As slave markets go it wasn't too bad. It was fairly clean for one thing and they didn't beat you for another. Not much anyway. This didn't stem from latent humanism but from a reluctance to damage the merchandise. And being part of the merchandise, McCade approved.
At the moment he and Chips were standing in a line that led out and onto a small stage. An underground transcar ride had brought them here from the central holding pens.
Like everyone else they were naked, stripped of even their rags, and exposed to the world. McCade was reminded of his journey through the corridors of Molaria, and decided to handle it the same way, forcing himself to stand tall and look people in the eye.
Everything was painted an eye-searing white. White walls, white ceiling, and a white floor.
It seemed strange at first, until McCade realized that the white background made them easier to see. Especially for eyes used to a level of illumination higher than earth normal, and presumably there were some such in the audience.
But no amount of white paint could cover up the feel of the place, the stink of their sweat, or the fear that oozed out through their pores to fill the air. It was a bad place, a place where sentients were bought and sold like hunks of meat, a place from which all compassion had long since fled.
Beyond the stage there was row after row of theater-style seating. The seats were already half fall and the would-be slave buyers were still flooding in. A more variegated lot McCade had never seen.
There were plenty of humans, the usual scattering of Zords, and even a Lakorian or two. Not too surprising since all three races were regular participants in the slave trade.
There were some exotic species scattered throughout the hall as well, but it was hard to tell what they looked like due to their bulky atmosphere suits.
What McCade wanted to see but didn't was Reba. She was supposed to land, buy McCade, then set him free. A workable plan given the fact that she was a pirate in good standing. But the seats were filling up now and Reba was nowhere in sight.
It was as if Chips could read his mind. "So where's your friend?"
McCade frowned. "How the hell would I know? I imagine she'll show up any minute now."
Chips shook his head sadly. His voice was sorrowful, as though McCade had somehow led him astray. "Face it, Sam, she ran out on you. She wasted your friend, took your ship, and sold it. I should never have listened to you. Now it's too late to use my plan."
McCade had provided Chips with a somewhat sanitized version of his current situation. While he'd mentioned two friends, he'd left out the fact that Neem was alien, and Reba a somewhat secretive pirate.
Instead, he'd left the impression that he was trying to recover something the pirates had stolen from him, and that Chips could help. In return McCade had promised to get Chips safely off-planet.
By agreeing to McCade's plan, Chips had given up one of his own. Which was just as well since it called for an endomorph like McCade to incapacitate several guards while Chips accessed the Brotherhood's computer system.
Chips swore that once he obtained access to the Brotherhood's computer system he could fiddle the records and set them free. The only problem was that he hadn't figured out how to get them off-planet afterward.
McCade thought the little man's plan was less than perfect, and would probably generate more than a few unexplained corpses, possibly including his own.
But he did see a certain value in having his own computer expert, assuming of course that he managed to escape from his present situation. What better way to get a lead on the Vial of Tears than to take an unauthorized peek at the Brotherhood's records?
But everything hinged on Reba setting him free so he could set Chips free. Why had she deserted him? Maybe she was scared, or maybe she'd lied to him from the start, but it would be easy for her to kill an unsuspecting Neem and go her merry way. And there wasn't a damn thing McCade could do about it either. Especially if he was busy harvesting yirl deep in the jungles of some godforsaken jungle planet.
His thoughts were interrupted by the auctioneer's deep baritone. "If you'll finish taking your seats, the auction will begin in a few moments."
There was a rustling as latecomers found seats, the hum of servos as their chairs adjusted to a variety of physiological differences, and the low murmur of conversation as the buyers gossiped among themselves.
McCade knew that others would follow the action as well, watching the auction on closed-circuit holo and bidding via computer terminal. The thought cheered him. Maybe that was the answer. Maybe Reba would bid by computer.
He remembered what it was like. The vast dome filled with thousands of sentients, the tower that dominated its center, and the countless terminals used to buy and sell stolen merchandise. Merchandise so cheap that victim sometimes chose to buy their goods back from the pirates rather than replace them from other sources.
Yes, Reba could be in that dome somewhere preparing to buy his freedom, but deep down he knew it wasn't true. If she came, she'd come here and do it directly.
McCade scanned the audience one last time, hoping, praying that he'd spot Reba's pretty face among them. No such luck. All he saw were hard faces and calculating eyes.
"Greetings on behalf of the Brotherhood," the auctioneer said portentously.
He was a tall, slender man with slicked-back hair and a pencil-thin mustache. He enjoyed being the center of attention and performed his duties with a theatrical flourish.
"We have some prime humanoids for you today," he said cheerfully, "and I'm sure you'll find something to meet your particular needs. And now time's money so let's get started."
A couple of bored-looking police types shoved a man forward. He was middle-aged, somewhat overweight, and on the verge of tears.
"An excellent specimen," the auctioneer said approvingly. "A little exercise will turn WM 7896-A into a prime field hand."
The auctioneer glanced at a handheld comp. "Skills include operation of simple machinery, some ability at advanced math, and—you'll love this—he plays the violin! Is anyone out there assembling a symphony orchestra? If so, this is the one for you!"
