Do you want to be free? Those words of my master, old Greg, still echo in my head. Do you want to taste the flavor of freedom? It's what I've always desired. To fly, to go wherever the wind takes me. To have the chance to see the world that has been forbidden to me since birth. Do you want to stop being a slave? But is this freedom? Is it? Because if it is, it's not as grand as I imagined. I don't feel as ecstatic as I thought I would. Freedom isn't like it seemed in my dreams. I'm still enclosed, watched, and controlled. I can't do as I please. If this is what freedom is, I'd rather remain a ragged slave.

To be honest, it's not all negative. Today, I discovered the city after spending my whole life on the plantation. Finally, I laid eyes on New America, something I've imagined countless times. I've uncovered new and tantalizing perspectives, something I've been missing out on, something slipping through my fingers unknowingly. Because that's what slavery is: losing your own life, giving it to the owner, and surrendering completely to hard work during your useful and functional years. Then you could be auctioned off to your Province or another, you could attain freedom if you have nothing more to give, or you could simply end your days serving as a domestic slave in some old mansion of a wealthier and luckier family.

No, not everything is negative. I've improved. I rest in a room with four solid walls. They're not made of old, worn—out wood like the barracks where I lived on the plantation. Moreover, they're not on the ground but hundreds of meters above it. I almost got dizzy looking out the window when we rode the elevator. The walls have been dimly lit, with a bluish color, until a moment ago when the time appeared on them, ten o'clock, and they went dark. It's all darkness now. It's a small but comfortable room, and I have everything I want, much more than what old Greg gave us or what little I could obtain by trading with the other slaves on the plantation. I can eat until my belly is full, I have a bathroom similar to the one in Greg's old mansion, and I can even turn on the Screen embedded in one of the walls and watch soccer. Many of the matches are repeats, but I never tire of watching them; it's one of my passions.

However, I know all of this is an illusion, a moment that will pass quickly. Perhaps that's why I lean out of the window on the seventeenth floor of this huge skyscraper, which overlooks the city of New America. Aeromobiles light up the black sky as they transit through the airways entering and leaving the city. There are five buildings as tall as the clouds, all of them, of course, belonging to the State of the United Provinces of America. The other constructions are much smaller, unable to surpass the majesty of the provincial buildings. The style is very similar. Despite never having seen anything like it, I tire quickly. I think my eyes aren't accustomed to so much light and detail. I have an urgent need to enjoy New America and its streets, its extravagant people, so different from me... I want to verify if everything they've told me about it is true. I'm so eager that I forget I'm still not free. I close the curtain of the window and curse aloud, as I'm accustomed to doing. Then I look again at the back of my wrist:

Eric Moon.

55926.

Property of Greg Gordon.

Property of Greg Gordon. No. I'm still not free. I'm still a slave.

***

Every morning is the same if you're a slave. You always hope the new day will be special, but it isn't, and you realize it just as you wake up and sleep tries to take hold of you again. I have to do something with this hair, I tell myself every morning, but I prefer to spend the money at the plantation bar rather than go to the hairdresser. A matter of priorities. I slip into the white tank top and work jacket and head out of the house. Everything is the same, today, too. The streets, covered in dust and gravel, are filled with the daily chores of the multitude of slaves living in this town. I call it a town because that's what it is, by all means. Dozens of ramshackle houses made of wooden logs, identical one after another, stretch around the vast plain. In the distance, the mansion of the plantation owner, Greg Gordon.

I start walking towards the cotton plantation, along with all my fellow workers. Old Greg boasts about us, about having more than a thousand human properties working on his cotton. If what Greg says is true, I'd like to know where so many people fit because I don't know half of them. I think I see new faces every day.

—Good morning, Mr. Hall. Good morning, Mrs. Hall—I say.

