Out of This World

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  Martin’s hands flew up, trying to pry the death-grip loose; Gorley, horrified, flung his own weight on the outstretched arm.

  The other large pirate marched past, undaunted, to where Benton sat on the mattress, glaring up at him. He pushed past Pel and Amy as if they weren’t there, and neither of them dared resist; instead they backed away, one on each side. Pel almost stepped on Rachel in his retreat.

  “You coming?” the pirate asked, as he looked down at the disobedient captive.

  “No,” Benton began, a bit less steadily than before. “Not until...”

  That was as far as she got; the pirate kicked her in the belly, hard. The air burst out of her lungs, and she curled forward, gasping. Rachel let out a little wail and buried her face in her father’s shirt, clutching the fabric with both hands; Pel put a soothing hand on her head.

  The pirate reached down with one hand and roughly yanked Benton upright. She didn’t resist; the fight had gone out of her with her breath. She was unable to walk at first, and the pirate dragged her by one arm until, halfway to the door, she got her feet under her.

  Martin and Gorney had been unable to release Martin from the other pirate’s stranglehold; now, though, the grip was suddenly released, and Martin almost fell.

  “Come on,” the pirate said.

  There was no further resistance; the entire party allowed itself to be herded out of the room, and on out of the ship.

  * * * *

  The holding facility had rough concrete walls and rows of steel benches, but not everybody used them. Some stood along the walls, some crouched on the floor. The room was cavernous, big enough that even without crowding everyone together the entire party of dozens occupied less than a fourth of it. Light came from a row of clerestory windows, far overhead. A narrow corridor at one end led to toilet facilities. The place was dusty and cool and had a faint unpleasant odor to it, compounded of mildew, sweat, urine, and other, less defineable traces.

  Pel looked over the crowd.

  In addition to the handful he had been with aboard the pirate ship, he spotted Lieutenant Drummond and Captain Cahn, Raven, Valadrakul, Elani, Squire Donald and Stoddard, Prossie Thorpe, Smith, Lampert, Soorn, and Mervyn. Ted Deranian, his head a mass of bandages, sat dazed in one corner, and Pel was relieved to see him alive. Most of the passengers and crew of Emerald Princess were present, but Pel had never become familiar enough with them to put names to them all or say if any were missing.

  He looked back to Prossie Thorpe. She was alive—that was promising. She was out of uniform, now wearing a ragged bathrobe rather than the borrowed dress she had been in before; maybe their captors didn’t know she was a telepath. Maybe, even now, she was relaying messages to the Galactic Empire.

  He didn’t want to draw attention to her. He returned to scanning the crowd, looking for familiar faces.

  Nancy was not there. Neither was Peabody, nor Lieutenant Godwin, nor Alella.

  There were three doorways, with pirates guarding each of them; each pirate held a blaster. Susan, Pel noticed, was standing with her back to the wall once again, stiff and tense, trying to watch all three guards at once.

  “Now what?” someone whispered.

  “Shut up,” one of the pirates called—not angrily, just giving a necessary order. The hand holding the blaster lifted somewhat.

  Silence descended, broken by shuffling feet and rustling clothes. Someone coughed.

  One of the doors opened, and three more of the grey-clad pirates entered, accompanied by a tall man in blue coveralls. The four of them strode into the room with an air of calm and certain purpose, then stopped.

  “All right, everyone hold still,” one of the pirates bellowed. “Sit down, and hold still.”

  With varying degrees of reluctance, those who were standing obeyed. Susan’s descent was so quick Pel thought at first she had fallen.

  When everyone was seated, the man in blue stretched out a finger and began counting heads. Pel could see his lips moving; he wasn’t sure if he could hear muttered numbers or not.

  “Forty-three,” the man announced.

  “You missed one,” the smallest of the accompanying pirates said. “I counted myself. Did you see the little girl, there?”

  Rachel raised her head from Pel’s lap and blinked.

