In the lightless hold of the Nisseri ship,there was nothing to do in the dark but wait and think. Even surrounded by others, the dark isolated each of them, their only company memory and regret.

Macbeth leaned against the cold metal wall, thinking of her family, wondering if Ariel was alive, or salvaged for parts. The idea made her sick, her chest tight, the muscles squeezing her heart.

No, no, she couldn't think of that now, it would drive her mad. She was the level headed one. The one who held the family together through everything.

The farm was so different when she was young; idyllic days spent racing through fields, climbing trees, and swimming in the river from sunrise to dinner. It was usually the three of them, the terrible trio of her, Ariel, and Paris. Horatio was too old, helping their father run the farm, Portia too young to keep up. The three of them were inseparable, mischief makers and pranksters. But when their mother sounded the dinner bell, all slights forgiven. They would gather for meals, laughing, arguing, swapping stories. That was life, a decent life. She could have stayed that way forever.

Then sickness came. Medical science cured a great many illnesses, but no human born pathogen could be snuffed out completely. Eventually, something would mutate, creeping back into the human populace like wolves in the night. An entire district in New Tokyo was dedicated to the production of vaccines and preventative measures. But Pembrook farm was a long way from New Tokyo. When the virus struck, it was an aggressive strain that cooked its victims to death with fever. Aggressive and deadly, the virus was also oddly selective. Of the whole Pembrook household, their mother, Meredith was the only one struck down. Her family desperately tried to keep her alive, ignoring the rules of quarantine.

Macbeth sat with her for hours, reading her favorite works of Shakespeare, dosing her with anti fever hypo spray, keeping her bundled in sweat soaked blankets. It was a full day before the vaccine arrived, twenty eight hours. Their mother lasted twenty. The family was in shock. How could their mother be the only one affected out of their whole family. Even among the farmhands, no one got sick.

After her death, the farm changed. Their father became volatile, firing staff over the smallest slights, drinking too much, sitting through the evening meal in a belligerent stupor. This led to screaming matches between him and her brothers. Ariel, barely sixteen, began chasing women, usually avoiding the family meal altogether. Paris and Horatio both struggled to keep the farm running, doing the workload of dozens, in a continual state of irritation and exhaustion. Portia, not even seven at the time, stopped speaking, hiding in her room to cry. It fell on Macbeth, at twelve, to take over the household affairs. She studied constantly, attaining data chips on everything from balancing finances to fixing machines and programming the ovens to produce nutritional dinners that didn't taste like sand.

When her father got too drunk to enter coordinates in a transport, she bullied Ariel into taking her to the open market of Alexandria, learning how to barter their harvest for supplies. When one of the aging pieces of farming tech broke, she repaired it and taught her brothers how to do the same. It was Macbeth who made sure Portia kept up with her studies, ate three meals a day, and drew her back into the world. It was Macbeth who helped Horatio hire new farmhands and settle disputes among them.

Soon, she had complete run of the household accounts, and when she was certain her home wouldn't disintegrate around her, she fixed the rest. After destroying all the alcohol in the house, she pushed her father into a cold shower. When he finished screaming at her, she chewed him out for hours until she said her piece. From that conversation, her father didn't touch a sip of alcohol for the next five years.

The family was ordered to attend dinner, no arguing or they would sleep outside. Macbeth sought out Ariel each night, bursting in on whatever and whomever he was doing, to stand in the doorway until he followed her out. It only took about a week of this method before Ariel joined them on his own.

Slowly, they began to resemble the family their were before, with one exception. Macbeth hated her life.

Once the farm stabilized, Horatio and Paris found enough time to court women, eventually settling down and starting families. Both traveled with their wives. Paris made a trek out to New Earth 5 with his agricultural scientist wife, seeing the sights of a whole other world. Even Portia, once out of her shell, attended the university in Alexandria, meeting her own love and settling down. Which left Ariel and Macbeth. Since Ariel enthusiastically pursued every female in the territory, Macbeth was left unmatched in a household of couples.

It wasn't until Portia married, she realized she'd never kissed someone. There were too many duties on the farm to go away to one of the universities. Her father couldn't balance their accounts without help. Though Macbeth studied star charts and other worlds after everyone had gone to bed at night, she'd never traveled beyond the open market. She taught herself Unispeak, the only one of her siblings to bother, but rarely spoke it with other merchants.

Keeping up with the maintenance of Pembrook farm might have been bearable with someone to share it with. Being alone wouldn't have been so bad if she had gone away, maybe to the universities or left the planet altogether. Instead, she became the farm matron, a role she quickly grew to despise. She was stuck. Portia had no head for figures, no matter how many times Macbeth tried to teach her, or the desire to learn them. Her brother's wives came with careers of their own, ones they were unwilling to give up to be just a farm wife. Everyone was used to Macbeth taking care of them. No matter what Ariel said, she doubted her brothers noticed how much time she holed up in her room. Ariel...

