A slave sale on Fortune Station.
Ten decks down, but still above the most prurient and debased decks, people lined the passageway, advertising themselves for jobbing. Searching the crowd as she walked through, Jesse saw Zerka. The gray-skinned Visekan talked with jobbers. She watched him finish his negotiations then lead three men away.
Her lips compressed into taut edges and Jesse composed her thoughts as she smoothed the fabric of her sleeves. “No use wasting more time here.”
“What?”
Jesse turned to look at the voice speaking to her. “Nothing, talking to myself.” She smiled.
“You to hire?”
“No.”
The man scowled and Jesse took a step away, she turned and stopped short. A group of slavers brought their wares through the hire exchange. Men and woman of various races, pathetic in their drugged and starved lethargy, trudged between their bosses. She found it a sad comment on humanity’s development. The only non-human race found in the known galaxy, the Xantheans, were isolationists and pacifists. All the remaining humans differed as their home worlds had made them.
A spark lit inside her, and Jesse fell in behind the last of slaves. She followed the group down two decks to the market. Watching for a long time after they were lined up, she finally moved to walk their ranks. At the end of the line she turned and sought one of the bosses.
“See something you want?”
“Perhaps. The sixth man in, what are you asking?”
“You don’t want him, Miz.” The man’s eyes flicked to the slave in question, a tall skeleton, dirt encrusted, his expression void. “Common laborer, no good for anything else-troublemaker, bad tempered. Look at number three. He is good looking, and strong. Willing worker. Knows some tech work.”
“I don’t need tech, just size.” She gave the dealer a smile. “Six is bigger, though he looks to be in poor shape. Is he sick?”
“Truly, Miz, I’ll not sell you six. He needs a strong man to control him. He’s drugged right now, not sick. When he comes out, he’ll kill you.”
“I imagine with such violent behavior he is hard to place, and from the abuse and scars on him, his price must be cheap.”
“Not cheap. Strong.”
“Not from the look of him.” She hesitated. “Let me call operations for a health check.” The man never had an opportunity to stammer the words stuck in his throat.
“Sell him to her.” The boss leader said, stepping into the negotiations. “She’ll give him back and we’ll make twice the profit.” The man was a Visekan, but much broader, heavier and a bluer-gray than Zerka. His streaked and splotched skin hung deeply furrowed with age, and Jesse suspected, experience.
“Well, if you expect I’ll have to give him back, I expect a low up-front.” Jesse used her eyes and smiled at the big man, but he was impervious to her charm. She kept her smile in place and continued bargaining.