by Sean Danker
She was quietly humming an Evagardian pop song that was horribly overplayed across the entire galaxy at the moment.
She removed the circles of starch from the heat, then distributed the yellow mixture among them. Next, she rolled them into tight, cylindrical bundles, then put them back on the heat, placing them so they stayed shut.
It took her perhaps a minute to clean up her utensils; then she switched off the heat and took a bowl of something red from the cooler and put it on the table. She tipped the three cylinders onto a plate and rejoined us at the table.
“Don’t make this weird,” she warned, holding up the controller and giving us a threatening look.
We both tried to look cooperative.
“Okay,” she said, her eyes flicking between us. “You’re cuter,” she said to Sei. “So you’re first. Did someone hit you?” she asked, looking at his blackening eye. “Whatever. I don’t want to know.” She picked up a cylinder, removed the cover from the bowl, and dipped it in the sauce, which appeared to contain some finely chopped vegetable matter.
It was an awkward arrangement, but the cylindrical design of Nora’s breakfast made it easy for her to feed it to us. It was good; the starch covering was crispy and, I suspected, genuine—not made in a combiner. The filling was soft, hot, and savory. The red dip was a little spicy.
But being fed by a woman who was going to sell us made it difficult to enjoy her cooking. Still, I was feeling weaker by the minute, so eating couldn’t hurt. I probably didn’t look so good at this point, but Nora was ignoring that. She just wanted to be rid of us. Worrying about my health would only complicate her situation.
Nora was a maintenance technician. The professional way she did everything was a giveaway, and so was her lack of hair. Fully clothed and wearing a wig, she would look like any other woman, and that was probably how she presented herself outside. But with her spending ten hours a day inside a low-end tech suit, hair would only get in the way.
Sei and I both started when the headless android emerged from the bedroom. Nora scowled at it.
“You take longer to charge every day,” she complained. It was an extremely old-fashioned model, one that was only in the shape of a human. Even with a head, it was obviously a robot. It wasn’t a serving or comfort model—it had probably begun its life as some kind of industrial labor unit.
“My apologies, ma’am. We have guests.”
“Don’t worry about them.”
“Very good, ma’am.” The android circled the table to stand behind her. It began to rub her shoulders with metal fingers covered in slip-resistant rubber. Nora barely noticed, and kept feeding us.
After Sei and I had eaten, Nora munched her own breakfast as she scanned headlines on her holo. She continued for several minutes.
“Ma’am, would you like me to bring you a robe?” the robot asked as it wiped down the heating element and folded it up. Nora didn’t even hear him; she was too absorbed in what she was doing. After a moment her eyes lifted to us, and she sighed.
“Okay. Okay, look, you two. I’m trying to keep you out of the worst of it, you know? The people getting sold for five hundred credits so people can eat them, or whatever they do with bottom-shelf meat. So if you sell at this price, even though it’s not much, whoever pays it probably wants their money’s worth out of you. It’ll probably be pirates who want to ransom you back to the Empire. If it is, just let them. If it’s someone else, you know the drill. You’re imperials. Your government has people to help you, right?”
We nodded.
“Yeah,” she said. “So even if they don’t find you themselves, you just have to do what indentureds do when they get into a tight spot. Build some trust, then take advantage of it to call for help or report mistreatment or whatever. Okay? It sucks, but that’s how it works. The next couple weeks probably aren’t going to be a lot of fun for you, but you’ll probably be okay. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself. And you should too.”
She stared at us for a moment, then groaned and went back to her holo, chewing gloomily. Her analysis of our situation and chances wasn’t completely off, but she’d left out a few scenarios, and she knew it.
The holo chimed, and she looked surprised.
“Look at that,” she said. “Someone’s interested.”
14
“OH, Empress.”
Salmagard stood in front of the gates, looking down at the market. The size of the Bazaar itself was staggering because of how open it was, but she’d never expected something like this. It was called the Open Market, but she hadn’t expected it to be this open. Surely this was the sort of business one would want to conduct behind closed doors, the sort of thing people would not want to be publicly associated with—at least, that was what she’d thought.
A man shoving a woman in control cuffs pushed past them. Salmagard was covered in sweat now, and badly winded. She stared at the crowds below. There was a stage with a big screen behind it, smaller auctions, booths, offices, all of it laid out for everyone to see.
There were eight gates at this entrance, and lines at all of them. It was packed.
The public walkway was high over the trading ground; you had to pay to get in, then ride a lift down to where things were actually happening.
Diana, not even breathing hard, was still thinking straight. She guided Salmagard into a line. There was no shortcut for them. They had to wait with everyone else.
Salmagard stared at the people around her. A family a short distance off was extremely distraught. A woman was weeping openly. A couple of station security men were hurrying toward her. Diana and Salmagard turned away.
“You all right?” Diana asked, concerned.
“Tired,” Salmagard replied.
Salmagard was a negotiator; she could run all day if she had to, but keeping up with Diana had been a struggle. Salmagard was in a daze, but not from the run. It was from what was around her. There were people controlling other hooded and masked people, and no one was batting an eye. That wasn’t the worst part.
