I recognized him immediately, and would have done a spit-take if I had any saliva. It was Widmer for sure, 96th out of 97 at the Academy, denied last place only by unfortunate Hillis, who flamed out on patrol beyond Mars.

Widmer was a charlatan, a lazy, reckless buffoon whose uncle got him into the service. But here he was, sitting on the back of some giant pachyderm, the subject of veneration by my fellow captives on this dry-ass planet. At the guards’ prompting, we bowed and pressed our desiccated faces into the dirt. Pilot Widmer, long presumed dead, lived.

 

As I tilled the dusty soil later, I decided Widmer must have been swallowed by the same wormhole I fell into round Neptune. My rocket was steered into orbit around an uncharted orb, and I chuted down to check it out. I was quickly picked up and press-ganged into this farm detail. I was planning how to get back to my buried chute to escape, but now I had Widmer to think about.

 

* * *

 

The locals came in two flavors — short and skinny and tall and skinny. Our guards wore loose robes that changed color as the twin suns traversed the vermilion sky. They watched us, fed us species-appropriate slop, and herded us into tents for the short dusky night.

 

I made friends with a pod of tentacled folk. One, XaXa, had a hidden universal translator, and I learned the locals switched on the wormhole when they needed labor — they wouldn’t work themselves. The pod had been hoovered up near Betelgeuse and was waiting it out. In about fifty years, they’d be coughed back out near home. That was an eye-blink to them, but I didn’t have fifty years.

 

“The other human,” I asked my new friend, “how did he get to be leader?”

 

“Leader?” XaXa said. “Oh no, he’s an offering. In a few turns of the suns, he’s getting eaten.”

 

* * *

 

I didn’t have XaXa’s translator when I talked to a guard the next day. I peered into the folds of the tunic and, in classic human fashion, spoke slowly and loudly.

“I am human,” I said. “I want to see the other human.”

 

The guard farted in my face. “Get back to work.” The words came from ground level, the end of the lifeform I should have addressed. But I was heard.

 

* * *

 

Two dusks later, I was woken and brought by runabout to a fort-like building gleaming white in the semi-darkness. A posse of squat guards delivered me to a long room dominated by a great table. There was one chair, and on it sat Widmer.

 

“It is you,” he said. “Are you here to rescue me?” Typical Widmer. All about him.

 

“I got kidnapped, same as you,” I said. “Do you need rescuing?”

 

In front of Widmer was an array of plates piled high with pre-War Earth food — ribs, chicken, pasta — stuff I’d only read about. I had so many questions.

 

“Seems like they’re trying to fatten me up,” he said. A guard tapped the table with a sharp stick, and Widmer took a chunk out of a rib. I salivated for the first time since I landed.

 

“Can’t put on an ounce,” he said. “Never could.”

 

“Why all the food?” I asked innocently.

 

“No idea.”

 

“I’m in a labor camp with a crew of aliens,” I said.

 

“I saw you,” he said, wiping his chin and picking up an ear of corn. “Is it ghastly?”

 

“Widmer, we need to get out of here,” I said.

 

“I’m not in a hurry,” said Widmer. “Let’s do this again.”

 

* * *

 

Springing Widmer was one of my best pieces of work. I nobbled a guard, took his foul-smelling robe, stole his runabout, and strode into the fort like I belonged. I found Widmer, head down on the long table, snoring softly.

 

“You came back,” he said.

 

“Knowing what I know, I can’t leave you here,” I said. “Believe me, I thought about it.”

 

“What do you know?”

 

“Never mind. Let’s go.”

 

We found the chute easily enough. It could fit two in a pinch, and I fiddled with the control panel to bring the rocket into alignment.

“I hope they haven’t shut down the wormhole,” I said, finishing the prep. I turned to Widmer, who was pointing the chute’s spare blaster at me.

 

“What’s this, Widmer?”

 

“If you rescue me, you’ll be a hero. I’ll be the loser who needs saving. I’m not coming last.”

 

“Last?” I said. “Widmer, there are two of us.”

 

“Remember Hillis?” he said, an ugly grin spreading over his face. I did. Hillis’ rocket exploded, and Widmer took his place on the class list.

 

“You didn’t,” I said.

 

“I did,” said Widmer. “You should have been nicer to me at the Academy.”

 

“Widmer, you ass—” I started to say, then it all went white.

 

* * *

 

A blinding headache greeted me as I awoke. I was seated at the long table in the shiny fort. Guards started bringing me food, the same delights Widmer had enjoyed. Funnily enough, I didn’t have an appetite.

 

For a few days, I forced down steak and pudding as I pleaded for my release. No one listened.

 

I knew I had to get outside to find Widmer’s chute, but I had no idea where to look. Before I had a chance, I was swept up and marched to a platform where I mounted the giant beast Widmer had ridden. Show time.

 

We plodded along a dirt path between sad crops of pale plants. A crowd had gathered ahead. As they bowed, I spotted XaXa. He placed a tentacle on a neighbor, and I saw it was a person. In a uniform! If it wasn’t Jenkins, from the same graduating class as me. Jenkins waved quietly and smiled. I waved back. I was already looking forward to paying Widmer a visit when we got home.