E Read Free Page B

room to room, I find an
external door on the opposite side.  I slam through it into the open air,
running.  Crashing by people, sprinting for all I'm worth, I'm halfway
down the street before I realize I'm losing my costume.  I force myself to
slow, grabbing at my rags.  Ducking my face, I rewind them carefully about
my head.  I take one alleyway, then another, wanting to lose myself. 
Wanting to hide.  For hours, I glance behind me to see if anyone is
following.  I cannot shake the feeling of being stalked. 
    By mid afternoon, I'm weary, and feeling hopeless.  I've
convinced myself that I'm being paranoid, but I can't make the feelings go
completely away.  Wandering through the marketplace, something catches my
attention.
    In one corner is a raised platform where slaves are paraded for
auction.  “Captive Laborer Auction” a banner reads.  Slavery is
illegal, and Sentries apparently don't get synonyms.  A young girl, thin,
bare-skinned, with cerulean blue eyes-- turns slowly under the audience's
speculation.  She does not seem afraid.  Only subservient.  Her
eyes are respectfully downcast, her face smooth.  Every aspect of her
manner shows that she's been trained to behave perfectly.  Maybe she's
been a slave forever.  But she's marked.  Maybe her training was
highly effective.
    Most of the others are marked as well, though not all of
them.  Erasure makes you a target, but so do other things.  No one is
exactly immune from the threat of slavery.  I watch for only a moment
more, shifting my eyes to the groups of men gathered before the platform. 
There are at least two distinct packs who must be outsiders.  They're
watchful of what's happening around them, projecting an air of
separateness.  They stay together with their companions.  None of
them socializes outside their main group.  They carry with them a predatory
air.
    Shivering, I turn away and move on.  I'm almost to the end of
the marketplace when I notice a man with boxes of items piled all around
him.  Inside is trash.  There's a young boy handing him a
satchel.  He dumps it into one of the boxes, tin cans tumbling in to join
others of their kind.  He hands the boy two small coins.  A
recycler.  Of course!
    As I pass, I eye the boxes to determine their contents.  Tin,
plastic, paper, leather, cloth, and glass.  I hurry off into the back
alleys to see what I can find.  There's no shortage of trash in the
Outpost, but collecting it is not an easy task.  I start out boldly,
plucking cans out of a dumpster.  Within ten minutes, a pack of feral
children chases me away, hurling things, running at me, screaming loudly enough
to draw any Sentry within two blocks.  I retreat away from them, though a
few dog me until I get to the busiest streets.  On the northern side of
the Outpost, two men threaten to gut me for picking up a piece of paper. 
I'm lucky enough to be within a Sentry's line of sight at the time.  After
this, I'm more cautious in my approach to foraging.  I size up a few areas
and decide against taking anything.  Eventually, I wander along the
southwestern wall of the Outpost in the red light district.  Everyone here
is too busy thinking about other things to worry about trash.  It's a
creepy area, and full of unpleasant scenes.  The trade of flesh. 
Human desperation at its worst.  I keep my head down, stay away from
people, and only pick things up when I think no one is looking.  I'm
careful about what I take.  Sheets of metal leaned against buildings,
bottles placed outside a door in a box-- these are things I don't dare
touch.  But when I see the shed door hanging open, a pair of needle-nose
pliers visible on the wall within, the temptation is too much.  Taking
them could cost me my life, but how am I going to live without a foot?  I
tuck them into the folds of my rags and slip quietly away.
    In the marketplace, the recycler is folding the lids of his boxes
shut.  I walk up within a few paces, careful