Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1078473.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Actor_RPF, Kingdom_of_Heaven_(2005)_RPF, Pirates_of_the_Caribbean_RPF,
      Lord_of_the_Rings_RPF, Fast_and_the_Furious_RPF
  Relationship:
      Orlando_Bloom/Liam_Neeson, Orlando_Bloom/Johnny_Depp, Orlando_Bloom/Other
      (s), Johnny_Depp/Liam_Neeson, Vin_Diesel/Paul_Walker, Harry_Sinclair/Karl
      Urban, Orlando_Bloom/Paul_Walker
  Character:
      Orlando_Bloom, Liam_Neeson, Johnny_Depp, Samantha_Bloom, Marton_Csokas,
      Brendan_Gleeson, David_Thewlis, Harry_Sinclair, Karl_Urban, Paul_Walker,
      Jeremy_Irons, James_Roday, Vin_Diesel, Nicolas_Cage, George_Clooney,
      Julianna_Margulies, Will_Smith, Michael_Clarke_Duncan, Ben_Barnes, Steve
      Jobs
  Additional Tags:
      Slavery, Alternate_Universe_-_Slavery, Sexual_Slavery, Alternate_Universe
  Series:
      Part 1 of A_Lost_Boy
  Collections:
      What_We_Keep
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-12-11 Chapters: 39/39 Words: 89894
****** A Lost Boy ******
by AngiePen
Summary
     Slave Orlando's been taken and the kidnappers aren't interested in
     ransom. And of course Master Liam's thundering rage is only at the
     personal insult, that someone would disrespect him by daring to touch
     his property.
Notes
     A few years ago, Poisontaster wrote a completely awesome fic set in
     an AU world where slavery had been legalized. The "now" of her world
     is some time in the near-ish future -- there are asteroid mines -
     - but she didn't specify exactly when. Slavery had been reestablished
     during a huge economic crisis not too long ago, but not terribly
     recently either, and again, she didn't specify exactly when. My
     personal headcanon is that it happened during the Great Depression,
     but that's just me.
     A Kept Boy was incredibly popular, and being a wonderful person,
     Poisontaster threw her world open to anyone who wanted to play in it,
     and established a community on LJ for folks to post or link their
     fics to. A lot of great writers wrote stories set in her verse, and I
     was inspired to play too. Note that this is a world of realistic, not
     romantic, slavery. It's cruel, brutal and dehumanizing, showing
     institutional slavery for the horrible blot on civilization that it
     is. The USA has become the North American Empire, surveillance is
     ubiquitous, and the divide between rich and poor is even wider than
     it is now. Past a certain level of income, slave ownership is
     mandatory, with stiff monetary penalties for failing to do one's
     part. Other writers, including Poisontaster, wrote stories with
     slave-owner characters who were good people, people who recognized
     the inherent evil of slavery and were abolitionists philosophically,
     whether they could take any action against it or not.
     There are a lot of great fics built around that kind of character,
     but I decided to see what I could do with what I thought would
     actually be a more common sort of person -- someone who'd been raised
     with slavery, immersed in a society which included slavery and with a
     government and a society that had a vested interest in not only
     keeping that going, but in convincing everyone that slavery is right
     and good, and at least as beneficial for the people who find
     themselves enslaved as letting them flounder on their own. Heroes are
     people who can climb up out of the crowd and see that what they've
     been taught since infancy, the values and morality they took in with
     their mother's milk and which essentially everyone around them, at
     all levels of society, agrees are good and right, are actually evil
     and wrong. My main character is not a hero.
     While writing, I struggled to maintain a balance between making my
     Lord Liam a man of his time, and making him a man the readers could
     at least like with some reservations. It was hard, and when this
     first went up on my journal, some readers decided Liam was an asshole
     and they hated him. Fair enough. I'll say, though, that by the end of
     the story he'd changed enough to surprise even me. How that happens
     is, hopefully, an entertaining story. Enjoy.
  This work was inspired by
      A_Kept_Boy by poisontaster
***** Chapter 1 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
[Thirty-Two Years Ago]
"Neeson." The voice was strong and abrupt, obviously not one to be troubled
with trivialities.
"Yes, um, My Lord, this is Walters from Commerce." Hesitant, wishing he were
anywhere else.
"Yes?" Sharp, impatient.
"It's, that is, it's about your cook." Really not wanting to be having this
conversation.
"Yes? I'm coming for her this afternoon. Is there a problem?" Clearly there had
better not be.
"Err, I'm afraid, that is, there's a baby, My Lord."
"I know that. I agreed she could bring the infant with her." You're an idiot
and I'm going to hang up in about four seconds.
"No, or... I mean, yes, My Lord. But, err, there's another one. That is, she's
pregnant, my Lord."
Silence.
"My Lord?"
"I hope you're not expecting me to pay extra."
"Er? Umm, no, My Lord! Of course not!"
"Fine."
Click. Dialtone.
"So? Did he want to choose someone else?"
"Umm, no, it seems not."
 
[Today]
There he was, right on time, and he was even alone. He always showed up at the
grocery store at about the same time, between six and seven in the morning
every Wednesday, when the place was stocked up but nearly empty of people.
Sometimes he came with that older free man, and sometimes with the slave woman.
A twofer would've been nice, but one was better than having to pass for another
week, and this was the valuable one -- a collared body-slave, still beautiful
even if not quite as young as they'd have liked.
He always parked in the same place, too, under the tree on the end; it was
right across from the front of the market, and had only one other space next to
it, minimizing the chance of damage to his master's car.
Marton had had Brendan park the van in the very next slot, cracked the sliding
door panel open, and waited. The target had pulled in right next to them and
everything went exactly according to plan. He got out, locked the car, and
Marton grabbed him from behind. A gag stuffed into his mouth when he opened it
to yell, a quick drag back inside the van. Sheen slammed the door shut while
Marton's arms were full of struggling target, then Brendan pulled out and they
were gone.
 
[Twenty-Six Years Ago]
"Maggie! What've you got for me?"
Margaret Bloom glanced over her shoulder and gave her master the smile and
quick nod which served as a show of respect whenever she was tending something
hot. He'd told her when he'd first picked her and baby Samantha up from
Commerce that staying on her feet and serving him more of the excellent food
he'd tasted before choosing her was the kind of respect he wanted. Dropping
something time-critical just to kneel or bow and then serving him burnt garbage
was disrespectful and would get her punished.
She said, "I packed your saddlebag with chicken and biscuits, apple salad and
chocolate turnovers, and two bottles of bock. If there was something else you'd
like, I can get it for you in a moment."
That afternoon she was sauteing shallots and mushrooms and therefore stayed
standing. She heard a shuffle and thump behind her, though, and gave a quick
wince, then smiled to herself where no one could see. Another glance behind
her, lower down this time, showed her five-year-old son crouched on the floor
at their master's feet, his forehead pressed to the toe of one big boot. The
fork Orlando had been using to seal the edges of the ravioli she'd made earlier
lay carefully on the rolling mat where it would stay clean; at least he hadn't
dropped it this time in his eagerness to show off what he'd learned.
The kitchen was silent for a few moments, save for the hissing and crackling of
hot fat, then Master Liam said, "You may stand, Orlando," his voice gentle but
grave.
Margaret gave the vegetables one more toss, then slid them into a bowl and
turned in time to see Orlando climb to his feet, beam up at the man towering
above him, and ask, "Did I do it right?"
She rolled her eyes and saw one corner of Master Liam's mouth quirk in a not-
quite-suppressed grin. He was a stern master, fair when served well by free or
slave, but not a man with whom any but his peers would presume, and he had few
peers. Little Orlando was one of the few people Maggie had ever seen him smile
at.
It alarmed her and brought up fears she did her best to suppress. It wasn't as
though she could do anything to prevent them from coming true.
"You did very well, Orlando," Master Liam said.
The little boy's face beamed even brighter and he threw his arms around his
master's leg. Maggie tried not to notice how his face was just around thigh
level.
"Thank you!" Orlando gave Master Liam a sunny smile, then took a step backward
and gave him a perfect ninety-degree standing bow before dashing back to the
table and his task. She could see him watching Master Liam for a reaction,
though, and she was sure Master Liam could see it too.
"Fearless little monkey," he said. He gave the boy's messy brown curls a ruffle
on his way across the kitchen to where Maggie had left his saddlebags, near the
back door. "This will do nicely, Maggie. I'll be back for dinner, and might
have a couple of guests with me."
"Yes, Master." Maggie bowed as he left, and Orlando scrambled off his chair to
bow again too. Master Liam strode out, his saddlebags slung over one shoulder
and an unfrosted cupcake pilfered from a cooling rack in his hand, without
looking around to see either of them give him that respect. He just assumed
they would, and of course he was right.
She watched Orlando bounce back onto his chair once more, her eyes and mouth
pinched with worry. She should start sending Orlando out to tend the herb
garden with Samantha, keep him out of the way. He still had a hard time telling
the herbs from the weeds, but Samantha was a good, responsible girl and could
mind him. Master Liam might well go by the small patch of herbs from time to
time, but he definitely came through the kitchen a few times a day when he was
in residence -- the man had an insatiable appetite for sweets and was
constantly grazing on them, whether from regular meals, trays she sent him, or
whatever he could lay hands on in the kitchen itself. That made the kitchen no
place for Orlando. He was five, after all, and an adorable little devil, even
if she was his mother. She'd known masters and mistresses who'd shown
undesirable interest in slaves that young, no matter what the legal age was.
She couldn't prevent it, but she might be able to delay.
 
[Today]
Marton buckled the gag while Sheen jabbed a hypo into the target's thigh right
through his pants leg. Intravenous would work faster than intramuscular, but
getting the slave to lie still and then finding a vein in the moving van, no
matter how carefully Brendan drove, would negate any speed advantage so they
did it the easy way. With the gag secure, Marton pulled a pillowcase over the
slave's head before he had a chance to see any of them; the chance of him
escaping before being fully processed was minuscule, but Marton wasn't ready to
take any risks when a random traffic accident could end up with the whole pack
of them convicted and facing Commerce themselves.
He tossed the still-struggling body down onto the floor before bracing himself
against the sway of the van turning, then turning again, then the bump out of
the parking lot. Finally they were on the main road and would have a minute or
so of straight, smooth driving.
The target kicked and Marton cursed, rubbed his thigh, then slammed the
target's forehead into the floor of the van. It was carpeted so it shouldn't
leave a permanent mark, but knocking him silly -- or even just teaching him to
stay still -- before the ketamine took hold would make things that much easier.
Marton tugged the target's shirt open, pulled it off and stuffed it into a
grocery bag, then picked up the scanner and flicked it on. Sheen pulled off the
slave's shoes, socks, trousers, briefs, each to go into their own plastic sack,
while Marton ran the scanner over the target's torso. That was usually where...
there. The scanner beeped just below the slave's left shoulderblade.
Marton put the scanner away in its case and picked up a scalpel, while Sheen
lay his body over the slave's shoulder and head, with one leg pressing over his
hips, to hold him down. Marton made a quick incision, ignored the muffled
scream and feeble jerk when the body under his hands convulsed, then reached in
with tweezers and pulled out the chip. It went down on top of a metal toolbox.
He took a hammer out of the lower drawer and Crack! the chip was shattered. One
down.
Chapter End Notes
     Some more notes, about characters: There are a lot of characters in
     this fic, both celeb and NPC. I've tried to list all the celeb
     characters who have speaking parts in the "Characters" section; most
     of the folks there are pretty minor.
     I do know what Orlando's mother's name is. My RPS policy is that
     friends and relatives who are celebs/actors in their own right -
     - like Samantha Bloom -- are fair game. Those who aren't, aren't.
     Margaret Bloom is an invention of mine, and bears no resemblance in
     detail that I know of to Orlando's realspace mother.
***** Chapter 2 *****
[Twenty-Four Years Ago]
Liam headed out the back door with half a dozen warm cookies in one hand and a
briefcase in the other. There were few fine days in January, even in Almaden,
and after the previous week's freeze he meant to enjoy the sunshine outside on
the deck. He might even get some work done.
He was barely halfway across the lawn when he felt a tug on one trouser leg. He
looked around, then down.
"Orlando." He grinned down at the little boy, and got a matching grin in
return. "Done with your chores?"
Orlando gave him an enthusiastic nod. "I got all the rocks out of the herb
patch so Samantha can plant -- she's gonna show me how but not till tomorrow -
- and I weeded around the rosemary bush. I can go really fast now."
"I'll bet you can. I don't suppose your nose led you to these cookies?"
"You have cookies?" Orlando's smile brightened and he craned his head back and
forth while trotting along, trying to keep up and see around to Liam's other
hand at the same time.
"What, you didn't know? I suppose you just wanted my company, then?"
Orlando nodded. "You're hardly ever here. You just got home yesterday and Mama
said you're leaving again on Monday."
Liam climbed the three broad steps up to the deck, Orlando still clinging to
his trouser leg. "Well, I suppose since I'm not around to spoil you very often,
I might give you a cookie if you're good."
"Thank you, Master!"
The deck spread out in a curve, surrounded on three sides by grass -- dry and
brown at this time of year -- and approached by a tamped gravel path Liam
usually ignored. The fourth side extended over the lake, and half of the deck
was covered with a lanai of narrow boards overhead, giving partial shade. Liam
settled down on a comfortably padded bench on the sunny side of the deck, with
a good view of the lake and the surrounding scrubby woods. Orlando sank to his
knees at Liam's feet, his back straight and his palms up on his thighs.
Maggie never did that, and wouldn't have taught Orlando a body-slave's present
position, so the boy must've been watching Johnny, and maybe the body-slaves of
various guests who'd passed through. There were a few places around that barn
of a mansion where a small boy could watch the grown-ups without being seen;
Liam had used them when he was that age.
He said, "Very good," and handed Orlando one of the cookies. He got a "Thank
you!" back and a quick hug around one knee, and the boy even managed to eat his
cookie without getting crumbs all over himself.
Liam opened his briefcase and took out a stapled packet. He settled back with
the draft contract in one hand and a cookie in the other, the other four
stacked on his right knee. Orlando, having demonstrated his (new?) skill and
gotten his reward, stayed kneeling but leaned forward, with his arms crossed on
Liam's left thigh and his chin propped on his arms, apparently content to just
look out over the lake and watch the ducks. Liam was content to leave him be.
 
[Today]
A bolt cutter took care of the collar. Two down.
It was a nice one, a series of curved, square plates jointed together, in a
warm gold that accented the slave's olive skin. The plates were small enough to
be comfortable -- it wasn't a posture collar or anything like it -- but wide
enough for each plate to have an engraved scrollwork design around the edge,
surrounding a sunburst with a circle around it. Or maybe an oval. Whatever. All
the important info was inside, in the electronics buried in one of the plates.
Not that Marton cared. Neither the slave's name nor the master's name mattered
at all.
The van pulled into the loading bay behind their building, one of a string of
rented properties they'd used over the last four and a half years since Marton
had come up with the routine. They could pack and move out thoroughly on half
an hour's notice, or quickly enough not to leave any evidence which would
directly identify any of them within eight minutes.
Sheen hopped out of the van carrying all the plastic grocery bags with
everything that'd been on the slave, including the crunched remains of the
chip, got into a non-descript Ford and pulled out before the bay doors rolled
down. They'd taken the cash from the wallet; Sheen would discard everything
else the slave'd had on him in ten different grocery sacks, in ten different
trash bins and dumpsters in six different cities to the northeast and
northwest, up either side of the bay. Even if this location was compromised, no
search of the surrounding neighborhood -- a run-down industrial park in north
San Jose -- would turn up any evidence of the slave, or of the two others
they'd grabbed since setting up here.
Marton hauled the slave out of the back of the van while Brendan ran to get the
gurney. They strapped him onto it, ignoring his weak twitching and whining.
He'd already swabbed the incision where the chip had come out with alcohol, but
he'd do a better job now of cleaning it out and making sure it closed without a
scar.
Next he'd take care of the brand. Remove the branded skin, all the way down
through the dermis, and glue in a patch of synthetic grow-matrix. The fine mesh
protected the open area while encouraging skin cells to grow all across the
surface at once, rather than from the outside in. The protein the matrix was
composed of would be absorbed as the new skin grew. Within a few weeks, if he
did it properly and everything went well, the patch would heal up perfectly.
There were other methods for dealing with the tattoo he'd noticed on the
slave's abdomen. A cut and some scraping and maybe a bit of solvent, then glue
the incision and it should be invisible within ten days, two weeks at the
outside. He'd be able to tell within a few days whether the result would be
acceptable; if not, there'd still be time to patch it.
Simple procedures, and much more lucrative than slaving for an HMO ever had
been. And without all the insurance and licensing shit, either.
 
[Twenty Years Ago]
"But why do you have to go so soon? You just got here." Liam could tell Orlando
was trying not to whine, but he was eleven and whining came fairly naturally.
The boy was making a good effort, though, so Liam only smacked him on the back
of the head. He even answered his question.
"I have to go to New York and see about some people who are trying to steal one
of my companies."
Orlando startled at the smack, but didn't make a noise or even rub his head. He
hung onto his fishing pole and just hunched his shoulders a bit. "How can
someone steal a whole company?" he asked. His voice was lower and a bit closer
to a proper slave's neutral tone this time. Even though a proper slave wouldn't
have asked in the first place.
Liam shifted in his chair, a padded, folding number made specially for campers
and fishermen. They were out on a pier, near a shaded pool along one arm of the
lake, where there were some decent trout who occasionally deigned to nibble on
one's bait. Orlando was sitting on the edge of the pier, his bare feet dangling
off the end, leaning back against Liam's knee.
"It's done with bribery and proxies and shell corporations," Liam said, not
expecting Orlando to understand a word, but thinking he might get the gist of
it. He was right.
Orlando turned and gave him a fierce glare. "They're cheating!"
"Essentially, yes." There were definitely some illegalities involved, as well
as breaches of ethics on the part of several parties. Proving it in court, or
to the Bar Association, would be difficult. Liam preferred a more direct
approach, and had made plans to pursue one.
Apparently Orlando agreed.
"You should smash them," he said firmly.
Liam had to chuckle at that. "You've been watching too many cartoons, I think.
You're starting to sound like a villain."
"I am not!" Orlando insisted, apparently too caught up in his protest to notice
that he'd directly contradicted his master. "They're the ones cheating! They're
trying to steal something that's yours! You should beat them up!"
He knew he should chastise the boy. Punish him, even. But he also knew from
experience that Orlando was smart enough to confine his more outrageous
outbursts to times when they were alone; even at eleven he knew that much. And
since there was therefore no possibility of the boy embarassing him before
anyone else, Liam didn't see any particular reason to smack down such a staunch
supporter.
Besides, he agreed wholeheartedly.
"Perhaps I will," was all he said. Orlando gave a satisfied nod and turned his
attention back to his fishing.
 
[Today]
Margaret leaned out the kitchen door and called, "Samantha?"
"Yes, Mama?" Samantha was stripping leaves off the last of the basil, except
for the two best plants from that year, which she'd let go to seed. She stood
up and wiped her sleeve across her forehead -- even mid-morning in October, the
work was warming enough to get her sweating -- then headed over to see what her
mother wanted, taking the half-full basket with her.
"Have you seen Orlando? He should've been back over an hour ago."
Samantha frowned. "No, I haven't."
"Do you think he might be down at the stable?" Her mother sounded dubious, but
was clearly working herself into a fret.
"I can't imagine he would," Samantha said. "Not with groceries in the car,
perishables. That'd be stupid. Orlando's thoughtless at times but he's not
stupid."
"No, not usually." Margaret bit her lip and stared off in the direction of the
road. They couldn't see it from the kitchen door, but Samantha could imagine
her mother hoping to hear the car, rehearsing a good scold for whatever had
delayed Orlando.
They both stood there for a few seconds, staring off at nothing, then Margaret
whispered, "What if something happened?"
Samantha draped an arm around her mother's shoulders and squeezed. "If he had
an accident, someone would've called. Or they will soon."
Margaret nodded, but didn't relax at all. She turned and looked up at the
kitchen ceiling, in the direction of the Master's office where he'd be at work
by now, on the phone and the computer, possibly both at once. "I should tell
the Master."
"No, not yet." Samantha's hand clutched at her mother's shoulder. "Wait another
hour. There might've been something, an accident, something that blocked
traffic. There's no reason to just assume Orlando's been hurt. The fact that no
one's called is good news -- there's no reason to disturb the Master yet."
"He'll be more angry if we wait."
"Only if there's reason. Please? Another half hour at least?" Samantha didn't
often beg her mother for anything, but she was getting frightened. Master Liam
in a rage was terrifying and she was still hoping that it would turn out to be
nothing, that Orlando would drive up any minute now with a story about road
repair or something that'd backed up traffic for miles between the estate and
the shopping center where they got groceries.
He had to be all right.
***** Chapter 3 *****
[Seventeen Years Ago]
Orlando leaned up against the arena fence, his chin resting on his folded arms,
and watched his master working Sassy Lady, one of the new horses Johnny had
brought back from auction the week before. They all four had potential -- good
points and decent movement -- but they all needed schooling, and two of them
were going to need some rehabilitation before they were really useful. That was
why Johnny'd been able to come back with four instead of the two and maybe
three he and Master had discussed. The behavior problems were enough to slash
the prices on Majorette and Palisade.
Palisade had been turned out into the small yard next to the arena. Master Liam
had already worked her some that morning, but the idea was to let her get used
to her new home, the other horses, and having people around who weren't going
to crop her raw. Master Liam was awesome with horses, like he was with
everything else, and he'd gentled her down a lot already.
She was a gorgeous bay, with a springy trot and a natural flexibility to her
spine. She was also the spookiest of the four horses. She liked Orlando,
though; he'd groomed her a few times, and had brought her apples and carrots
from the kitchen.
Master Liam had paused and was leaning over to talk to Mr. Irons, the stable
master, over the fence a good fifty feet away from where Orlando was loitering.
The few others, both slave and free, who'd been watching wandered away, to
either delayed tasks or other amusements. Orlando wandered away too, but only
so far as the small yard.
He clicked softly to Palisade and dug in his pocket for a hunk of stale
gingerbread. Climbing up on the fence and perching with both legs on the inside
let him get up to the right height.
When the mare came sidling over, curious greed finally winning out over
caution, he fed her the cake and glanced over his shoulder. No one was
watching, but everyone who mattered -- meaning his master -- was well within
sight.
Orlando grinned. He'd been riding since he was tiny, on a pony Master Liam had
bought just for him and Samantha. He'd finally been allowed on full sized
horses two years ago -- after waiting far too long if anyone had asked him,
which they hadn't, and even Mr. Irons said he was a good rider, sensitive to
the horses, and fearless, even if he was a scrawny little thing.
He would've snorted if he hadn't been afraid of spooking Palisade. He wasn't
scrawny! He'd grown two inches in the last year; it wasn't his fault if his
muscles hadn't caught up.
Everyone agreed he was an excellent rider. And he wasn't stupid -- he'd never
have taken Palisade, or any of the new horses, out before they'd been gentled
down by his master and Mr. Irons. He knew his limits, even if nobody else
thought so. But he'd been making friends with Palisade and she was comfortable
around him. He'd had years to watch how Master Liam did it and how it worked;
you just had to know how to relate to the animals, and he and Palisade got
along great.
Palisade finished her gingerbread and nuzzled Orlando's hand for more. He
didn't have any more, but he gave her a scritch, then leaned over and ran his
hand over her back, giving it a bit more weight as he went. She snorted, but
didn't shy away.
Of course not. She liked him.
Supporting his weight on the fence, he swung a leg over her and then settled
very slowly and carefully down onto her back. She was warm and solid, and her
coat was slick from a recent grooming. He shifted his weight and clucked to
her, then grasped her mane with one hand. She tossed her head and started
forward at a walk through the long grass, calm as anything.
He wanted to whoop but knew better, so he settled for craning his head around
toward his master, hoping he was watching.
Orlando's huge grin faded when he saw that his master was, indeed, watching,
but wasn't smiling at all. He didn't look pleased, or proud. In fact, he looked
angry. He'd come out the arena gate with Sassy and was cantering over toward
the gate to the small yard.
All of Orlando's pride and happiness left him like air from a punctured
balloon. He knew he was going to get one of Master Liam's whip-crack tongue
lashings, and maybe a thrashing on top of it. He'd been so sure that if he
could just prove he could do it, then everything would be fine, but it didn't
look like it.
Not wanting to add anything to the coming scold, he kneed Palisade over and
clucked to her, trying to encourage her to turn toward the gate so he could at
least meet his master partway. Maybe if went straight up to meet his
punishment, it wouldn't... well, something.
That was the idea at least, but Palisade wasn't trained to knee aids alone, or
didn't feel like obeying just then, or something. Instead she stamped a couple
of times and flushed a dirt-colored dove out of the grass. Orlando saw it
fluttering up, practically under Palisade's fore hooves, just in time to
tighten his thighs and grab her mane with his free hand.
She squealed out a whinny and reared up hard. Orlando's bareback experience was
restricted to well-behaved horses and he slammed forward when she landed. His
face cracked against her spine, or maybe it was the back of her skull -
- something big and solid and covered with hair and that was as much as he knew
because his head was spinning and blood was leaking into his eyes and all he
could think about was hanging on as Palisade galloped off in a spooked panic.
They were airborn for one long breath, then landed and Orlando's face slammed
into her again. He still couldn't see and his face was one big knot of pain and
he hung on as tight as he could, just hoping he could stay on the mare's back
until she ran down and stopped.
He heard another set of hooves come pounding up behind them, and his first
thought was, No! Don't chase her, she'll just keep going!
Whoever it was kept coming despite Orlando's frantic thoughts, however, and he
couldn't quite gather enough wits or breath to form words and shout. The hooves
got closer and closer, then a strong arm snagged him around the waist and
hauled him off Palisade by force.
The shock of being grabbed in mid-gallop startled him into letting go, which
was just as well because otherwise he'd have ended up with a double handful of
Palisade's mane torn out by the roots. He yelled in panic when there was just
air under him for a terrified heartbeat, then he slammed face-down across a
horse's withers and had all the breath knocked out of him so he couldn't even
babble out the thanks that were ricocheting around in his skull.
That turned out to be just as well; the next thing he heard was his master. "Do
not say a word. If you make a single sound, I'll thrash you right here and set
Lady's training back a month."
Orlando swallowed hard and kept his mouth shut.
Usually the best thing in the world was to be cuddled up next to Master Liam,
leaning against his knees or his shoulder, or just sitting near him while one
of those big hands petted his hair while most of his master's attention was on
a book or some business papers or his e-mail.
At that moment, though, and for far too many moments after, lying right up
against his master was misery.
Orlando could feel his master's thighs under his cheek on one side and his own
thighs on the other. His master's hand pressed down -- hard -- on the small of
his back, making sure he was secure, if not comfortable. His master was right
there, close to him, holding him, and so obviously furious that Orlando wanted
to cry.
They rode across the lawn, the dry grass making light swish-crunch sounds as
Lady moved through it for a few minutes. Then Orlando heard the softer muffled
thuds of the horse moving across the lawn for a minute, then the crunch of the
gravel drive. Then they stopped.
Master Liam dismounted and hauled Orlando off after him. He clamped one hand
around Orlando's left biceps tight enough to cut off circulation and dragged
him up the steps and into the house, still blind and stumbling, then up the
front staircase and down the hall into Master Liam's bedroom, where his master
threw him onto the bed, where Orlando immediately curled up and buried his face
in his arms, so ashamed he didn't want his master even looking at him.
It'd only taken a few minutes to get in from... well, from however far into the
open pasture Palisade had managed to get, but it'd been long enough that next
time his master spoke, his voice was cold and hard instead of hot with rage.
Orlando hoped that was good.
His master said, "If you ever do anything so damnably idiotic again, I will
thrash you within an inch of your life, if you survive whatever fool stunt you
pull. If you ever repeat this, or do anything like it, this beating will remind
you of the paddlings you got from Maggie when you were a toddler. Do you
understand?"
Orlando whispered, "Yes, Master." He couldn't have moved even if he'd wanted
to. Having his master this angry made him miserable; he wanted to go dig a hole
and bury himself and hide forever. He couldn't imagine any thrashing hurting
any worse.
Master Liam undid Orlando's jeans with a few quick jerks, then yanked them and
his underwear down to his knees and shoved Orlando onto his stomach. A moment
later, the first stroke hit. What hit him was a cane, and Orlando screamed.
He'd never been caned before, or hit with anything more solid than a hand. He
didn't know how many strokes he got, since his master didn't require him to
count them and Orlando's brain was in too much of a panicked flail as it tried
to figure out how to detach itself from his agonized ass to count on its own.
Looking back, it couldn't have been more than a few strokes, but at the time it
was more than enough to have him wailing and sobbing and getting tears and snot
all over his master's bedspread.
Master Liam left him alone for a few moments, then Orlando yelled again when a
cold, damp washcloth was draped over his burning ass. His master's hand rubbed
gently up and down his back, caressing him through his T-shirt, and he felt his
master's lips press a slow kiss into his sweaty hair, then his forehead rested
against Orlando's head just above his ear.
"You could have died." His master's voice was low. He sounded exhausted. "When
you hit your head, then went over the fence, I thought for sure you were going
to break your neck, or your head, or get trampled."
Orlando managed to turn his face in his master's direction, even though he
still couldn't see, and whispered, "I'm sorry."
Master Liam made a startled noise and said, "Damn." The still-damp but now much
warmer washcloth was peeled off of Orlando's throbbing ass and his master
carefully cleaned the tacky-drying blood off his face -- his eyes first, then
his nose and cheeks, his lips and chin.
"There," he said when he'd finished. "Nothing broken, by whatever miracle."
Then, a few moments later, "Look at me."
Orlando pried his eyes apart, reluctance as much as any lingering crud making
the task difficult.
His master was kneeling next to the bed, which was enough of a surprise on its
own. The next surprise was that he didn't look angry anymore -- not at all. He
looked sad and worried, and he had the "thinking" crease between his eyebrows.
"I'm sorry," Orlando said again. It was all he could think of, because the idea
of even trying to explain himself, to put into words what he'd been thinking
when he'd gotten onto Palisade's back without even a saddle or bridle, made him
cringe.
"I know," Master Liam said. "You're still a fearless little monkey, and we've
been lucky so far. Even fearless monkeys need to exercise good judgement,
though. And until that develops, discipline will do.
"I've left you too much to your own devices," he admitted. It was the first
time Orlando could ever remember hearing his master admit a mistake. "You
should have been studying for something all along, learning to make yourself
useful in a more focused way. I'll admit I liked just having you about the
place, but that's not good enough anymore; you're too old for children's
chores."
His master said no more on the subject that day. Orlando stayed in Master
Liam's room until bedtime, with a cool lotion spread gently across his hot,
swollen backside, then a warm blanket to cover him and his master next to him,
reclining on the bed with a book in one hand and his other rubbing Orlando's
back, just like they'd done so many times before.
Orlando was worried that they'd never be able to spend time together like that
again, that his stupidity had made his master decide to send him away for some
kind of training. Or maybe even sell him. He could only fret for so long,
though, and eventually he fell asleep.
 
