217-B woke to the sound of gunfire and alarms. Instantly he knew what it meant. Camp Kilo was under attack by the prey-separatist terrorists. The masters had warned them about this, and had told them what to do. Each slave in the 3rd Team barracks coolly and quietly dressed in their work uniforms, and knelt at the foot of their respective beds. When the masters had repelled the attack, taken care of their wounded and tended to any other higher priorities, one of them would be around to do a headcount. Until then, their duty was to wait.
Some of the younger slaves were visibly scared, until the soothing voice of 460-F started leading them in a prayer to Mankind. First 460-F, then the children and eventually 3rd Team as a whole prayed to the ancient creators of Furs and founders of the natural order to keep their masters safe. They did not pray for their own safety. It simply did not occur to them.
The shooting stopped after about 40 minutes, by 217-B's estimate, and the alarms were shut off one by one after that. However, the all-clear had not been sounded and so the slaves of 3rd Team stayed as they were, kneeling in the dark.
By the time two hours had passed, even slaves could get restless. 774-A, as wilful as ever, had gotten up and switched on the lights, heedless of 506-N's promise to have her flogged for breaking procedure. 183-X had fallen asleep on his knees, to the exasperated amusement of his neighbours. The silence, first fearful and then stoic, had started to become awkward.
774-A spoke up. "What if the all-clear signal's broken?'' The others looked at her, startled. "Or, what if it was damaged in the fighting? One of us should go out and check.''
"Haven't you done enough, you brat?'' asked 931-D.
"No, she has a point'', interjected 506-N. As always, when the eldest spoke they all listened. "It's possible. It could still be dangerous out there, though. Who's most expendable?''
The slaves looked around the room, each estimating the value of their own life compared to the lives of their fellows. Each would have gone in a heartbeat, had a Pred ordered it. Eventually 217-B stood up. "I'm at least as expendable as anyone else'', he said. ``Might as well be me.''
None of the other slaves objected to his assessment, and so 217-B cracked open the door and slipped outside. The morning was cool, grey and quiet. The slave huts were lined up along the outer edge of the admin compound - huts for 1st Team through 5th Team, Cleaning Team and the Punishment Hut right at the end. Rather than waste time checking on the other slaves, 217-B crept towards the offices that made up the centre of the compound.
He came in through the slaves' entrance on the side of the central building, slowly growing more and more unnerved by the silence. No Pred to take control of the situation, no other slave to share information - by the time he reached the reception desk he would have been glad to see the meat, as long as it had known what was going on.
He sighed with relief when he heard footsteps around a corner. He knelt next to a closet door, head bowed and hands behind his back in the standard posture of a slave awaiting orders. The footsteps were coming closer, two sets of them and heavy. He reasoned that the masters must have had to call out the army to repel the terrorists. It was the only logical explanation, surely. So when he cracked open one eye and saw booted feet and legs in dull green trousers, he felt nothing but relief.
"Oh shit, a survivor'', said a voice above him. He heard the soldier crouch before him. "Hey, kid, look at me.''
He obeyed the voice of the Pred, his natural superior - and found himself looking into the face of another hare! Frantic, his eyes darted to the other soldier - a goat! Sure enough, the evil badge of the two red stars was pinned to each of their chests. These were no soldiers, or at least no soldiers that he had ever hoped to see. These were the troops of the Herbivores' Liberation Army!
"Are you OK there, kid?'' asked the Goat, "Have you been hurt at all?''
217-B thought back to the training all the slaves had been given for what to do if the meat took one of them hostage. The important thing was to avoid escalating the situation, even if that meant playing along with the hostage-taker. With that in mind, and with precious little else to go on, 217-B shook his head. "No, sir. I'm fine.''
"Well, it might still be dangerous'', said the hare. "Tell you what, you come with us and we'll find you somewhere safe. Are there any more inmates still around?''
"Inmates?'' asked 217-B as he stood. When the two soldiers headed off, he followed. "What do you mean?''
The hare looked back at him. "What do you mean? You can't have a prison camp without inmates.''
"This isn't a prison camp!'' squawked 217-B, oddly offended. "It's a culling camp!''
"A death camp?'' muttered the goat, sounding appalled.
