Eventually, he sets me down and inspects me the moment my feet touch the rocky floor. I back away from him until I hit the rock wall.
He’s leaned to my level, and while he’s assessing me I take his measure. His features are an odd combination of brutish intelligence. Despite his grunts and apparent lack of speech, there’s clearly a sentient being hiding inside him.
He understood enough to come running when the free-for-all started. Perhaps I can talk sense to him, plead with him.
“Please don’t hurt me,” I say as I wonder if I’m doing this wrong. Maybe I should royally piss him off to get him to snap my neck and put me out of my misery.
There are no women down here. Am I crazy to waste my breath? What sex-starved male of any species wouldn’t be tearing my clothes off within seconds?
He sniffs me again, then pets my head with his humongous palm. I’m shocked, then feel a surge of relief as I watch him attack the black walls of the cave with his pickaxe as he mines green salt.
It’s a laborious process as he chips at the hard stone wall, lets the black rock fall to the ground, and salvages the green specks. He’s mining a thick vein, and follows it deeper into the stone.
He must hear something down the passage we entered from, because he pauses for a moment, looks into the darkness, gently grips my upper arm, and scoots me behind him. He stands taller and puffs out his chest, pickaxe in hand, prepared to take on all assailants in an effort to protect his property.
He grunt-growls at whoever’s in the corridor, his manner so aggressive I hear them leave, then he gets back to work. He’s chipping feverishly at the wall, filling his bucket to capacity.
I’m numb. All I can manage to do is sit on the floor and just stare at his back as he works. A gong sounds, reverberating through the air in a deep rumble. Whatever this signals, he hefts me onto his back, piggyback style, lifts the full bucket with prodigious strength, and hauls me back toward the opening.
The catcalls and jeering resume when we merge with the main passage. Slag keeps his body stiff, axe in the air as he approaches the mouth of the mine.
The guards are there, manning a scale, making certain each miner has met his quota. The males who don’t deliver their share of ore are not only derided, but receive lashes for their noncompliance.
Sooma Ryone told me I needed to produce green salt. As if this day wasn’t hard enough, now I’m going to receive the beating of my life with something that resembles a bullwhip.
Slag grabs an empty bucket and pours a quarter of his salt into it. Setting the almost-full bucket in front of me, he puts his nearly empty bucket on the scale.
“Too busy dracking your new toy to do your work?” goads a devilish-looking guard with six gray horns sprouting from his head. “You’ve just earned the lash.”
The big green male, who certainly could wipe the floor with all the guards at once if engaged in a fair fight, turns his bare back and bends at the waist, accepting the punishment.
I count as the guard administers ten harsh lashes. The sound of the whip whistling through the air is chilling, making me wince each time it’s wielded. The smack it makes against the poor male’s green flesh sounds so painful it’s as if I can feel the whip’s bite on my own skin.
Slag keeps his eyes focused, staring straight ahead, acting as if he doesn’t feel it. But I do. He took that lashing for me. I had all day and I didn’t lift a hand to help him.
If I’m here tomorrow, I’ll do my share. No matter how much of an asshole he may be to me tonight, I’ll try to remember this act of compassion.
“Miss your quota and it will be twice as many tomorrow, Slag. Drack her on your own time.”
As soon as his whipping is over, Slag sets the full bucket on the scale. With his hand on the small of my back, he scoots me forward so I can take credit for producing my full allotment.
After tossing us each two nutrition bars and telling me this is all I get until tomorrow’s quota is met, the guard with what looks like a hundred haphazard sharp teeth says, “You must suck cock like a champion to have Slag take a beating for you.” His gaze never leaves my breasts. “Let’s see if you’re this lucky tomorrow.”
Slag
Protect.
KJ
Slag lifts me onto his back and retraces his steps to where he was mining all day. Although I try, it’s hard not to press against the welts on his back. But just like the whipping, he acts as if he doesn’t feel it.
At every intersection where a passage spurs off from the main tunnel, he does a three-sixty, looking for enemies.
We pass the area where Slag worked all day, then wend deeper into the mine. It’s quiet back here, and darker.
Until you figure out how to kill yourself or have someone put you out of your misery, you’re going to have to come up with a way to tolerate what’s coming next, I caution myself.
Out of anyone I’ve met on this shithole planet, from guards to miners to Sooma Ryone himself, Slag has shown himself to have at least a modicum of decency. Although I try to take satisfaction from this thought, it’s little comfort.
He carries me into a small, almost perfectly-round room that branches off a long corridor. This male may not be able to speak, but he’s canny. This position is easily defensible.
At the back of the
