From the Ashes

  From The Ashes

  by A. B. Lucian

  © 2019 A. B. Lucian

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Chapter One

  By day, Yosh tended the local dog herd for his arkanian overlords. By night, he sneaked out of the slave settlement to meet Assai.

  Another day was over, so Yosh guided the large hounds into the only building big enough to house 341 dogs: an ancient weapons depot. It sat, gray and stark, at the top of a small, green hill, three miles away from Shacktown, four from home, and fifteen from the canyon where his sweet Assai and her shipful of smugglers hid.

  It took a long time for the dogs to shuffle inside their durasteel mesh pen, whinnying and glancing sadly at Yosh—it always did. The pen took up most of the space and the durasteel mesh left only a seven-foot-wide corridor to walk through. For some reason, someone thought it was a good idea to put the gates at opposite ends of the corridor. So once all the dogs got inside, Yosh ran from one end to the other to close the two gates.

  “Don’t give me those looks, you furry, angel-faced manipulators. The sun’s almost set.”

  They whimpered at him and bustled one another to lick his hand when he reached through the mesh to scratch their heads.

  “All right, cut it out,” Yosh said, wiping his hand on his overalls. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

  Yosh had tended the herd since he turned old enough to start his duties. He liked it. The dogs were friendly, playful, and always glad to see him, unlike the other inhabitants of their small slave settlement. Apart from his grandfather and himself, there were no other humans in the area. His grandfather visited other nearby slave settlements as part of his duties and told Yosh about other humans living there, but he had met none.

  He fixed his glasses into their proper position and glanced through the narrow windows set high on the thick, concrete walls. Crimson god rays flooded inside like massive laser beams. Blast, he needed to hurry. Yosh turned to the big, arkanian-sized console behind him, locked the gate, and scurried to the other side of the corridor to an identical console and locked the second gate. He ensured the feeding system was online and sprang to the exit. Tonight he would finally see Assai after so many days of waiting. His footsteps echoed off the high ceiling. The door groaned as he pushed it open. I stink of dog again, Yosh thought and sighed. I can’t see Assai like this. He needed to go home and clean himself first.

  Assai had promised to teach him a new move when she returned. Which meant they’d be very close to each other. The sight of her wrinkling her nose at his stench would be more disappointment than Yosh could handle. Last time they trained, he stank of wet fur and the hormone altering dog food. Assai never wrinkled her nose and never mentioned it, but Yosh remained aware of the stink during their session. The more he thought about it, the more he stank. He expected her to tell him to go away and never return. She hadn’t sent him away and hadn’t mentioned his stink, but he knew her sense of smell was better than any human’s. Yosh wasn’t content if Assai merely tolerated him. He wanted to look and smell his best whenever he was near her.

  He slammed the thick door, imagining a surprised arkanian on the other side. It felt good, but not good enough. He swiped the old security card across the locking mechanism. Something clanged inside the door and a small LED turned red.

  Yosh turned and started the four-mile walk home, downhill through the woods, uphill toward Shacktown, through the amalgam of dilapidated huts and shacks, and to the small hill beyond it. What he and his grandfather called home was a small steel cabin atop that hill. Other slaves didn’t even have that much. They slept alongside the herds they tended, or throughout the hundreds of steel shacks—several times the number of actual slaves. Yosh’s hut was larger and newer than anything the other slaves could find, which gave them one more reason not to like Yosh. Thanks for that, grandfather.

  The sad eyes and fat, furry faces of his dogs popped into his mind again. Three hundred of them were almost ready for shipment. Yosh’s insides tightened at the thought. Stop it, Yosh. You’ve made that mistake before. Don’t get attached. You can’t help them.

  Yosh had cried his eyes out when the arkanians took away his first herd. He had been thirteen and had applied himself to his duty with all his enthusiasm and heart. Inevitably, he bonded with the dogs and gave all of them names. But there was nothing for it. Arkanians considered them a delicacy ever since an arkanian noble, marooned on a barren moon, had to eat her exotic pet. She liked it. A lot. After her rescue, the word spread like wildfire throughout the worlds of the lizard people. Yosh didn’t know who the arkanian woman was, and he didn’t care. He just wished she’d stayed marooned. It was a bad thing to wish to a person he never met, but she was arkanian. No one could blame Yosh for hating them, except his grandfather of course. Blast it, he just wanted to hit something. He wanted to hit an arkanian. Was that so bad?