He was secretly her favorite. Despite sleeping with every female on two legs, or maybe because of it. He was stuck like her, but he enjoyed himself.

Now, she would never see him again, if he was even alive. What would her family do without them, without her?

Macbeth slammed her fists against the wall. The sounds echoed through the dark hold, answered by scattered mewling screams and sobs. No she wasn't alone here.

"Ariel?" No one responded. One of the women wept, a sad pitiful sound in the dark. Macbeth wanted to cry herself. Her mind circled in on itself, treading the path her life took, wondering what she could have been, trying to avoid where she was going. What little she read on the slave markets of Anaon resembled nothing pleasant.

Periodically, blinding light poured into the hold as the Nisseri Keepers threw in a heap of ration packs. During the eye watering brightness and the mad scramble for food, she counted roughly thirty other extractions, dressed in the same flimsy, shapeless sack the bio mechanics shoved her into after repairs. The Nisseri hooked filtration units into all of them, taking care of waste products with tubes feeding into a tank that rested on the thigh. The tubes coming out of her side disgusted her, but it was better than being left to sit in her own filth.

She never saw Ariel. There were no familiar faces. She burned to ask where they were taken from. They appeared human, but in the dark, no one proved talkative.

She could have been an agricultural scientist, like Paris's wife Reanna. It had been a dream to attend Solis university, studying with others who shared her passion for learning. Or she could have been a true traveling merchant, visiting other worlds, meeting other races on her own terms. Not as a slave.

"Dammit," Macbeth shifted, tugging on her collar. "Hello, someone, anyone?"

"Shut up," said a man nearby.

"I need to talk to someone."

The man was quiet so long Macbeth wondered if he heard her. "They don't want us to talk. Keep yapping and they'll activate your collar." A finger of dread slid across her shoulders. She knew these collars were for more than show, she did not wish to see them in action. Slumped against the wall, the weight of silence pressed against her. They all heard the warning. Even the weeping woman died down.

She couldn't gauge how much time passed, it could have been days, or even a whole lunar cycle. Macbeth lost track of everything in the dark. Time was fluid, the regular intervals between feedings lost relevance. Her memories blurred into dreams, until she tuned everything out, including herself, by listening to the hum of the ship's engines, or the clickting chatter of the Keepers who fed them.

The engines stopped.

Murmurs rose among the others. The collars cut off their speech, many yelping at the electrical shock that drove them to their feet. A set of doors opened on the hull wall, filling the room with hot acrid air. The light wasn't the artificial illumination of the ship but sunlight, sharp burning sunlight, tinting everything with an orange hue.

"All you scags, out!"

The extractions staggered for the exit, half blind, muscles cramped from disuse. Macbeth emerged into Anaon's atmosphere, which punched into her lungs like acid. She fell to her knees, choking, her skin prickling from the poison in the air.

"Clean 'em up, get 'em acclimated, move, move, move!" A towering Nisseri shouted the orders, stepping in front of Macbeth. He grabbed her collar, hauling her to her feet, and peeling off her dress. Her cry cut off when he ripped out the filtration tubing. The keeper sealed the incision before holding up a sand blaster. Macbeth shut her eyes as sand and air scraped across her skin, leaving every inch of her raw. As soon as he finished cleaning her off, he rubbed her down with a salve that soothed the pain and eased her burning lungs.

"Breathe deep human, or your lungs will melt."

She inhaled, unwilling to die. The Nisseri's hands moved everywhere, spreading the salve over her breasts and privates, every crevice met his business like touch, her face hot with humiliation. Once coated, he slipped a new finer shift on her that molded to her figure. A product dressing. Now clean and trussed up, she was led to the line of extractions, their expressions ranging from enraged to broken. Macbeth tamped down her emotions, trying to take in everything she could. Study this place, learn it.

Her keeper grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his heavily scarred face.

"This is a proximity collar, human, stay within one length of the human in front of you or you will die." He left her there, standing beside the others, until all the extractions were prepared. When the last fell into rank, the Keepers moved them out, trudging single file along an uneven stone road toward a city blurred by the rising midday heat. Long yellow grass grew on either side of the road. The Nisseri steered the line of humans well away from it. A man in front of her tripped, sprawling across the road, one hand landing in the strange grass. It cut the poor man's hand to shreds. The Nisseri hauled the screaming man to his feet.

"Discount on this one, Morlent" They shoved the injured man toward the giant Nisseri in back, her Keeper. Morlent paused long enough to wrap a cauterization cloth around the pieces of his hand before shoving him back in line. The extractions tread carefully after that.

