At Empire's Edge (13 page)

Issit knew that the Uman had taken refuge in a riverbed some six hours earlier. But now, as the sun began to drop into the western sky, the temperature inside the alien’s hidey-hole was steadily rising. So Issit was anything but surprised when the Uman appeared ten minutes later, scrambled up out of the dry riverbed, and began to walk.

Issit’s cross-shaped shadow seemed to slide across the surface of the rocky desert as the warrior followed behind. It was boring work, so the bandit invented a game to amuse himself. The objective was to position the Uman directly under his shadow, so that the X-shaped pattern looked like a set of crosshairs, floating on top of the target below.

That was what Issit was doing when the Uman stumbled and fell. This was a first so far as Issit knew, and raised the possibility that the alien had begun to weaken. But no sooner had that thought crossed Issit’s mind than the Uman was back on his feet, swaying from side to side. He had a piece of fabric wound around his head to protect him from the sun, and could be seen taking a long drink of water, before tossing a presumably empty canteen away.

As the Uman resumed his march, Issit saw the shotgun and a bandolier of ammunition hit the ground. The meaning was obvious. The Xeno freak was growing tired,
too
tired to carry any extra weight, and would soon succumb. The thought produced a sense of fierce exultation in the bandit as he continued to circle above. Because although there were those who wanted the Uman dead, they wanted him to die what would look like a natural death if possible. This was why he’d been deprived of transportation and forced into the desert.

The day wore on. During the following hour, Issit saw the Uman fall on two occasions. He got up each time, but with increasing difficulty, as the heat took its inevitable toll. And, after the second fall, the alien set off in the wrong direction! Walking
toward
the sun rather than away from it. Eventually, having tumbled down a steep slope onto a section of reddish orange hardpan, the variant lay motionless on the ground.

Five minutes passed. Then ten minutes, as Issit spiraled slowly downward, coming ever closer to the hostile ground. Finally, certain that his quarry was dead, or incapacitated, Issit came in for a landing. Having drawn his energy pistol from a shoulder holster, he approached the body. Partly because it was his duty to confirm the Uman’s painful death, but also to rifle through his pockets, just in case the alien was carrying some loose change. Because anything that Issit could steal, and subsequently hide away, wouldn’t have to be shared with the rest of the flock.

So with his pistol at the ready, and his heart beating just a little bit faster, Issit knelt next to the Uman’s left shoulder. Then, with the fingers of his free hand, he began to explore the alien corpse.

 

 

Cato felt light-headed; even though the fall had been staged, the symptoms of heat prostration were quite real. He was not entirely out of water, but because he wanted the Lir to
believe
that he was, he couldn’t take a drink as long as the bandit was circling above. So, with the birdlike sentient only inches away, it was time to execute the final step of his plan, assuming he had the strength to do so.

Issit’s clawlike fingers found the money belt, and having correctly deduced what the object was, the Lir was overcome by greed. In order to remove the belt Issit knew he would need both hands, so he put the pistol down on the ground next to him, and went to work on the recalcitrant buckle. That was why both of Issit’s hands were busy when Cato opened his eyes and made a two-handed grab for the Lir’s neck!

 

 

Head swimming, Cato rolled to the right and took Issit with him. The warrior fought back, but rather than going for his knife as he should have, Issit made a futile attempt to break the grip around his throat. However, thanks to the fact that Cato was more than twice as heavy, he soon took control.

Having pinned both of the Lir’s skinny arms under his knees, Cato was able to release the bandit’s windpipe, take possession of the energy pistol, and press it against the warrior’s skull. Cato’s right leg was beginning to cramp by then, but he forced himself to ignore the pain, as he spoke through clenched teeth. “Do you want to live? If so, do exactly as I say.”

The Lir’s eyes were huge, and Cato could not only see the hatred in them, but “feel” the animosity that seethed around him. But Issit had a strong desire to live, so he had little choice but to nod, and wait to find out what the fates had in store for him.

“Good,” Cato said wearily. Now listen carefully. Because I won’t tell you twice.”

It took the better part of fifteen minutes to secure both of Issit’s wings and his arms, prior to marching the Lir back toward the riverbank cave where Cato had slept the night before. During the hour-long walk, Cato worked to rehydrate himself with tiny sips of warm water—while pausing occasionally to collect the gear he had discarded along the way. Then, having forced Issit down into the dry riverbed, he led him to the cave. Not surprisingly, the gear he had left behind was still there, including a full gallon of water, which wouldn’t go as far with two bodies to hydrate.

Still, there were advantages to having a prisoner, not the least of which was the opportunity to rest while Issit stacked some additional rocks on the outside wall. Because within the next hour or so Cato knew that another Lir would arrive and discover that the warrior he was supposed to relieve was missing.

That would trigger a search that could last for days. Although he was hoping for something less. Meanwhile, as the Uman and the Lir spent some quality time together, Cato was going to interrogate Issit. Who, if he was smart, would reveal everything he knew regarding the massacre at Station 3. And if he
wasn’t
smart? That prospect brought a grin to Cato’s sunburned face. Cato had questions, and one way or another, Issit was going to provide some much-needed answers.

IT WAS JUST AFTER NOON, THE SUN COULD BE SEEN
through occasional breaks in the clouds, and a crowd had begun to form in front of the wooden platform commonly referred to as “the block.” At the moment there was nothing for people to look at other than what amounted to an empty stage and the wooden backdrop that stood behind it which was covered by a surprisingly well-executed mural. The painting depicted a group of well-dressed slaves living in apparent luxury on an imaginary estate.

But that was of little interest to the townsfolk gathered in front of the platform, most of whom couldn’t afford to buy a slave, but were looking forward to enjoying some free entertainment. Because miserable though their own lives might be, most of the onlookers were
free—
which meant they were better off than those about to be sold. And it felt good to be better off than someone else even if the difference was more conceptual than real.

