The bust had begun so abruptly—a bang, swearing and sudden torrents of gunfire. I hadn’t expected it…I don’t think anyone really did. We’d charged into this blindly, like the cavalry on a battlefield, and only stopped to consider what could happen next when we realized that the enemy had bayonets…but this is a war. It’s a war, and we all knew it.

As the sounds of firefighting and pain rose all around, I looked around and began gathering the poleepkwa near me together. Many of us had hidden behind the crates, wincing and crying out when a child hissed and shrieked in pain. To think that even now, we were hiding behind the next generation to save ourselves…something shriveled up inside me as I looked out at the fighting.

The one next to me had been shot and blood leaked out from cracks in his plating—I tore off my jacket and pressed it to the wound, clumsily tying it with fear-benumbed fingers into a tourniquet. The cracks and scarring were visible on my torso as I turned to face the others around me. They blinked back at me, silent and petrified, waiting…waiting for something. Death perhaps, or freedom. Whichever came first, or was reached first. As terrified as I was, I laughed a bit, thinking morbidly of Braveheart. “They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freedom.” We had to fight for both, or lose both. Right now, right here.

Too many had died…too many would still die even after this. There was no way I would let this continue, as long as I could do something.

“Come on! We’re getting the hell out of here!” I rasped and tugged the wounded one—Sirius, I think. I knew him, he’d tried to kill me when I was being rented—to his feet, pushing him towards the door, the night air, freedom. “Down low! Out the door to that truck!”

“Is this the police?” Betelgeuse looked up at me. “Where are we going?”
Too urgent to explain; I picked him up and bolted the distance to the truck. He was handed roughly off to one of the poleepkwa already there as I ran off inside. We all ran out, but I continued to double back—the sound of gunfire was like thunder, the muzzle-flashes like lightening. A storm, if there ever was one. Turbulent, vicious…

After aeons it was over…we were at the base. Jake was standing off on his own, a bandage clumsily wrapped around his leg. He turned away when I spoke to him, face pale. I knew why…I could say nothing. People filed past me—the ones who’d pledged to help ARFA. I couldn’t look at them. They’d stood by as we were killed, and I wanted…I didn’t want them dead. I just couldn’t talk to them. I was too tired to hate.

It was as if Vishnu Himself was with me right then; it was as if He’d put a hand on my shoulder and turned me so that I could see the light ahead. At the very edge of my hearing, I could hear His voice…”You’ve done well. Good job.” I let myself feel a warm glow of pride, just a bit, then quietly let it drift off into the night and began to cry.

Phone Call

The phone rings, the tone vibrating down the stairs to where we’re resting and waiting; everyone immediately tenses and stares around warily at those near their space. Any second now, someone’s going to answer that phone, and soon after that one of us will be called out and sent off to another john. Maybe they’ll die—most likely they’ll be dragged back an hour or so later, tired and beaten. Hopefully it won’t be you, or anyone you especially liked, but most likely it will be. That’s the way it is, after all. Things don’t work out the way you want them to.

A child starts crying from across the room. It’s a whipped, whimpering sequence of choked sobs. They try to restrain themselves—after all, it messes with the john’s head and they don’t pay as much if you’re crying—and fail miserably; an older poleepkwa smacks them across the head and hisses at them to shut up.

The ringing abruptly cuts out and a muffled “hello?” can be heard. Collectively we all flinch in unison, thoughts swirling with the same fear—a grotesque parody of the hive mind that almost nobody’s heard of here. More speech, direct and flat. You strain your antennae, catch only a few words, a number—is that the amount being paid or the number in the catalogue? Is it an address? What’s going on, and how is it going to hurt you? You’ve got to know beforehand...that gives you an advantage. It gives you time to brace yourself.

The talking goes on for a few more moments and trails off. You can hear the small click of the receiver being hung up. It’s silent upstairs...you hope for something that’s hopeless.

“Rigel.”

The name’s called out and everyone turns to you. For a brief moment you consider turning to face somebody else, or a wall—anything other than the glances of relief. A wave of tired happiness rises: hey, at least somebody else isn’t getting hurt because of this phone call. Bile comes up next. Well, that’s because you’re the one that got called.

