“So, there is still hope.”
Marga shook her head. “Not with the mistress keeping close tabs on us. She has never lost a servant to their mating. It’s why we are so rarely allowed into any but very specific areas of the city.”
“It’s true,” Vaxxa added. “We all have so few contacts with the outside world at large that unless a fellow servant in the household or shop owner happens to be our bonded mate by some ridiculous twist of fate, the odds of encountering our paired Infala are infinitesimally small.”
“Infala or not, I can’t spend my whole life in here,” Maureen objected. “I have plans. I need to get out.”
“Youwillget out. We often run errands for the mistress.”
“No, I don’t mean like that. I meanrealfreedom. To get back to my world.”
“Well, you can buy fare on a ship back to your home with the coin you earn in your time here. It is not a lot, but it will add up over the years,” Marga said. “But don’t forget to allow yourself the little joys once in a while. A sweet treat here and there can really help ease the strains of the day.”
“Sweets?” Maureen said with barely hidden disdain. “Sweets in place of freedom?”
Marga shared a knowing look with Vaxxa then turned back to the newcomer. “We all yearn for a free life, Maureen. But it is simply not meant to be for the likes of us. Trust me, you must take your pleasure where you can. After all, in this existence of ours you do not know when you may have the opportunity again.”
Maureen nodded her understanding but her mind was racing.
Oh, I’ll play along for now. But a lifetime slaving away under that bitch of a mistress? No freaking way. The second I have a chance, we’ll just have to see about that.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Hard labor.
Bodok refrained from chuckling when he arrived at the Mondarian prisoner work facility. He watched quietly as he was led inside the perimeter as the others worked. It was not easy, by any means, but they must not have experienced the living hell that was hard labor on some other worlds if they consideredthesetasks something the likes of which he would be unable to perform with his damaged runes.
He was quite a strong man despite his injuries, and had, in fact, done many types of hard work in his life. Nothing he saw so far struck him as overwhelmingly difficult.
Nevertheless, he wisely kept his mouth shut.
“Your job is to make sure your load gets where it’s supposed to go without delay,” the work overseer had said after he had given his newest minion a basic rundown of the distribution hub. “You earn longer rest breaks based on the quality of your work. Work hard, get more time to recover. You got it?”
“I understand,” Bodok replied, quiet and deferential, not wanting to irritate the boss in any way.
He gauged the man the moment he had been delivered to his custody. Clearly, this was one to be wary of, but he had dealt with their kind before. Petty, power-hungry people who delighted in making those laboring beneath them go to extreme measures just for the fun of it. In this case, forewarned was forearmed.
The other workers were fairly large men and women, all of them serving time for one violation or another. Only the strongest of body would be assigned here, and while the work was relatively hard, the pittance of currency added to their account would be greater than if they were performing easy menial tasks.
There were many jobs, from what he could tell, and all of them taxing, but those who had committed violent acts were given the most undesirable of chores as their particular punishment. Things such as manually clearing blocked waste-removal systems, even though the Mondarians had ample work machines for the task.
Punishment for the sake of it appeared to be the way this particular Mondarian outpost was run, and that gave Bodok an uneasy feeling in his gut. The work required to earn his freedom would not be easy, of that there was little doubt. If he could somehow manage it, that is. If they truly ignored the established tradition of allowing prisoners to work down their sentences, life could be very difficult here indeed.
They had also mentioned tournaments. It was apparently a more surefire way to earn one’s freedom, but if they meant what he feared they meant, then it confirmed his fear that this was one ofthosesettlements. The kind that was off-book enough that the magistrate could run it like their own private empire.
He had come across that sort of place in his travels, and from what he could gauge, it seemed quite possible that he had landed smack dab in the middle of one.
“Step up,” the overseer said, gesturing to a sturdy table about waist-high.
Bodok did as he was told without hesitation, standing perfectly still as one of the guards fitted him with ankle bindings, the metal sealing shut without a seam as the ends met.
There was no visible link between them, but the overseers could adjust the maximum space between them, allowing them to control his stride remotely. He would be given plenty of leeway to walk, but anything even remotely resembling a run was totally out of the question.
He hated to admit it, but it was a rather elegant means of control. No primitive chains or bindings to tangle one’s feet while performing normal tasks, and no explosive neck collars like the Ixnati war clans used on their prisoners.
This was just a simple way to hobble prisoners if needed, keeping their bodies unharmed and able to perform their duties again—after their punishment, of course.
For his first day of work, Bodok was to be given a simple task. He would carry cartons of cooking supplies from the nearby depot that serviced the prisoner compound to the kitchen area attached to their barracks. It meant he would be out walking the city, at least this part of it.
