Care for them or not, I have a purpose; raise these pitiful creatures to the greater heights of civilisation and they will make the journey willingly or kicking and screaming, makes no difference to me. I relax my grip on the spear to hand, dark green skin tone returning to my white knuckles as air whistles over my sharp angular teeth. I can do this.

Their trampling feet have been accumulating behind me while taking my moment. A drumbeat of doom or does their assembly herald the first mob of goblins who will reach beyond themselves and begin the rise.

“Grab a spear and follow.” I march off without looking behind. My ears though drown in the desperation which shortly after erupts. Ten spears and fifteen of my goblins and in truth, I didn’t expect such a vicious contest from skinny farmers.

The stream escorts me and those goblins who choose to follow my lead immediately, instead of competing in the village. How do I judge these followers? They know their place. They follow their leader first and foremost? The twenty-one female goblins from this village certainly, although I refrain from conducting any inspection or count.

Mid-morning and I raise a fist. “Rest.”

The long grass surrounding us ideal and as the level of chat behind my back rises, I decide the time is right to inform my goblins of their next task. Swivelling about, a quiet descends upon them and their eager, no not all, questioning eyes look up at me, one or two of my goblins and not all the female village goblins … surprising.

“I need a net made,” I declare.

They look to each other, the struggle to understand evident in their frowns and vacant glances.

I demonstrate to the group the weave required using the long grasses, the fibre within natural and strong requiring the use of the few knives within the group to harvest. Before a length of fibre is completely utilised another length is overlaid to extend and therefore continue the weave. The whole growing by joining multiple figures of eight, the loops lengthwise top and bottom a continuous weave, while the ends are “arm in arm” with another continuous weave. By mid-afternoon, the group reaches a rhythm, harvesting and weaving and the net grows as does their sense of accomplishment. They finish several smaller nets as well due to various mishaps, tying them off early instead of wasting the effort.

Late afternoon ten goblins with ten spears join us, cuts, bruises, and the odd bandage. Shortly thereafter, three stragglers reach us, two first and well behind a limping third. No losses therefore not a fight to the death. Either the ten clearly stronger or the challengers not willing to put their lives on the line. The three without spears I order to assist with weaving. I stare at the limping one as she struggles to lower herself to the ground, trying to imagine her without facial bruises and a cut lip, recognition eludes me.

The ten with spears I begin practice stances with. Of particular focus is planting the spear to take a charge. None are to throw their spear, ever, I drill into them. I intend them to slay boar not melee other spear carriers. Before dusk, we role-play a charging boar and then practice setting the net to entrap a sow. I play both roles to great effect, dismaying yet not demoralising my goblins by rewarding them with success as their level of cooperation increases until dusk calls a halt.

Twenty of the twenty-one prepare a fine meal of gruel over a low fire breaking out the necessary cooking goods and chattels to do so. The Twenty-first abstaining clenching her spear, eyes darting about. The night passes and in the morning, we break our fast on more gruel and tromp off to reach the outskirts of the Northern Forest after crossing the village stream first. I deliberately choose the forest on the opposite side of the valley, trying to avoid any chance of meeting with the Hunter Hob. The other reason, any goblin loss in my party can be buried and forgotten. Do goblins bury their dead?

I order more practice, this time utilising real trees for cover and to set the net. Game trails within the forest are numerous and I suspect the Hunter Hob has never ventured North and given the Southern Forest is closer by at least a day if not longer to our village it makes sense. Time to try our first hunt.

The first boar I lure into anger by throwing a rock and bolting. As I sprint between two trees, two goblins from behind each tree trunk spring into action and set their spears. The boar is impaled, while four other goblins attack the flanks to finish off the beast seeking the heart. The two ‘spare’ goblins with spears scan the forest for surprises. Standing around the slain animal, the goblins remain silent until one of them hoots shaking his spear in defiance. The others join him, and they dance around the boar.

Leaving the ten to their celebration I fetch several of the village goblins to haul the kill out of the forest intent on hunting again. Instead, the Ten Spears meet us, the boar swinging upon a spear the hooves bound together somehow marching triumphant and unwilling to release their prize. I could order them of course … I didn’t, building esprit de corps begins with baby steps and this could be one. Once out of the forest the village goblins take over, preparing the carcass and shortly after, all eating their fill of seared wild pork as do I. The excess they dry out as trail rations. The villagers also prepare the hide for tanning. A process requiring sun drying after scrapping and rubbing with brains, then hanging over a smoke fire until late in the evening. My second hunt over before starting, the Ten Spears incapable of moving after their protein overload, a self-infliction upon their subsistence bodies.

