Page 11 of Shadow Waltz

Other lots were already being processed when we arrived. I recognized some faces from the cells, others were new arrivals who still had the shell-shocked look of people whose world had just been turned inside out. They sat on examination tables or stood in lines, waiting their turn to be catalogued and evaluated like livestock at auction.

A woman in scrubs approached with a clipboard and the kind of professional smile that never reached her eyes. “Number 17?” she asked, consulting her paperwork.

“That's me.”

“Right this way.”

She led me to an examination table in a corner of the room, gesturing for me to sit down. The guard who'd escorted me took up position near the door, close enough to intervene if I caused trouble, far enough away to maintain the pretense that this was a voluntary medical examination.

“I'm going to need some blood samples,” the nurse said, preparing a needle and several vials. “Also a saliva swab, urine sample, and basic physical measurements.”

“What for?”

“Standard health screening. Making sure you're fit for placement.”

Placement. Such a nice, clinical word for slavery. I held out my arm and let her find a vein, watching as my blood filled vial after vial with whatever tests they needed to confirm I was worth their investment.

“Any chronic medical conditions?” she asked while she worked.

“No.”

“Allergies?”

“No.”

“History of drug use?”

I thought about that one. Honesty might get me labeled as damaged goods, but lying might bite me in the ass later if they ran tests that would contradict whatever I said.

“Some recreational use,” I said finally. “Nothing serious.”

She made a note on her clipboard and moved on to the next question. “Any history of mental illness? Depression, anxiety, suicidal ideation?”

“Do you count being pissed off about being kidnapped as mental illness?”

The nurse's professional smile flickered for just a moment. “I'll put down no.”

The questions continued, each one more invasive than the last. Sexual history, family background, educational achievements, employment record. They were building a complete profile, creating a marketing package that would help potential buyers understand exactly what they were purchasing.

When the blood draw was finished, she moved on to physical measurements. Height, weight, body fat percentage calculated with calipers that pinched my skin like mechanical insects. She noted scars, tattoos, anything that might be relevant to buyers with specific tastes.

“Turn around,” she said.

I turned, giving her access to my back, letting her catalogue the raised lines where a belt had cut too deep, the puckered skin where cigarettes had been put out, the faded marks of restraints and violence that told the story of my previous owners' preferences. Each scar was noted, measured, photographed for the files that would accompany my sale.

“You can get dressed,” she said when she was finished.

But instead of the clothes I'd been wearing, she handed me a new outfit. Gray cotton pants and a matching shirt, the kind of uniform you might see in a mental hospital or minimum-security prison. The fabric was soft but cheap, designed for easy washing and replacement.

“What happened to my other clothes?” I asked.

“Those belong to the house now. These are more appropriate for your current status.”

My current status. Another euphemism for slavery, another way of avoiding the truth of what they were doing here. I pulled on the gray uniform and tried not to think about how it made me look like every other lot in the building, another faceless number in their inventory system.

When I was dressed, the nurse made a few final notes on her clipboard and gestured toward a different exit than the one I'd come through. “Follow the blue line to holding area two,” she said.

The blue line turned out to be a strip of colored tape stuck to the floor, leading through more corridors and past rooms I hadn't seen before. I caught glimpses of offices with computer equipment, storage areas filled with supplies I didn't want to think about, spaces that looked like they belonged in any corporate headquarters except for the bars on the windows and the locks on every door.