Loaded Like Freight

"There's a special kind of dignity in being strapped to a mule because you're too broken to walk and too potentially useful to leave behind. 'Cargo with information value,' I think the job title is."

They left me face-down in the dirt.

Not deliberately cruel—or at least, not more cruel than necessary. They simply had more pressing concerns than the comfort of a prisoner who couldn't walk. I lay there with my cheek pressed against cold stone, my arms wrenched behind my back, the cord around my wrists already cutting into skin, and watched what I could see of the aftermath unfold.

It wasn't much. From my position on the ground, my field of vision was limited to a narrow slice of terrain—rocks, dust, the legs of people moving past. But I could hear everything. The sounds painted a picture my eyes couldn't see.

Voices first. Quick exchanges in that strange blended language I'd heard during the fight, the words running together in patterns that teased at familiarity without ever resolving into meaning. I caught fragments—something that sounded almost French, something else that might have been Spanish, other sounds I couldn't place at all. A language that had evolved in isolation, I realised. Borrowing from multiple sources, blending them into something new.

Then movement. Footsteps—dozens of them, it seemed—crossing and recrossing the ground around the overhang. The scrape of bodies being lifted, being carried. The wet, heavy sound of the dead being moved.

Three dead, I thought. Nelson killed three of them.

The number felt abstract. Distant. I'd watched it happen, watched the knife find flesh, watched men fall and not get up. But my mind couldn't quite connect those images to the reality of what they meant. Three people who had been alive minutes ago were now corpses. Three families somewhere would never see their loved ones again.

Because of Nelson. Because of me.

The guilt was there, lurking at the edges of my consciousness, but I couldn't quite grasp it. Couldn't make myself feel responsible for deaths I hadn't caused, hadn't wanted, had been utterly powerless to prevent. All I could feel was the cold stone against my face and the dull throb of my bound wrists and the terrible, consuming awareness of my own helplessness.

A boot appeared in my field of vision. Stopped inches from my face.

"Cet-uno es despierto."

The voice belonged to the man who'd found me trying to crawl—the one who'd called out to the others, who'd laughed at my pathetic attempts to escape. I couldn't see his face from this angle, just his boots and the lower portion of his legs. His trousers were dark, fitted close to his body, and as I watched, I noticed something I'd missed before.

Threads of light.

They ran through the fabric in subtle patterns—so faint I might have imagined them if I hadn't been looking directly at them. Soft luminescence, pulsing gently with a rhythm that reminded me of breathing. Or heartbeat. The same quality of light I'd seen in the thing Nelson wore around his neck, woven directly into clothing.

What is that? I thought. How are they doing that?

No answers came. Just the observation, filed away with all the other things I didn't understand about this world.

The boot moved. Drew back. I had just enough time to register what was about to happen before it connected with my ribs.

Pain exploded through my chest. Not as bad as Nelson's kicks—more casual, less purposeful—but enough to drive the air from my lungs and leave me gasping against the stone.

"Todavía vivo," the man observed. Something about being alive, I guessed from his tone. He called out to someone else, a longer phrase I couldn't follow.

"Laissez-le."

A new voice. The leader—I recognised the cold authority in it, the expectation of instant obedience. I heard footsteps approach, heard him stop somewhere nearby.

The first man responded—something questioning, dismissive. I caught what might have been marcher or crawl, words that could have been describing my pathetic attempt to escape.

"Je sais."

More footsteps. Then hands gripped my shoulders, rolled me onto my back. The movement sent fresh agony through my bound arms, but at least I could see now. Could look up at the faces of my captors.

The leader stood over me. He was older than the others—or at least, he carried himself like someone older, someone accustomed to command. His hair was cropped close to his skull, iron-grey rather than the darker shades of his companions. His face was hard, weathered, marked by scars that spoke of a life that included regular violence.

Behind him, I could see others—a dozen at least, all men, all watching me with expressions that ranged from contempt to curiosity. Their skin was pale—paler than mine, certainly—but otherwise they looked... normal. Human. Just men in strange clothing, standing in a rocky landscape, staring at a prisoner who couldn't walk.

And all of them, I noticed now, wore clothing threaded with that same soft luminescence. Some brighter than others—patterns that varied from person to person.

The leader studied me for a moment, then spoke. "Parlez-vous français?"

I stared at him blankly.

"Español? Português?"

Nothing. I had no idea what he was asking.

He made a sound of irritation, then tried again. "English? You speak English?"

