Flesh peddlers. He's selling his pretty slaves.
The human's his most valuable slave. The one he uses to entice everyone into his cantina. I've thought about going there a few times myself, plunking down enough credits on the bar to get an hour of her time and to relieve myself of this incessant itch in my system when it comes to her, but I never have. I never wanted to see her look at me in horror or disgust.
She deserves better than a quick sale, though. Knowing Abuar, he's going to sell her for fast credits, not good credits, and her new master most likely won't be kind.
He won't take care of her like I would.
I run my hand over my metal-plated skull again. Kef me. Why am I even thinking about the female? Why do I care? I've never needed female companionship before. My hand has always sufficed. Matings and flirting are for males that look normal, not half-metal monsters like myself. The female would be horrified if she had to service me in bed.
Unless…
Unless I can give her a reason to be eager. Dangle a prize that will make her pretend to be a willing bed partner.
"Where's the auction gonna be held?" I ask Tikosa. "Which stall?"3TESSAI shiver despite the humidity in the station. The purifying air filters can't work fast enough to keep the place cool, and it always gets a little steamy until they kick into high gear. You get used to it, and most of my clothing is skimpy and thin. Not that I got to keep any of that clothing. It was all left back at the cantina, because a slave isn't supposed to show up with a pack of belongings on their new master's doorstep. They show up naked. A blank slate. So I'm shivering not because of cold, but because of fear.
I'm going to be sold to a stranger. Again.
The collar on my throat isn't unfamiliar. It's a shock collar, loosely chained to the four other women that Abuar's selling. Or at least, he's trying to sell. Right now he's in an argument with the nearest slaver, dithering over his percentage of the sales. Doesn't matter who's selling us, though. One booth isn't any better than another. There's no one decent on Three Nebulas Station. At least, no one that would buy a slave.
I think of the metal-jawed man with the shop across from the cantina, the one that watched me. He wouldn't buy a slave. He's probably disgusted by all the immoral things that go down in the cantina. I know he's never stepped inside. He'd probably be cruel anyhow, and my fantasies are just that—fantasies. Still, when you've got nothing to cling to, even a fantasy of a metal-jawed man with a somewhat-kind heart seems like a fairy tale. Right now, I'd give anything to be in that stupid window, dancing until my aching feet fall off. It's a familiar life. I know what to expect day in and day out, and even if it's not a good life, it could be worse.
Right now, I'm living “worse.”
Next to me, Jemiia weeps quietly, wiping at her eyes. She's pretty enough, with silky golden fur all over her body and big blue eyes that entice the customers. She's the most popular girl in the cantina for that reason, and I know she feels as betrayed and hurt as I do right now. I want to comfort her, but…there's no point. If I tell her everything will be all right, I'm just lying. Sometimes it feels like nothing will ever be all right again.
Abuar throws up his hands in disgust. "Twenty percent. For doing what?"
"For putting my name on the certificate," the flesh peddler says, stroking the thin, wiry beard on his jaw. I don't know what he is, race-wise. Something porcine, judging by his short nose and blubbery skin. I try not to think about being bought by someone like him because I can't control it. All I can do is survive until the next trauma comes up. The slavemaster smiles at Abuar in a way that tells me he has the upper hand. "For showing your wares to my good customers on such short notice."
"Short notice? How long does this sort of thing take?" Abuar protests. "They're just slaves. Sell them and be done with it."
He makes it sound like we're not people, more like a CD player he's taken to the nearest pawn shop. It's disgusting…and not surprising. After so many years of this, nothing surprises me anymore.
"Short notice," the slavemaster agrees. "Slaves must be given a clean bill of health. They must be inspected and their personalities documented. I must ensure that my customers are buying the goods I promise. They must be cleaned up. All these things take many days. Maybe weeks. But for twenty percent, I can overlook such things."