“That’s what they call it, then?” I whisper, once the trooper’s turned her back.

Salt chuckles. “Call it ‘transfer’ when what they mean to say is ‘sale.’”

“Don’t know about you,” growls Lear, right by my ear, “but I’d better be expensive.”

The carbine finds us again, this time with a finger on the trigger. “Quiet.”

I offer her a glare, but Salt does a better job. It comes with the altitude. He’s got a whole head and shoulders on her, gun or no gun.

The grunt holds the look, but Durer speaks before she has anything to say.

“To begin, I need confirmation that all of you are here of your own free will.” He leans on the last two words like there’s a punchline coming. It doesn’t. “If not, now is the time to make that plain.”

No one moves, and no one speaks.

Durer rolls his palms on the handrail, rubs those cotton gloves oily. “Well?”

More nothing.

“There is no penalty for doing so,” he says, monotone, like he’s reading from a script. He laughs suddenly. “But you came a long fucking way just to turn yourselves around.”

The chain-gang stands where it’s been put. The soldiers don’t say anything. No one shares the laugh.

Durer’s disappointed. He watches us for a few seconds more, like he’s expecting something. Whatever it is, he doesn’t get it. He sighs, filling our ears with static.

“I am required by law to give you one hour to make up your minds.” He holds out those filthy hands. “Or until I’m satisfied that none of you have been brought here without your clear consent. Conditions of sale and all that.” He looks us over. “I think we’d all prefer the latter, correct?”

We don’t reply.

“Oh, for Christs’ sakes. Raise your hand if you’d rather die out there”—he aims a finger into the distance, at the hangar-locks where shuttles come and go—“than in one of my cells.”

I raise my hand without a second thought, and Salt does the same. I can’t see much past his bulk, but Lear and everyone behind me has arms in the air.

Durer claps his hands. “Ha! Excellent!” He leans back, and glares at someone short and faceless standing to the side. One of NorCol’s administrator corps. A bureaucrat, here to inspect the goods. “There you are,” says Durer. “All volunteers, as stipulated. Happy now?”

If there’s a response, it’s too quiet for us to hear.

Durer turns back and hangs over the handrail at us. “The law entitles each of you to due process. That would normally get in the way of our little arrangement, but today is your lucky day.” He straightens, rests a hand on his chest. “Today, I am due process.”

“Nice to meet you,” growls Lear, just loud enough to carry.