The Girl They Sold to the Moon

Copyright © July 2014 Intrigue Publishing

All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, magnetic, photographic including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher. No patent liability is assumed with respect to the use of the information contained herein. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher and author assume no responsibility for errors or omissions. Neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-9893696-8-8

Cover Design by
instinctive
design

Published by:
Intrigue Publishing
11505 Cherry Tree Crossing RD #148
Cheltenham, MD 20623-9998

Printed in the United States of America
Printed on Recycled Paper

Dedication

The concept and original idea of The Girl They Sold to the Moon is credited to my niece, Jamie Post. Her words to her daughter while driving to a major city were, “Please shut up or we'll pawn you for gas at the next station” lit the kindle that would become the major plot flame of the book. I'm in debt to her positive and relentless support while writing and finishing this fascinating story.

“I'm Reginald Breedlove. I'm here to pawn my daughter.”

I'm here to pawn my daughter
. Tilly Breedlove knew they had another word for it—they called them “kickouts”, people who were sold to the establishment to cover debts. She and her girlfriends used to laugh at the K-Span commercial on late night Holoview. She wasn't laughing now. She'd never seen so many kids gathered in one spot, except at a school assembly.

The first floor of the auditorium-sized building had at least twenty standing lines and a waiting area filled to capacity. This building area was reserved for the Sunflowers, teenagers who ranged in age from 13 to 19 years-old. At 17, Tilly fit right in. Sure, there were sniffles and tearful goodbyes, with an occasional knock-down-drag-out, but the worst scenes were reserved for the six to twelve-year-old kids, the next wing over. Those kids were on the Daffodil Plan, commonly called Daffys, and their screams pierced through the air conditioning vents. She'd seen the entrance door for the Daffys on the outside of the building, next to the Sunflower entrance, which was her admission portal. The Daffys were hardly equipped to handle the emotions of severing bonds with their parents, and Tilly couldn't even begin to understand what kind of jobs assignments those kids would have in order to work off a debt for their parents.

“Pawn is a term reserved for the intercity establishments, Mr. Breedlove, most notably found in the vicinity of Forty-Second Street, “ said the check-in receptionist, who didn't crack a smile when in a husky contralto, she added, “You
cede
, or
relinquish
custodianship of your ward here at Family Trade and Loan, for a specific time period. Do you have your identification wafer and DNA cube, sir? I don't want your hard-card identification.”

Reginald unsnapped the lid on his wrist-held Omnicomp and handed a small wafer diskette and cube to the woman. “Pawn, sell, loan, trade, it's all the same,” he said. “I've already been through the psychogram and background check. So I'd appreciate it all to hell if I was not held up any longer.”

The receptionist, whose name tag read
Aurora
slipped the wafer and cube into a console and adjusted her monitor. “Bear with me while I double-check the contract-application.”

“Mother Mary on a wagon wheel,” muttered Reginald. “It's taken me three hours to get to this counter. I've got varicose veins as thick as rope, ready to burst from standing in this line.”

Tilly chanced a look around and saw a few eye rolls, mixed with a few sympathetic smiles from the other kids. This place was
drama central
. Her father wasn't helping any with his over-the-top exaggeration. The man had always been brutally impatient.

Aurora remained calm, steadfast. “I've already had microsurgery for such an affliction, sir, so you are not alone…and…I think we have a winner.” She pulled down a headset magnifier and grimaced. “There seems to be one discrepancy here…I cannot make out the residence location. Is it Sealand Condominiums or the Sealand Community Housing Authority?”

Reginald raised his voice above the din. “Neither of the above. I'm housed at the Pier J Settlement on Long Island. I live in a converted Sealand
transport container
.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Oh, my mistake. You mean the projects.”

“Used to call ‘em steel deals without the wheels,” boomed someone behind Tilly. “They became low-income housing for the financially impaired in 2019 during Palin's administration.”

Tilly heard a few gasps and guffaws behind her.
Way to fucking go, Dad, another cringe-worthy statement
. If she could find a crack in the floor, she'd cram her shamed self inside it. She could feel the stares burning holes in the back of her head. But she had vowed from the start she would get through this and hold her temper.

“And you must be Tilly Breedlove,” said Aurora, locking eyes with her. “What a bright-looking, attractive young lady! May I have your identification wafer and DNA cube?”

And you must be Aurora Borealis, as in Bore-me-Alice, with your smile ready to bust collagen bags in your face, and your head stuck firmly up your liposuctioned ass
. Tilly bit her lip and handed the items over. “Thank you very much, Miss Aurora. I'm looking forward to a pleasant stay at my Eff-TALC assignment.” She implied a bit more meaning in the company acronym than intended. The whole place could eff-off as far as she was concerned.

