Beyond the Rim

My shoulders felt as if knives were embedded in their sockets. The drug from the FoamGro was wearing off and my wounds were starting to smolder.

With every heartbeat, I dreaded the next time the door would open. And I worried they were subjecting Rock to more inhuman torture.

Part of me still thought that this could not be happening…this was a civilized age, people didn’t do things like this…there were criminals, yes, but whatever we’d stumbled on was something beyond anything I’d ever thought existed.

They wanted to make us into slaves. Though slavery wasn’t supposed to exist in this day and age, everyone took it for granted that, despite attempts to enforce the law, slavery existed on the Rim. Rock had mentioned the “escort service” in his town on Rimworld 3554, where the men and women there were suspected to be owned by the proprietor, though nothing had ever been proven. Core worlds were free of it, and the Center was, of course, beyond suspicion. I had encountered slavery in legal books, and I had a fuzzy idea of what slavery was, but if it was anything like what they’d done to us so far, the only way out might not be literal escape, but suicide.

The thought shocked me. There was no reason in civilized society to commit suicide; everyone had good lives. On Rimworlds, maybe less so, but on Core worlds, genhancement had nearly eliminated crime, and we had everything we wanted and needed. There was infinite space for an expanding population, unlike ancient history when we’d been confined to one rapidly polluting world, or the first interworld government, which had committed genocide to make room for the people living in the airdomes.

I had never considered suicide myself. I still wasn’t really considering it. But how much more of this could I take? Was there any way to get out? Or were we doomed to become slaves, owned by someone with who knew what intentions?

The very thought of being owned repulsed me. And if the…owners had so little regard for the law they would purchase slaves, what else would they do to their “property”?

An image flashed across my mind of residing in a dirty Rimworld brothel, being used by anyone that wanted me—

No. I would die before that happened. But I wondered, if the time came when I’d be willing to actually…go through with it, whether I’d have the guts to do it myself.

The door slid open. Ed walked in. He was alone this time.

He swung a stick in a circular motion. It was the cane that Kaza had used. A phantom electric shock flashed down my chest.

“Kaza let me borrow this. It is a bluntly brutal instrument, but it can be highly effective, in its place.” I hated Ed’s flat, matter-of-fact voice, his cold cobalt eyes. He seemed normal; on the street, you wouldn’t look twice at him.

“Where is…” I could not speak above a raspy whisper. My throat was as dry as a hundred desert worlds.

“I suspect Kaza is spending some more time with your friend. He seems to have taken a fancy to him.”

I shuddered, hoping against hope he was just saying this, though I had a horrible feeling it was true.

“It is remarkable he lasted as long as he did. This kind of humiliation is what hurts him deeper than any injury. But still he held out—until he saw you threatened. He is a brave man.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” He looked up at me, my chin about an inch from the top of his forehead. My hands were numb; fire ate a ring around my wrists.

“It’s true that he is a Rimmer. Is that not what you have always thought? That you are better than he is, because of this?”

“No.” I’d always thought of us as equals. Well, not when he’d first been assigned to my dorm, but once I’d gotten to know him—

“Is it not true that you felt more comfortable with him because of his supposed inferiority—you didn’t constantly have to defend yourself because no matter what you did, he’d automatically be beneath you?”

“No, of course not! What are you talking about?”

“You yourself have an inferiority complex because of your poor background, being an orphan, growing up in a Facility, being protected from roving gangs by your sister.”

“How do you know all this?”

“We looked up your records. Despite being a Core-worlder, you are closer in kin to Rimmers, with their poverty and lack of the systematic integration. Furthermore, you have always wanted to be an artist, but you have always felt defensive about this because it is an inferior profession.”

“You don’t know me.” I couldn’t believe how much he did know, how much he was saying that I felt, more often than I wanted to admit.

“No, but I can read between the lines. Rock, to you, was someone you could feel safe with, because he was this big rugged guy from a Rimworld, not as smart as you, and so you could press your advantage.”

“I never—”

“Not consciously, maybe. But unconsciously, I believe so. Just from observing your interaction with him, and knowing what I do about your history.