Mr. and Mrs. Hall are a middle-aged couple who have taken care of me since I was little, and they are my best friends in this cursed prison. They have been here much longer than I have, yet they wear a smile every morning when they see me. They are the only ones who can tell me about my mother, who died when I was three years old. When that happened, I was placed under the guardianship of the owner, Greg Gordon, living in his house until I was old enough to start working: ten years old. Since then, I've been living the same day over and over again. It's a real nightmare.

—Are you ready? Let the day begin!

I hate that voice, and those words Luke repeats incessantly every working day. He's in charge of the well—being of the slaves and ensuring everything runs smoothly on the plantation, but in reality, he doesn't fulfill any of his responsibilities. It used to be Greg who took care of that, but now he has aged and hardly ever leaves his palace, especially after the death of his third wife. How I hate Luke. He's only older than me, but in everything else, I could teach him a tremendous lesson. I am much more capable, kinder, and more productive than Luke. I deserve that position.

Luke revs up his aeromoto, flying close to the ground. He wears his black vest, his hair perfectly groomed, shoulder—length, and the electric whip. And that face, with an expression of power. I should beat him up again. I've already beaten him several times, and maybe that's why he dislikes me. I suppress my rage and focus on the work. I seem like a domestic robot because, to me, this is mechanical. All these years doing the same task have made me one of the best slaves on the plantation. I've won the Slave of the Year award twice already. My hands are swift; they separate the leaves, pick the cotton, and toss it into the basket. When the sun starts to scorch, I take off my jacket and start to sweat. I look up, seeing a white horizon. The plantation seems endless. The harvest season is undoubtedly the worst of all.

—Somewhere down the line, I'll get back at him—I mutter to myself, watching Luke go back and forth on his aeromoto.

—Don't be like that. Time puts everyone in their place. Your moment will come—Mr. Hall, as wise as ever, advises.

—I can't stand him.

—Don't let it show, Eric. I don't think you can cause Greg any more trouble.

—I've never caused him any trouble—. I laugh with Mr. Hall. We both know it's a lie.

Despite my productivity, indeed, I haven't been an exemplary slave. I've rebelled a couple of times. But they have to understand me: I'm young, and I'm trapped, I need to get out of here. Taste freedom. I've fought many times with other fellow slaves, always over trivial matters: card games, money, and vices. It's the only thing that helps me escape from my reality. I've tried and succeeded in seducing forbidden women like Miss Green. I remember, newly married, I sneaked into her bedroom, and her husband caught us. What can I say, it was both our fault, hers for tempting me and letting me into her house, and mine for not resisting the temptation. Greg had to intervene. I escaped a severe punishment, but my meager pay, which only circulates within the plantation, was significantly reduced in favor of the Green family. It's true; I've given old Greg many headaches, so many that I could have been sold or auctioned off to much more ruthless owners. He has always protected me and always found a solution.

—Hey! You two! What are you laughing about?

—About you—I reply quickly. I can't help but lean forward in situations like this.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

—Nothing, sir—Mr. Hall interjects.

—Shut up, Mr. Hall. Repeat that to me if you dare, filthy slave. —Luke shows his yellow teeth and tightens his grip on the whip.

—I'm laughing at you! At how pathetic you are—I try to raise my voice so that everyone working can hear me. I've challenged him.

—How dare you! —He lashes out with the electric whip, and my body is hit with a shock. I fall to the ground, writhing in pain. —It's you again, isn't it? Next time, show me some respect. Respect for those who are superior to you!

—Someday—I say with difficulty, almost unable to move—I'll crush you. You're just one, and we are hundreds.

—I said speak to me with respect! —He lashes out again— Come on, everyone, back to work! Move it!

It takes me a few minutes to get back to picking cotton. I catch up with the Hall family and start talking to them to make time pass faster, to distract myself from the task, and from the pain of the electricity still coursing through my muscles.

—They say that in the city of New America, there are very strange people. They leave food on their plates. They wear shiny clothes. Giant houses that reach the sky. Machines of all kinds. They even say that every citizen has an aeromobile! Can you imagine?

