Refugee Read Free Page A

didn't see her. I don't know why I thought of her right then. Maybe it was because, the way my father spoke, it sounded as though he had only two children, when in fact he had three. Of course, he wasn't trying to deceive anyone; the pirate hadn't asked how many he had, just whether I was one. It was just that my meandering brain insisted on exploring surplus details.
    “And when she screamed, the others rallied around,” the Horse said. “We misjudged that, it seems.”
    “Yes.”
    “So we'll just have to try it again,” the Horse concluded. He made a signal with his hand. “Take them.”
    Suddenly the nine other pirates advanced on us again, each with his sword or club ready.
    “Hey!” my father protested. “You agreed—”
    “Not to rob you,” the Horse said. “And to leave the bubble. We'll honor that. But first we have some business that wasn't in the contract.” He looked at Faith and me. “Don't hurt the boy or the girl or the man,” he ordered. “Bring them here.”
    Pirates grabbed the three of us. In each case, two men menaced the refugees nearby while the third cornered the victim. They were much more careful than before. It was not possible to resist without immediate disaster, for the Horse backed them up with his laser. More than that, it was psychological: The remaining refugees, rendered leaderless again, did nothing. The dynamics had changed.
    That's another phenomenon that has perplexed me. The mechanism by which a few uninhibited individuals can cow a much larger number, when both groups know the larger group has the power to prevail. It seems impossible, yet it happens all the time. Whole governments exist in opposition to the will of the people they govern, because of this. If I could just comprehend that dynamic—
    “Bind father and son,” the Horse said. “String them up to the baggage rack.”
    I struggled, but lacked the strength and mass of any one of the pirates. They tied my hands behind me, cruelly tight, and suspended me from the guyed baggage net in the center of the bubble. My father suffered a similar fate. We hung at a slight angle, overlooking the proceedings, helpless.
    Now the Horse turned to Faith. He whistled. “She's a looker!” he exclaimed. His vernacular expression may have been cruder, but that was the essence. Faith, of course, blushed.
    “Leave her alone!” I cried foolishly.
    “No, we won't let this piece go to waste,” the Horse said, running his tongue around his lips. “Prepare her.”
    The pirates held Faith and methodically tore the rest of her clothing from her struggling body, grinning salaciously. Oh, yes, they enjoyed doing this! In my mind they resembled burning demons from the depths of Hell. Someone among the refugees cried out, but the swords of the other pirates on guard prevented any action.
    When Faith was naked, they hauled a box out of the baggage and held her supine, spread-eagled across it. The Horse ran his rough hands over her torso and squeezed her breasts, then dropped his pantaloons.
    There was a gasp of incredulity from the refugees. This was not because of any special quality of the Horse's anatomy, which was unimpressive and unclean, but because of the open manner in which he exhibited himself before such a company of men, women, and children. The man was completely without shame.
    I am striving to record this sequence objectively, for this is my personal biography: the description of the things that have made me what I am. I strive always to comprehend the true nature of people, myself most of all. There is a place for subjectivity—or so I believe. My feelings about a given event may change with time and mood and memory, but the facts of the event will never change. So I must first describe precisely what occurred, as though it were recorded by videotape, uncluttered by emotion, then proceed to the subjective analysis and interpretation. Perhaps there should be several interpretations, separated by years, so that the