Tharuks roused the slaves and dosed them up with numlocked water. Chunks of rock-hard bread were their breakfast fare. Tomaaz nearly broke his teeth on them, but at least they filled his belly more than the sour gruel they’d had the night before.
568 hauled Tomaaz out of the eating area. “Get your shovel. Feed that beast. Then off to latrine duty.”
It sent him off with Droopy Eye, who had the number 1666 tattooed on its wrist.
Over a thousand tharuks. What hope did he and the other slaves have against so many? There were more slaves, but, numlocked, they’d be mowed down like wheat in a hurricane.
Tomaaz took a shovel from the tool heap.
“No, you don’t,” said 1666. “Get your old shovel from the beast.”
The last thing Tomaaz wanted was to visit that beast twice.
“I got a better idea.” Droopy Eye grinned, baring its yellow teeth. “Use your hands.”
Tomaaz shrugged and allowed himself to be escorted to the stinking animal heap. Once again, a tharuk was sprinkling a rat with gray powder. Numlock? Why would they keep their own beast numlocked?
Tomaaz grasped the tail of the rat and carried it, holding it away from him. Its fur was dark with grunge and flies buzzed around its caved-in skull. The rat’s jaw hung open like a slack-mouthed slave. Although Tomaaz tried to breathe through his mouth, he could taste the putrid stench.
Once they turned off and got to the bend in the beast’s gully, Droopy Eye lagged behind. “Off you go. I wait here. No mucking about. Don’t forget that shovel,” the tharuk snarled, cracking his whip. “Or you’ll feel this.”
Relieved he was alone again, Tomaaz loped along the gully floor. The distance seemed shorter, now that it wasn’t dark. Soon, he was facing the three caves at the end of the canyon. Protruding from the cave mouth on the right was the handle of his spade. He must’ve dropped it when he’d spoken with Pa.
A chain clanked.
Tomaaz steeled himself. All he’d seen of the beast so far was an eye.
A low snarl built, echoing off the gully walls, building into a growl.
Tomaaz’s skin prickled.
Within the cavern, something lurked in the shadows. Something huge. Coming his way. A blunt head appeared, its serpentine neck snaking along the ground. Shoulders emerged, towering above Tomaaz. The whole creature was gray, its eyes covered in a thick gray film. It bared its fangs, snarling.
Lovina flashed to mind. Before—with Bill. And after.
The creature’s powerful limbs flexed, bringing it closer, saggy folds of gray skin dragging at its sides. It tilted its head, squinting. It moved again, the chain clanking. It was captive, too. The powerful creature was a washed-out parody of a dragon. Nothing like Handel, Liesar or the blue dragons he’d seen in Lush Valley.
Then again, Pa had said Zens could grow tharuks, breeding them without parents. Had he grown this beast too?
If so, why was he keeping it numlocked?
Tomaaz flung the rat, and the beast raised its head to catch it, snapping it down.
“I’m sorry it’s such an awful breakfast,” Tomaaz crooned.
It was a prisoner, just like him. Perhaps it was smart. Tomaaz kept talking, low sweet murmurs, like he was soothing an angry dog. The beast tracked him with its filmy eyes as he retrieved the spade. Squinted at him as he placed a few clear-mind berries onto the blade and held it out. Tomaaz’s legs shook as he approached. How far could the beast’s chain reach?
The gray beast’s nostrils quivered. It snaffled the berries and licked the spade.
“I’ll be back later,” Tomaaz crooned.
The beast stood staring as he retreated down the gully.
He was getting distracted again—today, he had to find his mother.
§
The creature cocked his head, nostrils flaring as it scented the new human. This one smelled strangely familiar, yet the creature knew it had never come across this particular male before. It sniffed again. This new man carried the scent of an old friend with him. Nostrils still quivering, the creature strained to remember his friends. Hazy memories of blue and green and vast open spaces flickered at the edge of the fog, but couldn’t break through.
Then the male started to talk. Not the harsh bellows of his tormentors, but a soft cadence that rose and fell like a gentle breeze. Squinting against the harsh sun, the creature tried to see through the fog.
The human was approaching. Offering delicious-smelling berries.
The creature gobbled them down, pining for more, then watched the male depart.
§
Tharuk 555 hurried along the ravine. 000 had told it not to feed the female prisoner, but 000 hadn’t meant to forget the prisoner completely. 555 was sure Zens wouldn’t like that. But then again, with 316 dead, it’d had more work in the mines. Then there’d been an unruly slave to deal with. It jiggled the key in the lock. Bars clanked against stone as it opened the door. The prisoner was still asleep.
555 kicked the female’s ribs.
No cry, no twitch.
This one was hardier than it’d thought. The tharuk bent, shaking the woman’s shoulder. Her head rolled toward him, eyes open and glassy. Her lips were tinged blue.
Dead—the prisoner was dead.
It’d never get away with hiding the body. 316 had hidden her rucksack and look how that had ended. 555 would have to take her to the flesh pile, then report to Zens.
§
Bone-weary, Tomaaz shoveled his evening gruel into his mouth. Occasionally, the spoon missed, hitting his jaw or cheek. Was he numlocked? No, after days of digging latrine canals,
