Category Archives: Torture

Antierra Manifesto -blog post #58

Thus do I begin the training of a slave girl to come to a place of self-awareness and understanding.  Small steps, all to be taken within the system.  Step outside, even once and your chances of being flogged to death are almost one hundred percent sure.  You can bend rules as long as you are willing and able to unbend them immediately, but woe to you if you break them.

[end blog post #57]
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[begin blog post #58]

That night Tiki is angry.  Not at me, she knows nothing of my intercession to get her to work kitchen duty, but at the men. 

“Damn them, damn them, damn them!” she mutters in that hoarse whisper all females learn to speak in from the time they utter their first words.  “I be fighter, not gorok!  I train with weapon, not clean dirty bowl and sweep floor for dirty cooks.  Damn them!”  

A ‘gorok’ is a particular class of female worker slave who does the most menial type of kitchen work.  She doesn’t cook, or even serve.  She peels, grinds, husks and cleans, cleans, cleans, endlessly.  Her “shifts” have no set times.  She is up hours before anyone else, warming up ovens, washing utensils and cleaning counters and floors.  She sleeps, when permitted, during the middle hours of the day and of the night.  She is up late into the night cleaning, locked inside the kitchens with sensors ready to set off alarms if she walks outside her perimeter.  A slave of slaves.  There is usually a round the clock complement of eight of these goroks in our kitchens.

Because Tiki is my slave, she is allowed out of the kitchens at nightfall to spend the night with me.  I had hoped otherwise, but I can redeem this time, I think.  I fully enjoy her outburst.  There is fire in this one.  Not hate, not pride, just pure fire.  She has a dream, a vision, however short: to be the best fighter ever to grace the arena.  To beat my record.  I can tell.  Now to blend patience and humility into that fire so it can never be doused, whatever happens to the body of this woman. This one is going to develop into a true mind being, I can sense that already.  I have three years to prepare her to become a hero to the women of her world.  That’s sufficient when one has good material to work with.  It is my turn to do my hoarse communication.

“Come Tiki,”  she rolls between my legs and cuddles against my body.  “You be fine.  You no gorok.  You be fine fighter, best fighter.  Say you this every day.  Pick up broom, it ‘staff’ for you.  Sweep husks and peelings from floor like opponents in arena – just dust to Tiki.  Strong is Tiki.  Mongoose shaking cobra to death.”  She nudges deeper into me, her hair tickling my throat and begins unselfconsciously sucking her thumb.  I take her hand gently and pull the thumb out of her mouth and offer her my nipple instead.  She takes it greedily and smiles at me.  Haven’t I been here before?  Beware Antierra, the snakes aren’t all outside in the coarse grasses at the edge of the desert!  They be hissing from the very walls that contain you.

Wars aren’t won in a day.  They take planning, patience, courage and finally just the sheer gut of the fighters to win them.  Tiki does not take kindly to her new life.  From kitchen duty she is shifted to cleaning the straw in the cages and then to sweeping the yards and washing the blood on the flagstones where some of the women have been “punished” for certain infractions.  In this past week we were made to witness two “punishments” to the death, one of an older fighter whose owner cancelled his contract and condemned her to the next killing orgy.  She was put into a private killing orgy for the trainers, a bit of fun approved by the overseer.  She was led to the centre of the yard and  armed with nothing but a standard training staff, was viciously set upon by six trainers until they had managed to break several ribs and one arm.  When she could no longer defend herself they crushed her skull.  When she died they cheered and toasted their victory.  Old king Jestor would have been truly proud of these men.

The other, a trainee who had a nightmare and did not shut up in time when one of the women tried to awaken her, was flogged to death for breaking the rule of silence.  We watched, listened to her screams and pleas for mercy, her dying moans.  We heard the standard warning, returned to life as usual.  What I would give, had I anything to give, to enter the auto-medic and be given the heart of an android, or better, a heart of stone.  To not feel.  To not have to endure this suffering planet.

It is the way of it… and I cannot help feeling.  To cry?  To curse?  I glance at the bloody, pulpy mess hanging from that steel torture pole I know intimately.  I wonder why it is not I who is hanging there.  I imagine the life that was there, that is no more.  I sat next to her yesterday at morning meal and she smiled sadly at me under her eyelashes.  Well, maybe it is me there because I realize I cannot curse.  If I cannot curse, then I have incarnated all of it.  Each time another dies, I die two deaths: hers and mine.  Malefactus is a neuro-inductor and I am attached to its probes all the time.  

Under the wan light of Albaral coming through the openings in the high black stone walls Tiki and I talk in our cage as we nestle against each other enjoying the mutual warmth of our bodies.  Menial labour brings anger and shame from Tiki.  She is afraid they want to demote her to the rank of goronda, the general purpose female worker drone.  “Damn them!” – her favourite expression towards men in general.  That fire is burning dangerously bright.  The wick needs trimming or the flame will smoke up the glass and obscure the vision. 

I study my feelings for her as a hawk watches his prey moving unawares, feeding peacefully in the grasses below his perch.  I must let her take all of me she needs yet refuse to ever let her possess any of me.  I know how to do this, I know I can do it, but do I have the willpower?  How does an older woman not lose herself in those black pools of sadness that pass for eyes in such children who have never experienced childhood?  Creatures destined to die before they experience adulthood?  What does that make them?

I try my best logic on her.  “Tiki, listen me.  I good fighter, yes?”

“Yes sir, you best fighter.  All women say you best.”

“You trust me, Tiki?”

She replies with a hoarse grunt.  “Huh?”

“Trust.  Believe me.  You think me true to you?”

“Oh yes!  You say, I believe.”

This is extremely dangerous ground.  Who in their right mind wants to be believed by someone who will put her life at stake for what you tell her?  I speak slowly, pitching my voice so she can get every word, every inflection – the tone of voice to them being much more meaningful than the words used to convey it. 

