PROLOGUE
"Mutate 246, report to the nearest supervisor for re-location." The young slave looked up from her machine, wiping dust and sweat from her face in mild, dull surprise. Without her feeding it fabric strips, the machine ground to a reluctant halt, screeching like an injured, petulant animal. 246 walked with stooped shoulders towards the yellow-clad supervisor, the buzzing of the collar around her neck fading into the general din.
"I was called, Sir?" she said loudly to be heard. The supervisor nodded and turned on her heel, beckoning for the younger slave to follow. The supervisor was also a mutate, her head shaved, a collar buzzing around her neck. She and 246 wore the same jumpsuit, but the supervisor's was yellow and black, while 246's was white and black. The colors of both women's jumpsuits had once been bright, but were so dirty with the dust of the factory floor that one could hardly make out the original colors.
Another slave, this one in orange and black, met them at the door leading out of the floor and took charge, leaving the supervisor to return to her task. 246 knew better then to ask what was going on. As they walked, the most noticeably change was in the cleanliness of the halls. The factory floor was filthy, and the halls around it as well. As they made their way towards the offices, the walls became clean and the rooms neat, the floor was suddenly carpeted, and 246 felt filthy and out of place. Her ears rang in the sudden silence, and her collar, and that of her guide, seemed obscenely out of place. And yet, there were mutates here, too. They were everywhere.
"Is this her?" The guide nodded. "You're dismissed." The speaker was human, dressed in the uniform of a magistrate. He had dark eyes and skin, probably with mainland ancestry, and had lines around his eyes and mouth, though 246 though he couldn't be much older than she. "Mutate 246?" She nodded, eyes on the floor.
"Yes, Sir." The man walked around her, eying her like a predator eyes its next dinner.
"You're healthy?"
"Yes, Sir."
"No recent injuries?"
"No, Sir."
"You've spent time working in households?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You took care of children?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And you were sent here for subversive activities."
"Yes, Sir," she said through her teeth, knowing better than to correct him. She had been sent here under the charge of subversive behavior, but that hadn't been why she was sent to this hellhole.
"And you've been here for... how long?"
"Seven years, Sir." He nodded, and continued to pace, eyes staring at her through tight lids. She was becoming uncomfortable. It wasn't a magistrate's style to dance around their point.
"Seven years," he repeated. He stopped abruptly on his heel. "You've been requested as a maid in the home of Philip Moreau. You worked in his father's home before you're arrest, did you not?"
"Yes, Sir." Philip Moreau was requesting her in his home? Her mind whirled. He'd been a meek, skinny child who kicked his dog and his nanny as often as his father had kicked him.
"I don't like subversives, mutate 246." He brought his face right up to hers and forced her head up. She focused hard to keep from looking him in the eye. "I think you should be locked away here until you rot." She felt his hot breath on her face and tried not to wince. He sniffed and stepped back. "But that's out of my hands, isn't it." He paused, as if daring her to answer him. "Just remember 246, you are nothing. You are a criminal, and if you step out of line once, I will not stop until I track you down. This isn't a threat; it's a promise."
"Mutate 246, report to the nearest supervisor for re-location." The young slave looked up from her machine, wiping dust and sweat from her face in mild, dull surprise. Without her feeding it fabric strips, the machine ground to a reluctant halt, screeching like an injured, petulant animal. 246 walked with stooped shoulders towards the yellow-clad supervisor, the buzzing of the collar around her neck fading into the general din.
"I was called, Sir?" she said loudly to be heard. The supervisor nodded and turned on her heel, beckoning for the younger slave to follow. The supervisor was also a mutate, her head shaved, a collar buzzing around her neck. She and 246 wore the same jumpsuit, but the supervisor's was yellow and black, while 246's was white and black. The colors of both women's jumpsuits had once been bright, but were so dirty with the dust of the factory floor that one could hardly make out the original colors.
Another slave, this one in orange and black, met them at the door leading out of the floor and took charge, leaving the supervisor to return to her task. 246 knew better then to ask what was going on. As they walked, the most noticeably change was in the cleanliness of the halls. The factory floor was filthy, and the halls around it as well. As they made their way towards the offices, the walls became clean and the rooms neat, the floor was suddenly carpeted, and 246 felt filthy and out of place. Her ears rang in the sudden silence, and her collar, and that of her guide, seemed obscenely out of place. And yet, there were mutates here, too. They were everywhere.
"Is this her?" The guide nodded. "You're dismissed." The speaker was human, dressed in the uniform of a magistrate. He had dark eyes and skin, probably with mainland ancestry, and had lines around his eyes and mouth, though 246 though he couldn't be much older than she. "Mutate 246?" She nodded, eyes on the floor.
"Yes, Sir." The man walked around her, eying her like a predator eyes its next dinner.
"You're healthy?"
"Yes, Sir."
"No recent injuries?"
"No, Sir."
"You've spent time working in households?"
"Yes, Sir."
"You took care of children?"
"Yes, Sir."
"And you were sent here for subversive activities."
"Yes, Sir," she said through her teeth, knowing better than to correct him. She had been sent here under the charge of subversive behavior, but that hadn't been why she was sent to this hellhole.
"And you've been here for... how long?"
"Seven years, Sir." He nodded, and continued to pace, eyes staring at her through tight lids. She was becoming uncomfortable. It wasn't a magistrate's style to dance around their point.
"Seven years," he repeated. He stopped abruptly on his heel. "You've been requested as a maid in the home of Philip Moreau. You worked in his father's home before you're arrest, did you not?"
"Yes, Sir." Philip Moreau was requesting her in his home? Her mind whirled. He'd been a meek, skinny child who kicked his dog and his nanny as often as his father had kicked him.
"I don't like subversives, mutate 246." He brought his face right up to hers and forced her head up. She focused hard to keep from looking him in the eye. "I think you should be locked away here until you rot." She felt his hot breath on her face and tried not to wince. He sniffed and stepped back. "But that's out of my hands, isn't it." He paused, as if daring her to answer him. "Just remember 246, you are nothing. You are a criminal, and if you step out of line once, I will not stop until I track you down. This isn't a threat; it's a promise."