conception the men are fed well enough to perform manual labor and are relocated to barracks. By day they are pressed into work crews, building monuments, roads, or ships.
Reccy has lived in this pit now for six months, the first 90 days were filled with daily beatings. Bright lights and loud noises throughout the night deprive them of rest. Meals are just enough food and water to subsist, triggering extreme weight loss and a reduction in muscle mass. Their bodies and minds are constantly in a state of distress.
The men are put through the same ordeal, until an official of the Blood Empire deems the conditions are right and the husbands and wives are reunited. They drive the men into the same pit as the women and make the couples consummate their reunion on the ground like animals in open view of the hundreds of other couples.
When united the couples usually just hold each other until dark. Then one by one they perform their duty to the Empire. That night earned this place the name The Pits of Tears.
After conception the women are not allowed to leave, less some harm comes to the child they bear. Left in the pits, where the whole process started, until they can pay the exit toll. The daily torture stops and the food and water rations are increased enough to keep the pregnancy sustainable, but not comfortable enough to produce anything but a Lost Child.
With nothing to do the women attempt to stay civil, an impossible task under these conditions. Fights are quickly quelled or else a pregnancy could be terminated. If found responsible for aborting a baby you are charged with replacing it by staying another six months in the pits. Without your husband, you are left to beg to be fertilized by a man from the next group of lottery winners. After enduring months of empty days that go on forever the early days of daily torture almost sound preferrable.
Reccy must move soon or it will be too late. She’s given two babies over to the empire, she was 13 when she first paid that exit toll. Naively thinking she was doing her part for the empire. On her second internment in the pits, she was 27 and saw the empire in a less than ideal light. Having witnessed the corruption and cruelty of those with power she understood she was a mere commodity, used to increase their power and quell their blood lust.
This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.
She hated everything about the lottery, the empire, and she hated the emperor the most. When her lot was called this third time, she started planning. Her husband was against it at first, not for the sake of the empire, purely out of concern for her safety. Once she made it clear she was going ahead with her plan with or with him, he came around and agreed to join her little rebellion.
There are woman walking everywhere, trying to speed up delivery, and gain their ticket to pay the exit toll. Reccy is just one more desperate laboring woman.
Collectors are circulating through the crowd of laboring women. Their bright red full-length dresses strike a stark contrast to the dingy, once-white short birthing gowns worn by the lottery winners. They swoop down and comfort any woman holding a crying baby.
Once a collector has a woman and child in hand, they help the woman up the ramp to the toll booth. That’s where they pay to leave by handing over their contribution to the Blood Empire’s Navy.
She’s halfway around the pit, a collector is eyeing her, she gives a weak smile to show compliance and continues her waddling circumnavigation of every woman’s nightmare.
Her goal is to pass through the gate that connects the woman’s pit to the now unoccupied men’s pit. It’s the only exit besides walking the tollway, and that can only be done accompanied by a collector.
This is the biggest risk she’ll have to take. A collector or any other woman could spot her opening and passing through that gate and raise an alarm. That’s why she’s made the area in front of the gate hers. She’s used her experience at surviving this ordeal twice to mentor the women that settled around her.
Reaching her spot, she assesses her little circle of unknowing accomplices.
Reccy greets them with the same question as always, “How far along are we?”
“No better than before, we’ve all had at least one contraction, how about you Ten?”
Responding to her nickname Ten is as natural as her given name. She advised the woman to not use real names in the pits. What happens in the pits stays in the pits. It will help them segregate this experience from their real life. It will also benefit the women when the collectors come asking about the whereabouts of a woman named Reccy. Further throwing off the hunt, she had streaked her hair with yellow dye, making her blue hair appear green.
During intake she was Reccy of Bellburger with green hair. After washing and trading in her clothes for the birthing gown, she was a woman named Ten from Springfield with blue hair. She encouraged the others to choose a number for their identities and they took to it like it was a game.
Reccy takes her usual position facing the gate, her fold of women turn to face her, “Who here has had more than a single contraction”
Twelve and Nineteen raise their hands.
“Good job, ladies. The rest of you need to get walking. There have been dozens of women escorted up the ramp and reunited with their husbands. We don’t want to be the last ones out of here, now do we?”
Four, Eight, and Forty all respond with a contraction and give a little cheer.
“Come on, let’s get to walking.”
