"Take off your clothes."
It was cold and you shook. You shook from more than the cold. You couldn't move.
He reached into a cargo pocket on his jacket and pulled out a cigret. "Take off your clothes."
While he struck the end of the cigret with the silver band of his finger lighter, occupied, you moved obediently. Fear filled your mouth, tasting like ashes. You stared at the floor and stood there naked, goose-bumped, holding your pants and sweater and underwear in your hands. Your tag lay cold against your chest.
He took away the clothes and tossed them across the room.
You tried to cover yourself. He bit his cigret between his teeth and grabbed your wrists, turned you around and raised your arms, turned you again and again like the mannequins you'd seen in shop windows on station. His eyes went everywhere on you and his hands followed, pressing and prodding and lifting. You were too scared and embarrassed even to cry. It was hard to breathe.
Then he let your arms drop and walked to your clothes, picked them up and tossed them back.
"Dress."
The smoke from the cigret stank like rotten vegetables. He watched as you pulled on your clothes. You knew he watched even though you couldn't raise your head. It was a fight just to keep your whole body from shaking violently.
He came forward again and lifted out your tag, looked at it front and back, then longer at the front where the image was.
"Joslyn Aaron Musey. What kind of sissy name is that?"
Did he want an answer? You couldn't speak anyway. Your throat closed. You couldn't raise your head and now you did want to cry. You had to cry but—no. No. No.
"I asked you a question, Joslyn Aaron Musey."
You whispered, "Jos."
"What?"
Loud voice. A voice that sounded full of bad smoke.
"Jos," you repeated. "M-my family calls me Jos."
"Your f-family?" Mocking. "Shit. You know your family's dead, don't you?"
You stared into that face. The tears pushed behind your eyes but you forced yourself to stare into that unlined, mocking face, and you didn't breathe when it blew smoke toward your nose. You stared. And you memorized. You memorized like Daddy had always told you to do if bad people ever approached you.
The man was laughing without sound. Straight white teeth.
"You have fight. That's good, you'll last." The eyes raked over you head to toe. "And you're a good-looking kid. That'll be a bonus. You seem healthy. And smart. So you know that defiance at this point is a waste of my time. I'll get rid of the kids who cause me trouble. Copy?"
He smoked. He looked down at you as if he'd just asked your birthday.
You remembered a name you'd heard. "Falcone." You were never going to forget it.
Falcone smiled again. "Smart boy. Maybe I'll keep you for myself."
You stared at the floor again, but this time so he wouldn't see the hate in your eyes. It might have made him angry. You didn't fight when he got another man to take you back to the room where Evan and the others waited. You walked calmly. You saw how it was going to be: silence unless asked a question. Thoughts in your head that would never reach your eyes or out your mouth. Waiting.
Waiting without feeling. Don't think back. Don't dream.
IV.
Eventually they took everybody out, one by one, and brought them back again. Some returned bruised. Others crying. Others silent. Evan came back with all his hair cut off. Evan had long blond hair that he always used to wear in a tail, like his older brother Shane who made stationers stare when he walked on their decks. But Evan came back with his head shaved and a large bruise on his cheek, a cut on his lip and a breakable look in his eyes. He sat in the corner and didn't want anybody to touch him. You tried to and he shoved you away. You didn't think, then, they were treating everybody the same. The place that was left, this small room with the only people you knew, was already destroyed. They'd taken your leader. Evan couldn't protect you if he couldn't protect himself.
Like Mama and Daddy. Your heart hurt.
Sano said, "I heard one of them. When they took me. We're going to Slavepoint."
"You're lying," Tammy said. "Slavepoint's a bogeyman tale."
"It's not! I heard!"
"You're only seven. What do you know?"
"I heard! They're gonna sell us to bad ships and we're gonna have to scrub decks and eat old food our whole lives!"
You knew the stories. Parents said sometimes when they were mad at you that they'd dump you off at Slavepoint. The senior kids like Shane said the pirates met there with nice merchant ship kids that they'd taken in some raid, or they captured goody Universalist ship kids and traded them at Slavepoint for drugs and guns and money, and you had to serve the pirates in all sorts of nasty ways that might mean cleaning out their refuse cans—but if you were really bad they dumped you on the strits. And everybody knew aliens were worse than pirates because aliens ate you.