  He kicked a pebble hard, sending it flying uphill along the path.

  Yosh stopped. Uphill?

  He had been trudging along the gentle slope toward Shacktown for a few minutes without noticing. A few hundred feet ahead, the tightly packed, gray shacks hung low beneath the violet sky. Along the main path into Shacktown, three shadows prowled close to the entrance—three familiar shadows. Yosh groaned. He had been so distracted that he forgot about them. He took off his glasses to clean them. The wooden frames didn’t fit his head anymore and left painful red grooves from his temples to his ears, but Yosh didn’t have the heart to discard them. His father had carved the frames long ago.

  He dreaded keeping them on for what would come next, but his vision was abysmal without them. He pushed them back on, enduring the pain. The three shadowy silhouettes and the other aliens roaming the outskirts had already noticed him. He had to continue through Shacktown and act as if everything was normal if he was to save face. It’ll be fine. You’ve been through this before and never broke your glasses. He didn’t care about his bruised ribs. Those would heal, but his father would never again carve frames for his glasses.

  As he approached, the three barred his way, as if they were headed in this direction all along and planned to stop in that precise spot before they even noticed Yosh.

  Yosh halted a few feet from them, looking up at the eight foot sylosian. Yosh was fairly tall himself, but the top of his head barely reached the sylosian’s shoulder. Six hundred pounds of bone and muscle looked down at Yosh.

  “Hello,” Skrill said, growling through pointed yellow teeth.

  Yosh massaged the bruised rib where Skrill had said ‘hello’ to him last time. Today felt different though. Today, Yosh felt like hitting something. A crazy thought passed through his head. What stopped him from hitting Skrill? Yosh would get pummeled either way, so why not blow off some steam?

  Yosh breathed in, steeling himself. This was going to hurt.

  ◆◆◆

  Yosh crossed his arms and planted his feet firmly in front of Skrill. The other aliens roaming the outskirts ignored the show with the practiced skill only a slave could have. Most turned their heads and walked away; they’d do anything to avoid trouble. The rest found a good vantage point and settled in to watch the action. For Yosh, home and safety were another mile away, past Shacktown and the giant sylosian, atop another small hill.

  Skrill cracked his massive knuckles. “Human think he ignore Skrill? Not say hello?”

&nb
sp; Yosh had no time for Skrill’s stupid games. He didn’t want to let Skrill humiliate him in public, but if he didn’t leave now, he’d be late. “Hello, Skrill.” He showed them a tight-lipped smile. “No time to play today, sorry.” He made to go around Skrill, but one of the others, another sylosian, blocked him. It was a female, but Yosh didn’t see much difference. She was shorter and flabbier than Skrill, but her knuckles seemed just as big.

  Yosh sighed, turning to go around the other side, although he already knew what would happen. The last member of their small gang blocked his way on cue. A lorran this time—slim, blue, and humanoid. He had gills that looked inflamed and sick on the sides of his long neck, a large, lipless mouth, and long webbed fingers. They all wore the brown overalls every slave on Mandessa wore.

  Yosh gritted his teeth. His heart banged and he couldn’t get his legs to move again. He could always fight back next time; there was no particular rush and perhaps today Skrill wouldn’t hit him.

  Skrill leaned his black, hairy frame toward Yosh. “Human got big glasses, but they no work? Skrill standing right here. Maybe Skrill slap glasses off and human see better.”

  “What about us, Skrill?” the lorran said, flapping his fish eyelids. His voice had a watery quality and vowels came out liquidy. “He ignored us too, that is bad manners.” Lorrans were arrogant and prickly, but Merril especially stepped on Yosh’s nerves.

