We have been tightly cramped into this space, which is no more than a holding cell, for some time. There is nothing in here except for a hole in one corner to use if we need to relieve ourselves, and a feeding tube in the bulkhead. There is not even enough space for us all to sit at once, let alone rest. If a woman wishes to lie down, it requires the cooperation of her neighbors. An exhausted female who was taken from the training pen last night, and violated relentlessly by the guards, makes use of the least popular space, lying with her head near the filth hole.
I’ve lost track of time, as to how long we’ve been in here, but surely it is at least eight hours. Most of us wait stoically, but a few weep. A few try to arouse themselves, so their flushed cheeks and erect nipples will increase their desirability. A few pray. Tana is one of those.
“Please, Gods, a kind master, who takes me from here and treats me well. Please, Gods, a kind master.”
They have given her number thirty-nine – like the mark written on my aggressor’s thigh on the journey down to the surface. For the auction, I do not know if a high number is better or worse, but it matters not. I will be sold as thirty-four. She will be thirty-nine.
The Dystyr are not a spiritual people. “Slave luck” is the best I can expect.
Without warning, the door opens with a pneumatic whoosh, and many of us jump.
“Number one!” says the Slaver official, an older, overweight male wearing the uniform of the Jackran-ad-aktar faction. “Come with us.”
Under the compulsion of her implant, number one silently leaves with the Slaver, and the door seals us inside once more. Silently I count Carraleppis – the way Dystyr teach their young to estimate seconds. One Carraleppi, Two Carraleppi – it gives me something to focus on, other than my fears.
I do not know the vendor’s name – even though he will change my whole life by selling me, selling me as though I’m a piece of merchandise and not a sentient being. I have not learnt number one’s name either. I suppose I never will.
I would estimate that ten more minutes elapse before the Slaver returns for the female who is lot number two. I do not know her name, either. Number two sells in perhaps five minutes. Number three takes a little longer. Once I studied math, and I estimate that at this pace, it will be several hours before my turn comes.
Gradually, the numbers of women in the cell dwindle. We look at each other nervously. If there was some way to better prepare, to influence the outcome towards the best owner, of course we would do it, but the power is all with the men who will be buying and selling. We are not even permitted knowledge of the selling process, where we might make ready.
I use the feeding tube. I urinate in the hole. Once there’s more space I lie on the floor for a while, but it’s rock hard, and I’m too wired to rest.
Female number twenty-five is the first to break, and starts sobbing uncontrollably as she’s taken from the cell. The guards are not pleased. Crying women do not show their faces to best advantage. It takes fifteen minutes before they come for twenty-six. I suspect they’re forced to calm twenty-five down before she can go to her auction.
Female number thirty is taken. There’s only ten of us remaining in the room now. My stomach has become upset from the fear, and I must relieve myself from the other orifice, and then attempt a rudimentary clean. Female number thirty-one is called. Female thirty-two. Gods, help me, it’s nearly me. I don’t believe in you Gods, but if anyone has mercy, please, a kind master.
They come for lot thirty-three. I’m so afraid, I’m feeling nauseous. Time slows to a crawl. How long has it been? One minute? Five minutes?
Tana approaches, and squeezes my hand. She doesn’t speak – there is nothing can be said.
After a short eternity, the door is opened.
“Lot thirty-four,” the Slaver official says gruffly. “Come with us.”
There is no refusing a direct command. Trembling, I pad out after him into the corridor. Perhaps I do not pad quickly enough, for the Slaver grabs my upper arm painfully, pulling me along with him. We only have a short journey to the auction room – already I hear the sounds of many male voices – rowdy and intimidating – growing quickly louder as we get close to the chamber. As we hurry towards my sale, the Slaver gives me orders.
“You must walk up and down the catwalk, and follow the auctioneer’s instructions, until your sale is complete,” he says. “Move beautifully, in the way you’ve been taught. Keep your head up, so the buyers might see your face, but keep your eyes down. You are forbidden from speaking, unless you are instructed to do so.”
Then we’re at the door, leading into a large hall where, in front of me, steps lead up to the side of a stage.
“Up there,” the Slaver orders, and I must obey him, even though “up there” means I must step naked onto a stage, displayed in front of a room full of people.
I wish I could curl into a ball to hide myself, and then die from shame. The vast majority of the raucous crowd filling the seats are men, men who can see me naked, although I see a few women clad in the dark blue slave wraps, which indicate a female privately owned. I see that every pair of eyes are on me, until I remember my orders and quickly lower my gaze submissively down.
At the far side of the stage, a man, the auctioneer I assume, stands behind a lectern. A Slaver guard, unshaven, also stands at the back of the stage, armed with a goad. From the middle of the stage, the catwalk extends out between the rows of seats. I must pass very close to the chairs – I will be inches from all these men.
But the compulsion from my implant is everything. I begin to walk down the catwalk, stepping gracefully in a way which accents the movement of my hips. There is a cheer from the crowd as I sashay along, accompanied with much taunting. I hear comments and abuse shouted from all directions, almost all of it about my physical appearance. My hands, at my sides, are trembling as I continue up the narrow runway, trying not to burst into tears.
“Gentlemen, we present lot thirty-four,” begins the auctioneer. ““Coora” is a particularly fine example of females from the Dystyr species. As you can see, she has delightfully toned legs and buttocks, and her breasts are, as you can see, literally, outstanding.”
There are cheers of agreement to this witticism. “Hey, bangers!” a vulgar voice calls, trying to attract my attention.
“The long tubes of flesh coming from her head are known as ‘scorns’”, continues the auctioneer. “They become sensitive during arousal, and may also be used for restraint.”
Tie me up by my scorns? Who would want to do that?
I hear a loud chiming noise coming from some tech in the auctioneer’s lectern. Then, a moment after, a second chime.
“Coora is twenty-two years of age, by the galactic reckoning. Her lucky owner will have many years to enjoy her prime.”
At the end of the catwalk, I turn on the ball of my foot, and proceed steadily back to the stage. Those behind me will be able to see how my bare buttocks move when I walk.