[ WP ] A race of slaves who really are genetically inferior

Mustafa roped the shape-charge around the locking mechanism of the door and pressed himself into an alcove before he hit the button - a rumble, a wave of screams, and a sound of clattering told him he had a way in. He put gun to hand before rounding the corner into the pens. 
 
 Still no one here - it was as though the whole enterprise was abandoned except for its chattel. No security, no cameras, a chainlink fence so low you could hopscotch over it. Water on three sides of the compound, sure, that'd keep your exit strategy pointed generally southwest. If Mustafa's friends had been as enthused about the prospect as he was, perhaps they might've gotten hold of a boat for the offloading - that would've felt like a real heist. 
 
 But it was n't right to think of it as theft, after all, and least in the presence of the victims themselves. Here they were, arrayed naked and tagged into pens, filthy mattresses for bedding and one shared toilet to a pen. The room was dark - the fluorescents above were on a timer, with no switch in sight. Mustafa pulled a flashlight with his free hand and started down the rows. 
 
 He chose a pen to examine and knelt before the door. The slaves were all cowered in the corner, avoiding even looking at him. Their appearance was pathetic - stumpy legs and lanky arms, bodies like children, faces with uncommon angles. No clear race could be distinguished between them, and what signs of sex could be seen were so undeveloped and atrophied male or female was a purely academic matter when dealing with them. Each had a tag in their ear, their name printed on it - `` SARAH'' or `` BOBBY'' or `` GRANT''. 
 
 All this Mustafa had seen in the pictures, and in truth it was little different here than when he'd looked at them - just the same vaguely humanitarian sense of disgust, if a little more real this time. What caught his eye, though, and truly disturbed him, was the barrier of the pen, and of all the other pens in fact. 
 
 Mustafa's best friend growing up had a dog who would n't enter the house without having the door held open for him. One time, the front door to the house was taken off its hinges to be painted, but the dog refused to go through the front - the lack of a door did n't look like an entry, but like a wall to the dog, no way for its keepers to let it in. They had to take the dog around back for the rest of the day. 
 
 Seeing the chickenwire barrier that kept the slaves in their pen reminded Mustafa of that, long forgotten by him already. The wire was so thin he could probably snap it by twisting it around his finger - the only thing to even keep it locked in were a few little bars at each corner of the pen's entry, ones that dropped down to pin the wire in. Any of the slaves could've reached the pins with ease. 
 
 But of course that was the whole reason Mustafa was here - these were the voiceless, and he was their voice. If a slave had to think their rescuer was their new master, for just a short while, perhaps there was no wrong in that. 
 
 He unpinned a corner of the wire and ducked into the pen, and began to approached the huddled slaves. He set the flashlight down where it would n't blind them, and where they could see him more clearly. He kept his gun pointed well away from them, and extended his now-free hand, an offer. 
 
 No one reached back. This was the depth of their servitude, Mustafa saw - that they had no sense of freedom, of what it could be like to be liberated. He could only imagine the fear going through each of them, the fear planted by their masters to keep them docile. 
 
 Mustafa was not docile - and by the time he was done here, he would be certain this docility could never be effective again. 
 
 `` I'm here to set you free,'' Mustafa whispered - `` I know it's scary, I know some of you might not know what freedom is like. But I know there has to be at least one of you who's fed up with being kicked around by your masters. You do n't have to put up with that anymore. I can carry you away from that.'' 
 
 The slaves were still as the wall they clung to. Not a one turned to Mustafa - none even looked at him. One was quivering in fear - genuine fear. Another scraped his foot against the floor trying to press himself even tighter against the wall, to get just a little further from him. 
 
 Mustafa could hardly believe it. Here he was offering escape, and it was as though they were trying to escape him. He could feel a rage rising in him, against the ones who built this place and put these people in it. This could not stand - even if by force, he would burn it down. 
 
 He linked arms with one of the females and started to pull her away - the other slaves screamed, and the female with them, a struggle to keep her in the pen or pull her out of it. Mustafa kicked the wire free and leaned against the mass, pulling the female until she screamed in pain. 
 
 He turned back to look, the female's fear half-illuminated by the flashlight beam - but behind her, one of the males caught his eye. 
 
 The male had a cell phone, holding it to his ear, biting his lip until the connection went through - when it went, he began babbling in his slave pidgin until he stopped, collected himself, and spoke clearly - `` Please-uh send a caahr to Misraim Labor Works-'' 
 
 Mustafa threw the girl aside and put his gun against the male's head - *'' Did you call the police?! `` * 
 
 But then Mustafa could hear the din - a thousand other voices in the room, all on the phone with the police, all reporting what was going on. 
 
