I was fourteen when Amon Russ came to collect his bounty from the maggot farms of Ghiza VI. He had traveled all the way to the outer edges of the Druskarus Sector—to Mantza space. Until then, I had never seen another human being before. I thought I was the last one left.
At least, that’s as close as I can put it. Back then, I didn’t have an understanding of what a “human” was. All that I understood was that I was different from my fellow Mantza laborers. I looked different, ugly even. I was weaker, barely able to breathe the thick plumes of hydrogen-sulfide in the agri-fields. I was dumber. I couldn’t speak the Mantza language, and so my P’taph—my supervisor—was forced to resort to galactic basic. And of that, it taught me very little.
So, when Amon took off his ventilator mask, I wasn’t sure what kind of species I was looking at. It took me a moment to realize his bizarre features were similar to my own, at least similar to my hazy, yellowish reflection in the coolant sludge.
He pointed at me and spoke a language I didn’t understand. When I shook my head in confusion, he switched to a version of galactic basic that was equally foreign to me. It was only much later that I learned he had been asking for my name.
Names are not an alien concept on Ghiza VI, but to apply it in the sense of an individual was. The problem was that he had addressed the question in the singular, referring to me and me alone. If you were asked for your identity, you would’ve answered in your clade—which defined your role in the Mantza hierarchy. And if you were especially important, you would’ve been given a designation number. Otherwise, identity markers were reserved for when you were on shifts when it was necessary to track productivity. If I technically understood the question, I would’ve answered Urtaph of Subsection 703 Third Cycle Shift No. 536289.
And if I properly understood the question, I would’ve answered Vas.
But back then, I didn’t realize the word you called yourself could be used by others as well. All I knew then was that a stranger with my face had appeared. I wondered if there were any others like him, and I wondered if I could go there.
…
It was not out of courage that I aided the bounty hunter. Far as I was concerned, I was just trying to survive.
The workers were processing on the loading dock, boarding the floating skiffs to set out over the wriggling agri-fields. I had just strapped into my seat, crammed in with a dozen other Mantza near the back. We sat in two rows, facing each other while the pilot in the fore compartment was chittering at the controls.
The harnesses and the seat were uncomfortable. They were not designed for a human body. My legs could not reach the grated flooring, swinging in the open air. The harness was also too big. Instead of resting snugly against my chest, I had to sling it around my stomach to keep myself secured to the skiff.
Much of the vessel was left to the open air. And since Mantza do not sit so much as lean back and rest on their jointed legs, I was always in danger of sliding off the seating and tumbling into the fields a hundred feet below.
That day, I heard sounds of distress above the usual chattering. Not many can parse out the inflections and tone of Mantza language, but even a novice could’ve detected the frenzied higher pitch from the loading dock. The skiff swayed in the air as a pair of boots jumped onto the deck.
The alien was scaly and orange and wore a tattered jumpsuit. The creature had bulging eyes and a powerful set of snapping jaws. Around its neck were a set of frills that seemed to flutter with every breath the creature took. Its four fingered hands held something. It looked behind and barked a sound which I took to be a cry of anger.
Before I had time to get the measure this new visitor, the alien ran to the front of the skiff and shot the Mantza pilot in the head.
The insect slumped off his seat, spilling dark purple blood all over the controls. The alien pushed the controls forward, and the skiff’s engines screeched as the vessel jerked forward. It had still been tethered to the loading dock and so the clamping mechanism was ripped off, sending the skiff spinning dizzyingly in the air.
The Mantza around me were chittering distressed, but not one of them unbuckled themselves to try to wrest control back of the skiff. They were Urtaph. They were not expected to fight.
We were rising steadily away from the loading dock. Despite the alien’s poor grasp on the piloting controls, it had managed to stabilize the skiff and swing it clumsily forward. I had just managed to unbuckle myself and stumble to my feet when I saw another alien run forward onto the loading dock below.
It was wearing a full enviro-suit, and so I couldn’t see any of its features behind the bulbous black visor. It raised its pistol and took several pot shots at us. Even though it would’ve broken my legs, I had wanted to jump off the rising skiff. Broken bones were better than dead.
However, I was forced to take cover as bullets ricocheted off the metal, and one or two of the Mantza workers caught a stray round. Their chittering turned to gasping cries of pain. One was dead, sagging in its harness. The alien left below ran to another skiff, and that was the last I saw of him as my hijacker pushed our vessel up and away.
The loading dock was growing smaller. The bustling piers turned to many small metal fingers arrayed on the side of one of the hexagonal arcologies that were strewn across the titanic underground caverns of Underhive 204.
I was panicking. We were going in the wrong direction. The alien should’ve angled the skiff down and towards the agri-fields. Access to the surface was only through the freight elevators which carried heavy tons up and down the hives. As we picked up ever more speed, I realized the alien could accidentally crash us into one of the massive supports which held up the rocky sky.
