It seemed sensible that Nuka-world supports itself on the slave trade, but including slavery in your story means you have to decide what to do with the ickiest side of an already very icky institution. Do you go for dark and gritty and risk grossing out your readers and changing the mood of your story, find a way to mention it without really including it, or just pretend pervs don't exist in your reality? There is no best answer so I went with middle ground and decided that the raiders think some things are just too gross. In our world criminals in prison aren't big fans of people who do certain things, so that's my lampshade for keeping sexual violence out of Nuka-world.

Auction

The next morning Gage hollered up at me before noon, before raiders mostly were awake.

We were up, Deacon was drawing copies of the map and I was doing something I did every morning for a few minutes: trying to contact the Institute. With no luck. I'd got from, "Hello, come in? Director Filmore, can you hear me?" all the way to, "Allie, damnit, a relay out of here would solve half my problems right now!" No answer, just like all the other times I'd tried.

Without looking up Deacon asked, "You think they can't hear or aren't listening?"

"Can't hear. Allie's never hesitated to tell me when she's not going to help. Communication works on the same satellite or whatever that the relay uses and I'm not sure how far it covers. The whole Commonwealth but not as far out as the Capital Wasteland since they lost an agent there once…" I glanced at Deacon, just then remembering he'd been in the Capital Wasteland.

Of course it was then that we heard, "Hey, Overboss! You dressed?"

"You'd better tell me later or so help me I'll tell Piper where you live… Mornin' Gage!" I let down the elevator while Deacon laughed silently and made the maps disappear. Gage found us doing ordinary morning things.

"Mornin', boss. Anybody tell you what's on the agenda for today?"

"Didn't even know raiders had agendas. What's up?"

"Auction. Where the real caps come from. Mags didn't tell you?"

Auction. I kept my voice casual. "Mags Black didn't trust me enough to tell me when the slave auction was happening? I'm shocked. So, want me to be there?"

"You don't want to miss watching the caps roll in! Come on down to the Parlor and you can catch the beginning."

Gage beckoned from the elevator. My mind stuttered, trying to think of some excuse. This was going to be bad but I couldn't think of a way out of it. "Sure. Give me a minute to finish getting dressed." By which I meant armor and weapons. I got geared up and we rode down.

The Parlor had been cleaned up for the occasion. The stage was guarded by a dozen Operators, some of whom were holding flamethrowers. That would certainly stop anyone from trying anything but it was more likely to burn the place down. The buyers sat at the tables. They were just people, travelers I'd seen shopping in the market in the last few days. Nobody I'd talked to, but just people.

Deacon nodded towards a table near the stage, a spot with a good view and a wall to our backs. It was occupied so I stood and stared until the people there chose to relocate. Gage chuckled at this display of Overboss attitude but I only cared that we got the place Deacon's spy instincts picked out. Gage took the third seat. Operators put booze and food in front of us, and cigarettes. I haven't smoked since before the war but I still like the smell.

Mags Black came to sit with us, nodding to me and Gage. She carried a clipboard and pen with a list already written. I was not thrilled to have either her or Gage so close. It was not going to be fun hiding how I felt about slavery—which is how I think every ordinary person should feel about slavery but here we were in a room full of people who obviously didn't feel that way.

To Mags I said, "Help me understand how this works. Where does the merchandise come from?"

"Oh, everywhere. Travelers who can't pay their debt in the market. Some are traders still here from when we took the place, our gang brings some back. And some Dixie brings in. You know all about that, boss."

"Yeah."

And then William Black brought out the first slave for sale.

The whole thing was strangely civilized. The slaves were clothed and clean, and walked onto the stage under their own power. I'm sure someone was backstage with the control to the shock collars, but there was no dragging and mostly no chains. And William had notes he read out about each piece of merchandise. Age, skills and health. Not names. The first slave up was a big man William described as, "Good for farming or building! He's not leaving any family behind so you don't have to worry about him running off!"

Someone called, "Lift his collar!"

William did, shoving the slave forward so we could see the unmarked skin of his neck. "See? We've hardly had to shock him! Who wants to open the bidding?"

The bidding went for a while, it started in numbers of caps and expanded into quantities of goods. Several more muscular farmer slaves were presented one after another and during the bidding I had time to say, "This is making a lot of money."

Mags smiled and took a drag on her cigarette. "You saw the brahmin outside? By the end of the day everything loaded on those brahmin will belong to us. We'll keep what we like and sell the rest in the market."

"Slavery isn't legal in every settlement."

"So? If you're rich enough to buy a slave you're rich enough that everything is legal. The Minutemen make a big noise about things they 'just won't tolerate' but even in the Commonwealth there are places that just don't care."

Well that was something to look into when I got home.

