hands--slaves--were all in their quarters, and Gretchen guessed the office staff was all inside with the air conditioning. Sweating beneath the golden sun, she trotted around the perimeter of the equipment barn until the arrow pointed straight ahead and the number ticker informed her that Bedj-ka was only seventy-three meters ahead of her. A concrete pathway lead to a series of what appeared to be large white bunkhouses, and Gretchen assumed they were the slave quarters. The arrow steered her to the second bunkhouse. Gretchen shut off the tracker, then rapped on the whitewashed door. It opened on a middle-aged man with a whipcord body and a leathery, burnt-in suntan. A silvery band encircled his wrist.
"Yes, Mistress?" he said.
Gretchen tried not to grimace at the man's deferential tone and the title he had bestowed on her. "I'm part of the team that's here to fix the sprinkler and fertilizer system," she said. "We need a runner to help us out, and Mr. Markovi told me I could find a kid named Jerry here. He's supposed to come with me."
"Yes, Mistress." The man vanished into the bunkhouse. Gretchen tried to peer inside, but the interior was too dim to make out more than shadows and shapes. She did get the sense of a large space filled with what were probably bunk beds. Snores and grunts issued from the room, indicating that many of the slaves were taking advantage of their enforced idleness to catch up on lost sleep. Gretchen, who had grown up in South Africa on Earth, remembered reading about Apartheid in history class and times when workers who were slaves in all but name learned to sleep standing up on long bus rides to and from their jobs. You caught sleep when you could.
"Here he is, Mistress," the man said, pushing a boy out into the sunlight and closing the door. Gretchen looked down at the kid. He was short, barely coming up to Gretchen's breastbone, with dark eyes and a headful of straight black hair. Thin build, sharp nose, fine-boned face. Gretchen put his age at nine or ten, despite his lack of height. The boy met Gretchen's gaze for the briefest of moments before dropping his eyes to his ground.
"Jerry?" Gretchen asked. She had to be certain this was the right boy.
"Yes, Mistress," he said quietly. "Yatt said you need a runner?"
"I do. Jerry, are you new to Sunnytree Farm?"
He glanced up at Gretchen in puzzlement. "Yes, Mistress. I haven't even been here a month. If you want someone else as a runner, someone who knows the farm better, I can go get--"
"No, that's all right, Jerry," Gretchen said. "Let me see your hands, please."
Even more puzzled, Jerry held up his hands, palm up. Blisters mixed with calluses, and his nails were broken and dirty. Gretchen took hold of both his wrists for a moment, then let him go. No Silent jolt, but she hadn't been expecting one. The Despair had robbed her of that.
"Walk with me, kid, and quick," she ordered, and headed back toward the equipment barn. The boy hurried to keep up.
"Mistress?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't have a lot of time to explain," she said, "so listen hard. I stuck a chip to your shackle when I grabbed your wrists. It broadcasts a silence loop to the farm's computer so it can't monitor what we're saying."
"Mistress?" the boy said hesitantly. "I don't understand."
Gretchen reached into her jumpsuit and fished out her gold medallion. It was a risk to wear it, but experience had taught Gretchen that the medallion often convinced suspicious slaves faster than mere words. "Do you know what this stands for, Jerry?"
The boy halted and stared, forcing Gretchen to stop as well. Awe mixed with excitement on his face. "Everyone knows what that is. You're a Child of Irfan."
"That's right," she said, tucking the medallion away again. "I'm here with a couple other members of our order to get you out of here. You game?"
"But--but I'm not--" he hesitated, clearly afraid of her reaction "--not
"Yes, Mistress?" he said.
Gretchen tried not to grimace at the man's deferential tone and the title he had bestowed on her. "I'm part of the team that's here to fix the sprinkler and fertilizer system," she said. "We need a runner to help us out, and Mr. Markovi told me I could find a kid named Jerry here. He's supposed to come with me."
"Yes, Mistress." The man vanished into the bunkhouse. Gretchen tried to peer inside, but the interior was too dim to make out more than shadows and shapes. She did get the sense of a large space filled with what were probably bunk beds. Snores and grunts issued from the room, indicating that many of the slaves were taking advantage of their enforced idleness to catch up on lost sleep. Gretchen, who had grown up in South Africa on Earth, remembered reading about Apartheid in history class and times when workers who were slaves in all but name learned to sleep standing up on long bus rides to and from their jobs. You caught sleep when you could.
"Here he is, Mistress," the man said, pushing a boy out into the sunlight and closing the door. Gretchen looked down at the kid. He was short, barely coming up to Gretchen's breastbone, with dark eyes and a headful of straight black hair. Thin build, sharp nose, fine-boned face. Gretchen put his age at nine or ten, despite his lack of height. The boy met Gretchen's gaze for the briefest of moments before dropping his eyes to his ground.
"Jerry?" Gretchen asked. She had to be certain this was the right boy.
"Yes, Mistress," he said quietly. "Yatt said you need a runner?"
"I do. Jerry, are you new to Sunnytree Farm?"
He glanced up at Gretchen in puzzlement. "Yes, Mistress. I haven't even been here a month. If you want someone else as a runner, someone who knows the farm better, I can go get--"
"No, that's all right, Jerry," Gretchen said. "Let me see your hands, please."
Even more puzzled, Jerry held up his hands, palm up. Blisters mixed with calluses, and his nails were broken and dirty. Gretchen took hold of both his wrists for a moment, then let him go. No Silent jolt, but she hadn't been expecting one. The Despair had robbed her of that.
"Walk with me, kid, and quick," she ordered, and headed back toward the equipment barn. The boy hurried to keep up.
"Mistress?" he asked. "Is something wrong?"
"I don't have a lot of time to explain," she said, "so listen hard. I stuck a chip to your shackle when I grabbed your wrists. It broadcasts a silence loop to the farm's computer so it can't monitor what we're saying."
"Mistress?" the boy said hesitantly. "I don't understand."
Gretchen reached into her jumpsuit and fished out her gold medallion. It was a risk to wear it, but experience had taught Gretchen that the medallion often convinced suspicious slaves faster than mere words. "Do you know what this stands for, Jerry?"
The boy halted and stared, forcing Gretchen to stop as well. Awe mixed with excitement on his face. "Everyone knows what that is. You're a Child of Irfan."
"That's right," she said, tucking the medallion away again. "I'm here with a couple other members of our order to get you out of here. You game?"
"But--but I'm not--" he hesitated, clearly afraid of her reaction "--not
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