Lawrence Watt-Evans: Out of This World

“Beth told me he killed a girl,” Amy said. She wasn’t sure why she was telling him this, but the words spilled out. “Her name was Sheila. They buried her out back, Beth said-I saw the grave.”

The soldier frowned, and stared at Amy for a moment. She returned his stare, unflinching.

She wasn’t sure why she had told him, but she had, and it was true. If it meant Walter would be imprisoned longer, that was fine, it was what the son of a bitch deserved.

“That’s murder,” the soldier said at last. “If that’s true, old Walter’s going to hang. Or maybe they’ll just shoot him, to save time. And his wife’s an accomplice, I suppose, so she’ll get the same.”

“How’ll they know?” Amy asked. “I mean, I don’t think he and Beth are going to tell the judges about that.”

“You’ll put it in your statement. The grave will be there, if it’s true.”

It was not a question, saying she would put it in her statement. It was definitely not a question, and even after fighting Walter, Amy knew she did not dare to refuse. She bit her lower lip.

Hang Walter? And Beth?

She hadn’t meant that to happen, not really. She hated Walter, but…

Well, why the hell not, if they’d really killed Sheila? Why shouldn’t the bastard hang?

But Beth hadn’t killed anyone.

She would have to think very carefully about what she would put in her statement.

“What about me?” she asked.

“You,” the soldier said, leaning back with his hands behind his head, “are on your way to what they call a repatriation center, where they’ll sort you out and send you home-or if they can’t do that, at least send you somewhere .”

“Uh… where?”

He glanced at her. “You have any family? Anyone who’d be looking for you? Friends who might take you in?”

“Not in the Galactic Empire,” Amy said bitterly.

“Well, where the heck are you from , then?” the soldier demanded. “You second-generation or something?”

“I’m from a planet called Earth,” Amy said. “In another universe.” She shrugged. “Not that I expect anyone to believe that.”

The soldier froze and stared at her. On her other side, the other soldier, who had been lounging and listening half-heartedly, sat up and stared as well.

“What did you say your name was?” the soldier on the right asked, fishing a clipboard out from under the bench.

“I didn’t,” Amy said. “It’s Amethyst Beryl Jewell. Amy Jewell.”

The man stared at the paper on the clipboard, then made a fizzing noise and said feelingly, “Son of a bitch . She’s on here. Amy Jewell.” He looked up at Amy. “Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

“I didn’t know it mattered,” she said timidly.

“Shit,” he said. He looked down at the clipboard, then flipped a few pages. “Okay, if you’re Amy Jewell,” he said, “what was the last thing you ate before leaving Earth?”

Amy blinked.

Before leaving Earth?

Before her three weeks with Beth and Walter?

Before she was marched naked across a stage and auctioned off?

Before she was locked aboard a pirate spaceship for days on end?

Before those boring, pointless days wasted on Emerald Princess ?

Before sitting out on that white sand desert for hours, freezing?

Before fleeing from black, monstrous creatures that had appeared practically from nowhere?

Before she had stepped through a concrete wall and found herself in a rather cold, damp corner of Fairyland?

Before taking five minutes to see another reality, five minutes that had turned into more than a month of Hell?

How the hell was she supposed to remember that far back, remember that other life, when everything had been safe and sane and she had been free and in control of her own life? That was another universe entirely.

But of course, she did remember, which was, she supposed, the whole point.

“Pizza,” she said.

“That’s it,” the soldier agreed. He flipped the pages back and tossed the clipboard aside, then leaned forward, between the two front seats. “Hey, Bill,” he called to the driver, “we got a hot one here! Straight to the port!”

The new driver glanced back. “You serious?”

“Absolutely,” the other replied.

“You got it,” Bill said. He turned the wheel and began tapping at switches.

The others sat back and stared at Amy.

“You, my dear,” the one on the left said, “are on your way to Base One.”

* * * *

They marched into the refectory in single file, but instead of taking seats they marched straight on, through the kitchen doors, through the courtyard, through the great black sliding door into a much larger yard, where a line of airbuses stood, surrounded by various smaller but equally wheelless vehicles, all of them at least partially purple, and crewed by men in purple uniforms. Blasters were much in evidence.

Another line of men was there, as well, coming along the central passageway from the mineshaft, through the other door of the refectory, the other door to the kitchen; at the door to the first courtyard the two lines merged into one.

They were being loaded onto the ‘buses, Pel realized, all the slaves-the other line was the men of Red Shift.

One of them was Elmer Soorn, the crewman from Ruthless , Pel realized with a shock. He had never known that anyone else from the party captured on Emerald Princess was at this mine; the only part of Red Shift he ever saw was the gang that his own gang shared their shaft with.

And at the sight of the purple uniforms, Soorn began cheering.

The others stared at him at first, not comprehending; then someone else joined in, and a moment later all the slaves were whooping and shouting.

Dazed, battered, still sleepy, Pel was slow to understand, but at last it sank in.

Those were Imperial uniforms. Those were the soldiers of the Galactic Empire, and the Galactic Empire had outlawed slavery.

He didn’t need to worry about escaping. He didn’t need to be the hero. He could just be a minor character, somewhere in the background, while other people dealt with Shadow and Earth and the Empire.

They were rescued. The Galactic Empire had come for them at last.

Finally, they were rescued.

They had offered him a set of fatigues, but Pel had kept his gray miner’s pants. He had accepted a military-issue T-shirt, though-purple, of course, but comfortable and practical. Thus outfitted, he had settled in aboard one of the spaceships to wait while the other survivors from other universes were gathered.

Several ships were collecting freed slaves; two of them, however, were special. The passengers and crew from the Emerald Princess were being taken aboard one particular ship, where they would be treated, questioned, and taken home; the people from Earth, from Shadow’s universe, or from I.S.S. Ruthless were all sent to another.

It was a big ship, a military ship, and when the soldiers took him aboard they led him to a large room apparently intended for meetings or briefings of some sort. A long metal table stood at one end, with a row of chairs behind it, and a dozen uneven rows of folding chairs faced it from elsewhere.

Prossie Thorpe was there, behind the table, back in uniform, checking each person as he or she was brought aboard. She smiled at Pel.

Captain Cahn was there, also in uniform, but he was not behind the table. He was obviously not in command. Not only was he not in command of the rescue force, he did not seem to even be in command of himself. One side of his face was a huge purple bruise, the cheekbone obviously broken, lips swollen, drool seeping from the corner of his mouth; he sat motionless near the back, saying nothing, barely moving at all.