  “You’re right,” the man in blue said. “Missed her. Forty-four, then, and the dead midget. Forty-two healthy adults at fifty crowns each, and half each for the kid and the one with his head shot up. That’s twenty-one fifty, plus twenty for the freak, makes twenty-one seventy.”

  “What, half for the kid and the dummy?” the small pirate protested. “Come on! He’s just got his hair burned off, he’s not hurt bad! And she’s older than she looks!”

  The man in blue shook his head. “She’s not twelve,” he said. “She’s not even eight. Just take a look at her. Hell, ask her!”

  “I’m six,” Rachel volunteered.

  “There, see?”

  “All right,” the pirate conceded, “but the one with the bandage...”

  The man in blue sighed. “Oh, hell, it’s not worth the argument. Twenty-one ninety.”

  “Ninety-five.”

  “Right, ninety-five.”

  One of the other pirates handed him a clipboard and a pen—Pel noticed they looked much like the same implements back on Earth. The man in blue filled out a few lines, then signed at the bottom, tore off the sheet, and handed it to the small pirate. He smiled, folded it, and tucked it away in an inside pocket.

  All the pirates were smiling, in fact—not just the four in the central party, but the three at the doors as well.

  Then the party of five turned and marched back out, leaving the captives where they were.

  “What the hell was that about?” Pel asked, half to himself, before he remembered that the guards preferred silence.

  “Prize money,” the nearest guard replied, smiling. “That chit’s sixty crowns for every man on the ship—double shares for the officers, and a bonus for the captain.”

  “Sixty-five, I make it,” one of the other guards called.

  “Whatever,” the first replied, grinning. “Enough to get good and drunk. And that’s just on these—prize court hasn’t even looked at the ship yet!”

  “Shut up, both of you,” the third guard snapped.

  They shut up, and Pel sat, thinking. This was the first time any of the pirates had deigned to answer any questions at all, and he rather hoped it was the beginning of a trend.

  Prize money—he knew about prize money, more or less, from the novels he had read. It was a method of rewarding ships’ crews for capturing enemy vessels in wartime, by buying their captures from them. It had been dropped over a century ago back on Earth, and with good reason. The whole system struck Pel as a really barbaric idea. It made the crews greedy, made them more interested in catching enemy merchant shipping off-guard than in winning battles.

  And even at its worst, back on Earth, he thought it had only been applied to ships and cargo, not to people.

  Why would anyone pay prize money for people?

  He could think of a few possibilities, and he didn’t like any of them very much. The only good one was also the least likely—that it was just a humanitarian gesture, a way of convincing the pirates to deliver prisoners alive, rather than dead.

  Somehow, Pel couldn’t imagine any government making such a gesture.

  Of course, that assumed that they were dealing with a government here. If they were, then perhaps “pirates” wasn’t the right term for their captors at all; “privateers” might be more accurate, or perhaps they were actually part of the navy—or space force, or whatever the correct term was—of this particular world. Or country, if the government in question didn’t run the entire planet.

  One of the doors opened, and half a dozen men in dark blue uniforms ambled in. Most of the prisoners watched intently.

  “Okay, boys,” one of them called. “You can go.”

  Mervyn
got to his feet, and the man in blue called, “Not you, stupid.”

  Mervyn sat down again, as the three grey-clad guards, grinning and slapping one another on the back, jogged out of the room. The newcomers split into pairs, and took up posts at the three doors.

  “You people might as well settle in,” one of them called. “You’re staying here tonight, and you’ll go out in the morning, around nine, I think.” He pulled a watch from his pocket and glanced at it. “That’s fourteen hours. We’ll get you in some breakfast before that, I guess, but for now, you might as well sleep.”

  “May we talk?” someone asked; Pel didn’t see who it was.

  “Nope,” the guard said, smiling. “Sorry. No escape plans. And if any of you gets within five yards of a door, we’ll shoot you dead, no warnings.” He drew a blaster, then leaned back against the wall beside the door. “Good night!”

  * * * *

  Dazed, Ted looked out at the gathered prisoners.

