by S. J. Bryant
Fish? Then he remembered he'd promised them fish if they didn't take his ship. He wanted nothing more than to put as much distance between him and Snoth as he could, but he didn't break his promises.
"You promised!"
Three more knocks.
"Yeah, I'm coming."
Aart leaned over and started the food generator, grateful that the lights were back on and it didn't electrocute him. A few seconds later, it dinged and the door opened to a pile of cooked fish.
Aart put it—plate and all—into the parcel compartment then sealed his end and opened the one on the outside.
"There you go."
Shouts and the sound of fighting emanated from the other side. Aart was glad he couldn't see them, but his imagination filled in the blanks when he heard a crunching noise that couldn't be anything other than a breaking bone followed by a stifled scream. His stomach churned, but he waited until the noises outside died away before he went back to the control chair.
"Chart a course for Raster."
The ship shuddered and the engines roared to life. Steam billowed out of the pipe by Aart's head and left a sheen of warm water on his cheek.
He swiped it away, sank back into his chair, and stared at the ceiling. He hadn't been gone all that long, and yet the meeting on Snoth had sucked the energy out of him. How many people on Snoth survived by stealing from and killing each other? And what about the other outer planets that were just as bad? Aart shivered; he'd thought growing up on Goldson had been the worst possible fate, but perhaps there were other kinds of hell.
Poor Jaron; he'd looked close to starvation, not to mention heartbroken and worried sick. Aart pulled the crumpled photograph of Delia from his pocket. She looked healthy enough, unlike Jaron. The paper photo felt strange in Aart's hand; he'd only seen a handful of physical photos in his whole life, but he supposed Snoth didn't have digital screens lying around like most other planets.
Aart tucked the photo back into his pocket and straightened his shoulders. He'd taken on the mission, which meant he would do everything he could to rescue the girl and bring her back.
CHAPTER THREE
Aart approached Raster in his battered ship. It was unlike any other planet he'd seen so far; green, with no sign of big cities, sky-rise buildings, or flashing lights. According to the limited research he'd done, Raster's sole trade was in locusts, which Aart didn't quite understand, but he figured he'd have time to work it out once he landed and—
"Hail, Tortin-5. You're entering Raster space; state your business here."
Aart jumped as the voice buzzed through the ship's speakers. "Uh—hello. I'm looking for a person, suspected missing from your farms."
"No missing people have been reported and external security is not allowed on Raster. Please turn around."
Aart faltered. Delia's father said that he'd already contacted them, so they should know that Delia was missing. On the other hand, he wasn't surprised that the Confederacy operation didn't want bounty hunters poking around. "Her name is Delia. She's twenty, has—"
"I said we've got no missing people. Turn around, hunter."
"At least let me have a look around."
"This is a private plantation. Be warned that any attempt to land will be met with force."
Aart tapped the controls and studied the planet beneath him. He couldn't very well leave now, not when a thousand credits—and possibly a girl's life—was on the line. "Who is allowed to enter Raster?"
"Workers."
"Fine then, I'll be a worker."
"Minimum work contract is one month and you must surrender all personal equipment before beginning, including your ship. They will be returned to you at the end of your contract."
"I'd rather keep it. You know… have somewhere to sleep and keep my stuff—"
"Those are the contract conditions."
What could he do? He either had to do what the man said, or he had to leave Delia and the job behind.
Aart drew a deep breath. "Fine, where do I land?"
"I will forward a contract to you; it will contain instructions. Welcome to Raster."
Text appeared on the ship's front screen. Aart skimmed over it and his stomach sank. No holidays, no weekends, no visitors. A strict daily quota that, if not met, added time to the contract, and no option of breaking the contract early. Not only that, but the pay was awful, only ten credits a day. Only desperate people would even consider taking the contract.
His hand hovered over the 'send' button. A month. He'd be committing at least a month of his life to harvesting locusts. Was that really worth it? In the space of a month he could do a number of other jobs and perhaps make a thousand credits. Of course, Delia would still be stuck here, and he didn't know if he could live with himself if he just abandoned her. Especially after promising her father…
He smacked his fist down on the button and the text whizzed away with a noise like a rush of wind.
That was it… he'd signed the contract.
He followed the instructions which guided him down to a long warehouse on a paved area of the planet, surrounded on all sides by a tall, barbed wire fence.
A man in a blue uniform with a sleek plasma rifle slung over his back strode out of the warehouse toward Aart's ship. Aart met him at the door.
"Artemis Goldson?"
"Yes."
"You may bring what you're wearing but that is all. Leave everything in your ship; it will be returned to you at the end of your contract."
"Oh, but… I'd feel better if I had my knife and my gun, and I'll just bring a change of clothes. I—"
"No weapons are permitted in the fields. You will be provided with uniforms. Your contract begins today; I suggest you hurry or you will miss your first quota."
The man turned and marched away.
Aart undid his holster and placed it, along with his gun and his knife, into a compartment by the door. He jumped out of his ship, cast one last longing look into the cramped interior, and closed the door.
