The Overseer was ridiculously fat—a product of years of gluttonous overconsumption. He consistently ate fourteen square meals a day, while the slaves around the camp all starved.

It wasn’t his weight, however, that bothered Jocelyn the most.

It was the fact he flaunted it openly, choosing to go topless this morning while he did his daily master-to-slave address. Rolls, upon rolls of thick flesh layered on each other like stacked jelly cakes.

Jocelyn never did deduce what race the Overseer was. His pale flesh was the color of milk, which placed him somewhere on the Asrai lineage, but his eyes were hauntingly blue, which suggested he was Cymerian.

It made no difference. He belonged to the Xaksu now and thought of himself as one, obeying all their laws and policies including the one that stated all slaves are tools and should be used as such. True to the Xaksu way, when one slave was broken, the Overseer cast them aside and found another to finish the job.

Luckily for Jocelyn, there was no one who could do what she did as efficiently and effectively.

The Overseer smacked his lips, leaned back in his hovering chair, and smiled as all the slaves lined up before him, row upon row. To his left stood Jaks, gun firmly in hand. Stacked behind him were large panels of screens that displayed nothing but static at the moment.

The Overseer stroked his grizzly ash-colored beard and nodded with approval.

“Today is another glorious morning,” the Overseer began. “With the rising of the sun comes the promise of a new day filled with hard, satisfying work.”

Jocelyn pursed her lips.

No, she thought, with the rising of the sun come the promise of another dead slave.

“We’ll start off with announcements first, before we move on to our daily morning prayers,” The Overseer said.

Hovering above them were spherical metal orbs that circled around the prisoners like starved vultures. Telescopic lens protruded from them like eyes, constantly moving and scanning for any signs of disobedience.

Despite not being in any physical combat shape, there was no one in the camp more dangerous than the Overseer. The floating spheres were actually drones which he controlled by thought. With more than fifty of them circling around the camp at any given time, it was a wonder the Overseer’s head didn’t explode from all the activity going on inside it. It was a testament of his supernatural concentration.

There were whispers that instead of having one single brain, the Overseer had fifty smaller brains inside his fat head; one to control every drone.

Jocelyn wouldn’t have been surprised if this were true.

He had earned his nickname: The Master of Drones.

“First, I’d like to start off with a reminder on sanitation. I understand there is a lack of available restrooms inside the mines,” the Overseer began. “However, I must remind all slaves that out of courtesy to the guards, who work hard to keep this engine running, please do not leave your excrements lying around on the ground. I expect every single one of you to pick up your waste, and dispose of it accordingly.”

That elicited murmurs within the crowd.

The Overseer’s frown stretched to his chin. “Is there something wrong with my proposal?”

Dale, a human in the twilight of his years, piped up. His voice was dignified as he spoke.

“Overseer, can I make the suggestion that we dig pits within the mines for the purpose of latrines? This will improve our efficiency in harvesting the ore,” the grizzled old man said.

The Overseer leaned forward in his floating seat and rested his blubbery chin on a fat fist. “Explain how this will improve efficiency.”

“Two ways,” Dale began, “The first being that by having a centralized waste site, we won’t need to carry it ourselves. To do so will require us constantly washing our clothing for hygienic reasons, thus depleting our water resources quicker.”

“I see your point,” the Overseer nodded, “And the second reason?”

“Back where I come from, the burning of waste can be used as a source of energy. We can also use it provide nutrients to soil in order to grow crops,” Dale said. “The camp can benefit from using the waste for either purpose.”

A smile crept over the Overseer’s lips. “Sustainability from waste,” he announced.

“Yes, I think so,” Dale replied.

“I like it. What is your name, slave?”

“Dale Simmons, master Overseer.”

“Dale, I officially promote you to the role of chief sustainability officer,” he announced. “It will be your job to oversee the collection of everyone’s excrement and turn it into a form of energy.”

