Convictions are more dangerous enemies of truth than lies.
--Fredrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
The men are babbling like idiots when they get back to our camp. A raid; a flood; some men even tell of a robot with some kind of cannon. God only knows what actually happened.
They do tell me Grant is dead, which means the rest of us will divide his property later tonight. A boon to our profits, I suppose, but more trouble for us too; we all have enough to take care of on our own.
I tell Warren to let the men calm down, try to sort out the truth between their wild stories. We'll have plenty of time to discipline them later, if they need it.
There must have been something; they are good men, for the most part, competent, not given to anger or exgaggeration. The question is what it was, and whether it will lead to more trouble. We have over five hundred here, animals and slaves, awaiting transport; if the men were followed, we'll have to break camp.
The profits are high in this business, but if you don't keep your head, the losses can be staggering. I do my best to keep my head.
The next afternoon Zachary, who worked for Grant, takes me through Grant's camp, showing me where my share of the resources are; food, clothing, shackles.
"And those are your slaves," he says, gesturing to the pen.
"Do not call them slaves. They are work animals. Like horses or oxen. They are clever, Zach, but so are pigs."
"What do I call them, then?"
"Animals, Zachary. As I said. That's what they are."
He gives me a strange look before he walks away.
People ask me if I really believe that. Of course I believe it; why shouldn't I? Their evidence of inferiority is clear, in their animal faces and their strange speech. I know some of them can speak clearly, I've heard rumors of those who could speak as well as humans, but what does that mean? There was an ape back before the blasts who could speak sign language. It didn't make her any less of an ape.
Grant, whose property we divided tonight, traded in humans and animals. I refuse to. I run a good business, an honest one; I treat the animals well, feed them sufficiently, care for them-- as best as I or anyone can these days-- when they are sick. My efforts have paid me well. The animals trust me; sometimes they come to me with information.
That is how I found out about the salamander girl, and the egg. Another trader could have woken up to find the property destroyed, or have sold her too quickly; for what she is, she is a lovely creature, and would fetch a good price on her own.
She and the egg have a tent to their own now, well-guarded. If the child is humanoid, it could be taught much. A well-trained, cooperative animal is worth much more than a snarling, ignorant beast.
If the salamander is anything like her parent species, she will leave the egg at the soonest opportunity, but these strange mutations and stranger times make nothing predictable.
We will have to approach the separation carefully.
She does not appear to be able to speak; it makes it harder for me to judge her, to gauge her future reactions.
I turn my attention back to the work at hand, and walk over to the pen that has been designated as mine; six animals, half-starved, probably diseased. It would be wise for me to quarantine them here, but the land is too far away from my camp for them to be guarded adequately. I walk over and examine them.
Four are merely underfed; the other three are more troublesome.
I don't understand why traders don't take care of their animals; if you let them die, you are wasting more food and resources than your attempts at frugality will save.
Two sick animals; I look at the sicker one first, red-eyed and laboring to breathe. His black-brown skin is broken with the red-purple lesions of Kaposi's sarcoma.
I'll have my men take care of him, away from the others.
The other is different; he merely has a cough. We'll put him in quarantine for now; I'm sure Grant has more sick animals he can be penned with.
But the last... the last is healthy, but human.
"I don't trade in humans. You know that."
"He's insisting he's a mutant."
I roll my eyes. "Some kind of foolish solidarity?"
He bares his teeth and growls at me. The fool.
I can't let him go. Our success depends on speed and silence. One idealist can ruin a caravan. But I can't bring myself to earn money on the back of another man.
I should probably kill him.
"Keep him here. We'll decide what to do with him tomorrow."
We are discussing what to do with the sick animals that night when Warren runs in.
"Quick-- we need you--"
"What?"
"Escaped," Warren pants. "One of the captives-- Zach's dead--" He leans over, fights for breath.
We exchange glances and run to Grant's encampment. Everyone is gone; animals and humans alike. The pair-- too few, those fools-- of Grant's men left to guard them are dead, their necks broken, the keys missing from Zachary's belt.
We inspect the pens quickly and find they have all been opened; one still has a tiny pin wedged in the lock. A pick.
"This was your property," Rose says. "Your slave--"
I shake my head. "An animal. They were sick--"
The one that was coughing; could he... was he capable...
Was he faking?
Anger boils in me, suddenly, to think I could be fooled so easily. By an animal.
I should have killed him with the other creature.
"Get Grant's other men," someone says. "Find out when they got that creature. God forbid it was a spy..."
Someone else, following my thoughts: "A spy?"
"Could someone have snuck into the chains during the raid?"
"Or have let themselves be herded..."
"Fuck," Rose mutters. "Never thought they'd go into those chains..."
"Send Grant's men after them," I say. "They're the fools who lost them."
Warren is back at my side now, his mouth hard. "We'll need more than that," he says. "They opened pens on their way out."
Some of the owners start running towards their own tents and pens.
It was quiet; I'm surprised the animals could keep so calm. "Any of ours?"
Warren shakes his head. "Ours were still guarded well. But we'll have to help the others--"
"Yes."
The next two hours are chaos; herding, searching, trying to find any of the humans or animals who were lost; trying to subdue them without damaging their value. When we have finally gotten back for the night, we scrutinize Grant's inventory, comparing the humans and animals he recorded to the property we received.
One animal is missing from our accounting, a white sable mutant.
And in its place I received a mutant dog.
We curse Grant's men for their idiocy and prepare to break camp.