Aurora processed the items and handed them back. “Looks like you check out, dear.” She turned to give her father a puppy dog tilt of her head. “Looks like you're cleared to proceed, Mr. Breedlove. Your last stop will be with Mr. Frampton, your financial counselor. Follow the yellow line to suite 175. Or enter the suite number on the foot tram console, and you will be transported there.”

Her father took Tilly by the hand and approached a rainbow pattern of lines on the floor. He picked out the yellow line and began a swift march. They arrived at a back facade of the building, festooned with dozens of corridors. Tilly wondered why all the walls were painted pink. Then she remembered from what her father had once told her that such was the case with the prisons and many mental institutions. The color supposedly soothed the nerves in stressful situations. Pink and light green. It would take more than pink to bring her nerves to heel.

Her father found the foot tram, keyed into it, and they were off at a swift glide. They arrived at suite 175 to find an
In Closed Session
digital readout across the door. Her father hammered on the door with the heel of his fist. The door opened a minute later, expelling a couple who brushed past them. The female of the pair looked visibly shaken. Father and daughter stepped inside.

A rotund man dressed in a white suit sat behind a clear Lucite table. He had a patch of hair over each ear, a weak chin and sad eyes. He made a half stand as they entered his office. “Welcome, I'm Mr. Frampton.” He plopped down, gesticulating at the plush airbag sofa. They took seats. Her father handed over his I.D. wafer and cube to the man. Tilly followed suit.

Mr. Frampton loaded them into his console and gazed at his screen. “Hmm…I see,” he said, an edge of mysticism in his voice. “Tilly Breedlove, female, seventeen years old, born in Chicago, Illinois, and given up for adoption at the age of two in Gary Indiana. Custodianship bestowed to Mr. and Mrs. Breedlove, Reginald Cornelius, father, and Denise Patricia Ann, mother. Denise Patricia Ann Breedlove deceased, August ninth, 2021, Venice Beach, California.”

Given the formality that it was, it bothered Tilly that she had to be reminded of her mother's death three years ago. Her mother would never have let this happen and would have done everything in her power to keep the family out of debt. She missed her mom—her confidant and best friend.

“If you don't mind,” Reginald said, “I'd like to get down to the dollars and cents on this issue and finalize the transfer. I've had my application and documents read to me a dozen times over the last three months. I could recite all of it word for word.”

“Just verifying the information, Mr. Breedlove,” said Frampton. “I suppose we can usher things along a bit. Now, according to her bio/history, she's been categorized with an eight point five attract-appeal rating as of her last state scan, which was six months ago. If you wouldn't mind, Miss Breedlove, I'd like you to step on the green disk in the corner of the room. We'll have to rescan you and see if your rating has changed.”

Tilly walked to the corner of the room, stepped on the small dais, and looked at a smoke-colored screen bolted to the wall. She ground her teeth, feeling like a pet put on display. Maybe her father would have second thoughts and void the deal, once he witnessed her humiliation.

“Hold perfectly still,” said Frampton. He threw a switch and pushed some buttons. “This is a full rotational body scan and X-ray. Close your eyes against the laser beams.”

Tilly crimped her eyes shut. She could feel the disk under her feet engage and begin a slow clockwise rotation. The feeling was identical to the state scans, but this equipment looked newer and more high-tech. When she came around full circle, she heard Frampton's voice. “That's perfect. You may dismount.” She took her seat again, sitting as far away from her father as possible, pissed that he felt the need to rush everything.

Frampton looked at his monitor again. “Teeth look fine,” he began, “no bruising, lacerations, cuts, disfigurements, lungs clear, absence of tumors, a weight gain of four pounds, hmmm…the hair is styled a little differently than last time out, and thank the maker, no pregnancy! So, we'll adjust your rating and bump you up a few points.” He typed on a touchpad. “Now, we'll merge this with the intelligence and talent index…and we'll have it.” He scratched his chin. “And…done. An eight point nine!
Impressive
.” He looked at Tilly as though she should cheer at the news.

“I still don't know how the scan, bio and talent index factors into this,” said Reginald. “Clue me.”

“It has everything to do with your allotment, the maximum amount you can borrow. It also gives us a profile for her employment assignment.” Frampton kicked the table leg hard. His desktop comp wobbled. “Seems there was a glitch in the machine,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “I just found an extra data point, raising the index to nine-point-oh.”