“Good you believe.  But careful you be not believe everything I say.”  She tries to speak and I put my hand on her mouth.  “Wait, I finish, I explain.  I know things you not know.  Things good for me.  Maybe not good for you.  You, me, different.  You listen – I say – you try.  If work for you, is good for you, yes?  If not work for you, is not good for you.  I not know if good for you.  I guess.  I have vision.  Like you but is my vision.  You have vision to be best fighter.  Good vision.  I have different vision.  To be best woman; to be good woman.  I not good woman Tiki.  Good fighter only.  But man can be good fighter too, better than best woman.  But man cannot be good woman.  I have what called “exclusive” vision – be special. 

“You woman now.  What you want be?  I not understand you.”

“I want be more than what I be, Tiki.  Better.  In good ways, not evil ways.  I tired of killing.  Tired of blood and screams.  Tired all over.  Old now Tiki, very, very old.  But cannot go yet, cannot leave, cannot die.  I first find me, better me.  Good woman me.  I first do something good for another person.  If you not understand, no matter.  You remember I say this and put my words in your head.  They grow there.  Ideas.  You say to me woman thinks is stupid.  Is not stupid Tiki.  I think always.  Think, think.  I watch men, learn.  Design new weapons, train in new way for women to fight so live longer; so you live longer.  I stay here, not die because I want help women be stronger, live longer.  Is nothing else for me.”  

[end blog post #58]

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #55

(I’m really falling behind in following up on posting the “Manifesto” and sorry about that, I know it makes it difficult to follow the story through these gaps. I’ll try to get back on track, but no promise as long as work keeps interfering with my life… dang it all!)

The process:  Access, study, feel, understand, delete.  Yeah, I should have been a Cydroid.  For it is one of our truisms that we, human and Avatari alike, cannot delete our past; cannot disown it.  We can but dis-empower or empower it according to our present need and understanding.

And in my sleep I dream of the constant we call “evil” but it is a sweet dream, not a nightmare.

[end blog post #54]
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[begin blog post #55]

From chronicler Michele Dellman, T’Sing Tarleyn historian for the Supremacy.

Galactic date-year 67,854, classic date-year [?] (Not available at this time to this reporter due to the amount of chaos resulting from the attacks upon, and subsequent destruction of the fortified city of Hyrete)

The following was put together from antique memcorder cards found in the medical facility that served the Hyrete arena where the female gladiators, or fighters as they were called, were kept in a massive arrangement of cages behind stone walls twenty or more meters high and several meters thick, protected by an actual moat and a most sophisticated array of alarm systems. 

The following set was not written by the historical figure called An’Tierra but by someone with access to a computer linked to an off-world ship that transcribed her thoughts, probably while she was under sedation and receiving secret and illegal medical treatment in an old auto-medic mentioned by her but subsequently never found.  An educated guess here is that the transcriber was one of the Echinoza Cydroids purportedly from another mythical world called Koron.

These are but copies of long-lost originals. Note that she refers to herself as “Al’Tara” – name of a pseudo-historical figure on Old Earth that appears under other names in annals of the Supremacy pre-and post-dating the Melkiar wars.  The name “Al’Tara” was, it is said, her name as an Altarian, that is, as a human being [or one of the mythical Avatari?] from the ‘lost’ or “hidden” world of Altaria. 

‘I’ve seen many things in my travels as Al’Tara.  Wonders and horrors.  I’ve easily accepted the wonders, yes, and marvelled.  I’ve also accepted the natural horrors; movements in the chaos side of space/time giving rise to massive destruction of entire worlds.  I’ve faced the possible extinction of entire galaxies and all the riches and life they hold.  I’ve participated in many rescue attempts, some successful, most not.  I rejoiced at our successes and accepted our failures.   

During my many passages upon Old Earth, or Túat Har, I observed natural predators, from viruses to large mammals and even plants.  And not long ago I was a participant in the Melkiar wars.  I even encountered some of their robotic life forms.  Probed them to discover they had been uniquely programmed to kill, but without malice or intent to hurt.  Predators kill to perpetuate their species.  The Melkiars only destroyed that which they were designed to consider inimical concepts to their nature.

But never, never have I been able to accept, let alone comprehend, evil.  Evil is not that which destroys or even kills.  Evil, as I have observed it, is that which causes pain and hurt to others with intent based in sentient malevolence.  Evil is that which is done with malice aforethought.  It is planned to produce pain in another so that the perpetrator will feel a surge of sadistic pleasure by inflicting the pain. It’s ultimate purpose is to destroy the will of its victims, to crush them until nothing remains. That is how I describe evil.

The perpetrator of evil, the true sadist, needs to actually perform the pain-inducing act upon another, always helpless, victim; never on someone who has a chance of fighting back.  The true sadist never takes a chance on getting hurt.  If his victim manages to inflict pain on him, this reduces his level of pleasure and correspondingly increases his level of anger and hate towards the victim. 

Malefactus – I must explain why I call it that.  A malefactor is an evil doer; a law breaker.  But here you find a specific law-breaker, speaking of course of that one and only law written in, and for, the entire cosmos, or wherever life may be found, the law that says we must all care; all protect the innocent and the weak in order to strengthen them.  We must “love” the other in our power not as ourselves, but more, much more, than ourselves – beyond anything we would do for ourselves! We must develop and practice compassion to the highest level possible within our understanding.

On Malefactus, the perpetrator; the law breaker; the malefactor; is male.  The male factor of T’Sing Tarleyn, the “World of Man” is an utterly evil mindset.  The male ISSA beings here cannot apparently help themselves, true, but they also do not wish to do so.  They enjoy being what they are; doing what they do.  Their social mores are predicated upon the total oppression of the female.  Their economy such as it is, being but a caricature of a true economy is totally dependent on active misogyny.  Their judicial system ensconces it, preventing anyone from avoiding it.  As for their religious system, I have not, as yet, discovered if they have one and if they do, how it relates to that particular rampant evil that rules T’Sing Tarleyn.

Regarding the men, I cannot have a real conversation with any of them so it is dangerous to draw any solid conclusion about their state of mind.  They are pseudo-human, therefore they have to be consciously aware of the law at some level. They are not mindless predators but perpetrators of evil behaviour.   Much in the way the people of Old Earth were also aware of it.  Yet they live as if it did not exist for them.  But I wonder, aren’t there some throw-back types among them that actually “fall in love” with a female?  Some who would want to protect her, hide her, find her a safe haven somewhere, even if it cost him his life?  Is there no physical love except among the women? 

