Lawrence Watt-Evans - Out of This World

This was worse than death, worse than the gallows or firing squad. He trembled, and might have screamed if one of his guards hadn’t jerked him back and shoved a gag in his mouth.

The stage was lit, but so was the audience; he was on display, but this was no play, no mere performance.

An announcer stood behind a lectern at the far side of the stage. “Lot Number One,” he called, “a healthy adult male, age and history uncertain. What am I bid?”

* * * *

Raven stood straight and proud as the auctioneer called out the bids. He thrust out his chest, threw back his shoulders, and set his jaw.

If he were sold as a mere farmhand or miner he would stand no chance of gaining authority’s ear. Were he to be bought as a conscript for the guard, as a bodyguard perhaps, or as someone’s personal attendant, his chances were that much better.

He had heard the bidding on other men, and he allowed himself a smile when he heard the auctioneer call out, “Four hundred! Four hundred and ten! Do I hear… I have four hundred and ten!”

The smile broadened when he heard a woman’s voice from the audience and the bid jumped to four twenty-five.

None of the others ahead of him had gone for so much. He had guessed that four hundred was the ceiling for simple labor. If he went for more than that…

* * * *

Amy could hear the remarks as she was led out.

“No yearling this time, hey?”

“Drooping a little.”

“Is this somebody’s grandmother?”

She started to react, to glare at the audience, then stopped herself. This wasn’t some stupid movie; acting up wouldn’t impress anyone with her spunk. It would probably just get her a whack from one of those damned billy clubs.

Just as arguing with Stan hadn’t impressed him, hadn’t cowed him, hadn’t won him over, hadn’t gotten an apology. It just got her hit and finished off the ruins of their marriage.

The lights were on the audience as well as the stage, so that bids could be spotted, and Amy looked out at the bidders, but she didn’t glare, didn’t make any stupid defiant gestures. This was no movie.

If it were a movie, of course, rescue would probably arrive right about now. And there were so many things about this that seemed unreal-castles and monsters and spaceships-that why shouldn’t there be a last-minute rescue? All those Imperial troopers in their spiffy purple uniforms ought to be good for something , and surely Prossie Thorpe had had plenty of time to send a telepathic cry for help.

In fact, why hadn’t help already come?

She had glimpsed Prossie Thorpe briefly in the showers and in the drying room; she should have asked. She had been busy with Rachel, though, and when she had looked elsewhere it had been at Susan and her mysterious vanishing handbag, or the passengers off the Princess banging on the door.

Mostly she had paid attention to Rachel. Now she and Rachel had been separated by the guards anyway, to be auctioned off individually.

The thought of that poor little girl being sold like an animal was ghastly. It couldn’t be allowed. Something would have to happen to prevent it.

Prossie Thorpe was the only hope, though. Did the pirates and slavers know that Prossie was a telepath? They were treating her like anyone else. Did they have some way of blocking her telepathy?

How would they know what she was? How could they block something that could work between universes?

Help had to be coming. It had to be on the way.

But there was no sign of it. She was standing naked on a bare stage, about to be auctioned off, and she could see the cracks in the plaster walls, could smell the cologne someone in the front row was wearing, could hear someone whispering, but she couldn’t see or hear or smell any sign that anyone was coming to save her. No ships rumbling overhead, no soldiers shouting, just rustling clothes and muttered asides, and somewhere behind her the clink of manacles.

“What am I bid?” the auctioneer called, and the moment of silence before the reply was the most embarrassing few seconds in Amy’s entire life.

* * * *

Pel wondered how much two hundred and eighty crowns actually was. It didn’t sound like very much.

But then, why should he be worth much? Somehow he didn’t think a place like this would have much use for a marketing consultant, and without that he was just another warm body, another set of not-very-developed muscles.

He didn’t put up any fight when his new owner came and collected him; he was so relieved to be off that stage, away from all those staring eyes, that he was almost glad to see the man who had paid two hundred and eighty crowns for him. The whole experience had been exhausting, terrifying, unbearable; he was more certain than ever that he had somehow found himself captive in Hell.

Rachel-would they auction Rachel off that way?

Who would buy a six-year- old girl, and why?

He was so involved with his own thoughts, with trying to keep them away from certain subjects, that he barely noticed when he was loaded into an airbus, barely noticed when he was turned over to someone else, when he was led into the mineshaft, when the manacles were removed.

The overseer had to slap him to get his attention.

“All right, new boy,” he said. “You listening now?”

Pel nodded, gently touching his stinging cheek.

“You’re new, you don’t seem too bright, we’ll keep it simple for you. Those guys over there are breaking rock; your job is getting that rock off the floor and into the carts, so we can get it out of here. You can use your hands, or if you ask nice we’ll give you a shovel.” The overseer glowered at him, hands on hips, the overhead light emphasizing his downturned features with streaks of shadow.

Pel took the hint. “Please, sir,” he said, “may I have a shovel?”

One of the workers at the rockface grinned and kicked a shovel over toward Pel; it clattered loudly in the enclosed space. Watching the overseer’s face, ready to duck or drop the shovel, Pel cautiously picked it up.

The overseer gave a snort and turned away.

Pel, holding the shovel but not moving, watched him go. He made no move to smash in the overseer’s skull with the edge of the shovel; the urge was there, at least slightly, but he knew it would do no good. It couldn’t be that easy.

Then the overseer was out of sight and the opportunity had passed.

“Hey, new boy,” one of the workers called. “You got a name?”

“Pel,” Pel admitted, turning.

“I’m Jack. You really stupid, or just confused?”

“Disoriented, mostly,” Pel answered.

“Yeah. I figured. Well, it’s not really all that bad here; we get food and shelter and as long as we get the ore out they don’t bother us. You’ll get clothes, too.”

Pel registered for the first time that the other men-there were half a dozen in sight-wore pants and boots. No shirts-but then, the mineshaft was hot. Sweat gleamed on every side in the light of the four electric work-lights that hung from the shaft’s ceiling.

“They’ll give you your duds at supper tonight,” Jack told him. “After we change shifts. You do the first day naked to remind you that you ain’t worth shit, but after that they’d just as soon you didn’t get scratched up.”

“We change shifts?” Pel asked.

Jack nodded. “We got two shifts, twelve hours each, work here; meals before and after, and they send down food and water around mid-shift.”

“Are we…” Pel swallowed; his throat was suddenly dry. “Are we the day shift or the night shift?”

Jack smiled. “Neither one; guess you are new. Local day is something like seventeen hours, so everybody just ignores it; all the clocks are on Terran time.”