however, as were his scrupulously clean feet, both of which were shod in the same type of sandals Alamy had been manufacturing earlier that day. “What do you mean?” the girl inquired anxiously, as she looked from face to face.
Domna had been laughing so hard mascara-blackened tears had carved twin pathways down along her heavily rouged cheeks. She dabbed at the tears with a handkerchief before answering. “Citizen Mortha and I have finalized an agreement,” the older woman replied importantly. “He’s going to put you up for sale the day after tomorrow. And, if all goes well, I should receive around a thousand Imperials. Minus Citizen Mortha’s commission, of course, but a significant sum nevertheless. And a good deal better than one Imperial a day!”
“But you can’t sell me!” Alamy objected desperately. “My father was free, and I’ll be free on my eighteenth birthday!”
“Which is still more than a month away,” Domna reminded her sternly. “And until that time, you are my property. . . . To do with as I see fit. And it’s my intention to sell you! So skip the tears, spare me the drama you’re so fond of, and concentrate on pleasing your new owner. Who knows? Maybe you’ll enjoy your new line of work!”
That produced another gale of laughter, which Alamy saw as her opportunity to escape, so she ran for the door. Domna couldn’t sell something she didn’t have, so if the girl could hide in The Warrens until her birthday rolled around, she could claim Imperial citizenship thereafter! Would the local magistrate support that claim? Or side with her stepmother? Alamy didn’t know, but figured that some chance was better than none, as she ran down the front steps toward the street.
But Citizen Mortha had anticipated such a possibility, and two burly slave handlers were waiting to grab Alamy and secure her hands behind her. Then, once an iron collar had been secured around Alamy’s neck, a single pull on the six-foot-long chain was sufficient to jerk her off her feet. A demonstration all slaves were subjected to as a way to communicate how helpless they were.
So there was nothing Alamy could do but lie there and sob, until Citizen Mortha emerged from the house five minutes later. Then, with his newest consignment in tow, the trader led Alamy through the neighborhood she’d grown up in toward Market Street and the slave pens located north of the slaughterhouse.
Alamy looked back over her shoulder at one point, in hopes that Domna might change her mind, but the older woman was nowhere to be seen. The coppersmith was visible though—and he was the only person to wave.
FIVE
The Plain of Pain, on the planet Dantha
THE SKIMMER HAD A CRACKED WINDSHIELD, HANDLEBARS rather than a steering wheel, and was capable of carrying two people with one seated in front of the other. Hot desert air pressed against Cato’s face as the vehicle’s cranky engine propelled it across the desert toward Station 3. Like the rest of the vehicles on Dantha, the EX-9 had been manufactured off-planet and shipped in. That made the beat-up skimmer valuable, even after fifteen years of hard service, which was why Cato had been forced to spend 556 Imperials on it. It wasn’t the way Cato had wanted to spend a large chunk of his remaining cash, but that was the way he’d had to spend it, since the planetary government was unwilling to provide him with any support.
Was the lack of cooperation on the part of Nalomy’s government the result of the hostility that many rim worlders felt toward the Xeno Corps? Or did Centurion Pasayo and the people around him know more about the massacre than they cared to admit? There wasn’t any evidence of governmental involvement yet, but Cato was determined to remain alert to that possibility, as a dark smudge appeared on the shimmery horizon.
Of course there had been other smudges over the last hour, all of which eventually morphed into rock formations, but thanks to the amount of
Domna had been laughing so hard mascara-blackened tears had carved twin pathways down along her heavily rouged cheeks. She dabbed at the tears with a handkerchief before answering. “Citizen Mortha and I have finalized an agreement,” the older woman replied importantly. “He’s going to put you up for sale the day after tomorrow. And, if all goes well, I should receive around a thousand Imperials. Minus Citizen Mortha’s commission, of course, but a significant sum nevertheless. And a good deal better than one Imperial a day!”
“But you can’t sell me!” Alamy objected desperately. “My father was free, and I’ll be free on my eighteenth birthday!”
“Which is still more than a month away,” Domna reminded her sternly. “And until that time, you are my property. . . . To do with as I see fit. And it’s my intention to sell you! So skip the tears, spare me the drama you’re so fond of, and concentrate on pleasing your new owner. Who knows? Maybe you’ll enjoy your new line of work!”
That produced another gale of laughter, which Alamy saw as her opportunity to escape, so she ran for the door. Domna couldn’t sell something she didn’t have, so if the girl could hide in The Warrens until her birthday rolled around, she could claim Imperial citizenship thereafter! Would the local magistrate support that claim? Or side with her stepmother? Alamy didn’t know, but figured that some chance was better than none, as she ran down the front steps toward the street.
But Citizen Mortha had anticipated such a possibility, and two burly slave handlers were waiting to grab Alamy and secure her hands behind her. Then, once an iron collar had been secured around Alamy’s neck, a single pull on the six-foot-long chain was sufficient to jerk her off her feet. A demonstration all slaves were subjected to as a way to communicate how helpless they were.
So there was nothing Alamy could do but lie there and sob, until Citizen Mortha emerged from the house five minutes later. Then, with his newest consignment in tow, the trader led Alamy through the neighborhood she’d grown up in toward Market Street and the slave pens located north of the slaughterhouse.
Alamy looked back over her shoulder at one point, in hopes that Domna might change her mind, but the older woman was nowhere to be seen. The coppersmith was visible though—and he was the only person to wave.
FIVE
The Plain of Pain, on the planet Dantha
THE SKIMMER HAD A CRACKED WINDSHIELD, HANDLEBARS rather than a steering wheel, and was capable of carrying two people with one seated in front of the other. Hot desert air pressed against Cato’s face as the vehicle’s cranky engine propelled it across the desert toward Station 3. Like the rest of the vehicles on Dantha, the EX-9 had been manufactured off-planet and shipped in. That made the beat-up skimmer valuable, even after fifteen years of hard service, which was why Cato had been forced to spend 556 Imperials on it. It wasn’t the way Cato had wanted to spend a large chunk of his remaining cash, but that was the way he’d had to spend it, since the planetary government was unwilling to provide him with any support.
Was the lack of cooperation on the part of Nalomy’s government the result of the hostility that many rim worlders felt toward the Xeno Corps? Or did Centurion Pasayo and the people around him know more about the massacre than they cared to admit? There wasn’t any evidence of governmental involvement yet, but Cato was determined to remain alert to that possibility, as a dark smudge appeared on the shimmery horizon.
Of course there had been other smudges over the last hour, all of which eventually morphed into rock formations, but thanks to the amount of
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