There was general laughter from the humans in the audience and a variety of other noises from the aliens as well.
Bidding started rather low and, in spite of the auctioneer's best attempts to drive it upward, ended with a high bid of three hundred and forty-six credits.
The middle-aged man looked even more dejected as he was herded to one side where a female Zord used her single eye to inspect her newest possession.
He was the first of many. Some made a fuss, crying or calling out for help, but most were outwardly calm, hiding their thoughts and feelings behind blank faces. Then as their new owners led them away, the line would jerk forward and the police would shove someone else toward the middle of the stage.
Finally it was McCade's turn and he scanned the audience one last time. Maybe Reba had slipped in unobserved, maybe he'd missed her the first time around, maybe everything was all right. But no such luck. Reba was nowhere to be seen and his time was up.
The police shoved him forward and the auctioneer tapped his shoulder with a silver pointer. "Now here's a decent-looking field hand. He's in good shape as you can see, young enough to survive in a hostile environment, and healthy as a horse. He has no special skills to speak of, but how much skill does it take to lift a shovel?"
The audience laughed appreciatively and the auctioneer gave a small bow. "Do I hear an opening bid?"
A tough-looking man in black leathers made the first bid. "Three hundred."
"Three fifty." The second voice emanated from a creature in a four-armed atmosphere suit. McCade tried to remember a race with four arms but couldn't.
"Four hundred," said the man in leather. He looked annoyed.
"Four hundred and fifty." The voice had a hollow metallic quality as it came over the suit's external speakers.
McCade felt a heavy object drop into the pit of his stomach and hoped the man in leather would win. There was something ominous about the four-armed creature. Its suit was black and kind of bulky through the middle as if it had a midsection similar to a spider's, and worst of all was the fact that you couldn't see its head. Where a human's eyes would be there was a band of polarized plastic that circled all the way around the thing's helmet. Did it have eyes in the back of its head? There was no way to tell.
McCade was not given to xenophobia but the thing made his hair stand on end. Looking around he saw that others felt the same way too. No one wanted to look directly at the thing, as if afraid of what they might see. Even the auctioneer looked over rather than directly at it.
That was bad enough. What was worse was the thing's motives. It didn't breathe oxygen so what would it want with a human slave? A number of possibilities popped into McCade's mind and none of them were very pleasant.
"Five hundred." The man was beginning to sound bored, and based on the bidding that had gone before, McCade knew they were reaching the upper limits of his worth.
"Six hundred," the creature said levelly, "and five hundred apiece for the next three in line."
Chips snapped to attention, viewing the creature with alarm. "What the hell . . ."
"I'll pass," the man in leather said, "they're all yours." He took his seat with an expression of disgust.
McCade looked on with alarm as the auctioneer nodded his understanding and said, "Going once, going twice, gone. Congratulations, my friend, you've got a fine group of humanoids there. Pay the cashier and collect your merchandise. Bon appétit."
There was nervous laughter as the creature lumbered over to the cashier's window, paid for its slaves, and watched the police shackle them to a length of durasteel chain.
Chips was behind McCade with the two newcomers behind him. One was a big black man and the other was white. Both did their best to avoid looking at the four-armed alien.
Once the four humans were secure the alien used one of its four arms to gesture toward the door. "Move."
"Thanks a lot," Chips whispered as they stumbled forward. "I'm not only a slave, I'm a slave to some alien geek. God knows what it will do with us."
"I hope it gets you to shut up," McCade growled.
Obviously offended Chips pursed his lips and pretended McCade wasn't there.
Once they were outside the slave market they followed the alien into a steady stream of traffic. Slaves were a common sight on the Rock and attracted little attention, but four-armed aliens were something else; even the police hurried to get out of the way.
They hadn't gone far when the alien turned in at one of the planet's less reputable hotels. There was a low rumble of conversation between the alien and the hotel keeper followed by the flash of credits changing hands.
Then they were herded into a small room. The alien pointed at McCade. "You. Come with me. The rest of you wait here. Food will come soon."
McCade's stomach growled at the thought. Why couldn't he stay? But a nerve lash had appeared in one of the alien's gloved hands and it left him little choice.
The thing unshackled the others, ushered McCade into the hall, and locked the room behind him. The fact that this was possible suggested that the room had served a similar function before.
"Come." So saying, the alien lumbered down the hall as if sure that McCade would follow.
McCade thought about running, but knew he wouldn't get far wearing shackles, and decided to obey. Maybe later on he'd find a way to overpower the alien and gain the upper hand.
The alien stopped in front of another door. It swung open at its touch. "In there."
McCade entered rather cautiously since he was unsure of what he might find inside. He needn't have bothered. This room was a shabby duplicate of the first one. He heard the door close behind him and turned just in time to see an incredible sight.
The alien was using two arms to unscrew its helmet. What the hell was going on? Was the alien planning to commit suicide right there in front of him?
The helmet squeaked as it turned and McCade backed away waiting for some kind of noxious atmosphere to spill out.
It didn't. Instead the arms lifted the helmet up and away to reveal Neem's smiling countenance. "Don't just stand there, Sam, find some blankets. It's colder than the tip of an asteroid miner's tail in here."