Freedom or Death

[Krassus Horuset]

CHAPTER II: Eolat

The bell-buzzer was already ringing when Eolat reached the large sliding door, the sound echoing sharp and tinny through the schoolyard. The other kids rushed in, urged by the educationalist droids to take off their coats and shoes.

Eolat tried his hardest to navigate the organized chaos, shoulders squeezed between the other children rushing in after recess, their chatter buzzing around him like birds in the morning trees.

Shoes clattered on tiles and coats were hung on their hooks as the children streamed through the halls to their classrooms.

Most of them human.

Eolat remembered how his father had once told him that this was a special school; one of the best in the neighborhood! Most of the other children's parents also worked for the Government; or in the security forces.
Like dad. They should’ve had so much in common; but still he always felt out of place. Never more so than recently. After they had moved to the new house; the one with the stinky hallway that reeked of Akk pee, and the loud neighbor who always smelled of drink.

An ugly place. So little space. And far away from school too! Eolat never understood why they moved there.

He had asked his dad why they couldn't just stay at the old home? His dad never answered; and his mother had only told him that this was all for the best; and he'd understand when he was older. He doubted that. How could any of this ever make sense? It didn't.
But somehow he suspected it had something to do with the changing of all the flags.

He had always liked the old flags; proud and green. Like the logo on daddy's uniform. The new ones were red, the kind of red that hurt to look at, marked with an ugly symbol like something sharp enough to cut you.

Everything had gotten so much worse after the flags changed. No doubt the new apartment was also their fault.

At least he got to stay at his old school; his mom had promised him that. But two times now he had not been allowed into class; with Miss Harna asking to see some permit whose names he couldn't recall. He didn't have it though, he recalled that. His mom was called; and he went home. And then to the local government building where he was given the permit. And his mom told him to always carry it and keep it safe.

The next day he was allowed back into class; and he was happy about that! The day after that as well, and the day after, and the one after that. But when the next week started; Miss Harna said he needed a different permit. Which didn't make a lot of sense; he already had the other one. And he always went to class. So why did he need the stupid chit anyways? Miss Harna insisted it was the rules; and took him to the headmaster. There he would wait again until his mother came to pick him up to get the NEW permit.

At least with that one he was allowed to visit class. Which was nice. But he still didn't like the permit. It was red. Like the flags. And he didn't understand why he needed it. The other kids didn’t! Even though he really believed they should. Or at least there should be a permit that said you were nice enough to be allowed in. Most of the other kids wouldn’t have it. Because they weren't nice, not anymore anyways.

He had never quite felt at place at school but ever since the flags changed and they moved houses a lot of the kids were suddenly mean to him. They ignored him, or didn't play with him. Most never explained why. Others, who at least tried to seem sad about ignoring him, admitted that it was because their parents told them not to. That didn't make it any better.

Eolat felt so alone. Lagging behind the rest of his class. He stopped to grab his permit from his backpack as he approached the classroom. 

Miss Harna stood in the doorway like always, greeting the arrivals. Most slipped past without notice, taking their seats, laying out datapads. But as he tried to follow, holding out his permit, a gentle hand stopped him.

“Eolat...”

Her voice was soft, always soft, the sort that made children cry less when they scraped their knees. She stood in the doorway with her long dress brushing her shoes, kneeling down in front of Eolat as the rest of the kids rushed in. Eyes bright with kindness even as she shook her head.

“Has your mother told you you needed to bring a new permit this week?” she asked. Voice low, like she'd hoped he'd forgotten it in his bag. But her face already knew the answer.

Eolat blinked at her. He had no other permit. His mom had only put this one in his bag. Was he going to miss class again today? No. Why? His fingers clutched the strap of his backpack tighter.

Miss Harna's smile broke, falling into pieces. “Oh, love,” she murmured. “I'm sorry, dear.” She looked back into the room, to the other children already busy, letting out a soft sigh before she leaned down again. “I'm sorry. But you can't stay without the new permit. They'll check.”

He still didn't understand who they were, or why not having a permit meant he couldn't sit at his desk and draw letters like the others. Or why he needed a new one, was the old one not good enough? He wanted to ask, to cry, to scream. But instead he nodded, because her hand was warm when it closed over his.

“Come on,” she said. “We'll see the headmaster and get you a glass of juice so you can wait for your mama.” Her fingers wrapped around his as they walked, and it felt safe. Like when his mother held him. She walked slow, as if the hallway would stretch longer that way, and the office might never come. The hall smelled of dust and floor polish, some of the screens on the walls displayed crooked pictures drawn by hand by the students. Houses, suns, the red Nam'ta, families holding hands. His footsteps sounded loud on the tiles, as though every child in every room might hear him walking by. Or so he thought.

