Tomorrow is another day
Mine.
While the camp’s guards did their early morning corralling, the boy noticed a frozen bite of food rolling in the mud. Slave children were whipped, punched, and kicked into their usual work details, their scrawny little hands wrapped in dirty vacfoam rags.
The youngest were by far the largest group. They’d cough and they’d weep, and slowly descend down into the mine shafts. Staggering on their tired, covered with lesions feet, bulky digging gear on their bleeding backs, dressed in raggedy “protective” suits. They had no choice but to obey, even though it was painfully apparent that some would never see the starlight again.
The healthiest could be immediately picked out of the bunch. Their skin was yet to be blemished by radiation-induced scars, they still had most of their hair and... teeth. The boy made sure to study his potential source of extra nourishment before expanding precious calories picking it up. Whoever was the unfortunate and most probably dead child, they couldn’t bite well, chew, or even swallow their food. Which meant that he had a much better chance of putting his recently conceived plot into motion.
The large mass of miserable child miners moved like an old man; groaning, complaining, their joints creaking with every move.
Careful to not stick out like a sore thumb, the boy made sure that his fake scars looked convincing enough. He smiled internally watching his reflection in a frozen, muddy puddle of piss. His face was neatly covered with dirt and excrements, and the rags under his suit made him look scraggy. Just for good measure, as his column was passing inspection he made sure to fake a twitch or two, groan, and stumble.
As soon as the mine’s welcoming dark concealed his features, the boy could walk with a much faster pace.
In the hell that was this uranium mine, protection and food was everything. Medicine the unfortunate slaves had virtually no access to, unless they debased themselves. This was the only way for those who were stupid and wished to suffer even more to steal a bit of comfort before death.
Any and all descent into soul devouring degeneracy was by no means part of his plan...
Two of the older boys slowly walked out of the mine carrying the body of a crushed by rocks child. They did what he was also ordered to do; oftentimes burying the irradiated corpses was yet another form of punishment, another way for the guards to have their fun. If you were singled out or did not know how to keep your silly gob shut, they’d force you to drag bodies every day, all day.
Not only it was a tiresome task, but mind altering too. One child could see only that many mutilated by rot and radiation faces before they’d snap. Then there was the “graveyard” itself, the Pit Of Glow Death. Filled with thousands of slowly rotting away cadavers, those who were forced to work around it soon fell prey to radiation sickness themselves.
He was an exception; in his culture tradition dictated that children would learn basic survival skills from an early age.
The suits which every child miner was outfitted with offered a laughingly weak amount of radiation protection. However, they were cheap and easy to fix – therefore the kind of equipment perfectly fit for a slave operation. Careful to avoid suspicion and spare himself from the lethal radiation, he picked bits and pieces only from those bodies which looked the healthiest.
It wasn’t long before his shoddy-looking suit was triple padded and his otherwise useless breathing mask actually filtered the deadly uranium dust. The boy couldn’t fix anything more complicated, let alone risk modifying the suit with the jerry-rigged tools, made from odd pieces of scrap metal.
Food, however, was entirely another deal.
The corpse-carrying duo vanished from his view and after a short search he found a promising-looking crack in the rocks. Many children struggled to dig ore after they’ve squeezed through one or another crevice. In such a confined space, doing anything was nigh impossible, yet they had to work and for many hours.
Slave miner had a quota to fill; those capable of digging more could bargain the excess with the guards for extra water or food. This is how he managed to keep himself from rotting away and staved off dehydration. One big lump of ore was the cost of a small sip of water, yet for a child it was more than enough.
For his plan to succeed the boy canned every little bit of anger. He kept his gob tightly shut, his eyes and ears open, and his mind alert. After surviving unnaturally long period for a child of his age, he noticed how the internal “economy” of this slave camp operated. It wasn’t easy watching those who sold themselves for bites of food and medicine slowly degrade before his very eyes.
