Lawrence Watt-Evans: Out of This World

One of them saw her and pointed. She let the curtain drop, and her fingers trembled as she did. Her heart was racing, and her chest felt tight with excitement-was this rescue ? Finally? Weren’t those Imperial uniforms?

What should she do?

“All right, in there,” an amplified voice called, “come out with your hands up!”

That answered her question. For the last few weeks she had had lesson after lesson in not resisting-and Walter hadn’t even had a blaster.

She opened the door and edged out, her hands raised, fingers spread, empty palms forward.

Half a dozen blasters were leveled at her by men crouching behind aircars-armored aircars, she realized. Each had a swivel-mounted weapon on top, something vaguely resembling a machine gun; all three of those were pointed at her, as well.

One of the men motioned for her to come forward; nervously, she did.

When she was well clear of the house, a man dashed forward, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her away, across the little front lawn.

“Who else is in there?” another man-an officer, she supposed-barked at her.

“Nobody,” she said. “They’re out working the fields.” She pointed with her thumb in the direction Walter and Beth had gone that morning.

The men exchanged glances.

“They must’ve seen us coming in, or heard us,” someone remarked.

The officer nodded.

“Get her aboard,” he said. “Jonas, Medfield, search the house.”

After that, Amy didn’t get to see much; she was dragged into the back of one of the vehicles and strapped onto a steel bench, sitting up with a purple- clad soldier on either side. A third man was perched in a raised seat nearby, his head and shoulders sticking up through an open hatch-manning the swivel gun, Amy realized. A fourth man sat up front, in the driver’s seat.

A moment later the driver called, “Right,” out a window and threw a lever into position; the car lifted off and began moving, but with the usual almost-indetectible acceleration of anti-gravity vehicles, which made it impossible to judge speed or distance by feel.

From where she sat, Amy’s only view of the outside was through a narrow strip of windshield that was visible between the two high-backed front seats; most of what she could make out through that was either sky or rapidly-passing cornfield, and not enough of either one to mean anything to her.

She heard the whine of anti-gravity engines, the rush of wind, distant shouts, and once the electric hiss of a blaster, but she really had no idea what was going on outside the steel walls of the vehicle.

“What’s happening?” she asked.

“You’re a slave here, right?” the soldier on her right asked.

She nodded.

“Then we’re rescuing you. The Empire’s clearing out this whole planet, bringing it back under civilized control.”

Amy felt a flood of relief; she had hoped, but hadn’t dared believe, that that was what was happening. “Thank you,” she said. She groped for more words, for some way of expressing what she felt, and could only repeat, “Thank you.”

“Hey,” the driver called back, “ask her who else is around here. Whose farm is it? Any other slaves?”

“A man named Walter,” she said. “It’s his farm. And a woman named Beth. She…” She hesitated.

Beth was a slave-but she hadn’t acted the part, had she? She had sided with her master, every time. Beth wasn’t beaten when she talked back. Beth wasn’t raped almost every night. And she hadn’t lifted a finger to stop it when Amy was.

Together, the two of them might have done something against Walter, but Beth had chosen to side with her master.

“She’s his wife,” Amy said.

* * * *

Someone kicked Pel awake; startled, he raised his head.

Pain shot through his neck, which was stiff and bruised from his latest beating.

“It isn’t really time, is it?” someone asked.

“Doesn’t feel like it,” someone else replied.

That was the truth; after three weeks, Pel was fairly well settled into the rhythms of his life in the mines, and it simply didn’t feel like time to get up for breakfast.

Maybe it was just his bruises saying that, though. Reluctantly, he sat up.

“All right, boys,” one of the overseers called. “Line ‘em up and march ‘em out.”

Grumbling, the slaves got themselves up, pulling their stiff, dry pants from the lines, fishing malodorous boots from under cots.

One man refused to stir.

“Hey,” an overseer said, prodding him, “rise and shine, boyo.”

“The hell with breakfast,” the slave said without moving. “I’ll starve today, if it means I can have another ten minutes’ sleep.”

The overseer glanced at his boss, who was standing in the doorway. The head overseer shrugged.

“Listen, Sunshine,” the guard said, “this isn’t breakfast. Wouldn’t be your shift for another two hours. This is special. Everybody out.”

Pel blinked, and hesitated, with one leg in his pants and the other out.

Two hours early? No wonder everyone was sleepy.

What sort of special?

He pulled his pants on.

* * * *

Raven’s third owner had bought him as a personal plaything. He had no duties to carry out; he was simply to be there when Wilf was in the mood to inflict pain.

Wilf was astonished by just how stubborn his new acquisition was. Roland had told him the man was tough, but for someone not yet fully recovered from a serious whipping to take broken bones without even a whimper-that was impressive.

It drove him to greater efforts.

Raven had given up any idea of ingratiating himself with his owners; right now he was far more interested in surviving with his honor intact-honor that was far more important than his bones. To cry out in pain might not be unmanly, and the Goddess knew that any man would cry out if pressed hard enough, yet he was reluctant to give this filthy barbarian the satisfaction.

He knew that he could survive without breaking; it was just a matter of refusing to yield until eventually, his captors would give up.

Eventually, either they would give up, or he would die. He refused to admit any third possibility.

He was watching his new owner’s face, studying the greedy look in his eyes, trying not to think about the pain, when the soldiers burst in.

* * * *

For the long flight away from the farm the soldier on Amy’s left traded places with the driver. The others stayed where they were. Walter and Beth, captured as they fled, were in one of the other vehicles, and Amy was relieved not to see them.

“Hi,” the off-duty driver said, as he belted in.

“Hi,” Amy replied.

“Listen, are you sure there were just the three of you?” he asked. “And that that woman is this Walter Fletcher’s wife?”

“Of course I’m sure,” Amy said. “Why?”

“Oh, well… because she swears she’s a slave, too.”

“She’s lying,” Amy snapped.

The soldier nodded. “I figured she probably was-trying to get off, I suppose.” He shook his head.

“I guess she tried to tell you I was… was that man’s wife?”

“No,” the soldier said. “She wasn’t that stupid; nobody would buy that for a minute, not with that thing you’re wearing, and that shiner, and all those bruises.”

Amy felt an odd mixture of emotions in reaction to the man’s words. He meant to be sympathetic, she was sure, but she was struck by anger, shame, embarrassment, and an uncomfortable sort of righteous self-pity, rather than taking any comfort from his words and presence.

After a moment of awkward silence, she asked, “Where are you taking us?”

The soldier glanced at her, then at the opposite bulkhead and the tangle of equipment that hung there. “Well,” he said, “old Walter’s going to a prison camp-and his wife along with him, I suppose. Keeping slaves is a felony. Beating them is assault-we’ll want to have a doctor check you out, take some photos. You’ll need to give a statement. We aren’t going to bother with full-blown trials here-too many people for ‘em. Besides, the whole planet’s under martial law right now. We’ll hold tribunals, a panel of judges’ll check the evidence and figure out what to do with him.” He shrugged. “He’ll probably be in the camp for a good long time.”