—If they have all that, why do we have to work here? With all that technology, they must have some machine to pick cotton quickly, don't you think, Mrs. Hall?

—Eric, you're still young and innocent. This cotton is used for the clothing of the inhabitants of New America, and only with manual harvesting does it have the quality they need. That's why they pay so much money. That's why we exist. Without us, they wouldn't have those privileges. It's something you must understand. The people in the city...

—...Is free.

—We will be someday. And it's getting closer, Eric, especially for you.

—What?

—Congratulations! —The Hall couple says in unison.

I blush. After all, it is a special day. It's my birthday, and they remembered. That's all I need, for someone to take me into account and care about me even if I'm sometimes stubborn and reject any kind of help. Pride. The Halls have always helped me and counted on me, and that's something hard to forget.

—Enjoy them, kid, I wish I could go back to twenty.

—With your advice, Mr. Hall, I will.

—I've prepared a cake for you. When we stop to eat, I'll distribute a couple of slices around. We should celebrate days like these! Especially here...

—Thank you very much, Mrs. Hall. I don't know how to thank you...

—There's no need to thank anything.

—You treat me like a son, and you know what? I've always wondered why you haven't had children yourselves.

—That's a good question. I don't know; we saw how tough your early years were. Your mother would collapse into bed exhausted. We didn't want, and we don't want, to raise a child here. We don't want him or her to walk in our footsteps because they've been very difficult. If we had been free, we would have had two or three children. But here, it's not possible. Not here. Slavery persists because we have children. And it won't be because of us.

—But how do you do it? —I mean, Mrs. Hall never gets pregnant.

—Greg helps us. In New America, there are pills for everything you can imagine, or so he says. Greg is a good man.

Mrs. Hall looks embarrassed and hangs her head, still working and manipulating the cotton. I notice tears starting to well up in her eyes, and her husband doesn't seem to notice. I look at them and understand that they have always wanted to have children, to have descendants and that at least they have had me, treating me like a son. Now I understand. The affection, the esteem, the care, and their smiles in the mornings. Despite the wrinkles on her skin, weathered by the cold, the heat, the passage of time, and work, Mrs. Hall could perfectly be my mother.

The sound of the bell snaps me out of my thoughts. We have fifteen minutes of break to replenish our energy before continuing with our work. Mrs. Hall takes out her chocolate and cookie cake and cuts it into small pieces, which she distributes to the slaves closest to the family, announcing that it's my birthday. Everyone turns to me and congratulates me.

—It's very delicious. Thanks again, Mrs. Hall.

The cake is truly delicious. I eat and ask Mrs. Hall to give me another piece.

—Eric? —I have my mouth full, chewing the cookies, when I hear my name. I see her from the corner of my eye. It can't be. It's her! It can't be. It's her! It's Sophie! —Eric!

Sophie looks unrecognizable. Her blonde hair, always straight, is now wavy at her crown and also at the tips. Her dress is intense purple, compartmentalized in what appears to be crystals that give even more shine to the color. Her long and pale legs are visible, except for some boots that reach her shins, the same color as her dress. She looks like a fairy godmother from the fairy tales.

—Eric! —She says again, throwing herself into my arms. —It's been a long time! Five years since the last time.

Sophie Gordon is the youngest daughter of Greg Gordon, the owner of the cotton plantation, of all the slaves, and, therefore, of me. I met her when my mother died, and I became part of the Gordon family for a while. At the age of ten, when I had to start working as a slave, Sophie and I parted ways. Shortly after, she left for the city of New America to study and only returned five years ago on a summer vacation. I didn't expect to see her again.

—You look gorgeous, different... but beautiful. And you've become a woman. What are you doing here?

—I'm passing through and... I knew today was your birthday. I couldn't leave without wishing you a happy birthday and, above all, without saying goodbye to you.