Then there were the bullies who preyed upon them. Not all slaves were alike, and though most shared in their misery, token few others caused more of it. These individuals were bad to begin with and after some time spent in the pit, they fully embraced their parasitic nature. The guards tolerated them, they fed the bullies well and even gifted their “pets” drugs.
Entertainment in a slave camp was non-existent.
Here however, the camp Intendant sponsored gladiatorial fights and participating in them was an integral part of the boy’s plan. Yet, only the healthiest had a chance in winning these deadly bouts. Depending on what their guards would decide that day or better yet, bet on, the slaves would fight with their bare hands or even digging gear.
The boy was a Terran and Terrans hated slavers with the utmost intensity.
This is why most would rather put a railgun round or laser beam in their head than become slaves. During his last fight, the boy failed to take his own life. Soon after his parents died he was captured and then ended up in this uranium mine.
Actually, his was a fate luckier than most; countless billions of slaves had a mind control chip implanted in their brains, pumped full of will-breaking meds, or mindwiped by a telepath. Then, they’d be sold as sex slaves to some degenerate alien, to be used, abused, and then discarded like a toy made of flesh.
The inevitable fate of all slaves in this mine was to toil until death, or rot from the radiation. Merely hoping to survive was a ludicrous notion, and planning an escape, pure madness. No one who knew anything about the Terrans could argue with one thing, however.
When it came to vengeance, they planned and executed it with meticulous pitilessness most races could only hope to replicate in their fiction.
Gladiatorial fights were always brutal and to the death. Since the most healthiest slaves were mostly the bullies protected by the camp guards, the boy could kill two birds with one stone. Secure better nourishment and take permanent care of these disgusting parasites. Starting from the weakest, he’d kill them one after another and make sure they get their just rewards for all the extra misery they caused.
Some nights he couldn’t sleep; so loud were the cries of pain and the tortured voices begging for mercy.
To witness what was happening in the camp, daily, the boy had to wage a constant war with the ever-growing rage inside him. He’d bottle it up, label it, shelve and ration his hate, save it for the day of death. A blessed time when he could finally unleash his own telepathic power, blocked by the mine’s psychic nullifiers.
The ghosts of those children who endured terrible suffering, those whose irradiated cadavers rotted, piled like garbage in the pit of glow death... the boy could hear their screams too. Dead were they, yet he clearly heard every word, listened to their pleas and finally, he embraced them.
Boris was a Terran and Terrans were most vicious fighters. Relentless in their preparations, their minds unbound and unbroken, on the battlefield they employed every single resource at their disposal. He would not adopt the most degenerate course of action, however. For a Human of this modern age the ends never justified the means.
His creative Terran mind conceived more than one way to kill a slaver.
The boy would carefully pocket that extra bite of food, later. He’d eat, drink one sip of water or mayhap even two, and only then he’d fight.
Boris studied his opponent for days. He carefully observed how the scum fought and learned of his weaknesses. While his mind analyzed every bit of information he’d so far gathered, he crawled further inside the rocky crevice. He used his strength sparingly as he chipped big lumps of ore whit his drill, careful not to get stuck or rupture his suit.
Every breath of air, every calorie spent, every gulp of moisture measured, and no unnecessary movements!
Only in his thoughts Boris exerted himself and imagined how he would counter his opponent’s every move. But all of that would not happen until tomorrow, and only after all of his preparations were complete. Because those who did not play the game couldn’t win, yet those who changed the rules of the game itself could win without playing.
Study the villains, exploit their everything, and crush them with merciless efficiency.
No, tomorrow was not just another day... tomorrow was that day.
***
This is episode one of the Starshatter Clips, a new series inspired by reader feedback. I will write and post these on my Patreon page. You can read many short stories there, all set in the Starshatter scifi universe of my books.
First scene - Dying Starlight
Second scene - Tiny eyes of doom
Art by @lillyput , you can visit her page here.