You swallow down the fear, horror and twisted gratitude and follow the runner who traipses down the stairs to escort you to the car. He’s whistling a bit, and smoking a cigarette; nothing seems to be going wrong for him. He isn’t perturbed that he’s bringing somebody to a place where pain awaits, ready to scratch at the plating and claw into the soft inner flesh, growling in pleasure while you choke and whimper quietly. Why should he worry? He’s never encountered it on the “business end” of the call-prawn system. It’s just another night at the office for him.

It is for you, too.

Reunion.

Sometimes it’s useful, having experienced the conditions of the egg trade and become accustomed to its varying miseries. You begin to recognize the main symptoms of common sicknesses and figure out some basic, hopefully effective remedies. So when I heard about the shipment of eggs that came in, I immediately set to work pointing out things that were wrong and helping to fix them.

“See? That’s egg rot. They get that when they’ve been in a crate too long. That needs to be cleaned off, please, and you have to check and make sure the fungus didn’t go inside…”

“This one is dehydrated. It’s going to need to sit in some water. At the trade, we filled a bathtub with warm water and let it sit, halfway submerged. Don’t leave it in too long, though.”

And, now and then…“That one’s dead.”

It’s triage, except this isn’t a battlefield, this isn’t an all-out fight. Or maybe it is...there certainly are enough casualties here, in the rows upon rows of crates and eggs, swarming with ARFA nurses and volunteers. There’s enough pain and trauma for this to be a war, if not one for a direct cause. It’s a fight for life; trying to save as many as you can, however you can.

Jake walked up to me and put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, you don’t have to be here...they know what they’re doing.” His eyes were tired and wary. For a moment I remembered that he was barely an adult—a teen, shouldering a workload that few men or women can even imagine. Almost instantly the thought was pushed aside by necessity. Even if we are too young or small for the burden, we have to carry it if there’s nobody else willing to. At least for now, anyway.

“I know that they know what they’re doing. They just…they just don’t know how to do it.” I didn’t bother elaborating on what I meant, instead moving on to the next row of crates and continuing my self-appointed task. Nearby, a nurse was trying to give some food to a tiny Poleepkwa—the child was squirming and glancing around, confused. As they twisted, their back faced me and I caught a brilliant splotch of glossy red on the plating there. That kind of marking would fetch a high price, I thought sadly. That poor kid would have been sold as a pet it they hadn’t hatched and hid away—

Hatched. Observations connected quickly like tinder and a match and an idea flamed; quickly I strode over, plucked the baby Poleepkwa from the young woman’s grip and began walking to where Vega slept. Markings like those weren’t very common here, so that meant that this child would have had a parent with markings just like that. I knew someone who had them. My steps quickened to a run and I dashed the last distance, ignoring Jake as he ran after me.

“Vega.” I carefully set the little one down, brushing some of the dirt off their plating. “Vega, look…do you recognize this child?” Hope was there—I could feel it like a breeze or draft in the room. It was possible that this was a coincidence, but what where the chances? Things could be finally shaping up for us, and all it had taken was a blot of red.

She crept over to the little one, who blinked bewilderedly back at her. “I-I…I don’t…” As they wobbled around on tired, undeveloped legs, mewling for food, her expression flattened. “I…” She had noticed the red markings, that small byproduct of genes that had persuaded Blue Fly to keep her as a breeder in the first place, so very long ago. Her mandibles began to twitch and tears came to her eyes.

Jake puffed up from behind me and watched silently as Vega picked up the child and gently held them close to her. “What…?”

“My…child of mine…” Vega was beginning to cry openly now, eagerly looking over the little one and matching marking for marking, antennae to antennae, bright innocent eyes to tired, older ones. They were alike, kith and kin.

“So what’s their name?” Jake smiled. “Do you have any idea of what you’d like them to be called?”

“Sadal. Her name is Sadal.” Vega reached out blindly and awkwardly crushed the Commander of ARFA in a one-armed hug. “You…you said you would bring my children back…and you did. You brought one…thank you…” She smiled quickly and turned back to her child, her “lucky star,” and began cleaning off the muck and offering them some water.

After a few moments of stunned happiness, Jake grinned widely and leaned against the doorframe. “Yes.”

That single word, spoken quietly and quickly, described the feeling of victory that hovered in the room right then and there. Our friends and brethren may have died and may still be dying, but if one child was able . This is a war that may not be won soon, but we can still experience a victory time and again.