[Today]
"I don't give a good god-damn about the insurance!" Liam bellowed, stabbing the
unlucky police detective in the chest with one blunt finger. "And if that's all
you have to say to me, you can get your incompetent ass out of my house and off
my property and I'll find someone who knows his fucking job and can track down
the sorry bastards who took my boy!"
The detective flinched but didn't take a step backward, which was a point in
his favor. A very minor point. Instead he held up his hands in a clear attempt
to be conciliating, put a sympathetic look on his face and said, "Lord Neeson,
I realize this is a stressful time. I know it's difficult to lose a slave. You
must have cared for him very much. But--"
"What I care about is finding those bastards and making them pay!" Liam's
finger stabbed out again, hard enough that he was sure the detective would see
bruises when he got undressed that evening. "They stole something that belongs
to me and no one gets away with disrespecting me like that! They're going to be
sorry they were ever born!" The fucker was treating him like one of those
pathetic idiots who fell in "love" with their body-slaves, and Liam wasn't
having any. Absolutely no one got away with disrespecting him, and if this
sorry little shit thought he was going to get to be patronizing and then have a
good laugh with his friends at Liam's expense, he had a thing or two still to
learn.
"Yes, My Lord! I mean, no, My Lord!" The detective swallowed, his eyes huge and
round, and his jaw clenching so hard Liam thought it was about to crack. Good.
"Now get the hell out of here and don't come back until you have something
useful to say. And that had better be tomorrow."
"Yes, My Lord!" The detective managed an awkward bow and left the room. He
didn't quite scurry but it was a near thing. Liam hoped the fool had figured
out exactly what he meant when he said "sorry they'd ever been born," and that
he intended to pass the feeling on to enough subordinates to get some fucking
work done and find Orlando.
***** Chapter 4 *****
[Fifteen Years Ago]
Orlando came bouncing in to the kitchen and called, "Morning, Mama!" He gave
her an enthusiastic kiss on the cheek and a quick hug from behind, then said
"Morning, Glory!" and winked at the elderly lady over by the corner window.
Gloria smiled back at him and waved a paring knife before picking up another
apple to peel.
His mama spun around and reached up to grab Orlando by the shoulders. "Orlando!
How are you?" She looked him up and down, studying him like she expected to
find gaping wounds or a broken arm or something. Orlando rolled his eyes and
squirmed away.
"I'm fine, Mama," said Orlando, barely managing to keep from saying something
sarcastic enough for a smack with a wooden spoon. "It was wonderful and I was
perfect and Master Liam was very happy with me."
Margaret still looked upset, but Gloria gave him a thumbs-up from behind his
mother's back. He winked at her, then went to rummage around in the fridge.
Master had shared his breakfast less than an hour earlier, but Orlando was
always hungry and there was a chunk of leftover gratin from the previous night
-- perfect. He pulled it out, grabbed a fork, and went over to Gloria's table,
ignoring his mother. She'd just fret him to death if he gave her half a chance
and he wasn't about to let her mess up his mood.
Orlando kept a stealthy watch on her and waited until she'd turned back to the
dough she was kneading before sitting slowly and carefully. Both of the chairs
at Gloria's table were padded, but he couldn't prevent a silent wince as his
sore ass took his weight.
Gloria gave him a sassy grin and whispered, "The master's something, isn't he?"
Orlando giggled and nodded. "He's perfect!" he whispered back, and he and
Gloria shared silent memories in the language of smiles. It was sort of weird
having that kind of understanding with a woman twenty years older than his
mother, but Mama was weird about Orlando and Master Liam, and he'd never felt
comfortable sharing his love of the master's company -- or his more recent
pleasure at finally being chosen -- with her.
Gloria got it, though. She'd never been a body-slave, but the older slaves
around the place all said she'd been pretty when she was young, and he hadn't
been too surprised to hear she'd shared the master's bed a few times, back
before Orlando'd been born. She'd been the head gardener for ages, even for
those last few years when arthritis in her knees and an aching back had forced
her to supervise the work while younger slaves provided the labor. A fall
that'd broken her hip and kept her in bed for weeks had ended all that.
Master Liam had had the small table and chairs moved into the kitchen, into the
sunny corner by the window. Gloria did a few things in between cups of coffee -
- peeled and cut produce, sliced bread, fixed flowers -- stuff she could do
sitting down, stuff that didn't take a lot of strength or effort, or much
precision, or much speed. Mama and Samantha could've done anything Gloria did,
better and faster, but that wasn't the point. She was helping and got to feel
useful, so she didn't have to worry about the master selling her for being
worthless, or putting her down. Not that he'd do that anyway, but it was cool
of him to give her something to do and let her feel like she could help out.
"So?" Gloria whispered, "how'd you do? Last night was your big test, wasn't
it?"
Orlando nodded and gave her a smug grin. "I was perfect!"
"Your whole vocabulary is 'perfect,'" she retorted. "Details, boy."
He blushed and took a big bite of cheesy potatoes, chewing while pulling
himself back together. He swallowed and said, "Master said Mr. Travers said
I've been working hard and doing really well, and that Johnny agreed. Then
after we were done last night--" Orlando had to work hard not to look down, and
could feel his face heating up again, "--Master said he agreed too!" He beamed
at Gloria, who gave him a grin back and a high-five.
"That's excellent news, honey," she said. "And a good career path. You keep
working on your reading, pay attention to the Master's affairs, and you can be
an Agent when you get too old for the bedroom, travel around, do important
work."
Orlando ducked his head and bit his lip. Reading was hard. That wasn't
something Mr. Travers had been concerned with in their three-times-a-week
lessons, but Orlando knew it'd be important if he ever wanted to be more than a
bedslave. Real body-slaves represented their masters and did business for them;
Johnny got to travel by himself sometimes -- that'd be fun!
He'd have to really work on all the other stuff, though, the books and
computers that never seemed to make much sense to him no matter how hard he
tried. And he would! He wasn't stupid and he could do it. The thought of Master
Liam being disappointed with him made his stomach twist.
That wasn't something he wanted to think about that morning, though. It was a
perfect morning and he wanted to stay happy.
"Master Liam said I could ask a favor." His grin returned, remembering that. "I
said, if he approved, I wanted to have a tattoo." He patted his belly, on the
left, a little below his belt.
"Like Johnny's?" asked Gloria. "You'll be a matched set, the two of you."
"Kinda, but not exactly. Same place, but I want something different, something
that'd, you know, show people I belong to the Master." Orlando felt himself
blushing again, but this was the good kind so it didn't bother him too much.
Gloria raised an eyebrow. "So, what? The corporate logo?"
"Gloriaaaaa!" Orlando buried his head in his arms and groaned. She made is
sound so stupid!
He felt a light pat on his elbow and Gloria said, "I'm sorry, honey. I was just
making a joke." She sighed, then added, "It's really not a terrible idea, now
that I think about it. A sunburst is a nice image. Just imagine if your master
were Lord Gates -- would you really want that stamped on your ass?"
And with that image Orlando was giggling again, and groaning at the same time.
He dug into his snack with enthusiasm and looked forward to that night -- maybe
Master Liam would call for him again.
 
[Today]
The hastily-exiting detective had had to swerve around two other people
standing just inside the office doorway. Johnny was there, with his hand on the
shoulder of a young, scruffy-looking girl in a cheap, polyester shirt and
pants. When he saw Liam looking at them, he bent into a perfect bow and shoved
the girl down as well.
Liam eyed her and wondered who she was. He'd never seen her before, which meant
she must have some information about Orlando. Johnny'd know better than to
bother him with anything else right then, short of the house being on fire or
the imminent collapse of the Western economy.
"Well?" he snapped. "Who are you? Get over here." He pointed to the floor right
in front of him.
The girl gave a squeak and dashed over, then fell to her knees with a crash and
pressed her forehead to the toe of his boot. Her awkward position and stressed
trembling screamed Don't Beat Me! and he made an effort to calm down. Bellowing
at that fool of a detective had been useful as well as satisfying. Frightening
this slave into incoherent silence wouldn't help at all.
"Stand up, girl," he said, willing his voice to a lower volume and calmer tone.
"Johnny? Who is she?"
Johnny moved a few steps closer, then bowed again. Liam was definitely giving
off dragon-vibes if Johnny was going hyper-formal on him.
"Master, this is Cally. She belongs to the supermarket. Cally, tell Lord Neeson
what you told me earlier."
Cally climbed slowly back to her feet, cringing and biting her lip. Liam wanted
to bellow at her again, but exercised patience instead and just nodded to her.
"Umm, well, this morning I was stocking boxes of firewood -- it's up by the
front, in front of the registers, under the windows? I do that every morning in
the fall and winter, when it's cold. Your slave comes every Wednesday morning
and I watch for--" She stopped and cringed again, looking up at him as though
she expected to be smacked for the crime of watching out for a pretty slave
boy. Liam set his jaw and just nodded again.
"Well, he always comes in around the same time so I was watching. I saw him
drive up and he parked, there under the tree at the front where he always does.
There was a van in the next space. Not a new one, or an SUV, but one of the old
ones, without any windows? I couldn't really see 'cause it was on the other
side, but your slave got out and someone came out of the van and they got in
and drove away."
Liam untangled the story as best he could and asked, "Did the other person
force him into the van?"
"I-- I don't know! I'm sorry, Master!" Cally fell back to her knees again and
crouched down with her arms curled over her head.
Johnny murmured, "Cally...." and stepped forward. He went down on one knee
beside her and rubbed her back. "Come on, girl, it's all right, get up."
"No, that's fine." Liam gave Johnny a "stay" hand signal without really
thinking about it; Johnny nodded and settled down next to Cally, rubbing her
back but letting her stay on her knees.
"So Orlando got into the van with this other person, maybe willingly and maybe
not, and the van drove away, yes?"
"Yes, Master!"
"You didn't think to report this to anyone?"
Cally started shaking again. "I did, Master! I swear! I ran and told the
manager, but he said it wasn't our business! That the slave was probably just
making some money on the side and it wasn't our business, that we'd just get
him in trouble if we told anyone! I'm sorry, Master!"
Liam mentally added the store manager to his list of People Who Would Be Very
Sorry and said, "That's all right, Cally. You did your best and it's not your
fault the manager is an idiot." He turned around and picked up a pad and pen
from his desk and handed them to Johnny. "Now, I want you to tell me everything
you remember about the van, and about the person who took Orlando. Even if it's
just a tiny thing that doesn't seem important, I want to know it."
While Johnny wrote down the slave's disjointed descriptions, the part of Liam's
mind that wasn't listening made lists of other things to be done. Where there
was one witness, there might've been others and they had to be found. Circulate
Orlando's picture, make sure law enforcement was watching for his ID code to
turn up -- the detective should have done that but Liam didn't trust him to
sort paper clips, much less do anything useful without being double-checked.
Of course, there was one obvious reason why Orlando's locator chip wasn't
pinging the search net, but that was unacceptable and Liam refused to consider
it. A much more likely reason was that he'd been taken somewhere the signal
couldn't penetrate -- someplace with enough metal all around to act as a
faraday cage. As soon as they moved him, though, the boy's signal would show up
again.
He'd hire a private detective. Get someone competent on the job, someone who
answered only to him.
Liam nodded to himself and asked Cally another question.
***** Chapter 5 *****
[Fourteen Years Ago]
Orlando spasmed to completion, his back arched and his toes curled tight and
his head thrown back, while his hips pumped his release into Johnny's clenching
ass. Johnny was encouraging him with shifting hips and tightening muscles and
caressing hands, while gasping out words of praise.
They collapsed together in a tangle of bedsheets, Orlando's head tucked under
Johnny's still-perfectly-chiseled jaw. Johnny's hand brushed lightly up and
down Orlando's sweat-slicked back, slow and langorous with afterglow.
Orlando knew he wasn't finished yet, though, so he hauled his own unsteady ass
out of bed and moved as gracefully as he could to the bathroom. He came back
with a damp washcloth -- warm water -- and cleaned Johnny off, then himself.
The washcloth he tossed into the laundry hamper, before settling back down onto
the bed for a cuddle.
He'd been surprised by this lesson. He'd thought he was finished, at least with
the formal training part. The last six weeks had been practicing things he'd
done before, and neither Johnny nor Mr. Travers -- whose contract had ended two
weeks earlier -- had ever had him top. Master Liam certainly never had.
Once they'd cooled off and recovered enough brain cells to carry on a coherent
conversation, he asked.
Johnny said that he should know how, in case the Master ever wanted to watch
him fuck someone else, but that it was all right if he wasn't too expert at it.
Preferable, even. "You're still his fearless little monkey," Johnny explained.
He was grinning, but there was a flash of cynicism in his eyes. "He likes to
see you diving into things you might not be great at yet, because you want to
and you're not afraid to try. And if you're doing it because he asked, so much
the better, especially if it's not something you could break your neck doing."
Orlando grinned and stuck his tongue out at him. "I like climbing. And it's
perfectly safe -- I'm always harnessed and the floors are padded and
everything."
"You're still insane, but I think that's one of the things he likes about you,
when it's not driving up his blood pressure."
"It's perfectly safe!" Orlando repeated, letting some impatience color his
voice. Everyone around him did nothing but worry and fret. His mother always
had, but now most of the household did too. Maybe it was contagious? "I've
never even asked about anything actually dangerous. I'd love to learn to sky-
dive, or go bungie jumping, or--"
Johnny groaned and buried his head under a pillow. "Do not ever mention
anything like that. He'll shackle you to the bed and never let you out."
"Really?" Orlando put on an eager-puppy expression that was over the top even
for him and bounced up and down on the mattress a few times. "You really think
so? Maybe I should try it -- that sounds like fun!"
Johnny groaned again and smacked him with the pillow. They whooped and whacked
each other until the sound of something ripping just a tiny bit brought them
back to reality, then grinned at each other and started cleaning up the room.
Johnny straightened up all the stuff strewn around while Orlando stripped and
remade the bed.
After working together in silence for a minute, Orlando glanced over at Johnny
and said, "Hey. Can I ask you something?"
Johnny cocked his head and paused to look at him. "You can always ask. I won't
promise to answer."
"Do you... I mean, does it feel weird or, or like a bummer or maybe.... I mean,
do you mind...?" Orlando stumbled to a halt and just shrugged, staring down at
the pillowcase twisted in his hands.
"Do I mind... what? Being retired? Or kicked upstairs, however you want to look
at it? Being replaced? Being replaced by you?"
Orlando nodded, still unable to look up.
"Yeah. And no." Johnny came over and pulled Orlando against him for a hug.
"Look at me, monkey. You're supposed to be the brave one."
That was twisting the knife, and Orlando glared up at him.
"There you go. Never be afraid to look another slave in the eye. You're a body-
slave now, which means you're as good as anyone else with a collar."
"Not yet," Orlando muttered.
"All right, fine. As of tomorrow, you'll be as good as anyone. And no, I don't
really mind. I'll miss it, yeah -- the Master's generous in bed. We're lucky
and I hope you know it."
He paused and Orlando nodded. He definitely knew he was lucky, to have someone
like Master Liam look at him, smile at him, want him.
"So yeah, I'm gonna miss it. But I'm getting up there a little, for a body-
slave. I'd rather leave the job now, while I'm still on top of the game, and
move over to the business side while I've still got my looks. They're good for
more than charming the Master, you know?" He winked and gave Orlando a flirty
pout. "This way, no one'll think the only reason I'm Lord Neeson's full-time
Agent is because I got too old and ugly for his bed. And you can still work the
goods when you're doing buys and negotiations and anything else where you can
use whatever advantage you can get."
"I guess." Orlando kind of understood, in his brain, but his gut was still
dubious. He couldn't imagine ever being happy, even only partly happy, to be
leaving his master's bed. Not that Master Liam couldn't still fuck Johnny
whenever he wanted, but Orlando wanted to be with him, to live with him and
travel with him and take care of him, to be in his bed regularly. And he was
pretty sure that if the time came -- come on, be realistic, when the time came
-- for him to be replaced by someone younger and prettier, he wasn't going to
be anywhere near as cool about it as Johnny was being.
Which, of course, was one more thing he was lucky about.
 
[Today]
Orlando woke up, or at least struggled up to a fuzzy sort of semi-
consciousness, with a bright light glaring down into his left eye. He tried to
shade it with his hands, but he couldn't move his arms. He tried to move his
head, to look and see what was holding his arms, but he couldn't do that
either.
There was a dull pain on his neck, on the left side where he couldn't see. It
was like a burn, or a really long cut. It was far away, as though there were a
lot of distance between his neck and his brain and the pain could just barely
reach.
He stopped trying to see what was wrong with his neck and focused his eyes off
to the right, in the direction they were pointing anyway. He saw a white-draped
table with someone lying on it and someone else standing next to it, their back
to Orlando. Maybe the person on the bed was sleeping? They didn't move. But
Orlando wasn't moving either and he wasn't asleep. He was proud of himself for
thinking of that.
The person standing next to the table turned around and walked over toward
Orlando and then behind his head where he couldn't see. The person looked like
a doctor -- long gown and mask and headscarf-thing, and he -- he? Orlando
thought it'd been a man -- had been carrying something white and flimsy in a
pair of tweezers with a dish or a tray or something held under it.
A minute later there was a faint pressure-scrape-cool-pain-pressure feeling on
the left side of his neck. He tried to protest but all that came out of his
mouth was a sigh. He heard a murmur of voices but couldn't make out any of the
words.
He floated in uncomfortable, disoriented nothing for some amount of time, then
the man in the mask moved back into his view again, sort of. The man stood down
near his hip and leaned over Orlando, reached up to pull the light closer and
then leaned down again. Orlando felt another pressure-drag-pull-pressure, then
a weird, detached scraping feeling, like getting scratched, only too deep and
from a long way off.
Nothing was really happening and nothing was boring so Orlando drifted back
into unconsciousness and everything faded away.
***** Chapter 6 *****
[Twelve Years Ago]
A brisk breeze blew off the lake, cooling the afternoon heat just enough to
make a close scattering of chairs on the lawn more appealing than the air-
conditioned space inside Sinclair's vacation cabin. It was spacious enough for
what it was, but Sinclair had invited eight guests and their body-slaves, and
the living area was somewhat cramped with everyone gathered, even with the
slaves on the floor.
Sinclair's slaves had rigged a striped awning over the chairs, and had been
busy shuttling cold drinks out from the kitchen for the last hour; Liam
appreciated being able to stretch his legs out, and having enough space that he
could retreat to a corner of the shaded area where only one or two people could
approach at once. And occasionally -- as now -- he got some time to enjoy the
scenery alone, or at least without having to make conversation with people who
wanted something, even if those people were all around him, chatting and making
deals.
The conversations had drifted from topic to topic, but always circled back
around to business. That was, of course, what they were all there for, despite
the leisurely facade thrown over the occasion by the surroundings and the few
arranged activities. Sinclair craved a title and would probably have it within
a few years; he was old money, he knew how to get things done, and he avoided
the mistake most ambitious climbers made of trying too hard with too blatant an
eye on the prize.
Unlike some people.
Mr. Roday was young and ambitious, but he bragged about himself too often,
laughed too loudly at the Lords' and Ladies' jokes, and kept two spectacularly
dressed and made up body-slaves about him at all times, along with a basket of
kittens in fake diamond collars.
The two slaves, a boy and girl a couple of years younger than Orlando, cooed
and played with the kittens, clearly doing their best to be Too Adorable at all
times, with childlike exclamations and sexy little pouts. It was all Liam could
do to keep from rolling his eyes.
Orlando, who was curled up in the grass beside Liam's chair, arms crossed on
one of Liam's thighs and his chin perched on top, tilted his head up and
murmured, "I think they came to the end of their script. They're starting over.
It's like a video on a loop."
At Liam's raised eyebrow, Orlando lowered his voice but put on an exaggeratedly
wide-eyed expression and whispered, "Oh, pussy's so soft! I could pet her all
day!" then in a very slightly lower voice, "May I pet your pussy too?" Orlando
giggled up at Liam and added, "That's exactly what they said when we first came
out. I think they have a set of routines for when they've got the cats out, and
they ran out of material."
Liam managed not to snort out a laugh, but it took some effort. "I just wish
they'd keep better track of the things. Running their 'cute' act is apparently
a higher priority than keeping the cats coralled. I thought they had seven
earlier but they've been dashing all over the place and there are only five
now." The cats were at least six months old and too big for their basket, and
definitely too active for two people to keep control of out in the open.
Orlando nodded. "I feel sorry for them," he whispered. It took a moment for
Liam to realize he was referring to the slaves and not the kittens. "They're
acting ridiculous and they know it, but it's what their master wants, so...."
He shrugged.
That was close to the edge, at least in public; Liam gave Orlando's arm a hard
squeeze, then said, "Fetch me a sandwich. You may have one too if you want."
"Yes, Master." Orlando shifted his weight and rose gracefully to his feet, with
none of the puppyish scrambling that'd characterized his movements as a gangly
child. His walk over to the picnic table where platters of sandwiches, fruit
and cookies were laid out was smooth and sexy without being blatant. He had on
a plain yellow bathing suit and nothing else, which suited him very well; his
sculpted chest, long legs and gorgeous face attracted attention all on their
own, without the make-up and jewelry and fussy little accessories Roday had his
slaves decked out in.
Orlando put one knee up on the table's bench and leaned over to lift the mesh
fly-screen from the platter of sandwiches. His back was arched more than was
strictly necessary, but that much flirting Liam would tolerate. His boy drew
admiring looks from some of the others, those not too absorbed in their talk to
notice the slaves moving around them, and Orlando's low-key sensuality was a
credit to his master. At least, in the eyes of those with taste.
Just as Orlando turned around with a sandwich on a plate, Roday's girl let out
a frightened little shriek. Liam's first thought was that she'd spotted a bee
or a hornet but she jumped up and dashed toward the cabin calling, "Panther!
Get down! Panther!"
Liam turned and looked, following her eye line; up on the roof of the cabin, a
tiny silhouette against the bright sky, was a sleek, black kitten.
How the hell had the little thing gotten up there? Sinclair's "cabin" was
modern and expansive, despite being a bit too small for twenty people. It was
built into the side of a steep hill, and while the front was two stories tall,
the side facing the lake was three. The kitten had made it all the way to the
top somehow, and showed no sign of coming down any time soon.
Roday charged off and grabbed his girl by the hair. She got a good shake and a
smack across the face to stop her carrying on, but no one seemed to know what
to do about the kitten.
"We got a ladder that tall?" Sinclair asked his slave, Karl.
"No, Sir, I'm sorry, we don't."
"Dammit." Sinclair scowled. "Maybe a blanket it can jump into? With cat food or
something?"
"Excuse me, Sir, but I could get it down, if Master will allow." Orlando handed
Liam his sandwich while speaking, then bowed to Sinclair.
Sinclair looked at Liam and Liam looked at Orlando. He looked at the cabin -
- the rustic-style cabin with stonework and decorative log siding and several
balconies -- then looked back at Orlando and gave him a tight nod. "You will be
careful."
"Of course, Master." Orlando bowed and smiled up at him, then turned and dashed
off up the slope to the cabin. Liam and Sinclair followed more slowly, with
Karl trailing behind.
Liam had seen Orlando climb before, and much more difficult surfaces than the
side of the cabin appeared to be. Of course, that had always been at the gym in
town, and he'd been wearing a harness. Liam stopped a few paces back from the
cabin and watched with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched.
Orlando hopped up onto the porch rail, then stepped onto the lip of the high
stone foundation. He reached up and found a handhold on one of the logs in the
facade, high over his head, then another. Then a toehold, and another. His long
fingers and bare toes gripped and held in small slopes and cracks and gaps, and
he moved slowly but smoothly up the wall. On the second floor he grabbed onto
the balcony rail and swung himself up, then stood on it and jumped for a grip
on the third floor balcony. An instant after that jump, Liam had to hold back a
shout by sheer force of will.
Sinclair nudged him and Liam realized the man had said something a moment
earlier. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I said, as soon as we're done with this I'm going to put in an order for a
couple extra security cameras. If your boy can get up to the third floor in ten
seconds without even a rope, I hate to think what an actual burglar could
manage." Sinclair's expression was lightly amused, which was perfectly
appopriate to his comment.
"Good idea. Although I don't imagine there's all that much crime out here."
Liam gave Sinclair a glance while addressing him, just to be civil, but he
couldn't help looking back up at Orlando. He was standing on top of the third
floor balcony rail right up against the wall, just a few feet from where the
blasted kitten was perched.
Orlando called, "Here, kitty kitty!" and held out a hand, beckoning. The cat
yowled and took a step backward. Orlando muttered something and grabbed the
rain gutter with one hand, then leaned out to snag the kitten in a quick
snatch, no fooling around.
The small crowd of people watching from all around Liam had just started to
applaud when there was a sharp Crack! The section of gutter Orlando was hanging
onto snapped off right next to his hand and swung down, the one attached side
acting like a hinge, and Orlando went with it like the weight at the end of a
pendulum. He gave a short squawk, then the guttering broke completely off and
he fell in silence.
Liam couldn't move, could only watch the falling body. It was so high -- three
stories -- and the landscaping up against the cabin's foundation was all rocks.
A heartbeat later there was a sharp thud and Liam imagined he heard a snap.
He never clearly remembered the next hours. Sinclair had called a med-evac
chopper without asking Liam, or if he'd asked, Liam hadn't noticed.
His next memory was of a doctor explaining just how much repair Orlando's
broken back required, how much it would cost, and how small a chance there was
of him ever walking again.
Then after that, leaning over Orlando -- on a gurney, splinted, strapped and
cuffed face-down -- and a harsh whisper into his ear, "You will get well,"
right before they took him in for surgery.
And he had. Orlando had always been a good, obedient slave, and he hadn't
disappointed his master then, either.
 