I continue to lead my troop East towards the cliff face and discover the forest extends to the absolute precipice. My frustration is double as many of the goblins needed away moments resulting in the journey taking longer than anticipated. Staring at the eaves of the thick forest I need to change my original plan. After the first trial hunt, I didn’t plan to do another until closer to the farm, in a forest nearby. I wanted to capture a sow and the shorter the journey into captivity the better. I also didn't fancy walking a sow down the cliff steps above the village, fortunately, further North, the cliff, at the limit of my vision appears to taper off. There is also a second river, which bisects the natural barrier and possibly offers another way into the lower reaches of the valley. Without any obvious alternative, I lead the troop and plunge into the forest. By following the game trails, we slay another couple of boars and skirting the cliff edge the goblins manage to butcher and dry the meat while tanning the hide of each. The feasting is more sedate this time I note, and I can’t help smiling to myself. They leave out an abundance of meat for drying.

We leave our makeshift, cliff edge camp unguarded as I require all the goblins to try and capture a sow. The slaying of the boars allowing me to search more thoroughly for the sow in this territory. Shoat boars are the clues and after chasing them the sow charges out of cover at me. I dash back to where my goblins lay in wait, jumping a dugout shallow hole filled with leaves and the net. At the right moment, the goblins in the trees pull the net up while the shallow hole full of leaves causes the sow’s front legs to drop down suddenly her head sliding into the ground and eventually catching in the net. Her struggles exhaust her, while her bleating calls to the shoats, which the goblins capture in the small nets and then tie a lead around their neck. I hobble both legs of the sow, a fine balance between allowing her to walk and yet not permitting enough freedom to work up into a charge. We restrain her further by deploying loops of fibre rope around her thick neck at the end of two opposite poles, each pole held by three goblins. Manoeuvring the sow safely out of the forest along the narrow game trails a frustrating and time-consuming challenge.

The river before us starts high in the mountains, late afternoon sunlight reflecting off the running water. The fast-flowing turbulent water rushes down a narrow channel and on either side are wide pebble-strewn banks. Depending upon the season I suspect the volume of snowmelt the cause. For now, the wide banks, cutting through the cliff face provide a gently sloping path down from the valley plateau. The goblins, the sow, her shoats, and I take advantage of the easy passage, camping for the night at the bottom of the cliff, fresh running water conveniently close by.

The goblins take shifts guarding and restraining the sow and we break our fast to a brilliant sunlit morning under a clear blue sky. All the goblins benefit from the boar meat diet, their skin and bone look fading, bodies preparing to put on weight for the first time in their entire lives perhaps. Following the river East towards the farm the chat is lively and the banter between the goblins healthy and inwardly I celebrate. More boar hunting and sow capturing, and domesticated boars will be a welcome addition to the farm, especially their meat while not forgetting their leather.

My mind deep in thought developing a grand design returns to reality with a snap as my eyes catch a strangely familiar sight. In the middle of the river is a low island, with no vegetation and at times the river threatens to flow over instead of around. My memory screams at me, this isn’t the first time I have spied this island. A corpse aberration and yet … I am drawn. An irritation I must resolve. The site provides an opportunity to cross the river, the fast-flowing water smashing against the island losing momentum and reluctantly spilling around. My corpse must have crossed here. For what though?

“Halt,” I call.

All chatter ceases and to a goblin they face me.

“The Ten Spears lead the others to the farm and ensure the sow and her young are penned securely and a shelter is built against sun and rain at one end. None are to be slain while I am absent.”

I hear them draw in a breath, waiting upon my next words.

“I am going to explore across the river.” I look around at their faces. “I will return, so go now and do as I say.”

I wait and watch. They slink off, almost silent except for quiet mutterings with several looking back. Spear, water skin and dried pork and I wade into the river. The water laps my chin and then I scramble onto the island. Quickly across this high ground, I then continue, again chin deep and then I stroll out onto the opposite bank as if I belong. The river is a dividing line, the farm side is light forest, grasses and where the goblins have toiled, tiled soil. On this side of the river stands old-growth forest, lower in the valley and I suspect the soil rich from years of rotting vegetation. Where I stand a natural clearing of pebbles spreads out before me as if a giant scoped them out of the river and spread them behind him regardless of the trees and bush. This crossing unique and marked. I shiver, obviously due to my wet clothes, what else?

Following a nearby game trail, I enter the forest. An eerily half-light peeks through while I tread softly, trying to avoid any missteps and noise making. I encounter several cross trails and ignore them. Night hits suddenly, reminding me of a light switch being turned off in a room. The last glimmers of light allow me to hunker down off the game trail into the surface roots of a gigantic old tree. I drag some dead leaves and foliage about my legs to break up my shape. Dinner is water and dried meat. Then I am asleep.

