I fear history will not be kind to the Mantza. I know it will be upon their necks that the galaxy will hang the guilt of Vas Du’Kaal. And when it’s time for the uninformed, the charlatan, and the propagandist to write their great texts, I pray they will remember to take the word of the man himself. It’s all too tempting to think that the Mantza were the ones who taught the tyrant his trade, but to say this is to misunderstand the Mantza.

The Mantza never treated me cruelly, for they don’t have a conception of malice.

This is the most difficult thing to understand about the Mantza. Along with intellect, most species in the galaxy also bear the burden of consciousness they inherited from mankind. The Mantza thoroughly lack this. It is difficult to grasp a fully coherent and even emotional conversation with a creature who has no thought of its own, but that is how the Mantza are. They are individuals, but they aren’t. They are emptied of themselves for the hive.

They bear the resemblance of men without their sin. And the price of that was their freedom.

The closest thing an Urtaph—or any Mantza—could come to malice was an intentional failure in their assigned duties. But even that was unthinkable to the insects. I recall one incident when an acid vat intended for euthanasia burst open and spilled onto the factory floor. The Mantza still continued, packaging their willing brethren in nutrient rich foam even while they themselves were being dissolved away.

I had long fled to the upper gangways, and it was only until the alarm had been triggered that the surviving Mantza processed out of the room. It wasn’t that they didn’t understand the danger or even comprehend the finality of their own deaths. It was just that the hive demanded they work, and so they did until told otherwise.

At the time, I felt guilty for not dying down there with them. It was what was expected of me. And I ran, crying as an infant. For many decades, I thought I was a coward for doing so. And it is only with the hindsight of centuries that I realize it was courage. Those who ask you to forfeit your life should first understand what it is like to lose their own. As I reflect, I have come to the conclusion that I was always a terrible Mantza, and for that, I am eternally grateful.

Regardless, my life was not of abject misery under sadistic slavers. The Mantza don’t have a concept of punishment. Their penalties for Xeno Urtaph was restricting food rations. And for those Xeno who hoarded rations or harmed the Mantza, their only other penalty was death. It was a simplistic justice system, but one that worked quite well.

There was a black market and criminals, of course. And there were slaves who stepped outside of Mantza law. But that was always difficult when so much of Ghiza VI couldn’t be bought or coerced or even convinced to look the other way. They didn’t have the wherewithal to do so. Crime was kept low, but so were all the other things that made life worth living.

As for myself, I never interacted with the criminal world, though I knew on some level it existed. It is illegal for Xeno Urtaph to converse with one another, and such slaves are a rare enough thing that the occurrence wouldn’t usually happen anyway. It is upon that fact that I attribute my life. As a child, I would not have understood the severity of the crime. And as an adolescent, the care had departed from me. My only concern was meeting my work quota—which was never set too high.

Since my biology was poorly adapted to their atmosphere, my expected working hours were never that long. Many slaves were in a similar position, little more than half-useless workers. It is a wonder that Mantza bother with alien labor, but I suppose it was just efficient enough to warrant the effort. It is strange to think that my life was spared on so simple a calculation, that the fate of the galaxy was changed on so simple an arithmetic, but that is the way of things.

I worked. I ate. I slept. I spent my days wanting for nothing and wanting to do nothing. And when I was bored, I wandered the oily streets of Underhive 204, gawking at the many bulging and porous buildings. They were what you would expect from insects who learned industry. The upper levels were huge hexagonal arcologies crisscrossed with thousands of walkways and bridges. Below were the factories and agri-fields and below them were the brackish coolant rivers.

When I was really bored, I climbed all the way to the surface, which was little more than a barren desert populated with yet more industrial architecture. The sky was nearly always covered in a thick smog, but on some nights, on rare nights, you could catch a glimpse of twinkling light. I once asked my P’taph what those lights were. It said they were gaseous balls of fire.

That answer has always been unsatisfying to me. I resolved that there must’ve been more than that. And I did eventually discover that there was much more than that.

I tell you this so that you will understand it was not the Mantza who made Vas Du’Kaal. I hope that whatever the galaxy comes to view of me, they will at least remember me as the man who just wanted to see the stars for what they were.

The Mantza could only teach me obedience. Amon Russ taught me loyalty. The Mantza taught me poverty. Amon Russ taught me humility. The Mantza taught me resignation. Amon Russ taught me courage. And for all the rest, the galaxy was a good enough teacher. If there is any explanation—any blame—you could lay at the Mantza’s feet, it is only this:

The Mantza taught me dispassion. And for that, I had always been prepared to set the galaxy aflame. But even then, it was Amon Russ who convinced me that the galaxy was worth saving.