I have seen no open demonstration of homosexuality and that seems strange on such a world.  But then should it be, if males simply cannot love at all?  If all they can do is “fuck” and all they know is that it is done with females and then only in the form of “hate rape” resulting in violence done to her? 

There is another aspect of evil I still fail to understand.  I believe that humans are all equipped to “see” beauty with some variations, but within a general unifying whole.  We are also equally equipped to see ugliness, also with variations but with a general similarity.  Outside of this awareness are what I refer to as the exceptions.  Those who have the concepts turned around in their minds and hearts.  Some, because they are sick but some because they are simply put, evil.  On some worlds, these “exceptions” do not prove the rule, they are the rule.

Evil loves to mar and destroy beauty.  From defacement of buildings with graffiti to smashing windows, polluting and destroying the natural environment, mistreating animals, including in this all hunting and fishing done for sport, beating and raping women, oppressing children, oppressing and enslaving those who are helpless and without protection.  Take it in any order, it all comes down to the same thing.  Destruction of that which exhibits beauty gives evil types psychopathic pleasure.  What kind of force drives ISSA beings to find pleasure in marring that which is beautiful? 

Evil: I have no other answer.  None of the answers I’ve heard, read about or considered, answer the question in a more understandable fashion.

So, how do I understand Malefactus, a world where the only pleasure experienced seems to be in causing the maximum of pain to helpless victims?  Since I’ve been here in these cages, the training compound, and the bloody arena, I’ve met – yes, and befriended – hundreds of young girls who did not survive their first time in the arena and women who succumbed to their opponents.  I’ve seen them viciously beaten, raped, tortured.  I’ve heard them scream for mercy and watched them being killed without qualm on the part of the male perpetrators. 

I’ve seen them dismembered for their body parts and have helped pick up the mangled bloody corpses and torsos.  I’ve taken them in my arms, their blood covering my body as I carried them and placed them as gently as I could upon the putrefaction-covered auto-driven flat decked ‘haulers’ and which in my heart I reverently call hearses, thus giving a moment of human acknowledgment to the dead martyrs whose bodies are taken away I know not exactly where though I suspect it is to the outer desert sands for vultures to feed upon.

In the worlds of true humans and even in the worlds of pseudo-humans such as Old Earth I have seen much beauty.  But never have I seen anything to compare to the combination of natural beauty and intelligence seen, first in a child and second, in a young human female.  It surpasses all.  Somehow that is the particular beauty that the evil of misogyny lurking in the pseudo-human heart targets before all else. 

I will not close my eyes to this terrible legacy life has somehow, either naturally or by some horrible mistake, bestowed upon all of us.  I will continue to look into this concept of evil for an answer.  What is the motivation behind this force?  Is it lust?  Hate?  Fear? Does evil begin with one and end with the other, and if so, in what direction does it flow?  Do you begin with a heart full of vices and by indulging some, or all, end up evil?  Are we what we do, or what we become as we act in accordance with what we discover ourselves to be?  This may seem like a chicken and egg conundrum, but that has already been solved.  In timeless reality, the “chicken” can indeed lay the egg from which it is hatched.  There is no beginning and no ending, only questions and answers that we use as “artificial” points of reference (called beginnings and endings) by which we define infinity.

I’m a philosopher by experience but also because I am a natural-born Altarian.  We are doers, of course, but not exactly fools who rush in where angels fear to tread.  Before we act we seek to know.  Of course it is not always possible to know, since knowledge emanates from a blend of experience and information.  So we act on what we’ve studied and already know from experience and attempt to move forward.  Thus we are more than what we do; we do not necessarily act according to what we are – that is, what we have become.  We do not allow nature or programming to box us in so easily.  As the doctor pointed out, we have a devious mind developed for one purpose: to thread its way unerringly through the labyrinth of life. That labyrinth takes us, of necessity, through the darkest paths of hell — through the experience of evil.

[end blog post #55

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #53

(…that goes on, this goes on… another short episode from Antierra’s life – and I did not forget to add a title to the blog post this time. Gets confusing when I don’t number them and if I don’t get better at blogging from a cell phone, I’d better remember to drag my combination laptop/tablet Asus computer wherever I go! The problem with that is, it only works where there’s WIFI whereas the cell phone works anywhere there’s phone coverage. Decisions, decisions…)
________________________________________
Two days before the deadline, the doctor calls the handler office for two escorts to return me to my normal life.  As a sign that I’m just another female gladiator slave the doctor pushes me out his door to stand naked and await my escorts.  As I expected, they examine me, then take me to the wash troughs where they dump cold water on me.  Then the feeding and since it’s late in the day, I’m led into a cage.  To my shock and surprise I see a young trainee there.

“Deirdre!”  I almost shout.  I bite my lip to keep from crying out with the double pain of thinking they found her and brought her back to certain death,  then realizing it isn’t Deirdre, of course – Cydroids never lie – but another young woman likely recently arrived into our killing fields.

[end blog post #52]
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[begin blog post #53]

She is a typical T’Sing Tarleynan, small, stocky, with short fingers and stubby toes.  Her hair is almost black, cut rough and short.  She has a thin-lipped smile that reveals pointy, gapped teeth.  She makes no move towards me as I lie down on one side of the cage.  She just watches, her black eyes glinting in the pale light, as if waiting for a signal from me as to what I want from her.  I motion for her to move beside me and she does quickly and quietly.  Waits again. 

I whisper, “Can you talk?”

“Yes master, I talk good.”

“Here in the cage I’d rather you don’t call me that.” 

“Yes m… yes.  I call you something?”

“Call me Anti.”

“What it means, Anti?”

“It means I fighter and now family for you.”  And for some reason not yet clear to me, I suddenly decide to imitate the paucity of words in her language – to make myself more like her and the others in the compound.  I get the impression that I need to lower my standards even more to be accepted, if not understood.  Better late than never. 