Her six accomplices all start walking. Since it’s impossible to move anywhere without tripping over a laboring or similarly moving woman the group all move in a very rough single file line. After two laps even Reccy has had her second contraction, but unlike the others, she wants to delay her birth for as long as possible.
“You women keep walking. I’m cramping bad and need to rest.”
Twelve and Nineteen stay with her, as their water broke on the last lap and it’s time for them to start pushing.
Reccy gets them in position with their backs to the gate and waits for the return of Three, Four, Eight, and Forty to return. When they arrive, they take up their places like the others and squat down and wait for their now high frequency contractions so they can push.
This is the optimal time to make her move. Now she needs to note where the Collectors are looking.
“My cramps are gone, but don’t think you’ll give birth before me, this will be my sixth delivery. It will go fast,” she lied.
Back on her feet she walks behind the group and rubs their backs to comfort them through their exertions. Other than this being a public place, birthing a Lost Child like this is no different than a regular baby at home.
Nineteen screams, “It’s coming!” and with a final push her little grey baby slips to the floor and begins growling.
A Collector is at her side in an instant. Reccy stares at her intensely, noting which of her vulnerable spots are open to an attack.
She never used to think this way, this being her fifth pregnancy, three of them in the pits she has noticed that her body is influenced by the life growing inside her. It must be the War Born physiology mixing with hers, it’s been activating knowledge and skills she would not have unlocked otherwise.
She’s certain that she not only knows some extensive combat techniques but she also has been granted the muscle memories to use them like a master.
Looking at potential opponents her mind floods with a stream of data, telling her where, when, and how to cripple or kill them. The empire’s Collector’s all trigger these events.
“You have done well coaching this group; it has not gone unnoticed. The empire appreciates your service. What is your name?”
Not good, not good, “I’m called Ten.”
The collector makes a face as she does not recall that name immediately, but there are two hundred and twelve women in this litter. It might be an abbreviation. No matter, she’s already been praised and that’s all she will get for her efforts.
Nineteen has her ticket to pay the toll in her arms and allows him to latch to a breast and feed.
The collector assists Nineteen to her feet and escorts her up the tollway.
“That’s good, one down and five to go.”
Forty asks, “You mean six, don’t you?”
“Yes of course, I forget to include myself when thinking of our fun little club. How long since your last contraction?”
“It’s been two minutes and I feel another coming on.”
Reccy walks around the group and gives them encouragement before once more slipping behind them. A quick scan of the crowd and she sees no red dresses with their heads up.
The latch is in her hand, she raises it, there’s a little squeak.
She opens the gate and ducks inside and carefully closes it. She looks up to see if she’s been spotted and nobody seems to have noticed.
She turns and scuffles awkwardly down the dark corridor hoping her husband’s description of the men’s pit is accurate.
The tunnel connecting the pits is no more than forty yards, on the far end is a gate the same as the one on the woman’s pit.
She shouldn’t be surprised by the lack of locks; the empire demands absolute obedience. Her actions of the last few minutes will have her condemned to death. Escaping the pits is one of many hurdles she’ll face today, probably the simplest.
Reccy is halfway across the open pit, heading straight for the ramp leading to freedom when a voice destroys all her hopes.
“We leave the gates unlocked because we set guards. Do you think you’re the first lottery winner to try stealing from the empire?”
Standing at the base of the ramp is a woman in a long red dress. A target assessment reveals the predictable weaknesses. The collector is standing in a basic combat stance but doing so poorly. She’s off center and leaving her left knee vulnerable.
Reccy doesn’t understand how she suddenly knows these things and can only contribute it to the child she’s carrying. That feels fitting, she’s doing this for him. If he can lend her support their bond will be strong.
Reccy challenges, “You wouldn’t dare risk harming this baby, the empire needs it.”
“I could cut the baby out of you and leave your corpse here for the next group of men to find or beat you senseless and terminate your baby and leave you here for the next group of men to breed. Either way I get my Lost Child.”
Reccy has continued toward the collector while they exchange banter, “How about you try, and I beat you senseless and left for the men to find.”
“Breeder, how many fights have you been in?”
“You’re going to be my first. How many fights have you been in?”
“Hundreds.”
Ignoring the contraction squeezing her uterus, through a grimacing smirk, “How many were against War Bearers?”
