The Girl They Sold to the Moon (3 page)

As if anybody could escape from this place
. When her turn came, Tilly stepped up to the aide's chair and braced her right thigh.

“Personal Code number,” said the aide, looking like a ghoul with a horribly stretched face and protruding teeth.

“Uh…” Tilly flipped the tag up and read it slowly. “S-9-5-5-5-3-6-5.”

“Funny, you don't look like a nine.”

Tilly clenched her jaw.
Neither do you, horse face
.

The needle drove into her leg, nearly to the hilt. Tilly bit down on her tongue against the sharp pain. It felt as though someone had hit her leg bone with a hammer. She heard a click, then the aide withdrew the needle, slapped an alcohol patch on her leg and shoved her forward. “Next!”

“Broken catheter on station five—reroute the line,” said an aide. A pitiful whine followed, then, “Arrrgh, you're killing me!”

Tilly tried to shake the pain from her leg, feeling it numbing. The urge to scream out was strong but she doubted she had the breath to do so. Some of the girls looked back in her direction, their faces brimmed with tears.

Tilly clenched hands with Dorothy in a feeble attempt to reestablish some kind of humanity. But even that simple gesture was nixed when a bull came up behind her and placed a sting rod between the cleavage of her buttocks.

“Break it up, you two. Single file only.”

“It just makes me feel better,” said Tilly. “You're scaring us half out of our minds.”

“I'll count down from three…three…two—”

Dorothy straightened Tilly out and pushed her ahead. The next station comprised a row of curtained cubicles. When Tilly entered, she saw a padded incline bench and foot stirrups. A bull made a brusque motion with his baton for her to enter. Her legs nearly gave out as she approached the bench. She slid onto the foam pad, biting her lips, shaking uncontrollably. A young male sat at the foot of the bench, dressed in a white smock and wearing plastic gloves. When she squeezed her eyes shut, a tear rolled down her cheek. She recited her code number when the bull asked for it. Hands invaded her, probing the walls of her vagina. She wanted to cry out, damn her father, damn FTALC and all else in the world. But she endured, and what took mere seconds, seemed like hours in a slow, humiliating inspection. The young male examiner said, “You're good to go.”

Tilly slid off the bench and limped to the slit in the curtain. She turned back, cursing through the side of her mouth, loud enough for the guard to hear. “Bastards.” She had just endured a clumsy pelvic exam administered by a
teenage
boy. She felt helpless to know the reason for it, after having been laser-scanned and X-rayed. Surely they would have found anything abnormal with those inspections. She waited for Dorothy outside the curtained room, and took up a position in line in front of her. The line moved toward a circular rotunda that had a main check-in station in front of a row of labeled doors.

“That was
disgusting
, Dorothy,” Tilly spat. “There was no reason for it!”

“Wouldn't do any good to lodge a complaint.” Dorothy's brow glistened with sweat. “That dumb-ass kid fished around inside of me like he was looking for buried treasure or something. Maybe a contraband check, maybe a V-check? Who the hell knows in this place! I've never felt so damn naked in all my life.”

Tilly knew what she meant. There wasn't much use in palming their pelvises and throwing a forearm across their breasts. The whole thing was a freak show designed to demean and humiliate. Step out of line, question authority, or defying regulations meant swift retribution—a trip to an anteroom, where God only knew what waited for them. She had good ole dad to thank for every bit of this horror show, and wouldn't have had a clue of what to expect if not for Dorothy's limited knowledge.

Eight clerks stood behind the curved check-in counter. Tilly saw an illuminated placard hanging from the ceiling that read, ASSIGNMENTS. Guide ropes led up to a turnstile, where girls waited their turn to approach a clerk. After completion with the clerk, Tilly watched the girls walk through their assigned doors. Each door had a number stamped above it, ranging from one to fifteen.

“Looks like this is where we lose each other,” said Dorothy, her voice wavering. “Unless we get lucky. At least you know where you're going.”

“It doesn't make it any easier,” Tilly said, the fear and loneliness rising again. “Too bad we couldn't pick our own door. I'd want the one to freedom.”

“Ugh, they've got this down to a science. It's like an airport terminal with torture chambers.”