“Ah good.  And what I be called by you, please?”

“You Tiki.  Little mongoose.”

“What be… mongoose?”

“Little animal from an old world.  It kills snakes.  You know snakes?”

“Oh yes, in desert and in grass prairies?  Many snakes.  Dangerous.  The black people, they tell stories of big snakes to take a man, crush and eat whole.  Is mongoose so strong?”

“Yes Tiki.  Mongoose is small but fast and strong. Kills poison snake called cobra that has big head with marks and small body.”

“There are those here…”

“Yes and they be called men…”  I do not hide the bitterness of my statement from her but this is not Deirdre.  Such subtleties are lost to her, as to most women I have met.

“Oh!  You mean I mongoose, kill cobra men?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean.  When you are trained you kill men, many men.  They fear you then.  Fear your power of woman.”

“I like you telling of my power Anti.  I come here three days and they burn my number under old one, see?” She shows me her fresh brand and I remember the pain of it in my own buttock, and the shame to go with it too.  “And I feel so scared and small.  No friends.  No one to care.  The men, they have sex with me, many men.  They hurt me so much, aiiee!  They, you say, torture me, make me cry down there in a room behind great stone doors.” 

She points in some vague direction I locate as north-east.  “They put metal string inside me and make me burn – terrible pain, terrible.  Now they give me to you.  Say you lose your lover – she dead they say, yes?  Maybe I be her now for you?”  She touches me lightly on the thigh and I feel her shaking remembering her pain.

“Yes Tiki, she dead.  She run away and not come back.  I too now all alone and very sad.  Like you.  Like you they take me in torture room under walls, deep under the ground.”  And I point down to make her understand my meaning of ‘down.’  “They hurt me and make me scream – so much pain, Tiki.  All of us here, so much pain we endure.  What you think, we should all have so much pain always, from men, huh?”

As a true T’Sing Tarleynan female would answer she replies, “What I think no matter.  Men, they decide.  Woman think?  That is waste.  Eat, sleep, make love, train to fight and kill.  That is fighter woman do.  Think waste energy; mix up in head.  Make weak, stupid.  I be strong soon, strong and fast.  I train good.  I live long.  Maybe you like me, you take me.  Hold me, make love.  Be lover, be friend.  Be family to me.  I train with you, huh?”  She pinches my muscles on my tight stomach.  “You like old skin, strongest of fighter woman they say.  Desert Beast, huh?  Proud I be slave to you.  Teach me strength you do.  I fight for you.”

[end blog post #53]

Toast and Jam

[thoughts  from   ~burning woman~   by Sha’Tara]

Sometimes I want to just say, “fukitol” and go on to finish my life, echoing the sentiment expressed in the movie The Answer Man: “Hell… is other people.”

That’s a bit extreme. Let’s just say that hell is most other people, is that better? Just kidding. Actually I don’t believe that other people are hell though after many of them have passed through here, after experiencing an Earth reshaped into man’s image, who needs hell?

That being said, it’s not at all what I want to express here today. I want to return to my favourite topic, compassion, but I want to throw something new in the mix: love.

I know that love is not something new for Earthians, but it is something new for me to bring up as I expound some more on the concept of compassion. I’ve already established to my satisfaction that love and compassion as totally dissimilar concepts. I’ve gone so far as to claim that love works against the person who would express herself as a compassionate being, and I have explained it thus: that love is exclusive whereas compassion is inclusive; that love cannot exist as a stand-alone concept (what would be the point?) whereas compassion does, and must. Love is dependent, compassion is for the self empowered. 

Could I look at these two concept in a less extreme way?

The usual response to love and compassion is predictable: mostly the two concepts exist as indistinguishable in the Earthian mind and they get totally confused. I realize that is due to programming and that is why most people cannot get a handle on compassion because they cannot separate it from love. Why should they when they remain convinced the two are interchangeable?

Imagine that you own a car and you are stuck with servicing it to make it work. You remember that certain fluids are needed for the machine to work. Two main ones are gas (do they still call it petrol in Britain?) and coolant, or a mix of coolant and water. You have the two fluids but you can’t remember which one goes where. So you say, oh well, doesn’t matter, I’ll pour this one in here, and that one in there and the car will sort it out. Clever that… until of course the car dies because you put the coolant in the fuel tank and the fuel in the radiator.

Let’s use a different analogy for compassion and love and how I see how these things get confused. Let’s say “toast and jam.” Compassion is the toast and love is the jam. That’s how the Earthian mind perceives it. Toast can be a stand alone food, but jam, not so much. Nevertheless the Earthian emotional heart, or mood trend setter, prefers to have jam and not bother with toast. When people speak of love, it’s jam; a taste good, feel good thing. If they have to have toast with it, so be it, but it’s the jam they hanker for.

Personally, sticking with the analogy, I have no problem having toast without the jam but generally speaking it’s the other way around for most. Toast is bland, often crunchy, somewhat tasteless and it needs help. Enter jam. Love.

Now imagine that most people choose to just eat jam for breakfast because they don’t like toast. Some diet that, huh? Not very healthy.

Without carrying this on from the sublime to the ridiculous, let’s give it some thought.

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #51

I find my eyes filling with tears as she reads these details in my mind.  I had expected her to find nothing but a chaotic mess of darkness and filth in there.  She holds up a mirror for my mind to heal itself from the “little death” of fear and doubt.  I am indeed, still alive, very much so. 

And I remain, despite all of this pain and confusion, Al’Tara the Altarian. 

I am not lost.  I will pass this test.

[end blog post #50]


[begin blog post #51]

Chapter 24 – ‘Bionic Woman’ faces Malefactus

According to YBA5 I have been granted a week to return ready to train and fight, or be officially terminated as ordered by the Arena Fighter Committee.  For them it’s an easy decision.  I’m old and not likely to produce many more interesting fights.  Since I have served them well they would even save me from the final killing orgy.

A quick explanation of “killing orgy day” —  my name for it, not theirs.  They link these with some kind of “national” holiday.

The purpose is twofold. 