Docks

Things clicked into place so quickly and unexpectedly that I had to go: why hadn’t I noticed that “cactus” and “fish market” were used a little too much by Blue Fly and the dealers to be a coincidence? They’re talking about places; they have been this entire time. “Apple” means New York City, “cactus” is New Mexico, “fish market” is Clearwater….I’ve wasted so much energy and time trying to figure out where the eggs were being traded—but they were talking about the biggest distribution centers all the time! Maybe I was still reeling from getting out of the trade, and it just took this long to finally sink in. Damnit, we could have done so much to stop this! Why didn’t I remember sooner?

When I got to the harbor I hid behind some crates, knowing that the dragonfly still painted on my hip could either keep me alive or get me killed. Getting there had been strangely easy; the routes I learned when going to and from customers’ houses enabled me to sneak through the city while remaining almost unnoticed. Just another call-prawn, coming back from a job…nothing to look at here. I finally got to the salty openness of the docks and crouched down behind a crate. I could feel my heart in my throat and the cold on my limbs—everything was monotone and I didn’t know exactly where I was. What mattered was what I was seeing.

Men were moving about, their faces covered by dark cloth like burglars in the night. It was impossible to pick out their identities. The men hauled crates off of a gigantic cargo boat, one after another, and lined them up like dominoes. When the two men nearest me wandered back into the warm, covered area of the cargo ship for a smoke break, I crept over to one of the splintering wooden crates and whispered through a gap on the side. No answer came…and why did I expect one? I should have known then, and stepped back into the ignorant darkness. But I didn’t—something in me must have still hoped, or ignored the truth.

I pried the top off of the crate, ignoring the blast of blistering, fetid air…and stepped back, swearing to myself and blinking back tears. The inside of the wooden box was coated with waste and sawdust; the stench that drifted up from it is beyond my words to describe. It reeked of waste and blood, of death and the last stale breaths of suffocated Poleepkwa…of my people, my brethren.

Inside, sprawled amongst the filth…my eyes were drawn to the children. Children, with bruises and cuts adorning their bodies, almost torn limb from limb, or even worse just staring up at me with glassy eyes, like fish. No laughter, no light—nothing was left but these hollow, battered bundles of plating. Everything…everything was taken from them. They were dead, and their corpses had been left lying around in the crate, like firewood or trash. Not the remains of living things…of children…

They’d been left to die as if they were worthless, not even of much value to the dealers themselves. These people had sat back and let them claw each other to death, out of sheer helplessness and fear, in crates without water or air. Had they heard their cries and chosen to ignore them, or had the crates muffled their screams? I didn't know, and it no longer mattered almost as soon as I thought it. Of the twenty inside, only one still kicked out blindly at the heat, eyes sick and glassy…I will always remember their muttering. “So hot, so hot.”

I tried to help, but what could I have done? This little child was too far gone, and there was nothing I could do…the most I managed was holding the poor broken body close and praying silently to Vishnu, God, whoever watched this scene unfold and did nothing to stop it. The feeling of something dying very close to you...it makes something deep inside you die as well. You know something has departed, something that can never be caught and slid back into place; it leaves a hollow inside you.

After, I pushed the crate off the dock and tried not to cry out as the splashes came and I saw shapes sink into the inky water. Better a burial at sea then having your corpse sold as food. I crept off before anyone noriced, slinking back into the city that slept, unaware of the horror unfolding within it.

I want them dead. All of them—Blue Fly, Mistress Pike, all of them. There’s nothing more you can do for people—they aren’t even people, no person could casually kill another or put them in conditions like this. These dealers are monsters, and only fit to die. Now. This has to stop, it has to, and there can’t be any more crates, or pipes, or phones…it has to go, all of it.

Message.

I would like to start by introducing myself. I am not a “prawn,” as you may have been told, but a “Poleepkwa,” an “Outlander.” These are the proper terms for us. We are not simply “non-humans,” not a group sorely defined by its exclusion from your species, but a proud race with achievements all its own.

But all classifications aside, my name is Olo, Olo Lamna, and I am here on my own, to speak with you as an equal—and an individual. I’m not here to represent every Poleepkwa on this planet and beyond the stars…the honor and responsibility is too great for someone such as me. All I have are my own experiences and beliefs, and the drive to tell you what is going on in this world. That is all I have—I pray that you will listen to me and take what you hear to heart.