[Today]
There was a polite knock on Liam's office door, then it opened and Johnny came
in and stood to one side while an older man entered. "Lord Neeson, this is Mr.
Thewlis."
Back already? Excellent. Thewlis had come highly recommended by a business
associate who'd once needed the services of a thorough, skilled, discreet
investigator. The man had only been on the job for twenty-four hours. If he was
reporting back with results already, he was worth every dollar of his fee.
"Mr. Thewlis. I hope you bring good news."
Thewlis bowed, then approached Liam's desk and laid his briefcase on it.
"Nothing definitive, I'm afraid. But a couple of pieces." He opened his case
and pulled out a gold keyring with a gold disk fob. Liam recognized it and he
clenched his jaw to choke back an unseemly exclamation.
"Johnny confirmed that this is the ring the keys to the Honda were on," said
Thewlis.
Liam gave a sharp nod. "Where did you get it?"
"At a pawn shop, my lord. I took the list of everything Orlando had on him and
started checking pawnshops. I found the keyring in a shop over in Fremont. A
young woman brought it in yesterday."
"Have you found her?"
"Not yet, My Lord," Thewlis said with an apologetic bow of his head. "But
there's more." He reached into the briefcase again and this time he had
Orlando's collar.
Liam reached out to take it, then stopped himself. "Fingerprints? Anything?" He
had to think. Reacting emotionally wouldn't help the situation. Logically the
collar and keyring would both have been searched for evidence. They'd be in
bags otherwise, wouldn't they? He wasn't quite ready to assume Thewlis's
competence just yet, though, nor would he until he'd seen some proof of it.
"Nothing, I'm afraid. Both items had been cleaned before being displayed in the
shops. I found the collar in Burlingame."
Burlingame and Fremont? Liam frowned and visualized a map of the area. Not too
far apart, over the Dumbarton, but still.... "This wasn't a one-time thing," he
said.
"No, My Lord, I agree." Thewlis nodded and set the collar and keyring down on
Liam's desk. "Whoever took your slave is going to a lot of trouble to make him
untraceable. Even if we'd found all of his effects, the chances of his things
providing enough clues for us to find him would be... let's say, acceptably
low, from the point of view of someone who's decided to commit a serious crime
in the first place and is therefore a risk-taker to some extent. A larger
pattern, however, would eventually lead right to them. If they're taking slaves
on a regular basis, then it would be worth their while to spread the evidence
as far abroad as is practical."
"So, what?" Liam scowled and felt his temper rising. "There's a ring of slave-
nappers working in the Bay Area? What would they do with them?" Even as he
asked the question, though, several possibilities flashed through his mind and
none of them were pleasant.
"There are a few possibilities, My Lord. I'll be investigating them and I'll
let you know if I find anything promising. A more immediate question is how
long they've been operating. If Orlando is their first theft then there won't
be much to work with. If he's their twentieth then there's more likely to be
evidence to be found, rumors, leads."
"He couldn't be their twentieth," Liam protested. "Or even their tenth. If
there'd been a sudden rash of slaves vanishing, especially body-slaves, there
would've been news."
"Would there?" Thewlis gave another apologetic bow of the head, then said, "I
don't think there would. When a slave goes missing, the first thing anyone
thinks of is a runaway. The authorities would rather not publicize missing
slaves; it gives the others ideas."
"What wonderful news for the thieves." It made maddening sense, and Liam had a
strong urge to punch something. Or someone. Not Thewlis; he had a brain in his
head. Maybe that idiot police detective; why hadn't he found Orlando's collar
or the keyring? Liam was of a mind to ask him in person.
***** Chapter 7 *****
[Twenty-Two Years Ago]
The run-down house was filled with aging pizza boxes, scattered textbooks and
the occasional stained and smudged bong. What it didn't have was air
conditioning, and Marton was wondering for the millionth time why he'd agreed
to move in with Nick.
Not that the dorms had been all that great either. At least at the house he had
his own room, with a door that locked. And Nick was pretty cool, with a lot of
friends, and being invited was sort of flattering.
Of course it was those very friends who were driving him nuts just then,
because half a dozen of them had come over with beer and a set of smudged
pamphlets and would not stop blathering no matter how late it got. It wouldn't
have been so bad if they'd been talking about anything interesting, or useful,
or even realistic. But no, it turned out that this particular little group of
friends gathered around Nick Cage were fucking abolitionists and that night
they were arguing on and on over the best way to "bust out" slaves and give
them regular, free lives.
Marton was sprawled across a ratty armchair in the corner by the filthy
fireplace with a microbiology text and a couple of hilighters and was trying to
get some studying done. He had an exam on Monday and if these assholes kept him
from getting a good grade he was going to hunt every one of them down and kick
all their asses.
"--new identities so they could live here, so you wouldn't have to smuggle them
across the border!" Dave was always insisting that it was cruel to force slaves
to leave their homeland. Which was stupid because they'd have to leave their
home area anyway so what was the difference?
"Don't be an idiot!" Nick had no patience for idiots, and not much diplomacy
when he thought someone was being stupid. Which was pretty often 'cause he was
kind of arrogant. "It's not like getting a fake driver's license to buy beer -
- they'd need a birth certificate and a social security number and the whole
nine yards."
"That's just paperwork," Dave insisted.
"It's official paperwork, with a paper trail and records all over the place.
What, are you going to break into a dozen government office buildings with
white-out and a pen and change all that stuff?"
"All they need is a couple cards!"
"Until they try to settle somewhere and get a job and their employer does all
the paperwork for taxes and stuff and nothing matches and it all falls apart."
Nick pitched a pizza crust at Dave, who batted it out of the air so it smacked
Mike in the ear.
"Hey, watch it!" He grabbed the crust and pitched it back at Dave. It flew past
his head with a good foot to spare and ended up sliding under the couch.
"You're both wrong anyway -- everything's switching over to computer. Chasing
paper around is stupid, and making a million copies just wastes trees. By the
time we're out of school, everything'll be electronic and we can just hack in
and make whatever changes we need."
Marton eyerolled from behind his book. They were all crazy. Why would anyone
commit a bunch of crimes and take the chance of going to jail -- or being
enslaved themselves -- just to free a bunch of slaves who couldn't pay for the
service anyway?
Besides, the slaves would need a bunch of re-education to be able to function
like free people. Unless they'd just been enslaved recently, that might work.
But the ones who'd been at it for years and years, or been born to it? No way.
Someone'd spill their coffee and cuss and the slave'd be down on his knees
either cleaning it up or apologizing, just out of reflex and that'd be the end
of that.
And once the slaves were caught, you could bet they'd rat out the people who'd
helped them, ungrateful shits.
Best thing'd be to get 'em to Baffin to live with the polar bears. South was a
bust unless they figured some way to get all the way to Colombia; the isthmus
was so narrow, it didn't take much to patrol it, even in all those little
countries that technically -- and only technically -- weren't part of the
Empire. Getting across the Canal was insane; you'd be better off to just take a
boat from Acapulco or Cancun. But oh, wait, then there was the Coast Guard with
its orders to fire on anything that didn't have the right "I've Been Inspected
Sixteen Times" bing in its transponder.
Going for the borders was fucking dangerous and the whole thing was ridiculous.
And even if you were dumb enough to try and lucky enough to make it, you'd
still end up spending all the money and taking all the risks with nothing to
show for it from the slaves you rescued except a handshake and maybe a goodbye
fuck. Sure, great idea.
Marton scrunched down in his chair and tilted his book up so it'd hide more of
his face. He did not want to get caught up with these idiots. He liked Nick all
right, but sometimes the guy's priorities were really weird, to say nothing of
his major blind spot for what was realistic. Marton was going to med school and
then spending his life raking in cash, and if anyone asked him, he'd never
heard any of this crap.
 
[Today]
Orlando drifted up into semi-consciousness, tried to turn and curl up and
nearly fell out of bed. The losing-balance, almost-falling, flail-grab
feelings, along with the sudden slashes of pain from his neck and back and
belly and head, combined to slam him into full consciousness. He jerked upright
and cracked his head on the low ceiling.
No, make that the upper bunk.
He curled up again, rubbing various aching parts of himself, and tried to
figure out where he was.
The room was pitch black so there wasn't anything to see, but from the way the
bonk of his head on the bunk had sounded, he didn't think it was very big. The
mattress was thin and there was a stink in the air, of fear-sweat and old
vomit.
Orlando hurt in a lot of odd places and wondered whether he'd had an accident.
He couldn't remember getting hurt or anything recently, and it'd been ages
since he'd actually done anything he wasn't supposed to. Last he remembered was
going for groceries; maybe he'd been in a car wreck?
He heard a rustling noise and the bed creaked and shifted. A blinding light
flashed into his eyes and he jerked his head back and covered his face with one
arm.
"You okay?"
The voice was male, and not one he recognized. Maybe he was in the hospital and
had a roommate? But hospitals didn't have bunk beds. And they were never
completely black-dark.
Orlando squinted and blinked until he could see. There was a dark-haired guy
squatting on the floor next to his bunk, looking like he might be thinking
about maybe being concerned someday.
"My head hurts," he said. His voice was weak and croaky and it felt like his
throat was stuck together on the inside. "And my neck, and--"
"Right, right." The dark guy waved his hand before Orlando could get very far
into his list. "You'll be okay in a few days; you slept through the worst of
it."
"Worst of what? What happened? I can't remember what happened or where I am or
anything. Where's my master?"
"Well, I've got some good news for you there. You don't have a master anymore.
Cool, huh? Enjoy it while it lasts, though, 'cause it'll only be for a few
weeks."
"Wait, what?" Orlando jerked up right again and barely managed to keep from
bonking his head a second time. "What happened to my master?! Was there an
accident? Omigod, is he dead?!"
Horrified thoughts flashed through Orlando's mind -- that his master was dead,
maybe they'd been in a car crash and that was why Orlando was banged up but
Master Liam hadn't survived. Or maybe his master'd been having money trouble
Orlando hadn't known about -- had he been sold to pay debts? What now? Where
were his mother and sister? Master Liam's dead!
"Hey, hey, don't black out on me!" The dark guy shook Orlando by the shoulder
and jolted him back to the present. The guy stared and then scowled. "I can't
believe you're crying over it. What, you like being a slave or something?"
Orlando grabbed back and got a good grip on the guy's forearm. "What happened?
Is my master dead? Where's my mother and my sister? And Johnny and--"
This time the guy just clapped a hand over Orlando's mouth. It was more
startling than anything and Orlando shut up even as he jerked his face away.
"Jeez, I think that knock on your head bruised your brain! Calm down! As far as
I know, your old master's fine, I guess. Don't know about your family -- sorry
about that. You might as well forget about them. Slaves don't really have
family anyway, you know? You'll be here for a few weeks and then you'll be sold
again. New house, new master or mistress, no big deal, right?"
"No! If Master Liam's still alive -- did he sell me? He'd never sell me, not
ever!" Orlando pushed the guy out of the way and shoved up to his feet. The
door was on the left and he charged across the room and tried to open it.
Locked. He pounded on it, and managed to yell, "Hey! Let me out!" before the
other guy dragged him back to the bunk again, hand back over his mouth.
"Shit, shut up! You'll get us both in trouble! Mostly me 'cause I'm supposed to
keep you in line until you figure stuff out."
"So help me! Explain shit! What the fuck is going on 'cause this is totally
insane!" Orlando sank back down onto the bunk with his elbows on his knees and
his hands rubbing his face. It was way too real to be a nightmare but nothing
made any sense.
"Fine, if you'll shut up and stop blubbering and listen. Basically, you've been
stolen, all right? Not kidnapped, 'cause only people get kidnapped and we're
not people. We're property and property gets stolen, right?" The guy flopped
down onto the bunk and leaned back on his hands, as casual as if they were just
any two slaves hanging out.
"So here we are. Your collar's gone and your chip and your brand. If you're
hurting, besides where you bashed your skull, it's from the surgery to get the
brand off and the chip out. You're free again, sorta, but only for a while so
don't let it go to your head.
"As soon as you're healed up and all, the Master here -- and you better call
him that even though he doesn't legally own you 'cause if you don't he'll
thrash you good -- he'll give you a new name and all and sell you back to
Commerce. You'll get re-processed, new chip and brand and all, and soon enough
you'll have a new legal master and you can get on with your life. Just hang out
here for a while, don't cause any trouble, orient the new kids when you're an
old-timer if they tell you to, and everything'll be back to normal before you
know it."
Orlando just stared and shook his head. It was hard to process everything the
guy'd said because it was so crazy. How could anyone do that? It couldn't
possibly work, could it?
"No. No way." He jumped up but didn't try to get out again. That obviously
wasn't going to work anyway. Instead he just paced back and forth, his hands
fisted and his jaw clenched. "I'm not going to anyone else. I'm going back to
my master. His name is Lord Neeson and he's rich and powerful and he'll be
looking for me. I just have to get to a phone or a computer or someone to tell
and that'll be the end of it."
The other guy just snorted. "What, you're one of those slaves who's all
'attached' to his master? You think you love him? You think that just 'cause he
fucks you that means he loves you?"
Orlando spun in place and snarled, "He does! He's loved me since I was little
and I love him too and he'd do anything to get me back!"
"Great. You're going to get yourself killed trying to get back to some
pedophile perv who's 'loved' you since you were a little kid." The guy smirked
and gave Orlando a look that was half pity and half contempt.
"It's not like that--!"
"No, no, of course not. It's different with the two of you. It's really
'special' I'm sure." Another snort. "Look, the truth is that you're a fucking
slave, okay? You're like a car or a horse and just as replaceable. Fuck,
you're, what, my age, right? Late twenties?"
"I'm thirty-one," Orlando muttered.
"Thirty-one?!" The guy hooted with laughter. "And you've been with your master
all that time? The same guy? The one who 'loves' little kids, and you think
he's going to waste any time hunting for you?"
"He will! He's--"
"He's a master," the guy spat. "And they're all the same, even if they pretend
not to be. You're gonna be here for six weeks, maybe two months. There's no way
out, no way to get a message out. By the time you're anywhere near a phone,
your master'll have forgotten all about you and will have some nice, fresh
teenager trained to yell, 'Oh, Master, fuck me hard!' on cue. Or, sorry, your
master loves little kids, so it'll probably be a ten-year-old. Whatever."
All of Orlando's fear and confusion boiled up into fury and it had a perfect
target. He threw himself at the lying fuck on the bunk and was pounding the
crap out of him when the door slammed open and two thugs charged in and whacked
him with their batons a few times before jabbing him with a needle.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
[Eleven Years Ago]
Liam barely heard the light knock on the door. Whoever it was only rapped
twice, and it didn't sound like they were terribly eager to enter. He minimized
the windows on his screen and called, "Come in."
The door swung open slowly, just a few inches, then more. Maggie slipped inside
and shut the door carefully behind her, then turned and went to her knees with
her forehead on the floor.
That was... odd. Not that Maggie was ever disrespectful, within the boundaries
he'd given her, but he didn't require his slaves to make a full obeisance
whenever they saw him. Either she'd done something wrong and had come to
confess, he guessed, or she wanted a considerable favor.
"Yes? What is it, Maggie?"
She didn't look up, but stayed on the floor. "Master, My Lord, I need... I
swear I mean no disrespect or impertinence or presumption or... or anything
bad. I'd never question you about anything."
"Except for this one time," Liam said wryly. He wondered what the hell she was
on about, because all this wasn't like Maggie at all.
"I'm so sorry, My Lord!" Her voice was higher pitched than usual and she was
gasping hard, as though trying not to cry. "I just, I beg you, please, don't
let Orlando go riding with you tomorrow!"
Liam was silent for a few seconds, just staring down at her. That wasn't at all
what he'd expected. He frowned and considered the matter. She was being
presumptuous, and impertinent, and disrespectful. But she was worried about
Orlando, and he supposed that was understandable.
Sometimes he almost forgot Maggie was Orlando's mother. They didn't spend much
time together, really, at least so far as Liam knew, and Orlando hardly ever
mentioned her.
But then, he'd hardly been much closer to his own mother when he was that age.
Mothers tended to cling to their sons, though, so Maggie's near-hysteria was
probably natural. Annoying, but perhaps not something she could help.
"He'll be fine, Maggie," was what Liam finally said. "The doctors are happy
with his progress. It's been fourteen months. He's healed well, the hardware
hasn't budged and he's been good about his exercises. Riding won't be a
problem."
"But Master, what if he gets hurt again? Like before? Or thrown? He could be
crippled, or killed!" Maggie still hadn't looked up, but she'd definitely
raised her voice.
Liam scowled and said, "That was always true," and his own voice was noticeably
harsher than before. He was willing to make allowances but only up to a point
and Maggie was about to cross it. "He's a young man and packing him in bubble
wrap won't do him any favors. He'll be fine, or maybe he won't, but if he does
have an accident it won't be any worse than it might've been before he broke
his back. You may go, Maggie."
Maggie's shoulders shook and when she climbed awkwardly to her feet, he could
see that she was sobbing and working on not making any noise. He watched,
holding back his annoyance, while she bowed and left.
That's what happens when you're too easy on the slaves, he thought. Grandfather
would've thrashed her, and kept her gagged for twenty-four hours as a lesson to
keep her mouth shut.
Probably not the best idea -- wouldn't want her fainting into the frying pan or
something from dehydration -- but over-familiarity was never a good idea
either. He resolved to be sterner in the future, and turned back to his
computer.
 
[Today]
Orlando woke up in a strange bed in a room by himself. It was small and plain
but reasonably clean. Dim light came in through a narrow, high window, like it
was early evening or maybe early morning. He could see some kind of mesh over
the window on the inside, and the fatter darkness of bars on the outside.
Sitting up took some concentration but he managed. He rubbed his head and felt
a swollen spot on his forehead. It didn't hurt, though -- it actually felt kind
of numb. Matter of fact, he felt kind of numb all over, like when he'd been in
the hospital after breaking his back; he'd woken up after surgery and they had
him full of drugs and he hadn't felt much of anything, sort of fluffy and
swooping and detached.
If the soft spot on his forehead meant he'd been hurt, maybe someone had given
him some pain meds. That was nice of them. His master had never been stingy
about medicine or doctors when his slaves were sick or hurt, though, so it
wasn't really surprising.
What'd happened, though? He couldn't remember. And why was he in a strange
place instead of in his own bed? If he was hurt enough that he couldn't be
home, then he should be in a hospital, but he wasn't, so...?
He pushed up onto his feet and swayed a little before finding his balance. The
door was only a few steps away, which was just as well. He opened it and poked
his head out into an empty hallway, with a few other doors on both sides.
While his feet went exploring, trying to find someone who could tell him where
he was and what was going on, most of his brain was trying to remember what'd
happened and how he'd gotten there. It felt like he was on some fairly major
drugs, but if he'd been hurt that bad then he should remember it, right?
Or maybe not. Didn't people forget about accidents sometimes? A kind of short-
term amnesia or something?
There had to be someone around who could explain it all, though. Maybe Master
Liam was there, just waiting for him to wake up before taking him home?
The hall made a right turn and led to a larger room with a couch and a
television, and a long table and chairs near a kitchenette.
There was a husky, blond older guy sitting at the table, reading a magazine. He
looked up when Orlando took a few steps into the room.
"Morning, Grant. You're kinda early for breakfast."
Orlando blinked, then looked around. He was the only other person in the room.
"Umm, I'm sorry, but I... this is confusing." He took a few more steps into the
room, pushing a hand through his hair. It felt like it hadn't been washed or
even brushed in a few days. "I can't remember what happened. Was I in an
accident? Or something? Where's my master?"
The man at the table scowled at him and closed his magazine. "Aren't you kinda
jumping the gun there? It's great that you're getting into it and all, after
the fuss you made when we brought you in, but you haven't been processed yet."
"Wait, what?" Orlando sank down into a chair opposite the guy and rubbed his
hands over his face. "Look, I think I must've hit my head or something, I've
got this bruise and I can't remember what happened."
"Hey, your own fault," the man said. "If you'd just come quietly, you wouldn't
have gotten clonked in the scuffle. Hell, if you weren't so lousy at blackjack-
-"
"That's enough, Brendan," said another man. He came striding in from a doorway
on the other side of the kitchenette. "Mr. Grant is here now and there's no
reason to go rehashing what's over and done. How about if you get breakfast?"
Brendan muttered and nodded and got up to go poke around in the kitchen area.
The other man came over to Orlando and asked, "How are you feeling this
morning?"
"Ahh, really confused." He tried to smile but it didn't work very well. "I
don't know who Mr. Grant is, but my name's Orlando Bloom and I need to talk to
my master. Is he here somewhere? Or could I call him?"
The second man stared at him hard, then stepped up next to him and laid a hand
across his forehead. "Some swelling, but not that bad." He tilted Orlando's
head up and stared into his eyes, one after the other. "If you have a
concussion it's only minor. There's no reason for amnesia, much less a full-on
fugue. Therefore, the only possible conclusion is that you've come up with some
sort of scheme to try to get out of the consequences of your actions. It's not
going to work, so you might as well drop it. Just relax and wait for
breakfast."
"No, wait!" Orlando reached out and grabbed the man's shirtsleeve, then jerked
his hand back again. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-- I mean, I don't know what's
going on. I just want my master!" Everything was crazy, confusing, like he was
dreaming. He needed to find Master Liam, he'd fix whatever was wrong. Or maybe
if Orlando just went back to sleep, everything would be fine when he woke up?
The man sighed and sat down in the chair next to Orlando's. "All right, on the
possibility that the knock on the head you took might've brought out some odd
side effect in the pain meds you were given, I'll humor you one time. I'm Mr.
Csokas. I own the Silver Ingot casino in Las Vegas, among other businesses. You
are David Grant, a regular patron of my establishment. Over the last several
years, you've run up a considerable debt with me. You made just enough
payments, and managed to spin sufficiently plausible stories, that I made the
mistake of continuing to extend you credit. Seven months ago I decided that
enough was enough, and gave you a deadline for repayment. It passed.
"I'm accustomed to people who owe me money trying to drop underground before
Commerce can collect them; I came all the way to California to get you so I
could take you in myself, with the appropriate paperwork, and get things
moving. You resisted collection and I'm afraid my associates were a bit rougher
than I'd like. One of them was wearing a ring which caused some laceration
damage, and for that I apologize. I had a doctor come in and patch you up; I
don't recommend you scratch or pick at any of the wound sites, or we'll just
have to do it again.
"This afternoon, you'll be going to Commerce to be processed in as a slave, so
I can get my money back. I'm truly sorry it had to come to this, Mr. Grant, but
you're the one who lied on your credit application and said you were a software
engineer -- nice trick having your friend ready to answer the phone and confirm
your so-called employment. People who hold low-level retail jobs should really
stay away from the casinos, and being forced to commit fraud in order to
continue gambling should be taken as a rather large hint that the whole thing's
a bad idea.
"At any rate, if you'll cooperate from now on, we'll get along just fine and
avoid any unnecessary unpleasantness."
When he finished, Orlando just stared at him. It was all insane, of course, and
Orlando was trying to figure out what the purpose of... of whatever was going
on could be, because it didn't seem like a joke. Why would a couple of guys he
didn't know at all go to all this trouble to play such a dumb joke on him
anyway?
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then said, "I'm very sorry, Sir,
but that's impossible. Or maybe you picked up the wrong person? I don't know
any David Grant, and I've never seen you before and I've never gambled. I'm a
body-slave to Lord Neeson and as soon as we get to Commerce they'll scan my
chip and send me back where I belong. I don't know how I got here, but--"
"All right, that's enough," Mr. Csokas said, cutting Orlando off with an angry
slash of one hand. "You're not a slave yet but you're going to be one soon
enough. If you're willing to behave yourself until we get to the Commerce
office, though, you're welcome to your delusions. For now just sit in that
chair and don't move. We'll go after breakfast."
Fine, Orlando thought. This'll all be straightened out then, and you can go
find your Grant guy. Damn, I want to go home!
Chapter End Notes
     So I was working on this novel and suddenly a novelette jumped out
     from behind a rock and ambushed me. :/
     Seriously, I was writing a "Nine Years Ago" scene for Chapter Eight,
     and it got longer and longer and longer.... I ended up pulling it
     out, finishing it as its own story, sorta, and posting it separately.
     It really doesn't fit within the story flow of A Lost Boy, but what
     happens during "Turf Battles" does have an impact on the novel. You
     can understand the novel okay without the novelette, if you're all
     right with some family members suddenly popping up. But TB shows a
     definitive time in Liam's life and his relationship with Orlando.
     Click to read Turf_Battles if you like; there'll be a return link at
     the end.
***** Chapter 9 *****
[Eight Years Ago]
Master Liam reached down a hand toward Orlando, who was sitting cross-legged on
the floor next to him. The hand was empty, so he wanted something. Orlando'd
been paying attention to the dinner meeting going on around the table, so he
knew his master wanted the dossier on Mr. Taylor, the man the opposition was
pushing for Chairman of the Board of SilicaSystems. Orlando slid it out of the
perfectly organized briefcase, which was perched on his lap, and put it into
his master's hand. The meeting flowed on, punctuated by the clink of silverware
on china and the occasional dull tap of fine crystal on the tablecloth when
someone put down a glass.
The next time his master's hand reached down, it had a fork in it with a chunk
of rare steak. Orlando leaned forward and took the bite of meat, chewing while
he sorted through the pages of SilicaSystems' corporate charter, looking for a
clause he remembered from one of their prep sessions.
They'd spent days holed up in Master's office at home, Master and Orlando, with
Johnny, who'd been travelling all week making personal contact with allies and
fence-sitters, often contributing over the phone or through e-mail. They'd
collected and sorted information and sounded out other board members and
shareholders, trying to build a block of votes before flying out to Triangle
Park for the stockholders' meeting. The vote was the next morning, and Master
Liam and other major shareholders who favored Mr. MacAllister as the new
Chairman were having one last work session before the morning meeting
Orlando touched his master's thigh and held up the correct charter page with
his thumb pointing at the relevant clause. Master Liam took it from him, stared
at it for a few moments, then ruffled Orlando's hair in approval and dove back
into the swirl of strategizing.
All of which was pretty well representative of Orlando's life for the previous
five years. It was exhausting at times, but he could count the days each year
when he was away from his master on the fingers of one hand, and usually with
fingers left over; that made all the paperwork and travel and late nights -
- including too many of the other kind of late nights, where they were just
working and there was hardly time for Orlando to give his master a blowjob to
help him sleep before dropping off in exhaustion himself -- worth it. It was
much better than being left at home like a little kid.
While sitting on the floor (carpeted, thick, good padding -- body-slaves
quickly became experts on carpets and flooring) waiting for his next cue that
Master needed something, he caught a smug look from Mr. Clooney's body-slave.
He raised an eyebrow at the pampered twit and stared him down.
Matt was a body-slave and only a body-slave. He knelt on the floor next to his
master's chair, half curled up in his lap, getting pets from his master and
treats from the table and contributing nothing at all to the meeting except his
reasonably cute presence. Mr. Clooney had a personal assistant, a free woman
named Ms. Margulies who sat at the table with the other free people and
actually did work. Matt seemed to think doing nothing but sit on the floor and
look cute was some kind of privilege, but Orlando knew better. In the four
years since he'd first met Mr. Clooney, at another business meeting similar to
this one, the man had gone through three other body-slaves before Matt. Ms.
Margulies had been with him the entire time, and from what Orlando'd picked up
listening to random remarks, she'd been with him for around twenty years.
Mr. Clooney and Ms. Margulies might or might not've been fucking, but obviously
doing nothing for Mr. Clooney but get fucked by him wasn't the way to hold his
attention. Matt would learn. If he had any luck, when Mr. Clooney got around to
selling him next month or next year, he'd find a master half as good as
Orlando's.
Mr. Sinclair -- no, Lord Sinclair now, and Orlando had better remember it -
- still owned Karl, and had him keeping notes and tallies on a white board on
one wall. The restaurant was accustomed to having business meetings among the
private gatherings in its back rooms and was willing to provide (for a fee,
which Orlando had negotiated) all sorts of meeting-type amenities.
Lord Sinclair had been kind enough to ask after Orlando's health when they'd
first arrived. He always did, the few times a year he and Master Liam got
together for business or occasionally pleasure. Orlando had the impression that
Lord Sinclair felt bad about his gutter collapsing.
Not that he cared about Orlando personally; he'd probably have felt just as bad
if a piece of his house had fallen and injured one of Master Liam's horses.
Lord Sinclair was ambitious and finally gaining that title he'd wanted hadn't
slown him down. Lord Neeson was a valuable friend to have; being at least
partially responsible for his body-slave breaking his back would probably make
anyone a little tense and eager to curry a bit of extra favor.
Orlando handed up the packet of recent financials for three other companies Mr.
MacAllister was involved with. Two had been doing well and the third had been a
trainwreck long before he'd joined the organization, but there were fewer
wrecked cars now than there'd been before he'd taken over; he was obviously a
competent manager. Or maybe he just knew how to hire competent help -- either
one was valuable.
Master Liam took the packet and handed down a chunk of roasted potato. Orlando
bit it neatly off his master's fork and focused back on his work.
 
