Out of This World

by Lawrence Watt-Evans

  “No, sir.”

  “Damn right it doesn’t. Almost makes me believe in the fucking Bermuda Triangle and Charles Fort and all that crap.” He slumped back in his chair.

  For a moment he sat silently, and the lieutenant stood, equally silent, and waited.

  “The cat,” Johnston said at last. “What happened to the cat?”

  The lieutenant cleared his throat. “Well, sir,” he said, “I’ve got the cat at home. He’s a cute little fellow.”

  Johnston chewed on his lip for a moment, then snarled, “Good. Keep it. And I want that place bugged. Both places. And watched. If anyone goes in or out of Jewell’s house, or Brown’s, I want to not just know it happened, I want to know who it was and every goddamn word they said. Bug that ship, too. Bug the lawyers’ homes and offices. Everything.”

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant started to turn away, but the major’s voice stopped him.

  “Lieutenant. Do it legally. Get court orders.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You think we’ll ever find them?”

  The lieutenant considered that carefully, then shrugged.

  “No, sir,” he said, “I don’t think we will.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  By the end of the first month after the capture of Emerald Princess Amy had given up any hope of rescue. She had also given up resisting Walter’s advances. She still neglected the housework as much as she dared, but when she received a direct order she obeyed it without argument.

  She had also made the rather startling discovery that Beth was a slave, like herself, rather than Walter’s wife. Walter had never bothered trying to deal with free women; he had bought Beth about twenty years ago, when they were both young, and had kept her.

  This revelation left Amy feeling betrayed—right from the first, and at every point since, Beth had consistently sided with Walter against her. Bad enough that Beth had sided with a man against one of her fellow women, that she had helped Walter to rape and starve and torment Amy—but when she was herself a slave, and at least theoretically in the same situation that Amy was?

  When she learned the truth Amy refused to speak to Beth for a day and a half.

  She had just decided that this was a mistake, that she was only making everybody’s life more difficult and making Beth less likely than ever to sympathize with her, when the whine of an aircar made her look up from the sink.

  Walter hadn’t said anything about expecting company. He and Beth were out in the fields somewhere.

  Then another whine sounded, and another. Amy put the dishrag aside and reached for a towel to dry her hands.

  Voices were calling back and forth out there; Amy tossed the towel on the counter and crossed to the window. She hesitated, then lifted the curtain and peered out.

  There were a dozen men in purple uniforms out there, and three matching purple-and-gold aircars—or vehicles, anyway; they didn’t look much like ordinary aircars. One of the vehicles had landed beside Walter’s aircar, half on the gravel and half on the grass; the other two had set down on the corn, flattening it. The men had blasters drawn.

  One of them saw her and pointed. She let the curtain drop, and her fingers trembled as she did. Her heart was racing, and her chest felt tight with excitement—was this rescue? Finally? Weren’t those Imperial uniforms?

  What should she do?

  “All right, in there,” an amplified voice called, “come out with your hands up!”

  That answered her question. For the last few weeks she had had lesson after lesson in not resisting—and Walter hadn’t even had a blaster.

  She opened the door and edged out, her hands raised, fingers spread, empty palms forward.

  Half a dozen blasters were leveled at her by men crouching behind aircars—armored aircars, she realized. Each had a swivel-mounted weapon on top, something vaguely resembling a machine gun; all three of those were pointed at her, as well.

  One of the men motioned for her to come forward; nervously, she did.

  When she was well clear of the house, a man dashed forward, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her away, across the little front lawn.

  “Who else is in there?” another man—an officer, she supposed—barked at her.

  “Nobody,” she said. “They’re out working the fields.” She pointed with her thumb in the direction Walter and Beth had gone that morning.

  The men exchanged glances.

  “They must’ve seen us coming in, or heard us,” someone remarked.

  The officer nodded.

  “Get her aboard,” he said. “Jonas, Medfield, search the house.”

