In the stories everything came out right in the end. In the stories someone would rescue them, Nancy would still be alive, it would all be a mistake.
This was no story.
Someone might rescue them. It did happen. There were possibilities. There was Prossie Thorpe—or at least, there had been Prossie Thorpe, he had seen her in the waiting room, maybe even in the dining hall, but she might be dead by now. Death only took an instant.
And there might be some way to save himself. The hero of a story would do that, he wouldn’t wait to be rescued. In stories there was always a way out.
But in real life, sometimes there was and sometimes there wasn’t. Sometimes the hostages were rescued; sometimes they died. Sometimes the innocent were saved; sometimes they were slaughtered.
Real life was never as tidy as the stories.
“You done?” one of the guards asked.
He nodded.
“Toss me the towel, then, and I’ll see if we’re ready for you.”
Pel obeyed, and stood naked and waiting while the other men, seeing their protests did no good, finished drying themselves and stood chatting uneasily among themselves.
There were three guards, each with a baton— no blasters, no blades. It occurred to Pel that the thirty or so prisoners could easily overpower them. In the stories, the hero would organize them and they’d do it, they’d overpower the guards— but then what?
Thirty men, naked and unarmed, on a hostile planet, with no idea where they were—what could they do?
In the stories they’d find a way, but this was no story.
Three guards were plenty.
A loud click was audible over the general background noise; Pel turned to see that the door opposite the shower room, a door that had been locked, was now open. One of the three blue- clad men stood beside it, baton at ready.
“Okay, one at a time,” he called. “You!” He pointed at Pel. “You ready? You first.”
Slowly and deliberately, Pel crossed the room.
This was it; he was about to die.
This was the last minute, when the rescuers would burst in with blasters ready—in the stories.
In real life, it was when the victims died like sheep.
Would it be a bullet? A shot from a blaster? Would they cut his throat, butcher him like an animal?
He didn’t know, and wasn’t really sure he cared. He stepped through the door.
Two men were waiting for him in the corridor.
“Hands behind your back,” one of them ordered, as the other grasped his upper left arm. Pel obeyed, and cuffs were slapped on.
He didn’t get a good look at them, and couldn’t turn his head far enough to see them once they were in place, but he could tell from the feel that these were not the slim steel bands used by modern police; they were wider and heavier than that, like old- fashioned manacles.
He considered that dispassionately. Would he be blindfolded, next? Posed against a wall for a firing squad, perhaps? Led up the steps of a gallows?
The guard who had cuffed him took his right arm, the other still held his left. He was led down the corridor and through another door.
As the door opened Pel blinked, and tried to stop, but the pressure on his arms forced him onward. Suddenly horribly aware of his nakedness, he struggled, but to no avail. He felt his scrotum contracting, as if he had just plunged into cold water.
He was being dragged out onto a stage, in front of a crowd of at least a hundred people, men and women; those he could see were dressed in strange but elegant clothing.
This was worse than death, worse than the gallows or firing squad. He trembled, and might have screamed if one of his guards hadn’t jerked him back and shoved a gag in his mouth.
The stage was lit, but so was the audience; he was on display, but this was no play, no mere performance.
An announcer stood behind a lectern at the far side of the stage. “Lot Number One,” he called, “a healthy adult male, age and history uncertain. What am I bid?”
* * * *
Raven stood straight and proud as the auctioneer called out the bids. He thrust out his chest, threw back his shoulders, and set his jaw.
If he were sold as a mere farmhand or miner he would stand no chance of gaining authority’s ear. Were he to be bought as a conscript for the guard, as a bodyguard perhaps, or as someone’s personal attendant, his chances were that much better.
He had heard the bidding on other men, and he allowed himself a smile when he heard the auctioneer call out, “Four hundred! Four hundred and ten! Do I hear... I have four hundred and ten!”
The smile broadened when he heard a woman’s voice from the audience and the bid jumped to four twenty-five.
None of the others ahead of him had gone for so much. He had guessed that four hundred was the ceiling for simple labor. If he went for more than that...
* * * *
Amy could hear the remarks as she was led out.
“No yearling this time, hey?”
“Drooping a little.”
“Is this somebody’s grandmother?”
She started to react, to glare at the audience, then stopped herself. This wasn’t some stupid movie; acting up wouldn’t impress anyone with her spunk. It would probably just get her a whack from one of those damned billy clubs.
Just as arguing with Stan hadn’t impressed him, hadn’t cowed him, hadn’t won him over, hadn’t gotten an apology. It just got her hit and finished off the ruins of their marriage.
The lights were on the audience as well as the stage, so that bids could be spotted, and Amy looked out at the bidders, but she didn’t glare, didn’t make any stupid defiant gestures. This was no movie.
If it were a movie, of course, rescue would probably arrive right about now. And there were so many things about this that seemed unreal—castles and monsters and spaceships—that why shouldn’t there be a last-minute rescue? All those Imperial troopers in their spiffy purple uniforms ought to be good for something, and surely Prossie Thorpe had had plenty of time to send a telepathic cry for help.
In fact, why hadn’t help already come?
