It was dark and damp when I came to. Considering my aching head and the unmistakable fragrance of urea coming from the asshole pissing right next to me, I could only conclude that I was waking up from a massive bender. At least, it wasn't some joker who thought it would be funny to give the passed-out guy a good tinkle. My eyes barely scratching open, I could just make out that it was Mike's blurry shape peeing, so I formulated suitably clever and sarcastic hangover witticism,
“Nnnghuuuuhhhh... Whatthefuuuuck... Stop... pissing... asshole...” The peeing thankfully came to a petering stop, as I struggled to get up; but I felt a firm hand push me back down on my back.
“Stay still, Tim. You aren't bleeding anymore, but you hit your head pretty bad,” said Mike's voice with a somberness that didn't match my expected post-party-till-you-hurl mood.
“What....? Bleeding? Shit, that must have been some serious binging we did last night, man...” I tried to kid. My eyes were open now, but for some reason I still couldn't see things clearly. “The hangover I have right now... Why is it so dark? Are we back at the clinic?”
“Tim, you're waking up from being shot. It's dark because we're in a holding pen.”
I groaned as it all call rushing back to me. Pity the last few months weren't merely a happy dream; with the slight snafu that came at the end, the binge-hangover would have been a much better alternative.
I made sense of it all with, “Aw, fuck.”
“No fucking kidding,” Mike replied and sank down on the floor next to me. “Sorry about taking a leak next to you. There wasn't anywhere else to go.”
“Yeah, you fucking say that all the time,” I grimaced and batted Mike's mothering hands away, as I sat up clutching my tender shoulder. With my eyes adjusting to the darkness though, I saw that the cell was packed with people shoulder to shoulder and barely any room to move let alone designate a luxurious space to perform bodily functions. Frankly, I could tell I should be grateful for whatever floorspace we had, which was thanks to Mike's significantly more muscular bulk maintaining a respectful space around us.
“When are we going to be let out of here?”
“We aren't,” Mike said grimly.
“What? We're Empire Service-men, we have rights, we can appeal this...”
“You mean the same Service-men who are now undergoing treatment in the Empire's clinic for the next year?”
Oh, right. Fucking hell. We were screwed. If it wasn't for our then brilliant transaction with Jim the Tusken, we could have yelled out our serial number to any of the jailers or even a droid, and it would have been an easy process to file an appeal, and maybe get a few months in the brig for bad conduct; Service-men going nuts was far from an uncommon occurrence. But, with our “official” status logged somewhere else, we'd be flagged as impostors, possibly spies, and shot, if not tortured by the local maniacal jailer aiming to impress the Empire for a promotion.
“Shit, Mike. What the fuck can we do?”
“Nothing. We're fucked.”
“There must be something we can do. Someone we can pay, someone we can talk to...” I scrambled for options, feeling my desperation increase.
Mike, probably more far along my own incipient emotional progress from shock to fear to despair to resignation, let out an unpromising sigh, “Tim, we're fucked. This isn't a regular holding cell. I recognize it from my trooper days. It's a slave pen. We've been 'collected' and sold to slave traders.”
I had to overcome some major denial to recognize that Mike was right: looking around our “holding cell” more carefully, I could see there were significant differences from the holding cells/drunk-tanks I was much more familiar with. For one thing, besides the lack of space, cots or anything beyond the barest glimmer of light, there were no amenities to speak of: no sink, no tap, no water, no toilet, no can, not even a drain. As the logic went for human chattel, why bother waste effort trying to keep slaves alive when you were expecting half of them die anyway – and even wanted to them to die so you could weed out the weak ones?
I had to admit that part of my shock with my slow-to-sink-in situation was due to my not having that much experience with slavery and, frankly, not much interest in it. Of course, I knew very well the slave industry existed in the Empire and, as far as industries went, was rather vibrant. One might even argue it was something of a cornerstone of the Empire, as its ever-reliable, pliant and economical labor kept the rest of the Empire's departments and businesses running profitably and cost-effectively. With all the unending wars, everyone knew that the seemingly pointless conquests were to generate more free labor to maintain the lifestyles and the flow of bling that everyone wanted. It was, however, kept out of sight, so as not to negatively influence the sensibilities, not to mention the shopping habits of regular citizens – such as I used to be.
