Forty-Four: The Pits
Em Arthur Foster slouched with her head bowed low, almost to her chest. It was easier that way. Her cheeks already burned from the heat that intended no forgiveness, and she was pretty sure a sunburn from two suns would be a son-of-a-bitch worse than one. Besides, she didn’t want to look up anyway–she didn’t want to see their faces.
There were one hundred and twenty-six Earth-dwellers who landed on this forsaken alien planet. One hundred and fifty boarded. Whether they starved or died of dehydration, it didn’t matter. They didn’t go anywhere worse than where Em stood now.
Hell. It was hell. Only the damned had to suffer the heat that made the air so heavy she was getting crushed underneath. Maybe the gravity was different, because Em certainly didn’t gain weight, not with the ship’s rations. They spent weeks crowded like cattle in the cargo bay, and she was not sure what was worse; the putrid smell of shit and unwashed bodies with no room to lay down unless you were willing to do so on another; or standing there, on the platform, waiting for your unknown fate. In the goddamed heat.
A hard, plastic whacking stick hit her arm and she squeezed her eyes shut, wincing, but snapped her chin up.
“Forty-Four.” The voice sounded hefty like he received much different rations than they. Fat bastard probably didn’t know the meaning of ‘ration.’
But that was her, wasn’t it? That was Em’s new name. Forty-Four. They wrote it on her wrist in messy, hurried strokes. She didn’t think they ever bothered to find out her real name at all. And why would they? She wasn’t Em anymore.
“Good health?” A rough, accented voice. She didn’t open her eyes. It was one of them, she could hear it in the clicks at the back of the alien throat. It was uncertain if she should be praying he picked her or not, but Em settled on yes because maybe it would get her out of the sun faster.
“Best. Look at her–all muscles. Still has all her hair. Just needs a little water, that’s all, the bags under her eyes will go away,” the Fat Man said.
The sudden pop of impact made Em grit her teeth, but it wasn’t on her. She dared to open an eye to see an extraordinarily large, cloaked figure standing over the Fat Man, whose arm was still up in defense, but it seemed in vain because a vibrant red mark already raised up on his flushed cheek.
If I burn, you burn, fuckface.
“Don’t try to sell me youth as muscle,” the Tall Man said calmly. The way he pronounced his ’r’s truly showed how unnatural English was for them.
“She’s disease-free!” the Fat Man cried, and it sounded less like a sales pitch than it did a plea. “Still has a good forty-fifty years ahead of her!”
“If you could guarantee me years, I’d take every young you have,” the Tall Man said. He looked at her–or at least she thought he did, no part of his face was visible behind the wrappings, not even his eyes. She realized she was staring. “When was she last fed?”
“Just hours ago.” The Fat Man cautiously straightened up, but his hand hovered slightly away from his body in anticipation of having to defend himself again.
“Does she speak English?” The Tall Man asked.
“Girl!” The Fat Man turned to her, all anger and ready to take out his damaged pride on a woman who stood half a foot below his height. “Do you understand him?”
“Yes,” Em said, and lowered her eyes again. If he was going to hit her, she didn’t want to watch him do it and have him mistake that for defiance.
“When was the last time you ate?” the Tall Man addressed her. “You lie to me, and I will strike you.”
What could she say? If she confirmed the Fat Man’s words then maybe he would be pleased and wouldn’t slap her. But that would be a lie. And if the stranger knew she was lying he would hit her. It was safer to tell him it’d been a couple hours.
“A day ago,” she said quietly, the words taking her by surprise. Em couldn’t even be sure that was the truth, time passed differently when you didn’t have a watch or the sun… well, not a regular sun. Not a real sun.
Although, these were her real suns now. She would never see the one again. The thought should have made her sick. Upset at the very least. But it didn’t feel like it mattered. What mattered was not getting hit and finding–
Another slap, this time it sounded louder and crisper. The Fat Man didn’t react fast enough, and his head was involuntarily snapped right toward Em. The Tall Man’s hand was still raised, leather gloves pulled over his four fingers.
Four fingers.
Em caught her breath and lowered her eyes, preparing.
“Next time you want to pass them off as healthy, keep them fed,” the Tall Man said, lowering his hand. It didn’t sound like his words came from a place of kindness, more like he didn’t like the false advertising. His voice was so even, Em was amazed the slavers would try to pass anything by him. It was downright terrifying, the way he unceremoniously hurt the Fat Man. She wondered if the next one would be like him. She hoped not, her muscles had been tensely locked the entire time.
“Next,” the Tall Man said, not waiting for the Fat Man to recover, and turned to walk on toward Forty-Five. The slaver gave her a poisonous glare that said they would revisit this later, and Em regretted opening her mouth.
It felt like hours, but her prayers were answered and dark brown clouds like those made from the factory smoke stretched over the suns. Was it evening? Although, maybe the sun didn’t set here at all. Wouldn’t that be a hoot.
Ten more men came accompanied by slavers. All wore some variations of the fully enveloping cloaks. After the first three, Em did not bother to look at their faces–she couldn’t see a single one. The other slavers did not look in her direction or try to ask her questions, although one did use his baton to poke her roughly in the boob. How he’d guessed it was under there beneath the boxy canvas sack they called clothing, she’d never know.