The next slave sold for more because he'd done office work and knew how to keep accounts, the next one had a thick band of scar tissue around his throat and sold cheap. William suggested he was only good for raiding or fighting pits. I said, "Fighting pits?" and Mags shrugged.

The next slave was a woman with two small children. William really talked her up, "The little ones can start on farm work or training. Teach them whatever you want, build your own specialists! And this one can cook, sew, the usual, and she'll never run away as long as you've got her kids!" the bidding started high. The woman's eyes were blank and empty. Under the table Deacon put his hand on my knee and squeezed hard. I wasn't sure if he was stopping me from doing something or stopping himself.

After the family sold Gage grunted, "Overpriced. Once they get like that you'll never get a good day's work."

"Probably why we're selling her. Can't fix that." Mags added.

But you could. Well not fix, but time and safety and friends to talk to can help people come back. I've seen it.

More slaves sold. A couple of caravan guards who'd run up debt in the market and their caravan refused to cover it, a trader William touted as being an expert in identifying prewar artifacts, a muscular woman who'd been a mirelurk egg hunter and who had wide burns under her collar, and a traveling teacher who inspired a long bidding war. Mags said the two bidders owned large 'estates' far to the west and needed teachers for their many children by their many wives. And as tense and miserable as I was there was a moment of thrill because the world had just gotten bigger.

But before I could ask about these settlements they brought out the child slaves. Two boys and a girl, to be sold separately.

And they were advertised as children. "Build your family!" William said, and, "Did you lose your legacy to the atom? Purchase a legacy!"

My mind raced over plans to buy them, completely impossible with the money I had and the whole "Overboss" thing. Beside me Deacon had gone really still and blank behind his sunglasses.

There wasn't much bidding. The bigger boy sold to one of the estate barons and the other two were bought by a man and woman who hadn't bid on any other slaves and looked ragged and out of place. Mags smirked, "The ones that really want a family are the best customers. Desperation means caps."

I couldn't not ask. "Anybody ever buy the little ones for other things?"

Mags' face twitched like she smelled something foul. "Occasionally someone suggests that's what they're here for. We use them for target practice."

Gage added, "We're here to make caps, not supply the wasteland's perverts."

Well. That was a pleasant surprise. I didn't push my luck by asking why slavery, torture and murder were all fine.

That was the end of the auction. People started getting up and some of the winning bidders came over to talk to William Black. I felt Deacon relax slightly and started thinking how we could excuse ourselves and get the hell away from these people.

Then a voice called, "Hello? Hello, hi, I'd like to sell a few!" and Dixie hauled three half-dead people onto the stage.

Mags sat up straight with a jerk. "How the hell did she get in here? You! Tell Nisha to come retrieve her pet. Now!" The Operator indicated made a dash for the door.

Gage was grinning like this was great entertainment. I wasn't sure what the Overboss was supposed to do in this situation so I didn't do anything. The audience didn't know what to do either, some laughed and some looked at William for direction.

Dixie, oblivious, poked one of the slaves to make him stand up straight. These were some of the human wrecks we'd seen in the Disciples' mountain, cut and bruised in a dozen places with shackle marks on their wrists. "Well? Who wants 'em? I need five hundred caps! Or…". She named a few other numbers and after a minute I realized she was going for the price of rather a lot of psycho.

I heard, "It'll cost that to doctor ''em."

But someone else called out a bid. William cursed. "We sell quality merchandise! This is a one time event but if you really want 'em…"

It wasn't exactly a bidding war but there was a buyer and he paid Dixie and took his purchases. Who might be better off as slave labor than as prisoners of the Disciples. Mags and William immediately started herding the bidders out. They hadn't finished before Nisha appeared. She opened with, "Your hair must've grown into your brain if you think you can tell my lieutenant what to do!" It got louder from there. Shortly Nisha had a knife on Mags who had a gun on Nisha and they were talking to each other in low threatening voices while everyone else fled. Gage still sat at our table sipping his drink like this was a show. I gave him a raised-eyebrows look and he just took another sip. He didn't think the two gang leaders would kill each other.

Deacon caught my eye and nodded towards the door. I stood. "I think I'll leave them to it. Let me know who wins."

"Will do, boss." Gage waved.

And Deacon and I just left.

The square around the Parlor was full of winning bidders unloading their brahmin. A man in a hat was supervising members of all three gangs helping move goods. My eyes widened at the amount of salvage coming in. Food, baled fabric, ammunition, unidentifiable bits of machinery. Now it made more sense how so many people could live without working.

When we'd gotten far enough away I said, "Well that was…" and couldn't think exactly how to finish that. "Back to Fizztop or do you want to go shoot things?"

