A week after I started working at the Perion Field One, Clive came to the prison to see me.  “How do you like your job so far?”  he asked.

“I like it better than being your assistant,” I said, glancing at his dark suit that matched his shiny dark hair.

With a cold smirk, he took a pack of cigarette from his coat pocket, lit one, took a deep inhale, and gazed at me through the smoke.  “You haven’t changed one bit.”

“Unless you accept my demands, I will stay here.”

He scoffed.  “Our leader told me to teach you a lesson to be a loyal servant.”

“So, what are you going to do with me?”

“I could throw you into a torture chamber but I am too nice to do that.  I don’t want to waste your quality, so…” he paused.

I waited for his next word, curious.

“You are not good enough to be my assistant.  So, I recommend you to be a common security guard,” he said condescendingly.

“I can live with that.  Where will I be working?”

“Let’s go,” he said, walking toward his vehicle.

(from THE SPACE HERMITS)

Looking out the tiny cell window, I saw several torabus, the Great Dane-like animals, at the edge of the field.  Then a sudden whistle came from somewhere.  Some inmate was trying to get the torabus’ attention?  One torabu was moving toward the prison building and the rest trailed him.

When they came near my window I admired the magnificent creatures with their dark coats and folded wings glistening in the moonlight.  They appeared a mixture of a Dane and a horse but much larger than a horse.  The smallest one in the group turned its head to look at me with its intelligent looking eyes.  I remembered that #268 didn’t like torabu’s meat.  I understood him now.  How can they eat such beautiful creatures?

The whistle blew again.  The smallest one’s ear twitched at the sound as if he recognized the whistler.  He glanced around.  Seeing no one, he listened more.  As the whistle stopped he flew away, the others following him.

(from THE SPACE HERMITS)

The guard threw me a new empty bag.  The filled bags were taken to the truck at the edge of the field.  As my empty stomach growled I opened a perion-seed pod that was a-food  long.  There were green seeds that were thrice larger than the peas in it.  I ate them.  They were sweet and nutty.  I ate some more.

“Don’t eat the seeds, you pig!”  the Makumban guard barked.

I fought not to pulverize him, for I knew the consequence of my action.  I didn’t want to be killed and become a wandering ghost in  this field.  Stay alive, Marlon.      

“Eat this,” #268 gave me his sandwich from the bag.

“Keep it for yourself.”

“Come here,” he whispered to me, moving toward a nearby shady area where several pickers were smoking.  He rolled the dried perion leaves in a piece of paper, grabbed a dried stick of perion branch from the ground and rubbed it vigorously against the side of his metal ankle-cuff.  A minute later the stick burst into a flame.  He put it to the rolled cigaret and puffed.  “Perion stick is the best,” he said.  “Other sticks don’t burn easily.”

I bent to feel my ankle-cuff.  It was hot, heated by the scorching sun.  My socks protected my skins from getting burn.

He gave me the cigaret but I didn’t take it.  Perion-cigaret was highly addictive, stronger than marijuana.  I used to smoke marijuana when I was in high school and knew it made me lazy and unmotivated.  I didn’t want that now.  I must stay sober if I want to survive.

“This is how we cope with our misery,” #268 said.

(from THE SPACE HERMITS)

“You are a seed-picker for the rest of your life,” Clive said angrily.  He pressed the button on his coat to call a security guard.  A minute later the guard came in.  “Take him to the Perion Field One,” Clive ordered.  “He’s a picker from now!”

Outside, the guard thrust me into the rumpom.  “Get in!”

Half an hour later, we reached to the field suburb of the city, the same field I had visited the day before.  As we walked toward the guard station, a tall security guard appeared at the door.  “I brought you a new picker,” the guard who brought me told him.

The guard looked confused a second then nodded.  “Start working!”  He threw me an empty bag.

So, my days as a seed-picker began just like that.  I went toward the workers in the field.  “Stupid son of a machine!”  I cussed, picturing Clive’s cold face.  “I could save the leader’s life by caching wannabe assassins from Rakutan some day.  If he knew what you did to me, he will kick your ass.  You will lose your job!”  I began to pick the seeds.

“Mr. Brumba, what in the world are you doing here?”  The middle-aged man I’d met the day before came toward me, his eyes wide.

“I’m not Brumba.  Call me Marlon.”

“So, what went wrong, Marlon?”

“I didn’t accept the job.  Simple as that.”

“How come you threw out such good opportunity?”

I told him what happened.  “If he’s smart, he will come back for me.  But again he might not come.  His head is all screwed up.”

(from The SPACE HERMITS)

 

After visiting the human slaves in the field, I knew exactly what I should propose to Talumon, the leader:  One, stop producing human clones.  Two, give the existing humans freedom to choose their occupation.  Last but not the least, allow humans who wish to return to Earth to do so.  As for me, after serving as a brumba for two years, I should be permited to return to Earth also.

That was what I exactly told Clive when he came to my room that evening.  He laughed hysterically.  “That’s one heck of a proposal!  That’s just too much for us to even consider.”

“Then I won’t serve Makumba, Talumon, whatsoever.”

“That’s too bad,” he said coldly.

(excerpted from THE SPACE HERMITS)