  The other slaves in Shacktown didn’t like Yosh either, but they were never so confrontational. Skrill’s crew was special. Aside from Yosh’s grandfather, these three and their families were not Mandessa-born like the majority. They had known life free of the arkanian yolk. Yosh straightened his back. Every time, he thought. We have to dance this dance every blasted time. The rage rose inside of him as it often did, stomping out the flames of panic. Uncontrollable, hot, irrational rage that seemed to just pop up from the depths. He bit the inside of his cheek to get himself thinking straight again—an effective trick his grandfather had taught him. “Look, Skrill, Merril—”

  “And Sarla,” the other sylosian yelled. Her voice was steel bending and rocks crumbling. “You forget Sarla. Skrill, love, the human forget me.”

  Skrill put a hairy hand—half again as large as Yosh’s head—on his shoulder. His hand was hot and slick with sweat. The sylosian reeked of dirt, fertilizer, and an odor Yosh couldn’t place, but it turned his stomach. Why did they make everything so difficult? Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? He just wanted to go meet Assai.

  Skrill squeezed Yosh’s shoulder. “Sylosian woman no good for human?”

  The pain made Yosh stiffen. His eyes widened as he surveyed Sarla from top to bottom. What a terrifying thought. Yosh’s mouth opened and closed a few times. He hoped his disgust wasn’t visible on his face, but Skrill seemed to notice. He snarled and squeezed Yosh’s shoulder harder until something shifted and snapped.

  Yosh gasped at the pain. He was sick of this. His earlier reward for not fighting back was a bruised rib. He had no interest in dislocating his shoulder or worse, but the strength in Skrill’s hand was something fearsome. “Enough, I’m going home. Get out of my way.” He shook his shoulder, nearly shrugging the large hand aside.

  “And how is life in a real house, all alone on your personal hill?” Merril said, his large fish eyes burning through Yosh. “Is it nice to live there, while we regular slaves live in squalor and sleep in damp shacks that could collapse on our heads at any moment?”

  Yosh tried to free himself, but Skrill tightened his grip. “Oh give me a break, fish-face.” Yosh bit the inside of his cheek again, but it was no use. The rage still broiled in his chest and boomed in his temples. “Maybe if you put some blasted effort in repairing your shacks, they wouldn’t collapse on your tiny heads. So stop blaming other people.”

  Skrill growled and shook Yosh. “Why old human and you not live here too?”

  Yosh’s shoulder had almost gone numb. “I don’t know why, blast it. He is this town’s Spokesman. Are you going to represent us with the arkanians?” He pointed at Skrill. “How’s your math lately?”

  Skrill barred his yellow chompers. “You think you and old human smarter than us? Better than us?”

  “Smash its face, love, smash it,” Sarla said. “Teach it respect!”

  “Yes, make him kneel and kiss our feet,” Merril said, his smile revealing tiny rows of razor-sharp teeth. “Humans need to learn their rightful place. If it weren’t for them and their arrogance, our peoples wouldn’t be slaves to arkanians.”

  The pain became unbearable. Yosh looked around for the local arkanian guards, but they were never around when you needed them. Only two arkanian soldiers lorded over Shacktown—decrepit, but heavily armed and with nasty attitudes. The mighty Arkanian Empire didn’t bother to keep large garrisons on slave colonies. They could always obliterate rebellious slaves from orbit.

  Skrill held tight to Yosh’s shoulder and clamped his free hand into a fist the size of a man’s head. Now or never. Time to test what I learned from Assai. Yosh had been a good student in his opinion, but sparring against Assai, who weighed a little over a hundred pounds was the only fighting experience he had. Blast it, of course my first real fight would be with a sylosian.

  Skrill was big, powerful, but slow. And so was his punch.

  Yosh gritted his teeth against the coming pain and wrenched his shoulder free. He ducked under Skrill’s blow with more ease than he’d expected and stepped sideways behind Skrill.

  “Whoa,” Yosh grinned wider than ever before. That… was… awesome! He was faster than Skrill. Assai always said whoever is faster wins. Yosh kicked Skrill behind the knee with all his strength. Skrill roared as his knee buckled and he fell on all fours.