I take a moment to observe her and then to look at my hands. What a situation. My shirt is all sweaty from work, while she emits a soft aroma of wildflowers, a penetrating smell. No one smells like that; I don't know where she got that perfume. To top it off, she's shining, quite literally, with that dress. I compare her to some slaves I know, who boast of not changing their underwear for several weeks, and I understand the differences. Today, I understand many things, it seems. Maybe it's because of my birthday, but it's when I can see how different Sophie and I are.

—Come on, let's take a walk. —Sophie pulls my hand, but I stay rooted to the spot, looking at Luke, who watches the scene from his aerobike, whip in hand just in case. —Luke, it'll only be fifteen minutes. I promise.

—Alright, Miss Gordon.

Sophie pulls me along again while I glance back at the Halls, who encourage me with smiles. We leave the plantation, heading towards the small forest at the boundaries of Greg Gordon's property in the Central United Province. It's the only spot that's not exploited, neither for livestock nor agriculture. It's like an oasis in the middle of the desert.

—It's just as I remembered it. —She whispers, slowing down her pace.

We've played many times in this place. In the small river, in the forest, and in the meadow that precedes another lord's plantation. This was the hideout and the imaginary world we both had for a long time. I wash my hands and face in the river, then start splashing Sophie, who laughs heartily.

—What brings you here, Sophie? —I ask when we're sitting in the meadow.

—I'm getting married, Eric. And I don't think I'll be back. I'm moving definitively to New America.

—Wow, and who's the lucky guy? —Sophie strangely looks at me. —That's what you say in these cases, right?

—It's... a soccer player.

—No way! Who is it?

—Leonard Montana.

—Leonard Montana? Wow! What luck! Another day you'll have to tell me what he's like, how you met, I don't know... Leonard Montana is the most famous player in the United Provinces. He's the best forward in the world!

—Yes...

—And he must make a lot of money...

—A lot...

—You two are the perfect couple.

—Don't exaggerate, Eric.

—Seriously. I'm happy for you; you deserve it. I can already imagine you in your aeromobile, touring the city, the Provinces, with your kids... It's everything someone could wish for, right? —Sophie lowers her head as I praise her. —What's wrong? Aren't you happy?

—Yes, I am, but... I don't know, I thought you and I...

—Sophie, look at us. Look at yourself and look at me. Although I always believed in you, in everything... I'm just a simple slave. I'm not the god of the world. Not even the President herself. I'm just property. Cheap labor that you need to have everything you have. We are completely different. We belong to different worlds. You're going to marry a famous soccer player, and I'll marry another slave to keep giving your father little slaves. You and I are as different as the Sun and the Moon that when one goes away, the other appears.

—I know what you mean, but... sometimes they coincide in the sky, right?

—We're friends. We always have been. Friends with differences.

—Eric...

—We don't have a future...

—Eric, stop. You're not understanding me. I want to marry Leonard. I want to leave here and live in the city. I don't want you as... It's just that... I don't want to leave without saying goodbye to you, I've already told you.

I don't understand her. I don't know what she's trying to tell me, but I quickly understand. She takes off her purple boots and sets them aside. Then she stands up in front of me. I remain seated. She unfastens the shiny purple dress, slipping off the right strap, and the garment slides down her pale body, falling to the ground without Sophie caring about it. That dress must cost a lot of dollars. And she stands naked in front of me. Then I stand up and slowly approach her. With one hand, I grasp her waist, and with the other, I hold her face. I kiss her aggressively, and she takes off my shirt. She smiles, pleased. I know I shouldn't do this, but I can't let the opportunity pass. Sophie will leave and never come back, at least I won't have the lingering thought of what could have been. We lie down in the grass, and she grabs my back with her hands. She hurts me with her nails. When she's moaning, a voice makes us look back. It's Luke, who has descended from his aerobike and is watching us with his mouth open.

—Well, well, Mr. Moon. It seems you have no limits. —He says, starting to whip me with the electric lash until I lose consciousness.