First, it is used to cull old and considered useless females from the fighter line-ups; or those who have lost their owners and no one placing bets on them or paying for their basic maintenance.  Other types earmarked for the killings are the ‘dikfols’(slang; woman gone crazy from blows to head, grief or other pathological cause) held in chains in the back cages specifically for this day; hopeless cases of young trainees; female law-breakers not yet executed; unclaimed “wild” captured females; any “extra” contingent of sex-slaves or workers deemed expendable or purchased from their owners by the Arena Fighter Committee for this purpose. 

These are all lined up for certain death on that particular day and should any women somehow manage to survive the killings they are mowed down with laser rifles by guards or police forces brought in for the occasion.  Point: not a single woman earmarked for a killing orgy can survive it. It is her day of death.  

Second, it is the number one entertainment for the masses.  On that day access to the arena is free.  Each fan is given a number that gives him access to an arena seat.  It is also a ticket for a random number selection which if called, gives him the coveted right to enter the arena proper as an official challenger, provided with a free weapon he may keep as a personal trophy if he survives his fight.

It is a day of the ugliest, most disgusting displays that pseudo-humans are capable of.  The fans are loaded with chakr and carry plastic pouches of home brew.  Drugged and drunk, they crowd the railings, hoping to elude guards and jump into the arena to rape and kill a female. 

The highlight for individuals in these orgies is having their number drawn and receiving official entry into the arena to challenge a female opponent.  It must be said that many of these idiots manage to get themselves slaughtered by the fighters before they too succumb to physical exhaustion and blood loss from never-ending challenges.  I have experienced many of those days, having to stand at the various gates to support guards and trainers in preventing a drugged and boozed-up maddened crowd from breaking through the accesses to the female compounds.  Armed guards, or local police units, are not permitted to intervene in these cases simply because opening fire in such crowded conditions could result in a mass slaughter of men, an unacceptable compromise and there is no guarantee that the guards themselves would not join in the madness and use their weapons on the females!  There is a very precarious balance of power here that can easily shift – always to the detriment of the female slave class.

As for using special forces from the military who are ostensibly better disciplined, that is a no-go mostly because the owners of the female fighters are not willing to spend to money necessary for this extra security.  So they use us, knowing we have a very real incentive in preventing the men from rushing into our compounds: our own life, and the lives of our lovers and friends.  Also our weapons do not normally cause havoc yet still provide a powerful deterrent to the unarmed males.  I must note here that we do not have the least compunction about killing these males.  It’s our way to avenge the victims of the arena. 

They hold at least two of these killing orgy “holidays” a year.  The crowds are mostly made up of the gutter types I encountered when I first came into the city what seems now ages ago.  Most of these “fans” can never afford to attend regular meets where the real fighting and heavy gambling takes place. 

When the women are all killed the “fights” are officially terminated.  Now the killers rampage through the bodies, cutting off appendages until only trunks or torsos of the women victims lie in the bloody sand.  Scavenged appendages are removed as trophies which, I’ve heard from handlers, are carefully preserved by taxidermy and hung in hovels or carried in pouches as longevity charms.  These macabre items are very marketable, though such trafficking is officially banned.  The practice is actually on the increase and has become a serious security problem for owners or renters of worker females who are stolen (they are not considered kidnapped since they are not legally human) from their working stations and slaughtered for their parts. 

I hope that short explanation helps you to understand a bit more about the mindset that rules this planet.  Elbre from what I understand is not an exception but the rule for all of T’Sing Tarleyn.  It is the way of it.

The auto-medic upgrade arrives the day after my long, productive session with the Cydroid YBA5, whom I now refer to as “Yoba Five” with her permission, which she granted when I asked,  “Can I call you YoBa?”

“YoBa?”  She smiles again.  “Why yes, I’d like that very much.  YoBa makes my name more human.  Thank you!  But if you wish to speak only to me, don’t forget to add ‘five’ to the name so my twins won’t listen in automatically.  So, I am Yoba Five to you.”  

And speaking of five, five days remain before my death sentence is carried out.  And I see no way I can ever return to the training and fighting compounds in such a short time.

Two male Cydroids, disguised as guard and trainer, bring the equipment in and after stripping from their regular uniforms to don skin tight suits more suitable to the work, proceed to remove and replace.  I am allowed to watch and even participate in an advisory capacity in the upgrade and my remembered skills,  however rudimentary, as a techie of Old Earth and on Supremacy ships, are useful.  The Melkiar wars provided all of us with an intimate knowledge of the workings of auto-meds on our ships.  They saw much use then.

Wall panels come off carefully, are marked with numbers and stacked.  Wire harnesses peeled off, disconnected, coiled and stored in sealed opaque lead-lined bags.  New harnesses are re-routed and connected to new modules.  Main and auxiliary com boards are installed, plugged in and tested.  New banks of warning lights replace the old.  New arms, sensors, probes mounted on pre-fab flanges are secured, plugged in and also tested for mobility and reach.  Finally comes the re-install of the panels, all but the one which contained the old arms and probes.  The Cydroids have had a new cover made for that section.

The five hours allocated for the change-over are shaved down to less than three.  The unit is tested briefly on XBA4 who is in need of a transplant in the  knee.  There are no flaws.  The unit performs perfectly and now it’s my turn.  Time is of the essence.

I am put on the retractable table and must, regrettably, forego the little “party” of celebration being planned as soon as the doctor returns.  I was going to ask Yoba Five not to forget the info-vid on Warmo, then remembered that Cydroids cannot forget!  I am taken inside the auto-medic and the replacement of my broken and damaged parts begins. 

There is not much to say of an experience like that.  The anaesthetic is local so I remain fully conscious.  I have been fitted with a receiver in my ear and a special pair of “glasses” allow me to view a screen that is otherwise opaque.  I’m treated to acts and verbalized “thoughts” of Warmo.  However much I would rather just shut it off and go to sleep I know I have to remain alert and learn this man’s mind.  It is indeed that of a demon.  There is little here that would resemble even the lowliest mind of a pseudo-human.  He does things to his victims that I cannot describe here – there is a limit to my bluntness after all.  I force myself to study this creature, not because I need more horror in my already overloaded heart, but because I need this information when I meet him in the arena.  Yoba Five has convinced me that the “sting” that will bring a death conviction will succeed and that the rest is inevitable.  The Cydroids have linked minds to “re-create” a tiny slice of my future that will bring me face to face with the monster I must conquer and defeat utterly. 

