12th July
22:40 GMT
"Welcome aboard the Scratching Post." The body language of the scarred Gordanian opposite me suggests caution, but not an immediate intent to attack. Unlike the heavily armed soldiers that have formed a rough semi-circle inside the airlock. They don't appear to have been told
what I am, just that I'm a threat. "I'm
Chief Weezak's seneschal. I will take you to our holding pens."
Hm. Seneschal isn't exactly a position of honour amongst Gordanians. Holders of the title are
usually ex-chiefs who are deposed and.. 'encouraged' to swear loyalty to the one who removed them. The custom both allows for leaders facing a coup to step down without being killed and allows their knowledge to be retained by the clan… But they then spend years reporting to the one who defeated them and who in turn knows that they must keep constant watch on… Oh, no, I see that Weezak went in for implanted explosives instead. Much more efficient.
"So, which was it?
"
"Which what, Lantern?"
Ah,
he recognised the rings. I raise my right hand, pointing to a recent-looking scar running along the left side of his neck.
"Did you jump or were you pushed?
"
He turns away from me, forcing me to rise off the ground to avoid being hit by what's left of his tail. "I displeased Clan Commander
Trogaar." He heads off deeper into the station and I float along behind him, a couple of guards falling in behind me. The corridors would be more than spacious enough for Tamaranians, but Gordanians would struggle to pass one another. "I was..
fortunate enough to be permitted to kneel to Chief Weezak."
The Clan Commander is the head of the clan's military forces. So as I thought, their dedicated warships are somewhere else.
Proper warships, most likely built in Citadel shipyards and possibly equipped with Psion weapons. Crewed by the best veterans the clan has.
I'm… Going to… Have to kill a lot of these people, aren't I? I… Maybe I could..? Work out a way to maroon them somewhere instead? Get rid of their FTL drives and long range communications equipment..? Don't know yet.
Tamaranian space stations were fairly Spartan affairs, and if the Gordanians have changed things they at least have the sense to keep the public areas clear… It's even reasonably well cleaned, though I doubt that they have robots to do that…
In a side passage, I get a momentary glimpse of a young Tamaranian boy mopping the deck. Ah.
My host stops in front of a heavy door in what would once have been a mechanical goods storage bay. Tamaran didn't
quite have enough of a space industry to do the practical thing and handle
all of their ship fabrication in orbit. Quite a lot of prefabricated components were made planetside and shipped up until they were needed. With the Gordanians not doing any shipbuilding here, they can probably spare the space.
"In here." He strikes the access panel with his right fist. The doors stay closed, a quiet growl bubbling up from his throat. He taps the communicator on his chest. "Zaark to Control. Open the door to Slave Pen Two or I'll cut off your testicles and send them to the Psions."
"Say
please, Zaark. I want to hear you say 'please'."
The red
billows around his interior, and he
half turns in the direction that leads to the station's control centre. I can see the way his
fear of being weak feeds the need to
strike down those who think they can take liberties.
An exploitable disunity.
"Please, allow me.
"
An orange beam connects me to the doorway for a moment, easily triggering the lock mechanism. There are a.. lot of mechanical parts holding the doors together. I suppose the whole thing is designed to resist Gordanian strength. Zaark steps forwards and grabs the slowly retracting halves of the door, shoving them apart faster than the mechanism is designed to allow. There's a puff of smoke as something burns out.
"Drollg, there appears to be something wrong with your door. I would get on that quickly if I were you. Zaark out."
"
You're rotten meat, Z-!"
Zaark taps his communicator again as I get a look-.
They really
are pens.
Tough looking… Pipes, I think? Have been welded into bars, with heavy plates serving as doors. Each cell holds between four and ten Tamaranians, and if there's an organisation system I can't tell what it is.
They stare at us fearfully, backing away to the fullest extent that their surroundings allow them to. I see… Few cuts or signs of malnutrition, but plenty of bruises and electrical burns.
"You see any you like?" Zaark heads over to a chest mounted on the wall and pulls out… A glorified cattle prod. "I can make them walk around for you, or talk or whatever."
Ring, control my features. Callous disinterest.
Compliance.
"The ones we have working for us, we implant explosives. These aren't processed yet." He walks over to a cage, bending down slightly to stare at those inside. "We can throw that in if you buy more than ten. Or you can just stick in whatever
you use before you leave."
The ring reducing my response to next to nothing, I stroll down a walkway between two rows of cages, making sure to thoroughly examine those within.
"Does the planet tithe them to you..? Or do you just grab them?
"
"Trogaar orders us to bring him a certain number of adults. We sell the excess we collect. You want a woman?"
I stop, then turn my head towards him.
"Excuse me?
"
"Your species, you look like they do. If you're looking for a fuck-slave, I could point ones out to you. No?" A slight flaring of his nose that is a Gordanian shrug. "Tell me what you're looking for, then."
"Domestic servants.
" I continue walking through the.. room.
"As you say, my species and theirs are physically similar. There's a certain appeal, and we wouldn't have to widen the hallways as we would if I bought
Gordanians.
"
"Just for yourself? You have a big house?"
"No, I'm thinking of buying wholesale, selling retail.
" I stop at the far end of the room, turning back towards him.
"Is this all you have?
"
"Is there a problem with them?" He glances around the room. "They're not lively
now, but-."
"No, no. This is
fine, mostly. But I can't start a business with this
few. And of course, I'm willing to pay more for those with specialist skills.
"
"Technical skills?" I nod. "Most of those died during the last war. We put the ones we catch to work on
our equipment. Or send them to Trogaar."
"And they don't commit sabotage? Wouldn't you be better having them train your people?
"
"Smaller hands are better for some things." Another flare. "We watch them, of course. But it is true that it would be better if we worked without them."
"Do you think..? I might persuade your Chief to part with them?
"
"With money, all things become possible, uh?" I smile politely. "Weezak will want money. More than the market rate. And
I want time to make sure our people can do the jobs. We can sell you the domestics now, if you want them."
"And more than you have? If Trogaar is using them for manual labour, I assume there's a certain amount of… Wastage?
"
He makes a low hissing noise. "If you're serious about a
big contract like that, you might need to talk to Trogaar himself."
"I'll try not to take too much of his time. If I could use your communication facilities..?
"
"No, he'll want to see you in person. And
we'll want to feel the texture of your money. If you buy what we have now… We can talk about getting you a visit."