All of you have heard of District 9 and the illegal genetic experimentation that was revealed late last August. Perhaps not all of you have heard of MNU’s continued solution of the “prawn problem,” a horrible place called District 10 where hopes and thoughts are not only crushed, but discouraged from ever developing.

Very few of you are aware of what may be an evil on par with D-10, if not greater: the black-market egg trade. Our children are sold, snatched away from their mothers and stolen away, never to be seen again. They become guards, servants, prostitutes, test subjects. Back and forth we are traded, from owner to owner, all will and pride beaten out of us with pipes and words and blood-money. Each customer teaches us what the Poleepkwa trade is all about, and the lessons are painful beyond all description.

This happens to your own children, your fellow humans as well—humans are bartered and sold for monetary gain alongside us. In our shared misery, we are the same…this is not the way equality should be achieved. We must not be equals because we are both in the mud; we must not be equals because we are similarly wretched and desperate. No, we must—and can!—be equal in our drive to better ourselves. We both can accomplish so much on our own…we can be proud of that, but always we can look forward to better things and reach for them.

Leave this “speciesism” and fear behind; look past our radically different exteriors and realize that the same blood runs through our veins. The appearances may be different, but my heart still beats the same as yours do. I have a heart, and all Poleepkwa do.

It freezes when we fear for our lives—the same as you!

It warms when we are near the ones we love, our siblings, friends, and family—the same as you!

It beats in anguish when we gaze upon the injustices of the world and sinks in indescribable misery when we see our loved ones hurt, killed and stolen from us—the same as you!

We are the same! Can you not see that? Can you not see that we share so much, our mindsets and emotions so alike that it is only the outside, the shells—figurative and literal—that keep us separate. We are not trash, mindless bottom-feeders without intention or emotion, but neither are we a chosen race. We are not perfect…but then again humans are not perfect. One day we can both be greater then what we are now. The potential is in us all…someday, I believe, we will work together and our capabilities for achievement and greatness will be unfathomable. But that will never happen unless we decide, as two kinds sharing one cause, to stop lying down in the mud and stand upright.

Thank you for your time.

Nightmare

The pipe bears down on me slowly; I duck and narrowly miss it. It buries itself in the ground. It’s reddened exterior flakes off like tiny bits of rust, showing the surface underneath to be a faded green. Jack and Jill are here: cowering, haggard children who clutch at catfood cans and hiss warily at me. “No space—fuck off! You’ll just get him mad at us!”
I try to reach for them with a painted arm, but the stripes peel off and become like cloth in texture—a jailbird uniform—and finally crumble away to grey dust. My children scurry off…I know not where…they’re gone.
I’m alone, stranded on my piece of tarp with no escape. I’m petrified, I can’t move…the pipe comes down again, its red cover restored, and although it inches through the air so slowly I can’t do anything to stop it. I can’t flee. It hits—and keeps pressing down, tearing through me until there is no resistance and it touches the tarp.
Blue Fly’s voice is at my ear, repeating the words that concluded every beating.
“Remember prawnie—no matter who buys you, no matter what you do. No matter what you think, I own you. You are mine.”
I believe him.

I know that I must look awful…the others here are heavily bruised and scarred, and it would be stupid of me to assume that I look any better. You grow callous to the pain of wounds quickly; you learn to ignore when a limb goes numb or figure out ways to get around its immobility. Even now I’m typing this with my sub-arms…there’s something wrong with the main ones. They’ll heal if I let them rest, I think. But I can’t rest, so they’ve only gotten worse.

It’s not just that. It’s not just the bruises that make a trade Poleepkwa stand out; it’s their expression. Flat, masklike grin, hollow eyes above, half-dead…or weak and afraid from too many nights with nothing but a pipe, cat food and endless phone calls for company. You get “shop-worn” so quickly—all the energy, all the hope gets ground out of you, bit by bit. Each “john” is twenty, fifty dollars worth of pain and helplessness, teaching you what this is all about. It’s a gigantic machine, the egg trade, and we’re caught in the cogs. If we’re trapped like this for much longer we’ll be nothing but shattered plating and bloody flesh.