In many ways, this monster, this Warmo, is but a ghost that has followed me across the barriers, over time, and waited to re-possess me on Malefactus.  He is, indeed, one of those men I remember from my female life on Earth, World War II in Paris, France, when I was tortured and killed at the age of twenty-eight for allegedly belonging to the local underground force that fought the Nazis in the streets of Paris.  A living ghost from those SS cement dungeons I still remember as vividly as if it happened yesterday.  I cannot, here, go into the details of that particularly crucial Earthian life. 

Finally and thankfully, the info-vid terminates and I’m lulled to sleep by some sort of ultra-sound that relaxes every part of my body, so much that every muscle relaxes and I realize I am incontinent – but that too was taken into consideration.  Removal of bodily wastes, even of sweat, is part of the treatment.  When I leave the auto-medic after the final treatment every pore, every hair, every follicle, will be free of anything that does not naturally belong to it.  I will be physically clean.  And my mind will be clear and certain of purpose.

While awakening and being returned into hypnotic “sleep” over and over; being automatically rolled out of the A-M for Dr. Echinoza’s inspection and Yoba Five’s gentle touch, feeding and rolling over, I completely lose sense of time.  It could have been years, or hours.  I feel an unnatural tingling in my hands and instinctively want to scratch but of course cannot.  I’m securely bound to the gurney, face down this time.  It seems that each time I’m sent back in, if I faced down, now I’m facing up and vice-versa.  There is no pain, just total mild discomfort.  Ants are crawling up both my arms and up my leg. 

Another “out” session.  This time I am facing up.  Bal is asking questions.  I have to focus on his voice – I thought I was dreaming again.

[end blog post #51]

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #46

… “Another eternity and the doctor comes over and releases the mechanism that holds my wrists and ankles and keeps me from falling as I try to put my weight on my feet.  I cannot walk at all.  So he throws my limp form over his broad shoulders and carries me out through tunnels that seem to go on forever; that in my mind I want to go on forever. 

It feels so good to be dead; to be in a place where no one can ever hurt you; to be carried to your final rest by someone who cares for you.  Death by torture has a way of changing your perspective on life.  I think it has made me soft.” …
[end blog post # 45]


[begin blog post #46]

Chapter 22 – Conversation with a Cydroid

I am not dead, I’m in a place where death is always the best choice if it is given. 

Bal and a female I recognize as a Cydroid assistant sedate me and proceed to do their difficult and painful work.  They explain what they have found: two crushed wrists and an ankle dislocated that must be re-set.  More pain.  Another deposit in the bank of love.

When I come to I’m bathed in my own sweat and stink. I’ve been bandaged up tight.  I guess dislocated joints are best taken care of by human hands than the auto-medic?  I’m rambling incoherent in my head. 

I had hoped I could go through it again and be rejuvenated, I mean, as long as I’m still alive, why not?  Think of all the fun I can have, with men taking me for their sexual pleasures as they please, beating me to an inch of my life for any reason, trying to kill me in their pleasure arenas while ogling and mocking my nakedness and finally taking me into their dungeons to torture me to death, sharing this fun with hundreds, thousands of spectators. 

We girls do know how to have fun on Malefactus.  Even better than Old Earth at times. 

I don’t do so well under partial sedation or under the influence of any other drug.  The Cydroid assistant has removed the cool sheet that covered me and is washing my body gently and carefully as I lie on that same “gurney” I recognize from before.  I remember Deirdre holding me up and I feel my heart breaking into pieces again.  Deirdre…

Don’t go there stupid.  Let her go.  That was another time, another life.

“Bal?”  I ask weakly from my prostrate state.  I can’t even move my head to look at him.  He comes over and leans over me taking my pulse from inside my thigh.

“Ah, our patient is awake again.”

“Introductions?  I want to thank you,” and turning my eyes to the Cydroid, “and my healers for saving my life…”

I extend my bandaged hands only to have them flop down again.  I have no strength in my arms.

“Don’t be alarmed.  It’s the effect of the drug we gave you.  You’ll be fine, Antierra.  Meet YBA5.”

“Please to meet you, YBA5”  I continue in a hoarse whisper, still not my voice.  “What does that name mean?”

The Cydroid answers this time, with a beautiful lilting voice, singsong in quality, unlike anything I’ve heard.

“It means that I am a legally adopted member of Doctor Balomo’s Cydroid clan.  I’m number five.  The Y indicates female, X male.  I’m the fifth female Cydroid to be added to his family.  It was a proud day for me when I graduated and he accepted  me.  Dr. Balomo is not only a renowned medical healer but famous anthropologist as well.”  I notice she beams at him as she praises him and he turns away. 

She continues, “My particular specialty apart from being a spy (something to entertain you with later) is human anatomy.  I like your body – very well made.  I would like to congratulate the creator of such a wonderful unit.”

“I guess that would be me. Thank you, but I was aiming for an external effect I could project on the people here, not a near-perfect body.  I’ve had quite a bit of practice using different types of human bodies and I can tell when one will suit my needs or fulfill my requirements.  I just wish I’d made it out of whip-steel, not flesh.”

The weak attempt at a joke is not lost on her.  She smiles warmly, her small perfectly shaped mouth opening wide as if to include all of what I wish to convey that has no words.  And she pays me the highest compliment from a Cydroid point of view:

“That body, hah, you should be Cydroid, not human.”

As my head clears and the drug still holds the pain at bay, I realize I have a thousand questions for the Cydroid.  Bal notices I wish to speak with her and excuses himself.

“You have things to discuss.  I have work to do.  I must contact the King and bring myself up to date on developments.  I have to ensure the people I forcefully released from Warmo’s dens have been dutifully returned and that any wound has been properly treated.  Hhhhh.”  He turns to leave with that deep sigh.