[Today]
"I'm sorry, My Lord, I haven't found any more of Orlando's effects. There was
never much hope for the clothing, honestly."
"What do you have for me, then?" Lord Neeson's question was a sharp snap, and
carried the clear assumption that there would be progress of some sort to
relate. Thewlis was very happy to have something because this was not a man he
cared to disappoint.
He might have to eventually and that wasn't a happy thought. There were still a
couple of possibilities, but he was beginning to think that the slave was
probably dead, or near enough. Until he had proof of that, however, his current
employer was paying a ridiculous amount to guarantee Thewlis's exclusive
attention, and he was more than willing to cash the checks and pound the
pavement.
"I found both people who took the keyring and the collar to the pawn shops.
Both items were found in dumpsters, one behind a small grocery and the other in
an industrial park. I questioned both parties and am satisfied that they did
indeed simply find the items. The young lady who found the keyring is homeless
and was going through the grocery's dumpster looking for discarded produce and
such. The gentleman who was searching the industrial park dumpster is a metal
artist -- he welds bits together into sculptures and finds people to buy them.
Neither came across as either too jittery or too smooth."
Lord Neeson scowled and nodded. "What else?"
"I've been talking to some people, trying to find leads on other slaves who've
vanished. I have contacts in a few police departments and I've asked around
among people I know who work for those such as yourself who own large numbers
of slaves. There's a reluctance to stick to the topic, however."
"So will they talk to you or not?"
"On this subject, mostly not. Information on the disposition of slaves must go
strictly through Commerce, and Commerce will assure anyone who asks that there
are never any successful escapes, that all runaway slaves are tracked down
eventually and set to less desirable but more secure tasks."
"Orlando is not a runaway." Lord Neeson glared at him and his voice was hard
enough to cut diamond. Oddly enough, Thewlis believed him.
Normally that would've been his first assumption, particularly with a master
this harsh. In fact, he had assumed it when he'd begun investigating. He'd been
given a free hand to speak with any of the slaves or free employees about the
estate, however, and not with either Neeson or an agent lurking over his
shoulder, and everyone he'd talked with had agreed that Orlando had adored his
master and would have only left kicking and screaming. Happy as a cockroach
with a restaurant dumpster all to itself, was how one of the house slaves had
put it. Not terribly flattering, but definitely descriptive.
So assuming all these people who'd known the boy his entire life were correct,
then he hadn't run away.
"So you've said, My Lord," he replied, bowing his head respectfully. "But
Commerce has no category for 'stolen' slaves. There are only slaves in
Commerce, slaves contracted out, slaves who've died in service, and the
occasional runaway who is always brought back, although not always alive, and
if so is rarely living for long after. That's the party line."
"Obviously bullshit," said Neeson with a scowl. "Orlando can't have been the
first slave in modern history to have ever been stolen."
"Clearly not," Thewlis agreed. "But consider, they have a vested interest in
making sure everyone knows, for a fact, that runaways are always found and
punished. There's no way to tell the difference between a successful runaway
and a theft, therefore thefts don't exist any more than successful runaways
do."
"At least not officially." Neeson looked both angry and thoughtful, with his
jaw tight and his fingers tapping on his desk. "And I doubt they'd say anything
different even if I asked myself."
"Unfortunately not, My Lord. But you could perhaps speak with some of the other
owners of your acquaintance? People who might be willing to discuss the subject
with one of their own?"
Neeson looked thoughtful and frowned. "What exactly would I be asking them?
What are we looking for, aside for the bare fact of another missing slave or
two? Who might well have run away?"
"First of all, we're looking for signs indicating that they might not have run
away. Your Orlando was apparently more content with his lot than most slaves,
but there might well have been others who were not discontent enough to take
the chance of being caught as runaways. As I said during our previous meeting,
more thefts mean more evidence, which will make it that much more likely that
we can track down the thieves."
"Fine. I'll ask around, then, and if I find any other signs of theft, I'll
persuade the owners to talk to you, since you know what questions to ask."
"That would be excellent, if you could arrange it." Thewlis bowed his head
again and thought about how best to make use of such a series of meetings. One-
on-one might get the owners to speak more freely, but if they could manage a
group meeting with a number of people who'd had slaves stolen, listening to the
others speaking could trigger memories and produce more information.
"What are the chances that this was aimed specifically at me?"
"My lord?" Thewlis changed mental gears and wondered what Lord Neeson was
thinking. He was obvious more upset than he cared to let on, but might someone
have counted on... on what? The fact that stealing his body-slave might throw
him off his game? That seemed rather a long shot.
"Orlando was privy to all of my business dealings, and has been for a dozen
years."
Ahh, now that was an interesting possibility. "Is that commonly known?"
"Yes. He attends meetings with me and acts as my secretary. Johnny is competent
to work alone and travels as my representative a good deal; Orlando is the one
who's constantly by me and anyone who's done business with me would know it."
"Or anyone they've mentioned it to," Thewlis agreed with a nod. "So this
might've been an act of business espionage, if a rival thinks they can get
enough information out of the boy to make the risk worthwhile."
Neeson looked pained. "He wouldn't willingly betray me."
"Of course not, My Lord," Thewlis said, trying hard to sound reassuring. "But
there are drugs which would do the job no matter how loyal your boy is."
"Drugs? Of course." Neeson looked relieved for a moment, and Thewlis could only
imagine what he'd been thinking. The more physical forms of persuasion made for
dramatic scenes in movies, but they were time-consuming and the information
they produced was unreliable. Victims tended to tell torturers whatever they
wanted to hear, rather than what was true.
If that was what Neeson had been thinking, however, then it was no wonder his
appearance had suffered. His face was more lined than Thewlis remembered from
their first meeting, there were dark smudges under his eyes, and there might
have been a bit more silver in his hair. It was possible that if Orlando had
adored his master, his master might well have adored him back. And a rival
who'd noticed could have spotted a two-for-one deal on stealing the boy -- both
whatever secrets and strategies they could get out of him, and whatever benefit
they gained from distracting Neeson away from his business affairs.
Not that Thewlis would ever suggest such a thing aloud.
***** Chapter 10 *****
[Seven Years Ago]
"Oh, man, I am completely wasted!" Mark Vincent was sprawled in a velvet-
upholstered loveseat, upstairs in a private lounge at his flagship club, xXx.
He had a golden touch for that sort of entertainment business and by his late
twenties he'd made enough money to start looking around for investments. He and
Liam had been introduced at a weekend party, and had partnered on some
profitable ventures over the years, and eventually become good friends despite
their sharply contrasting backgrounds.
Vincent had a loud, raucous personality, but there was a sharp brain in his
shaved head and he was a good man to have on one's side in just about any
conflict.
There were no conflicts that evening, however. They'd had an excellent dinner
with plenty of alcohol and everyone was having a good time relaxing. The music
from the main area of the club downstairs was audible but not deafening, and
half a dozen dancers -- slaves owned by Vincent's company -- had come up to
entertain.
Dinner'd been cleared away a little while ago and the dancing had turned
erotic. Vincent would usually have been jumping in to participate, but that
night he seemed to have enjoyed a little too much of the vodka -- to say
nothing of the wine with dinner and the martinis before -- and was reduced to
just watching.
It was a shame; Vincent might not be much to look at above the neck, but he had
an impressive body and Liam didn't mind watching him with the slaves every now
and then.
Vincent leaned over and whispered something to his own body-slave, Paul, who
grinned and walked across to where Liam was sitting, with Orlando at his feet
to one side. Paul sank to his knees and pressed his forehead to Liam's boot for
a moment, then knelt up and said, "My master has sent me to ask whether Orlando
can come and play."
Liam glanced down at Orlando, who was looking up with a "Please-please?" smile
on his face. He and Paul got along well and had played together before, and
Liam enjoyed watching them. He nodded and tipped Orlando's face up for a long
kiss. "Make me hard for you," he murmured.
"Yes, Master!" Orlando gave him a teasing wink, then leaned over and kissed
Paul, pushing his hands into the other slave's hair. Paul was as blond as
Orlando was dark, and they made a lovely contrast. Paul was ruggedly handsome
and more muscular; Orlando was gracefully pretty and more flexible. Together
they were beautifully erotic.
The boys shifted over to an open spot in the floor about halfway between their
masters, a few feet away from the writhing mass four of the dancers had become.
One of the others was lapping delicately under the skirt of a woman associate
of Vincent's who wasn't quite successful enough yet to afford a body-slave of
her own, and the sixth had just finished sucking off some musician whose name
Liam could never remember, while the man's body-slave rimmed him. The newly
unoccupied slave gave Liam a suggestive look, but he wasn't interested in
anyone else just then and he waved the boy off.
Paul, who was wearing a pair of tight, ragged jeans and nothing else, tugged
Orlando's black mesh shirt off over his head and tossed it aside, then ducked
down to suck on one dark nipple while his hands worked at the fly of Orlando's
leather pants. It took some time and effort to peel him out of them, despite
the smooth silk lining, or maybe the boys were just making a good show of it;
it was just as likely with either of them. By the time the pants were discarded
with the shirt, both slaves were erect and breathing hard.
Liam leaned back in his seat and adjusted his thickening cock in his trousers.
He wasn't one for public sex, at least not among people he didn't know, but he
could think of any number of things he was going to do to Orlando once they got
back to the hotel.
 
[Today]
Marton texted a message ahead to the office to let them know it was nearly show
time. He'd watched Ben's abortive session with the new slave, Orlando, and it'd
been clear that the usual method wasn't going to work. It was a pity; it
required fewer hands held out for payment if the target could be philosophical
about the situation and just go along. Around half of them, like Ben, were just
as happy to get away from their old masters or mistresses and eager to
cooperate, preferring a fresh spin on the wheel to whatever Fate had delivered
them to before.
Some owners, though, were good at manipulating their slaves' emotions and
fostered a strong dependency. Marton could appreciate the skill involved while
still feeling annoyed at having to go to Plan B.
And speaking of "B," maybe it was time to replace Ben. He'd done his job well
enough for the first few months -- a great little manipulator himself, that
one. Lately, though, it seemed his bitterness was getting the better of him. He
hadn't made more than a token effort to convince Orlando to accept his fate.
Mocking and jeering might have tipped the balance on a slave who was wavering,
but any idiot should've been able to predict that someone as strongly attached
to his master as this one was would only get angry.
Marton wasn't sorry at all for the bruised cheek and swollen lip Ben had taken
before the men had gotten Orlando off him; the little idiot deserved it for
indulging himself.
Orlando was the third target in a row Ben had failed to turn on to the benefits
of cooperation. If there were a fourth, Ben would be spinning the wheel himself
soon.
They pulled into the parking lot and stopped near the rear door of a non-
descript commercial building which Anderson, one of Marton's other employees,
had leased under an alias created for the purpose. Orlando was cuffed and
chained to a bracket on the floor in the back, and wouldn't be able to see that
there was no sign on the front of the building, certainly nothing claiming it
was the Commerce Processing Center for Bakersfield; the overt deception was all
on the inside.
Brendan got out and went around back to fetch the slave. Marton headed to the
door with a folder full of documents. They were all falsified, of course, but
they were excellent forgeries and would go with Orlando -- or rather, David -
- to the real Commerce office when the time came.
Marton pulled the door open and headed in, with Brendan and a stubbornly
glaring "David" following close behind. Anderson was seated at a plain, steel-
framed desk with a plain sign behind him; an ordinary back-entrance of a
government office, good enough to bring the slaves through. Buyers would go
around the front where the actual decor was, or would have been if this'd been
a real Commerce office.
He marched up to the desk and said, "Debtor to process in." He handed over the
loan papers one at a time, and Anderson made a show of examining them. "Since
this morning, he's been trying to convince me I have the wrong man. Says he's
already a slave."
"That's a new one," Anderson drawled.
"It's the truth," Orlando snapped, as though he'd been cued. Which he had, in a
way.
"Sure it is," said Anderson. He hadn't even looked at the slave yet; he was on
the computer, tapping away at something. "ID?"
Marton pulled a California driver's license out of the folder. Orlando's eyes
went wide and he jerked forward out of Brendan's grip to snatch it up and stare
at it. Brendan grabbed his upper arms, but Marton held up a hand and said,
"Wait." He let Orlando look.
It was an excellent fake, and the bleary-looking photo they'd taken while he
was drugged out of his mind on rohypnol didn't even look too much worse than
the "real" DMV photos. Heck, Marton had seen plenty worse on bona fide ID
cards.
David Timothy Grant, SEX: M, HAIR: BRN, EYES: BRN, HT: 5-11, WT-165, DOB: 04-
19-81.
"This isn't me. I mean, I'm not David Grant, and I'm thirty-one -- even the
year is wrong."
Anderson snagged the card and looked it over, then looked at Orlando, then
looked back at the card. "Sorry, bud, the picture's not that bad."
"It's not me! It's not!"
Marton sighed heavily. "Could you just scan him and show him he's not chipped?
Then I can get my voucher and get out of here and he'll be your problem."
"Sure, sure, if it'll shut him up. Hang on, we don't keep them out here."
Anderson stood up and headed through the steel door opposite the entrance.
"You'll see," Orlando said. He was starting to sound a little panicked -- the
driver's license had shaken him -- and Marton had to work hard not to smirk. "I
understand why you thought I was this Grant guy, though, he looks a lot like
me. He's younger, though, and kind of spacey looking."
"Everyone looks spacey on their driver's license," Marton said. "You should see
mine."
Anderson came back with the scanner and ran it over the slave's back, taking
ostentatious care to hit every bit of him from shoulder to shoulder and neck to
waist, since the chip could end up anywhere in the area depending on who did
the chipping and which office they worked out of. It stayed silent.
"It's right under my shoulderblade," Orlando insisted. "On the left side. Do it
again!" He yanked his T-shirt off, as if that'd make a difference.
Anderson scanned the area, pressing it against Orlando's skin so the guy would
know exactly where it was hitting. "Nothing."
Orlando spun around and yanked the scanner over so he could look at it. It was
on, the green light was lit, and the read-out said "READY."
"Look, bud," said Anderson, "you're not chipped, you're not branded, you're not
in the system. You're not a slave. I'm glad it bothers you that much, though,
'cause we're going to fix it for you right now."
"No!" Orlando ducked away and flattened himself against the wall, staring wide-
eyed at the three of them, then he fixed his gaze on the door to the parking
lot, as though trying to figure out whether making a break for it would do any
good.
Since both Marton and Brendan were between him and the outside it obviously
wouldn't, but Marton wasn't sure the guy was in any shape to make a rational
decision. He nudged Brendan and cocked his head toward Orlando. Brendan nodded
and stepped forward, his arms spread wide just in case. Sure enough, the guy
tried to bolt around him. Brendan caught him easily and twisted an arm up
behind his back, pressing till he yelped.
Anderson came up and wrapped a cheap steel-chain collar around his neck and
locked it with a solid click. Brendan turned him around and slammed him into
the wall, then grabbed his other arm so Anderson could handcuff him.
"Let me take him back to a holding cell and then I'll come get you your
voucher," Anderson said over his shoulder to Marton.
"No rush," said Marton. "I'm just glad to be rid of him. I need to get back to
my business, make sure the staff hasn't burned the place down." He watched
Anderson muscle Orlando through the door, then counted to twenty. That was more
than time enough for him to have gotten his new guest out of sight. Marton
flipped the lock on the door to the parking lot so no one could wander in by
mistake and maybe wonder at the sign behind the desk, then headed inside to the
small office area.
The place was stark but adequate. It had three computer monitors, all of which
were switchable to the CCTV system. They rarely needed all three, since they'd
only once had more than two subjects at a time being processed under Plan B.
Right then Orlando/David was the only one, and Marton preferred it that way. It
was hard enough convincing the slaves they were crazy, or at least that the
rest of the world had gone crazy, without taking the chance that two of them
might be able to compare notes.
Brendan sat down and pulled out an iPod and a pair of earbuds; he was mainly
muscle and his job was done for the day. Marton sat in front of the third
monitor, the one generally dedicated to the internal cameras, turned up the
volume so he could listen, and watched from the camera's perspective up by the
ceiling inside the holding cell, where Anderson had shoved Orlando -- no, David
-- onto the floor.
"--good try but it's over and the sooner you straighten up the easier it'll be
for you."
"I'm not David Grant! You have to believe me! Please, just call my master!"
Anderson backhanded him across the face with his fist. "Slaves who get a
reputation for lying tend to get beaten a lot," he said. "You should remember
that."
"I'm not lying!"
Anderson reached down for the snap on David's jeans and David kicked at him.
"Don't! Leave me alone! Call my master!"
Anderson scowled and went over to a cupboard set high on the wall. He grabbed
another set of cuffs, knelt down next to David and lay across his legs while he
locked the cuffs around his ankles. "If you try kicking me again, I'll get
another lock and attach your ankles to your wrists. A back hogtie is usually a
punishment, but I'm willing to put you into one just for my convenience if you
insist on being a hysterical little shit."
Another trip to the cupboard. He took out a utility knife and went to stand
over David. "If you struggle I'm going to cut you," he said. "I don't care one
way or the other. You're obviously going to need a lot of training and there'll
be plenty of time for a few minor cuts from a very sharp knife to heal up
before any buyers get to look at you. Or a lot of minor cuts, same difference."
He bent over and cut off David's jeans and underwear, then pulled off his shoes
and socks. The slave glared at him but stayed still until he was naked.
Anderson stuffed the clothes into a slot in the wall and then put the knife
away. "Who are you?" he asked.
"I'm Orlando Bloom, and I belong to Lord Neeson and when he finds me he's going
to smash you!"
Still listening, Marton cocked his head and wondered at the tone of voice. It'd
sounded more like a little boy than a grown man. This might work more quickly
than he'd expected.
Anderson turned back to the cupboard and came out with a riding crop. He shoved
David over on his stomach and worked over his shoulders and ass and thighs with
the crop until they were masses of red lines and David was howling in pain and
anger.
"Who are you?"
"My name is Orlando!"
Anderson muscled him over onto his front, planted a foot on his pelvis so he
couldn't move (and also to protect the healing patch where the tattoo had been)
and thrashed him again, chest and belly and legs.
David was sobbing hard but still wouldn't relent. That was fine; if he had,
Marton would have known he was lying. The last thing he wanted was for David to
turn sly and decide to bide his time. That could be disastrous, especially if
he was telling the truth about his master wanting him back. Time would let
David settle into his new life, and let his old master get over whatever
annoyance he felt at having to replace his bed-warmer. Time would also let the
patches heal enough that a real Commerce slave handler wouldn't notice anything
odd.
They had time, and time would solve all their problems.
David was still sobbing his old name and crying for his master when Marton
turned and left. Anderson was good at this, and Marton had work to do back at
main office.
***** Chapter 11 *****
[Five Years Ago]
"Up!" little Jamie demanded in an imperious voice. He held his chubby arms in
the air. "Up-up!"
Orlando grinned and said, "Yes, Master Jamie. Climb up on the fence so I can
reach you."
Master Jamie Neeson, at age three, was just as much of a brave little monkey as
Orlando'd ever been. He scrambled up and climbed the fence slats like a ladder,
then leaned against the top rail while standing on the second and held his arms
up again.
"Up!"
Orlando leaned over and pulled him up onto Sassy Lady's back, perched on her
withers in front of Orlando's saddle. With one arm wrapped around Jamie's
chest, Orlando clucked Lady into a slow walk around the pasture.
"Gimme!"
"Say, 'Give me the reins, please,'" Orlando chided.
"Gimme!" Master Jamie was starting to sound suspiciously tantrumish.
"Not until you ask properly. Your daddy is never rude, not even to slaves."
Well, not quite true, but usually.
"Gimme reins please!"
"Close enough." Orlando grinned and let Jamie hold the reins. His hands were
too small and weak for him to do much with them, but he waved them around
anyway and yelled, "Giddyap!"
Orlando circled his thumb and forefinger around the reins, beyond where Jamie
was gripping; he wasn't holding them, but making the reins pass through the
small circles of his hands damped down the wild flailing. As it was, Lady
looked over her shoulder, trying to see what the heck was going on.
"Look, there's your daddy!" Orlando pointed over to the other side of the
pasture, facing the stable, where Master Liam was leaning on the fence watching
them. Jamie leaned way over to see and would've fallen off if Orlando hadn't
had a hold on him.
"Daddy!" Jamie waved wildly. "Daddy, watch me!"
Orlando laughed. "He can't hear you from here, kiddo. Want to go over and see
him?"
"Yes!"
"Okay. Want to go fast?"
"YES!"
"Okay, hang on!" Orlando grinned, and he was the one hanging on tight. He'd
taken the reins back while Jamie was waving at Master Liam, and he turned Lady
around, then tapped her into a gallop. They flew across the grass, Jamie
shrieking with laughter.
They were across in less than a minute, and Orlando reined Lady back down to a
walk. Jamie was yelling, "More faster!" but Orlando just petted his hair and
said, "Later, kiddo. There's your daddy, wave!"
Jamie waved madly and Master Liam waved back. "Did you have fun?" he asked
Jamie.
"Yes! I want to go again!"
"In a few minutes," Liam said. He looked up at Orlando and added, "It'd be best
if you never let the mistress see you doing that with him up there. At least
not for a few more years."
"No, Master." Orlando nodded and gave as much of a bow as he could manage while
on horseback and holding on to a three-year-old. Mostly it was a slow head nod.
"In fact, it'd probably be best if she never sees him on a full-size horse
period until he's around ten or so."
"Yes, Master. I'll pay particular attention to when she's visiting."
"You do that." Master Liam gave him a quick half smile. "She wasn't overly
happy about Tabby, but she's resigned to it. And Paula stays with Tabby; for
the few times a year she's here, he'll do for now."
"Yes, Master." Tabby was the pony Liam had gotten for his children, shortly
after their first birthday. Bramble, the pony he'd gotten for Orlando and
Samantha all those years ago, was happily retired, munching grass in the side
pasture by the house and looking picturesque. He was too old to start up again
on another generation of children, though, so Tabby was the working pony.
Layna, one of the gardeners had a pair of young daughters, and Maddy, a
housemaid, had a son just a year older than Jamie and Paula, so Tabby was never
lonely, even when Jamie could persuade someone to take him up on a horse.
Dividing the twins hadn't been an optimal solution for anyone, but when the
Master and Mistress had separated, they'd decided that each taking a twin and
visiting whenever they could would be better for the children than shuttling
them back and forth. They'd both lived with their mother until they were three,
and then Jamie'd come to live with his father, just a few months ago.
Orlando had some doubts about how Paula was going to turn out, considering how
badly Mistress Natasha spoiled all her body-slaves -- not only Chad but also
the three since him -- but no one had asked him for his opinion so he'd kept it
to himself. Jamie was a bit full of himself, but his father kept a rein on him
and allowed all the staff, including the slaves, to insist on politeness from
the boy. He was getting the message, slowly.
 
