Night fell. Angry orange and red light from the star streaked the sky. The nebula was on fire, burning green and yellow. The purple force shield flickered on and the colors faded. The night was the same dim purple it was every night in the canyon.
The camp of former prisoners spread along the base of the cliff between both paths that zigzagged up the side. At last count, two hundred and eighty two people had joined the camps. None of them belonged to the small group that had gone to turn off the generators. Dace was still missing.
Clark sat under his tree with Jasyn. He hadn’t let go of her hand since she’d found him that afternoon. She leaned against his shoulder, asleep. He was ready to sleep himself, but somehow he’d found himself in charge. People kept coming to him with tallies and questions, looking for direction. He gave what answers he could.
The distant sounds of shouting had died down. A faint flickering yellow light danced through the trees where fires still smoldered. The air reeked of smoke.
“Are you the one in charge?”
Clark looked up to see a short man standing over him. A ragged cloth wrapped rakishly around his head as a bandage. Clark frowned, something in the posture and the set of his chin reminded him of Dace.
“They said you were the one in charge,” the man continued. He wore a pale blue shipsuit with the Exploration stars on the front.
“I guess I am, by default.” Clark didn’t want to be the one responsible. He wanted to sleep.
“Then I suggest we stage an attack,” the man said.
“Why?”
“Because we haven’t seen or heard from the team that went in to take out the generators. I think they may have been caught.” He looked worried.
“Do what you want,” Clark said.
The man flicked a look at Clark’s insignia. “I would have thought you at least would care, considering Dace is part of the group. You’re her shipmate, aren’t you? Do I also have to remind you that we can’t leave if the generators aren’t shut off? We need to do something.”
“Then do something.”
“We ought to go,” Jasyn said through a yawn.
“I don’t want to lead it,” Clark said to the short man. “I'm not a strategist or a weapons officer. I'm a pilot.”
The man grinned. He looked a lot like Dace. He stuck out his hand. “I wasn’t expecting you to lead it. Well, maybe I was. The name’s Darus Venn.”
“Trevyn Clark.” Clark took the man’s hand and used it to pull himself up. Jasyn stood with him. “How do you suggest we do this?”
“I get a group of toughs to go with me. We break in and look for the others while you stage a distraction.”
“Again? Isn’t it what we did before?”
“Seemed to work then. Let’s assemble a team.” Darus moved away through the crowds of people gathered at the base of the cliff.
“I hope he doesn’t have more energy than brains,” Jasyn muttered.
Clark squeezed her hand.
Darus came back only a few moments later with a string of people behind him. He paused near Clark. “What are you waiting for? Let’s go get them.”
“Jasyn,” Clark said, intending to ask her to stay where it was relatively safe.
“Don’t, Clark,” she said, shaking her head. “Don’t even ask.”
“Then at least stay where I can see you.”
She smiled and kissed his cheek.
She kept hold of his hand as they walked through the night-dark forest with the others.
The forest was silent except for their footfalls. Everywhere they looked, they saw signs of violence. Thorn fences had been ripped apart and burned. The fields were trampled, the cauldrons tipped and smashed. A stand of trees on a knobby hill burned like a beacon in the distance.
Darus led the group at a brisk walk towards the towering cliffs on the other side of the valley. Clark glanced behind to see that their small group had grown to a huge mob. They moved quietly, purposefully, as if they sensed the importance of the coming confrontation. Clark studied the set of their faces, the determination in their eyes. What if he’d been here for years, decades? How would he feel to finally be given a chance to escape, a chance to be free again? How would he feel to be confronting his former captors? He’d only been here a few days. He knew only a taste of what they felt.
They emerged from the trees into an open area, facing a thick wall of thorns twenty feet high. A bonfire burned in front of it, surrounded by a group of silently staring men in different colored shipsuits. All that could be seen of the golden men was an occasional head showing over the barricade of thorns.
Darus hung back under the trees with a group of about twenty people. He caught Clark’s arm. “Keep them busy. We'll find the others and make sure those generators are down. Don't wait for us, if we aren't there by dawn. Take off and go get help.”
Clark nodded.
Darus' group divided in two and took off along the paths under the trees that paralleled the cliff face.
Clark silently wished him luck. He turned his attention back to the barricade. The mob that followed walked into the light of the bonfire. Clark stood near the front, holding Jasyn’s hand, and wondered what he was supposed to do now.
They stood in a loose group, just watching. Clark’s nose itched. He scratched it. The silence continued. The number of heads showing over the thorn wall increased. Clark shuffled his feet in the sand.
A section of the thorn barrier shifted and pulled back. Five of the men, these with honey colored hair and gray eyes, stepped out with wands held high. Clark took a step back. Someone nudged him. He glanced over his shoulder.
“We’ve got that covered,” a man said. He held a com unit, wired clumsily to one of the wands. “Whatever frequency they use, we can block it.”
“Good,” Clark said. The collars that most of the prisoners wore, including Jasyn, still bothered him. She’d explained them to him that evening. He put his hand to his own throat, glad he wasn’t wearing one.
