The Colleague

Tom sat in his office, idly skimming through last semester's student evaluations. They were very good, although he couldn't help but obsess about the few highly critical ones. It seemed like it was always that way--praise is quickly forgotten, but criticism is long remembered. A polite knock on his door rescued him from his musings.

"Tom, could I speak with you?"

Jill Erikson stood in the doorway. Tom had always admired Jill: she was tall and lithe, disciplined and focused, intelligent and bold. She was a few years older but he always harbored a slight hope, which she never encouraged, that she might be interested in a liaison at some point.

"Of course, Jill! What's on your mind?"

"Mind if I shut the door?"

"Not at all... must be something serious."

Jill closed the door as she continued talking.

"It is. Tom, have you heard the rumor?"

"That they're cutting the budget, and there might be layoffs off next semester?"

"Yes. Tom, I hate to tell you this, but those rumors are true. I was in the office when I overheard the chair on the phone. They've got to lay off one more part-timer, and they're going by seniority, evaluation scores, and scholarly contributions."

Tom grimaced. "But... I had hoped they were done with the layoffs!"

Jill shook her head, sadly. "They thought they were, but the chair told me there was a last minute budget cut. That means one of us--you, Scott, or myself--are going to get laid off."

Tom felt the panic building. He had worked so hard and for so long, and so many dreams now seemed within reach. And to have them snatched away so wantonly? It was too much to bear.

"It's going to be me, I know it," he moaned.

Jill nodded, slightly. "I figure it that way too, Tom. I'm sorry, but your scholarly contributions have been light. But... I have an idea for how we can change that."

Tom looked up. "What? How? I'd so anything to stay here!"

"I'm glad to hear that, Tom," Jill reassured. "Here's my idea. Now, we both know Scott is an annoying prick who doesn't belong here. And the whole department is white. It would be wrong to lay off the only... the only... the one who adds a different complexion to the department."

"What do you have in mind, Jill?"

"If you and I do a study that gets noticed in the press, then..."

"Yes... yes that would help, I think. But what kind of study can we get done so quickly? There's not much time."

Jill looked at him squarely, and paused a moment before continuing. "Here's where it gets difficult, Tom, but hear me out. You remember that study the chair did last year that got so much attention?"

"'Perceptions of Value among Working Class Shop Operatives?'"

"That's the one. You'll recall that Professor Laycock drew on interviews with industrial shop workers. Well... What if we did something similar, but with Commonwealth slaves?"

Tom reclined in his chair, thinking. "That would be interesting and all, Jill, but Commonwealth landowners aren't going to let us interview their slaves. And you know, I can't even enter the country. By law, people like me are only recognized as slaves."

Jill bit her lip, lightly. "Well... Tom can I speak frankly? It's exactly your... appearance... that would make this plan work. I can't do the interviews because slaves wouldn't talk to me. Too dangerous. They'd be afraid it was a trick. And even those who did talk to me would hold back. But you could... with your skin, you could pose as a slave and circulate freely on a plantation without raising an eyebrow. It wouldn't take long to write up the report once we're finished, and it would highlight your unique contribution as a member of the department."

Tom shook his head. "That's all true, Jill, but what good does it do me if I'm stuck in the Commonwealth as a slave?"

"You won't be. You'll spend a few days--I think three should do it--on a plantation. One of the big ones, where slaves are being bought and sold and coming and going all the time, and you won't stand out. And then I'll smuggle you back across the border."

"That's not an easy thing... they've got all the crossing points guarded, and they search every vehicle that crosses the border."

Jill grinned. "That's very true. Except for the Specie Transfer trucks. You know the Commonwealth only accepts gold and silver as payment for its agricultural exports, and there's an armored car from here to there every three days. Nobody searches those trucks."

"How do you know that?"

"My uncle is one of the drivers, and he's agreed to get you across the border and back again. We just have to pay him ten thousand, and I figured we'd split it. A small price to save our jobs, right? If you get laid off and there's more cuts, I'm next."

Tom swallowed hard. "Yes, I suppose, but... Jesus, Jill... you're asking a lot. This could go south..." He chuckled, nervously.

"Can you afford to lose what you've got now?"

Tom rubbed his temples, and sighed. "No, I guess not. It took years to get this job. I can't imagine what it would take to get back to where I am now. But... gimme a week to think it over, huh? Think things through."

"Nope, can't do it. My uncle is only on that route for the next week and then he's retiring, so it's now or never. Tom, I know it's a shitty situation, but that's the size of it. If we're going to do this thing, we just have to do it."

Tom was paralyzed with indecision. Something inside of him cried "no!" But then he started thinking about the little house he wanted to buy, and the students calling him 'professor,' and his name on his office door, and all the perks he enjoyed at the university. His voice warbled a bit as he replied "alright, Jill."

Jill seemed very pleased. "Good... we've no time to waste. Let me call my uncle." She picked up the phone.

"Hello Uncle S? It's Jill. Ya, we're in. Alright so what time are we meeting you? Six o'clock? That doesn't give us much time. No, no... we're not backing out. We'll meet you... right... Highway 98 and Old Country Road. Good. See you then." She put the phone back on the receiver.

"Jill, I'm just worried that..."

"We don't have time for this, Tom."

"But how am I going to record the interviews?"

"You think I haven't thought of that? I've made up a little survival kit for you which includes a miniature digital recorder. I'll show you how to stash it on the drive. Now come on!"

"Well, alright, but I haven't even eaten... And what about the money for your uncle?"

"Oh for goodness' sake. Look, I didn't have my lunch, so you can have that in the car. And I'll take care of my uncle. You can pay your half when we get you back. Now let's go!"

