Prodigal Weapon

They were the pitiful remnants of a proud world, huddled into slave quarters on Karrar, dying before the cold brutality of the Kraks, seeking the Achilles' heel in the armor of their masters. One man alone still fought them—even he knowing he battled with a lance of straw.
Nothing new ... this. The viewpoint, maybe, was different, this time. The script was the same, only there were new actors in the cast of characters.
Human historians had written the story over and over. Even the Kraks probably had a parallel story in their world.
Sean McKenna flinched a little as the beam of the thin yellow light bit into his left shoulder, burning a crooked X into the tanned flesh. Then with a shrug, Sean nodded his red-thatched head slightly, moved into the rapidly growing queue of humans who watched the Krak counters with varied expressions, most of them quietly despairing.
Sean accepted his destiny with a slanted smile.
He, too, stared steadily at the impassive-faced Kraks whose naked torsos and hairless round heads glistened with sweat in the afternoon of Earth's sun.
He thought: They have two eyes, two ears, a nose, a mouth, one body, two arms and two legs just like us humans. But they are something apart from us, for they are the masters and we—his mind shrugged—are the slaves.
Sean fixed his green eyes on the scarlet-kilted Krak whose light had so emotionlessly added him to the cargo of slaves for the Krak's home planet somewhere out in the reaches of space.
Sean grew aware of the monotonous voice of a Krak, tolling out what must be numbers as the yellow lights in the hands of other Kraks flicked haphazardly among the other residents of Sean's village. Then the monotonous voice sharpened, and the yellow lights stopped flickering.
There was silence then for a brief moment, while the eyes of those chosen and those left behind touched briefly, despairingly. In that silence, Sean heard her voice and the quietness with which he had accepted the end of his earthly life almost vanished.