“That’s the place, Sunshine. You’ll be just one more hamster in the giant Habitrail.”
Tilly knew she would not be singing in a choir or dancing in a stage play. They were shipping her off to the Moon, to dance for men that never shaved, showered, or spoke a sentence without using a cuss word. She had a girlfriend who’d told her that her mother had said that the miners were all a bunch of thugs. She thought it incredible that they would put a teenage female in harm’s way like that. Thugs. If things got out of hand, she vowed to open up the first pressure hatch she found and step outside.
“It’s not so bad,” said Frampton. “Those hardworking brutes could use a cute little cheerleader like you to brighten their day. I know I’d love it.”
She felt bile rise in her throat. Then she began to make high-pitched wheezing noises. She always did that before she vomited.
Chapter 2
Tilly stood in a long line of other Sunflower females, kids aged thirteen to nineteen. The long corridor consisted of a series of stations, cubicles enclosed by portable dividers. Further down the corridor, Tilly spied a large silver container that looked like a walk-in refrigerator. She heard animalistic squeals coming from the vicinity of the structure, and after a moment, realized it was the high-pitched cries of girls. She drew a ragged breath. It seemed like her ankles would buckle at any moment. What, by all that was holy and decent, could make kids cry out in fear? Classical music, piped in from ceiling panels, suddenly raised in volume and masked out the cries.
Tilly began to count the girls behind her. All of them wore street clothes. Most had their heads down; some whispered; a few clasped hands and stared ahead with open mouths. She counted sixty-two girls before the bodies blurred into an indistinct mass. Guards were evenly spaced every twenty girls or so. Counting the one ahead of her, they totaled five. Although they had their crash visors down, they appeared to be all males, judging from their height and body mass. They all held sting wands by their sides.
“They call the guards, bulls,” said the girl behind her, “in case you were wondering. I’m Dorothy Prospect—S7 from Sylvania, New Jersey.”
“Nice to know you,” said Tilly, turning around to look at the redhead, who had an attractive, makeup-free face, with a height two inches shorter than Tilly’s five-ten. “You’ve gone through this before, then?”
“No, just heard about it from a couple of kids who served out their terms. The lucky ones get picked up. You have pretty hair. If it’s dyed platinum, they’ll cook it out to your natural color. Better take off any pelvic jewelry, too. You don’t want a bull’s fat thumbs down there. The line should move after a buzzer.”
Tilly shivered. “Thanks for the warning. I’m clean. Couldn’t afford any bling in the projects, anyway. I’m naturally light blond, so they’d better keep their hands off it.”
A buzzer sounded overhead. The line pushed forward. The bulls waved their sting wands. “Just walk through and present your right forearm,” said the nearest bull. “Don’t slow down—keep up with the flow.”
A plap…plap…plap sound came from behind a partition. A few shrieks split the air. Tilly walked around a corner and received a popgun vaccination in her forearm before she could blink. She gasped and massaged the spot. They removed her Omnicomp from her wrist that contained her DNA cube and bio/history wafer.
“Remove all wearing apparel,” came the order over a speaker.
The girls stripped down at the next staging area, amidst a chorus of groans and protests. Some of the girls refused to disrobe in front of the bulls. They had their clothes removed by force. Tilly shimmied out of her clothes, not wanting the same treatment. She damned those eyes behind the gold visors, but kept her face straight and mouth shut. One girl, tears streaming down her face, peed on the floor. They hauled her out of line and took her through an unmarked side door.
“Where’d they assign you, Dorothy?” asked Tilly, her voice cracking. She shook her forearm several times, trying to relieve the pain.
“They wouldn’t tell me. I heard rumors about some Arab sheik importing a workforce of about fifty Sunflowers. If I’m going that way, I’ll end up in housecleaning or washing dishes. They might even have me swabbing out toilets. How ‘bout you?”
“Mining colony—Tranquility Harbor. She lowered her voice. “They said I’ll be dancing for the Prairie Dogs.”
“The flippin’ Moon? Major way. Aren’t you a little young for that, even with the no-touch rule?”
“I’m seventeen—legal age. They’re going to do whatever they want with us, whether we like it or not.”
