Old Mars

They spoke a dialect that Jason had trouble following, and it was clear they had difficulty understanding his accent, but Tyr was able to act as interpreter. They were mothers and fathers, children, grandparents, all crowded together in the cramped confines of the galleon’s hold. Rather than wearing personal breathers, as Jason’s crewmen and the Praxian sailors did, they huddled around portable dispensers that sprayed brief jets of lukewarm water from short hoses, keeping their skin as damp and their gills as oxygenated as they could manage. But all of them had taken on the greyish brown tint to their skins that suggested they were close to the point of complete dehydration and suffocation.

The drystone amulets that each of them clutched marked them as worshippers of the Suffocated God. There was some irony in the fact that they might emulate their martyred god not only in the way that he had lived but also in his manner of dying.

“They are Praxian refugees,” Tyr explained, “fleeing oppression.”

Jason could see that Tyr was having difficulty controlling his temper but seemed mollified whenever the refugees addressed him with the word that Jason recognized as meaning “Reverend.” It had been many years since Tyr had been a priest, but it was clear that it was a role that still held great meaning for him.

“They say that things have gotten even worse in Praxis,” Tyr continued. “The Hegemony continues to chip away at the freedoms of those they rule. Once, one was censured for speaking out against the Hegemony’s tenets or questioning their right to govern. Now, it seems, simply harboring private beliefs that are not sanctioned by the Hegemony is grounds for punishment.”

Jason noted the scars that many of the older refugees bore, signs of flogging, torture, and worse. Some were even missing digits at the ends of their arms or had empty sockets where eyes had once been. And all of them, from the oldest to the youngest, had the kind of haunted expression on their faces that made it clear that they had seen things that scarred their minds and souls in ways that could never fully heal.

“They made a deal with a Vendish merchant, the master of this galleon, to ferry them north across the sands to Vend,” Tyr said, his tone bitter. “They hoped to find a new home there, where they would enjoy the freedom to practice their beliefs in peace.”

Jason sneered. The mention of “freedom” in such close proximity to “Vend” was a bitter irony.

“How much money do they have?” Jason asked, acid in his tone.

Tyr repeated the question to the refugees, who answered him with confused expressions and bewilderment.

“They don’t understand,” Tyr said. “None of them have ever held or used currency before.”

In Praxis, all things were held in common, apportioned by the ruling Hegemony to each according to his needs. At least, that was the theory. In practice, most of the population lived in crushing poverty, assuming that it was simply their lot in life.

“Ask them what they have of value,” Jason clarified. “They must have traded something precious to this merchant in exchange for passage—jewelry, heirlooms, goods. How much of that is left?”

Tyr relayed the question. The refugees looked from one to another, then answered.

“They gave everything they had of value to the Vendish merchant,” Tyr translated. “They have nothing left.”

Jason slammed a fist into the open palm of the other hand, seething with frustrated rage. He was angry at the Vendish merchant who had agreed to ferry the refugees and angry with the refugees themselves for clearly being duped.

“This ship wasn’t sailing them to freedom in Vend!” Jason shouted. “They were heading toward slavery!”

Tyr answered in a low voice, speaking for himself, not for the refugees. “Captain … Jason … they’ve been through so much already …”

“No,” Jason shot back, “they should know. You know what I’m talking about. Tell them!”

Tyr’s mandibles quivered, the native equivalent of a sigh. And then he turned back to the refugees, and in patient tones explained to them the reality of the situation.

Jason could follow little of what Tyr was saying, but it hardly mattered since he could guess. It was well-known on the sand seas that it was against the law in Vend to be a vagrant. And anyone who set foot in the waters of Vend was considered a vagrant if they could not establish proof of residency. Anyone who was apprehended on charges of vagrancy could buy their way out if they had sufficient funds to secure lodging. But if not, they would be arrested on the spot, declared guilty without a trial, and sold into indentured servitude. In theory, an indentured servant could eventually earn their way to freedom; in practice, it never happened.