This was very very bad. I had to figure out how to get out of here. Surely there was someone I could reason with? Someone I could bribe? But with what? I had nothing now, not even my identity. Like Mike, I fell into a quiet, depressed gloom. The rest of the people in the slave pen – all taken from the Center – were similarly brooding: where once the same crowd was filled with effervescent, boundless positivity, there were now variations of dazed disbelief, anger, and pathetic whimpering.
In one corner of the crate, however, one spring of hope refused to be put down by the troublesome details of reality,
“The Powaah moves in mysterious ways. We have to trust it! We have to see the good in this!” It was Alice in full-on sermon mode, rambling away as she moved her arms around in slow circular motions and making complicated Powaah mudras, meant to indicate love, acceptance and enlightenment. I had to hand it to her: even when it obvious she and everyone around were condemned, she still found time to proselytize for the Powaah.
“Alice, will you shut up? You're not helping by being delusional,” Sally croaked irritably, in spite of the deep, festering gashes across her face and arms. It would have been most effective to let Alice run out of steam on her own, but Sally had had enough of ignoring their long-standing acrimony. The small group around the two shifted perceptibly away from them to avoid getting involved.
“Surrender to the Powaah and feel the love around you.”
“People are dead, Alice. Do you get that?”
“We will go back to the Powaah. Trust the Powaah and we will all be happy.”
“Tell that to the corpses in the corner over there. Twelve of them.”
“Be one. Be one with the Powaah. You are not the doer. Chant with me everyone...”
“Do you even know their names? The people who you try so hard to bring to the Powaah? Did you ever know their names?”
“O, Powaah. We trust you. We will walk your path, and not the path of fear. For fear is the path to the dark side...”
“Alice, you're no Jedi. You're not fooling anyone.”
“I only speak the truth about the Powaah. Just what I feel from within. I surrender to the voice within me...”
“Bullshit. You say and do whatever to make you look sacred and wise. Everyone knows you're a fake. A fucking hypocrite.”
“The truth is all that matters, Sally. I only fall from time to time, but listen to my words...”
“You do know that everyone knows you eat meat, right? That you go out for burgers every weekend? Even with all your 'see the sacred Powaah in all living beings spiel?'“
“...I don't know what you're talking about. I wouldn't eat the flesh of another being.”
“So you say. Lots of people saw you. I saw you.”
“I was only eating a veg burger...”
“Ha! A veg burger in the only barbeque place in town? Were you eating their ornamental plants?”
“I may have had one bite. But I chanted the Powaah mantra and cleansed after.”
“Ooooh. That's the game then. Sin so you can always have something to 'work' on and to 'purify' your dirty self.”
“You don't know anything about the Powaah, Sally. I ha
ve read all of Louke's works. I've studied all of Ben's recordings!”
“Lots of good that did you...”
It was more than a little annoying to listen to, but I guess I should show some compassion and understanding with their need to process their differences, and even be happy that they found the space to open up to each other and work through what was triggering them. Unfortunately, without the context of the Center, it was unlikely they would make up and hug as they ordinarily would have;but perhaps we could try bringing them into a group hug...
...Hold up. Fuck that. I wasn't at the fucking Center anymore and I didn't have to ape their fucking holier-than-thou fucking Powaah ways to get laid. Being stuck in a stinking pen with a bunch of Powaah nuts was bad enough, but being forced to listen to those idiots was a completely unnecessary torment. I yearned for the time when I had been passed out and oblivious to the world – or wished I had a club handy to knock those two out. Failing any of that, I'd rather someone blasted my brains out with a plasma charge.