Miss Harna's grip was careful, not tight but steady, as if he might float away if she let go.

The office was dimmer, the carpet worn thin, a vibro-fan in the corner stirring the air without cooling it. She sat him in an old creaky chair, whose leather pad had long since worn down. Got him his glass of juice and then patted his cheek. “It'll be all right, hun. She'll be here soon, then you can grab the new pass and be right back to class tomorrow.”

He swung his legs, watching the shadows crawl across the floor for who knows how long. He finished his juice and some of the crackers the headmaster's assistant brought him some time later. Through the window he could see the sun was already getting lower. He even napped a little in the chair, until his mother's voice cut through the shadows in the room.

“This again?” she barked, bursting through the door like a storm had blown it open.

 “This is the third time. Third time in two months. He's a child! He needs to be in class!”

The headmaster, a pale man with hair combed flat to his skull, spread his hands as he followed her out of his office. Eolat had not even seen her enter. “Madam Vahs, it is not our decision. These are Imperial laws. Our—” He stopped, and cleared his throat. “Non-human students were required to update their C7-5 permit to a C7-5B permit by the start of this week. We are simply trying to abide by the governor's new regulations.”

Her words sharpened, words like blades. “He's six years old! Just a boy! We got the old permit just some weeks ago and now this!”

The headmaster flinched, but didn't budge. Sighing once. “I am sorry, Madam. Truly I am... But until your son has the proper permits filled out, there is nothing I can do.”

Sorry.

They were always so sorry. But it never stopped them from sending him away. It never changed anything. His mother's hand clamped down on his shoulder, pulling him to her side. He could feel the anger in her fingers, hot through his shirt.

“Come, Eolat,” she said. “We're leaving.”





The street outside was loud and bright, too bright, the kind of glare that made Eolat squint and hide his face in his mother’s sleeve. Speeders hummed and buzzed overhead, the shadows of their wings sliding across the ground like long black fish in shallow water. People passed quick, coats pulled tight, eyes down.

His mother’s steps were sharp, each one snapping against the pavement. She said nothing, her hand heavy on his shoulder. He could feel the heat of her anger through his jacket, but also the firmness that meant don’t ask, not now.
The shouting came before he saw them.

“Parasites!” one voice rang, rough as gravel.

Another joined in, mocking, “Crawling through our streets like rats. You think we don’t see you? Republic dogs!”

They stood in the mouth of a side alley, three men swaying on their feet. Bottles dangled from their hands, brown glass glinting in the light. Two leaned against the wall, laughing, but the one in front pointed straight at them, his teeth yellow in his grin. A strip of cloth was taped to his sleeve—the ugly new flag, red and sharp, its symbol crooked where it wrinkled over his arm.

“You hear me?” he barked. “Spies! That’s what you are. All of you.”

“Traitors,” another spat, liquid slopping from his bottle onto the street. “Barracas’ little helpers, sneaking in and out of our city, reporting to your rebel friends.”

The third man snorted and staggered forward half a step, raising his bottle in a toast. “Parasites. A stain on Nam’tees society, that’s what you are. Should’ve been cleared out long ago.”

Their voices tangled, echoing off the stone like thunder. Eolat’s chest went tight. He didn’t understand everything; rebels, traitors, spies, but he knew the tone, knew the hate.
Mama’s grip pressed harder on his shoulder, fingers digging in. “Keep walking,” she murmured. Her voice was low but sharp enough to cut.

Eolat tried. He kept his eyes low, fixed on the pavement. But the bottle came flying.

It spun through the air, catching the sun for a heartbeat before it shattered against the wall beside them. Glass burst outward, spraying across the ground like tiny stars. The sour stink of drink hit him at once, burning in his nose and throat. He jumped, heart hammering, pressing closer into his mother’s side.

The men jeered louder. One barked a laugh that carried down the street, another hissed out words Eolat didn’t know, but they sounded ugly and sharp, like the red symbol on their flags.

“Eyes down,” Mama murmured. Her hand came over his head, gently but firmly pushing him forward. “Don’t look at them. Don’t listen. Just walk.”

So he walked.

He stared at the pavement, at the cracks in the stone, at the faded paint of old crosswalk lines. He counted them as they went. One, two, three, four. Numbers to fill the space where the shouts tried to get in. The voices behind them grew smaller, swallowed by the hum of speeders and the hiss of the city air.

