David: Savakerrva, Book 1 by Brown L

Author:Brown, L. [Brown, L.]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: David, savakerrva, davidsavakerrva, vaalik, c'raagh, x-blade, zahlen, atta ra, logaht, g'mach, eylahn
Published: 2017-04-05T16:00:00+00:00

The shift wore on.

A grapple with death masquerading as work, the trench mauled the body and deadened the mind. The routine never changed, Garth’s stagger and grunt started and ended with the axe, with struggling to lift without suffering collapse. But even if he did shoulder the tool, he still had to swing, still had to smash some scab of slag on the J’kel’s glowing skin. And though the cleats helped, thwarted the slip, his blows did nothing but sting his hands and shuffle his bones because the math was brutal, the sum of no food and zero rest had left him a shell.

Yet worse was the time. Unaware of what hours had passed or how many remained, Garth lived in the worst kind of ignorance, the torture imposed without foreseeable end. A perpetual slog with no hope on the way, his grip on both axe and reality ebbed with every swing. And though he groped for focus, some heroic inspiration from his forever-ago past, he recalled only the most unhuman of men, those with powers either super or dark, guys in tights or kids with wands. But under the Machine and down in this trench, ravaged and bent with his mind going dim, Garth found no power or spell, nothing remained but his bloody, callused hands.

And worse, he was alone.

But you’re not, asserted some inexplicable whisper, and for a moment, Garth swore it came from the J’kel. Fatigue, he reasoned, just a trick of the mind.

I’m your friend, David, persisted the whisper. Or should I call you Garth.

Entranced by the J’kel, its unfathomable inside, Garth wondered if it was finally happening, if after so many insanities, he was losing his mind.

A shock of noise shook Garth awake, the klaxon was back. The same alarm previously heard, it sprang the shadows out of the trench.

Are we done?

Slaggers replied with shouts, haulers abandoned their carts, and as Garth looked on, he abruptly realized he stood quite alone.

Over the top and out of the trench, Garth followed the herd to the racks. T-bars clanged in, Garth flung his axe, and as the masses made their pivot, fevered exclamations of yohg! and g’yohg! greeted the manna from above, the hoses and troughs now coming down.

Utterly spent just moments before, Garth found himself running on steel-cleated boots. Clumsy, they slowed his stride, yet if all that mattered was beating the rest, he had no complaint, and after passing the sick, he raced the aged and lame. But as hoses started their sputter, he slipped, nearly fell from the smell of wet dog and bad eggs. The same foul odor effused by the swill, it gave him pause; was that all they ate?

Not likely, even school lunches offered a choice, entrees either deep-fried or not, so resuming his sprint, Garth hunted for the upscale troughs, for the alien chicken or frozen-ocean fish. But with slaggers and haulers so tightly packed in, he had to wedge and weave, struggle to the very first trough. Gripping its edge, he pulled himself close, then he just stared at the same brown swill.

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