"Not at all'', replied 217-B smartly. "A death camp would imply that people are just killed for no good reason. This is Camp Kilo. The meat are brought here because there's no good reason for them to be anywhere else, and once they're culled they're made useful for Preds everywhere!'' He smiled brightly at this rote account of all the good Camp Kilo was doing for the world; though it faded as he realised that it could no longer operate until the HLA were cleared out by the real army.
"Man alive'', breathed the hare. "Look, just - let's just drop that for now. Just - are there any more like you?''
"Slaves, you mean? Sure.'' He nearly explained where to find them, until a flash of loyalty prevented him from speaking. Let the HLA search for them - he wouldn't tell!
The three of them reached a row of offices. In happier times, they would have been used to help run the camp. 217-B didn't know exactly how, of course - whenever he was in the offices, he was there to tend the needs of the workers themselves, rather than administer Camp Kilo.
The office was empty and quiet, just as it might have been early in the morning, before the real staff had woken up and started their work. It could almost have made 217-B think that the morning had been an elaborate nightmare, and that really all was well. As if this was the case, he straightened and tidied the office to the best of his ability and then knelt by the door.
Maybe, if he was very quiet, those horrible prey-separatists would forget he was in here and just go away. He huffed softly. No chance of that, but it was nice to think about. It would at least go a little easier on the others - the others!
He leapt to his feet and raced to the desk in the centre of the room. His heart thudded in his chest as he searched for a certain control panel - and there it was! The microphone for the camp's tannoy system. Ordinarily, of course, a slave would have nothing to do with such important equipment, but this was an emergency. He thumbed the broadcast system on and spoke into the microphone. "Terrorists have taken over the camp! All slaves, flee! Flee for your lives!''
As he had expected, the door smashed open and a pair of HLA thugs burst into the room. They aimed their rifles at him. "You little shit'', snarled one of them; a mouse, "What have you done?''
217-B looked at the man's gun and realised he was prepared to die. He had done his part to help save his fellow slaves, and now he could to to greet heaven in peace. "I'm ready'', he replied serenely.
The mouse looked at him aghast and then down at his rifle. He flung it to the floor and ground his face into his hands. "What am I doing?'', he asked, muffled by his gloves, "Man alive, what am I doing?'' The man's companion, a donkey, lowered his own rifle more calmly and took a slow step into the room.
He spoke, louder and calmer than his comrade. ''Kid, you've...we're gonna have to put you under arrest for this.''
217-B obediently held his hands out in front of him. "OK'', he said.
The mouse calmed down and slapped a pair of handcuffs on him. He picked his gun back up and sighed. "OK, kid. Come with us.''
He walked between them and found himself comforted by this apparent downgrade in circumstances. Before, they had been treating him like a person. This at least was more like correct treatment for a slave. They took him to one of the interrogation rooms, and this time they locked him in. He sat in one of the chairs, rested his hands in his lap and waited.
There was no clock in the room, but he guessed it had been a little over half an hour when there was a gentle knock at the door and a woman's voice asked "May I come in?''. It took a moment for him to realise that he should answer. Nobody had ever asked 217-B for his permission to enter a room before, but he had seen what Preds did in that situation. He called out "It's open!'' in a clear voice.
The door swung open, and a doe entered the room. She was smartly dressed, like the women who used to handle a lot of the paperwork at the camp. Her face was strange, and 217-B had to think for a second to understand why. The woman was old, or at least older than any other prey animal he had ever seen. She might even have been older than 506-N, which was bizarre. 506-N was the unofficial mother of the slaves on 3rd Team. She was 33, only 2 years away from the mandatory culling age. And yet, this doe looked like the older Pred women who had worked at the camp. If she had been a Pred, he would have guessed she was in her 40s.
For a prey animal to look older than her could only mean two things. Either this doe had the misfortune of looking older than her years - unlikely, given the lack of scarring, missing body parts, mute terror or any of the other common signs of a prey animal who had lived a hard life - or she was older than 35. Was that even possible?
"What's your name, sweetie?'' asked the strange doe.
"217-B'', he replied.
For some reason he couldn't understand she looked as if her heart had just broken. "Oh, honey'' she breathed.