“Bal?”

“Yes?”

“I’m scared to tell you this, but I love you.  I don’t know yet what kind of love I have for you, but I know what I feel.”

“We will talk of this later.  You are under the influence of a powerful sedative and if you remember, you yourself told me your body cannot handle drugs.  Do not speak of feelings now.  Wait.  Remember, you just lost your lover, or had you forgotten?”

“No doctor.  Not forgotten – trying to forget.  Deirdre is no longer a part of my life here.  She is gone, forever.  I will never see her again.”

“I’m disappointed in your analysis of the situation, Altarian.  Let’s just say it’s the drug talking.  Enjoy your time with YBA5.  She is a wonder healer and a font of knowledge.  She’ll keep you amazed.  Take care.”

“When will I see you again, Bal, please?”

“When you see me again, Antierra please.  Don’t cling to your temporary good things.  Let others have their space also.  We all need to breathe.”   

That was a warning to get myself together, and quickly.  More effort, when all I want to do is lie here, be taken care of and let the world go on without me.  Oh, to just wallow in self pity and pure wonderful misery.  To be a bitch.  To be dead!

He walks out of his office looking pensive and the automatic door swishes closed.  I got a glimpse of the sky, still cloudy and windy but not raining.  A cold draft finds my back and I shiver.  It’s not just the cold I am reacting to.

[end blog post #46

Antierra Manifesto – blog post #45


This I must share here: my experiences on Old Earth taught me well as regards those we are forced to call ‘They’ in referring to ‘Powers’ we know exist but cannot identify because they are chameleonic in nature and use humans to camouflage their evil works.  We’ve always known ‘They’ exist and have power of life and death over us, never mind how many legal ‘rights’ or safeguards we are given under the law.  Whenever we choose right over wrong in their viewpoint and according to their arbitrary rules we are targeted as the enemy; terrorists, subversives, spies and in many cases we forfeit our lives to them.  So, let me emphasize that ‘They’ are very real to me. 

I must sleep now.

[end blog post #44]


[begin blog post #45]

Chapter 21 – The Inquisition: Warmo’s Dungeon

They come.  It is still dark when the alarms sound and we are ushered out of our cages to stand in the cold pre-dawn air shivering.  What device do they have to warn them of illegal exits without the alarms being set off? Recording heat sensors?  Satellites?  Albaral?  How did they already know Deirdre, or someone, was missing?  Well, I guess it really doesn’t matter now.

They make everybody line up in the training yard.  The kitchens and all other areas are shut tight.  No one moves or makes a sound.  In the back I hear harsh voices shouting commands.  Men in uniforms I’ve never seen come among us and begin to grab individuals.  There are muted gasps of fear.  One woman is hit viciously in the face and stumbles to the stones where she is stabbed to death, her body dragged to the middle of the compound and left.  I am one of those grabbed and chained with a dozen others.  Several guards are stripped naked and chained also.  There is cursing and a guard falls to the ground, also stabbed.  His body is dragged beside the woman’s. 

We are led away to the east of the large open area, down a dark tunnel, damp and reeking of mold and of something else rotting away somewhere among this stone labyrinth.  I walk through what I can only describe as slime, trying to keep my footing while helping the woman behind me by making her lean on me.  We emerge into a place of absolute terror. 

In the weak light from embrasures high in the wet stone walls we see dead and dying bodies hanging by wrists on poles or impaled on rusty steel pikes planted in holes in the floor.  We smell decomposing meat and retch helplessly, continually.  Fortunately our guards just shove us in there and leave, closing the steel grate behind us.  So no one is additionally punished for the time being.  We just stare at the dead and the barely moving dying, most being women and some young children.  Some still moan but most are past trying.  Is this what’s in store for all of us?  We must assume so.  What else are we supposed to think?  The woman behind me begs me to kill her. 

“Please, I die now.  I fight yes, but this not possible to take.  Please you hit me with steel shackle, please or you strangle with chain.  You very strong.  I beg, I beg!”  Her throaty cries bring tears to my eyes.  Yes I could do it.  But what little chance any of us have to escape this would then be forfeit.  So I try to console her using their common language.

“Just frighten, see?  You know nothing, so what they do?  Nothing can do.  Don’t be afraid.  Just bad dream.  Do nothing.  Say nothing.  Know nothing.  Repeat teaching against bad fear – now!

Do I believe my own words?  No, of course not.  On this world, anything and everything is possible.  If they are eager to draw fresh blood and hear fresh voices raised in pure agony, and it’s a safe bet to say they always are, we will all go through the torture and all die here, impaled on these pikes or hanging from the poles.  I ready myself for this inevitable conclusion.

And suddenly I want to laugh.  Such an incredible weight is lifted off my heart.  If they have gone to so much trouble to “investigate” Deirdre’s escape then obviously they don’t have her!  She’s truly gone and free from their grasp.  Yes!  I know this now.  So go ahead and do your worst.  I don’t care now.  I’ve done what I set out to do and it cannot be reversed.  She is safe from you, monsters.  Now you have to deal with me, just me.  I am truly alone again.  I conveniently forget the doctor and his “underground” at this moment.  I forget these others, these innocents chained with me.  I cannot handle any new responsibility.  There is only me here, now, in this horror.  And if I’m to beat the odds now I can only do it alone.

After what seems an eternity the steel grate is opened and we are dragged out, walked down a taller, drier corridor and into another room from which screams, howls and heart rending cries emerge.  Ah yes, this is where they do their real work.  We are unchained individually and each of about twelve of us is assigned a handler.  I’m walked to a vertical black metal pole and pulled tight against it.  Four arms extend from it with shackles on the ends.  My wrists and ankles are put inside the shackles and the arms are extended mechanically until my arms are stretched as on a cross and my legs gradually pulled open and stretched also until I’m ready to scream from the tension on my bones and muscles.  But they know just when to stop. 