Reccy threw the term War Bearer out to sound intimidating, not expecting it to be an unknown term locked away in their shared inheritance of knowledge. Now, both women become aware of it simultaneously.
Reccy’s morale is bolstered, the collector is alarmed.
No longer waddling Reccy’s last few steps are precise and lightning fast. Rage powering her every action, she decisively snaps a kick below the collector’s open knee, breaking the woman’s fibula cleanly.
The collector’s cry out in pain is stifled by a second attack, an open-handed chop to the throat.
Reccy grabs the collector’s face and drives her head into the stone ramp using her falling momentum and her added body weight.
Squeezing the collector’s neck while listening for an alarm, she counts three hundred of her own heartbeats before checking the woman for a pulse. Finding none, she moves on to her second obstacle, finding clothes.
Stripping off the red dress reveals the woman’s street clothes beneath. She suspected these women must have other jobs, since they only work as collectors for the 48-hour window when the majority of children arrive.
Attempting to pull the dead woman’s pants over her swollen belly proves impossible. The shirt fares no better.
Tactical improvisation is something she never considered, now she finds herself taking an inventory of all items at hand. Going through the dead woman’s pockets reveals a comb and a change purse with some coins. A locket, inside contains a picture of a man and a child. Running her hands through the woman’s hair turns up two hair clips.
She lays the items on the ground and a plan forms.
Her abdomen tightens as another contraction squeezes her insides. She must hold out a little bit longer.
The hair clips are metal, not especially sharp but grinding one against the stone floor gives it enough of an edge to cut threads.
The dress is made of two sections sewn together; the skirt once cut away from the blouse will fit over her extended stomach.
Pulling it over her shift, she looks like she’s wearing a dirty shirt with a tattered skirt. She’ll be marked immediately as a beggar; it will have to do.
Her swollen feet barely fit in the woman’s shoes, but this outfit will be enough to reach her next obstacle.
She puts the two hair clips to use in her own hair, pockets the change and leaves the locket.
Walking with confidence she barely feels, Reccy heads up the ramp into broad daylight in the center of Anapa, the capital city of the Blood Empire, having just committed multiple acts of treason.
Her husband Sarich will be waiting for her in a prearranged coffeehouse in the west barrio. Her next challenge is to reach it.
Another contraction and her water breaks. There are people all around, none are looking at her. She checks the sun and starts walking west.
It’s a twenty-minute walk if her memory of the capital holds. They went to this same coffeehouse upon the other two occasions they found themselves in the capital. That first real meal in six months is the only pleasant memory she has of this nightmare city.
No alarm sounds but something changed. People started getting off of the streets and traffic all but disappeared. The unmistakable rumble of chariots filled the air as centurions were rushing ahead of her, she saw a dozen chariots pass on this and the adjacent streets.
This couldn’t be in response to her actions, could it?
Another contraction hit and she feels her body trying to expel her baby. Not yet she wills.
Awkwardly waddling towards the coffeehouse, she has reached the corner, the shop is there across the street.
Blocking her path are the chariots and centurions. They’ve closed off all traffic from using the crossroad and they are holding back a crowd of people.
A centurion looms before her, “Lady, get back. If your take another step forward and I will use deadly force to stop you.”
Reccy’s newfound tactical assessment ability tells her she must run; she cannot possibly beat this opponent.
Another contraction is building, holding it back quietly might not be possible.
A rumble louder than the previous chariots is building in the distance and rapidly approaching. The centurion puts out a hand to ensure she does not move forward.
The thunderous sound becomes a pounding roar as a team of twenty of the most majestic and massive draft inu pull a solid gold chariot whose sole driver and occupant can be none other than him the Emperor of the Blood Empire.
Her contraction induced scream is drowned out by the rolling rumble of 80 footpads belonging to 1600-pound inu’s and chariot wheels wrapped in stainless-steel grinding across the brick-paved city road.
Once past, the centurions quickly add themselves to the growing procession following the emperor as he returns to the capital.
The centurion turns to Reccy and warns her, “You should not dally here, as there was a recent murder committed a mere ten-minute walk from here.”
“Thank you, I’m on my way home, I live here in West Barrio.”
“Be safe and know the empire values you.”
Coffeehouse in sight, Reccy and her unborn son Job, have three more obstacles to overcome.