Survivors - Jean Lorrah [16]
The Orion shoved him back. “Leave it! I’ll sell her where she’ll never see the Federation again-don’t you worry. I don’t want Starfleet finding out about our deal any more than you do.”
“It’s safer to kill her,” said the second native.
“Touch her, I’ll kill you,” said the Orion. “She’s worth as much as the whole boatload of Priamites.”
“But you said-“
“I said we’d try ‘em out as workslaves. They’re strong, stupid, complacent, and prolific … here on their home planet. If they don’t shrivel up and die in another environment, we’ll be back for as many as you can provide. Let you know in maybe a year. Then, you keep the Federation off our backs, and Orion will make you rich. Now I must move-you’re certain that Federation patrol won’t be back?”
“We told them the cadets were dead-we thought they all were. That pod couldn’t hold more than three, and we found two bodies. Don’t worry; no more are going to show up now, and Starfleet won’t send another ship for three years. By that time, we’ll make enough from trading with you to retire in luxury.”
Yar’s heart sank. The Starfleet rescue ship had come and gone without her. She was forced to watch helplessly as the boat was loaded with manacled natives, and the Orion piloted it down the river toward the landing site-where, presumably, his shuttle waited to carry her along with the Priamites into a life of slavery.
Even with the powerful boat, it would take two days. Yar tried to talk to the Priamites, but without a working translator could not make herself understood. They did not talk among themselves much either, just slumped defeatedly in the bottom of the boat.
When night fell, the Orion slaver moored the boat and fed his captives some tasteless gruel. Yar lay down with the others, uncomfortable with one wrist fastened to the hull, the other aching and itching as it healed. She was hungry, bruised, and covered with dried mud.
Despite her exhaustion, she could not sleep. So when the Orion appeared to do so, she sat up quietly, and examined the manacle that bound her to the hull of the boat. Without its magnetic key, there was no hope of opening it.
In futile frustration, she gave it a jerk-and the loop fastening her to the boat hull came out of its socket!
She sat there, stunned.
Luck. Sheer, stupid, blind luck.
Somehow, the bolt holding her loop had been driven in crooked; it did not go through the metal bar under the hull laminate-and when she pulled hard enough, the lightweight hull material had given.
Before her luck could turn again, Yar slid silently over the side, back into the mud, and crawled off into the forest.
And into a dilemma.
There was no immediate escape-the Federation search vessel had come and gone. The Federation scientists would kill her on sight. If she did nothing but try to survive, the Orion traders would be back in a year, taking more passive Priamites into slavery.
But if she approached the Priamites-who upon closer acquaintance did not seem likely to kill her-she would break the Prime Directive. As she learned their language, she would undoubtedly let slip facts about the world she came from. Could she resist showing them improvements, even something as simple as the bow and arrow? She would have to make weapons for herself; the Orion slaver would certainly notify the traitorous Federation scientists of her escape, and they would be searching for her.
Her very existence here violated the Prime Directive, passively. She would actively violate it if she contacted the Priamites.
But if she did not do so, did not learn to communicate with them, how could she warn them of the Orion slavers?
Three years, the scientists had said. Possibly she could survive on her own in the jungle for three years. It would be much harder for the traitors to find her there than among the natives. She could follow them to the landing site when they were picked up, and report them to the Starfleet away team that came for them.
But in three years how many Priamites would be sold into Orion slavery? Strong backs and passivity-perfect