And there were other reasons to attend the slave auction as well, especially for those who enjoyed seeing people without any clothes on. That explained why so many teenaged boys were lurking about. Men armed with thin whips were paid to drive gawkers away, but the boys saw that as part of the fun, and took a perverse pride in how many welts they could accumulate during a single auction. Each red mark was counted as a badge of honor.

Naturally, the presence of so many people drew food vendors, pickpockets, drug dealers, religious fanatics, and beggars, all of whom hoped to profit from the event. Some of them were driven away by the monitors, but most contrived to stay, and were part of the constantly roiling mix as the crowd continued to swell.

Less visible, because most of them preferred it that way, were the buyers—people from all walks of life who for one reason or another wanted to buy a slave. A few of them were flamboyant, and eager to demonstrate how wealthy they were, but most wore such low-key clothing they were impossible to distinguish from shopkeepers. One such individual wore a hooded robe that hung nearly to his feet and stood with his hands hidden inside voluminous sleeves. It was nearly impossible to see his face, and that was by design, since had his identity been known prices would have gone up.

Meanwhile, beyond the painted backdrop and below ground level, was what had originally been a gravel pit back during the city’s early days, but had been subdivided into a multiplicity of slave pens since then. The cubicles were protected from the elements by sheets of pressboard, rusting metal, and old sails. And it was there, in female pen four, that CeCe Alamy and two other young women were being held.

Like the roof over their heads, the walls were made from pieces of scrap and were intended to limit communication between groups of slaves rather than provide them with privacy. The space was six-feet wide, eight feet long, and equipped with two crudely made bunk beds. The bedding was filthy, the toilet consisted of a shared bucket that sat in a corner, and the floor was made of gray lumber salvaged from an old warehouse.

One of the three, a girl named Gertha, was barely capable of holding a conversation. But she was comely in an empty-eyed sort of way and would probably be put to use in someone’s bedroom. Presently, being blissfully unaware of what was about to happen to her, Gertha sat cross-legged on a top bunk talking to a handmade doll. “Are you going to school today? Me too! We’ll have lots of fun.”

Alamy was sitting on one of the lower bunks and turned to look at the young woman who was seated next to her. Her name was Nita Persus, and, while not especially pretty, she was sturdy, a quality that was much sought after where slaves were concerned. Persus had brown hair, unplucked brows, and tattoos that began on her shoulders and flowed down over her arms, torso, and legs. All of which had been forced on her by an owner who liked to decorate his slaves with what he called “skin art,” so that each one became a walking, talking example of what he could do.

Persus had been born into slavery and, while she had no education to speak of, was unfailingly optimistic. That was one of the reasons Alamy liked her. “Maybe a nice person will buy her,” Persus said hopefully, as she eyed Gertha.

“Maybe,” Alamy replied doubtfully, “but what are the chances?”

Persus shrugged. “Not very good I suppose—but there’s always hope. I was reasonably happy until my owner’s business failed.”

The conversation was interrupted as both women heard a distant cheer. The auction was under way, and as the first group of slaves went forth to meet their various fates, Alamy’s chin began to tremble. Persus put an arm around the younger woman’s shoulders. “Don’t cry,” she said kindly. “I’ve been through this twice—and crying won’t help. Life isn’t fair, but what is
is
, and we must make the best of it. Remember, steal what you can, and save
all
of it. That way you’ll be able to buy yourself someday. That’s what I plan to do.”

It was a distant hope, but some sort of hope was better than none, so Alamy sought to wipe the tears away. There were scuffling sounds as a slave handler arrived, turned a key in the padlock, and opened the door. The slaves called him Skanker, after his body odor, and he had a thing for Gertha. “Come on, sweetie,” Skanker said seductively, as he crooked a finger. “And leave your friend behind. You can come back for her later.”

That was a lie, of course, but neither Alamy nor Persus saw any reason to say so, as the other woman propped her doll up against the wall before sliding down off the top bunk. Then, as Gertha exited the cell, Skanker took the opportunity to pinch her bottom. That sort of thing was common in the slave pens, and a perk that most of the handlers were not only glad of, but considered to be an important part of their compensation.

Thanks to Skanker’s interest in Gertha, Alamy and Persus were able to pass through the gate unmolested and join a group of three other women who were waiting outside. With a handler named Honker leading the way, and Skanker to bring up the rear, all six of the slaves were led through a maze of passageways to a series of switchback ramps that led up to the holding area located directly behind the mural. Once in place, they were required to wait. Alamy couldn’t see what was happening on the other side of the mural, but the young woman could imagine it, as she listened to Mortha address the crowd.

“They’re twins,” the slave master said, “and while too young to perform heavy labor now, they’ll be ready in three short years! Two, if you feed them some decent food, and see to their medical needs. Bidding will start at eighteen hundred for the pair. But remember, if the boys are sold separately, they’ll fetch at least a thousand each. . . . And that makes the package price very attractive. So, what do you say? Do I hear eighteen hundred? Excellent! We have eighteen hundred, do I hear nineteen hundred? Yes, thank you, ma’am, how about two thousand?”

And so it went until the preteen boys were sold for twenty-three hundred Imperials. Alamy felt sorry for the youngsters, Persus wore a stoic expression, and Gertha was singing to herself as an order was given, and the slaves shuffled up the last ramp. The journey ended at the side of the platform, and when the young women appeared, a cheer went up from the men in the crowd. Many of them stood down front, where they would be able to see that much better when the group took its place at the center of the stage. Persus saw Alamy’s look of dismay and had to shout in order to make herself heard. “Send yourself somewhere else! Go to a pretty place. . . . And stay there until it’s over.”