  This dream went on and on and it was so boring! Why hadn’t the pain in his head woken him up? He must be lying on the floor, he might have a concussion, and he had always thought he had a better imagination than this.

  Why wouldn’t it stop?

  Maybe he was dead, not dreaming, maybe he was dead and this was some antechamber of Hell.

  But no, he didn’t believe in any of that, he hadn’t believed in it since he was eight, not really, maybe he never had.

  He was dreaming.

  He had slept and woken, he had eaten, he had been hit and burned and abused, and the dream still went on and on and didn’t end, and he really wished he would wake up.

  He would need to talk to someone about this, he really would. He’d never seen a psychiatrist, never wanted to, but a dream like this might change his mind.

  Maybe if he attacked one of the guards, he’d be shot, and that would wake him up...

  Or maybe he’d die. Maybe he was really hurt from falling out of bed, maybe he’d had a heart attack, or a stroke.

  He wouldn’t risk it.

  But he wished he would wake up.

  * * * *

  Raven pursed his lips angrily.

  How utterly foolish, to have fallen prisoner in some petty little raid like this!

  It was clear to him now that this was no grand factional dispute, nor any great crusade against the Empire; instead this was some minor warlord’s action, an attempt to gather a little loot without drawing the Empire’s wrath. Emerald Princess would be reported lost, doubtless, but the loss ascribed to wind or weather, monsoon or monster. Even were pirates suspected, how could they know which or where?

  And so here he was, Raven of Stormcrack Keep, about to be held for ransom, or sold to slavery, and there was naught he could do to prevent it.

  Thus was his struggle to end, then?

  Or might he yet win free? Might he draw the aid of whatever warlord was responsible, by promises of booty from Shadow’s conquered lands?

  That was a thought to consider, most certainly.

  First, though, to survive that long. Would that someone would spare him somewhat to eat!

  * * * *

  They hadn’t eaten, Pel realized, for at least a day and a half; poor Rachel was starving, her stomach hurting. “Breakfast soon,” he whispered in her ear, as she shifted on the bench beside him, trying unsuccessfully to get to sleep.

  She whimpered.

  They had dozed fitfully for hours, surrounded by others doing the same. Some of them snored, or at least breathed loudly and sometimes irregularly; some tossed and turned. At least once, someone had fallen off a bench with much commotion and noise.

  The guards at the doors were replaced every four hours, as nearly as Pel could judge; after the first change they all wore the dark blue uniforms, rather than the drab grey of the pirates.

  He wondered just where they all were, and who these people were, and what was really going on.

  And he wondered what he was doing here, and what had really happened to Nancy. Was she truly dead?

  She couldn’t be. He looked down at Rachel.

  Nancy couldn’t be dead. Martin the navigator must have been wrong, somehow. The whole thing had to be a mistake.

  Nancy couldn’t be dead.

  He looked up, swallowing hard, his eyes wet.

  The line of windows had been visible as a slightly lighter strip of darkness, sprinkled with stars; now, though, the stars seemed to be fading, the darkness lightening.

  Dawn?

  He hoped so, if only because of the promise of breakfast.

  * * * *

  Amy felt as if she had just gotten to sleep when the banging woke her. Someone was beating on a metal tray, making a great clanging racket.

  “All right, you people,” a man shouted. “Up and at ‘em! Breakfast in five minutes!”

  The struggle between hunger and fatigue raged for a long moment, but amid the general stirring and muttering, bringing home the realization that they weren’t going to let her sleep anyway, hunger won out. She got to her feet, stretched, and yawned.

  The inside of her mouth felt gummy, and she was sure her breath stank, but that wasn’t anybody’s business but her own any more. Stan had been given to rude remarks about it, back when she was married.

  He had also been given to rude remarks whenever she put on weight, and she’d noticed that her breath always smelled worse when she was dieting, which had created a no-win situation—one of many in her relationship with him, even before the whole thing went down the tubes once and for all.

  Stan wasn’t here, though. He wasn’t even in this universe, if all this was really happening.