I haven’t tried teaching any of the kids here about math, science or space—what’s the use? Civilization isn’t here, except for the buildings you pass by and the blood money that you’re traded for. Fundamental things, basic animal things are what’s demanded; not education. The only thing possible at this point is simply giving them your food, cleaning their wounds, getting them out of a beating by getting in trouble just after they do…Blue Fly always picks the adults first, and that tires him out. They don’t ask for anything else—they don’t ask for that either. You do what you can, knowing that it won’t be returned or appreciated openly, at least not for now. Maybe, out of this place, it will…I don’t know.

Take Betelgeuse; half my age, one-third my size and more scarred then any of us. He’s one of the ones who have been here for over a year—I think he’s always getting into trouble because he feels that the only way out is at the end of that pipe. Betelgeuse has been here too long to not know the rules…he’s had no life but this. Even now, the only name he’s ever had is his “shop name.” It’s perverse…how can I tell this child about the universe and our home beyond this planet when the names of stars are equated with slavery and pain? How can I give him hope when he’s told me to “lay off the talk of outside; it won’t happen anytime soon?”

You can’t. You can try…but you can’t do it. Not in a week. Not in a month, or maybe even a year—but I’ll keep trying. There has to be hope.

Our group will be getting moved soon—several “breeders”, prostitutes, and guards. I can tell because Blue Fly has slacked somewhat in bruising us with his taped pipe; he wants us to look as good as possible for the buyer. I don’t know exactly where we’ll be going, but I caught a peek at Blue Fly’s list of names and saw, “De Oro.” My best guess is that we’re going to end up somewhere where Spanish is spoken, but I may be wrong. I’m probably wrong…these names were designed to be misleading and snazzy. When we get there we’ll find out, I guess, and I’ll tell you as soon as I can.

Vega—the “breeder” who sleeps near me—laid her egg today, two weeks early. Blue Fly snatched it away almost right after it was laid. It’s gone now. We all saw it wheeled out, an innocent little bundle of life and potential…it won’t stay that way forever. It won’t stay that way for more than a month.

Of all the grief here—out of all the pain, loneliness, and fear here in this business—there’s nothing worse than that of a parent whose child has been taken away. Not only that, but stolen so that it can be sold to those who won’t love it, who will only mistreat the poor, poor thing…Vega’s inconsolable. Blue Fly wants her to get pregnant again as soon as she can, but I don’t think she will. You can tell…she’d rather be beaten to death than lose another egg.

She wouldn’t be, though. That’s not the way it is here. Here you’re beaten to the point in which you can’t get up, you’re about to die, but you don’t. Your owner keeps you alive, bandaging your wounds with ripped cloth, administering cat food as both your food and pain medication, letting you rest on your square of tarp for the rest of the night. He does all this, if only to keep you healthy enough to survive the next round of customers and the next time you’re thrown to the ground and struck with that pipe until your back is bloody, your shell-plates cracked, your body shivering violently even when it feel s like it’s on fire.

You’re worthless dead, and you’re worth keeping only when you’re making money. That’s why I can’t decide which is worse—the egg trade or D-10. They’re just as horrible, but in different ways. Radically different ways…but both need to be shut down for good.

The majority of eggs are sent to major cities, I’ve found out. A crate of eggs is easy to hide on board a cargo ship, retrieve after, and sell…cities are where most of the trafficking takes place. New York’s Chinatown, Houston, Las Vegas—check the major cities, search for the “call-prawn” numbers and you’ll find us.

It’s getting hard to show kindness to the others here with me. It can be so easy falling into the steady, unyielding rhythm of the phone calls, caring only about your own bruises, your own hunger and fear. I’ve been trying to avoid this and help as many as I can, however I can. But nobody trusts anybody here! Even the little ones, the ones barely Jack and Jill’s age. They’ve been beaten and starved and bound into this existence and can’t imagine anything else…I would talk to them more about the outside world if I wasn’t working all the time or getting beaten with that bloodstained pipe for “talking about leaving.” Talking about leaving—that’s all there is to talk about! No family, no friends, nothing to occupy your mind but those damn phones, the hordes of people willing to pay by the hour, the cat food that’s keeping you alive but just barely.

It’s heartbreaking trying to tend to their wounds when they are hurt, or trying to comfort them when they cry out at night, and having them strike out at you. They think you’re going to hit them…it’s like trying to pet a badly-treated dog. Their eyes…oh Vishnu, if you could only see their eyes you would understand. There’s no curiosity or light behind them, just wariness and sorrow. Elder eyes, in Poleepkwa that haven’t even seen ten years.