A ripple of voices somewhere down the line caught her attention, and Em finally looked up, twisting her neck to better see beyond the masses of half naked, sunken bodies–both those of women and of men.
They were coming back around.
But this time, they were taking people.
Just when she thought she’d gone numb and accepted whatever was coming, Em’s heart set off in her chest. Don’t panic now, damn it. You’ve made it this far and already had a good fifty cries on the way–godamnit don’t cry in front of the Fat Man.
He was coming down the line ahead of the others. His plastic baton raised at the ready, he glowered at the slaves with self importance. Snap! A stifled cry. Someone was not holding out their wrist when he came by. Em miserably raised hers, not looking up. Maybe he already forgot her. Maybe someone else made him mad.
It’s kind of funny, but not in a way that made her laugh. When Em was little, she played make-believe holding a rusty pipe like a sword and slaying the heaps of smelly rags like they were monsters. One time she fought a refrigerator with no door. She was so brave–a real eight year old badass. If there was a prince worth a shit she would be rescuing him. Now, barefoot and dressed in a long shirt crusty with her own sweat and piss, she thought how ridiculous bravery seemed. No one was going anywhere. They were on an alien planet, and all they were back on Earth had been stripped away–their pasts, their families, even their names. There was no bravery when faced with true horror. The bravest thing any of them could do now was die.
“Forty-Four!” The wheezy growl of a man who’d done too much walking was followed with a painful grip on her shoulder, and she was roughly thrown out of line. “Follow.”
There were two women already shuffling behind him with their heads down. Dirty, matted hair stuck to their scalps and shoulders, and they walked far enough apart not to touch. Space was a luxury after the cargo bay.
Em fell in line after them.
The Fat Man called out two more numbers, Sixty-Six who was a man, and Eighty-Nine who was a woman. The five of them seemed around the same age, although Eighty-Nine had slight wrinkles at the corners of her eyes. Em chose to think it was because she used to smile so much. Then, that the wrinkle would smooth out soon in this place.
It was still very, very hot.
And Em’s feet were very, very dirty.
“You sure you don’t want to grab another? I’ll do a discount of ten percent for every five years above thirty,” the Fat Man told someone.
She dared to look up. Before them was a large, covered platform. A cloaked man stood next to groups of people clustered together. Some had ropes on their wrists–some wore weathered collars. None would meet her eyes.
“Peddle your defective to the farmers.” It was a voice she recognized immediately. The Tall Man. “Go collect your pay, and show that one to a bucket.”
The woman ahead of her was whining quietly as she rubbed her knees together. The Fat Man grunted something aggressive, but grabbed the woman by the arm and dragged her to the back anyway. When she returned, her face was red and swollen on one side.
A pair of hands noosed a tight rope around her wrists. They, too, had four fingers.
“Forty-Four,” the pair of hands said, surprisingly upbeat. She wasn’t sure if it was a greeting, but she looked up anyway. Another cloaked man. This time, he was close enough she could see a sliver of skin above the wrappings. It was dark, almost purple, and almost human. He had completely black, reptilian eyes. She shuddered. This was the first time she’d seen any part of them.
She nodded, as if he’d asked her a question. Perhaps he had, because he moved on.
Em wondered how many more times she had to hear that god-forsaken number. It just reminded her of the girl that already died, back on the ship, as they were being loaded. At the exact moment she realized it was truly happening. The sun was shining–just the one–and it was not as bad because it was winter. There was light frost on the metal doors of the ship, and the ramp was slippery and cold. Someone behind her was complaining and someone else was asking if they’d get to pick their own seats. Em couldn’t believe she used to live with these people. Could they not see the letters ‘CARGO HOLD’ above the doors? That’s what they were. Cargo. Nothing more.
“Listen up!”
She sheepishly tested how much slack the rope tethering her to the next person had. It wasn’t much. The man speaking was the same one who put it on. The Tall Man stood behind him with his arms crossed, and three more to his side. Five captors, five prisoners. Not enough fingers.
“You will not speak to a veselli unless spoken to,” the Purple Man began. “You will put on the clothes you’re provided and clean yourself up. If you must relieve yourself, you will raise your hand and not–I repeat–not just soil yourself. You will not drink a drop of water unless you have taken the medicine provided to you in the mornings. You will walk in a straight line as commanded, and you will stop when you are told. You will eat what you are given, and you will sleep where assigned. Should you forget any of these rules, you will be punished. Should you break any of them, you will be denied their privilege. If it happens more than once, you will be killed.”
Em could hear the hard swallows next to her. Her own throat was painfully dry.
“We are the law when we travel. You will address each of us as ‘Master.’ You will only answer in English,” he continued. “Vesloran is law above all laws. You will not speak to the Vesloran. You will not look at the Vesloran.”
Were they supposed to know what those words meant? There wasn’t exactly a crash course on being a slave. From what Em gathered, veselli either meant ‘people’ or ‘guards,’ but Vesloran was harder. She wished she’d finished Spanish in highschool, maybe she could pull a lick of meaning out of that and keep herself from being killed.
Ledger
Three: Meriel
Twenty-One: April
Forty-Four: Em
Sixty-six: Greg
Eighty-Nine: ???