There were the tourists too. Some of them were Evagardian. Of course it was illegal in the Empire to own another human being. There were some strict debt-collection laws that were a little similar in some respects, but even those were light-years away from this.
But these imperials weren’t here to buy or sell; they just wanted to look. And commemorate this exotic adventure, where they got to see things they appeared to find fascinating.
Salmagard remembered what Alice Everly had told her about cultures and people. There were people in the Imperium with different views as well. Nothing Salmagard hadn’t already known, but to actually see it only made her feel more ill.
“If they check our IDs, we’re in trouble,” Diana murmured, craning her neck to get a look at the front of the line. “But I think we’re okay; they’re just skimming to get more money. It’s just ticket entry. Got your holo?”
But Salmagard wasn’t listening. She was looking over the railing at the sheer drop and the scene below. The teeming crowds, the number of people who were a part of this trade. She couldn’t comprehend it.
They were already at the front of the line. Diana paid both their entries and pulled her through.
“Wake up,” she said, snapping her white fingers in front of Salmagard’s face. “It’s showtime. Let’s do this.”
Salmagard focused, but it wasn’t much. Her universe was tilting around her. “How? How do we find him?” she asked.
“Them, you mean?”
“Please step into the lift,” an android said, and they did so. The enclosure sealed, and they began to descend.
Salmagard opened her mouth to reply, but sweat stung her eyes, and she wiped her brow with her sleeve. Her eyes fell on the stage in the center of it all. A young boy in control cuffs stood blindfolded with several bright lights shining on him. The interior of the li
ft muted the noise from outside, but they could still hear the roar of the bidding.
That was illegal. It had to be. Free Trade space had their indentured servitude, but it applied only to people of legal age to govern their decisions. One had to consent. Obviously the boy was too young.
But it wasn’t illegal inside the Bazaar.
Diana was consulting her holo. “That’s the big stage. It’s the best spot in the market. The most expensive people go up there—you have to pay a fortune to get that exposure. Apparently it’s like its own brand, like there’s a lot of prestige associated with buying someone off the big stage. I don’t think they’re going to be up there.”
Salmagard nodded. The boy on the stage was trembling. She could see the light catching on the mute strip on his throat. Not that he had to be muted—there were thousands of people there, and the noise was deafening.
The lift reached the bottom and they gratefully got out. At least from down here Salmagard couldn’t see as much of the market. That was a good thing.
There was a service desk nearby. Diana headed for it, and Salmagard followed, praying for strength and focus, but with a bitter taste in her mouth.
For some reason, her faith in both God and the Empress just wasn’t as comforting as it had been this time the day before.
Diana pushed her way to the counter and leaned over; there were several smartly dressed people ready to take questions.
“Welcome,” the man in front of them said, smiling. “You two look like you’re having quite a day. How can I help you?”
“We need to find someone,” Salmagard said without thinking.
“She means we need something specific,” Diana cut in. “How do we shop for that?”
“Well, most folks use the index,” the man replied cheerily. “But if you’re willing to spend a little extra, consider an agent. They’re experts who can help you locate and barter for exactly what you want.”
“That sounds good,” Diana said. “We can afford it. Where?”
“See those sound pods?” The man got up and pointed. There was a line of transparent cubes along a far wall, past the main stage. Inside each cube were a desk and a person. Some cubes were frosted over; perhaps those agents had clients. “You can walk right in, and they’ll be glad to help you.”
“Thanks,” Diana said, gazing at the cubes.
“Enjoy your shopping.” The man smiled, bowed, and sat back down, politely pretending not to notice Salmagard’s visible distress.
“Hold it together,” Diana hissed. Salmagard followed her back into the crowd, afraid she was going to pass out. “For the Empress’ sake, please. I can’t do this by myself,” she added. They made straight for the nearest cube and hurried up the steps.
The door opened as they approached, and the woman behind the desk shot to her feet, breaking into a sparkling grin. She’d had plenty of physical augmentation, and she was wearing so many cosmetics that her age was impossible to guess.
“Ladies,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “Come in, sit.”
The door closed behind them, shutting out the noise of the market completely.
They hesitated, then took the two chairs in front of the desk. Salmagard fanned herself with a hand, and it was all she could do not to wheeze.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked.
“Fine,” Salmagard lied, shaking her head. “Fine.”
“Welcome,” the woman said. The plaque on her desk read: Steph. “I work for Dynamic Galaxy Limited. We’re the foremost staffing professionals in Free Trade space, and one of the largest and most respected placement services in the business.” As she spoke, the smart carbon behind her lit up, showing company logos, testimonials, and promotional presentations in a dizzying collage. “Full accreditations. No gray area services offered, I’m afraid. Everything we do here is aboveboard and in accordance with the Free Trade Charter, and most common galactic law. If you have any questions about specific locality statutes for any post-Bazaar plans you might have, I can answer those. I’m a registered Free Trade attorney, and I can authenticate and document any purchases you might make. Everything that happens here is easy and airtight.”