Stumbling over to the cockpit, I shouted in my poor understanding of basic. The scaly alien nearly jumped in surprise, and I had a pistol aimed squarely at my head. The creature seemed dumbfounded for a moment. I did not know why, but my presence caused it to forget for a moment that it was flying us up and into the tangled maze of metal and ovoid lights.
I shouted again, and it seemed to snap out of its confusion. The alien started angling the vessel downward, seeing the danger. We didn’t have time to converse further as more gunshots plinked our skiff. The scaly alien suddenly grabbed me and thrust me towards the controls, barking an order I didn’t understand. But I didn’t need to. It was obvious what it wanted.
The other alien—the one in the enviro-suit—had pulled a skiff aside ours. With one hand he was piloting his vessel while firing at us. I tried to hide behind the pilot’s seat as cover, there wasn’t much in the way of protection as all the steering section had was a safety rail.
I later learned Amon Russ could’ve easily shot me from my position if he wanted to. The scaly alien had taken cover near the back, using the still harnessed Mantza as body shields. The two exchanged fire as I less clumsily aimed the skiff low to the brown and brackish expanse of the agri-fields.
Black nutrient-rich sludge was pumped into irrigation trenches that lined the maggot farm. The white maggots, many as big as my leg, were teeming in their soil beds. Workers harvested the ripe beds, placing the maggots into liquidizer canisters which were then poured into tanks on the sides of the skiff. The maggot fluid was then taken to a distribution center where it was shipped as food all over the underhives.
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We flew past thousands of workers who stopped and gawked annoyed at our unusual flight. We passed over churning pump stations and smoking auto-harvesters. We passed plastic gazebos growing maggot subspecies. The long iron gangways and concrete walkways were a blur as we raced across the flattened landscape.
I desperately wanted to slow down and jump off, but I was only slightly more familiar with the controls than the alien. I had seen the worker Mantza operate them all my life and so I knew vaguely which switches and buttons on the pronged panels did what. But operating them was a whole other matter.
For whatever reason, maybe it was my panic, maybe it was my inexperience, I simply couldn’t slow down the skiff. I glanced back at the scaly alien who had now been hit in the arm. The creature’s strange green blood was soaking through its jumpsuit as it continued firing. It was distracted by its opponent—whoever he was.
Wanting to get as far away from this firefight as I could, I made a snap decision. I angled the skiff further down towards an empty stretch of the agri-fields. The alien saw what I was doing and pointed its pistol at me. But before it could bark out another unintelligible word, the skiff hit the maggot beds.
I lost all control of the vessel as we crashed through soil, sludge and white maggots. The engines below the skiff were sheared off and the fluid tanks ruptured open. The Mantza who were still alive in the back shrieked louder as the scaly alien wildly popped off a few more shots that went nowhere.
After that, all I remember was a blur as I was violently thrown from the skiff. I landed on my side, and I gasped in pain as I skidded and rolled and then finally came to a stop on the bank of the irrigation canal. The pungent air made it difficult to breathe, and my eyes teared up from the noxious fume. I coughed and I wiped away grime from my face. As sense came back to me, I recall looking up and seeing the burning wreckage of the skiff. The few Mantza left alive inside were picking themselves out of the debris and were setting to work gathering maggots in liquidizers. It was all they could do while they awaited further instruction.
The scaly alien was further up on the soil bed. Its left leg had been ripped off in the collision, and it was roaring uselessly in pain to the deaf auditory slits of the Mantza. It wasn’t that they wouldn’t willingly give help, but it wasn’t their function to assist alien lifeforms, and so they didn’t.
Neither did they assist me.
The other skiff landed nearby and out came the other alien in the enviro-suit. The scaly one barked out in panic and tried to crawl away, but the enviro-suit put a heavy boot on the creature’s chest. He pulled out something from his belt, a small spiny device with many hooks running along its side. The enviro-suit alien pushed a button and those hooks became alive with skin-crawling movement. He dropped it onto the scaly one’s neck, and the device buried itself into the creature.
The screams of pain and rage suddenly ceased, and the scaly alien fell limp in the maggot soil. I did not know whether it was dead or alive.
More than anything, I wanted to run away. My heart was pounding in my chest, but my body refused to move. I was fighting for every breath, and I was stuck. The muggy soil near the irrigation canal gave way underneath me. It clung to me and was pulling me down. The maggots were swarming me, their heavy bodies pushing me down into the black sludge where even more were feeding. Their circular mouths were biting, not enough yet to hurt me.
Down and down, I was dragged towards the black river where I would drown and decompose for the maggots’ next meal. All I could do was let out a choked shout as I felt the warm sludge lap at my legs. I knew this was where I was going to die. The Mantza were indifferent towards their alien slaves. Most were less efficient, and so no great resources or effort were spent on them.
The sludge was up to my waist, and the worms buried me in their white bodies. All I could see was quivering pale flesh. I couldn’t breathe any longer. Their weight was too much on my lungs. I opened my mouth in a silent cry for my mother as they pulled me under black viscous fluid irrigation canal.
Something took hold of me. With great effort, I was heaved upwards and back into the noxious air. Someone carried me back towards higher ground where it was easier to breathe. I was on the edge of consciousness, but slowly—slowly—I came to my senses again.
