Uphill Battle

[Brian]

From Chapter Two -- for Tom

You find yourself blinking sand out of your eyes, and with the taste of soil in your mouth.  Spitting, you finds yourself lying face down in a pen of some sort -- dirt beneath you.  Ruddy, almost red ... close to clay, really.  The pen's walls are low, crudely slapped together wooden barriers.  They could be stepped across easily.

The fenced off area is probably about three acres, and there's a hut and a firepit within the confines.  There's also a gate, currently lashed shut with a leather(?) cord not too far away.  Directly across the barrier, maybe seven feet away, are a pair of well-dressed gentlemen who seem to have stepped out of the Victorian age.  Very foppish, elaborate, black outfits liberally festooned with lacy cravats and cuffs.

One of them is tall, whipcord lean, clenching a cigarette holder with lit cigarette between his teeth, eyes locked on Tom's.  The other is shorter by a good two feet, and hugely corpulent.  "I told you so," the fat one says in satisfaction.  "Bred for generations, thrown back through regression gates whenever they grow too far from our ideal....  And now you have it.  Loyal, able to follow orders, and they know not to question anything you say."

"I see," the tall man says in a very rusty, disinterested voice.  "I require a legion.  My needs are complex, and I suspect you don't have the forces I require."

"Poppycock!  I can supply you with all the thralls you need -- and trust me, you won't need many.  Your house will be safe with a dozen, I assure you."

"I require an assault force."

This causes the fat man to pause.  "May I inquire as to why?" he asks pointedly, turning to face the lean man with narrowed eyes.

Lips twisting in a smile, the thin man pivots to face the fat one again.  "My business.  I'd rather not discuss it before these creatures.  Let us retire to a more appropriate venue for discussion, shall we?"

"Of course...."  Frowning, the fat man leads the thin man away, at about the same time you lever yourself to a sitting position.  Your mouth has too much dirt in it to speak at the moment.  By the time it's out, the men are out of earshot, down a tree-lined lane.  The area has a clear sky, but there's no sun in sight.  Despite that, there seems to be some sort of omnipresent light, leaving only minimal shadows beneath anything.

Looking around, you see a few men dressed as you realize you are -- in sturdy looking pocket-less work pants, with no shirt.  The others are standing in a row, carefully not making eye contact.  They all are of about the same height, burly looking guys, with square jaws, solid looking features, and you'd guess about six and a half feet tall.  Their skin is ruddy, much like the clay, and the pants are a uniform stained red with clay/dirt.

[Carthrat]

Wiping the dirt and grime off his face, Tom wipes his head, and stares bleakly at the surroundings. Pushing himself raggedly to his feet, he has a sudden epiphany;

This is, quite possibly, the worst moment of my life... alright. Alright. I.. will be leaving. Fuck...

He twists his head, glancing across the other men nearby, doing his best to.. test this body. "Ugh.. what happened?" he asks, as an open question.

[Brian]

The other men look at Tom dumbly for a minute, and then one says, "You followed orders."

The others nod, as though this explained everything.

Then shrug, looking around and seeing no obvious overseer or the like.  With no one to push them around, they all head towards the barracks.

[Carthrat]

"Oh... yeah. Orders. Right. I think I hit my head on something," he mutters, trailing after the other men towards the barracks-

-but he said I'm a goddamn thrall.. what's with that? No way am I going to get shoved around.. no way. Yeah. Gotta find out more for now. Looks like I can rat out anytime...

"What do you think's going to happen next?" he asks, cautiously.

[Brian]

The barracks a crude, but clean.  And unfortunately, completely empty of anything interesting like cards, books, or personal property.  There's a table, and a kitchen-like area with a sink and some dishes, all neatly washed and in a drying rack.  There are beds, with clean sheets, all neatly made up.

And once they're all inside, two men go to each door (the building is a long hall, with a door at each end; one end is the kitchen, the other is the beds), and keep watch.

"Dunno," the man who spoke the first time sighs.  "Sell us.  Use us as tools."  He scowls.  "Maybe give us better food."  The other men nod unhappily, with the air of those who have been pushed around so long that while they resent it, they no longer remember a thing they can do about it.

[Carthrat]

"That guy wanted soldiers," mutters Tom, trying to get his bearings.. and wondering which bed is his. If it matters.

"What the heck for? I.. it.. I just- this is so messed up. Where'd they go off to?"

[Brian]

"Stupid non-bred war," the speaker says again, this time with a touch of anger.  "Just because they didn't go through program.  They all go to big, non-bred house, for real peoples.  Leave us here."

[Carthrat]

"They'll come back," mutters Tom. "Then they're just gonna use us... but it's not like they're watching us right now. We.. could go anywhere, right?"

Shit, this is dangerous. Fuck.

[Brian]

"They say, 'Don't touch fence', and 'Don't open gate'.  How we leave?"  They all nod at this pressing, amazingly difficult to answer question.

[Carthrat]

"Man, who gives a fuck what they say?" snaps Tom. "They're just WORDS. I could do it right now."

[Brian]

"But...."  They seem confused, at a loss.  "But they said not to."  The others nod unhappily.  "And you go....  But we stay?  Only a leader can say to go."

The one who's been speaking sighs.  "They say, me or you make leader.  But don't know if it true.  Say, use smarter ones.  But not too smart, or go back through gate again."  All of the men shudder at this.  "Dangerous words," he whispers, to a united, solemn nod.

[Carthrat]

"What's the.. what's this 'gate'? Regression gate, he said," replies Tom, stepping apart from the group so that every one can get a clear look at him.

Projecting his voice to speak to the men serving as guards, he also adds- "And if they're coming back, let me know."

[Brian]

"'Kay'," the guards respond without hesitation.

The theoretical challenger for leader cocks his head to one side, blinking.  "Regression gate makes ... uh ... less.  And more.  Too smart, too weak?  Fixes."

[Carthrat]

Barbaric!

"There's.." Swallowing, Tom nods. "Ok. So they went up to some house. Do they have.. soldiers? Guards? Anything like that? That's what they wanted us for, I think, but..."

[Brian]

"Oooh," he says, nodding.  "Always have guards.  Two, at least.  Carry muskets, sometimes swords."  He thinks.  "Horses, too."  Then he says, "Make plan?  Practice, like training time?"  At a glance, these people are practically starved for leadership.  Tom is quickly glad he can draw on his stubborn and innate independence from the real world to fight off the urge to be as docile as them, though a newly formed simmering temper is hard to quell.