Daniel dropped his bookbag on the desk, scattering his models of fighting machines, and collapsed on his bed. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? His stomach roiled at the image of Cody’s gloating face as Daniel scurried over the hallway floor, grabbing for his books. It had sucked enough being surrounded by Cody’s hoard of friends, but Priscilla had been watching from down the hallway.
If only he could show those bullies. He’d kung fu them. No, he’d pull out a sword and whack off hunks of their greasy hair as they stood trembling. Priscilla would smile at him.
He lay back on the bed, willing his heaving gut to settle, staring at the models of flying machines hanging from the ceiling. He could still smell the stink of Cody’s breath as the jerk laughed.
As he let out a long breath, his head exploded …
Dan, you okay?” The voice was far away. A girl’s voice. Strange accent.
The pain lessened. Cold metal pushed up at his hands. Girl? Metal? An acrid smell stung his nose. Fire? His parents. He had to warn them. He opened his eyes. Dim lights. Metal walls. Low ceiling of pipes and wires.
He sat up. Then braced himself on the metal grillwork of the floor as a wave of pain and nausea swept through his body.
“By Mechan, that’s a gash.” A face appeared. “You really banged your head.”
“What happened?” Daniel tried to stand. Swayed. Something hard brushed his shoulder.
“Wrap your head with this.” A body formed under the face, and a hand held a soiled rag. “And let’s go. We gotta get the transfer case oiled, or Sarge will lash us.”
Transfer case? Daniel looked at the metal girders, narrow passages, crisscrossing beams and pipes so low he couldn’t stand up straight. He was in the lower maintenance level of a land corvette. Four massive legs, three inch plate armor, quad diesel engines and dual two inch cannons. He’d oiled, replaced filters, and cleaned every interior surface of the walking war beast.
He froze. How did he know all that? He looked at the girl. Prisca. One of the oil rats in this military fighting machine. She was the only friend he’d ever known, a child small enough to scamper through the tight maintenance passageways, a slave held bound by a shock collar.
“Yeah, let’s go.” He couldn’t think now. He wound the rag around his head and tucked the free end under his own collar. “I’ll be okay.” He stepped into the access tunnel.
As they slipped into the next cavity, the structure shuttered.
“By Mechan, we’re getting ready to walk.” Prisca moved to the right of a massive mechanical assembly, ducking under pipes and cables. “Let’s get these gears oiled up. Shells’ll be flying soon.”
Daniel took the left side. Unscrewed a fill cap and peered at the attached rod. Low. He reached behind and grabbed a can from a rack. He popped the can and poured the viscous fluid into the tube. Totally unfamiliar. Yet he knew every move. Had to be a dream. But the metal was hard, the smells biting.
“You rats slacking?” A low-pitched voice cut through the whirl of shafts and the grinding of gears.
Sarge’s face squeezed into the chamber. Ice formed in Daniel’s gut as those squinting eyes looked around.
“Almost done, Sir.” Daniel averted his eyes, moving to the next oil stick. Sarge whipped slaves who stared.
“Right side done, Sir.” Prisca’s voice cut through the din.
“Get up to the bay. Supplies to stow.” The face retreated.
As they crawled out of an access shaft, they found the bay doors still open. Through the opening, they could see the back end of a supply transport receding on six ponderous legs, crushing its way one step at a time through the forest to the safety of the rear lines.
Several supply boxes and two ammunition cases filled the only only space in the land corvette.
Sarge entered through the main hatch and pointed to the boxes. “Get the food stowed.”
He turned as two corvette gunners entered the bay. Sarge bit his lip and stared as the two soldiers picked up one of the heavy ammunition cases and, grunting, sidled through the hatch towards the forward guns.
Once they disappeared, Sarge moved to the opening and reached for the bay door controls. Then jerked at an explosion of sound. He spun around, eyes wide.
Prisca stood frozen over a broken box of food cans. Several punctured cans oozed a brownish liquid at her feet. Others rolled over the metal mesh flooring.