  If it was really happening, she repeated to herself. Ted’s dream theory did have a certain undeniable appeal to it.

  But she couldn’t imagine herself dreaming about bad breath, and there was Ted with his head bandaged up, and the echoes from the blank walls, the rattle of the metal benches, all the solid little details made the dream theory seem pretty untenable. She couldn’t manage to believe it, though she rather wished she could.

  Who was it that could believe six impossible things before breakfast?

  Well, it wasn’t her; she seemed to be stuck with a choice of believing one or the other of two, either this was all real or it was all a dream, and she was having trouble accepting either of the available options.

  But there just wasn’t any third choice.

  “Breakfast! This way to breakfast!” shouted a man at one of the doors. People were beginning to line up there, Amy saw; she tugged her maroon stewardess skirt into place, hung her battered purse on her shoulder, looked around and saw she had nothing else to pick up, and then ambled in that general direction.

  The door opened into a short, gloomy, gray-walled passageway. At the far end of the passage the prisoners found themselves in a cafeteria that closely resembled the holding room they had slept in, save that there were tables between the rows of benches, and a serving counter across one end. The line that had formed in the holding room and moved down the little corridor now swerved directly to the serving area without breaking formation; grey metal trays were stacked at the near end, waiting.

  Back in Town, on Psi Cass the Deuce, they’d all had to sit and wait, and then had gotten fed—but it had gone much more quickly, and they’d been treated more considerately, and the place, drab as it was, hadn’t smelled or looked anywhere near as unpleasant.

  Amy’s stomach pinched at her as she waited her turn; she could smell coffee, could smell food. The contrast with the odor of the waiting room was drastic indeed.

  It had been much too long since she had eaten. It had been much too long since any of them had eaten; she could hear stomachs growling.

  The one good thing about that was that it meant the line moved quickly; each person was eager to fill his or her tray and get it to a table. No one was kept waiting a moment longer than necessary.

  Breakfast was biscuits and sausage and corn flakes and coffee—no eggs, no orange j
uice, no fruit. The biscuits were fluffy, but almost tasteless; the sausage plainly contained as much filler as meat; and the coffee was thin, watery, and cool.

  The corn flakes were fine, except that there was no milk or sugar or fruit to put on them.

  It had been long enough since her last meal that Amy ate everything on her plate anyway, and went back for seconds on the biscuit and sausage.

  As she worked her way through the narrow gap between benches, back toward her seat, she saw Rachel Brown twisting about in her place, her face set in a scowl. “I don’t like this stuff!” she said. “Don’t they have any milk, or soda, or anything?”

  “No,” her father told her, “they don’t. Just coffee.”

  “They have water,” someone—Lampert, Amy remembered his name now, Ben Lampert—said from across the table. “Would you like me to get you some?”

  Pel looked down at his frowning daughter.

  “Well, it’s better than this stuff,” Rachel said, pushing her cup away and spilling coffee onto her tray.

  Pel caught the cup and righted it while it still held half its contents; Amy stopped watching and proceeded back to her own seat.

  The food ran out before everyone had eaten his or her fill, but Amy no longer heard stomachs complaining; everyone had at least eaten something. Now they sat, looking about, talking quietly with their neighbors.

  Amy had Susan on one side, and an unfamiliar middle-aged man on the other; across the table were strangers, save for Bill Mervyn, one seat to her right.

  “Any idea what’s going on?” she asked Susan.

  Susan, lips tight, shook her head no. She clutched at her purse.

  Mervyn looked up from his empty coffee cup, at Amy. “I don’t know if...” he began, then stopped.

  Amy looked back at him. “You don’t know what?”

  “Well,” Mervyn said, reluctantly, “I think I can guess what’s going on, but you won’t like it. You’d probably be better off not knowing.”

  “No,” Susan said. “We would not.”

  “Especially not now, now that you’ve said anything,” Amy added.

  Mervyn sighed and looked back at his cup; the coffee had run out, as well as the food.