The golden men strode out from behind the thorns. They waved the wands, their frowns deepening as nothing happened. Jasyn scratched under her collar.
“It makes it itch,” she whispered to Clark.
The men waved the wands a moment longer and then retreated in a huddle, whispering fiercely. The bushes were pulled back into place. The heads all disappeared from the wall of thorns.
Someone threw more wood on the bonfire. The stream that flowed from the side canyon trickled under the thorn barricade, barely murmuring over the stones. Time passed. Clark shifted from foot to foot. He was tempted to find a spot to sleep.
“We ought to burn them all out,” someone muttered, beyond the firelight.
“How dare they keep us as slaves,” someone else added.
The sound of complaining increased. The mutters carried an undercurrent of anger. Another load of wood dropped on the bonfire, and another, and another. The flames leapt up, spitting and crackling. The air seethed with impending violence.
The thorns moved again. Another group ventured out. They set a black box on the ground, then crouched near it. Antenna unfurled from its side. A rock spiraled in from the darkness, thrown in anger and vengeance. It struck the box, sending sparks showering into the night. The men squealed, holding their heads as they backed away.
“They’re like children,” Jasyn murmured in Clark’s ear.
“Then how did they keep us all working as slaves?” Clark kept his voice low.
“They separated us. They caught us unprepared. And used these.” Jasyn tugged her collar.
“We can remove them,” the man with the com unit said. “It hurts a bit. Tucker is doing it, back at the camp.”
“Then—” Jasyn started.
She was interrupted by shouting. Rocks pelted the men gathered near the black box. A rock struck one golden head. The man crumpled to the sand, blood gleaming darkly through his hair. The other aliens looked stunned. None of them made a move to help the fallen man.
“They aren’t the ones doing the thinking,” Jasyn said.
The shouting of the mob almost drowned her out. Years of pent up anger poured out. The golden men stared stupidly at the shouting mob eddying closer. The one on the ground lay still, blood soaking into the sand around his head.
“You can’t let them kill them,” Jasyn said grabbing at Clark’s arm. “There has to be another way. Do something, Clark.”
Her dark eyes pled with him. He looked at the mob gathered at the edge of the raging bonfire. The golden men shuffled uncertainly in front of the thorn barrier. They reached their hands to the ruined box, then pulled them back. They milled across the sandy ground, indecision plain on their faces.
“Stop it!” Clark took three long steps forward to the edge of the thorns and turned to face the mob. The golden man on the sand at his feet stared sightlessly at nothing. Clark watched a trickle of blood move over his cheek. His stomach twisted with revulsion.
“They should pay,” someone shouted.
“They’re like children,” Clark answered, quoting Jasyn. “They aren’t the ones responsible.”
“Yes, they are,” the man shouted back. He stepped forward to face Clark, giving the mob a spokesman. “Thirty years I’ve been here, held prisoner by them.”
“Why didn’t you leave thirty years ago?” Clark asked. “Do you really think they could have stopped you if you tried?” He pointed at the milling group of golden men.
“Not them,” the man conceded. “But the others.”
“What others?” Clark asked.
“The dark haired ones. They told the others what to do.”
“What dark haired ones? These are the only ones I’ve ever seen.”
“Those ones aren't too bright,” the man said. “But the others, they’re the ones to watch for.”
“They haven’t been seen for twenty years, Vince,” another man said. He limped forward. “He’s right, you know. All it took was a bit of planning. And a few com units.”
“They should still pay,” Vince grumbled.
"We're better than this. We don't need more violence," the second man said, placing his hand on Vince's shoulder.
The mob stilled, staring behind Clark. He turned to look. An old man stood in the hole in the thorns. His hair was dark though it was heavily streaked with silver. He wore a long white robe. He stared at the mob, his head tilted at an arrogant angle.
“You will return to your stations,” he said.
“Or what?” Vince said.
“Make us,” someone else shouted.
The mob surged forward.
“You will obey,” the man shouted.
“No,” Clark said simply.
“But you must,” the man insisted. He looked ready to cry. “You must make the food. You must grow the plants. You must.”
“No, we won’t,” Clark said. The mob behind him was quiet now, the anger being replaced by a mix of pity and guilt. The robed man’s lack of intelligence was obvious.
“Then who will?” the man asked Clark.
“You should,” Clark answered.
The man stared at his hands, as if the concept were beyond his understanding. The golden haired ones milled around aimlessly behind him, their faces blank.
“But that isn’t the Way,” the older man objected.
“We don’t really care,” Vince said. “You want the food, you grow it and process it yourself. We’re leaving.” He turned and marched away, back across the valley. The rest of the mob followed.
“What about Dace?” Jasyn asked Clark as he watched the others walk into the dark forest.
“I don’t know. Hope Darus Venn and his friends find her. What else can we do?”
“Hold the ship until she gets there,” Jasyn said firmly. “I’m not leaving without her.”
“Neither am I.” He took her hand.
They turned their backs on the forlorn golden men, still staring uncertainly at the broken black box and the departing mob.