…

It was often hard to tell the difference between the surface and the underground. The yellow smoggy sky snuffed out openness and freedom. Everything felt constricted, enclosed. You could only tell what was a few meters in front of you. The hulking buildings were too hazy and indistinct to serve as landmarks. And the labyrinthine roads and walkways only made the confusion worse.

It made you feel lost. It made you want to crawl up in a hole somewhere because you could at least see everything in the hole.

Amon Russ guided the skiff slowly floating towards a destination only he knew. Strapped haphazardly to a seat was the scaly alien. The hooked device Amon had used was embedded deeply into its neck. Two vents on its metal side wheezed as the alien breathed, still alive despite its lost leg.

I later learned the device was a Grugk neutralizer. A favorite among bounty hunters and others of less reputable professions, it implanted itself into the necks or chests of its victims. The device would then release sedatives to pacify the target as its monofilament wires hijacked the victim’s nervous system. Once done, the standard setting was to render the target comatose for transport.

But even if the alien did somehow wake up, there was precious little it could do. It would wake to a completely paralyzed body. Even its breathing and heartbeat was at Amon’s mercy.

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But to be honest, I felt little better off. Twice I considered jumping off the skiff and trying to return to my habitation pod. But knowing my hesitance, Amon had waved another neutralizer in my face. Just the thought of it digging into my neck dissuaded all notions of running. I had seen how far he was willing to go for his bounty, and I knew I would not be able to put up a fight like the scaly alien.

And even if I had escaped him, I knew I could never return to the Mantza, not unless I was sold back.

So I quietly sat on the deck, looking out into those smoggy clouds and wondering what horrible future was awaiting me. And despite what you might think of my upbringing, my imagination was left thoroughly unimpaired. I had seen enough horrors on Ghiza VI to have a few nasty ideas of what might happen.

A shape did eventually emerge from the choking haze. What I thought was another of the massive jutting buildings resolved into a landing pad for a great ship.

Its maw opened up like the jaws of a starving crocuta—the skin-draped beasts that wandered Ghiza VI’s wastelands. And from its mouth poured all manner of antennae, broadcasters, and machines that I didn’t know the names for. Atop its white and black hull, I saw its eyes were a slanted pane of orange hex-glass. The beast looked uncomfortable sitting, its landing legs scrunched up like it was prepared to pounce. On its sides were two wings jutting downwards, and its back was a mighty engine.

It was huge, bigger than any flying ship I had ever seen. I cowered in its presence, even though the Aphelion was no larger than a standard cargo vessel. To me, it might’ve been a new world. I could’ve spent years crawling over every meter of the ship, and it would still have secrets not known to me, and this was more true than I could have guessed at the time.

Amon Russ pulled the skiff to the pad, and he landed not far from his vessel. Along the skeletal hull, a panel opened and a ramp lowered to the grimy pad. I saw an alien—one I didn’t recognize—rush down from the ship and towards the skiff.

Amon pointed to it and looked at me. “Ingrish. Bakke.”

I stared at him unblinking, not knowing what he was trying to tell me. The alien resolved into a clear shape. It wore a lustrous black cloth—a gown—that was pierced by many pins along its flat chest. It had fur, and its furrowed ears sat atop its head. It had a small snout, and it wore a scarlet headband around its eyes. And yet it moved as if it could see as well as I.

It came to the skiff, and it spoke galactic basic that was too fast for me to follow. Amon and it had a quick conversation before he turned to get the scaly alien. Meanwhile, the furred one approached me.

I sank back deeper into the skiff as the new thing delicately approached.

“Ingrish.” I heard a new voice inside my head.

I clasped my ears, trying to understand how I heard this new thing but didn’t.

“Ingrish,” it repeated, pointing to itself and then to me. “You?”

An image of myself flashed in my mind, and I understood it was asking for something belonging to me. I clasped my arms over myself, trying to secret whatever it might’ve been attempting to steal from me. And yet the emotion was unmistakable. That was the first time I remembered tenderness, and it made me all the more frightened because I did not understand how this creature could’ve known the way my mother spoke.

I thought once more to run again. I glanced towards the open landing pad and to a gangway that led back down into the smoggy industry below.

“Friend,” the alien said, its fanged mouth smiling.

I had never heard that word before. I would not have even understood its most superficial meaning if not for the emotion that the alien had communicated with it. It was oddly comforting, even though it came from such a strange creature. It offered a clawed hand, but I did not accept it. I understood well enough that I was a prisoner, and seeing as escape was pointless, I got to my feet and waited for direction.