Mama’s steps stayed sharp, her arm firm around him. She didn’t look back once.




Back at the apartment, Mama’s hand loosened on his shoulder. She knelt to his level, brushing his hair back with fingers that still trembled.

“Go play outside, Eolat,” she said. Her voice was calm, too calm, the kind of calm that made him know she was still angry, still afraid. “I need to make some calls.”

He wanted to ask what calls, who she would speak to, if they were about him. But she had already turned toward the commset, her jaw tight. So he slipped out the side vent, knees scraping metal, and wriggled under the wire fence where his shirt caught and tugged. He knew the way by heart: past the rusted pipe, across the cracked stone, then down the narrow path where the smell of frying oil from the neighbor’s window always clung to the air.

The play place waited at the end. The swings creaked, the frame for climbing bent like old bones. The sandpit was more dirt than sand, but it was theirs. Children were already there, voices high and bright, chasing each other through the dust.

The children who gathered there were like him: sons and daughters of clerks, dock hands, street vendors. Most were alien, with horns, tails, or patterned skin. Some were human, but not many, and none who came from the tall houses with shining windows. This was the place for the poor, the overlooked. But here, for now, it didn’t matter.

Eolat joined without asking, slipping into their game. They ran, tagged, squealed when caught. Dust puffed under their heels, laughter carried through the air. For a little while, it was only the game.
Then the sound came.

Deep. Heavy. Bigger than thunder. The ground seemed to hum beneath his shoes. Shadows fell over the play place. They all stopped, eyes wide, heads tilted to the sky.

Shuttles.

Great gray hulls slid down through the clouds, their bellies glowing. Engines roared so loud the swings shook. The older kids exchanged quick looks, their faces turned serious, and one by one they ran. Vanished into doorways, across courtyards, back to mothers who were already calling from balconies.

But Eolat stayed. His mouth hung open.

From the shuttles poured soldiers. Black armor, trimmed in red. The ugly new symbol marked their shoulders and glared above their visors, as if they carried the flags inside their very skin.

Their faces hidden behind glossy visors that shone black, faceless, unbroken by eyes. They marched out in perfect lines. Boots striking together as one, rifles slung tight against their chests. precise and flawless.
Like toys wound tight. 
And to Eolat it was the most wonderful thing he had seen in a while. Like the heroes from the holo-serials, stepping straight out of the sky. Despite the ugly flag on their armor; to see all of them march in lines was one of the coolest things he had ever seen.
Until he noticed that the lines were moving to form a ring around the housing block.


A speaker cracked to life, mounted on the belly of the nearest shuttle. The voice came deep and harsh, carried across the blocks so no one could pretend not to hear.

“Residents of this sector: you have been found guilty of harboring enemies of the Empire. This district is known to shelter agents and spies of Barracas, traitors and terrorists who seek to destroy order. To destroy Nam'ta.”

The voice rolled on, hammering each word. Cold, precise, Imperial diction.

“For your failure to report their presence, all of you are now suspect of collaboration. Until every family here has been questioned, no one will be spared. Any who resist Imperial justice will be treated as guilty. Any who run will be judged rebels themselves.”

A pause. Then the sentence, sharp and final:

“The punishment is death.”




The words tangled in his ears. He didn’t understand all of them. Collaboration, agents, terrorists, but he knew enough. He knew the tone, the hatred. It was the same hatred in the voice of the drunks on the streets. He knew the way the soldiers moved as they spread through the blocks.

His awe soured into something heavy in his stomach. The soldiers were not toys. Not heroes. Not safe.

Screams began to rise. Spilling from the housing blocks as if the buildings themselves had begun to cry. Boots thundered against stairwells, heavy and merciless. Doors slammed, then shattered under iron heels and breaching tools. Voices shouted orders in words too quick for Eolat to follow.

He froze at the edge of the play place, dust clinging to his skin.

The soldiers moved with machine precision, spreading in lines, cutting off alleys and exits. Families poured out of apartments, dragged into the courtyards by armored hands. Clothes and food spilled onto the street; tumbling down from balconies as the soldiers robbed those with the foresight to pack emergency bags of their possessions. 
A woman begged in a voice that broke, clutching her child to her chest. A soldier tore the child away. He could see the shape of the man who smelled like drink lunge at the soldiers that dragged him out of his apartment, swinging with empty hands. There was a flash of crimson, a sound like a thunderbolt. 