[Today]
"Vincent, talk to me."
"Mark, this is Liam. How've you been?"
"Not bad. Business is good. How about you?"
"I have something to ask you, and it might be a bit sensitive."
"What d'you want to know? You've already watched me fuck a dozen times -
- what's more sensitive than that?"
Liam would've laughed if the situation had been different. "This is actually
about Paul."
There was silence on the other end of the line, then, "He's gone. What's there
to say?"
"Mark, I need to know, did you sell him? You never said and I didn't want to
ask. We all just assumed at the time, but I'll admit I was surprised."
"Hell no, I didn't sell him." Vincent paused again and Liam heard him muttering
to himself, then a muffled "Fuck it." Aloud, Vincent said, "He just vanished
one day. He'd gone out to pick up the fucking dry cleaning and never came back.
The cops decided he'd run away, hunted around for him for a while then gave up,
turned it over to Commerce. Commerce said I'd got the insurance and could use
it to get another body-slave, that Paul was their problem now and when they
found him they'd take care of him. He's probably in a fucking medical lab or
something right now, or dead."
"Or maybe not," said Liam. "Look, Orlando vanished too, last week. He was
getting groceries."
"Orlando? Fuck! That boy'd never run away from you! Someone'd have to cosh him
on the head and toss him over their shoulder."
"That's essentially what happened. We have a witness who saw someone get out of
a van next to where he'd parked at the grocery store. Then the van drove off
and he was gone. She couldn't see clearly, but it was obvious someone took
him."
"So, what? He was pinched? Fuck, you think someone got Paul too?"
"It could be. Probably not the same group, on opposite coasts, unless they're a
lot bigger than I've been imagining. Damn, I hope not -- if they really do
operate on both coasts, then Orlando could be anywhere."
"So what are you doing to get him back? Anything I could use? It's been a
couple years since I lost Paul, but if there's a chance he's still around....
Hell, I can think of three or four possibilities and I don't much like any of
'em, but if he's still there then I want to find him, get him out and break
some heads."
"I hired an investigator who's been looking around, but most owners won't talk
to people like him about missing slaves. Did Commerce tell you to keep quiet
about it?"
"Yeah, they did. Said it didn't do anyone any good to let it get out that
slaves ran away sometimes. Give the others ideas and all, end up with more sent
to toxic clean-up and whatever all else."
"Right. And meanwhile these thieves, however many of them there are, are using
that, counting on the fact that no one talks about vanished slaves, and the
assumption that they've all run away. No one's looking for thieves, or hasn't
until now. Who knows how long they've been at it?"
"So what are you doing?"
"Right now, just calling around, trying to find more cases of theft rather than
flight. My investigator wants to get everyone together if we can, pool
information, see what we can come up with together. The more cases he can look
at, the greater the chance of something from mine fitting together with
something from yours and something else from someone else's, and pointing him
at the people doing it."
"Assuming they're all the same people, yeah."
"They'd have to be using similar tactics at least, I'd think. They're blocking
the signal to the chips somehow, for example."
"Right, true. Okay, let me know when you want to get together and I'll fly out.
At your place, right? Or are we gonna meet in the middle? St. Louis, maybe?"
"Probably my place," Liam said with an eyeroll.
"Cool, I'll be there."
"Thanks, Mark."
 
"--so Vincent's coming in from New York, and Clooney's sending his Agent. I
don't know how much they'll be able to help us, since they're on the other end
of the country and I hope it's not all the same gang, but they can listen in
and then go home and get their own effort started," Liam said to Thewlis.
"True," Thewlis agreed. "It's the five from California and the one from Nevada
I have hopes for, though. If we can find some commonality between them, it'll
help point us in the right direction."
"That's next week, though. What do you have for me now?" Liam knew it wasn't
realistic to expect everyone he'd contacted to drop their business and fly out
tomorrow, much less that evening, but he couldn't banish the urgency he felt.
Thewlis flipped a couple of pages in his notebook and changed gears. "Nothing
positive, but some positive negatives, if that's not too contradictory. I
managed to find someone who agreed to take me as a guest to a floating club,
purely underground and very illegal -- gambling, drugs, cage fights, and slaves
for a variety of uses. A one-stop entertainment center, which moves around the
area, usually in warehouses or cheap industrial parks, other abandoned venues."
Liam could well imagine his boy in a place like that. A beautiful young man
like Orlando would be very popular with the sort of people who enjoy breaking
things just to hear them smash. "I take it you didn't find him there."
"No, and in this case I consider it good news. I couldn't get to every slave in
the place, so I left and called a friend of mine with the local police
department. They raided the place within half an hour, and he let me watch
while they brought everyone out. I had a look at every face, including the ones
who had to be carried, and none of them matched Orlando's picture."
"Good. And bad." Liam sighed and rubbed his eyes. "The fact that he wasn't
there doesn't mean he isn't someplace else even worse. I wish you'd found him."
"I wish so too, my Lord. But some of the slaves they brought out were dead, and
a few more will likely have to be put out of their misery. I'm very glad he
wasn't one of those."
Liam just nodded and tried not to think about all the other possibilities.
***** Chapter 12 *****
[Two Years Ago]
Orlando hung up his master's suit jacket and put the hanger on the end of the
bar, with the other things that needed to go to the cleaners. Master Liam had
his trousers undone by the time Orlando turned back around; Orlando helped him
off with them, holding the waistband low while his master stepped out of them,
then hung them up next to the jacket.
It'd been obvious on the ride home that the Master wasn't overly pleased by how
the review had gone. Heck, it'd been obvious earlier than that -- the project
manager and senior engineers had been full of excuses for schedule slip. And
then they'd wanted extra money because some of Master Liam's employees had
requested additions and changes by talking directly to the programmers rather
than going through contracts. The work had been done, a list of little easy
changes that'd added up to quite a lot, not even counting the necessity for
additional documentation and testing, and the contractor was expecting payment
after the fact for changes no one with any authority had authorized.
Master Liam was angry at the contractors for the schedule slips, and at his own
people for being idiot bit-heads with no concept of how business worked. He was
tense and frustrated, and the quiet but intense working-over he'd given his own
management team after the review hadn't helped much.
Orlando unbuttoned his master's cuffs and slid the shirt off his arms. He
tossed it aside to go down the laundry chute later, then took a few moments to
massage his master's shoulders. They were solid with stress, and just rubbing
didn't help much.
His master patted his arm and shrugged him off, then headed into the bathroom
to wash up a bit. Orlando stripped down as fast as he could, then went over to
the banded chest to one side of the dressing room and got out a riding crop. He
took it into the bedroom and knelt down on the carpet in present position with
the crop laid across his palms.
A couple minutes later, Master Liam came out and stopped, then said, "You
always know what I need."
"Yes, Master." Orlando didn't bother to try to hide his smile, although he kept
his eyes on the floor.
His master grasped Orlando's upper arm and had him stand, still holding the
crop. He took Orlando's face in both hands and kissed him, long and hard, the
kind of deep, possessive kiss that always melted Orlando's bones. The hands
pushed up into Orlando's hair, and then wandered. By the time Master Liam
straightened up, his hands on Orlando's back and ass were the only things
keeping him on his feet.
His toes left the floor and the Master carried him over to the big bed, leaning
in for half a dozen more short, pecking kisses while he walked. He set Orlando
down onto the mattress, then took the crop and set it aside before turning him
over onto his stomach.
Orlando felt his master's weight on his back, pressing him down, and he
squirmed with pleasure, just enough to feel some friction between their bodies.
He loved the feel of it, of being completely surrounded and compressed. He
wasn't small, but his master was so much bigger, both taller and broader, and
when he lay on top of him, whether Orlando was facing up or down, he felt
perfectly safe and protected.
Master Liam ground down into him, pressing them together skin-to-skin from
shoulders to toes. Orlando arched his back as much as he could, pressing his
ass up against his master's hardening cock, shifting back and forth just a
little until it fit into his cleft. He felt his own erection swelling against
the rough cotton of the bedspread, and let out a soft moan of pleasure.
His master's teeth bit down on the swell of Orlando's shoulder and his moan
took a higher note of need. He felt the sting down into the muscle, and knew
he'd have a bruise there for days, his master's mark in his skin, so much more
personal than the brand he shared with every other slave. That bite was his
master's and it was only for him, reminding him whom he belonged to with every
aching throb.
Orlando felt his wrists clasped and pushed up to the headboard. Master Liam
whispered, "Hold on," into his ear. He grabbed two of the smooth wooden bars in
his hands and moaned, "Yes, Master." Then, "Master...!" when he felt the warm,
solid weight leave his body.
"Hush. Breathe for me."
He took a deep breath and then the tip of the crop came down on his ass.
Orlando cried out, then bit his lip and squirmed when his master's hand came
down and rubbed away the sting, leaving only the heat. Another smack, this one
on his other cheek, and another rub. His shoulder, right over the already-
burning bite, then a rub. His ass again, crossing one of the first swelling
lash marks, then one thigh. His ass again, then high on his ribs. The sting and
burn and pressure and heat spread across his body, until he could feel the
currents in the air moving over his super-sensitized skin.
When every exhale was a pained, needy moan, the crop stilled. Then two slick
fingers shoved into his ass, the burning stretch in his hole matching the
swollen burn all around it. Orlando reared up, still holding onto the bars of
the headboard but pushing his ass up in wordless begging.
"Do you feel me?" His master pulled out his fingers and pushed in with his
solid, slicked cock.
"Master! Yes! Hot!"
"You feel the burn?" Master Liam wrapped his arms around Orlando's chest and
pressed tight against him, pushing in with tiny thrusts of his hips.
"Yes!" Orlando sobbed, pushing backward as well as he could, stretched between
his crushing grip on the headboard and his master's solid arms in the middle
and Master's hard cock pinning him to the mattress. It burned wherever his
master touched him, like his skin was howling its need in flaring nerves.
"You're so hot, red and swollen and hurting and still wanting me," his master
snarled, pulling back and then pushing in hard.
Orlando gave a pained gasp, then moaned, "More, need you!" He wriggled as much
as he could, rubbing his stinging back against the coarse hair on his master's
chest. He wanted to feel every bit of him, skin and hair and teeth and
fingernails and every barely-too-tight thrust of his cock.
Master Liam pulled him to his knees with a rough yank and thrust deeper.
Orlando shouted in pain, then babbled more begging nonsense.
"You need this as much as I do."
Before Orlando could even manage a panting agreement, his master bit him again,
this time on the side of his neck, right over his slave brand. The pain
whiplashed through his body and he spasmed with pleasure, howling into the
pillow while pumping come into the bedspread without his cock ever having been
touched. He felt his ass clenching around his master's cock and it only took
another handful of quick thrusts before Master Liam filled him and collapsed
down onto his back.
In the boneless floating after orgasm, Orlando's back hurt a lot more than it
had while his master had been either beating or fucking him. His stretched ass
burned more too. It made him want to squirm, to try to find a more comfortable
position, but it also made him feel more owned, more a possession of his
master's than he felt at any other time. That burning ache, from shoulders to
calves and deep inside, would remind him for days that the man he loved more
than anyone in the world owned every bit of him, and right then he'd rather
feel that pain than anything else he could think of.
 
[Today]
Marton ran the numbers and frowned. Expenses had been higher than he'd
projected when he'd first come up with the plan; he'd needed more help, and the
second facility had been a quick addition when the third target had gotten
stubborn. That'd been expensive, and set him back almost fifty thousand so far.
When he first started, it'd never occurred to Marton that there might be any
slaves who didn't want to get away from their owners. Once he ran into it, it
was obvious, and he'd wanted to smack himself in the forehead for not thinking.
There were slaves who had it pretty good and knew it, and didn't want to take
the chance of ending up somewhere worse, and there were slaves whose situation
was shit but who were more afraid of their owner than they were of anyone or
anything else, definitely including Marton himself. A longer, more intense
approach was needed to break down both kinds.
And then there were the ones who just never got with the program no matter what
he did. For them, there was the black market. Marton didn't like selling to
them; they were liable to be raided at any time, which could end up leading
back to Marton, and besides they paid for shit. Half their "slaves" were
kidnapped straight off the street without ever having been through Commerce in
the first place. After all, who was going to believe a slave who claimed to
actually be a free person? Fake up the brand pattern, lock a collar on them and
there you go -- instant slave, at least so far as the kind of people who
patronized the black market were concerned.
Marton avoided selling to them when he could, but so far he'd had to sell four
in that direction. Financial losses there, hardly worth the cost of processing.
Although with the last one he'd recognized the futility of it right away and
sold the kid within a week of pulling her chip out; she was practically
catatonic by the time Marton had unloaded her and good riddance.
That was the real trick of it -- choosing the right targets. You really
couldn't tell without interaction, though -- some of the ones who'd absolutely
insisted that they had to go back to their owner had been bruised up, so what
else were you supposed to look for? -- and talking to a slave and then letting
it go on its way was dangerous. If anyone noticed the people who struck up
conversations with random slaves out by themselves, and put it together with
the slaves who "ran away," things could get awkward.
Didn't matter anyway. Marton figured he could make his goal with just two more.
Even cutting their Commerce contact in for a bigger slice, he could write some
bigger paper on the next two, hit the mark and get out. If the boys wanted to
stay around and keep going, that was up to them -- Anderson was the only one
who'd ever met the Commerce rep so they could work for him. Or sort it out
among themselves; Marton didn't care.
He'd been in it long enough, and the air was starting to feel twitchy. He'd
always known he wouldn't be able to do this forever, had never wanted to do it
forever, and there was a feeling under his skin like something was closing in.
Definitely time to get out. Marton had plans, and they involved getting out of
the Empire with a huge stash of cash. Retirement was looking better and better.
***** Chapter 13 *****
[Today]
Ben had always known it'd happen. No matter what Master Marton had promised,
Ben had always known that some day it'd be his turn to take the ride down to
the Commerce office -- the real one -- and try his luck with the system one
more time. So when Marton told him that it was time, he'd just nodded and asked
what his new name was going to be.
Kevin Martinez wasn't a bad name; he'd seen slaves processed through with a lot
worse. Not that it mattered, since an owner could call their slaves whatever
they wanted, and he remembered thinking that the new "Cyril Shimmelpennick's"
owner had probably swapped that name out for something else before the toner
had cooled on his ownership papers.
Ben was dark enough to pass for Latino, or part, so that worked. And he paid
close attention when Master Marton had reeled off his new birthday, his home
town, and how much his debt had been for.
Master Marton gave him a pleased nod at all his eager cooperation, and said
that they were going to make a detour on the way to Commerce. Ben -- or Kevin
now, he'd have to remember that -- even got to ride in front, instead of
chained in the back like most of the outgoing slaves.
They pulled into the parking lot and he recognized the fake Commerce office;
he'd been there a few times, pretending he was going too, to make it look
better for some of the twitchier targets. None of the Plan B slaves remembered
him from the Plan A attempts -- the drugs made sure of that -- so he could play
fellow captive and be one more person the stubborn slaves could try to
"convince" that they were really Bobby Jones or whoever. One more person to
disbelieve them, to report them for lying or being crazy and get them punished.
It was all about conditioning, Master Marton had said, like smacking a dog when
it shit in the house and giving it a cookie when it shit outside. People were
no different and eventually they could be trained too, if you could control
their environment and all their interactions.
Master Marton had done his psych rotation at a government reeducation hospital
near the Quebec border, he'd said once, and the experience had come in handy.
Whatever. All Ben/Kevin knew was he didn't want any of that shit pulled on him,
so he smiled and nodded and made sure he looked happy to be moving on.
He'd get him later.
Because the Master had made promises. He'd said that if Ben helped him, if he
cooperated and helped turn the other slaves cooperative, he'd let Ben go when
it was all done. He said he'd give him his new identity and send him out with
no chip and no brand and a set of cards and papers and a chance to try again on
his own, to make a free life for himself.
Ben hadn't really believed him, but he was angry at the betrayal anyway. It was
the principle of the thing. So he walked along behind Master Marton, through
the door and into the faked-up office all quiet and dutiful like a good slave
boy, and bided his time.
They went straight through to the office, where Mr. Anderson was watching one
of the monitors.
"Good timing," he called over his shoulder. "I just sent Oren in there doing
the janitor thing."
"Still stubborn?" asked Master Marton. He crossed the room and pulled over a
chair next to Mr. Anderson's. Kevin followed and stood behind them, a pace back
but still close enough to see and hear.
"Like trying to pry off a pit bull," Mr. Anderson said.
He sounded disgusted, and no wonder. Usually enough beatings for "lying" would
get slaves to cooperate. Kevin had only seen a couple get this far.
"He's been trying to convince me he's changed his tune the last couple of
days," Mr. Anderson continued. "His routine's so fake it creaks. This'll flush
him out, though, and give him a good smack."
David was curled up on the floor in a training room, breathing in short,
shallow gasps like it hurt. He held himself like everything hurt, and Kevin was
pretty sure it did. He was chained to the cinderblock wall and his wrists were
dark with old blood.
Then the door opened and Orem plodded in, pushing a big plastic barrel on
wheels. He ignored David and went over to a plastic-lined bin in one corner,
then used a set of steel tongs to pull bloody rags out of it and toss them into
his barrel.
David watched him through blackened eyes that were swollen almost closed. He
glanced at the door, which was still propped open, but must've had enough
brains left to know that making a dash while you were chained by both wrists,
and beaten so you could hardly move anyway, would be pretty stupid. Instead he
called out in a low, raspy voice, "Hey."
Orem ignored him and went on with his work, leaning over the bin to fish around
in the bottom with his tongs.
"Hey," David called again, a little louder this time.
"Not interested, bud," said Orem, still without looking around. "Even if I were
into guys, you're pretty trashed."
"No, that's not--" David stopped and coughed, then groaned and wrapped his arms
around his ribs. Orem put his tongs away and started back for the door.
"No, wait! I mean, want to make some money?"
Orem kept going. "If you had any money you wouldn't be here," he said.
"My master does!" David babbled, obviously talking as fast as he could,
desperate to get through to the "janitor" before he left. "This is a huge
mistake! I'm already a slave and someone grabbed me off the street and my
master'll pay a lot of money to get me back! Please, if you help he'll pay you,
I swear!"
That made Orem pause. He stared at David for a moment, then poked his head out
the cell door and peered up and down the hall. He came back in and shut the
door, then approached David, just out of reach of the chains.
"Supposing I even believe you, am I supposed to go knock on this guy's door or
what? And how much money are we talking about?"
"I don't know, lots," David promised. "My name is Orlando and my master is Lord
Neeson. He's really rich! He owns a bunch of companies and a huge estate and
eighteen slaves and he'll want me back! Do you have something to write on, I'll
give you his phone number."
"All right, all right, fine. No phone number, though -- if you're bullshitting
me and he has an ID display then he could come after me and give me grief. Give
me his e-mail and I'll send him a note and see what he says."
"Yes! Yes, fine, yes, thank you!" Kevin thought David was going to faint with
relief. He babbled the e-mail address at least five times while Orem patted his
pockets and dug out an old work order and then found a pen that worked. David
repeated the e-mail another half dozen times while Orem wrote it down
carefully, drawing each letter with his tongue between his teeth, then wrote
down "Orlando's" name.
"Okay, I'll write this lordship here and we'll see what he says." He glared
down at David while stashing the paper and pen back into his pockets. "If
you're shittin' me, though, I'm gonna tell Mr. Anderson you're playing games
and he'll kick the crap outa you. More than he has already, even."
"No, I swear it's true, thank you! Thank you so much! I can't believe finally--
"
"Right, right, whatever." Orem waved David to silence and added, "We'll see,"
before he opened the door and vanished through it with his barrel.
David collapsed back against the wall, a euphoric smile on his face.
Mr. Anderson grinned. "There. That should have him floating six feet off the
ground for the next few days."
Master Marton nodded. "And the higher he goes, the harder he'll hit when he
falls. That should do it." He stood up and said, "Orem does good work. I'm glad
you found him."
Kevin hoped David enjoyed his happy little secret while it lasted.
 
