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    Wind
    Wind
    Wind
    Ebook247 pages3 hours

    Wind

    By Charles G. Dyer

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    About this ebook

    On the planet Tharmith, all the women have been slaves for millennia. They form an underground movement called Wind and plot the overthrow of their cruel masters. A handful of men, like gullible young Malcith, support their cause. Wind and its operatives will stop at nothing, including murder and genocide. He had been manipulated and molded from childhood. Having a cruel brute of a father certainly helped Wind to recruit Malcith. On the cusp of adulthood, he is caught up in a web of secrecy and subterfuge. By the time he realizes just how serious Wind is about their revolutionary aims, he is too deeply committed to back away.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCharles G. Dyer
    Release dateFeb 29, 2016
    ISBN9781311779540
    Wind
    Author

    Charles G. Dyer

    Charles Dyer is a consulting engineer, former senior lecturer and former technical magazine editor. He creates 3D models to help with visualisation and realism in his writing.

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      Book preview

      Wind - Charles G. Dyer

      Wind

      CHARLES G. DYER

      On the planet Tharmith, all the women have been slaves for millennia. They form an underground movement called Wind, and plot the overthrow of their cruel masters.

      A handful of men, like gullible young Malcith, support their cause. Wind and its operatives will stop at nothing, including murder and genocide. He had been manipulated and moulded from childhood. Having a cruel brute of a father certainly helped Wind to recruit Malcith.

      On the cusp of adulthood, he is caught up in a web of secrecy and subterfuge. By the time he realises just how serious Wind is about their revolutionary aims, he is too deeply committed to back away.

      Copyright © 2016 Charles G. Dyer

      All rights reserved.

      ISBN: 9781311779540

      Smashwords Edition

      License

      Thank you for purchasing this book. Names, characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. It remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

      It would be greatly appreciated if you could post a review on the site where you purchased this book.

      CONTENTS

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty One

      Chapter_Twenty_Two

      About The Author

      Chapter One

      The sun rose slowly over the mountains of the Pagati Highlands, painting hues of flame across the deep blue sky. Marmith, the pink moon, was full and it dangled a finger's width above the opposite horizon. Directly overhead, the blue moon called Lemith showed half of its pasty face. The silhouetted buildings of Skumba City contrasted crisply against the hazy greens of the Sabisa Forest.

      Three warriors slouched wearily as they rode along the ancient perimeter road. The eerie glow of magenta and cyan from the boundary fence still reflected off the visors of their helmets, but the rising sun was rapidly displacing that colour. The powerful hum from the barrier was enough to set their teeth on edge.

      Their mounts were eager to return to their stables. The great beasts had picked up the pace as soon as the first sliver of the sun appeared.

      The first warrior yawned noisily. Thank the moons our patrol is almost over.

      Rutting rufkins! his companion snorted. I'm just glad it was a quiet night for a change.

      Malcith hung back and kept his thoughts to himself. He petted his rufkin's withers. The tough segmented leathery skin was surprisingly warm. The first rays of sunlight glinted off the wickedly sharp polished tusks at the end of the animal's long rectangular snout.

      As the rearguard, he fell easily into the habit of looking over his shoulders frequently. To the northwest, nothing could be seen of Inja Bay thanks to a typical early morning mist. Even the broad white sandy beaches were hard to discern. Over his right shoulder, visibility was better, but still hazy. There were the dingy row houses of the lower ranks of society. Closer to the sea were commercial and industrial complexes that rose above the mist and snatched the first sunbeams out of the air.

      Rufkins were easy to train and fiercely loyal to their riders. In addition to their tusks, they could inflict terrible wounds with the two retractable talons on each of their four feet. The pads on their feet made them sure-footed and quiet.

      Despite their bulk, rufkins were capable of moving more stealthily than most people. The olive-green colour of their skin served as excellent camouflage in the forests and on the plains.

      I'd rather keep on riding than go home to dear father and all his ilk, Malcith thought bitterly. The only thing I'll be glad of is being able to get out of this damned armour for a few hours.

      Malcith objected to the principle of wearing body armour rather than any discomfort. It was lightweight, flexible and provided protection against all ballistic projectiles except for the armour-piercing types. Beneath the armour, standard bodysuits gave the wearer additional protection from cutting and stabbing weapons. They all wore the single red ring of braid on their sleeves to indicate their ranks as junior warriors.

      The threesome approached their sector command centre. Sector East 1 was one of ten sectors of equal size. It was situated in the northeast quadrant of the city.

      Everyone from slave to warlord wore identifying flashes on their shoulders. The colours for Sector East 1 were blue and white.

      Two gate guards stepped forward and demanded identification. The heavy weapons of automated guard towers were trained menacingly on the patrol.

      In accordance with regulations, the patrol removed their helmets. They tapped their armbands to send their personal identification data to the guards. One guard stood at the ready while the other one examined each face in turn with a hand scanner.