The man fell, chest smoking. 

Eolat's legs started moving before he thought about it. He ran.

All around him, chaos.

He glimpsed a boy he’d played tag with only minutes ago. His father was shouting, straining against the soldiers pulling him back. One of them lifted his rifle and fired. The father dropped at once, crumpled on the stones. The boy screamed and tried to run, but another soldier caught him with the butt of a rifle in his stomach. He folded in half, wheezing, before being hoisted up by the arms. Two soldiers carried him like a sack, and then a third raised his weapon. The blast was quick, final. The boy went still.

The soldiers shouted at one another, furious; but not at the killing. One screamed because the shot had come too close to him. They argued as if nothing had happened, as if the boy’s small body was no more than a crate dropped in the wrong place.

Eolat stumbled, dust and glass scraping under his shoes. He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The cries rang in his ears, louder and louder.

He darted toward a vent he knew, the one that ran beneath the stairwell. He wriggled inside, chest scraping metal, heart pounding in his ears. He crawled and crawled, until the narrow space opened into the kitchen of his home.

Mama sat stiff at the table. An officer loomed above her, not in armor but in a uniform in the same ugly black and red, the ugly symbol stitched into the fabric. This one did not have a visor. His face sharp and empty, the kind that didn’t bend or soften.

“Where is your husband?” the officer demanded.

“He left us,” Mama said quickly. Her voice trembled but did not break. “Weeks ago. We don’t know where. He abandoned us.”

The word stung. Abandoned. It sank into Eolat like a stone. Papa hadn’t abandoned them. Had he?

“And your sons?”

“They aren’t here,” Mama insisted. “One’s at school. The other’s at work.”

The officer’s hand flashed across her face. She gasped, clutching her cheek. “Do not lie. We searched both. The boys were not there.”

“Don’t hurt Mama!” Eolat cried, tumbling out of the vent before he could stop himself.

The officer’s head snapped toward him. “Alive,” he ordered. “Take him. The children will be useful.”

“Run!” Mama screamed. She lunged across the table, knocking over a cup as she clawed for the officer’s arm. 

A shot rang out. 

Eolat didn't look back. He ran.

The hallways were not home anymore. Doors gaped like broken mouths, hinges torn, locks smashed. Clothes were strewn across the floor, shirts and trousers trampled into the dust, shoes lying without their pairs. A pot had rolled from someone’s kitchen, its handle bent, soup long since burned into black crust at the bottom.

The air was thick and wrong. Smoke drifted low, stinging his eyes. It smelled like firecrackers from festival days, only sharper, crueler, with something sour underneath that made his stomach turn. Somewhere above, boots thundered against the stairwells, heavy and merciless. From far down the corridor came the sharp crack of another door kicked open, then a scream that cut off too quickly.

Eolat crept past open rooms. Some were empty, walls bare and echoing. Others were not. He kept his eyes low, but still caught flashes—a hand sticking out from behind a door, still as stone; a chair overturned, its leg broken; a datapad flickering with lines of code no one was reading. His chest ached, his breath came shallow.

A hand seized his collar and yanked him off his feet. A soldier stared down at him, visor gleaming red in the glow of firelight. The grin beneath it was wide and cruel.

“Well, what have we here?” the man sneered. “Running off, little spy?”

“I’m not—”

"No?" The soldier laughed, shaking him by the scruff like a caught animal. "Then what are you hmm? One of Barracas' little couriers? Running messages for your traitor friends?"

"No!" Eolat said, his legs kicking the air. "I am not a rebel!"

"Only rebels run." The soldier said, tutting slightly, clicking his rongue off the roof of his mouth. On his chest Eolat could see a symbol he hadn't seen before.  Stylised letters; Aurek... Cresh... Isk. 

The soldier grinned; as the light caught his visor Eolat could see the cold black eyes and the yellowed teeth of the frog faced man beneath. 

He straightened Eolat's shirt with mock care, brushing dust from his chest as he put his feet back on the ground. “Let’s take a picture, eh? My buddy’s a fine cameraman. Stand tall. Smile. Wait for the flash.”

He held Eolat tightly by the shoulder as another soldier stepped out of the darkness of the apartment. Raising his blaster. 

Flash.

Pain bloomed white and burning. His chest folded, air gone. The world blurred and tilted sideways. 

Somewhere, faint as a dream, he thought he heard his brother's voice calling his name.

The rasp of the officer he had seen with mama shouting something; as if from miles away.

Then all went silent....