  After that, Amy didn’t get to see much; she was dragged into the back of one of the vehicles and strapped onto a steel bench, sitting up with a purple- clad soldier on either side. A third man was perched in a raised seat nearby, his head and shoulders sticking up through an open hatch—manning the swivel gun, Amy realized. A fourth man sat up front, in the driver’s seat.

  A moment later the driver called, “Right,” out a window and threw a lever into position; the car lifted off and began moving, but with the usual almost-indetectible acceleration of anti-gravity vehicles, which made it impossible to judge speed or distance by feel.

  From where she sat, Amy’s only view of the outside was through a narrow strip of windshield that was visible between the two high-backed front seats; most of what she could make out through that was either sky or rapidly-passing cornfield, and not enough of either one to mean anything to her.

  She heard the whine of anti-gravity engines, the rush of wind, distant shouts, and once the electric hiss of a blaster, but she really had no idea what was going on outside the steel walls of the vehicle.

  “What’s happening?” she asked.

  “You’re a slave here, right?” the soldier on her right asked.

  She nodded.

  “Then we’re rescuing you. The Empire’s clearing out this whole planet, bringing it back under civilized control.”

  Amy felt a flood of relief; she had hoped, but hadn’t dared believe, that that was what was happening. “Thank you,” she said. She groped for more words, for some way of expressing what she felt, and could only repeat, “Thank you.”

  “Hey,” the driver called back, “ask her who else is around here. Whose farm is it? Any other slaves?”

  “A man named Walter,” she said. “It’s his farm. And a woman named Beth. She...” She hesitated.

  Beth was a slave—but she hadn’t acted the part, had she? She had sided with her master, every time. Beth wasn’t beaten when she talked back. Beth wasn’t raped almost every night. And she hadn’t lifted a finger to stop it when Amy was.

  Together, the two of them might have done something against Walter, but Beth had chosen to side with her master.

  “She’s his wife,” Amy said.

  * * * *

  Someone kicked Pel awake; startled, he raised his head.

  Pain shot through his neck, which was stiff and bruised from his latest beating.

  “It isn’t really time, is it?” someone asked.

  “Doesn’t feel like it,” someone else replied.

  That was the truth; after three weeks, Pel was fairly well settled into the rhythms of his life in the mines, and it simply didn’t feel like time to get up for breakfast.

  Maybe it was just his bruises saying that, though. Reluctantly, he sat up.

  “All right, boys,” one of the overseers called. “Line ‘em up and march ‘em out.”

  Grumbling, the slaves got themselves up, pulling their stiff, dry pants from the lines, fishing malodorous boots from under cots.

  One man refused to stir.

  “Hey,” an overseer said, prodding him, “rise and shine, boyo.”

  “The hell with breakfast,” the slave said without moving. “I’ll starve today, if it means I can have another ten minutes’ sleep.”

  The overseer glanced at
his boss, who was standing in the doorway. The head overseer shrugged.

  “Listen, Sunshine,” the guard said, “this isn’t breakfast. Wouldn’t be your shift for another two hours. This is special. Everybody out.”

  Pel blinked, and hesitated, with one leg in his pants and the other out.

  Two hours early? No wonder everyone was sleepy.

  What sort of special?

  He pulled his pants on.

  * * * *

  Raven’s third owner had bought him as a personal plaything. He had no duties to carry out; he was simply to be there when Wilf was in the mood to inflict pain.

  Wilf was astonished by just how stubborn his new acquisition was. Roland had told him the man was tough, but for someone not yet fully recovered from a serious whipping to take broken bones without even a whimper—that was impressive.

  It drove him to greater efforts.

  Raven had given up any idea of ingratiating himself with his owners; right now he was far more interested in surviving with his honor intact—honor that was far more important than his bones. To cry out in pain might not be unmanly, and the Goddess knew that any man would cry out if pressed hard enough, yet he was reluctant to give this filthy barbarian the satisfaction.

