I wait until I hear no sounds coming from her room. It is pitch dark. The two moons haven’t risen yet, and it’s a perfect opportunity to leave the house. Silently, I grab my bag from underneath the bed and slip out through the window. I planned to start my escape at night so I could get an eight-hour head start before she noticed I was gone.
In practice, the situation looks a bit different. Clumsily, I stumble through the jungle, nearly blind in this relentless darkness. Strange animal sounds creep up around me, making my skin crawl. I follow the path we once took from the vehicle to the house, and from there, I take another trail that seems to lead down the slope. Without a map, my plan is risky at best. I can only hope this direction leads me to freedom.
After about an hour of walking, a sudden hiss at my feet startles me. And then—ouch! Something bites my ankle! Damn it! That’s exactly what I needed. Not. Damn wilderness!
Determined, I keep walking. Nothing will stop me now. In time, the two moons rise, and their pale light soothes me, offering a better view of the plants and the uneven ground. My ankle burns badly, and I try to ignore it. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that poison is seeping through my leg. The burning sensation has spread, and doubts creep into my mind, whispering that this bite might seal my fate. No! I need to believe in my escape. Only when you push through the worst, you get to the better. Gritting my teeth, I keep limping forward. The night passes far too quickly. Days here are shorter than on Earth—just 20 hours. That’s considerably less time for an escape.
The dawn’s light lingers in the sky, and birds begin their morning chorus. At least with the improved light, I can scan the ground better with each limping step. I find a broken branch that serves well as a walking stick, and I resume hobbling forward, one leg at a time.
This is ridiculous. My pace has slowed to nothing, and I feel sick. I can’t keep going. Just as the jungle starts to clear, I see it—my final obstacle: a massive cliff that drops down into a roaring river. That’s it. I’m done.
I sit down on a stone near the edge. Dizziness clouds my head. The poison is doing its work. At least it’s a beautiful place to die. Dying as a free man. Maybe that is my accomplishment.
The sound of the river below lulls me into a fragile sleep. It’s like my funeral music, and for a moment, I feel peace in my heart.
Then, suddenly, I hear a crackling sound. Slowly, I open my tired eyes. Right in front of me, a Manide’s paw, wrapped tightly in bands of cloth, stomps onto the ground. Dread coils in my chest as I look up. It’s her. Like an angel. Like a devil. Rescue or eternal damnation. She’s found me! I can’t even die in peace! She always gets me.
She kneels toward me, grips my shoulder, and looks into my eyes with concern. “What happened? You’re sick! You need to describe what happened. Quick!”
Weakly, I mumble that some animal hissed and bit me during the night. It got my ankle. Hurriedly, she insists, “Show me!”
“Here, it’s this foot.”
She holds my ankle still, her grip painful, and examines it closely. Then, she tears open a bag slung over her shoulder, rummages through it, and pulls out a small device. She activates it, types something onto its buttons, then grabs a tiny flask and slams it into the machine. Without warning, she presses the device against my wound and, with a sharp hiss, injects some liquid directly into my ankle. The pain is unbearable! But I hold still. It’s a different kind of pain—a pain of recovery.
Apparently, the treatment isn’t over yet. She reloads the device with another flask and pushes it against my shoulder this time. It hurts less. “The first was the antidote for the bite,” she explains, “and the second activates cellular recovery. You got bitten by a xerton. Those little mammals can take down prey ten times their size. The poison was digesting you.”
Oh my God. I was about to become a snack for a little critter. I’m a total failure.
She sits down in front of me, apparently waiting for something. “We’ll rest for a few minutes to let the medication sink in. Then I’ll carry you back.” She pauses, then adds, “You can’t just walk off into a wilderness you don’t know. It’s highly dangerous.”
“Ahem, how am I supposed to know anything? I’m your damn property!”
“Well, true. But if you want to learn about the wilderness, I can arrange that for you.”
What did she just say? Maybe I’m too dizzy to understand, or maybe this is a dream. A feverish dream about her helping me escape. Sure, I’ll go along with that. It’s a nice last thought. “You can arrange for me to get educated?”
“Yes, if that’s what you want.”
Suddenly, tears stream down my face. I can’t hold them back anymore. Here I am, on a foreign planet, stripped of my dignity and freedom, far away from my poor mum. And now, as if it’s nothing, my owner—my torturer—offers me something close to studying biology. How insane is that?
“Hey, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
Sobbing, I wipe my eyes and tell her how I always wanted to study biology—how genetics was my dream. My mum and I managed to fund a year of it before I had to join the army to finance the rest.
She stares at me, speechless. After a long moment, she pulls herself together and says softly, “I’ll see what I can do for you. But right now, we need to get going. It’s getting hotter, and I don’t want to carry you through the noon sun. You need to be in a cool bed in a shadowy room.”
She shows me how to climb onto her back with the strength I have left. As she rises, I get a strange, elevator-like feeling. My condition must really be foggy. Her legs, with their extra joint, make her pace sway like a boat on the ocean—smooth, rhythmic, and oddly calming. My body, stitched together by medication, slips into a dreamlike state.