She had glimpsed Prossie Thorpe briefly in the showers and in the drying room; she should have asked. She had been busy with Rachel, though, and when she had looked elsewhere it had been at Susan and her mysterious vanishing handbag, or the passengers off the Princess banging on the door.
Mostly she had paid attention to Rachel. Now she and Rachel had been separated by the guards anyway, to be auctioned off individually.
The thought of that poor little girl being sold like an animal was ghastly. It couldn’t be allowed. Something would have to happen to prevent it.
Prossie Thorpe was the only hope, though. Did the pirates and slavers know that Prossie was a telepath? They were treating her like anyone else. Did they have some way of blocking her telepathy?
How would they know what she was? How could they block something that could work between universes?
Help had to be coming. It had to be on the way.
But there was no sign of it. She was standing naked on a bare stage, about to be auctioned off, and she could see the cracks in the plaster walls, could smell the cologne someone in the front row was wearing, could hear someone whispering, but she couldn’t see or hear or smell any sign that anyone was coming to save her. No ships rumbling overhead, no soldiers shouting, just rustling clothes and muttered asides, and somewhere behind her the clink of manacles.
“What am I bid?” the auctioneer called, and the moment of silence before the reply was the most embarrassing few seconds in Amy’s entire life.
* * * *
Pel wondered how much two hundred and eighty crowns actually was. It didn’t sound like very much.
But then, why should he be worth much? Somehow he didn’t think a place like this would have much use for a marketing consultant, and without that he was just another warm body, another set of not-very-developed muscles.
He di
dn’t put up any fight when his new owner came and collected him; he was so relieved to be off that stage, away from all those staring eyes, that he was almost glad to see the man who had paid two hundred and eighty crowns for him. The whole experience had been exhausting, terrifying, unbearable; he was more certain than ever that he had somehow found himself captive in Hell.
Rachel—would they auction Rachel off that way?
Who would buy a six-year- old girl, and why?
He was so involved with his own thoughts, with trying to keep them away from certain subjects, that he barely noticed when he was loaded into an airbus, barely noticed when he was turned over to someone else, when he was led into the mineshaft, when the manacles were removed.
The overseer had to slap him to get his attention.
“All right, new boy,” he said. “You listening now?”
Pel nodded, gently touching his stinging cheek.
“You’re new, you don’t seem too bright, we’ll keep it simple for you. Those guys over there are breaking rock; your job is getting that rock off the floor and into the carts, so we can get it out of here. You can use your hands, or if you ask nice we’ll give you a shovel.” The overseer glowered at him, hands on hips, the overhead light emphasizing his downturned features with streaks of shadow.
Pel took the hint. “Please, sir,” he said, “may I have a shovel?”
One of the workers at the rockface grinned and kicked a shovel over toward Pel; it clattered loudly in the enclosed space. Watching the overseer’s face, ready to duck or drop the shovel, Pel cautiously picked it up.
The overseer gave a snort and turned away.
Pel, holding the shovel but not moving, watched him go. He made no move to smash in the overseer’s skull with the edge of the shovel; the urge was there, at least slightly, but he knew it would do no good. It couldn’t be that easy.
Then the overseer was out of sight and the opportunity had passed.
“Hey, new boy,” one of the workers called. “You got a name?”
“Pel,” Pel admitted, turning.
“I’m Jack. You really stupid, or just confused?”
“Disoriented, mostly,” Pel answered.
“Yeah. I figured. Well, it’s not really all that bad here; we get food and shelter and as long as we get the ore out they don’t bother us. You’ll get clothes, too.”
Pel registered for the first time that the other men—there were half a dozen in sight—wore pants and boots. No shirts—but then, the mineshaft was hot. Sweat gleamed on every side in the light of the four electric work-lights that hung from the shaft’s ceiling.
“They’ll give you your duds at supper tonight,” Jack told him. “After we change shifts. You do the first day naked to remind you that you ain’t worth shit, but after that they’d just as soon you didn’t get scratched up.”
“We change shifts?” Pel asked.
Jack nodded. “We got two shifts, twelve hours each, work here; meals before and after, and they send down food and water around mid-shift.”
“Are we...” Pel swallowed; his throat was suddenly dry. “Are we the day shift or the night shift?”
Jack smiled. “Neither one; guess you are new. Local day is something like seventeen hours, so everybody just ignores it; all the clocks are on Terran time.”
“Oh.”
“We’re the Blue Shift; the other one’s red. Somebody’s idea of a joke, I guess. You’ll get a cot, share it with someone on Red Shift.”
Pel nodded. He stood, the shovel in his hands, trying to absorb all this.
“Hey, buddy,” another man called, “enough with the lessons. Get to work.”
Pel looked at Jack, who nodded and pointed to the pile of ore and slag. “There you are,” he said.
The rock was on one side, the empty cart on the other, and Pel between, with his shovel. The rock was fist-sized lumps; the cart was a battered black metal box on steel wheels; the shovel was a shovel.
He started shoveling.
* * * *
Amy looked over the interior of the aircar apprehensively. She didn’t like the situation at all.