  He knew that he could survive without breaking; it was just a matter of refusing to yield until eventually, his captors would give up.

  Eventually, either they would give up, or he would die. He refused to admit any third possibility.

  He was watching his new owner’s face, studying the greedy look in his eyes, trying not to think about the pain, when the soldiers burst in.

  * * * *

  For the long flight away from the farm the soldier on Amy’s left traded places with the driver. The others stayed where they were. Walter and Beth, captured as they fled, were in one of the other vehicles, and Amy was relieved not to see them.

  “Hi,” the off-duty driver said, as he belted in.

  “Hi,” Amy replied.

  “Listen, are you sure there were just the three of you?” he asked. “And that that woman is this Walter Fletcher’s wife?”

  “Of course I’m sure,” Amy said. “Why?”

  “Oh, well... because she swears she’s a slave, too.”

  “She’s lying,” Amy snapped.

  The soldier nodded. “I figured she probably was—trying to get off, I suppose.” He shook his head.

  “I guess she tried to tell you I was... was that man’s wife?”

  “No,” the soldier said. “She wasn’t that stupid; nobody would buy that for a minute, not with that thing you’re wearing, and that shiner, and all those bruises.”

  Amy felt an odd mixture of emotions in reaction to the man’s words. He meant to be sympathetic, she was sure, but she was struck by anger, shame, embarrassment, and an uncomfortable sort of righteous self-pity, rather than taking any comfort from his words and presence.

  After a moment of awkward silence, she asked, “Where are you taking us?”

  The soldier glanced at her, then at the opposite bulkhead and the tangle of equipment that hung there. “Well,” he said, “old Walter’s going to a prison camp—and his wife along with him, I suppose. Keeping slaves is a felony. Beating them is assault—we’ll want to have a doctor check you out, take some photos. You’ll need to give a statement. We aren’t going to bother with full-blown trials here—too many people for ‘em. Besides, the whole planet’s under martial law right now. We’ll hold tribunals, a panel of judges’ll check the evidence and figure out what to do with him.” He shrugged. “He’ll probably be in the camp for a good long time.”

  “Beth told me he killed a girl,” Amy said. She wasn’t sure why she was telling him this, but the words spilled out. “Her name was Sheila. They buried her out back, Beth said—I saw the grave.”

  The soldier frowned, and stared at Amy for a moment. She returned his stare, unflinching.

  She wasn’t sure why she had told him, but she had, and it was true. If it meant Walter would be imprisoned longer, that was fine, it was what the son of a bitch deserved.

  “That’s murder,” the soldier said at last. “If that’s true, old Walter’s going to hang. Or maybe they’ll just shoot him, to save time. And his wife’s an accomplice, I suppose, so she’ll get the same.”

  “How’ll they know?” Amy asked. “I mean, I don’t think he and Beth are going to tell the judges about that.”

  “You’ll put it in your statement. The grave will be there, if it’s true.”

  It was not a question, saying she would put it in her statement. It was definitely not a question, and even after fighting Walter, Amy knew she did not dare to refuse. She bit her lower lip.

  Hang Walter? And Beth?

  She hadn’t meant that to happen, not really. She hated Walter, but...

  Well, why the hell not, if they’d really killed Sheila? Why shouldn’t the bastard hang?

  But Beth hadn’t killed anyone.

  She would have to think very carefully about what she would put in her statement.

  “What about me?” she asked.

  “You,” the soldier said, leaning back with his hands behind his head, “are on your way to what they call a repatriation center, where they’ll sort you out and send you home—or if they can’t do that, at least send you somewhere.”

  “Uh... where?”

  He glanced at her. “You have any family? Anyone who’d be looking for you? Friends who might take you in?”

  “Not in the Galactic Empire,” Amy said bitterly.

  “Well, where the heck are you from, then?” the soldier demanded. “You second-generation or something?”