  Merril and Sarla gasped. Yosh enjoyed the shock in the eyes of the onlookers. The scrawny human showed them what he was capable of. Yosh circled Skrill. “Hah-hah,” Yosh cackled, drunk on his success. The onlookers turned their eyes away as Yosh caught their gaze one by one. He pranced around gesturing aggressively at the onlookers, but Skrill seemed to be recovering from the initial shock. It was time to end the fight. Yosh followed through with a hard punch to the back of the sylosian’s head. Yosh had punched through two-inch thick wooden planks during training. He expected Skrill to faint and fall face down in the dirt—no more than he deserved. Instead, Yosh’s knuckles cracked against Skrill’s stone-hard skull. Pain shot through his arm all the way to the shoulder. Was it bone? Yosh didn’t think bone could hurt so much.

  Yosh cradled his crooked knuckles. Skrill laughed, and the sound rumbled through the ground, through the soles of his boots and all the way to his lungs. Yosh backed away a few feet, but Skrill sprang up and turned, faster than anything of his size should be able to. A hairy, smelly, backhand smacked Yosh in the face. His brain rattled inside his skull and his face went numb, not necessarily in this order.

  In a flash, Yosh was on his back, staring at the blurry shadow of a shack against the darkening sky. The blue Mandessan moon stared down at him and laughed at how stupid he was. Each slave race had a different name for the Mandessan moon, as there had been no original population here to name it. Yosh’s grandfather called it Essa, so Yosh called it Essa. Essa was laughing at him too.

  Skrill’s sweat lingered on Yosh’s throbbing cheek—gooey and cold and musky. There was blood in his mouth. He sat still trying to decide if he should spit it or swallow it, while his three tormentors peered down at him and snickered. Yosh patted the ground searching for his glasses. He hoped they hadn’t flown far. He tried getting up on his elbows, but dizziness overcame him. His head hit the dirt again and a new round of laughter started.

  Moments later, the laughter died out abruptly as a new voice joined the scene. Yosh didn’t catch the words, but he recognized the tones. They were rich and heavy, and sounded like home. No, no, what is he doing? The old man’ll get himself hurt.

  An argument ensued between Yosh’s grandfather and the three goons, of which Yosh caught only the
last part: “… and take these halfwit lackeys with you.”

  Panic spread through Yosh’s limbs. How could grandfather be so careless? He can’t speak to Skrill like that. The beast would tear him in half. Yosh had to get up. He tried again, pushing hard. The dizziness wasn’t as bad, but he leaned too much on his injured hand and fell on his face again. Blast it, he had to get up before Skrill hurt his grandfather.

  “See you tomorrow, Yosh human,” Skrill said from afar, spite tinging his voice. “We say ‘hello’ again then.”

  What? Skrill just left? No pummeling? No yelling? Yosh was still busy wrapping his head around it when an iron grip pulled him to his feet. Blood dripped into his eye and he clutched his grandfather’s drab overalls to steady himself. Yosh stared into his grandfather’s kind face. Great Void, how did he pull this off?

  ◆◆◆

  Yosh’s grandfather shook his head and called him a bonehead, as he patched the broken skin above Yosh’s right eye. “You are your father’s son all right. Picking a fight with a sylosian? What were you thinking?”

  They were in his grandfather’s room, back at their small steel house. Yosh sat on the edge of a chair, while his grandfather leaned against a metal desk.

  “I didn’t pick—Ow!” Yosh struggled not to back away. His grandfather dabbed at the wound with a swab of browned cotton. He had fouled it with one of his many oils and ointments. The smell stung Yosh’s nose and made his eyes water. He fought the urge to sneeze. “I didn’t pick a fight.” Yosh shook his head, holding his nose. “Everyone in Shacktown hates me. They hate us.”

  His grandfather paused, seeming to consider Yosh’s words. “Don’t mind them, Yosh,” he said. His ice-blue eyes turned to the floor, suddenly sad and tired. “They don’t hate you, they hate their lives. They hate not having something to look forward to. You and I are… Well, we’re a way for them to vent their frustration. Most people in Shacktown have been slaves their entire lives. They’re angry because they’re so helpless.” He shook his head solemnly. “But Skrill and his gang are different—restless. Try to avoid them a while.”