Free while the black stars burn by kucy a snyder Page A

covered in bright green and blue feathery scales. I wondered how they managed to capture it; the Jagaren was radially symmetrical, with an eye pointing out at each corner of its square skull. It’s hard to sneak up on something with 360-degree vision. I guess they ran it down; the Jagaren’s four stout legs were good for kicking and climbing, but too short for speed.
    When they cut it open, the fleshy steam smelled like fish. The vivisection revealed an incredible digestive system: a multi-chambered stomach, with colonies of bacteria to break down cellulose, bone, even some types of rock. And it could probably eat just about anything; the mouth was a wide, sphincter-lipped cavity at the top of its head (the brain was set out of harm’s way in the torso). The muscular oral cavity was lined with circular rows of grinding teeth, and in between were millions of taste buds. Far more than we poor mammals have, and far more specialized.
    So even if I prepare everything to taste exactly as it should to humans, the Jagaren might hate it and punish me. Of course, they might like it, and punish me anyway.
    *
    When the meal is ready, I prepare the twelve dinner plates and dessert dishes and set them on the conveyor belt that carries the food away to be eaten. The conveyor belt door is maybe just barely big enough for me to try to squeeze through (I’ve lost a lot of weight since I’ve been here), but the thought of being in the Jagaren’s dining hall is unspeakably terrifying. They would devour me, I’m sure, gourmands gobbling down a bit of sushi. To feel my arms and legs being sucked into those grinding maws, my bone and flesh shredding as surely as if my limbs had been thrust down a garbage disposal...no. I stay as far from the door as I can.
    There is only one other way out of the kitchen: the door to the hallway that leads to my cell. Or cells , I should say. I go into the hallway, sit down on the concrete floor, and wait. There are three doors in front of me. The one on the right leads to a room with a soft hotel bed, a toilet, a shower, soap, and a change of clean clothes; I will get this room if the Jagaren enjoy their meal. Behind the middle door is a bare concrete room with a futon, sink and toilet; I get this if the meal is indifferent. If the meal is unsatisfactory, I get the last room, a cold, cramped, brightly-lit cell with nothing but a sink and toilet. The Jagaren do not want their cook to be contaminated with excrement.
    I cannot simply spend the night in the hallway or the kitchen. Once, when I refused to respond to the loudspeakers, they sent knock-out gas through the vents. The corpse-movers carried me to the small cold cell. I woke with a headache that lasted three days.
    I wait for one hour, two. Finally, the buzzer sounds, and the right door swings open. The Jagaren were pleased. I should sleep well tonight.
    I enter the room, and find the concrete shard I’ve hidden beneath the bed. I pull off my shirt, and stare down at my scarred chest and belly. One cut for each man, woman, and child I’ve butchered for the Jagaren; almost every inch of my torso is engraved. I find a smooth place, right above my sternum. I push the sharp end of the shard into my flesh and slowly rake it down, again and again, until blood washes dark and soap-slick over my pale skin.
    *
    I dream of my mother. She is feverish. Lances of fire arc through her veins with every step she takes down the dark corridors of the bunker. Her generals take her to a briefing room, where they tell her of an island in the Caribbean. They have found where the Jagaren are holding me, and are going to stage a rescue mission.
    My mother will go with them.
    They are treating it as a suicide mission. I desperately want to tell her to stop. I’m not worth it; she is dying, yes, but her last days could surely be spent better than this . But I can be nothing more than a mute observer.
    And all the while, my mother thinks: 300 degrees, 300 degrees, don’t go