Founder’s Day

There hadn’t been a water delivery yet that day; the general consensus among the old men sitting in the shade in front of the meeting house was that there likely wouldn’t be a water delivery at all.

“The Vylid started their weekend early.”

“The Vylid started drinking early.”

“Don’t take much.”

Callo walked down the dusty path towards the Wind, just to be sure there wasn’t a tanker crawling its way alone the snakelike road that led to the plateau. He was staring down at it when he felt Lise at his elbow.

“We have some left.” She whispered it, conspiratorially. “Not much. Mother has been rationing us for two weeks, just in case. She said this might happen.”

“You mother doesn’t like—”

“I’ll share mine.” Her fingers wrapped around his forearm, slid down to his palm.

“There’s so much water,” he said wistfully, “right down there.” Past the Wind, past the foothills and the Vylid town and the beach, was the vast ocean: Buol territory.

“Salt water. Can’t drink that.”

“I made a solar still. It—”

“What’s that?”

“Turns saltwater to fresh. Works by sunlight.”

Her fingers gripped his hand tightly. “We’re not allowed down there.”

“We need water.”

SF Drabble #462 "Collaborator"

"I'm trying to help you."

"You work for them."

"We all work for them. That's the way it is. Maybe it could have gone another way, but they're here now, and they're in charge, and if you want to earn work credits for food, you'll follow the rules."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll report you."

"Of course you will."

"If I don't, I lose my position, and my work credits, and I starve to death. I'm a couple years from making Class C, and if you think I'm letting you fuck that up for me, you're out of your mind."

SF Drabble #414 "Negotiation"

"How much for the girl?"

"What?" Jimm looked up, around.

The voice came from a human, overweight, dressed well, wearing an ID on a lanyard around his neck that said he was class 'B'; he was looking at Kie. "The blond. How much?"

"She's not for sale."

"I have Association credits. Not scrip." He held up a silvery, translucent square with symbols etched into the face. "The real thing. Name your price."

"She's really not for sale. No disrespect: we're married."

"Hang on," Kie interjected, and that sweet smile spread across her face. "I'm expensive. How much do you have?"

Masked

"Step forward."

The line was long, as it always was on a work day at that hour. They would be harried and overwhelmed by the sheer number of human workers. They would be more likely to make mistakes. Assuming they made mistakes; no one was sure.

"Step forward." The Vylid had a soft, raspy voice like a dry wind blowing through crumpled paper. The man three people in front of Marla moved hesitantly up to stand at the white line, between the pair of huge Grodon guards.

From behind her, a whisper. "I don't recognize you."

Marla, standing with arms crossed in front of her, said nothing.

The whisper came again. "Are you supposed to be here?"

Marla glanced over her shoulder: a middle-aged woman, too thin. "There's no talking in line."

"Step forward."

The woman moved forward, staying just behind Marla. "Where are you from?"

"You're going to get us punished, we shouldn't be talking."

"They don't care, if you're quiet." The woman leaned in closer. "They'll scan you. They scan everyone. You know that, right?"

Marla ran her thumb over the three symbols on her forearm. The brand felt strange, foreign. "I'm where I'm supposed to be."

"Step forward."

Marla would be next. One of the massive guards stepped heavily away from the table, came lumbering slowly down the line, came right past her.

The woman whispered again when the guard was out of earshot, "It's all right, you can tell them you got on the wrong bus, that you made a mistake."

"Step forward."

Marla didn't hesitate; the die was cast now.

She handed her ID card to the remaining guard, who handed it to the seated Vylid. The willowy creature typed something into its computer, and then nodded to the guard. Marla offered her arm.

The Grodon held a scanner against her forearm where the three symbols were tattooed on a grafted piece of a dead woman's skin. The scanner beeped.

The raspy voice spoke to her. "Move through."

SF Drabble #405 "Association General Order E-12b"

All Class D humans with a work assignment will work one half local day, unless your local Labor Direction Center has declared a 'work holiday'. Meal and rest breaks are an earned privilege.

If you are a Class D human without a work assignment you will report immediately to your Labor Direction Center with your ID slip (legacy documents such as 'driver's licenses' will not be accepted) to receive your work assignment. Any Class D human detained for any reason who cannot provide record of a current work assignment will forfeit their Ration Card and may be re-designated Class E.

Penny

Penny picked up a tray and stood behind a pair of Vylid; she had six meal allowances for a trip of three days and she was already starving. At least the food up here would be better than whatever they were eating down on the lower decks.

"You," said a voice from behind her, "are human."

She turned, looked up, met the eyes of the being towering over her: a Ryi, and at nine-feet tall, clearly an elderly one. "Yes."

"This facility is for Class C and above; humans are class D. You should depart." The Ryi nodded its elongated head towards the lift.