When Thewlis had been in college, he'd majored in sociology with an emphasis on
modern slavery. He'd thrown in the minor in administration of justice on a
whim, because a couple of the classes had looked interesting and it'd been
easier to justify taking a few more with a formally registered minor. The major
had seemed like a good choice, though; Berkeley had always been a hotbed of
political activism and social consciousness, and he'd had to fight with
hundreds of other students to get into some of the more interesting classes on
slavery.
Once he'd graduated, however, he found that there was much less interest in the
subject out in the real world. Unless he wanted to actually work for Commerce -
- which he most emphatically did not -- there were few paying jobs available
for a bright-eyed young idealist with a shiny new Master's degree and a
repertoire of canned speeches on the evils of slavery and the abuses inherent
in the system.
The admin justice, ironically, turned out to be all that stood between him and
Commerce himself when his student loans came due. He knew enough about the law
and the justice system not to get arrested (although it'd been a close thing a
few times) and his Masters research had taught him how to dig up information.
Some unoffical investigations with payment under the table had kept a collar
from around his throat until he'd taken enough supplementary classes to sit for
his PI's exam, and it'd been an essentially straight road from there.
A private investigator's life was nothing like television. Most of it was
boring -- hours spent searching through various archives and public records,
more hours spent making lists and checking items off one at a time, and still
more hours of trying to talk to people who didn't want to talk to him and
weren't overly polite in how they said so.
He was good at it, though, and experience had made him better. It paid the
bills, which was the important part.
And every now and then, he was handed a puzzle which was actually interesting.
Thewlis still had occasional contact with old college friends, and he was
starting to suspect that whoever'd grabbed Lord Neeson's Orlando hadn't had a
personal grudge or goal. He'd spent considerable time investigating Neeson's
primary business rivals -- taking his Lordship's word, of course, for who
probably might or likely wouldn't have a current grudge or goal worthy of such
a radical tactic -- and nothing had made his investigative nose twitch.
There was always the possibility that the scheme had been hatched through half
a dozen layers of flunkies. Actually, that was much more likely than that the
top man or woman had gotten personally involved. Crossing off those options,
however, would likely take months of painstaking investigation, tracing every
contact through however many branches resulted. Even discounting sub rosa
communications which would be extremely difficult and perhaps impossible to
detect for anyone with fewer reources than the Imperial government, he was
still looking at months if not years of work; the trail would've gone corpse-
cold long before he had any hope of stumbling across a clue, even assuming the
business angle was the correct one.
Much easier and more productive for Lord Neeson to keep an eye on his
competitors and see if any of them suddenly popped up with a packet of
devastatingly useful information. The brute force method Thewlis filed under
last ditch efforts, to be attempted only when all else failed.
Thewlis had another idea he was following up.
The fact that Orlando hadn't turned up at all yet -- hadn't been found
wandering, hadn't been taken to a hospital, hadn't even been found, used and
discarded, at a morgue -- was pointing him in one of two directions. One he
could investigate on his own. The other he'd need help with.
He got on the phone and dialed a fairly important man's personal number.
"Nick? This is Thewlis. We need to talk and it's fairly sensitive. Where can we
meet?"
***** Chapter 14 *****
"I'm still not convinced this is a good idea," Thewlis said softly.
He and Lord Neeson were approaching the back entrance to what had once been an
upscale department store in a busy mall in east San Jose. The mall was closed
and the area around it run-down and crime-ridden. Thewlis had gotten word that
one of the floating clubs was going to be there that weekend, and had made the
mistake of mentioning it in the next day's report to his employer, rather than
investigating and then delivering the results.
His Lordship, who'd been winding himself ever-tighter, like a spring about to
snap over the more than two weeks since his Orlando had been taken, had stated
that he was going along, in a tone of voice which allowed for absolutely no
possibility of contradiction.
Thewlis had contradicted him, of course, but it'd been like shouting into the
wind. The best he'd accomplished was to get Neeson to agree that Thewlis would
come over and advise him while he got ready to go. Personally, Thewlis doubted
his Lordship had anything at all in his wardrobe which would blend in, but he
was willing to do his best with whatever there was to work with.
Johnny'd been there to help as well, looking nearly as grim as his master.
During a few moments alone, while Neeson was still in the shower, Thewlis
leaned over to Johnny and whispered, "I don't suppose there's any chance you
could talk him out of this?"
The slave's answer was a raised eyebrow. "What do you think?"
Thewlis had expected as much. He looked over Johnny, who was about Thewlis's
own age but in much better shape, and had clearly had a lot more to work with
from the start. He could blend in very nicely with minimal effort. "It's too
bad you can't come along," he commented.
"We'll take him, then," said Neeson, who was just stepping into the bedroom
with a towel around his waist. "Whatever you think will help."
"I'm sorry, my Lord," Thewlis said with a slight bow, "but we can't. Even if
you allowed him to go out without his collar, a turtleneck would stand out in
that crowd, and anything else would let his brand show."
"So what?"
Thewlis counted to ten quickly in his mind, then said, "We're going to have
enough trouble hiding the fact that you're a Lord out slumming without having
you drag along what's obviously a body-slave."
Neeson glared at Thewlis, his hands on his hips, completely ignoring Johnny,
who was drying him off with a second towel. "Again, so what? There are Lords
who go slumming, and I'm willing to be taken for one of those under the
circumstances."
"That's true, My Lord, there are." Thewlis concentrated on maintaining eye
contact while Johnny removed the last towel and held a pair of expensive
looking boxer-briefs for his master to step into. "But you're either too old or
insufficiently dissipated to be taken for 'one of those.'"
His Lordship snorted at that, but luckily relented and so they went alone.
Thewlis would still have rather had Johnny instead, but sometimes you just had
to play the hand fate and the nobility dealt you.
They climbed four concrete steps off the cracked parking lot and stepped up to
the shadowed door, a thick, metal affair next to a larger roll-up loading bay,
set into a rippling aluminum wall which had once been part of the chain's
identity -- all sleek and retro-modern, like something from the mid-twentieth
century. Thewlis gave the password to a bouncer dressed like a security guard.
He gave them a look-over, then let them in.
The back stock areas were dark and dingy, with just enough dim lamps here and
there so women in heels wouldn't break their ankles. All the windows were long-
ago boarded up, but the trespassers still kept the more attention-drawing
activity to the inner core of the building, where nothing would leak out
whenever people entered or left.
Another bouncer, this one in a janitor's coverall, opened an inner door and the
lights and music blared out.
They stepped through and to one side, taking in what they could make out of the
main floor, then wandered around the periphery, watching the people and looking
for side doors and passages, of which there were quite a few. Everything they
could see was either found in place or portable -- partitions had been left up
and the skeletons of larger displays rigged to make more, breaking the space up
into hallways and cubicles. The smaller spaces surrounded the open center area,
which was focused on the dance floor, essentially a cleared space on the
store's linoleum, with a bolted-together bar on either end. The sound equipment
was on rollers, with the wheels locked but ready to go at any time, and
likewise the coolers and small refrigeration units around the bars. Pack it all
into a few vans, or maybe a small panel truck, and they could be gone within
minutes.
When they'd made it halfway around the main area, Neeson said, "It's a club,"
with a silently implied "So what?" attached.
Thewlis nodded, but pointed discreetly at a mostly-naked young woman sliding
through the crowd, dancing with whoever grabbed her. "Branded, so she's a
slave. But the heavy anklets are what keep her here. They'll have run a wire
around the perimeter; if she crosses it, she gets a shock that feels like
someone's taking her feet off with a hot saw. Like electronic dog collars, but
moreso."
Neeson scowled. "Stolen?"
"I don't know, My Lord. Possibly. Or possibly the employment here is of the
sort to inspire legally owned slaves to try their luck on the run."
Thewlis guided his employer down a passage to one of the smaller areas around
the periphery, with one hand on the sleeve of the man's jacket -- black
leather, dug out of the back of his Lordship's dressing room by Johnny, who'd
also found a pair of jeans (too nice but at least black) and had donated a
plain white stretch T-shirt, which was too small but appropriately so for the
occasion. Lord Neeson still stood out -- as he would have in any case, if only
for being six inches taller than nearly everyone else -- but at least it was a
sort of standing-out which drew admiration rather than suspicion.
For a while he thought he'd have to persuade Lord Neeson to pretend they were a
couple so Thewlis could fend off various interested parties, but after one or
two jolts, the man slid into persona and did a fine job of it on his own,
negotiating his way through the crowds with smiles and stares and raised
eyebrows as well as shoulders and elbows.
Neeson caught him staring once and leaned down to whisper, "I was young once,
you know," with a sardonic raise of one eyebrow.
Whenever they turned a corner or passed through a doorway, though, Thewlis
tensed and did his best to scan the new faces before his employer could. They'd
had a rather heated talk on the way over about what his Lordship would, or
rather would not do if he did find Orlando. Thewlis was pretty sure he knew
what the man would want to do, and it'd taken a good twenty-five miles' worth
of argument to persuade him that grabbing him up, pounding on anyone who'd been
hurting him, and trying to haul him out the door would be counterproductive.
While they searched, he pointed out the many bouncers who would definitely be
able to overpower even a supremely angry nobleman, and the provisions made for
quick-retreat with all the equipment owned by the club organizers. He
eventually got Neeson to agree that diving in and causing a fuss would only
result in Orlando and everyone attached to the club vanishing long before any
authorities could arrive. If they did find Orlando, Thewlis would text a
contact of his with the local police department and they'd wait quietly, no
matter what was going on.
Thewlis still wasn't sure everything would go to plan if the time came, no
matter what Neeson agreed to when he was calm and thinking rationally, but it
was the best he'd been able to manage.
The farther away from the brightly lit dance floor they got, the wilder and
less legal the activities got. There were things one wasn't allowed to do to
even a slave, but since the club was illegal anyway, no one particularly cared
about rules and laws. The activities ranged from what one would find in the
allowed-but-expensive slave-staffed brothels, to activities usually seen only
in movies with large special effects budgets.
In a back room whose concrete walls muffled most of the sound -- probably a
finance office and possibly a vault -- a shrieking young man chained down to an
elevated display block was being violently taken apart by four wild-eyed club-
goers with whips. They were so drunk they hit each other periodically, but they
just cursed and laughed and went back to their "fun." The floor was sticky with
blood and sloshing in places, and festive arcs of blood-spatter decorated the
walls, the ceiling, and anyone who'd been in the room watching for more than a
few seconds.
Thewlis saw Neeson staring wide-eyed at the unfortunate slave's dark, curly
hair, and decided they were done. He grabbed the man's forearm and hauled him
out.
He shoved Neeson into an empty corner with orders to close his eyes and
breathe, and got out his phone.
No signal.
He scowled, then remembered the aluminum-clad outer walls. Right -- the place
had been built some decades before every customer expected to be able to get a
cell phone signal 24/7.
Which might be a coincidence, or might mean the place had been deliberately
chosen as one where stolen slaves could be used without Commerce being able to
ping their chips. He definitely needed to make that call.
His employer in tow once more, Thewlis headed toward one of the periphery
walls. He'd come to this store with his mother when he was a kid and
remembered... right, there it was -- a set of bathrooms along the outer wall.
He remembered they had windows; it'd been the first time he'd ever seen those
frosted glass bricks.
There was no sign up, and no lights; the club runners obviously preferred
people use the restrooms toward the center of the store near the escalators.
Thewlis headed straight for the other set, though, making it clear he knew
where he was going and no one objected. He and Lord Neeson went in without
being hassled and were alone in the pitch-black room.
"Is there a reason for being here?" his Lordship asked in a low voice.
"I need to get a phone signal. There's a window in here." Thewlis pulled a
small flashlight out of his pocket and switched it on, then crossed the room
and started feeling around the edge of the window.
"Why didn't we just leave, then?"
"Because, My Lord, the pair of us rather stand out. I don't want anyone in this
crowd to remember that we came in, stayed less than an hour, and then left
shortly before the police arrived."
Neeson nodded and followed him across the room. He started poking at the glass
bricks on the other side of the window, working his way up, higher than Thewlis
could reach. "Here," he said. "I think I can get this one out, the mortar's all
rotted."
"Excellent." Thewlis pulled out his phone again and typed in a text message to
a certain detective with the local PD. Lord Neeson set one of the glass bricks
down on the floor, then reached up again and pushed hard on the piece of
plywood fastened over the window on the outside. It'd been there for quite a
while, and it wasn't at all improbable that some of the locals had tried to pry
it off some time in the past. A few good shoves and several nails gave with a
crunch-creak, letting the wood swing away from the wall by a few inches.
Thewlis reached up with his phone, saw that he had a signal, and hit "Send."
"There, that'll do it. The cavalry will be arriving within a few minutes. Let's
go have a drink and wait for them. I don't know about you, but after seeing
that boy, I could use a Scotch."
Neeson nodded and they both went back to the main area and up to one of the
bars.
After he knocked back the glass Thewlis had fetched for him, Neeson muttered,
"Ambulance coming?"
Thewlis looked away and said, "No. Or rather, yes, they'll have a couple
waiting. The boy's nearly dead, though; he's lost far too much blood and the
rate of loss will only increase as they continue cutting him. By the time help
arrives, it'll be too late."
Of course, there were varying values of "late." For a free man, particularly
one with money, they'd likely have time to pump in a few units of blood, along
with enough drugs to keep him stable until they hit a hospital and could get
him in for emergency surgery, probably the first of several rounds. For a
slave, particularly a slave whose master was in jail, or who'd been stolen long
enough ago that he was essentially off the books, no one would bother. Commerce
would cut its losses and move on, focusing more on prosecuting the
(temporarily) free offender than on salvaging the merchandise. Emergency
workers knew the policy and wouldn't try any heroic measures unless there was
an owner or a Commerce agent standing right there giving orders and authorizing
payment.
Neeson gave him a hard stare and said, "You're damn cold about all this."
"After a while one becomes hardened to it.," Thewlis replied. "I don't like it,
but I couldn't do my job otherwise."
"I suppose." Neeson stared off into the crowd, looking both thoughtful and
angry, and Thewlis left him alone until the police came bursting in from all
sides. They had riot gear and bullhorns, and Thewlis made sure he and his
employer obeyed their orders explicitly until things had calmed down to a more
orderly clean-up operation.
By the time he spotted his contact, who eventually pulled them out of the
processing line, they'd seen a good fifteen injured slaves helped or carried
out, plus two bodies. Detective Juarez steered them outside and into a dark
patch of parking lot.
"What do you know about this operation, Thewlis? We got some weird stuff going
on."
"Very little, I'm afraid," Thewlis said. "I heard through a contact -- friend
of a friend of a friend sort of thing -- that the club would be here. My
employer is searching for a stolen slave, and I suspect the sort of people who
run these clubs would be likely to buy on the black market. Even Commerce would
never stand for some of what we saw inside."
"And just who's your employer?" asked Juarez, eyeing Neeson up and down with
the typical suspicion of a long-time cop.
Thewlis squeezed Neeson's arm and said, "His Lordship will be happy to give you
his name, but would prefer it be kept out of official records if possible."
Juarez snorted and said, "Great, just what I need on top of everything else.
So, name?"
"William Elliot Neeson." His Lordship pulled a wallet out of an inside pocket
of his jacket and handed his driver's license to the detective, who tucked it
between two fingers while copying info into his notebook.
"Heh. Bill-E? Will-E? Your parents weren't thinking much ahead, were they?"
Neeson gave him an unamused glare down his nose and said, "It's Liam,
actually."
Juarez ignored the attitude and said, "Sure, that works." He finished writing
and handed the card back. "All right, the department appreciates the call and
all, but I doubt there's anything here for you. You can stay and eyeball
everyone we bring out if you want, but so far none of the employees are
actually slaves. They all have brands, probably faked, but none of 'em are
chipped. They're likely just playing slave to add to the thrill, jack up the
price some."
"None of them have chips?" Thewlis asked sharply. He scowled and wondered what
was going on. Something had to be wrong because he couldn't imagine free
employees agreeing to some of what'd gone on inside.
Of course, black market slaves weren't always legally slaves. Runaways,
homeless, prostitutes and other bottom-feeders -- it wasn't unknown for gangs
to pick them up, people who wouldn't be missed or whose associates didn't have
enough power to chance a complaint, and just declare them slaves. A good tattoo
artist could probably fake up the brand pattern well enough, for enough cash,
and most people had never seen a real one up close.
Although there was a simpler solution....
"None so far," said Juarez with a shrug. "Like I said, you can stick around
just in case, but don't get in the way."
"If it wouldn't be any trouble, may I see one or two of the non-slaves up
close?"
Juarez gave him a hard glare. "You got an idea? What's up?"
"I thought of another possibility. Let's look for scars."
"Scars? From--?" Juarez stopped and scowled.
"A scar?" Neeson, who'd been looking distracted since Juarez had said there
were no slaves in the group, straightened up and stared over at the scuttle of
activity near the lights and vans. "Like from an incision to remove a chip?
Orlando's chip never showed up on scans. They could've removed it so he
couldn't be found."
"Exactly," Thewlis said, nodding. "Detective?"
"I'll go look. You two stay here." Juarez headed off, not quite running.
"So Orlando could still be here," Neeson said. Thewlis could tell he wanted to
charge right over and start tearing through the huddled slaves, searching. The
man had more self-control than Thewlis would've expected, under the
circumstances.
"Possibly." Or possibly the operation had just gotten bigger. He definitely
needed to talk to Nick Cage.
***** Chapter 15 *****
Liam had never really noticed before how much of the room was taken up with
body-slaves. It made sense, of course; they were almost half the occupants.
Everyone present in the hotel ballroom, except for the catering staff, had a
body-slave nearby.
Everyone except him, of course.
Someone had asked. There always had to be someone who'd ask, despite how rude
it was.
"So, Neeson, where's your boy?"
"Not with me tonight," had been his short, chilly answer. Perfectly obvious,
but more of a reply than the idiot deserved.
Liam hadn't wanted to go that night, but of course he had. It was for an
excellent cause and he was on the foundation's board and he didn't have
anything close to a decent excuse to stay home, so he'd managed to dress
himself, since Johnny was in Dallas for next two days, and sat in the back of
the car brooding while Javier drove him.
He confined himself to a single glass of wine before dinner and another one
during. He knew that if he didn't discipline himself, it'd be too easy to fall
into a drunken melancholy during which he'd likely say any number of ludicrous
things and embarrass himself in some spectacular way.
It was difficult, but he managed. Of course he did -- he was a Neeson and any
alternative was unthinkable.
Being without Orlando made him more aware of the other body-slaves in the room,
though. There was a wide variety in presentation -- how the slaves were
dressed, how they held themselves, how their masters treated them. Some were in
evening clothes, tuxedos and evening gowns calculated to set off their owners'
outfits. Some were dressed more simply, like a fantasy version of Slave Togs:
short velvet dresses, clingy silk shorts and tunics, gold-strapped sandals.
Then there were the more outlandish costumes designed solely to attract
attention, like Roday's latest pair, decked out in eye-blindingly bright harem-
girl and -boy outfits, with enough precious metals and glittering gems to
outfit a flea market stall. The one saving grace was that they hadn't brought
any animals with them.
There was the usual abundance of slinky (two-legged) cats, complete with ears
and tails, and occasionally with only ears and tails. A few puppies in bright
collars and one plumed pony rounded out the play-animals, but there were other
slaves on the floor -- some who walked beside their owners and knelt whenever
they stopped, and others who crawled everywhere.
Liam had never been one for that sort of display at a formal event, but he
could generally appreciate a nice ass well presented.
Generally. They weren't doing much for him at the moment, though.
Dinner was up to standard but unspectacular, and everyone at his table had the
manners to ignore the empty spot on the floor beside him. After the dinner
dishes were cleared away, Liam made his speech, thanking the donors and
praising the At Bay Foundation's work cleaning up the Bay Area's wetlands, then
sat down. His applause was automatic through the rest of the speeches and after
the presentation given by the ABF's operations director. Once the dessert
plates had been cleared, he started counting the minutes until he could
gracefully leave.
Ten minutes short of his goal, he was standing to one side talking with a few
acquaintances when two men behind him mentioned his name in overly-loud,
slightly-drunken voices.
"--surprised Neeson doesn't have a slave with him. Is he one of those?"
"No, not at all! He has a gorgeous, dark-haired boy with cheekbones to kill
for. And a brain in his head -- Greg tells me the boy is a first-rate
assistant. Maybe not quite a boy anymore, getting a little old for the job, but
I'd tap that and go away happy, I'll tell you."
"You haven't? Neeson doesn't share, then?"
"Hardly ever and only when he's present himself. You know you've made his inner
circle when he lets you touch Orlando."
The other man laughed and said, "Well, keep working on it, you might still get
lucky!" Then they both laughed and Liam heard glasses clinking.
Lord Jobs gave Liam a sardonic smile and said, his voice just a touch loud, "I
have a feeling that one's never going to be a member of your 'inner circle,'
Liam."
Liam smirked back at him, then turned around and faced one man he recognized
and one he didn't. Both were staring at him in aghast social panic. He gave
them a cold stare down his nose, barely allowing one corner of his mouth to
quirk into a smile to match lord Jobs's, and lifted his glass to them before
turning back to his previous conversation.
He wanted to punch both of them, and especially the unfortunate Mr. Carver. Not
only for speaking disrespectfully of him, too loudly and in public, but because
he'd have to stay at least an extra half hour so as not to give the impression
that he was leaving because of them.
He wanted to go home. He wanted to check in with Thewlis. He wanted to just
drive around, searching.
Instead he sipped his drink and debated with Jobs, Raymond and MacDonald about
Eastwood's run for governor.
 