"Yes," I managed. My voice came out rough, cracked. "I speak English."

"English." He repeated the word with a hint of distaste, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. "Of course. The Pirate's tongue." He crouched beside me, bringing his face close to mine. "What is your name?"

"Joel. Joel Gibbons."

"Gibbons." He tested the word. "Where are you from, Joel Gibbons?"

"Tasmania." The word felt strange in my mouth, a connection to a world that seemed impossibly distant. "Australia. I'm from Earth."

Something shifted in his expression. Not surprise—more like confirmation of something he'd already suspected.

"Earth-born," he said. "Recent arrival?"

"A few days. I don't know exactly. I lost track."

"And yet you travel with a Pirata." His voice hardened on the word. "You keep company with murderers and thieves."

"I didn't choose—"

"Silence."

The word was a whip-crack, sharp enough to make me flinch. The leader's face was inches from mine now. Up close, I could see details I'd missed before—the network of fine lines around his eyes, the way his gaze moved over my face with cold assessment.

"You will speak when spoken to," he said. "You will answer questions, not offer explanations. You will not lie—we will know if you lie. Understand?"

I nodded. It seemed safer than speaking.

"Good." He straightened, turning to address the others in their blended language. Quick, clipped commands that produced immediate responses—figures moving, taking positions, preparing for something I couldn't identify.

They were thorough.

I didn't have much to search—Jamie's borrowed clothes, empty pockets, nothing of value or interest. But they checked anyway, hands moving over my body, checking seams and hems and every fold of fabric that might conceal something hidden.

Nelson received more attention. They'd already taken his weapons during the fight—the knife, a smaller blade, several other items I hadn't known he carried. But now they went deeper, stripping away his jacket, his belt, his boots. Each item was examined, passed between handlers, catalogued and set aside.

I watched from where I lay, unable to turn away, unable to do anything except observe. Nelson stood in the middle of the group, arms bound behind him, face expressionless, submitting to the search with a stillness that might have been resignation or might have been something else entirely.

He's waiting, I realised. Even now. Even stripped and bound and surrounded by enemies. He's still waiting. Still watching. Still looking for an angle.

The thought was oddly comforting. If Nelson hadn't given up, maybe there was still hope. Maybe this wasn't the end. Maybe—

"Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

One of the searchers had found something. I craned my neck, trying to see, and caught a glimpse of the object being passed to the leader—a small pouch, dark fabric, drawn closed with a cord.

The leader opened it. Reached inside. Drew out something that caught the light with a soft, organic glow.

I didn't know what they were. Small shapes, clustered together, pulsing with that same gentle rhythm I'd noticed in the clothing threads. Alive, maybe. Or something that looked alive. The leader's reaction told me more than the objects themselves—the way his face went rigid, the fury that flickered behind his eyes.

"Volé," he said. The word was quiet, controlled, but I could hear the rage beneath it. He turned to Nelson, holding the pouch. "Volé de nos grottes. Nos piscines. Le travail de notre peuple."

Nelson said nothing. His face remained impassive, giving nothing away.

The leader stepped closer to him. "C'est ce que font les tiens." His voice rose slightly. "Vous venez sur nos terres. Vous prenez ce qui n'est pas à vous. Vous tuez ceux qui essaient de vous arrêter."

I couldn't understand the words, but the meaning was clear enough from his tone, from the way he jabbed the pouch toward Nelson's face. Whatever was in that pouch, it belonged to these people. And Nelson—or someone like him—had taken it.

"Je ne suis jamais allé dans vos grottes."

Nelson's voice was calm. Measured. Speaking their language, or something close enough to it.

"Menteur."

"Je dis la vérité. J'ai échangé pour ça. Acheté à un autre—" He paused. "À quelqu'un d'autre."

"Un autre Pirata."

"Oui."

The leader stared at him for a long moment. Then he turned away, speaking to his men in rapid phrases I couldn't follow. When he turned back to me, his expression had settled into something cold and professional.

"The Pirata will face justice," he said, switching to English. "He will answer for the deaths he caused today, and for the crimes of his kind." His eyes bored into mine. "You, Joel Gibbons, will answer different questions. Who you are. How you came to be here. Why a Pirata would burden himself with a partner who can't even walk."

"I'm not his partner. I'm his hostage. He kidnapped—"

The slap came out of nowhere.

My head snapped to the side, pain exploding across my cheek, stars dancing at the edges of my vision. The blow was harder than I'd expected—delivered with casual precision by someone who knew exactly how much force to apply.