Dale’s eyes widened. “Uh…”

“It’s a prestigious role, is it not?” The Overseer patted his enormous belly, “And as luck would have it, I generate quite a bit of excrement myself. You can start by collecting mine.”

Dale knew better than to argue with the Overseer. He nodded and replied, “It’s a great honor.”

“It is,” The Overseer agreed.

Jocelyn rolled her eyes.

“Next on the agenda, I need to talk about food. Currently the generators are undergoing maintenance, thus for this week, the quantity of protein bars being produced is halved,” he announced. “I know it will be a challenge for some of you; eating half the amount, especially since you’re relying on these calories for sustenance, but I believe in each and every one of you. You will overcome this adversity.”

A single lone voice emerged from the congregation of slaves. “You can’t do that!”

The Overseer raised his brow. “Who said that?”

One of the drones shined a concentrated light over the culprit.

It was Horia, a mouthy Dromedian who had the tendency to complain more than he worked.

“What’s your name, slave?” The Overseer asked. There was a venomous tone in his voice.

“Horia.” He was trembling, the shade of his skin turning pale.

Jocelyn figured that if he were human, he’d be ghostly white right about now.

The Overseer folded his arms across his droopy chest. “I’m glad you decided to speak up, Horia.”

“You are?”

The Overseer smiled. His teeth were all daggers.

“Of course, of course,” he said. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m an Overseer who respects and values different opinions.” He gestured to Dale, the camp’s newest poop master. “And I reward them as such. Now please tell me, why can’t I limit your food intake?”

Horia bit his lip nervously.

“I…” he began, “I…apologize. I spoke out of turn.”

The Overseer shook his head. “No, you did not,” he said. “Clearly you have an opinion and a reason for it. I encourage openness and transparency in this organization. Now please, answer my question. Why can’t I limit your food intake by half?”

Horia swallowed hard, “Because we’ll die.”

The Overseer laughed. “Well, that’s just not true,” he said.

“We rely on the protein and the calories to do our jobs properly,” Horia continued. “It’s all we have to keep our bodies going. By limiting it to half while still forcing us to meet our quota, it’s just not possible.”

Behind the Overseer, the large display screens suddenly illuminated. “Well let’s check the math, shall we?” An array of numbers suddenly flashed across them. “Horia, the Dromodian, gender male. The records of your age appear to be thirty cycles in Dromedian years, a height of six-foot-five, lifestyle I’d say is extremely active,” he mumbled to himself as he began inputting values into the screen. “Now let’s see what comes up.”

The number 3,986 flashed across the screen.

“According to my calculations, you require 3,986 calories a day for optimal performance. By restricting your protein bar by half, you’re left with…let’s see, let’s see…1,400 calories.”

Horia nodded. “Yes, you see, it’s not enough.”

“Hold on,” The Overseer said. “I’m not done with my numbers yet. We’ve established that a…” he paused as he looked at the Dromedian with disdain, “…beast like yourself requires 3,986 calories to thrive. How about to survive? Would you care to take a guess?”

Horia shook his head.

“No? That’s a shame,” the Overseer continued. “You were doing so well. Luckily, I have this number calculated. By halving the protein bars and consuming only 1,400 calories at your current work pace, you will survive for….” he tapped his fat fingers on his belly as a drum roll, “…eleven days.”

“That’s not good, right?” Horia asked.

The Overseer shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not great,” he agreed. “But this little debate we were having was whether you’d survive on half the quantity of food a day. The answer is, yes you’d survive for eleven days. The machines will be repaired in seven.”

“Oh.”

The Overseer’s nod was filled with sadistic enthusiasm.

“Oh, indeed,” he said. “However, I’m not without compassion in this instance. I do recognize the fact that if everyone’s supply of caloric intake is significantly decreased, it won’t be optimal in terms of productivity. Not everyone is as young and as robust as my dear friend, Horia here. Some of you may very well perish.”

“Yes, yes, you see? I was right” Horia stated.