When Tilly stepped up behind the turnstile, she wondered if Frampton's guess that she was headed for the Moon was right. When asked, she recited her code number to the clerk. Her worst fear was realized when the clerk handed her a printed slip that read, Tranquility Harbor Mining Base, Entertainment Division—Block 41. The slip had a number stenciled on it. She looked for door 13 and headed toward it. She wanted so badly to stall and wait for Dorothy but a bull made sure the girls did not dally on the way. Tilly entered door 13 and walked down a hallway to find another short line that led into a large rectangular room. A stainless steel counter took up one wall. A dozen aides stood behind the counter, swiftly dispersing clothing satchels.

“Code number and slip,” said the aide when Tilly stepped up.

“S-9-5-5-5-3-6-5,” Tilly enunciated, surprised she still remembered it, and handed the slip over.

“This slip is your boarding pass,” said the aide, slinging a satchel on the counter and returning the hole-punched slip. “Dress-out in the next room then follow the yellow line. You have five minutes to change out.”

Tilly could not help looking inside the satchel before she entered the dressing room. No wonder they allowed five minutes for a change-out. The sack contained seven one-piece, white latex body suits adorned with FTALC breast patches. A press-on sunflower emblem occupied both shoulder regions. Slip-on, yellow deck shoes, with socks, and seven pairs of cotton panties completed the ensemble. No bra, but the one-piece suit contained reinforced cups, presumably her exact size.

Two bulls hurried the proceedings along, jabbing their sting wands at anyone who appeared too slow. Two girls helped another one corral her breasts into the suit before they used a double effort to zipper it up. Tilly had her suit and shoes on in three minutes, God-almighty thankful for the coverings. When she saw Dorothy Prospect enter the dressing room, she thought her heart would leap out of her chest. Their eyes met with a mental
Eureka
. Tilly slipped through the crowd to get next to her.

“I'm totally doped I got the Moon assignment,” said Dorothy, trying to get her legs into the suit. “I had to look at my slip three times just to make sure. I'm scullery, kitchen detail, Block 41. If it's bad, at least I'll have a friend close by.”

Tilly helped Dorothy into her suit. “I'm Block 41 too. And yeah, at least we'll go through it together. I never asked you how long you were in for. I'm in for six months.”

“Lucky you,” Dorothy puffed. “I just turned seventeen. I'm in for four years—special circumstances.”

Tilly stiffened.
Four years
. That seemed like a death sentence. “How in the name of--” her words were cut short when a bull separated the two with his sting wand. “Get moving,” he growled. “You don't want to be late for launch and held over. Follow the yellow line out to the tarmac. Take your Dramamine-3 aboard the mag-bus, if you're prone to motion sickness.”

Late for launch.
Then it was really happening. Destination: a quarter of a million miles from home, leaving a little place behind called pier J, Long Island, container 121. Where she was headed, she wouldn't be running up and down a muddy shoreline collecting hermit crabs, barking back at the seals or watching seagulls scribble lines in the sky. No more breaths of sweet, salt air in the morning. It was never much of a home, but at least a home where she could escape outside and come and go as she pleased. Now home would be a pressurized Habitrail city filled with dirty Prairie Dogs.

Tilly watched the maglift bus stop just short of the launch pad. Four moon shuttles sat in supine positions, looking like delta wing darts encased in bronze sconces. Vaporous gases escaped from the rear engine vents, billowing into a light mist.

The bulls ushered the twenty girls off the bus. One called out, “Form a line; call out your names and code numbers, starting with the first in line.”

It took a while to get through the identification process. A few of girls choked up and gave the wrong code numbers. A few others stood mute, mesmerized by the rocket gantry and steaming exhaust.

They surrendered their boarding slips. A flight coordinator led the way underneath the launch gantry. They arrived at an elevator lift that led to their personal moon shuttle: Aphrodite 009.

Whisked up to the gantry platform, they entered the shuttle passenger cabin and took seats in accelerator couches. Tilly took a window seat, staring at the decor inside--plush by anyone's standards. The bulkheads gleamed with bright paint, lines and patterns of gold, orange and white. The single aisle carpet gawked blood red. Dorothy sat next to Tilly, activating the monitor in the back of the seat in front of her. They watched a three-minute orientation, explaining emergency procedures, flight rules, and a quick description of the ship's emergency exits.

Dorothy removed a sack from the seat pouch and wedged it between her legs, and then glanced at Tilly. “I always need a gak bag for stuff like this. I'm just letting you know ahead of time.”

“Spew away, girl. I've been on enough boats in my life to break me in. I don't get motion sickness.”

