The Gaming Outpost

“Slave!” A boot in my ribs followed this imprecation. “Shut up husband, you’re being dreary.”

An in sigh of breath, and the crying of Hector, the baby, got me to rise from the oh-so-comfortable corn sack bag that was my matress.  To think, at one time, I sold Serta Perfect Sleeper matresses in my uncle’s furniture store.  Mistress’ booted foot smashed into the place I had been, and I scrambled on hands and knees across the cottage between Master and Mistress who were flinging hard words, and occasional items at each other, toward the plastic laundry basket, they had stolen from me two weeks ago.

In it, Hector bawled.  He had even less padding than I, and no blanket, save the rag wrapped about his middle.  The poor little fellow was barely two months old, and he looked up at me in hope.

Unlikely as it seems, babies do not actually need diapers.  A baby can hold its own waste inside like an adult, but unlike an adult, it cries a lot to get notice of its problem.  The Mennonite community down from my hometown in another, far better universe than this rocky coastland of Japan (I think, the stars and the vegetation seem in order), did so, or some of them.  But, the typical Mennonite farmer would surely have horsewhipped Master and Mistress for the techniques they used.

The reason Hector was still alive was because I had versed into this universe, and been taken captive by the colonial force of Polynesian invaders.

“Get that crying monster out of here.” The woman bellowed at me, adding a boot to the buttocks to emphasize her point.

“Yes.” The man growled, and flung his three foot long double-bladed axe over my head so that it buried itself in the wall of the cottage near the blood stains of the locals who had built the cottage with loving care.  Even the woman, Mistress, shut up for a second at this sign of domineering rage from her man.

I knew what would happen next. PDA.  Let us say, they thought of slaves (me) as incurious dogs, and went about their business with enthusiasm.  I took Hector out, and scatted out into the darkening cherry tree wood around the ancient home which was rapidly becoming a trash pile.

I stood Hector on his legs, and held his hands.  He released with an expression of pure relief.

After cleaning him with a leaf, I sat him up against a tree, and prepared to sit down myself.  My bruises still pained me greatly.

Mistress was the most aggressive person I had ever met (including that Devil Dog biker last year, in my home reality on Earth, who had wanted to buy his bike momma a new bed) except for Master.  Sometimes it seemed like they competed to see who could hurt me more.  Master always won because he was a foot and a half taller, and seventy pounds of muscle stronger.

Phut.

A dart sprang from my neck, or so it seemed.  I felt heavy. This was weird. Happily the pain was gone, even the slight sting in my neck.  I sat down, and then leaned up against the tree that held Hector.   He cooed at me thinking I was playing a game.

A ghost like figure, clad in dull deep red, almost black, loose folds over his small, agile body disguising his form to the human eye, and with a wrap about his head, and a loose fold over his mouth appeared in front of me.  His olive face with its keenly perceptive eyes studied me, and I tried to put my hand out to protect Hector, but I could hardly move.

My killer gently took my hand, and patted Hector kindly, and then touched his own chest.

The message was clear.

Sorry about killing you, but it had to be done. But we don’t harm infants.  I will take care of him myself.

The ninja drifted away, and I found enough air in my lungs that I could have screamed.  I could have warned the massive Polynesian invaders with their axes and giant clubs, wielded by men and women, in the village by the bay that the Japanese retribution in the form of terror by night had come, but really, I could not see a reason why I should.

And so I drifted off painlessly, and somewhere in a dream of telling my uncle I was taking a break, and was going to sleep on the Emperor sized Super-Premium mattress, I versed out.

=====================

I woke to a clear blue sky, and the cry of gulls, and the crash of waves.  Sitting up, I saw that I was on a large green grass covered hill dotted by sheep with the sea to my right.  A walled city with a giant levee facing the waters lay in the valley below me.

burp.

I looked toward the sound, truly shocked.  Hector was chewing on some lovely green grass as a sheep tried to nuzzle his face.  Several dozen sheep were trailing over the hill edge behind us, and toward me and Hector.  One came up to me, and nibbled my hair.

I wiped Hector’s mouth off automatically even as I tried to figure out why he was here.