---

A sting on my neck wakes me and my hand immediately slaps the location. Between my fingers is something approximating an overgrown mosquito. The soft squishy body once full of my blood now a mess, which I wipe off my hand by dragging it across the root of the tree. The final clean up requires a splash of water from my waterskin. Soft pre-dawn sunlight filters through the upper canopy of the forest providing enough illumination. I take a swig of water and as I am about to rise, I hear snorting. I slowly sink back down.

Rooting and digging are nearby sounds, too nearby. I chance a glance in the direction of the activity and spy a huge boar, black fur bristling. Then the undeniable thunk of an arrow and scream of pain an instant after. Shouts rise, taunting the wild beast as the boar’s hooves strike the ground in response. A snap as the arrow shaft breaks off is clear as a bell. The thundering hooves of the charging boar soon fade down the trail. I wait.

A distant grunt scream and then silence returns.

I lay there until dawn and waken to the sounds of the forest which surround me. Bow and arrow hunters. I roll the implications over in my mind. Spears are hand to hand, and you usually require many hunters together to be effective, especially if you throw your spears and not set versus charge. The hunt, therefore, a tribal endeavour. The bow and arrow weapon enables a single hunter to wound and kill from distance. You may hunt with one or two others for safety or to help haul the kills home but no more. Bow and arrow hunters are more far-ranging and with smaller kills still make the hunt worthwhile. I consider my spear and know my chances are low if I don’t surprise them, whoever they are, first.

Abandoning the game trails, I ease my way through the undergrowth, my bulk an issue requiring many false starts and a great deal of backtracking. The going is slow, especially since I need to work my way back to the game trail occasionally to ensure I am travelling in the same direction. At dusk I am still in no man’s land, deep forest roughly paralleling a major game trail. My hope still high, to arrive at the hunter’s camp achieving total surprise.

I spend another night in the forest hiding amongst the undergrowth for concealment and sleep.

At first light, I sip from my waterskin and chew on dried meat. I have about another two days of supplies, therefore today is my last day exploring. I can always return I convince myself while trying to ignore an inner voice.

Around the middle of the day, I smell smoke.

Before dusk, I spy upon a village. Several huts on stilts, wooden posts, and beams with walls of woven reeds or long grass. The inhabitants, goblins. These are the picture-postcard type you would find in the tourist books if this planet had such a publication. Adults four feet tall, green skin, long ears, noses of varying lengths although none as gross as the civilised goblins, well-nourished, good muscle definition walking with a confident swagger. The athletic body shape of the females marginally smaller, although the mutual respect between the sexes obvious. Bow, a quiver of arrows and a couple of stone flint knives the weapons of choice for each adult and some of the adolescents.

I recall the ‘civilised’ goblins of the Head Village and the Farm, runts with a few exceptions, no governance except obeying Hobs and worst of all no community because they don’t have hope of more than what they are now – themselves. Therefore, beyond this self-centred view, like neighbours, their village or their race, they are blind. The Hobs have beaten them down – civilisation in name, yet more like the results of a successful experiment in domesticating the noble savage.

When you spy, you need to look up occasionally; left and right, straight ahead, all common viewpoints. Looking at the ground as much as looking up though takes practice before becoming second nature. The twang my sole warning and I didn’t hesitate to throw myself to one side, the crashing through the brush beside me ear-shattering loud given the spying context. I curse under my breath, couldn’t be helped. The feathering on the arrow vibrating marking my prone position only moments before.

The sounding of a horn obliterating any pretext I could maintain any chance of secrecy. Goblins in the village scrambling in moments to react to the summon. An almost musical follow up, I assume a signal to indicate exactly which side of the village, the intruder, me could be found. Crashing through the brush, my first objective is the game trail. My Hobgoblin legs and endurance should ensure I outrun them if they can’t gain line of sight and release arrows possibly wounding me.

So certain of my plan I still couldn’t accept I now lay sprawling upon the trail. A trip-rope! Quickly to my feet, I couldn’t prevent my natural need to look behind me. Have they caught up? How many? Were any about to release an arrow? Instead, the end of a huge swinging tree trunk engulfs my vision. My reflexes allow me to jump back and grab the end of the log with a grunt. I now realise where my corpse broke his ribs. Oh, and died.