We were at the alien’s skiff. He had set me sitting against the vessel. The alien in the enviro-suit asked me a question I couldn’t understand. And when he saw I couldn’t respond, he took off his ventilator mask. I saw underneath was a strangely familiar species. He pointed at me and asked again.
I didn’t know the reason for his interest in me then. I didn’t know that was the day I was leaving Ghiza VI forever.
…
The Scrixtaph battle-fighters did not take long. Three of the spindly, chitinous vessels appeared in the distance. Their silicate-steel wings thumped in the air and one could be forgiven for thinking the ships themselves were giant insects. Their cockpits were two bulging eyes of hexglass and their landing struts were fashioned like many tiny legs. The body of the massive insect was serrated, with gaps for turrets and other weapons. However, their silver hulls finally gave them away as something decidedly machine. They were one of the few things cleaned and maintained on Ghiza VI.
As they approached, the strange alien in the enviro-suit—Amon Russ—tried to give me a small, less advanced rebreather. I tried to refuse him as alien workers such as myself were not permitted to use such devices. Eventually, he shoved it in my mouth, and upon my first gasp of clean air, I couldn’t summon the will to spit it out.
The Scrixtaph battle-fighters reached us. Four great lights clunked on and were shone on our position. Two remained hovering, circling us while the third landed a short distance away.
The thorax of the battle-fighter opened on the side and a landing ramp extended down onto the agri-field. Two Scrixtaph soldiers descended with a P’taph shortly behind.
The Scrixtaph somewhat like worker Mantza, with the same mandible jaw and compound eyes. However, they were always a head and a half taller than their lesser brethren. Their jointed arms and legs had long chitinous blades extending out which they could use just as efficiently as regular weapons. They also had adorned shaped armor which was commemorated with sharp, angular symbols that denoted rank.
The P’taph was completely different in every way. From a quick glance, one wouldn’t even think they were of the same species to the rest of the average Mantza. They were held aloft by hover nodules connected by a plast-organic mesh. They had an appearance like the maggots. Their bloated, pale flesh always threatened to spill out from underneath the seemingly all too small devices. But unlike the maggots, they had beady black eyes, a trunk-like protrusion from their face, and four sets of mechanical arms grafted onto their bodies.
I cowered near the skiff as Amon Russ marched out to meet them. The Scrixtaph raised their rifles, but the P’taph waved one of its mechanical limbs. It began to speak, and while I didn’t understand the details of the conversation at the time, Amon Russ told me much later.
“Xeno entity No. 3829,” a clicking voice hissed from a grafted implant near the throat of the P’taph. “You departed from the residential districts and trespassed into a Mantza exclusive zone. You will provide restitution for the damages done, or else you will be detained as a Xeno Urtaph until This Voice of the Mantza is satisfied with your compensation.”
“I was acting fully in my rights as per pursuant of a class-six criminal. Freedom of movement and collateral damage are authorized under Dalfaen law.”
“Dalfaen law is not recognized here. This Voice of the Mantza demands restitution,” the P’taph wheezed.
“Your people are a protectorate under the Dalfaen Ascendency. You signed a treaty when your people surrendered to Dalfaen conquest. Do you want me to take this to the Water-Courts?” Amon threatened.
“This Voice of the Mantza will not permit you to make such charges.”
The Scrixtaph tightened their grips on their rifles.
There was a pause as Amon stared down the beady-eyed maggot face of the P’taph. Finally, he sighed and clicked a few buttons on his arm-screen. If the P’taph was pleased by this, it made no recognizable gesture expressing it. Instead, it pointed its skeletal metal hand towards me and bid me forward.
I had thrown away the rebreather before it could spot me with it. I weakly got to my feet and walked over to the P’taph. I made to assume the submit position, lying down with my face against the ground and my hands behind my back. However, Amon Russ firmly grabbed my shoulder and stopped me.
“No. You will not do that.”
That simple command was at least something I could understand. I glanced frightened and meekly towards the P’taph for help. Its expression was inscrutable as always.
“I want this Xeno Urtaph,” Amon Russ said.
Without a second’s pause, the P’taph answered, “This Voice of the Mantza demands three heat-units as payment.”
“No!” I shouted in a sudden panic.
As much as I was curious of the stranger’s origins, I did not want to stop being an Urtaph. That would mean I could no longer go to the ration dispensary. I wouldn’t be able to eat. I wouldn’t be able to work. I wouldn’t even be allowed in the Underhive!
This was absolutely unthinkable to me. This man was handing me a death sentence! I struggled against his grip. I wanted to go over to the liquidizer canisters and began harvesting the maggots with the rest of the surviving Mantza from the crash. But as much as I hit and flailed, Amon Russ wouldn’t let me go.
“Please! Please!” I shrieked at the P’taph. “Work! Work!” I motioned desperately to the agri-fields.
The P’taph didn’t even acknowledge my existence.
And so it was that Amon Russ threw me over his shoulder and carried me kicking and screaming to freedom.