I keep thinking about Jill and Jack, all of you guys, and it helps. Knowing there’s someone who gives a damn about if you live or die, not because of the money they’ll lose but because they love you—that helps you keep a smile on your face even when you’re getting hurt. You have to keep smiling; you can’t cry because it messes with the john’s head and wrecks their fantasy. They won’t buy you, and you pay for it after. You make them happy and they make you happy.

I see children like Jack and Jill all the time here. I see them bought and sold like furniture, I see them beaten like dogs when they disobey—no, dogs are better treated. At least with a dog someone will try to stop it. Here we all just look the other way…we can’t do anything when Blue Fly hurts someone. I see my fellow Poleepkwa taken out behind the building and shot when they’re too sick to work; Blue Fly’s final method of dealing with the “rough trade” that isn’t making money. It happened to the Poleepkwa who had the sleeping spot next to me—I saw them handing the corpse off to another customer. The bodies are sold as exotic meat…there are people who eat us like we are cattle.

To Jake, Sherry and everyone: I read your comments on my blog post and Jake’s post. I can’t deny that what is going on here is immoral and horrible, but I don’t believe that there’s no hope in humanity as a group. I can’t believe that. If humanity is nothing but “the species that rapes,” then why the hell am I getting these people out?! If the majority truly is as corrupt as the people who buy us, willing to believe that labor and sex are commodities, exchanged and bought fairly with our consent…then there’s nothing beyond this but a place with different telephones, different owners.
You are better then this, not just individually but as a collective, and you WILL overcome this; we’ll all work together if we have to and things will be better someday. Giving up your kind for lost will do nothing but prevent that day from ever coming and justify more of these awful sales. Just do what you can, how you can and you’ll prove that humans are good.

These Poleepkwa need to have a better life then this, just as much as air and food, and they have to have hope. There has to be hope…

Egg Trade.

The best way to learn about the egg trade, I decided, was to rejoin it and find out who runs things from the inside. ARFA got the clutch of ten eggs, plus the three extra that were thrown in when I was sold. I didn’t know I’d be worth the lives of three children, but I was. At least I’m getting three of the unborn out of this awful system.

I was given a new name as soon as I arrived: now I’m expected to answer to Rigel instead of Olo. There seems to be a “star” theme with everyone here. My picture was taken (for the catalogue) and I was marked with a spray painted logo on my hip. Blue Fly’s logo is put on every Poleepkwa under his control, in order to identify us and tell any other dealers in the area that we’re his property. At least the MNU tags are gone from those who had them—Blue Fly has told us over and over again that MNU can’t touch us, that we’ll be dead before they get their hands on us again. It sounds comforting before you realize what he means when he says this and how true it is.

I’m housed in a small building with many other Poleepkwa. People call a number or go straight to the building, pick us out of the catalogue, and we go with them to their houses. The phones were ringing off the hook the first night I started work; I don’t think I will ever listen to a telephone again and feel anything but indescribable revulsion. Knowing what you’ll have to do as soon as your name is called but not being able to change things…it’s horrible. You’re being sold and exploited and there’s nothing you can do, nothing you want to do because you know that there’s only a beating waiting if you try to escape or cheat someone out of their “good time.”

Once we’re at the house of whoever bought us we either work like dogs, lifting heavy objects and performing menial labor, or we work at satisfying the sick fantasies of whoever rented us. Whatever the customer (or “john”) tells us to do, we have to do it without question, or else we aren’t paid or beaten by the person. Oftentimes it’s both. Sometimes the Poleepkwa don’t come back, and nobody asks where they went. Most likely they were sold…I hope they were sold. That’s better then the alternatives. I’ve heard awful things about what people do to us on the streets…

So far I’ve learned the faces and stories of three of my fellow “rough trade;” the “newest” ones. Everyone else comes and goes so quickly that it’s almost impossible to learn their name or their past.

Generally the adults are tricked out of the safe house network with promises of finding loved ones, safer areas or work, while some are stolen right out of D-10 and sent to the US, Brazil and other countries. There are others here who lay eggs so Blue Fly can sell them, and they get cat food in return. None of them have done more then mutter at me not to take their sleeping-space, which consists of a small square of tarp for bedding and another bit of cloth to use as a covering. I’m the only one who was born a trade egg. The life expectancy isn’t very long here.