"I told you," the leader said, "to speak only when spoken to. I asked questions. You began to answer. Then you continued speaking without invitation."

I tasted blood. Felt it welling from where my teeth had cut the inside of my cheek.

"I understand the instinct," he continued. "You want to explain. To justify. To make us understand that you're innocent, that you don't belong here, that this is all a terrible mistake." He crouched beside me again, his face inches from mine. "I don't care. The Pirata claimed you as his partner. That makes you a Pirata until we decide otherwise. Innocent or guilty, you're still a prisoner. You're still in our territory. And you will do exactly as you're told, or you will suffer the consequences. Clear?"

I nodded. Didn't trust my voice. Didn't trust myself not to say something that would earn me another blow.

"Good." He straightened, turning to the man who'd kicked me earlier. "Marelle. Il peut pas marcher. Il va nous ralentir."

The man called Martel responded in their language—something casual, indifferent. I caught the word wastes and what might have been leave.

The leader considered this. I watched his face, trying to read his expression, trying to understand what my life was worth to him.

"Non," he said finally. He switched to English, perhaps for my benefit—or perhaps just out of habit. "He might have value. Information, if nothing else. And if the Pirata is telling the truth about taking him hostage, there may be others looking for him. Others we can use."

Jamie, I thought. He's thinking about Jamie.

"So we carry him?" Martel’s voice dripped with disgust. He'd understood the English. "All the way back?"

"We use the mules." The leader turned, calling out to someone I couldn't see. "Corvín! À quelle distance sont les animaux?"

A response came from somewhere beyond my field of vision—a man's voice, speaking in their blended language. The leader nodded, seeming satisfied.

"They'll be here soon," he said. "We load the injured and the... cargo." He glanced at me, the word clearly chosen to diminish. "The rest of us walk. We should make the entrance by nightfall if we move quickly."

The entrance, I thought. The entrance to what?

But I didn't ask. Didn't dare. The taste of blood in my mouth was reminder enough of what happened when I spoke out of turn.

The mules arrived perhaps twenty minutes later.

I heard them before I saw them—the soft clop of hooves on stone, the creak of leather harnesses, the occasional snort of animal breath. Then they came into view, led by a young man with the same pale skin as the others, and I found myself staring at something that was both familiar and utterly strange.

They were mules. Unmistakably mules—the long ears, the sturdy build, the patient expression that seemed bred into every member of their kind. I'd seen plenty of mules in Tasmania, in the paddocks outside Hobart, in the rural areas I'd driven through on delivery runs.

But these were different.

Their coats were pale. Not white, not albino, but a soft grey that seemed to blend with the stone around them. Their eyes were larger than any mule I'd seen before, dark and liquid, with pupils that seemed to expand even in the dim light. And they moved differently—more carefully, more deliberately, their hooves finding purchase on rocky terrain with a sureness that spoke of generations bred for exactly this kind of work.

There were four of them, each fitted with harnesses that gleamed with those same luminescent threads I'd noticed in the clothing. Soft patterns traced along the straps and buckles, turning functional equipment into something I didn't have words for.

Two of the mules carried frames on their backs—platforms designed for cargo, fitted with straps and padding. The others bore different arrangements, saddle-like structures that suggested riders rather than loads.

The young man leading them—Corvín, I assumed—exchanged words with the leader in their language. Quick, efficient, the communication of people who'd worked together long enough to need few words. Then he approached me, looking down at my bound, prostrate form with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"This the one who can't walk?"

His accent was different from the leader's—younger, somehow, less formal. But the pale skin marked him as one of them, whoever they were.

"That's him," Martel confirmed. "Complete dead weight. The Pirata was dragging him across the wastes like a broken toy."

Corvín crouched beside me, studying my legs with a clinical detachment that reminded me of Nelson's earlier assessment.

"Injury?"

"Don't know," I said. The words came out careful, measured—I wasn't sure if speaking was permitted, but he'd asked a direct question. "They just... stopped working. Yesterday, I could walk. Today, I can't."

He grunted, apparently unsurprised. His hands moved to my legs—checking joints, pressing at muscles, testing for responses I couldn't feel.

"No obvious damage," he reported, straightening. "Likely exhaustion. The body shuts down to protect itself when pushed too far." He glanced at the leader. "Should recover, given time and rest. How much time..." He shrugged. "Impossible to say."

"Can you move him?"