The clear walls around them frosted over.
“So, now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, do you have business needs that conventional Free Trade Employment Charter rules fall short for? Do you have professional needs that require an extraordinary degree of discretion from your people? Because if it’s for work, we’ve got personnel for every conceivable need. If you need help at home, we’ve got you covered there too. Androids have come a long way, but they have their shortcomings, and to be perfectly honest, a lot of us just don’t trust them.” She gestured, and the walls were immediately covered with headlines and video clips related to dangerous and malfunctioning robotics.
Her smile widened. “At the end of the day, you really are better off with the real thing. Looking for men? We’ve got men. We’ve got men for every day of the week. Women? Look at our most recent spotlight: Grandma Hawkins from New Earth. They say she’s the best cook on the entire planet; you get her for two years, only a hundred thousand. She’s trying to put her grandson through school. We’ve got Mogwi Tandela, winner of the Forty-Ninth Commonwealth Gladiatorial Tournament. He’s a veteran of the Ganraen Royal Navy and a New Brittia survivor. He’s got a special tier-three addition to his servitude that extends to combat. First time I’ve ever seen that.” She glanced up at the hulking man on the screen. “Destroy your bedroom, then your enemies. Only two million for two months. But of course, we’re not restricted to our featured premium offers; I’ve got the whole Bazaar index. And remember, the more you pay, the less I get. I’m on your side, ladies. So. What are you looking for?”
Diana and Salmagard exchanged a look.
“Men,” Diana said.
Steph twitched her eyebrows. “Right? Hey, you’re doing the right thing. I tried to go vanilla for a long time, but it wasn’t happening. Look at this.” She turned around a hologram on her desk so they could see. It showed a young man, dark skinned, superbly muscled, and shirtless.
“Best decision I ever made,” Steph said fondly. “Ten thousand for four years, tier two.” She shook her head. “Only six months left. I don’t want him to leave. So what do you two have in mind?”
“Two. Two men,” Salmagard said, distinctly uncomfortable.
“The perfect double date,” Steph said, nodding gravely. “The one where you call the shots. You’ve got the right idea. I wish I had when I was your age. What kind of guys we talking? You want showpieces, or something you can use?”
“We’re actually looking for very specific men,” Diana said.
“Picky eaters, huh? That’s the right way to be if you ask me,” Steph said with an approving smile. “It’s good to know what you want. If you don’t want to buy off the rack, you’ve still got options. You can buy cheap, then negotiate to get whatever mods you need. Say you pick up this guy,” Steph said, pointing to a hologram of a skinny, nondescript man. “Then you cut his service time, but in exchange he has to get bone growth, muscle mass implants, penile augmentation, facial restructuring, whatever you guys want. You can get great leverage on those bargains because you’re footing the bill. Not only does this guy get his time shortened, but he gets all this work done for free. You both win. Get me? The more you offer, the faster it happens, and you can go wild with this. I’ve seen people go full hermaphrodite with as little cost to the client as twenty percent off total service time and a payout of something like twenty thousand. It was dirt cheap. It was ridiculous. They still had to pay for the changes, but that’s a steal. So, what sounds good?”
“We’re actually looking for something that we can get here and now,” Diana said.
“Fantastic. When you need it, you need it. I know how that is. Why wait?” Steph pulled up her search index. “What’s
your fancy?”
“Evagardian,” Diana said.
Steph winced. “Ouch. You are picky. Look, I’ll be real with you. Imperial stock on hand is always going to be low. They just don’t sign for this very often, and when they do, you pay for it. They also get snapped up pretty quickly. You’re usually going to be much better off to try to reserve something in advance.”
“Let’s see what’s out there,” Diana said.
“And just so we’re on the same page, which tier of servitude are you looking for?”
“What’s that mean?”
Steph raised an eyebrow. “First timers? Um, well, I’ve never had to explain this before. There are guidelines. Okay. Tier-one servitude is just that. Servitude. Your servant works for you in a professional context, protected by numerous professional guidelines, as seen here.” She lit up a hologram. “You can only work them so hard, and they have . . . you know, rights and dignity. Tier two gives them a little less freedom, in exchange for more of an investment on your part, and more of a payoff for them when they complete their contract.”
Diana and Salmagard looked at her blankly.
“If I take home a tier-one servant,” Steph said, tenting her hands, “I can tell him to do the laundry and rub my feet. If he’s signed to tier two, I can treat him like I would a comfort android, or a construct in VR, but of course I’m still held to whatever safety guarantees and personal sustenance terms are in our agreement, as notarized by his representation, as assigned by the charter or third party.”
“Oh,” Diana said.
Salmagard’s head spun. This indentured servitude—sexual activity seemed to play a central role in it. In the whole industry. But that made no sense; if all people wanted was sex, that was what VR was for. All one had to do was put on a VR collar and hook up with strangers over the network, or just choose from millions of idealized AIs. There was something virtual for everyone’s tastes.