  “I’m from a planet called Earth,” Amy said. “In another universe.” She shrugged. “Not that I expect anyone to believe that.”

  The soldier froze and stared at her. On her other side, the other soldier, who had been lounging and listening half-heartedly, sat up and stared as well.

  “What did you say your name was?” the soldier on the right asked, fishing a clipboard out from under the bench.

  “I didn’t,” Amy said. “It’s Amethyst Beryl Jewell. Amy Jewell.”

  The man stared at the paper on the clipboard, then made a fizzing noise and said feelingly, “Son of a bitch. She’s on here. Amy Jewell.” He looked up at Amy. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

  “I didn’t know it mattered,” she said timidly.

  “Shit,” he said. He looked down at the clipboard, then flipped a few pages. “Okay, if you’re Amy Jewell,” he said, “what was the last thing you ate before leaving Earth?”

  Amy blinked.

  Before leaving Earth?

  Before her three weeks with Beth and Walter?

  Before she was marched naked across a stage and auctioned off?

  Before she was locked aboard a pirate spaceship for days on end?

  Before those boring, pointless days wasted on Emerald Princess?

  Before sitting out on that white sand desert for hours, freezing?

  Before fleeing from black, monstrous creatures that had appeared practically from nowhere?

  Before she had stepped through a concrete wall and found herself in a rather cold, damp corner of Fairyland?

  Before taking five minutes to see another reality, five minutes that had turned into more than a month of Hell?

  How the hell was she supposed to remember that far back, remember that other life, when everything had been safe and sane and she had been free and in control of her own life? That was another universe entirely.

  But of course, she did remember, which was, she supposed, the whole point.

  “Pizza,” she said.

  “That’s it,” the soldier agreed. He flipped the pages back and tossed the clipboard aside, then leaned forward, between the two front seats. “Hey, Bill,” he called to the driver, “we got a hot one here! Straight to the port!”

  The new driver glanced back. “You serious?”

  “Absolutely,” the
other replied.

  “You got it,” Bill said. He turned the wheel and began tapping at switches.

  The others sat back and stared at Amy.

  “You, my dear,” the one on the left said, “are on your way to Base One.”

  * * * *

  They marched into the refectory in single file, but instead of taking seats they marched straight on, through the kitchen doors, through the courtyard, through the great black sliding door into a much larger yard, where a line of airbuses stood, surrounded by various smaller but equally wheelless vehicles, all of them at least partially purple, and crewed by men in purple uniforms. Blasters were much in evidence.

  Another line of men was there, as well, coming along the central passageway from the mineshaft, through the other door of the refectory, the other door to the kitchen; at the door to the first courtyard the two lines merged into one.

  They were being loaded onto the ‘buses, Pel realized, all the slaves—the other line was the men of Red Shift.

  One of them was Elmer Soorn, the crewman from Ruthless, Pel realized with a shock. He had never known that anyone else from the party captured on Emerald Princess was at this mine; the only part of Red Shift he ever saw was the gang that his own gang shared their shaft with.

  And at the sight of the purple uniforms, Soorn began cheering.

  The others stared at him at first, not comprehending; then someone else joined in, and a moment later all the slaves were whooping and shouting.

  Dazed, battered, still sleepy, Pel was slow to understand, but at last it sank in.

  Those were Imperial uniforms. Those were the soldiers of the Galactic Empire, and the Galactic Empire had outlawed slavery.

  He didn’t need to worry about escaping. He didn’t need to be the hero. He could just be a minor character, somewhere in the background, while other people dealt with Shadow and Earth and the Empire.

  They were rescued. The Galactic Empire had come for them at last.

  Finally, they were rescued.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  They had offered him a set of fatigues, but Pel had kept his gray miner’s pants. He had accepted a military-issue T-shirt, though—purple, of course, but comfortable and practical. Thus outfitted, he had settled in aboard one of the spaceships to wait while the other survivors from other universes were gathered.