So it begins.  Slowly the “pole” begins to tilt back taking me with it until I’m lying horizontally with my head hanging down without any support.  I feel hands over my skin, feeling me everywhere.  A man rapes me, then several take their turn.  I can’t see anything, just feel.  I scream when something sharp or hot cuts or enters my left thigh.  The pole arms begin to pull at me again.  I scream more.  Something is attached to my right nipple.  I am electrically shocked, then the same treatment is administered inside my vagina.  I pass out only to be revived with a needle.  I begin to hallucinate.

In my hallucination I hear the doctor.

“If  she knows something, I’ll find out.  Let me administer the rest and ask the questions.  The others are useless to us now.  Return them to their compound.  We can’t afford to lose all that money and compensate their owners.  This is a stupid move.  We want to know where the girl was taken to; who helped her escape.  I tell you, destroying all those fighters is a mistake.  It was a mistake to kill those two in the compound.  This is not how it’s done.  I have the inductor here.  So back away.  Do as I say.”

The pull on my legs and arms eases a bit and the pole returns to an almost upright position.  I am still unfocused and sick from the drug.  I can’t hold my head up and it keeps bobbing.  The image of the doctor floats before my eyes and I don’t know what to think at all.  The other ghosts fade out of my line of vision and the doctor leans closer.  Yes, it’s him alright.  ‘What are you doing here’ I want to ask but cannot.  My voice is frozen in my throat.  I have nothing to say.  I’m brain dead and they are going to realize this soon enough and finish me off.  That’s all.

“Can you hear me?”  It’s definitely the doctor’s voice.

“Yes, I think so.”  The croak I hear cannot be my own.

“I’m trying to save your life.  The inductor I hold is dysfunctional.  After I connect it, you are going to go through excruciating pain, even if you have to pretend doing so, and don’t let up until you make yourself sick and pass out, do you hear me?  Anyone can do that if they want to.  Piss and shit yourself, but do it.  It has to look real or you’re going to be worse off than dead because I won’t be able to help you if my trick is discovered.”

“Argggggggggggh”  is all I manage to answer, still in shock from the torture pangs and woozy from the drug.  He attaches electrodes to my head with a metal band he tightens with a screw so it won’t come off.  Then he stretches my arms and legs again until the same excruciating pain returns, only worse even and I begin to scream.  He twists a dial on his inductor and indeed I feel nothing.  But I continue to scream and writhe in pain, following his advice.  Yes, my body relieves itself from the ordeal and finally I do pass out as he adds more tension to the arms of the device in a desperate attempt to fake the inductor torture.  I don’t think that the use of the neuro-inductor  would have made much difference at that point.  In my warring, twisted thoughts I wonder how much of this he too is enjoying…

When I come to I’m still attached to the pole.  I feel as if I’ve been broken in several separate pieces that will never be put together.  I’m just pieces of a human body, arms and legs disjointed.  Nothing is connected.  I hear something.  An argument going on.  The doctor and another person are discussing the effects of the torture.

“She knows nothing.  She was tricked by somebody to walk out of her cage, a trainer she says.  She never saw him before and it was dark.  What gora refuses an order from a man?  He made her walk to the wall, then back to her cage, leaving it unlocked.  That’s what we know.  It is enough that one gora and one guard are dead.  Let them be the guilty parties.  If you want more evidence, I suggest you send your hunters out into the south desert.  That’s where they always go.” 

“She was her lover.  She’d be the one to help her escape.”  The voice is deep, assured.  There is the sense of the predator in it, one who has a special victim in his claws and wants to gloat every moment his captive remains alive to be toyed with.

That sounds like the doctor’s voice again:  “You are so wrong!  If they had planned to escape, why did she not go with the other, you tell me that.  Is she so happy here that she couldn’t take an opportunity to run away when it would have appeared such a sure thing and her lover was going?  Lovers don’t leave each other that way.  Think.  We’re being made fools of right now and all you can think of is torturing another body.  I warn you Warmo, your inquisition methods are making some nervous.  There is talk in some quarters of doing an investigation of your facilities.  How do you feel about that?”

“Threats, Bal?”

“No, a bargain Warmo.  Just a bargain.  I have a good deal of money invested in this fighter and I’m damned if I’ll let you destroy such a good killing machine.  You’re a fool.  You know the King is her owner.  Unless you can prove beyond any doubt that she is involved in this escape, do you think the King is just going to forget you killed his personal fighter just for some sick satisfaction of yours?”

 I hear his sardonic laughter and can imagine the sneer of contempt in him.  “Help yourself, take her.  She can’t ever fight again so she’s as good as dead – that device has seen to that even if your neuro-inductor hasn’t.  Wrists and ankles crushed, that’s what it does Bal.  Neat machine, one of my favourites.  And I may yet get her back here for additional questioning.  Remember this, I don’t forget those who push me Bal.”

“Threats, Warmo?”

“Fuck you, doctor Echinoza.” 

So much venom that even in my confused state and the excruciating pain shooting through my body I can feel the hate in my guts.  This Warmo does not torture for results but purely for ultimate sadistic pleasure.  He would have been a perfect member of House Harkonnen. (Harkonnen is a reference to characters in the Dune series by Frank Herbert)

Perhaps more to the point, a death camp Kommandant under Hitler’s SS guard, C-20, Old Earth history. 

Funny what you remember when you want to connect the dots of your lives and truly know yourself, especially when your body is under maximum stress.  ‘Oh, the green, green grass of home…’ “aaaahhhhhh…”  Still not my voice.  Some poor girl in a torture dungeon, hurting, and I should feel sorry for her but I can’t: I must pretend to myself that I’m dead.  The dead don’t talk and they don’t feel pain.

My head falls back and I almost choke.  I scream an obscenity as I’m racked by another spasm.  Obscene pain beyond the meaning of the word. 

Another eternity and the doctor comes over and releases the mechanism that holds my wrists and ankles and keeps me from falling as I try to put my weight on my feet.  I cannot walk at all.  So he throws my limp form over his broad shoulders and carries me out through tunnels that seem to go on forever; that in my mind I want to go on forever. 

It feels so good to be dead; to be in a place where no one can ever hurt you; to be carried to your final rest by someone who cares for you.  Death by torture has a way of changing your perspective on life.  I think it has made me soft.

[end blog post # 45]