The Overseer smacked his fat, maggoty lips, and grinned. “Yes, you weren’t completely out-of-line with your outburst. The question now is what to do, what to do?”

There was a long moments of silence.

Jocelyn figured if any of the slaves had half a brain, they wouldn’t say anything.

Horia, being an idiot, spoke.

“Well, you and the guards can always share some of your food?” he squeaked. “I see that there’s always an overabundance of it.”

He’s going to die, was the first thought that crossed Jocelyn’s mind. The only question now was how many others were going down with him? She’d seen the Overseer kill for far less.

The Master of Drones snarled. “You think you’re worthy to eat the food off my table?”

Immediately, Horia back-pedaled on his words. “No, no, it was a stupid thought,” he apologized. “Please, I was stupid and ignorant.”

The Overseer’s hands gripped the arms of his floating throne. Jocelyn could practically see the smoke escaping from his nostrils.

Hell was coming.

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do, you insignificant worm. I have decided that anyone working in my camp should always get their full protein. The question now is: who will still be working after I cast judgment on all of you?”

Jocelyn didn’t like the sounds of that.

“What you slaves don’t notice is that the moment you set foot in my compound, my drones observe each and every one of you here. They take detailed notes on how much work you’re doing, if you’re meeting your quota, if you’re loyal to the Xaksunian Empire. Everything you’ve ever said or done is currently logged in my memory banks.” The Overseer spat at the crowd. “I know which ones deserve to eat their fill, and which ones deserve to die.”

He clapped his hands together and suddenly, all the drones aligned in a perfect circle above the gathered slaves.

“This morning we’ll find out who deserves to live and who deserves to die.” The Overseer looked straight into Horia’s eyes. “Now tell me, do you deserve to live?”

The Dromedian fell to his knees, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “Yes,” Horia begged. “Yes, I deserve to live.”

A drone fired off a single beam of energy which pierced through Horia’s heart. He crumpled to the ground. Purple blood oozed out of his wound as he lay still, wide-eyed in death.

“Liar,” The Overseer said.

Suddenly, more shots erupted from the other drones, obliterating their targets like helpless rats in a cage.

Jocelyn dropped to the ground, covering her head with her arms. She closed her eyes and held her breath while the sounds of screams erupted all around her.

And then it was over.

When the firing finally ceased, the Overseer spoke. “A third announcement: as a means of improving business efficiencies, we have just undergone a round of layoffs.” There was merriment in his voice.

Jocelyn rose from where she cowered. The first person she saw, lying dead next to her, was Old Shanny the crone.

Jocelyn felt pity for her.

Despite being a horrible roommate, Shanny didn’t deserve this kind of death—a cold, calculated death.

Jocelyn eyes welled up with tears as she stared at the lifeless woman, massacred by the drone’s lasers.

“I hope you’re with Bob, wherever you are,” Jocelyn whispered.

Sounds of anguish erupted throughout the rest of the camp. Jocelyn scanned the area, taking note of who was left standing.

Most of the dead were the elderly. All that wealth of accumulated wisdom was now gone.

Jocelyn looked at the Overseer with hate-filled eyes. She wanted him to choke on the piles of food he shoved in his droopy face.

“Congratulations to the rest of you,” he continued. “You have been identified as a valued member of the work force, and because of your contributions, you shall all receive full meals.” The Overseer glanced over in the direction of Horia’s corpse. “He certainly won’t need it anymore. Now are there any additional questions or concerns?”

There were muffled sounds of crying, which the Overseer ignored.

“In that case, it’s time for morning prayers. We will start by thanking the Xaksunians, the liberators of darkness and the champions of peace.”

Jocelyn remained silent.

“Praise Asa, Queen of the Xaksu and all the glory she brings. She blesses us with her love and in return we give our strength and our souls to her.”

Jocelyn glanced over at Jaks. She wished she could see the look on his face through the dark glass of his helmet.

She hoped he could read her mind. I’m ready to go.