Evidently, something I did—or thought—was funny to this Ingrish. The creature held its hand to its mouth to conceal a tiny chuckle. It beckoned me toward the ship, and I hesitantly followed. Across the hazy landing pad we walked up into a new world.

…

The interior of the Aphelion was unnervingly familiar. Not that I had ever seen the ship before, but rather that the vessel was familiar with me. Its plated bulkheads were spacious enough that I could move comfortably. The soft lights were neither too gloomy or too harsh on my eyes. And while there was exposed cabling and rusted sheet-metal, it was a kinder neglect than the Mantza’s ruthless cynicism. The flying ship I saw outside was still ferocious, but I realized not towards me.

For the first time in my life, I walked through a place that had seemed built for me and me alone. I was terrified. I shrunk back, expecting some punishment for this kind of absurd vanity. As if the Mantza were all-seeing and all-knowing, I wondered of their wrath that they should find such a place. Of course, they didn’t care about this spaceship, so long as Amon paid the docking fees.

Ingrish gestured down long corridors and rooms, and as we explored, images and meanings bombarded my mind. I could tell the alien was trying to take it slow, but it was still too fast for me to keep up. Could it not understand that I couldn’t keep up? Nothing in my life had prepared me for this onslaught. I silently despaired of what role they expected me to fulfill, seeing as it was giving this overwhelming information. And if the work they wanted of me required all this…

As we walked, I grew more and more sullen, despairing of what was going to come next. As soon as they found out I was insufficient, what then? Hopefully, they would sell me back to the Mantza, and I could go back to my old life. But it was too easy to envision other, awful fates. And all because the alien with my face made a poor purchase!

It was cruel! In a way that the Mantza had never been! With the Mantza, the only expectation is the work. That is the only thing they will ever demand of you—that and your obedience. They didn’t ask you to think or to judge or to even feel. That was allowed to you and you alone. They didn’t care one bit about what you thought. This alien had extended warmth, and I could tell it desired warmth back, but that wasn’t fair! It was cruel to expect that! It was cruel to demand more! I did not understand why this alien wanted me to comprehend so much for so little apparent purpose. It was wrong! And a new resentment began to fester in me.

If this is how my new masters treated me, then maybe I would fail—intentionally. Whatever they set me to do, I would refuse. I would treat them in turn as they treated me, and then they would do away with me. They could do whatever awful thing they might do to me, and I imagined so much, but at least then I would have some control again!

Ingrish suddenly stopped in the corridor, and it looked at me with some mixture of surprise and sympathy on its face. At least, that was all I could guess with the scarlet cloth around its eyes.

“Friend,” it spoke again, as if the word had held some special meaning.

Until that time I had been equating that word with what the Mantza taught me, which when you translate to basic would’ve meant roughly “second worker” or “unit”. Both exist only in relation to the combined value they provide for the whole.

The Mantza view everything in transaction. And that thought may be horrifying for many species, but that is because they do not understand the liberation that comes with it. To live as a Mantza is to live as if there were no such thing as love or friendship or even kindness. The worker would sacrifice itself for another because it was for the good of the all—not for any other reason. And for the Xeno Urtaph, this meant we could also reduce everything to transaction. We lived our lives free of heartbreak and as much suffering as could be materially avoided.

Ingrish shook its head. It tried to further associate that warm feeling with the term, gesturing between me and it. But as was earlier, I was only more frustrated the demand. I couldn’t call forth that feeling at my will and surely not in the quantity this alien would expect from me. It was asking for something I could not provide, and it made me all the more angry for such an unreasonable demand.

Instead of becoming annoyed at me, Ingrish grew thoughtful for a moment.

“Friend.” Appeared in my head again with the same warm feeling. But this time it was not referring to me mutually.

The alien was expressing its relationship towards me. No matter what I did or said or thought, this “friend” was going to remain friend. That gave me pause for a moment as it was no longer asking something from me, but rather giving only in turn. It was a blessing that the Mantza had never taught me to lie—at least never taught me to expect it—as I would’ve shunned such an outrageous proposition.

I did not understand the full implication, but the warm feeling was at least pleasant. It was like those rarest of days on Ghiza VI, when one could walk on the surface and feel its orange sun on your skin. I had experienced this only once or twice in my entire life. Feeling very disconcerted by all this strange talk, I could only think to ask for my role.

Ingrish thought again for a moment. “To wait.”

I again began to grow frustrated, and I used a word I had nearly forgotten. “Why?”

Ingrish put it very simply, and more in images than in words for the sake of my comprehension. However, I shall translate what I understood:

“Because you aren’t ready to understand what you are.”