ever-present symbol of slavery throughout the galaxy. It was an unadorned silver band that could be tethered to a hand held baton by an energy field similar to an electric leash. No matter how I moved the length was constant, allowing me no slack forward or back, but it did give me about a 90-degree leeway left and right. Despite my lack of maneuverability, it allowed the baton wielder an unlimited range of motion.
I was mixed in with the batch of newly purchased slaves I’d seen earlier, herded from one area to another like livestock by hard-faced men giving harsh commands through universal translators. I continued to discover how the business of trafficking lives doesn’t discriminate in the least; we were all equal now regardless of what species we were, whom we’d been in the past, or where we’d come from.
Order was always maintained despite the vast differences between us. Any trace of slave infighting or rebelliousness was quickly smashed by the guards with brutally efficient force. Even the small group of warmongering Tartans, the race of muscle-bound Neanderthals that resembled mythical Minotaur’s from earth’s past, didn’t dare cause trouble, or try to bully any of the smaller, weaker races. Besides, what was there to fight over? There was plenty of food, although it tended to be bland and tasteless for the most part, and we all had our own bunk, along with a single blanket and pillow assigned to us by our identification numbers. My new name was slave 2451. That was my life now, a number, a bunk, and a blanket and pillow.
I thought it funny that things really weren’t all that different for me now than when I was with Fleet. You were nothing more than a number to someone most of the time, you were never really in control of your destiny, and there was always an unending line to wait in. Because of the surprising similarities, my fear quickly grew distant, replaced by mind numbing boredom that once again reminded me of the military’s ‘hurry up and wait’ mentality.
I could even understand the point of our continual nudity, looking at it from a military standpoint. Clothing gave you comfort, a sense of security and individuality, or just something to hide within. By removing it from the equation, by stripping a person down to their bare essence, it keeps you off guard, humbled and subdued. It was no different than the uniformity that made the wheels of the military machine turn with regulation haircuts and precision drills you reacted to instantly without thinking. You became a thing, a piece of the larger whole with a single-minded purpose in life. It let you know exactly who held the reins of power like a slap in the face.
As the days wore on, I was shamelessly poked and prodded during the course of a full medical exam. I received a broad range of inoculations, universal decontamination and an anti-fertility implant. Not like I needed that. My DNA was taken and put on record along with a retinal scan, aromatic body chemistry profile, brain scan, and holographic photo showing me from every angle. If I ever did manage to escape in the future, I would always be hunted; it would be worse than the bounty on my head. I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere now, without my identity inevitably being discovered.
I also underwent an in-depth psyche evaluation to determine my affinity to become a slave. This I actually found interesting and a bit of a surprise. I hadn’t considered the mental condition of a perspective slave would even be a considered factor. More or less, the machine measured the level of my submissiveness and propensity to obey orders, along with my possible threat level to a potential buyer. I didn’t catch all of it, but my results had been a disappointment from what I gathered. For some reason, I was categorized as unstable, volatile, and unpredictable, thusly labeled a high risk. It appeared that I wasn’t good slave material in the long run.
I’ve never considered myself to be
I was mixed in with the batch of newly purchased slaves I’d seen earlier, herded from one area to another like livestock by hard-faced men giving harsh commands through universal translators. I continued to discover how the business of trafficking lives doesn’t discriminate in the least; we were all equal now regardless of what species we were, whom we’d been in the past, or where we’d come from.
Order was always maintained despite the vast differences between us. Any trace of slave infighting or rebelliousness was quickly smashed by the guards with brutally efficient force. Even the small group of warmongering Tartans, the race of muscle-bound Neanderthals that resembled mythical Minotaur’s from earth’s past, didn’t dare cause trouble, or try to bully any of the smaller, weaker races. Besides, what was there to fight over? There was plenty of food, although it tended to be bland and tasteless for the most part, and we all had our own bunk, along with a single blanket and pillow assigned to us by our identification numbers. My new name was slave 2451. That was my life now, a number, a bunk, and a blanket and pillow.
I thought it funny that things really weren’t all that different for me now than when I was with Fleet. You were nothing more than a number to someone most of the time, you were never really in control of your destiny, and there was always an unending line to wait in. Because of the surprising similarities, my fear quickly grew distant, replaced by mind numbing boredom that once again reminded me of the military’s ‘hurry up and wait’ mentality.
I could even understand the point of our continual nudity, looking at it from a military standpoint. Clothing gave you comfort, a sense of security and individuality, or just something to hide within. By removing it from the equation, by stripping a person down to their bare essence, it keeps you off guard, humbled and subdued. It was no different than the uniformity that made the wheels of the military machine turn with regulation haircuts and precision drills you reacted to instantly without thinking. You became a thing, a piece of the larger whole with a single-minded purpose in life. It let you know exactly who held the reins of power like a slap in the face.
As the days wore on, I was shamelessly poked and prodded during the course of a full medical exam. I received a broad range of inoculations, universal decontamination and an anti-fertility implant. Not like I needed that. My DNA was taken and put on record along with a retinal scan, aromatic body chemistry profile, brain scan, and holographic photo showing me from every angle. If I ever did manage to escape in the future, I would always be hunted; it would be worse than the bounty on my head. I wouldn’t be able to go anywhere now, without my identity inevitably being discovered.
I also underwent an in-depth psyche evaluation to determine my affinity to become a slave. This I actually found interesting and a bit of a surprise. I hadn’t considered the mental condition of a perspective slave would even be a considered factor. More or less, the machine measured the level of my submissiveness and propensity to obey orders, along with my possible threat level to a potential buyer. I didn’t catch all of it, but my results had been a disappointment from what I gathered. For some reason, I was categorized as unstable, volatile, and unpredictable, thusly labeled a high risk. It appeared that I wasn’t good slave material in the long run.
I’ve never considered myself to be
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