Perhaps I should introduce myself.  My name is not ‘Slave!’, but Hugh Patricks, a true son of Eire and America, born a Pentecostal in a small town in the Smoky Mountains.  Pretty much every generation had supplied menfolk to America’s wars going all the way back to the French and Indian War.  But while warlike when provoked, we had never taught our womenfolk to war, and considering the hell I had just been through, I began to see my Grandpaw’s point when he declared ’tain’t right’.  Hard to have a civilization when everyone adult is phasers set on slaughter, all the time.  Even our menfolk only ‘imitated the actions of a tiger’ when in red-hot warre.  Otherwise, we barbecued which the womenfolk had not minded as they never had to cook or clean the kitchen from May to October.

But, after versing from a new laptop, and being put in the loop on the Orange Grass Place as I called it, then I went to My Private Hell, and now I was surrounded by sheep and Hector was climbing on my lap, and I realized that perhaps a few more questions of those in OGP might have been useful.

On the plus side, all my bruises, blisters, burns, broken bones, and bites (when Mistress really lost it, she bit) were gone.  That was just how the folks at You Make Tech had said it would be.

“Well Hector, old buddy, I guess its who me, and the sheep.”

He grabbed a sheep’s wool side to pull himself upright.  The sheep patiently bore it, and Hector crowed with delight as he stood on my legs and looked out over the encircling flock.

“You there, you’re on Cargill land.”  I heard a voice behind me.  I tried to crane my neck around as I sat there with my back leaning against a sheep side.  The fellow took the hint, and walked around in front of me.

He had a stick, and a hooked staff.

“My rod and my staff, they comfort me.”  I tried to quote without thinking about it.

The young shepherd relaxed a bit as I referenced his profession.

“Aye.  That is the way of it for sheep. But not for robbers…”

Hector turned to him, and gave him a big grin which relaxed the shepherd even further.

“Not a robber. Just passing through.”

I slowly stood, and it developed that I overtopped the shepherd by a foot.

“That’s all right then.” The shepherd said, more politely as he realized that maybe I could thrash him.  Hector warbled, and I knew that sound.

It meant, my tummy is rumbling, and food better appear right quick.

“Um, you wouldn’t happen to have any milk for a baby….?” I said tentatively, and he laughed.

“Follow me, brother, you’ve come to the right place.”  And with that, I and Hector were accepted.  He led us over to a tiny shepherd’s hut near the cliff edge stone wall (to keep sheep from wandering over), and inside he had a nursing ewe with a lamb.  The lamb had a gash in its leg, so it was being confined.

“I told Dummy here not to get in the thorns, but Dummy don’t listen well, do he?”  The shepherd tagged Dummy under the chin, and the lamb bleated, and Hector laughed.  A wooden bowl was produced, and the shepherd began to tug on the teats of the ewe with a practised, rhythmic tugging.  Soon milk splashed into the bowl.

Hector eyed it with hungry interest.  I wondered what to do next.  I had no plastic bottle (or for that matter a plastic laundry basket, and the folk at the OGP said it would go with me, but might not…and I had ignored the rest.)  The shepherd introduced himself as Alan, and pulled out a clean rag.

“I use these to clean the lambs, but we always boil them real good afterwards.”  He dipped it into the milk and then folded it back so that it formed a spike like shape from which milk dripped off its endpoint.

Hector rocked forward on my leg, clearly understanding what he was supposed to do.  Alan laughed.

“He’s a bright and strong lad.”  And he stuck the soft point of the milk-sodden rag into Hector’s mouth who gave suck.  I did not mention that Hector had to be bright and strong.  In his world, you were such, or you were dead very young.  To be honest, even if you were bright and strong, you were still probably dead at a very young age.

“Alan,” I began. “I need a job for food for Hector and me.  Any suggestions?”

“Of course. They always need levee workers.  And the rumor is that the Sea King is coming back, so you should be able to get some premium pay from those skinflints in town.”

I could do that.  I could especially do that if the other choice was starvation for Hector and me.  And from what I’d learned of history, that was the usual way most cultures worked.  That was okay, I was not afraid of hard work.