      This is damned ridiculous, Malcith thought. Surely, these buffoons can recognise us from when we went out a few hours ago? He knew that standing orders demanded such measures, but much of the paranoia of the warlord's militia was illogical to him.

      The guards waved them through and the formidable gates opened silently to admit them. The rufkins ambled through and headed for the debriefing room.

      Before they arrived at their destination, the floodlights winked out leaving the camp bathed in a gloomy orange of early sunlight. The duty sergeant leaned against the domed structure.

      The sergeant spat disdainfully on the ground. You shitheads are having it too easy lately. Was a time not so long ago when there was continuous fighting night and day. You're all going soft.

      Humph, Malcith grunted to himself. Look who's talking. Where did you get your fat belly from, you lousy oaf?

      Thanks to the lack of action during their patrol, they were able to complete their incident reports in record time. They mounted their rufkins and went their separate ways.

      Malcith took his time going home. He would have taken even longer if it were not for the fact that his rufkin needed food, water and rest.

      ***

      The rufkin strolled through the shower and shook itself. Malcith spoke softly to it as he rubbed it down with a towel.

      Would you rather be out in the fields and free from the madness of people? I wish you could talk. He patted the rufkin's jowl.

      The great beast blew through its nostrils and shouldered him out of its way. It wanted to fill its belly and the smell of fresh kolweni fodder and a trough full of shani grain drew it towards its stable.

      Oh well, Malcith smiled at its departing rump, I guess you can do whatever you like… unlike us two-legged fools.

      A robotic cleaner scurried by to muck out an empty stall. Malcith was grateful that that aspect of having a rufkin was not a part of his duties.

      He spun on his heels and walked irresolutely from the stables to the double-storey house. The formidable structure never felt like home to him, but it was the only place he had ever lived in during his seventeen years of life.

      There was nothing homely about the fortified barracks that housed well over a hundred people. The first floor had forty bedrooms for the men and boys. The ground floor was a mixture of kitchens, stores, offices and some bedrooms for non-military men. The upper basement was more or less an open plan quarters for the slaves, and a partitioned off section for general stores. Much deeper underground was the command bunker and a munitions magazine as well as a bomb shelter with sufficient stores to endure a six-month siege.

      As a male, he was privileged from birth by right of his sex and his father's position. Of his siblings he only knew of his dozens of half-brothers. None of his relatives had ever been friendly. He had no idea who his mother was. Any sisters and half-sisters were made slaves as soon as they were weaned. Most of them had already been sold along with male offspring that showed insufficient potential.

      Such was the lot of females on the planet Tharmith. They were nothing but chattel, regardless of parentage. Although all women were slaves they could climb the social ladder to some limited extent. The highest rank attainable by a woman was a technical labourer, then nurse, clerk or civilian labourer, technical slave, and commercial slave down to the lowest rank of a civilian slave.

      Despite the hierarchy, a woman was always regarded as the property of some man. As her owner, he could do as he liked with her. She had absolutely no rights or privileges other than those allowed by her master. If he chose to maim or kill her, he was within his legal rights and automatically innocent of any crime.

      As a seven-year old child, Malcith had learned the hard way that it was best not to show any public sympathy for the lot of women. In all innocence, he had asked his father not to hit his nurse. The cruel man had just laughed and stabbed the poor woman to death.

      He wiped the bloody blade across Malcith's cheeks. Son, he sneered and smirked, "I do whatever I want to do. Mark my words, if you ever dare to question anything I do again, I'll whip the skin off your back. And, count yourself lucky I don't sell you."

      That ghastly incident was indelibly imprinted in Malcith's brain. He never forgave his father, and he made a point of commemorating the dreadful day every year. The nurse's name was Koran, and he often thought about her.

      Two armed and armoured guards stood at the door to the house. They were probably relatives, but Malcith regarded them and every other male as potential enemies.

      One guard rubbed his nose. Ugh, the whelp must've pissed in his pants while on patrol.

      One day I'll make you eat your words, you stupid galoob, Malcith thought. He knew from bitter experience that challenging the bait would earn him a beating.

      The contemptuous expression of the other guard dared him to open his mouth. He looked away quickly and entered the house.

      'Whelp' was one of the more tolerable epithets Malcith had been given. 'Demon-spawn' made aspersions on his father, so it was rarely used. 'Runt' was more commonly used and it made him self-conscious of what he also regarded as his inadequate physique.

      He was relieved to find the foyer empty except for his slave. She rose from the bench and bowed. How may I serve you, master? she asked in a timid voice.

      Hello Nomran, are you're well? he whispered.

      She looked around nervously before replying with a brief smile and a nod.

      He raised his voice slightly. I hope my bath ready, and a feast awaits me.

      She dipped her head. Indeed, everything is prepared as usual, master. She fell in behind him as he ascended the stairs to his room.

      He walked quickly over the grey carpeted long corridor. Most of the many doors were closed. In any case, he had no desire to talk to anyone, especially not his father.

      Lock the door, he said as he entered his room.