---

As I fade to blacking out, I wonder if this body will survive a second time. This once corpse far from being the pristine flesh bag my spirit expected, no deserved, when I accepted the mission. Instead of smooth flesh integration and assimilation, my spirit darted from side to side within the confining bumpers of the harsh skin layer of a repulsive flesh bag trying to avoid the inevitable. The flesh coarse, resistant and I remember my confusion turning to silent screaming as my mind suffered scrapes and received gouges as the insert process continued to bludgeon my rebellious spirit in! The biggest shock yet to manifest, my mind detected and sampled artefacts, fragments of memory, personal and racial … then I knew, the flesh bag wasn’t new and clean … This travesty beyond improper and yet as much as I tried to resist, like a child on a greasy slide I slipped inexorably further along the injection process. After a gut-wrenching free fall, the sudden awareness of uncomfortable completion struck me. Like an ancient television set trying to tune in a poor signal to eliminate picture distortions and jagged lines – my Spirit to Flesh-bag fit forced, ill-fitting and miserable.

I recall silently asking, why me? Why dirty my pristine spirit like this? I tried running through various possibilities. Did this flesh bag belong to another Agent first and I am Plan B? This guess struck at my pride. How can an “A” designated Agent be assigned to a Plan B? Next, I mulled over the ramifications; each designer flesh bag, the engineering effort to ensure a perfect match with your spirit also included your GPA identity markers of course. You weren’t just another example of the native population; you were a specific Agent and any others in the Galactic Planet Agency would be able to discern that fact. I thought my ill-fitting hand me down designer flesh bag contained microcode designating me as another Agent thereby wiping my real designation and identity. That revelation put me into a tailspin, yet worse was to come.

My emerald-yellow Spirit once inserted, sloshed about like heavy syrup in the stale flesh bag, trying to grow familiar, accustom and attempting to shrug off the discomfort. Yet something was still wrong, the flesh bag’s mind was primitive, not enough synapses … the excess from my Spirit formed a feedback loop, a waiting queue with finite patience before “permanent loss”. I silent screamed due to the probable loss of knowledge, skills, long term memory, and especially short-term memory too much. Bad turned horrific when I recalled something else; primitive mind, this single fact undeniable proof, the flesh bag wasn’t engineered. All the advantages of a designer flesh bag, gone. Not just another example of the native population, the tailoring technology ensured a superior example of the species was grown. This included body enhancements; seamless tech augmentation and the Agent usually awakened within close reach of the best examples of the culture’s available technology and equipment. None of that for me.

My spirit was inserted into a corpse, the chemical and nanorobot supplements no substitute for the real thing so I ask myself the question again as I lose consciousness. Would this body survive a second time?

---

“This is the second in months after years of no intruders are you sure we should return him?”

I didn’t struggle while regaining consciousness, my tied arms and legs through a pole providing enough warning.

“The elders have spoken their wisdom, if he disappears others will investigate, returning a dead body puts an end to the curious.”

Both voices deep, although feminine and short of opening my eyes to confirm, I feel confident in my assessment. The two female goblins capable of carrying my suspended weight, impressive. Did I die though and the nanorobots revive me? No, I decide. More likely I was close to death and the nanorobots placed me into a coma. A coma deep enough to fool hunters into believing I was once again a corpse. I would count on this deception while in a designer flesh bag … in this corpse flesh bag though, a welcome surprise. The sound of turbulent water grows stronger, and I know I am soon to be thrown into the river and released. Somehow, I need to return, taming these noble savages will kick start goblin civilisation.

The cool river water hits my flesh and I hope I don’t shiver or goosebump. Fortunately, the goblins are otherwise busy.

“He is heavier than the last one!” She coughs then a deep breath follows.

“You had me fooled, I thought you not at the end of your strength.” A deep merry laugh breaks out.

“We need to untie him and then roll him further into the river yet, I will recover soon, I promise.”

The long pole slips away and then hands fumble at my feet and they separate.

“I will get the ropes and then you can help roll.”

Hands then reach for the rope around my wrists, and they fall away. I lay on my back and while water eddies around my body I manage to subtly position my mouth above water yet allowing higher micro-waves to flow down my throat.

“When you are ready …”

I wait in silence, unable to open my eyes wondering what is going on?

“Leave him be!” A scream erupts from across the river.

Laughter. A bow butt hits the ground and then a grunt. “Is your bow ready sister?”

“Yes.”

“The closest to the heart wins, alright?”

“What of the body?”

“That scrawny thing will be dirt in less than a month and our skinny cousins never venture this way usually. I suspect the kill at our feet the reason so once he floats back to them no others will come looking.”

I didn’t know who calls to them and yet I can’t allow her to be slain while I do nothing. Dammit, yes, I can, my chest still smarts, and I am close to freedom … I don’t care a wit about them, one less who cares?

The bows creak, drawing taut. My goblins wouldn’t recognise a bow … sitting ducks. Did I just claim them? My goblins, are they really?