Till pulled a tourist flight packet from a side pouch and began to read a random subject topic:
Tranquility Harbor—Your Home Away from Home
.

Greetings, traveler! We hope you will enjoy your stay at our Tranquility Harbor Facility, your premiere vacation destination. Our pressure domes are guaranteed to keep you safe and sound while you browse our many shops, restaurants and entertainment spots. Don't worry about one-sixth gravity. Our complex foundation is electromagnetically controlled in conjunction with the dome superstructure. Our patented anti-gravity wave force field will keep your feet firmly planted on Luna firma. What's more, we offer are residents the finest in…

Tilly shoved the packet back into its pouch. She wasn't in the mood for propaganda. Right now, she was concerned about a flight that would break the outer reaches of the atmosphere. She hadn't even taken an Earth flight that spanned over 100 miles, let alone one that would take her clean off the planet and into the bowels of space.

A cabin speaker crackled, then a meca voice filled the passenger cabin. “Hands on your arm supports, heads back, spread the legs.”

Tilly assumed the position. A switch snapped from underneath her seat. Air bladders crawled out of their niches and enveloped the girls around the torsos and thighs, snuggling them tight into their couches. The crushing force of the bladders nearly took Tilly's breath way, but her arms were free and she had remembered to relieve herself on the bus, a pre-flight stipulation.

The cabin lights dimmed. The profile of the shuttle shifted, turning up to vertical axis. Once in the upright position, the cabin lights extinguished. Something cracked like thunder outside, a shudder rose up through the floorboards, followed by a shimmy. A powerful G-force shoved Tilly into her couch, waggling her head. She clenched her teeth then heard a ghastly roar. Her head pinned, she could only move her eyes. She looked out the window and saw the tarmac lights disappearing from view, until they were mere specks, and then gone completely. Misty patches of light, that were cities below, sank from her view as though swallowed by a drain. Her face muscles shook with spasms. When she tried to talk, the noise came out a gargle. She heard a snap, followed by the deflation of her seat bladder. Her world faded to black.

Tilly awoke groggily and tried to focus her eyes. Something acidic stung her nasal cavities. Her air bladder pressure had been relieved to the point where she was loose in her seat. When she noticed Dorothy sitting next to her and an aide bending over the seat back holding a broken capsule, she knew where she was.

“Okay,” said the aide, “you look fine now. Sorry about the smelling salts. You had a seat bladder malfunction. You passed out when the blood rushed from your head.” The aide walked up the aisle.

“I'm so sorry,” said Dorothy. “I thought you just fell asleep, so I left you alone. When I couldn't wake you up, I called for help.”

“Aaaag, they're trying to kill me before I get there. Where are we, space-wise?”

“Look out your window.”

Tilly could see the silvery-gray horizon of the moon. The shuttle was descending toward one of the darker areas, a mare sea. Rolling hills, craters, with spiked rays, covered the rest of the landscape below. One tiny structure stood out, something that looked like a spider web with a central hub. The shuttle turned, taking the object from her view.

“We got here fast,” said Dorothy. “They really kicked her in the guts—full burn all the way. The aide said we were behind schedule.”

Tilly blew out a hefty sigh, feeling the vertebrae in her neck crack. She felt a tad nauseous. “They're not wasting any time, are they?” She looked out the porthole window again. What a drab and lifeless place. The surface looked like used cat litter, complete with dark lumps, piss holes and washed out gullies. Tilly knew from science class that the black area marked the terminator, where the earth cast its shadow over the moon's surface. She couldn't even imagine landing in that part of the Moon.

When the shuttle dropped down on the tarmac, a tow vehicle lined it up with a pressure hatch attached to the outside ring structure of the docking area. Herded down the loading ramp, the group received another scan and decontamination inside a sealed pressure vault. They passed into a transparent ring corridor and took a tram pad to one of the inner connecting spoke corridors, speeding along, passing through several small bubble domes. A walkway for foot traffic ran below the tramway. Both levels led to individual residences and shops. Tilly knew that the Habitrail complex was laid out like an old bicycle wheel, with all the spokes leading to the hub, or giant, main rotunda. The huge ore processing plant was connected to the outside ring with several long corridors. From watching a documentary once, Tilly knew the material used to build the entire complex was a clear metal glass composite called Ultrinium, which resembled Lucite.