Thankfully, a jarring metallic scrape silenced the bickering rivals. The door to the slave pen creaked open, briefly revealing the dark silhouette of a tall, thin man, before he blinded us with a slow-roving spotlight, assessing the state of his new property (us). With a disgusted snort, he made a quick motion with his hand that brought forth a group of stun-baton-wielding guards who started pulling us out and herding us down a darkened hallway, where more armed guards stood waiting to move us along with casual, indiscriminate electrified baton-swings.
Being still weak and in considerable pain, I had to hold on to Mike to avoid stumbling and collapsing; from the weak whelps, cursing and blunt thudding, I could tell it wasn't a good idea to find myself on the ground. Our grim shambling continued through darkened halls filled with the sounds of moaning and the odd plea for help.
At last, we were made to stop in a cavernous, windowless room that was filled with rows upon rows of machinery on which a mass of slaves were working feverishly. There was an overwhelming amount of clinking and clanking noises in the room – and none of it included any talking; not one of the workers took any notice of us, keeping their eyes firmly on whatever piece of machinery they were working on with unwavering attention.
Flanked by two goons that I suspected never left his side, the tall, thin man came before our pathetic assembly, and, pulling his attention away from a datapad that he had been tapping on, stared at us through sunken eyes. If not for the stun-baton that hung from his hip, the man facing us would have been indistinguishable from middle-management anywhere in the Empire. Crossing his hands behind his back, the man intoned in a bored, detached voice,
“My name is Mr. Fortuna. I will be managing your work. You may refer to me as 'Master Fortuna' or 'Master.' You are the property of Jubba's Hut of Stuff Incorporated. You will work on the assembly line making high-end products for Jubba's Hut of Luxury goods. Work hard and you will be fed and provided an area to sleep. You will be expected to maintain...”
“Sir? Sir? Master Fortuna, sir?” a whiny voice interrupted the small speech that Mr. Fortuna had repeated innumerable times to a similar groups of incoming slaves. Not daring to bring attention to myself, I resisted turning around, but I had a pretty good guess what dread-head fool was stupid enough to interrupt our new slave master.
With an entirely impassive expression, Mr. Fortuna paused to reply, “Yes?”
“Mr. Fortuna, sir. I don't think I can work,” Jimmy squeaked, apparently not grasping the ramifications of our situation, and seemingly oblivious to the guards enthusiastically clenching their clubs.
“No?” Mr Fortuna said, still unnaturally and somewhat troublingly expressionless.
“No. You see, I have this recurring injury and I can't put pressure on my wrist,” Jimmy explained, lifting his wrist up for everyone to see and twisted it while grimacing to show how it wasn't functional. “I'd like to work, of course, so if you give me a few days to rest, I'll be able to.”
“You are unable to work because of your wrist,” Mr. Fortuna said slowly.
“Yes, exactly,” Jimmy answered brightly, happy that Mr. Fortuna understood him. “If I just rest, I can work.”
“I see,” Mr. Fortuna raised an eyebrow and made a slight movement with his hand.
With impressive alacrity, the two goons flanking Mr. Fortuna shoved their way into our stunned, paralyzed group, and came out dragging Jimmy by his dreads to the tune of a great deal of arrhythmic squealing. Bringing him to a corner of the room, the guards lifted Jimmy's light frame without any effort or notice of his flailing limbs, and threw him down a large, gaping hole. Shortly thereafter, all we could hear was Jimmy's screaming, mingled with the sickening sounds of flesh being torn and bones being cracked. It took an abominably long time for Jimmy's screaming to finally end – and for us to hear solely the noises of munching and smacking, and finally a satisfied burp.
Without the need for any further explanation, we knew that our new masters had on hand a pet sarlack – which were well-known and well-used in the Empire by the average household. As the advertisements often noted, sarlacs made low-maintenance pets who, with a few feedings, became friendly and loyal once established in a comfortable pit. Among their many benefits were not only the no-fuss disposals of waste of any kind, but also the production of nutritious mulch that could be applied on flower beds or vegetable plots. The present use of the sarlack in the slave industry, however, was something the admen failed to mention.