It was hard to count the days, so Orlando didn't know how long it'd been since
the janitor had promised to contact his master. It seemed like at least a month
-- a year! -- but he knew it couldn't have been that long, not really.
Actually, once he thought about it, it probably wasn't even two weeks.
He tried to remember how many meals he'd had. He'd started counting them but
they came irregularly, and he'd lost track after ten anyway. So it'd been more
than ten meals, but not twenty. But sometimes he didn't get fed for a while -
- and in fact it'd been a long time since his last feeding and that'd only been
a granola bar -- so he had no idea how long it'd been. Maybe the janitor just
hadn't had an opportunity to talk to him? Or maybe Master Liam was working on
getting him back and the janitor figured he didn't need to tell him because
he'd be out soon?
Orlando was huddled on the concrete floor of his cell, his arms wrapped around
his legs, trying to keep warm. He'd never really thought about the cold before.
He'd lived in California all his life, and while he did need shoes and socks
and a jacket to go outside in winter, he'd never before tried to sleep when it
was too cold, right there, in the room with him. He was tired and chilled,
groggy with fatigue but kept awake by the shivers.
He wondered whether he was even still in California.
Maybe they'd taken him somewhere else. He had no idea how long he'd been out
when they'd drugged him that first time.
For that matter, he had no idea whether he'd really been drugged. His memories
of that day were fuzzy and it was fading, like something he'd seen or heard
about or dreamed.
The door to his cell opened and Mr. Anderson came in. Orlando tensed and
scrambled back to huddle against the wall. He knew it was pointless but
couldn't help it.
That day, though, Mr. Anderson just clipped a leash to his collar and said,
"Come." Orlando stood up on creaky-cold joints and followed him out into the
corridor and down to the training room.
The usual routine was to lock him to the wall and beat on him until he was
willing to say his name was David. It took a while, but he'd been giving in
more and more quickly. Bruises on top of bruises built up, along with cuts and
scrapes and what felt like a cracked rib, and Orlando just couldn't take very
much anymore.
This time, though, Anderson just pointed to a spot in the middle of the floor
and said, "Kneel." Orlando walked over and sank into a kneeling present without
even thinking about it, his hands resting on his thighs, palms up.
"Hands at your sides," Anderson said. "Knees closer together."
That was... well, weird, but Orlando obeyed anyway. Maybe Commerce trained
slaves differently? Or maybe they didn't want him to be a body-slave? He was
kind of old for it, if they thought he'd be just starting out. Thirty-one -
- the same age Johnny'd been when Master Liam had retired him to Agent, and
Johnny'd said it was just as well--
His wandering memory was interrupted by a smack on the back of the head. It
didn't hurt much, but startled him back to the there-and-then.
"Pay attention," said Mr. Anderson. "We're trying something new." He picked up
a plastic bowl from a table and dragged a chair over, then sat in front of
Orlando with the bowl on his lap. "You haven't eaten for a while and I imagine
you're getting hungry. I have food here." He held up a grape, and tipped the
bowl to show Orlando that it was full of cut-up fruit. "When you tell me what I
want to hear, you get to eat. If you don't, you don't. Simple."
Orlando glared up at him and clamped his mouth shut.
"Oh, come on," said Anderson, his voice light and coaxing. "What difference do
the words make? At this point I don't care whether you believe it or not, I
just want to hear it. You can pretend you're an actor if you want, saying lines
for a play. Or you can think about how smart you are, manipulating me into
feeding you when actually my clever scheme to get you to accept your true
identity isn't working at all. Whatever works for you. I just need to hear you
say your real name, and then you get to eat."
"My real name is Orlando Bloom."
"Wrong." Anderson ate the grape and fished a slice of banana out of the bowl.
"Try again."
Orlando was hungry. He didn't know how long it'd been since he'd last eaten,
but it'd been longer than his stomach liked. And he could smell the fruit; the
sweetness drifting through the air made his mouth water. He swallowed hard and
said, "Orlando."
"Wrong again." Anderson ate the banana slice. Next out of the bowl was a chunk
of apple. It was neatly cored and sliced, with the dappled red skin still on,
its flesh white and fresh-looking with no sign of brown.
He whispered, "Orlando," and the apple slice vanished.
They worked their way through the fruit -- pitted cherries and slices of peach
and chunks of pineapple. Anderson ate each piece himself, apparently just as
happy to have it. Finally they were down to one last piece, another grape.
"This is it," Mr. Anderson said. He tipped the bowl again to show Orlando that
it contained only juice. "Sure you're not hungry?"
Throughout the whole process he hadn't hit Orlando at all, except for the light
smack on the head to get his attention. He hadn't shown any anger or even
annoyance. He wasn't fighting, just making an offer; it was up to Orlando to
take the deal or not.
He wanted to. His stomach was twisting with hunger, so close to the fruit and
having to watch it disappear piece by piece. And it really didn't matter what
he said. He knew who he was, and Anderson had even said he didn't care what
Orlando thought or believed.
Anderson was watching him, studying him. He interrupted Orlando's internal
agonizing by waving the grape slightly and saying, "Don't want it, then?" and
started to eat it.
Orlando blurted out, "David Timothy Grant!" then froze, wide-eyed, and hated
himself for giving in.
"Very good!" Mr. Anderson's smile was warm and his voice full of praise. He
held out the grape and fed it to Orlando. He could feel Mr. Anderson's warm
fingers against his lips while he took the grape, bit into it and felt the
juice, tasted the sweetness.
"That was excellent. Say it one more time and you can clean the bowl." Anderson
put the plastic bowl down on the floor. There was at least an inch of syrupy
juice in it, with a few shreds of pulp floating in it. The rich, sugary scent
was overwhelming.
Orlando said, "David Timothy Grant" one more time, then pushed his face into
the bowl without waiting for permission. He didn't even think about using his
hands, he just cleaned the bowl with his tongue like a dog, savoring every
drop, not caring that his face was sticky by the time he was done, and a few
strands of hair were gooped up with juice.
Anderson's hand was patting his head and a voice was telling him he was a good
boy. He polished the bowl and hoped his master got him out soon.
***** Chapter 16 *****
Thewlis met with Nick Cage at his office. It was on the twenty-seventh story of
a twenty-nine story building, and unlike most executive offices Thewlis had
ever been in, Nick's didn't have any windows. It was both rich looking and
functional, with good furniture well used, and nothing useless just for show.
"Remember Musgrave? Dropped out in his sophomore year? He's a contractor now,"
said Cage. He gestured for Thewlis to have a seat on a chic sofa across the
room from Cage's messy desk, while settling into an armchair himself. "He did
the place for me. I told him I wanted this block of rooms to be built like a
bank vault. It was expensive, and took some extra support on the floor below,
but it's worth it. We have bug-zappers and scanners all around, and above and
below. And if Big Brother doesn't like it he can kiss my ass.
"So, what's up, Dave?"
Thewlis leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers
together. This wasn't exactly a topic one brought up with a stranger. Cage
wasn't a stranger but he wasn't exactly a friend either; they'd hardly spoken
at all since Berkeley. He decided that circling around a little would be the
best way to start. "I'm working on a case, a missing slave."
"You chasing runaways now?" Cage's voice was hard and neutral, and Thewlis
could see his body language shutting down while he watched.
"No, never," he assured him. "This is something else. A man was kidnapped out
of a parking lot, just vanished. Everyone who knows him, including his mother
and his sister, swear -- without their owner or any flunky of his listening -
- that Orlando was deliriously happy and would've left his master only at
gunpoint."
"Nice brainwashing job."
"Maybe," Thewlis admitted. "I'll admit I don't really understand it. Lord
Neeson's a hard man and I can't imagine he's easy to get close to."
"Neeson? Huh."
"You know him?"
"I know of him. Seen him at a few events. Our business has never overlapped and
I don't think I've ever spoken with him. You hear things, though, if you
listen."
"Anything interesting?"
"To you? Probably not." Cage shrugged and stared at the wall past Thewlis's
shoulder for a few seconds. "He can be a real bastard if you cross him. Guy
named Cotter -- owned TSP? -- tried to force a buy-out of one of his companies
behind his back some years ago. The usual bribes and under-the-table crap.
Neeson marshalled the troops and saved his company, then drove the guy into
bankruptcy four years later. And beat the crap out of him. Cotter's a slave now
and Neeson walked away with a broken nose and a respectful talking-to."
Thewlis could imagine Neeson doing exactly that, actually. "Not one to go
through channels," he said with a nod.
Cage snorted out a laugh. "That's an understatement. He rules his little
kingdom with an iron fist, and everyone had better bow when he walks by. Things
go his way, always, and if they don't want to then he forces it. He's not one
to sit by and let the system work."
"Which is why he hired me, when the police already have a detective assigned to
the case. Or had -- I've gotten the impression they've filed it as unsolveable
and have moved on to other things, although they haven't told his Lordship so
in so many words yet."
"Yeah, I don't imagine that'd sit very well with him."
There was a pause, then Thewlis asked, "So, is he on the A-list?"
Cage's face closed again, shifting into a perfectly neutral mask. "Assuming we
were still in college, getting stoned and playing at abolition?" He shrugged
and shook his head. "No, he wouldn't be. He's a hard-ass but I've never heard
any rumors that he's any worse of a slave owner than anyone else. I sure as
hell wouldn't want to belong to him, but he doesn't buy seven-year-old body-
slaves to 'finish their training himself,' and the only times dead slaves are
carried off his place is when they were old and known to be heading downhill
anyway, or after verifiable accidents, and only two of those since he took over
from his father."
"So you have been keeping an eye on him."
"He's a slave owner," said Cage, with an exaggeratedly casual shrug. "Isn't it
the duty of every citizen of conscience to look out for the welfare of those
who cannot look out for themselves?"
Thewlis smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Most people would say no, that it's
Commerce's job to look out for the slaves they own and everyone else's job to
mind their own business and not make trouble."
"Yeah, well, fuck that." Cage leaned forward and said, "I didn't actually know
much about Neeson myself until a couple of days ago. When you called, I did
some checking on you and his name came up as part of that. What do you want,
Thewlis?"
So, enough polite chat then. "I told you I'm searching for this lost slave of
Neeson's. I don't hold out much hope of finding him, but while looking I've
found something disturbing. You remember what we used to talk about? Trying to
figure out a way of taking slaves out of the system so they could have regular
lives again? Maybe not their own lives, but still, a new start and a fresh
chance."
Cage just watched him, so Thewlis went on. "Neeson and I were at an underground
club, one of the mobile ones? They were set up in an abandoned building. They
were doing things to slaves in there that...." He paused and closed his eyes
for a moment. "Things even Commerce wouldn't allow." He looked at Cage and
said, "Except when the police got there and started sorting things out, they
didn't seem to be slaves. There were brands but no chips, and they assumed the
brands were faked, to add to the 'thrill' of the scene by pretending they had
slaves for people to tear up.
"But that didn't sound right. There was no way free people would've allowed
some of that, they couldn't have been just employees."
"Organized crime isn't always picky about where it gets its 'slaves,'" Cage
pointed out.
"Yes, I know that. But still, it didn't feel right. They checked, and more than
half the fake slaves turned out to have incision scars which were unexplainable
unless they'd had chips removed."
"Huh." Cage scowled, looking thoughtful. "I guess it's not impossible that
someone else thought of removing them. I mean, they're right there below the
skin."
"No, not impossible," Thewlis agreed. "But odd. Buttons were used for
decoration for centuries before anyone invented the buttonhole. Just because an
idea is obvious once you've thought of it doesn't mean people will think of it
right away."
Cage rolled his eyes. "You always knew the weirdest shit."
"You'd be amazed how often it helps," Thewlis retorted. "And it's frustrating
how often it doesn't. The easiest explanation, though, is that someone who was
with us when we came up with the idea passed it along to others who don't share
our ideals."
"Do you still hold those ideals?"
Thewlis sighed and looked Cage straight in the eyes. "I believe slavery is
inherently wrong, yes. I won't take jobs to track runaways, and I won't work
for A-lister types. Other than that, I'm not active."
"Huh. Well, none of us are 'active' so far as that goes."
"There don't seem to be any good options, no," Thewlis agreed. "But do you know
of anyone who might have become completely disillusioned?"
"You mean anyone who might've decided that pulling slaves off the grid to sell
to the underground worked out better for him personally than pulling them off
and trying to smuggle them out or set them up with new identities? I'll admit
that one's an income producer and the other's a money sink, but...." He paused
and scowled again. "I just hate to think that any of the guys could've turned
completely around. It's one thing to drift away from the ideals and start
swapping body-slaves with the other assholes who treat them like fuck dolls
with a pulse, but to actually go that far? Sucks, man."
"So who's the least unlikely? I remember Michael got into a lot of arguments at
meetings -- maybe he soured on the whole thing?"
Cage frowned, then shook his head. "I don't think so. He and Aaron got into it
a lot, yeah, but that was just Michael being all intense about his computers
and Aaron jabbing him about it. Turns out Michael was right after all."
"True," Thewlis agreed, "but only to a point. Commerce has their system sewn up
tight and anyone caught even trying to break in ends up as just another record
in their database."
"Sure, but there are other ways." Cage made a throwing-away motion and said,
"If you're trying to get a slave set up with a new ident, there are a lot of
other places a hacker can help you out; you don't need to crack Commerce."
"Still," Thewlis persisted, "maybe the disappointment? The one unbeatable
challenge, one too dangerous to even try?"
"I suppose anything is possible, but I don't think so. If you're trying to
figure out who's running this show, I don't think Michael had it in him. He was
a great code jock, but didn't have a lot of sense for real world planning."
"So in a way, Aaron was right as well."
Cage grinned and shook his head. "Nah, not really. He thought Michael was great
-- he just loved to twist his tail. They'd get going like World War Three,
remember? Aaron kept score by how loud they ended up. Poor Marty ended up
getting ear plugs. He said it was that or murder the lot of us."
Thewlis laughed at the memory of Cage's hapless roommate, always doing his best
to ignore whatever was going on around him and focus on the next paper or exam.
"I don't know if I'd even remember what he looked like. He was always buried in
a book."
"Hell, I always figured he'd do better than any of us. He actually focused on
his classes instead of fucking off like we did. I think he ended up becoming
some hot-shot plastic surgeon."
Thewlis remembered the earnest, passionate discussions and sank back down out
of their laughing memories. "I never thought of it as fucking off at the time,"
he said, his voice quiet once more. "We were so sure we were going to change
the world."
"Yeah, well, long history of that at Berkeley." Cage paused and stared at the
wall for a few moments, then said, "Cam never struck me as all that dedicated.
He was a decent guy, but I always got the impression he was just there to try
to get into Van's pants."
A quick run through a handful of memories of Cam had Thewlis nodding slowly.
"You're right, although I hadn't thought of it that way before. He seemed like
a good guy, though. Not really dedicated to the cause, no, but not the kind of
bastard who'd get his kicks out of abusing slaves or sending them out to be
abused."
"I wouldn't have thought so either," said Cage, "but that was a long time ago
and he could've changed. I mean, I seriously can't imagine any of the old crowd
turning this far, but if it's someone then Cam's as good a candidate as anyone.
It's just that no one's a good candidate."
"No, but it just seems it has to be one of us. Everything together -- didn't
Aaron come up with the idea of using an electronic fence? When I brought up the
problem of slaves we'd taken not understanding and maybe trying to escape from
us and taking down the whole operation?"
Cage nodded. "Right, Aaron'd had a dog back home and his dad had put up one of
those fences. He thought it could help keep the people we grabbed hunkered down
until we could explain things and find a permanent place for them."
"That club we took down was using that idea with their slaves. In fact, a lot
of the underground clubs use it, only they crank up the amperage until any
slave who goes near the wire is left all but dead."
"A lot of people could've come up with that, though."
"I know, I know." Thewlis closed his eyes and leaned back, frustrated that he
couldn't explain the hunch he was riding. "And other people could've come up
with the other things too. But everything, all together? Maybe, but I don't
think so. It just feels like there's a connection."
"Well, I'll do some poking around and see where everyone is and what they're up
to," Cage said. "I hope you're wrong, but if you're not, I agree we need to
take care of this."
***** Chapter 17 *****
He memorized David's personal data -- full name, old address and phone number
(because obviously he didn't live there anymore), social security number and
birthday and parents' names, and learned to pick out photos of his house and
his parents -- in exchange for two more bowls of fruit, one bite at a time, on
two separate days. Or at least two separate meals.
He memorized David's job title, and the address and phone number of the store
he'd worked at, and his boss's name and his co-worker's names, and learned to
recognize photos of the store and his boss and his co-workers, in exchange for
bites of a ham and cheddar sandwich.
He memorized the details of David's debt, the time period when he'd driven to
Mr. Csokas's casino just over the border and played, the specific dates when
he'd signed promissory notes for larger and larger sums so he could keep
playing, the lies David had told on the applications for those notes and the
name of the friend who'd answered the phone and played the part of his boss to
confirm the falsely exaggerated employment which had led Mr. Csokas to continue
lending him money, over a series of dinners -- pork chops and steak and fried
chicken, baked potatoes and rice pilaf and mac-and-cheese, steamed green beans
and honeyed carrots and broccoli parmesan.
Orlando was feeling comfortably full most of the time, in contrast with his
first however long at Commerce. And the pain had been fading, too; the bruises
were hardly visible and his ribs didn't ache anymore when he sat up or twisted.
And he was pretty sure he was hanging on to his Orlando identity, despite
everything. He'd gotten used to saying his David name, and reciting David's
information on request, but it hadn't really changed who he was inside. He felt
the same as he always had, and he could still bring up Master Liam's face out
of his memory, and his mother and Samantha.
Yes, he was answering to David, and practicing telling people that he was
David, and everyone he came into contact with at the Commerce center -- not
that there were many, but anyone who did talk to him -- knew him as David.
And once or twice he'd caught himself thinking of himself as David, but that
was just habit. It didn't mean anything, really. It was just that he was going
along to get fed to keep his energy up, not getting beaten and letting himself
get strong again. That just made sense, right?
He still had no way of tracking time, but at that moment he was pretty sure
it'd been a while since he'd been fed, long enough that it was time for another
session, so when the door to his cell opened, he wasn't afraid, at least not at
first. Not until he saw the janitor following Mr. Anderson in.
Orlando pressed back against the cold concrete wall without ever making a
conscious choice to do it. Seeing the two of them together, both of them
together and staring at him meant... meant something which couldn't possibly be
real and so his higher brain functions just shut down while his animal brain
shrank back and searched for an escape route which didn't exist.
Mr. Anderson said, without looking at the janitor, still staring down at
Orlando, "Tell David what you told me."
The janitor gave Anderson a nervous glance, then scowled down at Orlando. "I
told him how you told me you already had a master, that you told me to call him
and I said I wouldn't and you said--" He stumbled to a stop and muttered under
his breath, then said, "You know what you did. Anyway, I e-mailed that Lord
Neeson like you said and his answer near blew out my screen! He said I had a
lotta nerve for bothering him and that he wasn't interested in anything I had
to say, nor any ideas I might have for getting money out of 'im." He sneered
and looked like he'd have spat on the floor if his boss hadn't been standing
right there. "So what've you got to say to that, then?"
Orlando was shaking his head, his eyes wide and his mouth barely open. He'd
been expecting it -- from the minute they'd walked in together he'd been
expecting it but it was still impossible, he couldn't force himself to believe
that there was any world at all where Master Liam would deny him like that.
"It couldn't -- I mean, he wouldn't have.... What did you say? Did you give him
my name? Did you tell him you know where I am, by name--?"
"David, stop." Mr. Anderson waved an impatient hand at him. "Just stop. You've
had this fantasy since you came here about your fairy-tale lord who'd come
charging in and rescue you and you've refused to let go of it no matter what
we've done. I was willing to let you realize in your own time that the real
world is the only one there is and that it's in your own best interests to
accept that and learn to deal with your new life. But now you've involved Mr.
Schmidt in your fantasies and have even gotten him to go behind my back for
you. I'm going to have to let him go now because of your selfish delusions. I
hope you realize that whatever hardship he or his family face now is all your
doing."
Before Orlando could say a word, the janitor rounded on Mr. Anderson. "What?
You're firing me?! You didn't say I was fired! I came and told you, I could've
just kept quiet but I told you--!"
"You plotted with a slave behind my back. I can't have you here any longer."
Anderson sounded completely unmoved by the other man's upset.
"You bastard! You bring me in here all calm-like and all that time you knew you
were gonna can me!"
"You can't possibly have expected to keep your job after this."
"If it'd turned out this was some kinda mistake and that lord had come sweeping
in here all grateful that we'd found his body-slave, you'd've been happy enough
that I'd done it!"
Anderson gave him a patronizing smile. "I suppose I might have. But it wasn't
and he didn't and you're still fired." He looked over his shoulder, toward the
still-open door, and said, "Security?"
A large man in a grey uniform with a walkie-talkie and some kind of club on his
belt walked in and stood behind the janitor.
"Take Mr. Schmidt to gather his things and only his things, then escort him to
his car." To the janitor, Anderson said, "You'll receive your final check and
dismissal paperwork in the mail."
He turned and faced Orlando once more, ignoring the muttered cursing of the
janitor on his way out. The security man followed him and closed the door
behind them.
"Now," said Mr. Anderson. "As for you. I realize this transition period has
been hard for you. I've done my best to make it easier for you recently and I
thought perhaps we'd been making progress. No matter what you think, however, I
need you to understand that this was your one and only chance to act out.
"If you attempt to suborn any other of the employees here, if you make any
attempt to run away or cause any more trouble at all, I'll sell you directly to
a toxic clean-up team where you'll soon have no hair, no teeth and be so
covered in radiation burns and oozing sores that even that fantasy-master in
your dreams would turn away from you. We'd lose money on the deal, but I just
lost money today because of you, having to fire and replace a custodian. The
clean-up teams don't require any training and I'd be able to get you off my
hands and out of my facility immediately, cutting my losses. You do not want to
convince me that that's the most economical solution to this problem.
"Do you understand?"
Orlando swallowed hard, but before he could answer or even think of an answer,
Anderson snapped, "I said, do - you - understand?"
"Yes!" Orlando had meant to yell but it came out a gasping whine. He coughed
and blinked and rubbed his eyes, as though trying to clear away whatever it was
that was blocking him from perceiving the real world because what he'd been
hearing and seeing and experiencing couldn't be it.
Could it?
Anderson said, "I'll leave you to think about that, then. I'll be back later
and I'll expect you to be perfectly cooperative." He turned and left, leaving
Orlando alone.
Or was it David?
In the world Orlando had lived in, it was absolutely impossible that his master
would ever repudiate him, would ever disown him or reject him or fail to come
get him if he got lost. It was the keystone of his universe and without it, the
rest crumbled.
But it had happened, so what did that mean?
It had been so long -- unbearably long. He only saw Master Liam in his dreams,
or in his waking fantasies when he was alone and wishing that this was all a
dream. But it wasn't, and it was pretty clear that it wasn't just a mistake, it
wasn't something that'd gone wrong and would be fixed.
Where he was right there was the real world, as real as the concrete under his
ass and behind his shoulders, as real as the healing sores and the hungry ache
in his stomach.
And the rest...?
He remembered spending a lot of time on computers. That made sense, since he'd
sold them for a living. He remembered his mother in the kitchen, and his sister
in the garden -- that was normal. That was the kind of memory a normal person
had. Slaves didn't have their mothers and sisters with them.
He remembered going to Las Vegas at least a couple of times. He remembered
flying there, and doing some business and going to the hotels and walking
through the casinos. He didn't remember gambling, but if he'd lost a lot of
money, if his gambling really had led to so much debt that he'd been enslaved,
then maybe... maybe he'd just buried the memory? People did that with things
they couldn't face, didn't they?
He remembered Master Liam, tall and strong, caring but stern. He remembered
learning to ride and fish, going for walks together, sharing sandwiches out on
the lawn while the ducks landed on the lake. He remembered Master Liam in the
kitchen, stealing cookies from behind his mother's back. He remembered Master
Liam so frightened and angry when he took Palisade out--
--like a father. He remembered the tall, handsome man spending time with him
and teaching him and indulging him all his life, letting him tag along after
him whenever he was home, just like a busy father who was away on business a
lot would indulge a son he didn't see often, spending time with him when he
could.
That man, the one in his dreams -- was that his father? Had he taken the image
of the father he loved and somehow twisted it in his imagination into a... a
lover? Someone who'd love him and take care of him and protect him, even now,
when he was thirty-one and old enough that he should be able to take care of
himself? If he'd really done something as stupid as gambling himself into debt
and into slavery, was he imagining now that his father would come and save him
and carry him away and make it all better, like he had when he'd been small?
And what did it say about him that he saw his father as a lover?
He moaned and curled up into himself. It couldn't be true, but neither could
the other. It had to be a fantasy because his master would always come for him,
but he hadn't so it wasn't real, it was just something he'd imagined because he
couldn't face what a fuck-up he'd been so he'd spun stories to himself about
this fairy-tale land and it was all in his head, he'd dreamed it to give
himself a place to escape to because being a slave whose master loved him was
better than being an idiot who'd gamble himself into slavery and got himself
sold to clean up toxic waste because he was so stupid he couldn't even remember
which world was real and which one only existed inside his useless head!
David sank down into the corner and shivered in the cold until he fell into an
exhausted, dream-wracked sleep.
 
Marton watched through the monitor while David fought to comprehend what was
happening to him. He could tell the exact moment when the young man broke, when
he turned away from his real memories and accepted the life Marton had created
for him. Finally.
He nodded to Anderson and said, "There, with any luck that'll be it. Keep up
the dosage -- a hundred fifty milligrams per day for one more week should do
it. Then if the graft is healed sufficiently, you can sell him any time.
Anderson nodded and said, "Not a problem. Another week on that stuff and he
won't be able to remember why he ever thought his memories were real. I'll let
him stew for a couple of hours, then head in with another meal and run through
the routine again."
"Good." Marton slugged down the last of a cup of coffee and tossed the empty
into a nearby trash can. "So, next up. I've got a boy at the office who's
cooperating, luckily. He agrees that no one could be worse than his previous
owner and is happy to have a vacation before trying his luck again. He's
healing up well -- another three weeks and he should be ready to sell."
"Great." Anderson gave him a wry smile. "I'd just as soon not try to juggle two
problem children at once."
"But you're so good at it," Marton teased.
"That's why you pay me the big bucks."
"I certainly do, to say nothing of the bonus you have coming. Speaking of
which, I've decided not to renew on the new place after next month. When I'm
done there, we'll pack everything into the trucks and leave them in the back
lot right here; where you take them to set up next is up to you."
"I thought you needed another target after the one you've got now?" Anderson
asked.
"I do, and we brought her in yesterday. She came through surgery just fine and
is still out. But she shouldn't take more than six weeks to be ready to sell,
even under Plan A, so letting the new place go in seven weeks won't be a
problem. And if she's Plan B, then she'll be here in a couple of weeks anyway."
Marton shrugged. "If that's the case then I'll just pack up and move in here
for the last month. Then I'll be gone and it's all yours."
"Nice of you not to try to make me buy in," Anderson said. His voice was
neutral, suspicious even, and Marton gave a mental sigh.
"I figured all the start-up costs when I set my goal, and these last three
slaves'll give me that. I don't need you to buy me out, although if you
insist...? No?" He grinned and shrugged. "Fine. I don't need to gouge you and
you don't need to think of some way to kill me to avoid being gouged. Win-win,
right?"
Anderson snorted. "Hey, if you're good with it then I'm not complaining."
"Excellent. I'll be heading back, then. Let me know if there are any problems
with David."
"Will do."
Marton waved and left.
***** Chapter 18 *****
"That's all fine, but what exactly are we supposed to do now?" Clooney's
assistant, Margulies, tapped her blunt-filed fingers on the table and looked
around at the gathering. "Assuming we're right and somewhere between half and
two-thirds of the owners represented here actually have been victims of a slave
theft, now what? Is there any point to it besides sharing and support-group?"
A few of the other owners scowled at the woman, but Liam approved of people who
focused on business and getting things done.
"First," he said, "we keep spreading the word that this is indeed happening.
The silence and secrecy is making it far too easy for the thieves -- no one's
even chasing them. No one's investigating, no one's watching for them or taking
precautions against theft. Let's at least make them work for it."
"So, what then?" asked Mark Vincent. "The chips were supposed to let Commerce
track any slave who disappeared. If the thieves are popping the chips, then
what -- do I have to buy a bodyguard to follow Max around whenever he's running
errands?
"And what about my kids?" put in Lord Smith. "I've always let my body-slaves
hang with them when Jada and I are busy, take them to the park or the beach or
whatever. If someone decides to grab Tisha will they hurt my kids? Or just
leave them on their own somewhere?" He sounded both scared and pissed, and Liam
could empathize in a way which would've been impossible before he'd had Jamie
and Paula.
"So far as we've been able to determine," said Thewlis, "every time a slave has
been stolen, he or she has been alone. We can surmise that the thieves are
reluctant to leave witnesses, and so far there's been no sign of violence
toward potential witnesses. Since a major component of their strategy has been
concealment, I think it's safe to assume that they'd avoid harming any child
whose parents have the means to raise a large-scale pursuit."
"But you're still just guessing." Smith's voice was flat, and he obviously
wasn't convinced.
"Yes, My Lord," Thewlis acknowledged. "We haven't enough data to state anything
with absolute certainty yet."
"Which means that yeah, I need a bodyguard for Tisha if I want to keep my kids
safe with her until we get this resolved."
"That assumes any final resolution is possible." Liam met Smith's eyes, then
looked around the table at the others. "We don't know that there is. It's not
as though there's been a final resolution to car theft or file theft or
identity theft, so I'm not betting on ever being able to file this one closed
once and for all either."
"I agree," said Thewlis with a nod. "Completely wiping out the problem isn't a
realistic goal. But you can start locking your doors, as it were, and make it
as difficult as possible."
"What about getting the slaves back?" asked a quiet woman from the other end of
the table. Her name was Anna, Liam remembered; she was an agent for some guy
named Sinise, a bass player Tasha knew, whose band was successful enough that
all its members had body-slaves.
"That, unfortunately, takes time and investigation." Thewlis shrugged and gave
Liam an apologetic glance. "There's no quick way to do it. And we have no way
of knowing for sure whether any given missing slave is still alive. To return
to the auto theft analogy, sometimes a thief is simply a joyrider, and will
leave the car parked somewhere, waiting to be found in somewhat reasonable
condition. Sometimes the joyrider will leave the car wrapped around a tree."
Liam had to brace himself not to react to that statement. The thought of
Orlando having been used to the point of death and then dumped made his stomach
churn.
Thewlis continued, saying, "The body of a slave, if found by the police, is
turned over to Commerce and the previous owner is not informed unless there's
an open investigation. As most of you have discovered, investigations into
missing slaves are not kept open by the police for very long.
"On behalf of Lord Neeson, I'm assuming his slave is still alive. I've
discovered a considerable black market for slaves -- more than I'd ever have
assumed existed, analogous to the professional car thieves who steal cars for
sale rather than personal use -- and if they were killing slaves wholesale some
sort of word would have spread."
"If you couldn't imagine them working the way they are, maybe you just can't
imagine whatever they're doing to dump the bodies." Mark Vincent's harsh voice
was rougher than usual and Liam knew he was thinking about Paul.
"That's always a possibility, Mr. Vincent," Thewlis admitted.
"So now what?" Ms. Margulies repeated. "The police won't help us, and Commerce
certainly won't, so we're left hiring our own investigators? Do we hire you?"
She gave Thewlis a sharp look, but he shook his head.
"I'm afraid I haven't the time to take on eight more cases, even if they do
turn out to be linked through the same theft gang," he said. "Although if the
cases are linked in any way, then pooling data would be helpful. I can
recommend some people you might consider hiring. And it would benefit all of
you to have whomever you do hire contact me; I'll brief them on what I've
learned so far, and we can keep in contact and share information."
The gathered group exchanged glances and most nodded. While Thewlis tapped his
PDA to send his card out, Liam said, "For future considerations, I have a
meeting scheduled with a Commerce representative. They need to know what we've
found, and I intend to suggest strongly that they work out a more secure way of
tracking slaves, since the chips clearly aren't adequate. Any idiot with a
pocket knife can apparently remove one, if they don't care much about the
slave's pain or the chance of infection.
"Assuming I'm blown off -- since we all know just how personable Commerce
representatives are, and how open the department is to outside suggestions--
" he paused for a moment while snorts and smirks went around the table, "--
I intend to escalate the matter immediately through Congress. Aside from our
personal concerns, this problem seems to be building and no matter how hard
Commerce tries to quash the information, it's only a matter of time before it's
common knowledge that slaves can be removed from the tracking system."
He paused once more to let that sink in, then said, "The last thing we need is
a rash of both runaways and thefts. A slave alone is a helpless target for
violence and abuse, and some of the abuse I've seen recently would turn every
stomach in this room. And the economic impact would be devastating. I'll keep
you all informed as to the outcome of my meeting, and I suggest all of you be
ready to contact your own representatives. One way or another, this has to be
addressed."
 
"Down!" The snapped command filled the room and the twenty-eight slaves in it
slammed down to kneel and bonked their foreheads against the tile of the floor.
Kevin Martinez, who used to be Ben Barnes, remembered watching war movies when
he was a kid. The first weeks of training for new slaves had reminded him of
boot camp the first time he'd gone through, and it hadn't changed in the five
years since.
It looked like the point was to teach the new recruits the rules, get them
exercising and start them learning basic skills. The real purpose, though, was
brainwashing.
You spent a person's whole life, however long it'd been, teaching them that
killing someone else was horrible, evil and sick. When they were drafted into
the military, though, the trainers had just a couple of months to convince them
that it really was okay to off someone, so long as he was a "them" instead of
an "us," and someone higher ranked told you to. Getting people to do a one-
eighty on their morals about killing in that short a time meant some pretty
harsh conditioning.
"Kneel!" Twenty-eight torsos swung up into position, spine straight, eyes down,
hands clasped behind their backs.
And then there was the whole "unit" thing, and teamwork over all, and following
orders no matter what. Most people weren't really into that stuff, and the
military pretty much had to break down a person's identity, their sense of self
and independence and who they thought they were until all that was left was a
sort of squishy pile of raw material you could use to build a person out of.
Then they built the guy back up again into the kind of person the military
needed, so they'd end up with all these ranks of guys who thought exactly alike
and would obey orders, with just enough independent thought to handle weird
situations in a war or whatever, but always within boundaries.
Slave training was like that, only moreso, and the final constructed product
had a lot less independent thought.
Ben had been about to graduate college with a bachelor's in psych when his mom
was enslaved. It turned out she'd been living on credit, trying to stretch
things out as much as she could, but it'd finally snapped back on her. Then Ben
was alone and there was no money for grad school and not a whole lot of jobs
for someone with only a four-year psych degree. There were plenty of people
with more education than he had scrambling for work, competing with him for
whatever was available, and within a year he'd been enslaved himself.
The conditioning was obvious, though, even when he was in the middle of it.
He'd recognized what Csokas was doing, too, and had been able to go along and
keep himself in limbo for a while by using his training to help the asshole.
The second time around, it was easier; "Kevin" knew what was coming and where
the traps were. He knew when to answer and when to keep his mouth shut, and he
had some ideas about what the trainers were looking for when they wanted to
make examples.
"Stand!" Kevin shifted his weight and stood up, not quite as gracefully as he
could have, but without unclasping his hands. Not everyone could manage that
yet and the trainers' batons swung, impacting struggling flesh. The six who
yelled got another whack. The two who yelled again got a third. One man, a
little older than Kevin, couldn't keep quiet and finally collapsed into a
crying huddle while the trainer beat him unconscious.
Kevin had been careful, though, in the first couple of weeks, not to be too
good at the whole slave thing. Brand new slaves who were too enthusiastic about
cooperating were suspected of having escape plans and tended to get worked over
extra hard, by both the regular trainers and the psych team. And he didn't want
anyone to get suspicious about how he knew certain things already -- both
information and things like proper positions and postures -- and start asking
questions. Kevin had no intention of telling the Commerce goons anything about
his real past or his recent history. He had definite plans about using what he
knew, but it'd only be for his benefit, when he could get something out of it.
At the same time, though, he wanted to get onto the Good Little Slave list as
soon as he could, and get sold off to some place where he'd have at least a
prayer of getting access to a computer. His strategy'd been to go in all
stressed-out and unable to cope, trying hard but too tense and depressed to
manage for a while. Then, just a few days earlier, he'd faked up a nice crisis
point and started to relax.
The new Kevin stopped fighting, stopped trying to figure the world out, stopped
trying to take control of his life. He just let go and did what he was told,
hopeless and dull.
Within the next few days, Kevin would "discover" how much easier it was to have
other people taking responsibility, to having someone else guide him and tell
him what to do. He'd relax into his "new" role and even show some contentment
at times -- the trainers loved that shit, thinking someone had broken and
decided that life as a slave was actually not that bad. Much easier than having
to think for yourself and be responsible for yourself and take the heat when
your decisions were wrong.
If he could manage a good report out of intake training, he'd have a decent
chance of being sold somewhere tolerable. With luck he might even get tapped to
be a body-slave again. He was kind of old for it, for just starting out, but he
was still pretty hot if he did say so himself, and it wasn't impossible. That'd
be perfect -- easy job, no hard labor, and about as much free access as any
slave ever got.
"Down!" Twenty-seven sets of knees crashed to the hard floor once more.
Wherever he ended up, though, the goal was to contact that Neeson guy. That was
his ticket out, and he fully intended to use it.
***** Chapter 19 *****
Everything David knew was wrong. Kneel up, kneel down, bow, present -- it was
all wrong and Mr. Anderson had him drilling for hours every day. His knees were
too far apart, his hands were in the wrong place, his posture was wrong -- Mr.
Anderson circled him with a long, whippy switch and corrected him over and over
and over, sometimes with just a tap and sometimes with a stinging smack.
He hardly ever got really beaten anymore. Mr. Anderson said it was because he
was obviously trying, and the taps and smacks were just to help him remember.
David didn't know why it was so hard, though. He'd never had that much trouble
before.
But then, where would he have learned any of that before? He had patchy
memories, bits and pieces that didn't quite fit together, of learning all of
this some time in the past, of doing well and being praised, but why would a
free man ever have learned the proper way to make obeisance to a master?
The dreams still came, of the tall, handsome man -- his father, it had to be -
- and the energetic, worried-looking woman -- his mother? -- and a dark-haired
man who teased him, older than him but younger than the tall man -- a brother?
-- but they were all tangled up with people from the store. His old boss, the
cheap grump, and Lance, one of the other salesmen. He and Lance had been
fiercely competitive in their sales numbers, but had always been able to go out
for a beer afterward.
David had done a lot of things to make sales, but going down on his knees to a
customer -- for any reason -- wasn't one of them.
He still dreamed, though, warm and sexy and safe, and he was kneeling in some
of those memories. Cuddling and sex and... paperwork? Contracts and proxies and
getting flogged until his ass was red and swollen and getting fucked and it
feeling so good even with the pain and the articles of incorporation and annual
reports....
It had to be a dream because that was just whacked.
That was probably it, though. He'd dreamed that he was a slave, or something
sort of like it, and he'd dreamed that he knew all the kneeling stuff but he
really didn't.
That had to be it.
 