Back in my bed, wrapped in a cool blanket and shielded from the sunlight, I wake up later. I can hear her moving around the house, gathering supplies. At first, the sounds echo painfully in my skull, but gradually, the distortion fades. She enters my room, carrying flasks and the life-saving device. Placing them on the table, she addresses me,
“Okay, I need to leave. My shift is starting. Steve, my work partner, will stop by to check on you and give you more shots. I left you a glass of water; he’ll refill it. Stay in bed and don’t do anything stupid. You’re not out of danger yet.”
Wearily, I nod. “Shift?”
“Yeah, shift. I work as a scout, guarding wild animals. That’s how I found you in the jungle. I was on duty last night and noticed your window was open. I put two and two together. Steve shares shifts with me, so he’ll take care of you while I’m gone.”
And then she’s gone. Lying there, I realise I never thought she did anything decent—I assumed her sole purpose was to pester me. But no. She has a job a biologist would dream of. I’m so screwed. Maybe this really is hell. Demons tormenting me with my hopes, dangling the things I long for just out of reach.
##
Somehow, I must have dozed off because I snap awake the moment Steve enters. He’s a bit taller than her, and from the looks of it, he’s just as well-trained for scouting—his physique leaves no doubts. On Earth, if he were human, girls might have called him handsome, I guess. Well, here’s yet another perfect Manide watching over me.
“Hello, you must be Eric.”
“Uh, yes.”
“Okay, I’m here to give you your shots. It’s Haffongol Nanobots, in case you’re wondering. They’re repairing your tissue.”
“So, my body is really wrecked without these bots?”
“Yes, so to speak, that’s correct. But don’t worry—people used to die from injuries like this in the old days. Now, not anymore.”
“Uff. Another missed opportunity for death.”
He smiles, tilting his head slightly as he prepares the shot. Then he sits on the edge of my bed, the device ready in his hands.
“I’ve already been told you’re a persistent one. Is it really so bad with us?”
The device pushes the liquid into my arm. I wait a second before responding.
“I’m a slave, dude. That’s never funny.”
“Ah, yes. She always does her job to the fullest.” He laughs, adding with a teasing tone, “But she’s good-looking—doesn’t that help?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me!”
“Oh, excuse me. I forgot to consider: are you more into men, women, or both?”
Idiot! He really thinks I have any energy left to care about relationships? I’m not some Stockholm Syndrome guy! Is this what I get—flirty banter from Casanova while he’s giving me shots? Silly talk about crushes on my slaveholder. Oh dear. I know just the answer to ice this conversation.
“I’m not into Manides, loverboy!”
“Oh, how unfortunate! But honestly, I get it. If I were you, I wouldn’t be either.”
He’s far too cheerful to be insulted by me, I figure. He retreats to grab my empty glass, probably planning to refill it. Before heading to the kitchen, his gaze lands on the common clause certificate pinned to the wall. My dear female owner decided it should stay there, a constant reminder of who owns me. At least, that’s what I tell myself. But truthfully, I’m strangely glad it’s there—it reveals who she really is, despite the occasional moments of kindness.
Nodding toward the paper, Steve asks, “Is that it? Is that the clause?”
“Yes.”
He steps closer, still holding the glass. “Wow. What a thing. Do you know its content?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not?” He sounds incredulous. “You’re kidding, right? You don’t know the jurisdiction that put you here?”
“I have all the information I need. Slave is slave, dude.”
“Well, I get that you don’t want to read it, but sometimes you need to know the really bad stuff to empower yourself.”
I sigh, exasperated. “Oh great! Is this another philosophy lesson from the ‘discussion of the unseen’?”
He grins. “Yeah, sure. They’ve got a subject on blind bad spots too.”
He sounds like a skeptic. I think I might actually like him. Or maybe it’s because I haven’t seen him rip off human heads like I’ve seen her do. He could be just as cunning, and I might not even notice. I try to notice.
“Oh no, I don’t want to hear about it.”
He turns to me, a bit more serious. “Did she try to get you to learn the language?”
“Yeah, she did. And I hate it.”
“Well, you really should consider it. You need to understand your jurisdiction, even if you hate it. That’s important, no matter where you are or what you’re facing. Language empowers you.”
Baffled, I stare at him. Maybe I should learn. But I don’t want to. I’ve never been good with languages, and I don’t see the point in reading a certificate that binds me to slavery against my will.
He heads off to refill the water. We exchange some more small talk before he finally leaves. Steve’s not a bad guy after all, though he naively thinks he understands my situation. In truth, he doesn’t have a clue.
Still, as I lie there, I start to wonder. Maybe I will start learning the language, slowly. Maybe I’ll take up that offer to learn about the wilderness. Who knows? Another window of opportunity might open. No matter what, though, there’s one thing I hold on to: the knowledge that being a slave is not okay. I’ll never give in to it. My constant resistance, my refusal to surrender to this life—one day, it will change everything.