That’s all I’ve been able to learn thus far, as well as the fact that every person who was willing to talk about their past has only been in this system for a few months at the most. The ones that have been here for over a year are too traumatized, high on cat food or apathetic to listen to me or tell me anything besides their NAP: Name, Age, Price.

Cat food is abundant here; we are paid meagerly with it if we pull in enough customers. If we don’t make enough money we aren’t fed. I’ve been beaten twice for not following the rules and for “holding out;” Blue Fly uses a piece of taped metal pipe for this and makes the others watch. The second beating was much, much worse then the first…obviously I have to learn what to do and what not to do if I’m going to stay here and find out more about who’s running this. Blue Fly knows how to cause pain, and he makes sure we know it. Even now I’m scared of what he’d do if he found out I’m posting this. Everyone’s scared here...there’s nothing to trust but those telephone calls and what they mean.

Posts will have to be sporadic from now on—all of the things I had with me were pawned. I own nothing, not even my body, but that simply makes me like everyone else in here. Right now this post is being made on a customer’s computer; I promised him a few extra minutes of sex if I got some computer time in exchange. I know that you may be alarmed at what’s going on here, and to be frank you should be. This is happening in America, the “home of the free,” to Poleepkwa and humans alike. This SHOULD NOT happen to anyone, and it has to end, as soon as possible.

To Jake and everyone at the ARFA base. Please send Jack and Jill my love and, if possible, continue to read Romeo and Juliet with them from where we left off. (Jill should have the book with her.) If Jack paints his or Jill’s plating with paint, that’s normal. Just ask him to wash it off when he’s done and not make a mess, and remind him that some people may not appreciate being painted different colors. I hope they aren’t too rambunctious for Xenrop and the rest of you, and I thank you so much for taking them in while I’m away. Knowing that they’ll be well taken care of makes it a lot easier to rest when work is over for the night. I’ll be back with them as soon as I can…I love them so very much and I’m already missing them.

To Sherry, Ryan, Dayna, Seth, Christian, and Kris. This is redundant, but please be careful and watch yourselves. D10 has enough danger from MNU; having dealers and traders hanging around the area, waiting to swipe Poleepkwa away and buy eggs from people like Kurt, doesn’t really help things. Otherwise, I hope the schools are going great now that everyone’s aboveground and pray that nothing bad happens to you.

To everyone. I hope you’re doing well, and wish you a good night and the best of luck. Don’t worry about me—I’m fine. Please work towards ending the atrocities of MNU and these egg dealers; nobody should be bought, sold, abused or killed. However, don’t lose hope. People are inherently good, IMHO, and the actions of a few depraved individuals shouldn’t ruin your hopes for an entire species.
As soon as I can, I’ll get at a computer and keep you updated.

Sales.

There's a point that you reach in which your past somehow hooks onto the present and refuses to be torn away and thrown back into a corner of your mind. Not to be cliche or melodramatic, but I've reached that point.
Poleepkwa eggs. They're sold, like property--I know that all too well, and I know without a doubt that it has to stop. After searching and guessing, I've managed to find a man who sells them. For the sake of keeping this post reasonably reader-friendly and short, I won't say how. All I'll say is that it wasn't easy or pleasing.
I don't know his real name, only his "trade name," Blue Fly. Apparently all these dealers and handlers create bizarre pseudonyms in order to evade authorities and other dealers. He runs an escort agency; people call in and pick from a catalogue containing pictures of everyone in the "stable", then wire money to him and receive poleepkwan eggs, adults, and services. Yes, a catalogue--the first thing he did when I contacted him was send my a digital copy.
This has to stop. This can't go on. I'm doing something to end this.

The Slave Auction, by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper.

The sale began—young girls were there,
Defenseless in their wretchedness,
Whose stifled sobs of deep despair
Revealed their anguish and distress.

And mothers stood, with streaming eyes,
And saw their dearest children sold;
Unheeded rose their bitter cries,
While tyrants bartered them for gold.

And woman, with her love and truth—
For these in sable forms may dwell—
Gazed on the husband of her youth,
With anguish none may paint or tell.

And men, whose sole crime was their hue,
The impress of their Maker’s hand,
And frail and shrinking children too,
Were gathered in that mournful band.

Ye who have laid your loved to rest,
And wept above their lifeless clay,
Know not the anguish of that breast,
Whose loved are rudely torn away.