"Onto the frame? Yes. If he can sit upright, we can strap him in. If not..." Another shrug. "We tie him down like cargo and hope he doesn't fall off."

"I can sit upright," I said quickly. The thought of being transported face-down, unable to see where I was going, watching the ground pass beneath me for hours—it was more than I could bear. "My legs don't work, but my arms do. My core works. I can sit."

The leader considered this. Then nodded.

"Mettez-le sur le gris," he commanded. "Attachez-le bien. Je ne veux pas m'arrêter parce qu'il est tombé et s'est fracassé le crâne."

I caught fragments—gris sounded like grey, and something about stopping and falling. His meaning was clear enough from the gesture toward the cargo mule.

The grey. One of the cargo mules, I assumed. I watched as Corvín led it closer—watched its dark eyes take me in, its ears swivelling to track the sounds around it. Up close, I could see more details. The skin beneath its pale coat was thin, almost translucent, revealing the faint pulse of blood vessels beneath. Its nostrils flared wide, testing the air with an intensity I'd never seen in the farm mules back home.

"Up," Corvín said, gripping my arms.

Other hands joined his—lifting me, supporting my useless legs, manoeuvring my body toward the waiting animal. The movement was awkward, painful, my bound arms screaming as they were jostled and twisted. But they managed it, hauling me up onto the cargo frame, positioning me so I sat with my back against a raised support, my legs stretched out in front of me.

Then came the straps.

Across my chest. Around my waist. Over my thighs and shins, securing my dead legs in place. Each one pulled tight, buckled down, until I was more attached to the mule than sitting on it. The harness glowed faintly around me—those luminescent threads pulsing with soft light—and I found myself staring at them, unable to look away.

"Il est attaché," Corvín reported.

"Bon." The leader had moved to where Nelson stood, still bound, still surrounded by guards. "Le Pirata marche. Attaché à l'animal de Martel. S'il essaie quoi que ce soit—" He looked at Martel, and something passed between them. An understanding. A permission.

"Compris," Martel said.

I watched them attach a rope to Nelson's bindings, watched them secure the other end to a ring on Martel's saddle. The message was clear: he would walk behind the mule, keeping pace or being dragged. Given the terrain we'd been crossing, being dragged would mean being scraped raw against every rock we passed.

Nelson submitted to the arrangement without protest. His face remained impassive, those ice-chip eyes giving nothing away. But I saw his gaze flick to me—just for a moment, just a flash of contact across the chaos of our situation—and something passed between us.

We're still alive, that look seemed to say. We're still in this. Don't give up.

Or maybe I was imagining it. Maybe I was seeing hope where there was none, reading meaning into a glance that meant nothing at all.

But I held onto it anyway. Because right now, it was all I had.

The leader mounted his own animal—a sleeker beast, faster-looking, its harness threaded with brighter luminescence than the others. He raised his hand and called out in their blended language, a string of commands I couldn't follow.

The group began to organise itself—riders taking positions, walkers falling into line, the wounded being loaded onto the other cargo mule with the same efficient brutality I'd received. Within minutes, the chaos of the aftermath had resolved into something ordered, something purposeful.

Something heading into the mountains.

My mule—the grey—lurched into motion. The movement was surprisingly smooth, its hooves finding purchase on the rocky ground with practised ease. I swayed against the straps that held me, feeling the animal's warmth beneath me, watching the terrain begin to pass.

Behind me, the overhang where I'd spent the night was already disappearing. The rocks where Nelson had fought, where three men had died, where everything had changed—they were shrinking into the distance, becoming just another part of a landscape I would never see again.

Ahead of me, the mountains loomed. Closer now than they'd ever been. Close enough to see individual features—ridges and ravines, shadows that might have been caves, the dark mass of stone rising against the blue sky.

That's where we're going, I thought. Into the mountains. Into whatever waits inside them.

I didn't know what that would be. Didn't know if I would survive long enough to find out. But as the grey carried me forward, as the foothills rose around us and the sky began to narrow between walls of rock, I found myself thinking of something the leader had said.

He might have value. Information, if nothing else.

Maybe that was true. Maybe I had value, even now, even broken and bound and utterly at the mercy of strangers. Maybe there was still a reason to keep me alive, still a chance to survive this.

Or maybe they would question me, learn what little I knew, and dispose of me like the dead weight I'd become.

Either way, I would find out soon enough.

The grey walked on, steady and sure-footed, carrying me toward a destination I could only imagine.