Two weeks later, Doc lead me out of the clinic and through a noisy marketplace. There were shops built up against the bulkheads, kiosks with their shutters open, and carts stopped whenever a customer expressed interest in some item. The smell of cooking food mixed unpleasantly with that of unwashed bodies, pushed around somewhat by the marginal ventilation. Doc twisted and turned as he made his way through the crowd, occasionally slapping at hands that reached for his pockets. He didn’t slow down, or even look to see who it was.
The lighting was irregular, to say the least. The shops — most of them anyway — had their own lights and I could see lanterns hanging in some of the kiosks. The walls of the marketplace had a few lights spaced along the power conduits, but the place was so packed that the light didn’t travel far. I suspect you could find most anything you wanted in one shop or another, as long as you didn’t want it new — most of the stuff was pretty beat up.
At first I thought he was just trying to get me lost in the confusion. Maybe he thought I’d come after him down the road. I have to admit to a few thoughts in that direction, but it soon became obvious just how much of a rat warren Jumble was. I tried to remember the way, but my mind was still trying to come to grips with the last couple of weeks. I was feeling better, physically, but I still half expected Mami and Papi to come find me.
My skinsuit was patched, and Doc (for a small fee) had given me a small escape bottle that would keep me breathing if Jumble sprung, what he called, “one of it’s perennial leaks,” but the suit wasn’t clean and the smell made me want to puke whenever I got a whiff of the air from inside it. I kept the hood rolled tightly around my neck to try and prevent that, but every time I got jostled, I’d get another face full. As if that wasn’t enough, the escape bottle didn’t fit the suit’s bottle pocket and Doc had tied a strap to it, which left it to bounce painfully against my hip.
When we finally got to Montaigne Import/Export (a euphemism if ever there was one) I had to wonder what this guy Montaigne was going to think of me. I soon found out.
“Jeez, Doc, she stinks,” he said.
Doc shrugged. “She’s fine,” he said, “it’s the suit.”
“Whatever. But I’m not putting up with it.”
Doc shrugged again. “Your problem, not mine. You want her or not? She looks pretty strong.“
Xavier Montaigne was on the short side of average, but what he lacked in height he made up for in muscle. Jet black hair hung down in a ponytail behind his head and one ear had a diamond stud. His steel blue eyes looked out of place with his swarthy complexion. He was, however, the cleanest smelling person I’d met since I woke up in this rathole. Soap and water may be in short supply around here, but Montaigne didn’t seem to have a problem finding any.
Montaigne turned to me, scowling. “Here’s the speech,” he began.
“You work for me the next…” he paused and looked down at the comp in his hands. “…3.2 years. If I like your work, I maybe offer you a real job after that. Either that or I guarantee passage clear of Sarin. Well clear. On one of my ships, so you don’t have to worry about winding up back here.
“After a couple of months, if you behave, you’ll get every 10th day off and enough pocket money for a few drinks. Cause trouble and you work every damn day. Cause enough trouble and I’ll sell the rest of your contract to Benson. Trust me, there isn’t a worse place to be around here. Understand?”
I nodded.
“Good. Ron.” He looked around. “Ron! Where the the hell…”
“Here, boss.” Someone scurried out of a nearby hatch. He was very short and very old. His hair, what was left of it, was pure white and puffed out in a halo around his head. His eyes had a milky tint, like he was getting cataracts, and his hands were skinny and wrinkled.
“Take her to maintenance and get that suit cleaned up before we all puke. Then take her down to bay 3. She can start there.”
Ron bobbed his head. “Right boss!” He said and headed back toward the hatch he’d come out of. “Well girl? Shivvy up.”
I started to turn, then saw Xavier handing something to Doc. You can talk about how “indentured laborers” aren’t really slaves, but when you see the money change hands, that difference is just semantics. I didn’t care how long it took, I was going to get that money back from him. Or kill him – I wasn’t really feeling that picky at the moment.
“Listen, girl.” Ron’s voice was right below my ear. “No be sussin’ this. No be eyeballin’ he tha’ way. Be proper to he, other you be hurtin. Now shivvy up, work needs doin’.”
What Ron said made sense, but I really wasn’t in the mood. As soon as we’d gotten five meters down the companionway, I grabbed his arm and spun him around against the bulkhead. It amazed me how light he was and he hit harder than I expected.
“Don’t call me ‘girl’, got it?” His eyes were wide with fear and suddenly I felt sorry for him — and a little ashamed — so I backed off. “Sorry about that. Never been a slave before. Call me JD, OK?”.
I smiled and he relaxed some. “No be scarin’ I like tha’,” he said. “An’ you no slave. No slaves get free. But ‘dents can, if’n they good.”
“‘Dent?” For a moment I couldn’t figure out what he meant. “Right. Well, this ‘dent’ expects a little respect, at least.”
I thought for a moment. “How long do you have left? I asked.
“Oh, I ain’t no ‘dent.” He said, proudly. “I free years ago. I gets paid!”
“Why’d you stay here?”
“Where I go, eh?” He shook his head. “Got nuthin’. He keep I ‘cause I useful! Cain’t work cargo n’ more. Cain’t suss out papers, but I can run errands and such.” He leaned forward. “Knows I way ’round here, I does!” He winked, laying a finger beside his nose. “Knows places He don’t. ::heh::.”
Really? I thought. That could be very useful. I made a mental note to ‘help’ Ron if I could – maybe learn some of those ‘secret’ places.
He turned and headed down the companionway again then stopped and turned. He was smiling. “Well? Shivvy up … JD”.