The Frihet Rebellion

The twelve Earthmen and women staggered through thick jungle undergrowth, their wrists bound together by strong vines, plaited into rope. On all sides of them strode the natives, silent, moving those who slowed or stumbled with prods from their spears.

Kramer, in the middle of the line of prisoners, studied the native alongside him with quick glances, not wanting to anger him. The man’s forehead rose steeply above deep set eyes, and the dome of his head was slightly larger, in proportion, than the average Earthman’s. The head, and the whole body, was hairless, a trait common among all the natives. The nose was long and sharp, and the nostrils were covered with flaps of skin, which opened periodically as the native breathed. All of them were naked, and male and female alike were of athletic build, their muscles well defined, their bodies lean.

The psyches tells us that, if captured, one of the first things we should do is attempt to create a rapport between our captors and ourselves thought Kramer. Statistically it improves our chances of survival.

“Do you speak our language?” said Kramer, forcing a smile and turning to look at the man marching alongside him.

In response, the native short-jabbed his blunt spear end into Kramer’s stomach.

Kramer, unprepared for the blow, bent double, winded. As he did so, he slowed down and the native shoved him harshly forward.

Kramer stumbled into the back of First Officer Crane before he managed to straighten, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his stomach. Crane also stumbled, as Kramer bumped him, but he recovered quickly and glanced back over his shoulder.

“Are you okay, Admiral?”

The same native who had struck Kramer now snapped the end of his spear round, catching Crane across the top of the head.

Crane cried out in surprise more than pain.

As Kramer fought to calm his natural desire for revenge, he filed away, in his mind, the two bits of information the last few seconds had taught him about the natives. They did not like their captives talking, and they were skilled with their spears. The strikes on Kramer and Crane had been controlled and gauged to hurt without serious injury.

It won’t do to underestimate them, thought Kramer. They might look like barbarians, but they are disciplined and skilled. They need to be treated with respect if we want to survive.

Without warning, the jungle opened out into a large clearing. A collection of conical huts built from mud, trees and other jungle vegetation, spread out before them. Kramer admired some of the lattice work and weaving that had gone into the making of the solid-looking huts. He had no doubt that they provided good shelter, whatever weather settled over the jungle throughout the Frihet year. Each hut had a doorway, covered with a mat of tightly woven vines. Most of these mats were pulled aside, and faces peered out at the strange captives as they were led between the huts.

There’s fear in their eyes, thought Kramer with some satisfaction. These hunters, these soldiers, might not fear us, but most of the others do.

They were led towards the far end of the village, to where a large walled kraal lay. Within the walls of trimmed down tree trunks, seen sparingly through the open gateway, animals that were recognizable to Kramer as cattle, roamed freely. Above the walls rose the tallest and widest hut he had yet seen. This could only be the home of the headman of the village.

Kramer and his crew were led through the gateway and towards the hut’s low stoop. On the stoop was an arrangement of moss and leaves, looking to Kramer not unlike a splay of pillows, and on this sat a native. The man was older than those who had led them in, but displayed many of the same characteristics: the baldness; the trim, muscular physique. As with all the natives they had seen so far, he was naked, except for a crown of twisted vines on his head.

The hunters at their side fell to their knees before their headman and Kramer, deciding respect was a better card to play than bravado, followed suit. After a moment’s hesitation, his crew did the same.

A brief flurry of unintelligible words were exchanged between the hunter on Kramer’s left and the headman, following which the headman addressed himself to Kramer in stuttering, broken Galactic.

“M’b’gera thinks you come from Palace.”

Kramer glanced at the native alongside him, presumably M’b’gera. When he spoke, he spoke slowly, determined to make himself understood.

“M’b’gera wrong. We come from big bird in sky. Crash in jungle.”

“I know spaceship,” said the headman. “I not ignorant, just not speak your tongue well.”

Kramer rallied quickly, speaking more freely now.

“I meant no offence. Forgive my error.”

“Forgiven. Now, before crash, why you here?”

Kramer hesitated. He had no idea where the allegiance of these natives lay. If he got it wrong, he could be sentencing himself and his crew to death. The only clue he had was the treatment given them by M’b’gera and his hunters, and the knowledge that M’b’gera believed they came from the Palace. He chose to tell the truth.

“We are from planet Earth. We are here to fight Palace.”

This statement was followed by silence, and Kramer wondered whether he had judged incorrectly. He was just trying to work out how he might spin what he said to mean the exact opposite, when the headman broke into a broad smile and spoke.

“Enemy of Palace friend of M’Abuutan. Friend of King Ideb. Welcome!”