“But,” he said, twirling the red and black cane, “is it really true that he is inferior? He’s a Rimmer, but that makes him stronger, more able to meet physical and psychological challenges. I would have no trouble believing that, after having rejected him from the military, Center would have welcomed him as a spy. His endurance, his flexibility—from what I’ve seen, all top-notch. You, on the other hand--” he looked at me critically, his head tipped sideways-- “are merely average. Good looks, yes, but when pressure is applied, you break. Your friend is at least twice the man you are, compared to how you have always seen yourself. You know that we don’t even know his full name? He only gave his first name, and he did not give it nearly as readily as you gave your full name.”

“I didn’t see any reason not to…”

“That is the difference between you and him. That is why he would last so much longer than you. For instance, something like this—” He shoved the cane into the hollow beneath my chest, and shocks lanced through me—“would hardly faze him at all.” Electricity danced across my skin and into the metal frame that held me up, which shocked me more.

“Neither would this.” The cane touched my cheek. Cold fire shocked through my head; white light poured into my eyeballs. I screamed.

He lowered it to my groin. White hot agony poured through me, radiating from that single spot burning with endless fire.

Ed shook his head, which looked like two heads in my blurred vision. “Barely even a man. Always dependent on someone else to defend you. A mere child, never able to take full responsibility. Leaning on your sister, on Rock. What is your excuse for this, other than that you are too average even to take a second glance at?” His words pounded into me, like blows from a fist, directly into my heart.

He snapped the cane, and it unfurled into a whip. He snapped it again, and it cut into me, across my chest, along with more electric shocks. Again, again, at steady intervals, yet increasing in speed, until it was a controlled frenzy. An inferno blazed across every inch of my skin.

My head hung, sweat dripping off my hair into my eyes. Air rasped into my burning lungs. Rock would not have been reduced to this. It was true; he was stronger than me.

“Weak,” said Ed. He grabbed my chin. “Such a weak specimen. I don’t know what Ranior sees in you, personally. But I suppose any good-looking pretty-boy can become a slave. Those are the kind of slaves that are snatched up and then burn out like sugar in fire. It’s the kind like Rock that last, take up back-breaking work, bear up under it, and then buy their freedom.”

He tapped my chest with the cane. “No use even trying to prove my point anymore. You’ll make a good enough slave, I suppose; slavery is probably the occupation most fit for you. You were no good as an artist—as if that were even an occupation. And the law profession certainly isn’t losing a shining star of a lawyer.” He laughed. He then pressed a button on the frame. The bonds released my wrists and I tumbled to the floor, landing hard on my knees. I tried to struggle to my feet, but my numb arms wouldn’t cooperate, and my legs didn’t move at all.

I felt like less than nothing, a useless piece of refuse kicked on the floor and discarded. Perhaps I did deserve to be a slave. It was true that in my heart of hearts, I had little hopes for being much of a lawyer, and my dreams of being an artist had long since turned to dust. What else did I have? What else was I good for?

Ed kicked me onto my back, and planted a boot on my chest. He tipped my chin up with the toe of his boot. “Yes, I’d say this one was ready for anything Ranior thinks he’s fit for. He isn’t capable of making much trouble, but I wouldn’t expect much of a price, either. Perhaps attached to some bulk lot—no one would want him individually.”

I’d thought he was talking to himself, but a moment later Seethe came in; he must have been talking to the guard through his com.

“Clean him up, then take him up to the viewing room,” said Ed. “I am done with him.”

Seethe nodded, then picked me up off the floor, slung me over his shoulder as if I were a sack of rags. Then he walked out the door, and took me to a room where he tossed me into a tub full of water. I expected it to sting, but it had some kind of analgesic/sedative in it, and almost put me to sleep, so I nearly drowned under it. Then he unceremoniously dried me off, while I stood, barely aware of what was going on, swaying on my feet, eyes blurring, wounds and mind numb. Finally he wrapped a long silk robe around me, tied a sash around my waist, then picked me up and we went upstairs to what I assumed was the “viewing room”.