---

Tom and Jill stood alongside Highway 98. There had been no conversation during the drive. Tom was busy eating, and he didn't feel much like talking anyway. He figured Jill would inform him about the arrangements once they arrived at the rendezvous point, but she had remained resolutely silent the entire time.

Finally, Jill spoke. "Alright, put this on." She handed Tom a worn, leather loincloth and a pair of worn out sneakers. "Don't look at me like that... did you think you were going to pass for a slave dressed in business-casual?"

Tom had to smile at that. Of course, he had to look the part, and by Commonwealth law, slaves were only allowed to wear a loincloth and shoes. He himself had written a journal article on the cruel logic of it: this was the "uniform" that marked one as a slave without rights. This was the "uniform" that made slaves themselves feel as if they were inferiors. And there was the practical effect of it as well: this "uniform" left most of the slaves' flesh exposed to the whip, which could be employed at any time.

"Fine, but I'm glad this is only for three days. Where can I change?"

Jill shook her head. "You think a slave has any right to privacy? Strip off and get changed. Do it now."

Tom must have made a face, because Jill's next words cut deep.

"Look, here's something else you need to get used to. When someone like me gives an order to someone like you, you say 'Yes, ma'am' and you obey. Instantly, if you don't want to be whipped. Now do it!"

Tom knew she was right, and he obeyed. The loincloth was nothing more than two squares of leather that covered his front and back, cut so that they were still attached on one side, and with thongs to secure them about the waist. The garment just covered his loins but that was all, leaving most of his dark skin exposed. It did have one unexpected virtue: a concealed pocket for the recording device.

"Alright, now we need to lock this collar on you."

Tom knew it was coming. He knew it had to be. Still, he felt the weight as soon as Jill cinched the steel ring around his neck and secured it with a padlock. There was absolutely no way that anyone would mistake him for anything but a slave now.

"Oh there's my uncle!"

An armored car pulled up, and Jill ran up to the cab. The bullet-proof windows were mirrored, which foiled any attempt to see inside. She spoke with the driver and then motioned Tom over.

"Alright, he said we're good to go. We'll ride in the back, where no border guard is authorized to look."

"Oh, you're going too?"

"I have to... Do you think I would let you go into a situation like this alone?"

Tom smiled. "Thanks, Jill. It means a lot."

"Come on, now... it's only three days. Alright, hear that click? He's popped the door, so we can get in. There you go."

---

The truck barreled on for four hours. Tom and Jill passed the time by discussing their research project, thinking through plans for his escape, and then by making small talk. Tom was shocked when Jill revealed that she had been born in the Commonwealth, and her grandparents still owned a plantation there. He was almost as shocked when she revealed that she was seeing someone, though she quickly changed the subject. Eventually, the truck began to slow, and Tom reckoned that they were at the border. His heart raced as he listened for any sign of betrayal or mishap, but thankfully, the stop was only momentary. Jill revealed that it would be another six hours before the truck arrived at the drop-point and she suggested that they get some sleep.

---

Jill roused Tom as the truck pulled to a stop. The door clicked as the driver released the mechanism, and Tom and Jill alighted. Dawn was breaking, and carrot-fields stretched as far as the eye could see. The truck was alongside a rural highway somewhere in the Commonwealth. Tom thought about the poor slaves who had to work in these fields, dawn to dusk, every day of their lives. He couldn't help but be grateful for the fact that, unlike the others, his servitude would be temporary.

"Alright, so this is the spot. Highway 52 and Copper Canyon Road. Remember that, Tom. Everything depends on it."

"Yes... I will. Jill, I just want to say..."

"Tom, there's no time for that. Now, here's your kit. You'll find the recorder and a journal wrapped in oilskin, just in case. The first thing you should do is read the note I left for you in the journal, which will help you understand the things that will happen from here on out. I suggest you walk about five minutes off the highway and the read it so you don't get caught unawares. Start working it out in your head, alright?"

"Alright."

"Alright, *ma'am.* Remember, here you're just a slave."

Tom clenched his teeth--he had the distinct impression that she was enjoying this, or at least, that it didn't bother her very much.

"Alright, ma'am."

"That's better. Don't forget your place, boy," Jill replied curtly. She climbed into the cab without further ado, and Tom waved as the truck barrelled down the highway. Then he made his way across a few hundred feet of furrows, opened the journal, and began to read:

Tom--excuse me--SLAVE:

Scott said you'd fall for this, but I said you were too smart. I guess I was wrong, but it really doesn't matter anyway. We're getting married so it would be inconvenient for either of us to be laid off right now, and we both agreed that the only real crime would be to let one of you take a job from one of us. Your kind belongs here, after all. You were made for it.

You owe Scott another debt of gratitude. I wanted to turn you in as a runaway at the border--we could have gotten a nice bedroom set with the bounty. But Scott said we owed you a fighting chance, and here we are. The border is about 300 miles north of here, and by now we've informed the slave patrol about you. Can you make it back to freedom? Probably not. My advice is... just surrender and accept your place. But you do you.

Anyway, goodbye and enjoy your new life. Scott and I are planning to stay at the university, but eventually I'll inherit Granddaddy's plantation and move back. Who knows? Maybe I'll buy you, and finish that research project, hm? "The Reintegration of Wrongfully Liberated Slaves: A Case Study." Has a nice ring to it, hm? Be a dear and record your thoughts as the Overseer breaks you, hm?

Jill

Flush with anger and humiliation, Tom flung the journal aside. Just then, he thought he heard the sound of barking dogs in the distance. Perhaps it was just his.... No! He heard the sound again, perhaps a little nearer this time. There was no time to waste. They would soon be upon him. Desperately his eyes searched for cover, for a hiding place, for an avenue of escape. But all he saw was endless fields, endless toil, endless work.