The Association worked on a rigidly-enforced class system delineated by race. The mysterious Class A races ruled; Class B races like the Vylid or the Grodon served as middle management or military; Class C races worked; Class D, like humans since the invasion, were little better than indentured servants to be used where needed and ignored when not; Class E were slaves, prisoners, or the barely-sapient.

"I'm Class C."

"Show me your identity card."

"You," Penny answered, before turning away, "are not Security."

One of the Vylid in front of her glanced back, but said nothing; most beings living under Association rule knew to mind their own business. The line moved forward half a step.

There was a light tap on her shoulder.

"Forgive me," the Ryi began as she turned again. "I am only curious. All Ryi are Class C, or lower if they commit a crime. I have always been told that promotion to Class B is impossible."

"It might be impossible," she shrugged, "to class B."

"How did you manage to be promoted?"

"I managed a Vylid hatchery on Whynn for ten years." Penny looked behind her, to see if the Vylid pair were listening in, which they were. "It burned. Whynn is hot, and dry, and the oxygen content of the atmosphere is high. Had to run back into the building three times, but I saved all the hatchlings. By the time the Oblogo fire brigade got there, the hatchery had burned to the frame."

"Remarkable."

"The local governor promoted me to Class C; good public relations. The Vylid didn't object, they were just glad to have all their hatchlings safe."

"I can imagine."

Two Grodon officers sauntered in, clad in their omnipresent power armor. They seemed casual, off-duty, until they spied her in the line. They walked towards her, hands on shock-sticks.

When they were close enough, the two Vylid in line ahead of her whistled something at the officers, and waved them off. The Grodon looked confused, but stopped just before they hauled her out of line. The Ryi she'd been speaking to sputtered, trying to speak but clearly intimidated.

Penny turned, fished the lanyard out of her blouse, and held up the attached ID card so they could see it clearly. "Class C."

The Grodon lost interest and moved on. She whispered to the Ryi: "I love doing that."

Demotion

"You are human Arnauld Fauvier?"

"That's right."

The enormous Grodon officer glowered down at him. "Your status has changed. You must leave these quarters immediately and report to the class D passenger area."

The class D passenger area was steerage. Cramped, hot, no privacy. "I'm class C. I paid for my tickets with—"

"You are now class D."

"But—"

"Sol System is now an Association possession. You and all other humans are now class D. If you would like to apply for individual class C status, you may do so at a sector capital. Either way, you are required to vacate these quarters immediately and report to the class D passenger area."

It had to be a mistake, but there was no use arguing with the brute: Grodon — at least the ones in Association service — are uniformly rigid, officious, and uncaring. "Fine. I'm already packed. There wasn't really any room to un-pack."

The Grodon just stared at him. They hadn't even bothered to send soldiers with him. What trouble could a human possibly be? He grabbed his bags and his own datapad, and made for the lift.

"You will use the ladders. Lifts are off-limits to class D passengers."

Arnauld made his way down the ladders towards the outer hull, past crew quarters, through cargo sections, growing heavier all the time. At the bottom, he felt like he weight three hundred pounds, and he was sweating profusely.

There were aliens of all descriptions in class D, dozens of different races, all at the bottom of the Association pecking order. He found a group of humans. "Anyone know what's going on? Some Grodon kicked me out of my—"

A woman said: "They invaded Earth. Three weeks ago. Terrible."

A man continued, "The UN didn't make enough trade concessions."

An older man scoffed, "They would have invaded eventually no matter what. Just a matter of time. I've read up on their history. They wrote it, so it's whitewashed all to hell, of course, but you can still see the pattern. Everybody gets absorbed by the Association one way or another. If not at their terms, then at gunpoint."

"So we're class D now." The lowest socioeconomic class: serfs, for all intents and purposes. He looked around. There was a pair of Oblogo sitting a little ways away, on one of the few benches against the compartment bulkhead. "What are they doing here? Aren't they class C?"

The younger man cautioned quietly, "Stay away from any higher-ranking races. If they should be higher class, and they're in steerage, it means they're criminals. We've been here two days already; that big Oblogo killed a Llinth. Just killed her for getting to close. Threw the body in waste disposal. Nobody seemed to care. And there are cameras everywhere, so, somebody saw it."

Arnauld felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. Everything was suddenly different. But at least they were in space: it would be worse, so much worse on Earth.

SF Drabble #392 "Rebellion"

The younger human children are as quiet as they can manage; the older human children plan strategy, whisper orders, observe their competitors' movements. Packet is a game of stealth and cunning. Here it is played by young from nine different races, amongst the short trees of the Red Forest; it is also played with starships.

The Association operates on a strict racial class system. Such considerations are theoretically relaxed on Makelay Colony for the special occasion of the Three Moon Games. Even so: the Vylid hatchlings are supposed to win. It is a thing that is understood.

