The Argos Directive

I was born on Earth, in South Africa, at a time when everyone knew their place, even if no one said it out loud.You learned early how systems work.

You learned which streets you could use, which doors were not meant for you, how long you were allowed to stand somewhere before someone asked for papers. You learned that authority did not need to explain itself. It only needed the uniform and the stamp.

I learned how to keep my head down without losing myself completely. I learned how to speak carefully. I learned when silence was safer than honesty. None of this was taught as cruelty. It was taught as order.

When I was taken from Earth, that logic was familiar.I was sixteen. I remember the day clearly because nothing about it felt dramatic. I was told where to go. I went. I was told to wait. I waited. That was already normal to me. The violence came later, once paperwork had changed hands.I was sold. More than once. You stop counting after a while. I learned what buyers want to see. Clean body. Straight posture. Something interesting. Something new. A pet. A creature. A toy. A display.

One of them kept me as a servant. That is the word they used, as if it softened the rest. I cleaned. I carried. I stood behind chairs and poured drinks. When guests came, I stood where I was placed and did not move unless spoken to. Sometimes I was shown to them. Sometimes I was not. That depended on what they were buying that day.

I was not beaten often. Damage lowers value. Correction was preferred.

There was a market I remember clearly. Metal floors. Harsh lights. A smoky exhaust that burned the back of your throat. I stood on a platform while aliens talked about me as if I was not there. Someone checked my teeth. They touched me. Turned me. Looked at my hands and feet. Messed my hair. They spoke languages I did not know. So many I had no hope of learning them.

I survived because the sale stopped.The Terran Frontier Corps arrived while money was still being discussed. Weapons came out. People shouted. Someone grabbed my arm and then let go when they were ordered to. I stood still until a woman in a uniform told me to move in a language I knew. A Earth language. English. I moved then.

Afterwards, they called it a rescue. They spoke about protocols and trauma and recovery. They told me I was lucky. I did not argue. Luck is easier for people than responsibility.

They would not let me join the Frontier. They said I was unsuitable. They said I needed distance from this world, but there are so many worlds so far apart. How much more distance could I get? They said they were protecting me. I heard what they meant.

They wanted me grateful. They wanted me quiet again.I could not stop thinking about the others. About the people still standing on platforms, still being priced, still waiting for the right interruption. I knew how rare that interruption was. I knew it depended on interest, jurisdiction, timing. None of those things care about suffering.

People talk about how advanced the galaxy is. Faster ships. Better weapons. More laws. I have seen this before. I grew up in a place that had laws for everything and justice for very little.

Out there, they use tags instead of passes. Contracts instead of permits. Ownership instead of classification. The logic is the same. Only the machinery improved.If the universe is this vast and this old, then there is no excuse for people still being owned. Culture. Tradition. Economy. Those are just clean words for the same system.I do not care who claims the space. I do not care what treaty applies. When someone is taken from Earth and sold, that does not end because enough time passes. It does not end because borders exist. It does not end because the paperwork is correct.

If the law will not go back for them, then someone has to.I am not interested in negotiation. I am not interested in compromise that leaves people behind.

This will cause trouble. It already has. It will bring retaliation. That is understood.

If you are reading this and feel unsure, do not stay. This work does not leave room for distance. It asks for decision.

I am tired of being told to wait.

If someone has been taken, we go back.

We are human.

We are family.

We are Argos.

— Imani