Ye may not know how desolate
Are bosoms rudely forced to part,
And how a dull and heavy weight
Will press the life-drops from the heart.

Past, part 2

I honestly don't know why my mind continues to turn this way, anxiously twisting its neck to check behind itself, to look back down the road. There is nothing following me; I am separate and walk alone on this trail of memory...
It happened so suddenly, and yet with such a clarity that it lingers still, a flash-frozen moment in time. I was reading, thinking, as usual, when the voices of my Mother and Father came rumbling through the walls from the Outside.
"We've got to get rid of it! Don't you understand? Look at the news--what do you think they'll do to us if they find we've got one in our home--"
"They'll fine us, hon. Nothing more. There are others who bought them, remember Gertrude was thinking about getting an egg herself after seeing this guy--"
"A fine? We've got no money as it is, with that damn thing eating us out of house and home! We've got to get rid of it, and fast!"
A quavering sound of confusion came from me as I looked up from the pages. The voices instantly quieted, fading into incoherence. After a few moments of this awkward silence I turned back to the book, only to be disturbed again as crashing noises came from the stair-Wall. Father's voice roared down the structure, filled with a wrath that was usually saved for my gravest transgressions. It had been accompanied with discipline and pain of the highest degree, and I instantly dropped the book and pushed myself back against the Wall. What had I done wrong? I had done nothing wrong--
"Get up. Get up now." When I hesitated, I was dragged up into a crouching position. "Get the hell up! Go--up the stairs!"
The stair-Wall? I wasn't allowed to go there, wasn't I? I itched for a page and something to scrawl with, but received a blow to the face instead. Pain bloomed like a flower and my limbs warmed, and I scurried up the stair-Wall in a dash of fear. The stairs extended out in empty space, little floors set higher and higher and connected with tiny Walls. This was madness! There were only four Walls...oh, I'd have to measure them, I'd have to figure out what was going on--
"Go! Get moving!" Again with the roar of rage. My vision blurred with the sudden abundance of light and the tears in my eyes, splitting into multiple prismatic images. Blindly I scampered on through endless, bewildering space, bumping into odd shapes and structures that lasted only as dark blots in my sight. The ground changed under my feet, raising up for a second and then becoming...soft...furry, like the blanket I had slept on. More light was around me--where was it coming from? Were there thousands of light bulbs illuminating this giant space?
"Outside! Go!"
NO! No, the Outside--I was never to go there, I was never supposed to flee into its womb! Only Mother and father were strong enough to venture into its clutches and live; I would surely die if I was to so much as reach out and touch it...
I was there. Outside. It had swallowed me, I knew it. The light and the strange warmth were its insides, the soft floor its innards. I was dead, i was surely dead...I had done something terrible to be subjected to such a fate. "Go on! Scat!" Scat? What was that? Was scat being dead? No--please no!I reversed direction, tried to double back and was pushed along by an unyielding force.
Another blow to the head, this time landing even though the voice was faraway. That was the final bizarre straw; everything was too new, too strange for me to stand. I was in the Outside--fine! Let it consume me so that I wouldn't be afraid, I wouldn't be without Mother and Father! I turned and ran, the prisms still stuck in my eyes, like little diamonds, like ice. Flash-frozen fear.

The Lockless Door, by Robert Frost.

It went many years,
But at last came a knock,
And I thought of the door
With no lock to lock.

I blew out the light,
I tip-toed the floor,
And raised both hands
In prayer to the door.

But the knock came again
My window was wide;
I climbed on the sill
And descended outside.

Back over the sill
I bade a “Come in”
To whoever the knock
At the door may have been.

So at a knock
I emptied my cage
To hide in the world
And alter with age.

Nothing Gold Can Stay, by Robert Frost.

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Sonnet, by Olo Doorbell Lamna.

O Freedom, thy mother of open sky!
Wherefore hast thine children flown?
Trapped on Earth reap they, with heavy sigh,
the bitter crop which hast been sown.
With prideful hearts came, from yonder star,
we, from the wide heavens, our souls untamed!
But how such pride is death-marked! Far
have we fallen, flames cooled, hearts lamed.
Cold fear doth runith through our veins, a shade
of the old spirit, our rightful hope!
Keepith some, the embers--they shalt not fade
and for three years hence so shall we cope.
Until then we shall reach out from behind these bars
and dream of our lives among the stars.