The whole thing could have ended there, should have ended there, given the way things turned out. But that was water under the bridge. Having convinced herself that the dead Ramanthian’s medical condition might be of interest to the Confederacy’s intelligence people, Margaret left Benson in charge of the mine, and set out to fi?nd someone who could convey the tissue samples to the right people. There were six tiny containers, all of which had been sewn into a specially modifi?ed bra, where they would be safe from all but the most intrusive searches. That meant she could travel light, carrying nothing more than a small pack, pistol, and knife.
And things went well at fi?rst. Because Margaret was pretty savvy by then—and knew how to move cross- country without attracting attention. Unfortunately, the only way to fi?nd some sort of resistance group, and what she hoped would be a link with the authorities on Algeron, was to interact with people. And that was her downfall. Margaret had covered a lot of ground, and was just outside Dixon, when she stumbled across one of the open-air, country-style markets that were springing up across the land—places where foodstuffs could be purchased, one item could be traded for another, and the latest bits of news could be had. Unreliable information for the most part, but all Margaret needed was a name, and an approximate location. Then, assuming that all went well, she would hand over the samples and return to Deer Valley. So that’s where she was, talking to a voluble salt merchant, when the slavers attacked. It wasn’t clear what was happening at fi?rst because, even though the pop, pop, pop of gunfi?re could be heard, most of the market goers assumed someone had purchased a gun and was shooting at a target. But then as a woman screamed, and people fl?ed toward the north, Margaret realized something more was taking place. A Ramanthian raid perhaps, which wouldn’t have been all that surprising, given the circumstances. Stalls went over, livestock escaped, and people ran away from the gunfi?re.
So Margaret ran, too, her pack bouncing on her back, only to discover that she and all the rest of the market goers were being driven into a carefully laid trap! Because two converging lines of heavily armed men and women were waiting up ahead and, as the fugitives surged into the open end of the V, they were soon forced to stop. Margaret was no exception. The society matron was armed with a pistol, and tempted to use it, but knew what the outcome would be. Not only would she be killed by return fi?re, but so would many of the people crammed in around her. That was a decision she had no right to make for them. Seconds later, slavers armed with clubs were in among their victims, beating anyone who tried to resist and taking their possessions. Margaret’s pack was ripped off her back, her pistol was confi?scated, and a man with bad breath ran greedy hands up and down her body. Even going so far as to grab her crotch and squeeze her breasts. But the little vials escaped his notice, and with younger victims to abuse, the man made no attempt to follow up.
What ensued was like a scene from hell as women were thrown to the ground to be raped, children were hauled away, and the more contentious males were shot. But dead bodies weren’t worth anything, except to the crows, so it wasn’t long before a man dressed in camos appeared and shouted orders. That was when Margaret caught her second look at General Otto Tovar. Because the two of them had met once before.
Rather than tolerate the fringe of hair that would otherwise circle half his skull, Tovar had chosen to shave his head instead. That, plus the fact that he had no neck to speak of, made him look like a fi?replug. Because even though the slave master had a big frame, he was overly fond of food, and eternally hovered at the edge of obesity. And that was why the carefully starched militia uniform looked so tight on him. It had been Veteran’s Day, fi?ve or six years earlier, when they had met. Charles had been home on leave, but the diplomat could never escape work entirely, and having been invited to a government-sponsored Veteran’s Day party, felt he had to go. Margaret had agreed to accompany him. Tovar had been at the affair as well, resplendent in a fancy uniform, and pontifi?cating on the second Hudathan war. It was a confl?ict which, according to Charles, the militia general hadn’t fought in other than to help with recruiting. Quite a bit of time had passed since then, but Margaret remembered being introduced to Tovar, and wondered if the bloated general would remember her as he sat in judgment of his newly acquired merchandise. The slaver’s expedition-quality folding chair had been set up on a small rise where a domestic robot stood ready to meet its master’s needs as classical music played over a portable sound system. The general had a deeply creased forehead, and deepset eyes, that were nearly hidden by prominent brows. A heavily veined nose, a pair of thick, sensual lips, and at least three chins completed the picture.
All of the captives had been pushed, prodded, and shoved into the line by that time, and it jerked forward in a series of fi?ts and starts, as human beings were sorted into various cat- egories. Men who were strong enough to perform heavy physical labor went into one group. Women judged pretty enough for the brothels went into another. And there were nonstop wailing sounds as children were taken away. Some to be sold and some to be used for even darker purposes. That was shocking enough, but there were even less fortunate people as well, who were shunted off into a group Tovar didn’t want to feed. Less robust people for the most part, who couldn’t be harnessed to a plow, and would be of no interest to the brothels. They were shot, and male slaves were forced to drag the bodies away.
Each gunshot sent a ripple of fear down the line. Older people, Margaret included, had reason to be especially fearful since they clearly had less value to potential customers than younger people did. So Margaret had mentally reconciled herself to being executed, and was trying to deal with that, as the woman directly in front of her was sent to join the work group. Having accepted her fate, the society matron took two steps forward, and looked into Tovar’s piggy eyes.
But there was no glimmer of recognition there, and that made sense. Because the woman the militia general had met years before had been wearing expensive jewelry and fashionable clothes, unlike the sunburned, travel- worn specimen who presently stood in front of him. So Margaret was nothing more than a piece of meat insofar as Tovar was concerned. However, thanks to some skillful plastic surgery, and the fact that Margaret kept herself fi?t, the society matron looked ten years younger than she actually was. That saved her life.
“Put her in with the workers,” the slave master ordered harshly. “She won’t fetch much—but something is better than nothing.”
So Margaret survived. But it was a long walk from Dixon to San Jose, and by the time the column entered the convention center, she was bone tired. And that was why she went in search of a reasonably clean patch of duracrete and lay down. The surface was hard, but she was used to that, and soon fell asleep. There were dreams, good dreams, and a smile found her lips.
An entire day had passed since Margaret and the others had arrived in San Jose, and many of Tovar’s slaves had been sold. Now it was her turn to enter the center arena, along with fi?ve other women who were about to be bid on. Like the others, Margaret had been ordered to strip, but unlike the rest the society matron managed to keep her eyes up as she followed the others out into the artifi?cial glare. Her body wasn’t what it had once been, but there was nothing to be ashamed of, and she wasn’t. Her clothes, including the all important bra, were clutched in her arms. Meanwhile, just as the auction was about to start, shouts were heard when a tough-looking slaver led a column of ragged-looking men and women into the holding area adjacent to the arena. It was diffi?cult to tell what was happening, but Margaret got the impression that because the newcomer wasn’t a member of the slaver’s guild, he wasn’t eligible to use the market. Loud altercations weren’t unusual, and the socialite didn’t think much of it, until the interloper pulled a gun and shot a guard in the face. Foley saw the man’s head jerk backward, as a blue- edged hole appeared at the center of his forehead, and the “slaves”
produced weapons of their own. There were lots of people around, most of whom were slaves, but the bad guys were easy to spot. They were the ones who had the guns and, given the element of surprise, Foley’s guerrilla fi?ghters had an excellent opportunity to kill them—which is what they proceeded to do.
Margaret hit the fl?oor as the bullets began to fl?y, heard someone yell something about the Earth Liberation