Soon, the haze around the city lifted, revealing pale stone columns, blushed by Anaon's blood orange sun. Many buildings were open, airy structures, the cobbled street leading to a market center covered by a trellis roof. The structure was overgrown with thick barbed vines filtering the sunlight. The architecture struck a note of familiarity with Macbeth, as if she had seen something like it before.

The locals wove in and out of the market like dancers, their long robes draped off one shoulder. The orange light played off their dark red skin, glinting off the swept back horns on their heads. Vibrant eyes lazily glanced their way before looking away in dismissal. Macbeth read about the people of Anaon, the Pathosians, but nothing to prepare her for the sight of them. She never saw one in Alexandria's market, because she would have never forgotten the sight if she had.

The Nisseri led them past a crowd gathered around a ring, where two males wrestled naked. Her eyes were riveted to the spectacle until she stumbled, falling forward. Two delicate red hands caught her, tipped with thick claw like nails.

"What is this? Have you brought us fresh treats, Morlent?" A woman's voice, a voice that rubbed like velvet over her the skin. Macbeth peeked up into violet eyes. The woman smiled at her, her elongated canines pressing into a full bottom lip.

"Yes, Patrician Chrysostem, this lot is headed for the block."

"Mmmm. I do not suppose you would sell this one to me now?" Her tongue darted, licking along a fang. She winked at Macbeth.

"I would Patrician, but this one's been upgraded with a translation implant. Our captain hopes to get a high take on her."

The woman sighed, pouting as she released her hold. "Shame, I like the tall ones. She looks strong too." Her face lit up, flashing another toothy smile. "Perhaps I shall see you again, human. I might find myself in the market for a good translator."

Her skin heated where Patrician Chrysostem touched her. Macbeth swallowed, falling back in line. It wasn't until she was moving again she noticed the woman had four breasts. All the Pathosian females did. Macbeth wondered why, since feature followed function. Their clothing wasn't very revealing but still managed to be provocative. Most of the human males stared at every female they passed. She studied the rest of their bodies. The Pathosians sported seven fingers on each hand, something she somehow missed when the Patrician's hands were on her. The horns weren't just on their heads, small spikes protruded from their elbows, and along their spines. They struck her as exotic and dangerous.

The group reached the "block", a raised platform the Keepers led them upon, spacing them evenly apart. A crowd of Pathosians gathered below, mostly males of all ages, from barely matured to so ancient their dark hair was streaked with gray; the observed the humans with interest.

"Appraisals may now begin, bidding will commence in two trances." Morlent announced and grabbed the closest human, shucking off his clothes. Another Keeper grabbed Macbeth to do the same. Her hands automatically went to cover herself before a shock jolted her. She gasped, dropping her arms. Forcing herself to go quiet, she tried to build a wall inside her mind as the Pathosians moved through the group. Clawed hands groped her breasts, felt up her calf muscles, even pried apart her lips to check her teeth. Go blank, let it all fall away.

An older male snaked his fingers between her thighs, his orange eyes lighting up in delight. "This one is untouched."

Several heads turned her way with fresh interest. Macbeth held herself ramrod straight. Hands all over her, touching, poking, prodding, feeling her inside. A tear slid down her face.

"Appraisals over, everyone off the block." Morlent slid in front of her, pulled the shift back over her body. He wiped the tear from her face before moving to the next human.

The auction began. The Nisseri Keepers hauled one extraction after another to the front of the platform. Morlent spoke of their attributes, detailing any enhancements the Nisseri made to them. The Pathosians shouted bids, arguing with each other, laughing.

A man, whose jaw had been altered, sold high to an older male with hunger on his face. Macbeth started shivering. Once she started, she couldn't stop. The others were dragged out around her, the man with the shredded hand sold, leaving Macbeth as the last one on the platform. Morlent gestured towards her.

"Here is the gem of the group, my patricians. This specimen is well proportioned, strong bone structure, already fluent in Unispeak. Our mechanics have added an interior translation implant, ready made for diplomatic tasks. All these excellent qualities and this female comes untouched." He barely finished speaking before the bids began.

"Six hundred trimica!" It was the older male, the one with searching hands, his orange eyes boring into her. Her shivering increased. Six hundred was higher than any of the others opened with. There was no doubt how this would end for her.

"Seven hundred!"

"Eight!"

"Nine fifty!"

"Five thousand trimica." A familiar voice purred over the crowd. Macbeth found herself caught by that violet gaze. The other Pathosians fidgeted, clearly torn whether to bid or not. "I will go higher, Senator Giorgos. Will you for a simple virgo? Is your mate failing to excite you now?"

"How dare you-"

"Bid or not, Senator. My household requires a new translator."

Silence.

Morlent clapped his hands, a grin on his scarred face. "The bid goes to Patrician Chrysostem." The Keepers pulled Macbeth forward, leading her off the platform, through the dissipating crowd of Pathosians and their newly acquired slaves, to the waiting arms of her future.