They removed all their personal jewelry at the next station. Several adult female aides unclipped, yanked, and unscrewed the baubles. Tilly had to wait until the line moved on, since she wore nothing of value except for the requisite tin tag around her neck.
Next they entered a large refrigerator-looking container, forty feet long and twelve feet wide. Twenty girls were herded inside. The door closed just as an overhead speaker boomed, “Hands stretched to the ceiling, eyes closed.” Everyone obeyed, amid moans and whimpering. No bulls remained with them. Strangely enough, the cramped box resembled the inside of Tilly’s container home, save that her home had cutout windows and steel dividers that sectioned off tiny rooms.
“I think this is delousing,” said Dorothy.
The next moment brought a series of bright strobe lights that Tilly saw even through her closed eyelids. She looked down, chancing a peek at the floor. Next she felt a hum and vibration that reached a high-pitched intensity, followed by an electronic snap. Her pubic hair disappeared in a flash and puff of acrid smoke. She jumped. Her under arms and legs burned with a searing heat. She bit her tongue down against the pain.
Silence. The interior lights flicked on. A door opened at the far side of the container.
“Move it out,” said a bull.
As they stepped out, a female aid slapped a dollop of cream between their legs. They walked through an umbrella of spray jets that shot a mist of perfume over their bodies, which stung the sensitive flesh. The next station contained a row of seated aides, equipped with eight-inch pistol-grip injection needles. Tilly could already hear the girls screaming from the punctures. Two girls bolted from the line and ran down the hall. Bulls intercepted them and carried them kicking and screaming through a side entrance. Another girl fainted, but a bull revived her and frog marched her to the end of the line.
“Do you know what this is?” asked Tilly, wide-eyed.
“Implants,” said Dorothy, and her demeanor began to crack. Perspiration appeared on her upper lip and her eyes looked dilated. “The chip on the end of the needle is driven into the leg and stapled onto the leg bone. It sends out a radio frequency or something, so they know where you are at all times.”
As if anybody could escape from this place. When her turn came, Tilly stepped up to the aide’s chair and braced her right thigh.
“Personal Code number,” said the aide, looking like a ghoul with a horribly stretched face and protruding teeth.
“Uh…” Tilly flipped the tag up and read it slowly. “S-9-5-5-5-3-6-5.”
“Funny, you don’t look like a nine.”
Tilly clenched her jaw. Neither do you, horse face.
The needle drove into her leg, nearly to the hilt. Tilly bit down on her tongue against the sharp pain. It felt as though someone had hit her leg bone with a hammer. She heard a click, then the aide withdrew the needle, slapped an alcohol patch on her leg and shoved her forward. “Next!”
“Broken catheter on station five—reroute the line,” said an aide. A pitiful whine followed, then, “Arrrgh, you’re killing me!”
Tilly tried to shake the pain from her leg, feeling it numbing. The urge to scream out was strong but she doubted she had the breath to do so. Some of the girls looked back in her direction, their faces brimmed with tears.
Tilly clenched hands with Dorothy in a feeble attempt to reestablish some kind of humanity. But even that simpl
e gesture was nixed when a bull came up behind her and placed a sting rod between the cleavage of her buttocks.
“Break it up, you two. Single file only.”
“It just makes me feel better,” said Tilly. “You’re scaring us half out of our minds.”
“I’ll count down from three…three…two—”
Dorothy straightened Tilly out and pushed her ahead. The next station comprised a row of curtained cubicles. When Tilly entered, she saw a padded incline bench and foot stirrups. A bull made a brusque motion with his baton for her to enter. Her legs nearly gave out as she approached the bench. She slid onto the foam pad, biting her lips, shaking uncontrollably. A young male sat at the foot of the bench, dressed in a white smock and wearing plastic gloves. When she squeezed her eyes shut, a tear rolled down her cheek. She recited her code number when the bull asked for it. Hands invaded her, probing the walls of her vagina. She wanted to cry out, damn her father, damn FTALC and all else in the world. But she endured, and what took mere seconds, seemed like hours in a slow, humiliating inspection. The young male examiner said, “You’re good to go.”