She had seen most of the others, male and female, sold to men in various uniforms, and formed into gangs—obviously destined for manual labor somewhere. A few who had had specific skills announced had drawn higher-than-average bids and had presumably been bound for jobs that could use their talents.
But the auctioneer had announced Susan with an audible leer in his voice. “A really nice young woman,” he had said, grinning. “History unknown, looks a bit exotic.” And the bidding had been enthusiastic—she had gone for eleven hundred and something, higher than anyone else Amy saw sold. Susan was small and slender, with no known skills, so nobody was buying her as a laborer. It was obvious what her value was.
And one of the bidders for Susan—one of the losing bidders—had been the one who bought Amy for five hundred and ten. He hadn’t bid on anyone else after that; he had just stood in his spot along the right-hand wall, watching her, waiting until he could claim her. He wore no uniform, no fancy clothes, just a dull white shirt and black slacks; he had no clipboard, no notes, none of the totems and devices the other buyers flourished.
And when the paperwork was done, and he could collect her, he hadn’t said a word; he had just grabbed her by one manacled wrist and had dragged her out to the parking lot where his aircar waited.
That had given her her first glimpse of the outside world on whatever planet this was, save for the quick dash across bare concrete from the pirate ship to the holding facility, and she had been interested by the look around, despite her worries. They were clearly in a city—she really hadn’t been sure of that from the glimpse between the ship and the entrance tunnel. None of the buildings in sight from the parking lot were over three stories high, but the streets were lined solidly with masonry, showing no gaps in the stone and concrete facades. The architecture ran to colonnades and pilasters, with little ornamentation—it reminded her of old pictures of the Soviet Union under Stalin.
Then she had been shoved into the rear seat of the aircar, and a moment later they were airborne, just the two of them. She wondered if she should say something, anything, but she had no idea what would be appropriate. After all, she had never been auctioned off before.
She studied the interior of the aircar.
The dark red upholstery was worn; a tear in the back of the rear seat had been darned with heavy thread, but the off-white stuffing still showed through. The nap of the rough fabric scratched her bare bottom, her manacled hands made it difficult to sit back, and she shifted repeatedly in an unsuccessful attempt to find a comfortable position.
If she had been wearing anything, she thought, she would have been much more comfortable.
The windows were clean; the cranks to open them had been removed, she noticed, leaving bare threaded metal. The metal was dull, not shiny—the removal wasn’t recent.
The rear shelf, behind the seat, was dusty and empty. The front seat was more of the same, dark red fabric, worn but clean and serviceable.
The driver—well, the driver was medium height, heavy, with a round, sweaty face. His expression seemed to vary from hostile and blank to an unpleasant smile, and his gaze had never yet met her own. All she could see of him now was the back of his head, thick black hair that could have used a shampoo and trim.
He hadn’t said a word to her.
And he had just bought her, for five hundred and ten crowns, however much that was.
However much it actually came to, it was less than half what Susan had been valued at; Amy wondered if she should be offended by the difference. Of course, Susan was at least ten years younger, and ten pounds thinner—or maybe twenty. She wasn’t sagging anywhere yet, the way Amy was.
She was just as sold, though. Amy had seen her standing motionless on the stage, her face calm and resigned; almost everyone else who had stood there had been visibly nervous, trembling or sweating, glancing in all directi
ons as if expecting sudden rescue.
It was about time for that rescue, Amy thought. It was past time. Prossie Thorpe must have called for help days ago; wasn’t it due to arrive by now?
After all, in the movies help always arrived before anything really terrible could happen, didn’t it? And this whole thing, spaceships falling out of the sky into her yard, Raven and Shadow and the Galactic Empire—wasn’t it all something out of the movies?
If help didn’t come soon...
She didn’t want to think about it.
Not just for herself, but all the others. What was going to happen to Susan? What had become of Rachel? Amy hadn’t seen her out on that stage; the girl had been pulled away by the female guards and put at the rear of the female line. Maybe they had the decency not to make slaves of little girls, Amy thought; maybe they would find a good home for her.
And maybe not.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The aircar set down on a gravel square in the front yard of a rambling one-story house; the little patch of pavement was surrounded on all sides by grass, and that, in turn, was surrounded on every side by cornfields. The crops stood from knee- to waist-high, and stretched off as far as Amy could see in every direction. In the distance she could see the wind drawing patterned ripples in the fields, but where she stood the air was still.
A few scraggly oak trees had been planted near the house, but as yet none were much taller than Amy, and while she wasn’t short, she was hardly Amazonian.
The driver got out, slammed the front door, then turned and opened the rear.
“Get out,” he said.
Amy got out, not hurriedly, but not hanging back, either. The manacles made it a bit awkward.
Once she was out the gravel hurt her bare feet, and she danced a painful two steps to the grass. “Ow,” she said.
“Come on,” the man ordered, turning away from her and toward the house.
Amy looked around.
She stood beside a gravel square, connected by a gravel path to a concrete stoop; the house behind that stoop was half-timbered, with something like orange clay forming most of the walls, while the frame and trim were dark unpainted wood. The roof was thatch. The windows were large, with only a few large panes, which seemed at variance with the rest of the architecture.
Out of This World Page 27
