Free The Empire of Gut and Bone by M. T. Anderson

each of his creations and took pride in its successes and eccentricities.
    A guard shoved Kalgrash in the back, and the troll stumbled forward.
    They were led into a dark shed, pushed into the center of the room, and a plywood door was dragged across the uneven floor to shut them in. Kalgrash heard it latch.
    A guard looked through slats of wood and said, “Promise you won’t escape.”
    Dantsig looked shifty. He nodded.
    “Say it. I command you to say it.”
    Dantsig flinched as if there was some inner battle. And then he growled, “Yeah, I promise.”
    “There’s a good automaton. And you?”
    Kalgrash looked at the guard like the man was crazy. “What do you want?”
    “Promise you won’t escape. Your word.”
    “I promise,” said Kalgrash, crossing his fingers behind his back.
    The guard walked away.
    Kalgrash and Dantsig sat in the dust.
    Dantsig looked defeated. His face was pale. His arms were limp.
    “You saw them?” Kalgrash said.
    Dantsig nodded grimly.
    “There were so many,” said Kalgrash.
    The two mannequins didn’t speak for a long while.
    Their cell was made of uneven bits of wood and metal. Though it was gloomy, it wasn’t entirely dark, since light fell in through cracks between the panels of fiberboard. Somewhere nearby, there was a hive of wasps. They came in and out on errands.
    After a time, Dantsig stood and paced around the cell, his eyes narrowed.
    “Damn them,” he said. “We’ll never get out of here.”
    Kalgrash thought this was odd. “We just need to wait until there aren’t any guards around,” he said, “and we can untie the twine that holds the door on.”
    “Are you tweaking my beard?” Dantsig said to him. “This place is tied up tight as a Christmas roast.” He kicked at the wall. The whole hut shimmied. “These walls must be six feet thick. The door is banded with iron. The Norumbegan breathers are masters of construction.”
    Kalgrash stood and looked at Dantsig carefully. “Is that really what you see?” he said. “’Cause I see something a whole lot different.”
    “What do you see?”
    “This place is built like a doghouse. For an old dog. Who doesn’t lean too much on walls.”
    “Are you out of your tin can? The Norumbegans don’t do anything half gut. It’s all full-on with them. They build their cities to last a million years. This prison will keep uslocked up until the blood runs out of theBody’s veins and the gorge rises and the Innards split with rot.”
    “Dantsig,” said Kalgrash, “part of the wall is made out of old orange crates.”
    The troll walked over to the door. The bottom part of it was plywood, and the top was some slats of rough wood. Kalgrash surveyed the room beyond them. A couple of guards sat at a table, talking quietly in the language of the Norumbegans.
    When he turned back to Dantsig, the man was staring at him moodily. Dantsig asked, “Are you serious?”
    Kalgrash nodded. “Here,” he said, “read the writing on the wall.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Kalgrash pointed. “There’s writing. There’s the picture of an orange, and some writing. Read it.”
    Dantsig walked over and glared at the wall. “Stone,” he said.
    “Balsa wood,” said Kalgrash. “Read it. See the words?”
    Dantsig concentrated. He muttered, “They make us worship them. That’s how we’re built. For worship. They can do no wrong. We think every single one of them is beautiful. More beautiful than we can ever be. That’s what they’ve done to us. They could have horns and yellow claws and we’d think they were the belles of the ball.” He was getting angrier as he glared at the wall. “We just take a little look at them and we’re chockablock with ‘Yes, sir,’ ‘No, sir,’ ‘Very good, sir’ … and bowing and scraping and ‘By your leave.’ Fresh Poictesme Navel Oranges.” Hestopped short. Then he crowed, “Fresh Poictesme Navel Oranges!” He looked toward the guards in the outer chamber and dropped his voice in