“Maybe it’s time to retire you,” bellowed Sarge, his face a livid red.
Daniel froze. Retire? When child slaves got too big to move easily through the walking machine’s maintenance shafts, they were sent to the mines to die. If they were lucky. Some of the girls were sent to the R and R camps. Rumors hinted that was even worse than the mines.
Sarge pulled out his lash as he moved towards Prisca. His massive hand enveloped the handle containing the batteries that allowed the thin metal whips to fry nerves as well as cut flesh.
Blood pounded through Daniel’s body as Prisca shrunk back, eyes flicking between Sarge and Daniel. By Mechan, this was either a dream or he was dead soon anyway. He picked up a can of fruit and threw it.
The can bounced off Sarge’s shoulder. The man turned, his puzzled expression morphing into a thin twisted smile. Slaves rarely fought back, and Sarge enjoyed it when they did. He spun the lash in a tight circle and stepped towards Daniel. A second step sent a can flying across the hatch, leaving Sarge toppling onto the decking with a crash. A scream echoed between the metal walls as the impact shorted out the lash in his hand.
Sarge’s belt pouch and gun holster filled Daniel’s vision. As if in slow motion, he felt himself step forward. Saw his hand reach out for the pouch and rip out the collar key. He froze for a breath as Sarge groaned, trying to shake off the lash shock.
In a whirl of motion, Daniel grabbed Sarge’s gun and stumbled to Prisca’s side.
He unlocked her collar. “Get out.” He nodded to the open bay door. Tree branches framed one side of the opening. “Jump. I’ll be right behind you.”
Prisca hesitated. Sarge groaned. Daniel pushed her towards the door and turned.
Sarge was upright, his hand a blur of motion. Daniel jerked as pain coursed up his right arm to his shoulder. He dropped the gun and fell, rolling away from the frenzied soldier. In the doorway, he saw Prisca reaching for a branch.
Limbs spasmed as liquid lightning streaked along his thigh. He screamed. His left hand closed on a hunk of steel. The gun. He tried to raise his twitching hand. So heavy. Sarge’s legs appeared, backed by the remaining ammunition case. Daniel lifted the gun a few inches. He fired.
Daniel forced an even pace down the school hallway. He couldn’t be seen limping. He got past his parents last night by claiming illness. Not really a lie; it had been hours before the ringing in his ears from the explosion had subsided and his vision cleared. But if any teacher suspected a medical problem, they’d send him to a doctor. No way could he explain the blistering welts on his arm and thigh. And even mentioning the fighting machine would land him in the nut ward.
“Leave me alone.” A girl’s voice cut through the chatter of the students.
Up ahead, Cody had Priscilla backed up against a locker. “I think we oughta be friends.” Cody’s low voice sounded anything but friendly as it echoed down the hallway.
Daniel started to veer away. Stopped. Couldn’t just walk away. And what’s the worst that Cody could do? Pound him a little? Nothing compared to Sarge’s whip.
Priscilla’s eyes glanced at Daniel.
“Leave her alone!” Daniel broke into a gimping run. He grabbed Cody’s shirt with his left hand and heaved the jerk away from Priscilla.
He heard a sharp intake of breath from Priscilla. Saw Cody’s face go from surprise to a crooked smile.
It would hurt a little. But Cody would forget about Priscilla for a while.
Walt Socha is a recent retiree from the high tech silicon industry. He has short stories published in Spaceports & Spidersilk, Beyond Centarui, Aurora Wolf, Aoife’s Kiss’ Cover of Darkness anthology, and the 2015 Northwest Independent Writers Association’s Anthology: ASYLUM. He continues to write sort stories while working on an Alternative History series set in the 11th Century. Walt lives in Portland, Oregon with his artist wife Gretha and two cats named Schiz and Zoid. More information on Walt’s activities can be found at www.waltsocha.com.