      Malcith placed his helmet on a shelf in a built-in cupboard and began removing his armour. Now tell me the truth, Nomran. You seem more nervous than usual. Has anyone hurt you?

      Mast… she began then remembered his instructions about using his name when in privacy. Malcith, I was lucky, but several women were severely beaten last night… So badly that they're all in the infirmary.

      "My father?" He used the word as a profanity.

      Not just Lord Pekith. He was entertaining some clan chiefs as well. She shuddered and smoothed her hands over her short buff frock.

      Her dress was the standard issue that all slave women wore. The sleeveless body-hugging bodice flared out slightly over the hips and ended a hand's width below the crotch. The fabric was a coarse durable twill-weave made from the cheapest natural fibre. The buff colour marked her as an ordinary civilian slave. This was a peculiar whim of Lord Pekith because Malcith was a qualified warrior and his slave was entitled to wear the black uniform of a military slave. For reasons best known to himself, The Demon told Malcith that Nomran could not wear black.

      He sat on the end of his bed to remove his boots. "What I cannot understand is why you women have tolerated this despicable behaviour for thousands of years. The few women that I've ever spoken to seem far more intelligent than any of the men I've encountered. They're all just bullies with nothing but sex and fighting on what they call their minds. I swear that my rufkin is smarter than most of them."

      What are we supposed to do? Even boys are bigger and stronger than the most robust of women. Nomran sighed and thought, Can I really trust him? I've known him for nearly five years now. Granted I've done my best to steer his thinking in the right direction, but he hardly needed my guidance. He consistently condemns the abuse of women, and he obviously hates just about every male on this estate.

      "By the moons, I wish I could do something to help you. He stretched as he walked to the table where his breakfast was spread out. He gestured for Nomran to sit. Please eat."

      She sat and selected a slice of mupash. It was a juicy fibrous melon with a rich burgundy hue and a tangy taste. Thanks. She raised the fruit. Perhaps you can help.

      How? he asked as he bit into a bread roll.

      Firstly, I think your potential is being wasted as a warrior. You're not aggressive or cruel enough to survive a clan war. I think that you'd be more suited to a technical position. She took a bite of mupash.

      Yeah? He swallowed a mouthful of bread. Why not commercial? And how will my being a techie help the plight of women?

      Technical people are second only to the militia, and they are more useful than anyone associated with money. Nomran ate some more. Besides which, as a warrior you earn the paltry wages of 2000 cudas a month. After expenses, you only have 450 cudas. As a techie foreman you'd get 3000 cudas a month. With a brain like yours, it shouldn't take long for you to advance to supervisor.

      Malcith sipped some red slypash juice. His face wrinkled at the tartness. What branch of technology would serve women best?

      Communications, Nomran said without hesitation. Especially a means of communicating without detection, and across the entire planet.

      Don't the warlords already do that?

      Yes, I believe they do.

      How would you know?

      She shrugged. People are careless with their tongues when slaves are present… and some men talk in their sleep. Most of them boast about just about everything. The problem is that the equipment that warlords use for global communications is useless to us slaves. It's too big. We need something tiny that can easily be hidden. Something that would not be detected even if we are sold to a new master.

      They ate and drank in silence for a while. Malcith mulled over what had been said.

      We do have armbands, he said. Wouldn't they be good enough?

      She rolled her eyes. "Can you imagine what they'd do to a poor girl who wore one of those? Even if she never wore it, where could she hide it? Don't you know that we seldom sleep in the same bed twice? Sometimes there aren't even enough beds to go round. We aren't allowed to have any personal possessions."

      Malcith thought about her words as he finished his breakfast. He stared at her petite body and slender neck. The narrow band of gleaming pearlescent metal around her neck caught his eye.

      The slave collars could not easily be removed without killing the wearer. Even if the slave somehow survived the removal, the collar alerted the monitors who then relayed a signal to the owner to inform him that the collar had been tampered with. Collars also contained tracking devices that could pinpoint the location of the slave. In addition to which, any woman seen without a collar would immediately be arrested and returned to her owner.

      Maybe the collar is the best place to hide things, he said.

      Only if it can be opened without triggering an alarm, she said.

      He sighed and went to the bathroom. Coming?

      The bedroom was three-and-a-half metres square, but it had a full bath, toilet, wash hand basin, pokey little kitchen, built-in cupboards, a workstation, the bed and a small side table, as well as a table and two chairs.

      Of course, she smiled, you know how I love to be clean.

      The slaves had one communal shower that only had cold water. Their only consolation was that the climate of Tharmith was temperate, and most of the landmass was concentrated in the tropical zone.

      What good will comms do you? I mean who will you talk to, and what will you say to each other? He pulled his bodysuit open and began wriggling out of it.

      Nomran leaned against the wall. She spoke very softly. It takes organisation and co-ordination to start a revolution.

      His eyebrows shot up. Revolution?

      She tilted her head and continued. "How else can changes be brought

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