I kind of wanted to shoot things. Blow off steam by blowing up some bloodworms. Deacon nodded in the direction of Dry Rock Gulch so we went that way. A few tiny bloodworms burrowed up from under our feet but the big ones hadn't reappeared since yesterday. At least they didn't come back that fast! But three giant crickets came at us and Deacon and I obliterated them without thought for things like conserving ammunition. Or aiming, really. This is not like either of us and we both looked down in embarrassment at the gooey mess of former cricket.

Deacon took a long breath. "Mags was writing down who bought what and she probably does that every time. The notes weren't on the Operators' terminal so there are paper files in the Parlor somewhere."

"We'll get them. Keep the Railroad busy for years." I said with forced lightness.

"The Minutemen too, if your nearest neighbors are slaveowners."

I groaned and leaned on a splintery wall, gun dangling from my hand. "God, what do we do? The Minutemen aren't that kind of army. We protect our homes, we don't declare war on people. Maybe by the time we need it we'll have a government that can vote how to handle things like this. I want you in my cabinet, by the way."

Deacon made a horrified face and said loudly, "Look, what's that over there?"

It was a corral, most of the wood fence rotting away. The barn was still standing and through a dusty window we saw empty feeding troughs. 'Sheriff Cappy's Petting Ranch' a sign said with a picture of cows, goats and horses. Animals I would like to find alive but there were only bones, bleached white after all this time. Deacon held up a skull. "One-headed brahmin? Yeah."

I wanted to say something about how Deacon had read enough prewar books to know what cows are called, but my brain wouldn't come up with a joke. So I said what I was really thinking. "Can you think of anything we can do about that right now, that doesn't end with both of us getting shot?"

"Nope."

The one word was strangely comforting. My brain was still buzzing with the need to do something, and the certainty that I was a terrible person for not doing something, but the roar in my head was not bringing any ideas that could help anybody and leave us still alive. At the bottom of things I would choose the innocent over the guilty, and us over innocents. So it was comforting to know that Deacon couldn't think of anything either, and that he probably felt the same way I did. He was wearing his most these-sunglasses-hide-my-expression expression. I said, "Can't save everybody, huh?"

"Not today. Regroup, better resources, new plan. Take time, think it through, learn everything you can. Like who woke up that protectron I hear stomping around."

I hadn't registered the sound until Deacon said it, so it's a good thing he was there. We drew weapons and went out of the corral and around a row of buildings. The other side was the front, arcade games and shops made to look like old west buildings. In the middle of the street a protectron in a cowboy hat stomped back and forth while Sierra Petrovita stood glaring at it.

"Johnny! Maybe you can help me with this thing!"

"Sierra! How's the quest for the letters going?" Deacon sounded perfectly cheerful, like he wasn't just as upset as I was.

"I figured out where the other letter in Dry Rock Gulch has to be! Inside that mine… cart… thing. I've looked everywhere else. I got this robot turned on but it's not being very helpful."

It was stomping slowly around the street in a programmed path, reciting its prewar park recording in the best fake cowboy accent a protectron could manage. "Howdy. Pardners. I'm. Sheriff. Hawk. And. I'm. Lookin'. For. A. Few. Good. Deputies."

Sierra, who'd probably never heard cowboy talk in her life, looked mystified.

I couldn't muster up much enthusiasm but I faked the accent. "Well sheriff you got yourself a posse here. Yeehaw."

Sierra asked, "What does yeehaw mean?"

"I… don't actually know. It's just cowboy talk." I put the accent back on and said, "So what can this posse do to bring some law an' order to Dry Rock Gulch?"

That got the protectron to play the next part of its recording. "We. Got. Some. No. Good. Outlaws. Holed. Up. In. Mad! Mulligan's! Mine!" Ok, I'll stop doing the voice. You'll have to imagine a protectron programmed with an accent. "But the door's locked up tight. There's a spare key in the safe but wouldn't you know it I plumb forgot the combination. You'll need to talk to my three amigos Doc Phosphate, One-eyed Ike and the Giddyup Kid. Prove to them you're tough enough to take on the outlaws and they'll give you their parts of the combination."

Sierra thought this was great. "This must be a park activity! We get the true Nuka-world experience just like visitors before the war!"

Those visitors were still all around us. Their skeletons in tattered clothes slumped at the sides of the street where they must have dived for shelter when the bomb fell. This was where they were that day. I had an unpleasant shaky feeling and I heard my own voice crack out "You sure they're still alive? The world ended, everybody's dead!"

The protrectron whirred, "Hostility detected. Continue explanation for sake of other guests."

Something cracked. Suddenly my pistol was in my hand. I caught myself, cursed, and holstered it again. "Sorry. I think I need to not be here. I need a nap. You two can stay and play with the robots."

"You want me to come, boss..?"

"I'm fine, Deacon. Help Sierra find her letter." And I would be fine once I got somewhere quiet.

Deacon nodded, judging me safe without a babysitter. As I limped back towards Nuka-town I heard him start telling Sierra about cowboy movies.