Tilly slid off the bench and limped to the slit in the curtain. She turned back, cursing through the side of her mouth, loud enough for the guard to hear. “Bastards.” She had just endured a clumsy pelvic exam administered by a teenage boy. She felt helpless to know the reason for it, after having been laser-scanned and X-rayed. Surely they would have found anything abnormal with those inspections. She waited for Dorothy outside the curtained room, and took up a position in line in front of her. The line moved toward a circular rotunda that had a main check-in station in front of a row of labeled doors.
“That was disgusting, Dorothy,” Tilly spat. “There was no reason for it!”
“Wouldn’t do any good to lodge a complaint.” Dorothy’s brow glistened with sweat. “That dumb-ass kid fished around inside of me like he was looking for buried treasure or something. Maybe a contraband check, maybe a V-check? Who the hell knows in this place! I’ve never felt so damn naked in all my life.”
Tilly knew what she meant. There wasn’t much use in palming their pelvises and throwing a forearm across their breasts. The whole thing was a freak show designed to demean and humiliate. Step out of line, question authority, or defying regulations meant swift retribution—a trip to an anteroom, where God only knew what waited for them. She had good ole dad to thank for every bit of this horror show, and wouldn’t have had a clue of what to expect if not for Dorothy’s limited knowledge.
Eight clerks stood behind the curved check-in counter. Tilly saw an illuminated placard hanging from the ceiling that read, ASSIGNMENTS. Guide ropes led up to a turnstile, where girls waited their turn to approach a clerk. After completion with the clerk, Tilly watched the girls walk through their assigned doors. Each door had a number stamped above it, ranging from one to fifteen.
“Looks like this is where we lose each other,” said Dorothy, her voice wavering. “Unless we get lucky. At least you know where you’re going.”
“It doesn’t make it any easier,” Tilly said, the fear and loneliness rising again. “Too bad we couldn’t pick our own door. I’d want the one to freedom.”
“Ugh, they’ve got this down to a science. It’s like an airport terminal with torture chambers.”
When Tilly stepped up behind the turnstile, she wondered if Frampton’s guess that she was headed for the Moon was right. When asked, she recited her code number to the clerk. Her worst fear was realized when the clerk handed her a printed slip that read, Tranquility Harbor Mining Base, Entertainment Division—Block 41. The slip had a number stenciled on it. She looked for door 13 and headed toward it. She wanted so badly to stall and wait for Dorothy but a bull made sure the girls did not dally on the way. Tilly entered door 13 and walked down a hallway to find another short line that led into a large rectangular room. A stainless steel counter took up one wall. A dozen aides stood behind the counter, swiftly dispersing clothing satchels.
“Code number and slip,” said the aide when Tilly stepped up.
“S-9-5-5-5-3-6-5,” Tilly enunciated, surprised she still remembered it, and handed the slip over.
“This slip is your boarding pass,” said the aide, slinging a satchel on the counter and returning the hole-punched slip. “Dress-out in the next room then follow the yellow line. You have five minutes to change out.”
Tilly could not help looking inside the satchel before she entered the dressing room. No wonder they allowed five minutes for a change-out. The sack contained seven one-piece, white latex body suits adorned with FTALC breast patches. A press-on sunflower emblem occupied both shoulder regions. Slip-on, yellow deck shoes, with socks, and seven pairs of cotton panties completed the ensemble. No bra, but the one-piece suit contained reinforced cups, presumably her exact size.
Two bulls hurried the proceedings along, jabbing their sting wands at anyone who appeared too slow. Two girls helped another one corral her breasts into the suit before they used a double effort to zipper it up. Tilly had her suit and shoes on in three minutes, God-almighty thankful for the coverings. When she saw Dorothy Prospect enter the dressing room, she thought her heart would leap out of her chest. Their eyes met with a mental Eureka. Tilly slipped through the crowd to get next to her.
“I’m totally doped I got the Moon assignment,” said Dorothy, trying to get her legs into the suit. “I had to look at my slip three times just to make sure. I’m scullery, kitchen detail, Block 41. If it’s bad, at least I’ll have a friend close by.”
Tilly helped Dorothy into her suit. “I’m Block 41 too. And yeah, at least we’ll go through it together. I never asked you how long you were in for. I’m in for six months.”
“Lucky you,” Dorothy puffed. “I just turned seventeen. I’m in for four years—special circumstances.”
