Chapter 1 – Until Debt Do Us Part #4
That single eyestalk was fixed on me. "They have not billed you," she said primly.
"They have billed the den, and if the den fails to pay, they will pursue legal action.
The claim will be finalized in a few days; this was a courtesy copy sent from a contact who works within the filing department of the Central Primus Economic Forum.
If you are not my employee, I am not liable for your debt.
You were my employee until you walked into this room.
Now you are not and your termination is effective immediately.
Thus, once the claim is officially notarized, the den will not be responsible for this invoice. "
I stared, nauseated, at the numbers still stabbing into my eyes. They seemed to flicker ominously, hungrily. If I didn't have a job, what the fuck was I going to do? I lived here. I'd lived here for ten years. What would I do, go back?
As if she was reading my mine, Alet Trident said, "As you will be unable to pay once the debt is filed, you will be detained by CPEF until you are able to be transported to the claimant to make good on what you owe.
" She added then, broad mouth flattening in her narrow face, "You will return to Seraphim, Sashen. "
"Why would they want me back now?" I hissed, flicking the invoice away.
The longer I looked at it, the sicker I felt, all the confidence I'd had as I strutted in, ready to ask for a raise, curdled into something acidic and dark in my stomach.
"You can't let them, Alet. You know what they'll do to me if I go back, especially if I go back –" I gestured broadly at myself, heat prickling up my neck as I considered it, really let myself marinate in what that would look like for me.
Back to Seraphim Station. They'd confiscate my wristband, cut me off from the broader universe again, and then send me to the planet for re-education.
And if the prolonged torture didn't work, they'd put me to work in the factories where I'd have a miserable, painful, short life, all while the higher-ups insisted merrily that the suffering would sanctify my eternal soul.
Through misery, I could be made righteous again.
They'd tell me every hour of every day that I was repugnant, that everything about me was wrong, and while I didn't think I'd believe them, that chorus would be the last thing I heard when I was worked to death or tortured past the point of recovery.
I'd risked it all to leave at fifteen. How could I go back now that I'd had a taste of the universe beyond? Now that I'd seized my own ruin with both hands and accepted my own fall?
Maybe they'd arrange a public stoning, just for me.
One of the Shepherds I'd been particularly afraid of on station had been a big advocate for the return of old forms of punishment.
Who knew how much traction he'd gained in the 'cut off hands, gouge out eyes' camp since I'd left as a terrified teenager?
"It is a sad situation," Trident admitted, that one eyestalk still fixed in my direction.
"But the document is clear: either the debt is paid or you must be returned.
The den cannot pay your debt. You cannot currently pay your debt.
I am not aware of any particularly wealthy clients who visit you often.
Indeed, you have none now who frequent the backrooms with you. "
All that, and I guess I was shit at my job. I shoved myself to my feet, the heat that had been prickling under my skin flushing up my neck and gathering behind my eyes. Fuck no, I would not be crying. This wasn't happening. I wouldn't let it.
An hour ago, I'd been making eyes at a pretty abaya and imagining he might come back to see me another time; I'd been sad about being short a few credits and wondering how long I could keep this up.
And now, everything I'd known about what my future would look like – as predictable and boring as it might be – was gone.
Suddenly I was staring down the barrel of Seraphim Station, with its torture, its sanctimonious bullshit, and its fucking awful food.
What I wouldn't give to be back on that couch with the voltaari who'd tipped me a lowly single credit, listening to them prattle on about whatever sporting tournament they were excited to bet on.
"You are nothing if not resourceful, Sashen," Alet offered mildly, and her attention slid away from me as she took in the cast of my features, the fists clenched at my sides, my flushed colour.
She always hated it when I got upset. After all, she paid me to smile.
"Perhaps there is a way to find the credits you require, or a benefactor. "
"I don't know how –" I said miserably, voice thick, and I had to admit to myself that, whether or not I wanted to, I was about to start crying.
"I'd have to place the best bet in the world on something with insane odds, or, I don't know, take out the universe's most expensive assassination contract and somehow learn to do that and –"
I stopped. I cast my mind back to the voltaari with their hand on my ass, and the cluster of others in the shadowy little corner of the den where we'd been sitting.
I'd only been half paying attention to the details, thinking instead about what my sad little life was like and whether or not I had a retirement plan from dancing and how to ask for a raise.
But what had filtered through my skull might be promising. Or stupid. Maybe both.
"Do you know much about the Galactic Tournament of Superiority?" I asked mildly, feeling ridiculous even as I said the pompous name aloud. "And also, how much is it to enter?"
Trident's four hands flicked simultaneously, the screens around her winking out.
Without their light, the room was a murky purple, the dangling wires and cables making the space a tangle of shadows.
But even in the shadows, her eyes were bright, gleaming with interest, and both eyestalks were pointed directly at me.
"An interesting prospect," she fluted. "Very interesting indeed.
Sit down, again, Sashen. Let us discuss this properly. "
And that's how I decided to go on galactic television.