Throughout the horror of Jimmy's slow consumption, Mr. Fortuna barely looked away from his flashing datapad, taking advantage of the well-timed example to catch up on his administrative work. When the eating was done, it was a few long moments before Mr. Fortuna looked back up at us, and continued seamlessly from before,
“You will be expected to maintain a high standard of quality. You will be expected to maintain the speed of the assembly line. Failure to do so will result in being fed to the sarlack. If you are unable to work, you will be fed to the sarlack. If you are unwilling to work, you will be fed to the sarlack. If you are no longer working efficiently, you will be fed to the sarlack. You will be given your assignments immediately. That is all.”
Mr. Fortuna made a strong case. There were no further objections as, with a few baton-prodings to move us along, we streamed passed the still happily gurgling sarlack-pit and started our new roles as Jubba's newest slave-workers.
We weren't given any further instructions after, and didn't attempt to seek any, since anyone who spoke up was promptly administered a baton swing to the stomach or back. Instead, we spread out amidst the tinkering rows of slaves and machinery, and took up whatever empty seats were available, doing our best to imitate the more experienced slaves next to us. Most of the posts were simple tasks that involved some kind of assembling of faux-designer products for the undiscerning middle-class seeking the appearance of affluence; but, once those posts were filled, some unfortunate buggers found themselves staring blankly at complicated circuit-boards that fizzled and smoked alarmingly whenever anything was placed incorrectly. True to Mr. Fortuna's word, those unable to figure out the job were dragged off the line and tossed into the sarlack pit. Four more people were thrown in before everyone miraculously found the aptitude to do their task.
I was lucky enough to find myself in the riveting section of Bantha Luxe Purses, which was simple enough to figure out. Admittedly, I had some surreptitious help from the workers around me, who, with subtly twitching arms and darting eyes, helping me figure out which end of the purse to rivet with the copper brackets and which to add a liberal sprinkling of shiny crystaline stones. Soon enough, I was indistinguishable from the other slaves, as I adopted the regular rhythm of grabbing a purse from the conveyer-belt, rivet, rivet, rivet, and tossing it back on.
My shoulder, however, was in enormous pain, with every movement I made to reach for a rivet or rock causing flames of agony. There was little choice but to suck it up and continue, since slowing down
or pausing meant getting beaten, whipped or zapped. Mike wasn't any better off: he'd drifted into the Haute Couture de Jubba section, where his mind-numbing tasks were to add tiny buttons to under-sized pants, while also giving them aesthetically pleasing tears. With his massive hands, the poor guy had a hard time of it, and got more than of his fair share of whips and lashes.
After about twenty thousand rivets and stones, a shrilling whistle sounded, signaling the assembly line to stop. I still had faint hopes then – that is, before my mind and soul became entirely numbed and deadened – that we might be given a time out to stretch our limbs and maybe rest a little; but these were dashed when a bowl of thin gruel appeared before us, along with a two minute timer that counted down the time for our lunch “break.” With a few quick slurps that just barely gave us enough energy to go on, but not enough for us to build any strength to consider thoughts of rebellion, we were back at it. Thus was the essence of my new life as a slave for the Empire.
Later that evening – which I simply assumed it was since there were no clocks or windows anywhere – when our shift finally ended, we were trundled out of the slave-pit and marched into our quarters. With a sink and a collection of cots, it was practically a palace next to the pen we arrived in. Our wills effectively broken, we moved like automatons, without a word or a glance shared the entire time.
I collapsed in a cot next to Mike, preparing to pass out, but I was surprised to see he still had the energy to be very much awake. His back hunched over from the welts that the whippings had produced, he was gritting his teeth, glaring at something in the corner. More out of self-preservation than anything, as I didn't want him to cause a scene that might bring the guards to lead to yet another sarlack visit, I asked Mike what was going on, to which he replied.
“I know who did this to us,” Mike seethed, rubbing cramped fingers unused to hours and hours of crafty clothes-making.
“What do you mean?”
“I figured out who ratted us out to the Empire,” Mike spat, nudging his chin contemptuously at a sleeping antennaed figure. “It was Greido.”