Tilly stiffened. Four years. That seemed like a death sentence. “How in the name of--” her words were cut short when a bull separated the two with his sting wand. “Get moving,” he growled. “You don’t want to be late for launch and held over. Follow the yellow line out to the tarmac. Take your Dramamine-3 aboard the mag-bus, if you’re prone to motion sickness.”
Late for launch. Then it was really happening. Destination: a quarter of a million miles from home, leaving a little place behind called pier J, Long Island, container 121. Where she was headed, she wouldn’t be running up and down a muddy shoreline collecting hermit crabs, barking back at the seals or watching seagulls scribble lines in the sky. No more breaths of sweet, salt air in the morning. It was never much of a home, but at least a home where she could escape outside and come and go as she pleased. Now home would be a pressurized Habitrail city filled with dirty Prairie Dogs.
Tilly watched the maglift bus stop just short of the launch pad. Four moon shuttles sat in supine positions, looking like delta wing darts encased in bronze sconces. Vaporous gases escaped from the rear engine vents, billowing into a light mist.
The bulls ushered the twenty girls off the bus. One called out, “Form a line; call out your names and code numbers, starting with the first in line.”
It took a while to get through the identification process. A few of girls choked up and gave the wrong code numbers. A few others stood mute, mesmerized by the rocket gantry and steaming exhaust.
They surrendered their boarding slips. A flight coordinator led the way underneath the launch gantry. They arrived at an elevator lift that led to their personal moon shuttle: Aphrodite 009.
Whisked up to the gantry platform, they entered the shuttle passenger cabin and took seats in accelerator couches. Tilly took a window seat, staring at the decor inside--plush by anyone’s standards. The bulkheads gleamed with bright paint, lines and patterns of gold, orange and white. The single aisle carpet gawked blood red. Dorothy sat next to Tilly, activating the monitor in the back of the seat in front of her. They watched a three-minute orientation, explaining emergency procedures, flight rules, and a quick description of the s
hip’s emergency exits.
Dorothy removed a sack from the seat pouch and wedged it between her legs, and then glanced at Tilly. “I always need a gak bag for stuff like this. I’m just letting you know ahead of time.”
“Spew away, girl. I’ve been on enough boats in my life to break me in. I don’t get motion sickness.”
Till pulled a tourist flight packet from a side pouch and began to read a random subject topic: Tranquility Harbor—Your Home Away from Home.
Greetings, traveler! We hope you will enjoy your stay at our Tranquility Harbor Facility, your premiere vacation destination. Our pressure domes are guaranteed to keep you safe and sound while you browse our many shops, restaurants and entertainment spots. Don’t worry about one-sixth gravity. Our complex foundation is electromagnetically controlled in conjunction with the dome superstructure. Our patented anti-gravity wave force field will keep your feet firmly planted on Luna firma. What’s more, we offer are residents the finest in…
Tilly shoved the packet back into its pouch. She wasn’t in the mood for propaganda. Right now, she was concerned about a flight that would break the outer reaches of the atmosphere. She hadn’t even taken an Earth flight that spanned over 100 miles, let alone one that would take her clean off the planet and into the bowels of space.
A cabin speaker crackled, then a meca voice filled the passenger cabin. “Hands on your arm supports, heads back, spread the legs.”
Tilly assumed the position. A switch snapped from underneath her seat. Air bladders crawled out of their niches and enveloped the girls around the torsos and thighs, snuggling them tight into their couches. The crushing force of the bladders nearly took Tilly’s breath way, but her arms were free and she had remembered to relieve herself on the bus, a pre-flight stipulation.
The cabin lights dimmed. The profile of the shuttle shifted, turning up to vertical axis. Once in the upright position, the cabin lights extinguished. Something cracked like thunder outside, a shudder rose up through the floorboards, followed by a shimmy. A powerful G-force shoved Tilly into her couch, waggling her head. She clenched her teeth then heard a ghastly roar. Her head pinned, she could only move her eyes. She looked out the window and saw the tarmac lights disappearing from view, until they were mere specks, and then gone completely. Misty patches of light, that were cities below, sank from her view as though swallowed by a drain. Her face muscles shook with spasms. When she tried to talk, the noise came out a gargle. She heard a snap, followed by the deflation of her seat bladder. Her world faded to black.
The Girl They Sold to the Moon Page 2