He hurried after the other man and caught up with him at the entrance to the warehouse. The man went to a wall of shelves and pulled out a folded, brown jumpsuit and a pair of boots which he handed to Aart.
"So what are you, a soldier? How much protecting do locusts need?" Aart said.
The man glanced at Aart and then took down a wicker basket the size of Aart's torso. "I'm an enforcer. I protect the crops and make sure the workers do what they're paid for."
"Oh." Aart didn't like the way the man looked at him like a lesser species. The poor workers were only getting ten credits a day; how much could they be expected to do?
"Follow."
Aart hurried after the enforcer to the back of the warehouse.
"Sit."
Aart sat on a plastic chair while the enforcer checked a screen attached to the wall. "Bell!"
A woman emerged from a side door wearing a white coat.
"Got another one," the enforcer said. "Looks like South Field A needs some more."
"Right." Bell took what looked like a gun from a nearby bench and fiddled with the settings on the side.
"Whoa! What are you doing?" Aart said.
"Relax," the enforcer said. "Tracking chip. To make sure you're not going where you don't belong."
"I don't know if I want—"
Bell pressed the barrel of the gun against Aart's neck, just below his ear, and pulled the trigger. It hissed, a puff of air brushed Aart's cheek, followed by a sharp pain at his neck.
"Ow!" He smacked his hand over his neck and felt a small lump under his flesh. "That wasn't in the contract."
"Section Four B," the enforcer said. "Worker agrees to any procedures that improve the efficiency of the plantation."
"I didn't know it meant that!"
"Irrelevant. Follow."
Aart glared at Bell and followed the enforcer to the other side of the warehouse to a thick, metal door. Aart kept reaching up to feel the lump under his skin. It was small, only the siz
e of his thumbnail, but unnatural. Did this make him a cyborg?
The enforcer placed his hand on a panel beside the door and it squealed as it opened.
A deafening buzz hit Aart. He clapped his hands over his ears, but the noise got inside his head. "What's that?"
"The locusts," the enforcer yelled. "What else?"
Aart couldn't hear himself think over the droning. Thousands of winged creatures zipped across the fields of green and yellow crops that spread out around the warehouse.
"Hurry up." The enforcer nudged Aart through the door and closed it behind him so that they stood on the inside of the barbed fence. Another hand-recognition panel was set into the outside of the warehouse.
"Is that necessary?" Aart said.
"Some workers decide the rules of the contract don't apply to them. Don't be one of them. The fence will electrocute you as soon as you get close, and if that doesn't kill you, the enforcers will. Hurry up."
Aart jogged after the enforcer, balancing the clothes and the wicker basket in his arms. They marched along a dirt track between two fields alive with locusts. Aart could just see over the top of the crops to short wooden buildings set in the middle of each field.
"You are assigned to South Field A. If you try to leave your designated zone, your tracker will alert us, and you will be punished."
Aart swallowed and rubbed the lump on his neck.
"All workers are required to fill two wicker baskets per day. Your tracking chip will communicate with the deposit stations to keep track of your quota. Any failure will result in additional days added to your contract."
"What about food, sleeping?"
"The overseer of your field will answer any questions you have. Here." The enforcer stopped and gestured to a second track on their left that led away from them and ended at a wooden building with people milling about it.
"What—?"
"Just do your work and we won't have a problem," the enforcer said. He turned and strode back toward the barbed wire fence and the long warehouse.
Aart hesitated at the intersection, but knew he couldn't very well go back now; he'd signed the contract. He was officially a worker. He trudged down the narrow track toward the wooden building.
Everything the enforcer had said sounded too much like Goldson, even the fact that they had to have enforcers. The daily quotas, the forced contracts… Aart shivered. At least here he had the option of leaving after a month… or at least, that's what the contract said. But if that were true, what had happened to Delia?
An elderly man wearing a brown jumpsuit with a wicker basket strung across his back emerged from the field. "You must be the new guy. I just got the notification."
The man's basket buzzed, and through the wicker weave Aart could see legs and wings moving.
"I'm Cole, and you're Aart?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'm overseer for South Field A. It doesn't mean much; I get half a basket less for my quota, but if anything goes wrong it's my fault. Speaking of, you'd better get changed and ready or you'll be short on your first day; they don't like that."
"I—"
"You can get changed in the dorm." Cole pointed to the wooden building. "The bed at the end is vacant. Come back out with your basket and I'll show you the ropes."
"Right…"
Cole trudged back into the fields. Aart stared after him, what had he gotten himself into? But Cole was right, if he wasted time he'd be short and then he'd have to spend extra time trapped on Raster.
Aart hurried to the wooden building. He passed a few more people in the fields but they didn't look up.
He closed the door behind him and it cut off some of the buzzing. Aart sagged. He didn't know how anyone could spend more than a few hours surrounded by the noise and not go mad.
The building smelled of sweat and was only slightly cooler than outside. Beds lined the walls and a bathroom with a broken door took up one corner.
Aart shuffled to the last bed, right beside the toilet and the only one that didn't have clothes strewn across it.
