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.