Gage was still supervising loading and unloading outside the Parlor, though most of the buyers were already gone. I paused in a shadow to watch, and saw one good thing. The couple who'd bought the children were heading out on the road, the woman carrying one child and holding the other by the hand, the man effusively thanking Mags Black. Mags looked highly uncomfortable.

Maybe something in the world wasn't terrible.

I went around the outside of the Market. As usual there were a bunch of raiders just hanging around the pond and the old buildings. Eating, drinking, bullying the slaves, taking potshots at the Bottle and Cappy statues with a level of gun safety that made me twitch. Any Minuteman trainee swinging a loaded weapon around like that would get extra cleaning duty and reeducation at top volume.

I took a path wide around them, close to the buildings and in full sunlight. Someone was lying on the concrete surrounded by empty bottles and spent jet cartridges. Not an unusual sight here.

Then I got up on her and it was Dixie. I stopped and looked down at her, flat on her back in all her armor. She'd gotten passed out drunk since the auction? It had been an hour, not much more. That many bottles was Friday night for half of Sanctuary. And she was lying out in the hot sun. I nudged her shoulder with my foot. "Dixie. Hey."

A moan.

"Come on, let's go." I crouched down, clumsy on my bad foot, and hoisted her arm over my shoulder.

Being hauled up woke her and she moaned some more and slurred, "Where we goin'?"

"The doc, before you die of dehydration."

"No doc. Jus' wanna go home. You hur' the doc and Gage takes a finger."

Which took a minute to understand but it did make sense. Probably the only way to keep MacKenzie safe in a place like this. So I hauled Dixie to the door to Fizztop Mountain instead. The door guard saw us coming, opened the door and called out to someone inside. Nisha's other lieutenant Savoy came over, grunted, and grabbed Dixie by her free arm. He dragged her inside as she protested. I said, "Make her drink water."

Nisha came over lazy as a lioness. "She does this every time Maddox extends her any credit. Thank you for bringing her back, Overboss. Ought to string her up after what she pulled today, but I prefer to keep her alive." Nisha sounded almost real, like she really was grateful Dixie hadn't been left to bake to death in the sun. Which was a real possibility; Goodneighbor lost a drifter or two every summer until Hancock got the neighborhood watch on a patrol pattern that covered the spots they always seemed to pass out.

So I just nodded and said, "Just doing my part."

And then finally I could ride the elevator up to the Overboss quarters, check for traps and bugs and then relax a little. I ate and drank and lay down on Colter's couch then, when that wasn't enough, raided the stash of Med-x Gage left. That helped instantly and even though I knew I should stay awake to let Deacon up the elevator I ended up dozing away the afternoon. Other than the chem use, exactly what I'd tell one of my kids to do when they get overwhelmed.

When I woke up it was getting dark. The lights were out in Fizztop Grille so I could look down on the lighted square below. My friends had made it back and Sierra was playing with a machine with funnels on top that let you mix your own flavors of Nuka-cola. Written on the side were suggestions for mixing different kinds of Nuka-cola but with the raiders here Sierra was adding whiskey and vodka and whatever two hundred year old drinks they could find. Whatever she was doing had gathered a dozen of the younger raiders to taste the results. Deacon I recognized from his posture, leaning on a wall unobtrusively.

He saw me looking and sauntered to the elevator without anybody giving him a second glance. I let the elevator down and he rode up. "Smart leaving the lights off. No silhouette for a sniper to aim at."

"I know. You told me that." And then for fun I added, "So did Preston." So had Paladin Danse, but I didn't want to tease Deacon that much.

Deacon waved that off and handed me one of Sierra's Nuka-mixes. It glowed deep pink. Orange and cherry? I took a sip. Not the worst thing ever.

Deacon asked, "That what oranges really tasted like? I've only seen pictures."

"I don't think any real oranges were anywhere near Nuka-orange but… sort of? Real oranges aren't sweet like this. They're sweet but… cleaner sweet. Sharper. I don't know."

Deacon looked disappointed and so was I now that I was thinking about orange juice and grapefruit and lemon spritzed on fish. Mutfruit has vitamin C but it doesn't taste like citrus. I said, 'They grow oranges in Florida, all the way down the coast. I'm sure we could walk there in only a year or so." I had no idea how long it would take to walk to Florida and it didn't matter because we'd certainly be killed by monsters on the way.

Deacon chuckled and asked what was in Nuka-cola if it wasn't real oranges, so I told him about artificial flavors but I don't know what those really are and Deacon said it was strange that we ate mystery food before the war and that got us on to whether mystery food was worse than mutated food, and ate our mutated food, and watched the square below until Sierra went off to where she was staying with the other travelers. Deacon had returned to his usual… Deacon-ness; he told me a bunch of strange things he'd supposedly eaten, just to see what he could make me believe.