 Chickenwire, shared toilets, and cell phones. 
 
 Mustafa ran, hitting the beach and following the water, the glow of the city behind him and the winter-cold desert night ahead. Blue strobes and sirens soon filled the compound, the place lit up like it was in full operation. 
 
 After half a mile of freezing-cold running, Mustafa hid behind a rock formation on the beach, keeping his back toward the road, ready to blow away anyone who came near. 
 
 He was considerably more humble when the chopper spotlight landed on him. 
 
 -- 
 
 He kept silent, only staring at his hand cuffed to the tabletop. 
 
 `` We ca n't get you a lawyer,'' Inspector Jardin said - `` All the lawyers are home for the night, they wo n't be in until eight tomorrow. What we can get is you with plastic explosive, foreign firearms and ammunition, and your foot and fingerprints across the entire compound. We do n't need to wait until eight to get you on that.'' He stood - `` We can even get the judge in here to charge you right now, if we think you're a threat to public safety. And lem me tell you, with the shit you had in your backpack, I'm almost inclined to do that.'' 
 
 Mustafa felt like a cigarette. 
 
 Somehow Jardin knew that - `` You want a smoke, we can get you one, if you cooperate.'' When Mustafa looked at him, he grinned - `` You were chewing your lip - oral fixation.'' 
 
 Mustafa looked back at his hand. 
 
 Jardin put a pack of cigs on the tabletop, just out of reach - `` Domestic, foreign, cheap, gourmet. Coffee? Soft drink? If it does n't get you high we can get it to you. You on any critical prescriptions, Mustafa? We can get them. There's a 24-hour pharmacy right next door.'' 
 
 Mustafa shifted in his seat. 
 
 Jardin leaned across the table - `` That means you wan na say something. Say it.'' 
 
 `` Fuckers.'' 
 
 `` I'm not surprised.'' 
 
 `` You should've seen how they were locked up. I do n't think you would've brought me in-'' 
 
 `` I've seen it, Mustafa. I know what it looks like. Sure, it's upsetting. You do n't wan na spend much time in the pens. But you got ta understand they *love* it there. They *wanna* be there.'' 
 
 Mustafa looked at him - `` It's really not a question of *want*. It's a question of what's *right*.'' 
 
 `` Read much Marx, Mustafa?'' 
 
 `` How'd you know.'' 
 
 Jardin had the most punchable smile on the peninsula - `` Rich kids love Marx. No better way to get your licks in against dear old dad than to use the working class as a human shield.'' 
 
 Mustafa leaned back, shutting his eyes - `` You keep talking. Maybe you'll learn something.'' 
 
 `` You know Marx kept a house girl, right? Got her pregnant, too. Why is it big personalities like that always, *always* have to have those hypocrisies? Does it just come with the territory, you think?'' 
 
 `` I think it's hardly important compared to what happens to the slaves here every day.'' 
 
 `` What happens to the slaves, Mustafa? You tell me.'' 
 
 `` Hell on earth.'' 
 
 `` Three square, meaningful work, fulfillment you or I could never imagine. These people were literally made to do work, Mustafa. Genetically built from the ground up for servility and small pleasures. You ca n't take them away from that.'' 
 
 `` Watch me.'' 
 
 Jardin sighed - `` You know what it was like here before they started the labor programs? I remember old Dubai, kid. I remember African workers kept chained in the high rises overnight, never leaving until the buildings were complete - and even then just moving to the next building. Bound to ten year contracts they'd make you sign into again at nine years and eleven months. I remember the reforms, and how they did n't work. I remember the depression when the labor program showed up - there was a *depression* in Dubai after the slave trade ended here, Mustafa. You want that again?'' 
 
 Mustafa roared - `` I want *freedom* for *everyone! *'' 
 
 `` Thought this was n't about wants. Kid, this is Arabia - slavery was *invented* here. Formalized, at least. From here to Barbary, slaves have always been kept, from our earliest history to today. The only difference is that now we're honest about it, and we build them up to the work, instead of whittle them down from the unwilling. Is it wrong for us to be honest?'' 
 
 Mustafa looked away, and from his body language, Jardin could tell he was done. 
 
 He flipped open Mustafa's dossier again, and read the words `` CLINICAL NARCISSIST'' and `` DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR'' with more weight this time - he drew his pen and underlined them twice in red ink. 
 
 `` Yeah,'' Jardin said - `` I guess it is.'' He started for the door - `` We'll work on that lawyer. And do n't expect Dad to bail you out this time.''