He peeled off his familiar clothes and pulled on the brown overalls. They fit well enough and covered him all the way down to the wrists and ankles. The thick boots were heavy but comfortable enough. At least that was more than he'd ever been given on Goldson.
He dropped his clothes onto the bed and hoped that the smell coming from the bathroom would dissipate by the time he had to sleep. He slung his wicker basket over his back and rolled his shoulders. He just had to keep calm and keep his eyes open. Someone had to know where Delia had gone, but he had to be careful about how he asked. For now, he'd stay undercover.
He strolled back out into the bright sunlight as Cole emerged from the field.
"If you take that long to do everything, you'll be stuck here for the rest of your life!"
Red crept over Aart's cheeks.
"Hurry up!"
Cole led him into the field where the buzzing drone grew even louder.
"Just grab 'em while they're eating," Cole said. His hand whipped out and snatched a locust from a nearby branch. Cole stuffed it into his wicker basket. "Go on."
Aart spotted a locust near his right hand and grabbed for it. The tips of his fingers brushed its legs but it flew out of his reach.
"It'll get easier," Cole said. "You've got to snatch their wings though or they'll get away every time."
"Right."
"I ring the bell for dinner. The rules are simple; do what I say, don't cause trouble with the enforcers, and don't go stealing another worker's patch."
"Patch?"
"Their work space." Cole gestured to the field. Aart could just make out the tops of the other workers' heads over the crops. They were all equally spaced out, working alone. "End of this field is free at the moment."
"Okay, thank you."
"When you fill up your basket you take it over here." Cole pushed through the crops to a long box, taller than Aart and twice as long, with a shoot at one end. "You pour your basket into here. It'll measure it and add the amount to your chip so the enforcers can keep track of you. You got all that?"
"Yeah."
"Then get to work!"
CHAPTER FOUR
Aart trudged to the end of the field where there were no other workers and pushed his way into the crops. Locusts buzzed about him, some brushed against his cheek and one landed on his chest. He snatched for it but it leapt out of reach.
He grimaced, hating the feel of them moving all around him. He was glad for the overalls because at least now the only place they could touch him were his hands and face. It would be even better if they'd given him some kind of face shield because the thought of them touching his ears or mouth made his stomach churn.
Focus! He had to concentrate. He had to get through his day's quota before he could meet his fellow workers and find out where Delia was. What if she'd been assigned to a different field? Would Cole and the others still know about her? He hoped so. If not, he'd just have to work out a different way to find her.
Aart snatched for another locust. This time he caught its legs. Its wings smacked against the back of his hand but they weren't strong enough to get away. Aart shoved the locust into his basket and slammed the lid closed. Why were they harvesting locusts anyway? Food generators could make anything a person wanted (except his broken one); why would anyone go through the effort of farming? That was probably something he should have looked up before he signed a contract to work here.
He snatched for another locust. It leapt away. Aart sighed and glanced up at the sun; it was already passed midday and he'd only managed to catch a single locust. It would take more than a hundred to fill his basket and he had to do that twice!
Sweat trickled down his face and the basket pulled on his shoulders. This wouldn't work. He shrugged off the basket and propped it on the ground; he then used both hands to snatch a locust from a nearby branch and shove it into the basket.
He went on like that and fell into a kind of
rhythm. He was no stranger to hard work, the mines on Goldson had taught him that, and he had good reflexes. By evening, he'd managed to get one and a half baskets.
A bell chimed from the wooden building.
Aart bit his lip and glanced at his half-full basket. If he stopped now he'd have to add another day to his contract. That wasn't something he could live with, so he ignored the bell and kept working.
The locusts got louder as evening progressed—and harder to see. It took Aart three more hours before he filled the basket for a second time and then trudged through the fields to the deposit bin.
Light and voices spilled out of the wooden building.
Aart wiped the sweat from his forehead and went inside. Conversation stopped. Cole sat with a circle of six others; all of them wearing filthy overalls.
"Newbie," Cole said. "I thought you'd gotten lost."
"Had to finish my quota."
Cole winked to his companions. "Told you he seemed smart. We saved some food for you, newbie."
Aart went to the corner where a bowl of gray mush sat beside a filthy sink. He washed his hands as best he could and then brought the bowl back to the group. He didn't want to think about what was in it—he knew of course, but he didn't want to think about it.
"This is Jen and Berry," Cole said. He pointed to two middle-aged women at his side. They looked similar, sisters at least, if not twins.
"Then we've got Gin." Cole nodded to the young boy, no more than sixteen, at Aart's side.
"Zap." A woman about Aart's age with a cut across her cheek, surrounded by a purple bruise.
"Fillup." A beefy man with bruised knuckles.
"And Drax." A thin, weasel-faced man with dark hair and dark eyes.
Aart nodded to each of them in turn. "Nice to meet you."
"Did you make your quota then?" Jen said.
Aart nodded.
"Good lad," Cole said. "Best to make a good first impression, otherwise the enforcers come looking for you."
"With the tracker?" Aart said, brushing his neck.
"Yep. They've all got hand-held computers. They can track any of us at any time, the bastards," Zap said.