Not this time.

SF Drabble #374 “Apprentice”

The Vylid boatman waved him on board, and he found a spot on the bench between to other, older, humans.

“First time out?” asked one, amusement obvious in his tone.

“Yes, sir—”

“I’m no ‘sir’. Vylids are ‘sir’. I’m Ray.”

The boy nodded acknowledgement. “I’m Wynn.”

The steam-runner pulled away from the dock and immediately began putting on speed seaward. The upper domes of the Buol cities were already visible, rising out of the fog.

“What do you think they’re like?”

"The man laughed. “Does it matter? You’ll never meet one. You’d drown trying. Just work hard, don’t get noticed.”

SF Drabble #339 “Return Trajectory”

“Next!”

“Hi; I’d like a one-way ticket to Earth.”

“Never heard of it.”

“Sorry, sorry. Sol system?”

“Okay, ‘Sol’, let’s look that up. No, nothing. Do you have the galactic co-ordinates or the Association designation code?”

“Um… probably. Yeah, I think it’s… it says on my original ticket, let me call it up on my pad…”

“Fantastic. While you do that, I’m going to go ahead and help the next customer.”

“No, wait, I’ve got it right here. Can you scan it from the pad?”

It rolled all four eyes. “Of course I can scan it from the pad, sir.”

Parole

Until this very moment he hadn't been sure he wasn't still on Crescent. Now, smelling the air, feeling the gravity change as he stepped out into the open, he knew. The atmosphere was dry, almost uncomfortably so, and it was bright enough out that he was having trouble keeping his eyes open.

He stood still, letting the hot air blow over him, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Usually when you go Inside for less than three to five, they don't bother shipping you off-planet; cheaper to keep you local. Overcrowding in the City Jail must be worse than they admit.

Behind him a low rumble of a voice said, "Problem, 21753?"

"No, sir. Just a little bright. Waiting 'til I can see. Don't want to run into anything trying to walk with my eyes closed. What planet is this?"

"You're on Grung. Step to your left, you're blocking the path."

He sidestepped. "My apologies." He could feel a massive form lumbering slowly past: one of the Oblogo guards. Grung... he was nearly fifty light-years from Crescent, almost seventy from Earth. There wouldn't be any point in asking the guard why they'd brought him so far: the Oblogo aren't very high on the socio-political pecking order, and the Association doesn't go out of its way to explain itself to underlings.

He had some money. He had to get to town to claim it. Not enough to get to Crescent, much less to Earth, but enough that he didn't have to worry about where he would sleep tonight or from where his next three meals would come.

There was a road, poured stone, and as soon as he had eyes he began walking it. Twice or three times a crawler passed without slowing. By the time he reached town he was lightheaded.

Inside the bank, he stood silently until the human woman at the counter happened to look up. She was momentarily startled, but collected herself to suspiciously ask, "Did you want something?"

He walked up and handed her a slip of paper.

She read it, comprehended its meaning, and then laughed at herself. "For a minute there I thought you were robbing the place. You just got out?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Did you walk from the jail to here?"

"Yes, ma'am. How did you know?"

"You're covered in dust. And you look about to fall over. Wait here. No, better yet: go over to that bench and sit. I'll be right back." She disappeared into a back room, emerging after a moment with a plastic bottle of water. "Drink this while I run off your card. Won't take a minute."

"Thank you."

"It's just water. You probably didn't even realize how dehydrated you'd gotten. If this were any other planet you'd be drenched in sweat from that walk, but the air just sucks the moisture off you before you even know it's there. The first settlers died of dehydration all the time." Back behind the counter, she slide a brand-new ident card out of its protective sleeve and inserted it into a slot on her computer.

"And now?"

"Water mines: deep wells, with pumps we bought from the Fouwhi. If you know anything about machinery, that's where you want to go to look for work first: it pays better than anything else." She typed a few words into the computer and, after a moment, the now-active card slid back out of the reader.

"And if they're not hiring?"

She shrugged. "Don't lose this." She came out from behind the counter and handed him the Ident card. "You only get one for free."

"I won't. Where do I go now?"

She laughed. "How should I know? They always ask me. You're outside now, parolee. You can go wherever you want."

He didn't say anything. He stared at the Ident card, at his name in the Latin alphabet and in Grodon script, his I.D. number, the symbol for his species, the code for his planet of origin.

"Sorry. I don't mean to be rude."

"Don't worry about it." He headed for the door.

"What were you in for?" She asked. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to."

"Sympathy."

"Parolees always say 'sympathy'. At least when a human asks."

"Why is that?"

"They think humans will automatically be... sympathetic. Because it's a crime they assume we're all guilty of. Mind you, when a Rep asks them, or when they're looking for employment, they'll tell the truth. Which I suggest you do. They have a tough enough time bringing themselves to hire humans, much less ones who've gone Inside, and even less for ones who they know were sympathetic to the Rebels."

