Ponty’s face turned white. The statement was tantamount to rebellion. The slave would be punished and so would he. Perhaps he could silence her and save himself. Ponty drew his arm back and was about to flick the whip forward when Rahman stopped him. His voice was stern. “What do you mean?”
Lora had seen the interplay between the men and felt a little more confident. “I mean that weeds are allowed to grow around the greenhouses. They produce seeds, which we bring inside on our clothes and shoes.”
Rahman stared at her. “That is a very interesting observation. Where did you learn that?”
Lora couldn’t tell the truth. Not without mentioning the Sanctuary. “I lived at the Morningstar commune before the Crusaders destroyed it.”
Rahman nodded. “You may return to your work.”
Lora knelt on the edge of the raised planter box and went back to pulling weeds. Nothing was likely to change. She knew that. But trying made her feel better.
The rest of the day was a long, dreary affair capped off by the one thing Lora looked forward to, and that was dinner. Not because of the way the food was prepared but because there were plenty of fresh vegetables. And after weeks on the road, she was hungry for them.
Nights were spent in a locked dormitory with the women who worked in Greenhouses 6, 7, and 8. There were forty-five of them, and Lora was still in the process of putting names with faces. A strict curfew was enforced by an overseer whom everyone referred to as “the Hag.” Fortunately the Hag had three dorms to monitor and was absent two-thirds of the time.
Lora slipped between the thin cotton sheets, pulled the wool blanket up around her neck, and waited for the lanterns to go out. The building was wired for electricity but didn’t have any. According to the rumors Lora had heard, the lack of power had something to do with a war between Voss and a tech lord named Hashi. Finally the lights went off one by one. That was followed by the familiar clomp, clomp, clomp of the Hag’s footsteps and the sound of a door closing.
Then Lora had to listen to the usual coughing fits, prayers that never produced results, and the sound of a crying child. In addition to Sissy’s daughter, Cristi, the dorm was home to two other children, both under the age of six. Once their sixth birthdays arrived, they would be taken from their mothers to be sold or raised separately, a prospect that haunted Sissy’s every waking hour.
As the coughing stopped and the prayers came to an end, some of the women began to snore. That was when Lora drifted off to sleep. But not for long. Suddenly a heavy weight fell across Lora’s thighs, a hand covered her mouth, and a voice whispered in her ear. “Good morning, suck-up. Time to rise and shine.”
Lora struggled as what seemed like a multitude of hands lifted her out of bed, jerked the covers off, and carried her to the bathroom, the only place where there was any privacy. Lora waited for some sort of reaction. Surely the other slaves could see what was happening. Then it came to her… Most if not all of them were in on it. Her feet hit the cold floor as a couple of women took hold of her arms.
A match flared, a lantern was lit, and Lora was forced to squint. That was when a woman named Vicki slapped Lora across the face. Vicki was thirtysomething, stocky, and clearly angry. “The bosses have their rules,” she began, “and we have ours. The first one is, ‘Do enough but no more.’ And you broke that rule. What? You think we’re stupid? You think we don’t know where seeds come from? Use your head. If we help Voss to grow more food, he will sell it, buy more slaves, and make them suffer. So we do enough to survive but no more. Got it?” The question was punctuated with a slap that caused Lora’s head to jerk sideways. She nodded.
“Good,” Vicki said. “This is your one and only warning. If you step out of line again, the Hag will find you hanging from a pipe in the showers. We’ll cry and say how sad we are. And Ponty will put it down as a suicide.”
“Time to break it off,” a voice whispered. “The Hag is on her way back by now.”
Strong hands lifted Lora and half carried her back to bed. She hid under the covers as the Hag reentered the dorm. Lora slept very little that night. A wild mishmash of emotions kept her awake. Embarrassment for being so stupid. Fear of what the other slaves might do to her in the future. And something akin to respect when she realized that the women around her were fighting back to the extent they could.
Lora knew all eyes were on her the next morning. That stemmed from simple curiosity in part, but there was a more serious aspect to it as well. Would she look scared? Would she try to talk to Ponty? The only person who knew for sure was Lora, and she hid her emotions as she joined the chow line. Sissy was there with Cristi on her hip. She looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Lora. They said they would hurt me if I told you. And I have Cristi to think of.”
Lora understood but couldn’t forgive her. A friend was someone you could count on no matter what, and Sissy had failed that test. Lora wasn’t surprised, however. One of the things she had learned over the last few months was that a person like Matt could be an enemy and an individual like Cassie could be a friend. So she told Sissy to forget it, made a note that the woman couldn’t be trusted, and elected to eat by herself.
Once breakfast was over, Ponty was there to lead them to Greenhouse 7. But instead of sending them inside the way he usually did, Ponty pointed to a pile of tools. His voice was even, but Lora could tell he was angry. “You’ll start by working outside,” he said. “And from now on, you will brush all foreign matter off your clothes before entering the greenhouse.”
Lora knew the slaves were looking at her, hating her, as she went to collect a tool. The tip of the whip stung as it found her back. “Pick up the pace,” Ponty said. “You have a lot of work to do.”
The next couple of days were very unpleasant. Except for Sissy, none of the other slaves were willing to speak with her, and Ponty rarely missed an opportunity to whip Lora. But then, three days after the short interaction with Rahman, an overseer named Nichols came to collect her. She was eating breakfast at the time and the buzz of conversation ceased as he entered, spoke to the nearest slave, and made his way over to where Lora was seated. The overseer was small, wiry, and dressed in bib overalls. “Are you Larsy?”
Lora stood. “Yes, master.”
“My name is Nichols. Follow me.” Every eye in the cafeteria tracked Lora as she was led out into the bright sunshine. She felt a sudden stab of fear. Where was Nichols taking her? The answer was to a horse-drawn wagon that was waiting about fifty yards away. The back was loaded with boxes of fresh produce. “Hop up next to the driver’s seat,” Nichols said, and pointed forward.
Once Lora was seated next to Nichols and the vehicle was under way, she felt a sense of relief. She wasn’t on her way to some sort of punishment. So where was the wagon going? Lora turned toward Nichols. “Permission to speak?”
“Shoot,” Nichols said laconically as the reins slapped the horses.
“Where are we going?”
Nichols looked surprised. “No one told you?”
“No, master.”
“You were selected to work in the big house.”
“The big house?”
“Yeah, you know. The house where Mr. Voss lives.”
Lora didn’t know—but it made sense. Voss had to live somewhere. She had other questions but didn’t dare ask them. She could think about the situation and draw her own conclusions, however. It seemed that the ill-considered interaction with Rahman had resulted in a promotion of sorts, since everyone knew that house slaves lived better than field slaves did. But a slave is a slave.