He shrugged. "It's the truth."

She stared at him for a moment, then asked, "Really?"

"Yeah."

"...But you didn't fight, did you?"

"I was arrested for 'sympathy'. It's all they could make." He started towards the door again, but he felt her hand close around his arm.

"Listen. I can talk to Mr. Forrest. He's the bank manager. I can't promise he'll hire you, but there are a couple properties we own that need caretakers. Fix things up, keep an eye on them until we sell them on. Which won't be soon, in this economy. Interested?"

He didn't have to think about it. "Sure."

"He'll be back in an hour or so, he's off having 'lunch'." She made a drinking motion with her other hand, and smiled. "Go get something to eat. Cora's is four buildings South. Along the road. Tell her Addie sent you. Actually, never mind, I'll call her. Go on now."

"I appreciate it."

"It's nothing. It's really nothing. Do you have any skills? Anything you're good at? So I can tell him. It might help."

Bomb-making. "Nothing really comes to mind. I'm good with my hands, anyway."

"I'll tell him. Go on now: Cora's, four buildings to the South. Be back in two hours."

"Thanks." He opened the door and stepped out into the dust.

SF Drabble #262 “Mind Your Manners”

The Association is all about profit; at least, profit for the core races, the founding members. The rest of the galaxy survives on what the Old Five don’t need and don’t want. Fortunately, all the way out here in Sol’s neighborhood there’s very little they need or want. As long as we recognize their authority and keep buying their goods they leave us alone.

But they don’t tolerate sedition. Keep putting speeches like that out over the Net and there’ll be Grodon warships in orbit before you know it. Not a hundred light years away at the Sector Outpost: here.

SF Drabble #218 “A New Lease, Part 2”

Free. I had a new suit, an ident card with credit on it to spend, and absolutely no obligations to any creature living.

I don’t think I’ll stay in town. It’s mostly Oblogo guards from the prison and their families. I’ll always be a prisoner to them. The crawler leaves in an hour. I’ll head down the coast.

Eventually I’ll end up in the city. There’s a spaceport there, but where would I go? Earth? With the government always collapsing, it’s not very safe. And there’s no money to be made. Only local UN scrip on Earth, not Association credits.

SF Drabble #217 “A New Lease”

At the end of a hot day under a sun far bluer than Sol, the work party was finally called in. One of the guards pulled me aside and rumbled, “You, human Brooks, go Warden.”

The Warden was waiting for me. “Your period of servitude is over. Time off for leading work party and general good behavior has been applied. Your debt is paid, and you have five thousand credits of savings from bonuses. Crawler will take you to town in twenty shorts.”

I started crying. I don’t know what the Warden thought was wrong with me. He looked uncomfortable.

SF Drabble #202 “And You're Working For No One But Me.”

The dust cloud rising in the distance told them a wagon approached and — as only Vylid would be found in a land vehicle — the humans began ducking into their huts, to prepare for possible searches.

The wagon’s steam engine hissed and belched as the vehicle neared, and it slowed gradually, rolling to a stop in the center of the village. The Vylid aboard her made no move to dismount, but waited for the village headman to approach and ask after their needs.

It would be taxes. If it had been for a fugitive, they would have been holding pressure rifles.

SF Drabble #193 “Under New Management”

We didn’t even know they were in the system until that Grodon officer walked into town and posted the notice on the town hall door. He was very polite, naturally.

Some folks are up in arms about it. Not literally of course. They just feel like we came out here — far away from any Association trade circuit — to get away from government, any government. Personally, I have mixed feelings. I won’t like paying Association taxes, but they’ve already taken out the pirates that were raiding our supply ships, and I hear we’re getting a new generator, so that ain’t bad.

SF Drabble #187 “Stratification”

I was five before I saw my first Vylid. My father took me from the village down the long dirt road to the trading post, a four hour walk. There happened to be a Vylid trader there. I remember being told not to stare. From my father’s deference I somehow understood there was danger; no one explained why or what kind.

I was twelve when I saw my first Booroo. My father took me aside and said, “Don’t look a Booroo in the eye. Don’t piss one off. They can kill Humans or Vylid without consequences. It’s their planet. Remember.”

SF Drabble #15 “Walkabout”

I took a supply rocket to the L5 Colonies, then talked my way onto a courier ship to Mars. I hung around the embassies in the Hellas Planitia until I found someone hiring for an outbound run. That took me to the colonies at Epsilon Indi and Tau Ceti, and from there to a Fouwhi outpost around some red giant, I didn’t know the name. I hopped ships to a Madive packet ship headed for the main Association circuit. Once I get tired of alien planets covered with strange and beautiful cities, I figure I’ll head for the galactic core.