Johnny sorted through the paper mail while walking back up from the box. The
driveway was nearly half a mile long so he always had plenty of time to do a
first sort and read most of the business mail between the box and the house.
Advertiser, advertiser, legal, advertiser, invitation, advertiser--
Johnny stopped. The next piece was an official looking envelope with a Commerce
office return address. That was never good news.
He started walking again and tore it open, pulling out the folded letter.
Official notice, thirty days, deadline....
Oh, fuck.
Johnny closed his eyes and groaned out loud. He knew the driveway well enough
to keep walking, but part of him wanted to turn around and go back and just...
sleep under the mailbox or something.
That wouldn't work -- it was supposed to rain later that night and he'd catch
pneumonia or something and die. Although that might be preferable to handing
Master Liam the official notice that Orlando had been declared a runaway and
removed from the master's custody, his contract revoked. The Department of
Commerce was reclaiming custodianship of the absent and presumed runaway
Orlando Bloom, leaving Lord Neeson without a body-slave.
Reclaiming. Johnny sneered down at the official seal. They'd never had custody
-- Orlando was home-grown and had always belonged to the master, Commerce had
never had anything to do with it except for the one time the master'd had to
take Orlando to the local Center up in Santa Clara as a baby to be chipped and
branded and file all the right papers.
But that was just pointless grumping because it didn't change anything -
- Master Liam had thirty days to acquire a new body-slave. If he was still
without one on the thirty-first day from the date on the official notice,
penalty fees would begin to accrue.
Johnny winced. He could just imagine his master's response to the threat of
penalty fees.
He could certainly afford to pay, but there were other considerations. There'd
already been comments about Orlando's absence, and questions about Johnny's
reappearance on his knees at Liam's side. Reinstating him as a body-slave was
one option, although Johnny couldn't do all the travelling he'd been doing over
the last... hell, more than a decade now, and serve as a body-slave too. The
master really did need someone else.
He wasn't going to like that. Hell, Johnny didn't actually like it himself.
Bringing in some stranger, no matter how well trained -- the master could
handle any little Chad-style punk they might end up with, but he didn't need
that kind of hassle just then, not with everything else going on.
Master Liam was absolutely sure that Orlando would be found. It reminded Johnny
of twelve years ago when the master had been just as sure that Orlando would
walk again, and damn if he hadn't been right, despite what the doctors had told
him. But this was different and Johnny was afraid they'd never see Orlando
again.
Even if he was found, he didn't belong to the master anymore -- Commerce would
take him and if they insisted on treating him like a runaway, he'd be better
off dead. He would be dead soon enough, which sucked and Johnny'd never say so
out loud to the master, but it was true, everyone knew it.
Fuck.
Johnny trudged back up to the house, more slowly than usual, his whole body
tight with stress.
He'd just leave the letter on Master Liam's desk, and hope to be somewhere else
-- somewhere far away -- when the master read it.
 
Thewlis was just about to pack it in and head home when his phone rang. He
considered just leaving it to voicemail, but then he recognized the number and
grabbed it.
"Thewlis."
"This is Juarez. You still interested in the Eastridge bust?"
"Definitely. Anything new turn up?"
"Yeah, something weird. The ME noticed that one of the bodies we took out of
the place not only had a scar which could've been from a chip removal, but he'd
had a slave brand taken off too."
"Taken off?" Thewlis had to stop himself from taking the phone away from his
ear and staring at it. "How do you take off a freeze brand?"
"Some kind of skin graft. Nice job, too. The doc said the only reason she
noticed was because a whip had cut into it -- it was that guy they took apart?
-- and she was looking at the wound, noticed some weird borders where there
shouldn't be any borders and went poking."
"A graft? That didn't show at all?" Thewlis frowned and tried to remember what
he'd read on the subject. It wasn't much, but enough to know-- "That's not a
cheap procedure."
"Hell no," agreed Juarez. "Doc said a regular graft is just to keep everything
covered while new skin grows in and there's always scars. This is something
else -- she said it takes a sheet of something fancy that helps keep the sewn-
on skin alive and getting all attached and whatever, so it blends with the rest
of your skin around it."
"And just the surgeon's bill will likely run you enough to buy... well, perhaps
not a car, but a decent motorcycle. As I said, not cheap."
"Right. So whoever did this spent a boatload of money on hiding the fact that
this guy is a slave, then what -- used him as a disposable party favor? It's
crazy."
"I agree, it makes no sense." Thewlis frowned and tried to come up with some
scenario where spending however many thousands of dollars on pulling a slave
out of the system and then just killing him was a logical course of action.
"Why kill the slave who'd cost a large amount of money when any one of their
other slaves -- presumably their cheaper slaves -- would have done as well?"
"Punishment?" Juarez suggested. "Maybe the guy'd been acting up and they
decided to just get rid of him? Example to all the others at the same time."
"Perhaps," Thewlis said, but he was dubious. "I can think of any number of
punishments which would've made almost as great an impact, though, and would
have left the man alive to be used later. And if I can come up with several,
I'm sure the club organizers could think of dozens."
"Yeah, in their sleep. So again, why waste him?"
Thewlis had a thought. "Wait, maybe we're looking at this the wrong way. We're
assuming the purpose of the surgery was to hide this particular man from
Commerce. What if the surgery was the point of it, though? An end in itself?"
"What, some whack-job just likes playing surgeon?"
"I suppose that's a possibility as well, but I was thinking that perhaps a
surgeon was perfecting a technique and the man was merely a... a practice
piece. Removing the chip is one thing, but plastic surgery is a complex
specialty and a doctor, even a surgeon, who wanted to be able to hide slaves
from the system would likely need a few tries to work out exactly how to remove
the brand without leaving any betraying marks."
"Huh." Juarez paused for a moment, then said, "So if the point was just the
practice, then the surgeon who did it might not care much about how much he
sold the guy for afterward?"
"Quite possibly not," Thewlis agreed. "If he just wanted a body to practice on,
then whatever he got for it when he was done would've been a nice bonus, but
not vital."
"That could explain how a slave with expensive work done on him ended up in
that shithole club. But that means there's someone out there practicing to pull
slaves out of the system. Commerce is gonna hemorrhage." Juarez didn't sound at
all upset by that thought; in fact Thewlis could hear a grin in his voice.
"I imagine they will, whenever they figure it out," he said. He certainly
wasn't going to tell them. Whether Detective Juarez was required to, or decided
to, was up to him. So far as Thewlis was concerned, they were perhaps owed the
basic data, but they could work out their own conclusions. With any luck,
Juarez would agree.
"Thank you for letting me know what your ME found," he said.
Juarez replied, "Not a problem. That was a great tip, we're gonna send some
real slimebags straight to the mines. You keep giving me that kind of good
stuff, I don't mind sharing."
Thewlis had to smile at that and was just as glad Juarez couldn't see him
grinning. "I still appreciate it. I'll let you know if I think of anything
else."
"You do that. Later, Thewlis."
They hung up, and Thewlis went back to locking up, then left.
On the way home, his thoughts ran around in circles. There was something
hovering at the back of his mind, something he should have thought of.
Something obvious, something important, something fluttering for attention just
out of reach.
He struggled to pin it down for a while, then gave up. It'd come when it was
ready.
In the mean time, he needed to contact Nick again. Thewlis remembered arguments
about the brand -- it was definitely the bottleneck when it came to getting
slaves out of the system. Even if you shipped them to a place that actually had
cold weather, even in Toronto or Minneapolis or Bangor, people who wore scarves
or turtlenecks three hundred and sixty-five days a year would draw suspicion.
They'd talked about plastic surgery, though. It was a major investment in time
and effort, to say nothing of requiring an absolutely trustworthy plastic
surgeon. It was the best way to achieve their goal of true freedom for the
slaves, or as close as they'd ever get, living on stolen or constructed
identities, but the cost per slave....
Still, obviously someone was doing it, or was working up to it. Nick needed to
know because this was one more major piece of their plan that someone else was
abusing.
And then it hit him, so hard he almost sideswiped a parked car.
Marty.
Nick said Marty had become a plastic surgeon. Marty, who'd never been a real
member of their group, but who'd been there for most of the discussions. Marty,
who had all their ideas and also had the skills to pull off the hard parts
himself.
Thewlis went barrelling through his front door eight minutes later. He shot off
an e-mail to Nick, then started researching one Dr. Marton Csokas.
***** Chapter 20 *****
The following week, Thewlis found himself driving east down a barren highway
toward the California-Nevada border. He'd discovered quite a lot about Marty
Csokas and he was pretty sure he'd found their rat.
Nick had been right, Marty had been a successful plastic surgeon. He'd
practiced down in the LA area and had made a handsome living working on film
and TV stars and assorted hangers-on and wannabes. Almost three years earlier,
though, he'd been caught after doing an illegal breast enhancement on a young
woman who wasn't quite old enough to authorize her own cosmetic surgery. The
young woman's parents had been wealthy and powerful enough to ensure that
Csokas lost his license -- so much for his career as a surgeon.
He'd sold his slaves and his house, and five months later he'd bought a casino
just over the Nevada border. His address of record was less than a mile from
the place, implying that he kept a close eye on his new property.
Thewlis crossed the state line, from one narrow chunk of asphalt running
through dry, shades-of-dirt landscape to another, indistinguishable except for
the sign. Less than fify yards beyond that was another sign, this one
advertising the Silver Oasis. The sign stood in a row of other similar signs,
and the casino stood in a row of other similar casinos. There were apparently
quite a few people who didn't want to go all the way to Vegas for their
gambling.
Or maybe not. He pulled into the parking lot and found a space more easily than
he'd anticipated.
Inside, the air conditioning seemed to be working fine. Or maybe it was just
that it didn't need to work with quite so much oomph on a sprawling space which
wasn't packed as full of bodies as the big Vegas casinos had always been, the
couple of times Thewlis had gone. The machines rang and tootled and babbled
their Come Try! patter through the narrow, labyrinthine aisles, but the aisles
were easy to negotiate without the usual blockage of bodies on stools.
Multicolored lights swirled along the walls, up the columns and across the
ceiling, but Thewlis noticed burned out bulbs here and there.
He wandered around the place, not hiding the fact that he was hunting for
someone. He looked unsubtly at name badges whenever he passed a man of about
the right age and coloring, reading titles as well as names. When he came
across a guy with something managerish in his title, who also struck him as
bored and maybe a bit lax, he made eye contact and asked, "Hey, is the boss
around?"
"I'm the boss," said the man, whose name was Barry according to his badge.
"What can I help you with?"
Thewlis ducked his head for a moment and gave a low, self-deprecating laugh,
trying hard to project just the right bit of embarassment. "Sorry, I'm actually
looking for Marty Csokas."
Barry raised an eyebrow. "Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Csokas?"
"No, not really." Thewlis shrugged and made a vague gesture with one hand. "I
was on my way to Vegas for a meeting and remembered Marty's place was out here
and thought I'd stop. Is he around?"
The guy gave him a look up and down, then said, "No, Mr. Csokas isn't in
today."
Thewlis lit a grin widen for a moment, then said, "Well, that's too bad." He
gave Barry a half-wink and straightened up a bit, as though relaxing.
Barry took the bait and said, "You don't look too upset over missing him...?"
"Well, I guess I should be." Thewlis looked down again, just for a moment, and
put on a sheepish expression. "Truth is, I haven't seen him in ages. We went to
college together, saw each other occasionally after, but were never best
friends or anything. Good guy to hang with, but we wandered off in different
directions, you know? Last time we were together, though, I was having some
trouble. His practice was booming and he lent me some money. I've felt kinda
bad about never having paid him back, so when another friend told me he owns
this place now, I thought I could stop by and take care of it. Not a problem if
I missed him, though -- it's not like he was expecting me or anything."
He got a smirk from Barry. "I guess you'd just as well keep on missing him,
eh?"
"Sorta." Thewlis looked off to one side and rubbed his neck, projecting
embarassment again. "It's not that I don't have the money or anything. I'm just
not looking forward to seeing him, you know? I mean, he helped me out and I
vanished on him and I feel bad about it now."
"You oughta just send it to him, get it over with."
"I could," admitted Thewlis. "I mean, I probably should, you're right. It's
just that after all this time it's like I should put it in his hand, look him
in the eye, you know?" He glanced at his watch and said, "Hey, can I buy you a
drink? I don't have to be in town till three, no reason to get right back on
the road."
"Sure," said Barry. "I guess I can spend some time with an old friend of the
owner." He grinned and led the way between blackjack tables to a bar. They sat
under one of the keno machines and ordered. Thewlis got a beer, figuring he
could drink one and get over it before he got back in the car. Barry ordered a
bourbon on the rocks; Thewlis didn't know whether there was no one to call him
on drinking on duty, or whether the bartender would charge bourbon prices -
- since Thewlis was paying -- and hand the manager iced tea. He didn't much
care either way, although some alcoholic lubricant would be helpful.
He looked around, letting his curiosity show. "So how's it going? I was kinda
surprised when I heard he'd changed careers and all. He'd always said he had
the best job in the world, up to his eyebrows in tits. Although I guess
there're some nice ones around here too?" He put on a lecherous smirk and got
one in return from Barry.
"Sure, sure, a few. Not so many as there used to be, though." Barry crossed his
arms and leaned back against the padded booth. "My aunt worked here back in the
day and she says the place was really jumping then. Packed every weekend, and a
decent crowd weekdays. Some good acts, brought people out from LA sometimes.
And lotsa meat, both sexes."
"So what happened?" Thewlis asked, sounding curious but not too curious.
"Hey, if I knew, I'd fix it." Barry shrugged. He took a sip of his bourbon or
whatever it was, then said, "Buncha stuff I guess. Hardly anyone drives to
Vegas anymore so we don't get the through traffic. No airports around here.
Train goes from LA to Vegas in two hours so who wants to stop here? Anything
we've got, they've got more and bigger and better."
"Sounds like you might as well just liquidate," Thewlis commented. "Shut down
before it all trickles away, you know?"
"When Mr. Csokas bought out Mr. Dominguez, we thought he was gonna do exactly
that," Barry admitted. "Then he didn't sell and we thought he had some
investments lined up or something. Refurbish, maybe. Get some good acts in
again. Advertise like crazy. Something. But he didn't do that either. Tell you
the truth," he said, leaning in toward Thewlis and lowering his voice, "he's
hardly ever here. Comes in once or twice a month, max, so even if you do stop
by on your way home, he probably won't be here then either."
"Really?" Thewlis raised an eyebrow and frowned. "Well, thanks for telling me.
I'll remember that."
 
"--so he's hardly there," Thewlis wrapped up with a shrug. He could all but
hear Lord Neeson scowling over the phone, so he added, "For a man who was used
to living quite well, and who has no other source of income I can discover,
it's odd that he ignores the place."
"Which means it's not his sole source of income," snarled Neeson. "He's our
thief, then."
"I think it likely, My Lord, but all the evidence so far is circumstantial. He
might well be content to siphon whatever profits the Silver Oasis provides and
otherwise leave the drudgery of everyday management to his staff." Not that
Thewlis believed that, but the last thing he wanted was to have his employer go
off half-cocked in a rage, on scant evidence and a lot of supposition.
"You said that when he was in college he was all about the money, though,"
Neeson argued. "That doesn't sound like the sort of man who'd be content with
whatever change he can squeeze out of a marginal business."
"That's true, but people do change," Thewlis countered. "I went by his house
and it was modest, perhaps twelve hundred square feet, and reasonably well kept
but not elaborately so."
"Maybe he has another house somewhere else. Under another name?"
"That's possible, My Lord, but difficult to manage. Although it's always
possible he has a confederate and a second residence is in that person's name."
"And we have no idea who that might be."
No, My Lord." Thewlis felt like apologizing; his wonderful lead was turning out
to be considerably less fruitful than he'd hoped. "I think it's best at this
point if we keep that thought in mind, but act on what we have, which is
Csokas's business and primary residence of record."
"He wasn't home," Neeson stated, with no tone of question at all.
"No, My Lord. Nor was there a car in the driveway, although it might've been in
the garage." Thewlis shook his head. "We have nothing to give to the police at
this point. I'll continue watching for a few days and see if he comes home."
"Do you think you'll get anything useful out of him?" Lord Neeson sounded
skeptical.
"No, and I'm not going to try speaking with him. If he'd been at the casino,
then of course I'd have sounded him out, but at this point I think it would be
better, when he comes home, if I watched him instead and followed him. If we're
lucky, and assuming he is our thief, he might lead me to wherever he holds the
slaves before selling them."
There was a brief pause, then Neeson said, "Unless he's just as hands-off that
business as he is with the casino. For all we know he leaves that one to staff
too and just collects the money. Especially given the distances. Why would he
have taken Orlando from San Jose if he's based down in the middle of nowhere,
four hundred miles away?" The man sounded suddenly exhausted. No, not just
tired -- empty. As though the thought that this might be yet another dead end
had let all the wind out of him.
"That's always possible, My Lord, but even in this day and age, criminal
activity requires a certain amount of contact. Power in that community is much
more direct and needs constant reinforcement, otherwise the criminals one has
hired are likely to make off with one's profits, or even one's entire business.
At the same time, it's not that far and being based at a distance gives him an
additional measure of security.
"I'll keep a watch on the house. If Csokas shows up, I'll wait until he leaves
and see where he goes. If he doesn't leave, I'll see who comes to visit him,
and try following them. That trusted confederate might be a go-between. Either
way, there's most likely some contact between the boss and the business, even
if it's through intermediaries. This isn't the sort of thing which runs well
via e-mail, in my experience, and that's not even considering the possibility
of one's communications being intercepted. Personal contact is more secure, in
more ways than one."
"Fine, fine." Neeson muttered something under his breath, then said, "Keep me
informed."
"Of course, My Lord."
Neeson hung up without a word of farewell. Thewlis put away his phone and
started his car. He needed to make a grocery run, then get back to his chosen
watching post, in some scrubby, dried-out underbrush about a quarter mile from
Marty's place. He had a feeling he was going to be there for a while.
***** Chapter 21 *****
Thewlis waited and watched. He'd charmed the night manager of a nearby 7-Eleven
(only a quarter mile away, in a tiny strip mall next to another shabby casino)
by telling the young man he was a representative of the tabloid media hoping to
get photos of a very famous celebrity (whom he could of course not name) who
secretly had a house nearby. In exchange for a promise of a couple of prints
once he got the pictures, Thewlis negotiated bathroom privileges. Cleaning up
in the chipped porcelain sink once every day or so was sub-optimal, but the
best he could manage under the circumstances; grunge was a silent and familiar
partner when one was alone on stake-out and he hardly noticed it anymore.
Eleven days later, a man wearing a short-sleeved shirt and tie and carrying a
briefcase pulled into the driveway, got the mail from the box at the curb, went
into the house, stayed only six minutes, then left, still carrying the
briefcase. It definitely wasn't Marty. Thewlis followed him to the Silver
Oasis, where he parked in a section of lot around the back marked off for
employees. Thewlis cruised past and memorized the license plate number.
An hour and a half later he had the man's name, knew that he was the head of
security for the casino and that he'd been hired shortly after Marty bought the
place. Interesting but not informative.
Thewlis went back to his spot and kept watching the house.
 
Kevin didn't make it into body-slave training the second time around. His age
was working against him, and he was "insufficiently sensual" according to the
basic trainer's final evaluation. He'd made it in fine before, but maybe the
extra youth points back then had made up for the lack of natural sluttiness
points, or whatever.
On the one hand, Kevin was happy enough not to be sold to someone as a fuck
doll. On the other hand, he was sort of insulted. He told himself he'd get over
it. Besides, if his plan worked he wouldn't be with his new owner for very long
anyway.
Although he wasn't body-slave material that time around, he was "presentable,"
which meant he wasn't ugly enough to scare away customers or houseguests. He
tested out smart, too, and was good with both words and numbers, so between
that and Kevin's faked-up background experience he'd gotten a recommendation
for clerical or entry-level admin, with a bonus rec for being cooperative and
enthusiastic.
Body-slaves were bought like dogs -- showcased so prospective masters could
wander through, grab ass and check teeth, imagine themselves fucking one or
another of the bodies on display, and finally point and say "That one." Kevin
had unconsciously expected to have to go through that again, but clerical types
were purchased based on record, experience, test scores -- the kind of stuff a
buyer could look over on the computer. Kevin spent the time while he was listed
for sale locked in a barracks room with a bunch of other slaves in the same
situation, bored and antsy.
Four days later, one of the staffers hauled him out and shoved him into a small
room containing one table, one chair, and one huge Black man who looked him up
and down, then pointed to the floor next to where he was sitting and said,
"Kneel."
The man had a deep, resonant voice which was pretty obviously used to being
obeyed. Kevin walked to the indicated spot as gracefully as he could and sank
into a kneel.
The man said, "I'm looking for someone to organize my personal business. Mail
and appointments and bills, make sure the house is stocked -- groceries and
such -- send out the laundry, that sort of thing. Think you can handle that?"
Kevin said, "Yes, sir." Sort of a secretary or house-manager kind of thing.
Boring but perfect. Mail meant access to e-mail.
"I need someone who can keep things running on their own, while I'm seeing to
business."
"I--" Kevin paused. He needed to be careful here. This guy obviously wanted
someone who could work unsupervised, without being nagged about everything.
He'd liked what he'd seen about Kevin's file, but was cautious about the "likes
direction" part. Kevin could do what the guy needed, but couldn't go too far
outside the persona he'd built for the evaluators. "I think I took on too much,
sir," he finally said. "In my previous life, that is. I was overwhelmed and in
over my head and didn't know what to do or how to handle it. I've learned
better, though, and have a better sense of the scope of my abilities. I'm sure
I could handle your personal business."
"Huh. Well, we'll give it a shot, then."
Kevin let himself smile slightly and said, "Thank you, sir." It'd been close,
but there were more people wanting slaves than there were slaves to be had, and
that'd worked out in Kevin's favor.
He stayed kneeling while the man walked out of the room, until a handler came
to fetch him and take him to Escrow. He was there for a day and a half, then
went home with his new master, a Mr. Duncan.
Mr. Duncan had Kevin sit in the passenger seat in front, and drove himself. His
car was nice and reasonably new but not luxurious. He seemed to be well off but
not filthy rich.
Of course there were people who were filthy rich but were just odd about
pretending not to be. Kevin didn't think Mr. Duncan was that kind of man,
though. He'd met one or two of them and they had a kind of stuck-up shabby
thing going on. Mr. Duncan seemed solid and competent, not pretending to be
anything he wasn't.
"I own a security company," Mr. Duncan said. He kept his eyes on the road while
driving and Kevin was fine with that. "Provide bodyguards for Hollywood stars,
politicians, a few business people, folks with enemies or just folks who
attract whack-jobs. I've got people to handle stuff for me on that end, though;
your job'll be keeping the house running.
"Sometimes I'm there, sometimes I'm not. I don't see any point to having a full
staff -- waste of money when I'm gone so much. One person should be able to
keep things in shape, sort the mail and pay the bills and all. That's you."
He paused for a few seconds. Kevin wasn't sure whether he was focusing on
traffic or expected a response, so to be safe he said, "Yes, sir."
"Your file didn't say whether you can cook. If you can, that's fine. If not,
I'm used to ordering in anyway. I've got a cleaning service, comes in once a
week. You can make the beds and pick up towels and do dishes. Laundry's sent
out."
"I could do that too, sir, if you want." Not that Kevin was turned on by the
smell of detergent or anything, but it never hurt to earn a few brownie points.
"That'd be fine," Mr. Duncan agreed. "You ruin anything, though, I'll take my
belt to you."
Jerk, thought Kevin. He looked down at his lap and said, "Yes, sir."
"I'm not a tough man to get along with," Mr. Duncan continued, "but I have a
low tolerance for bullshit and screw-ups. You do your job, don't make any
stupid mistakes, we'll get along fine."
"Yes, sir."
Fine, whatever. Kevin could put up with anything temporarily.
 
The guy from the casino showed up again two weeks later, got the mail, spent
five or six minutes in the house, then left.
It was becoming clear to Thewlis that Marty didn't actually live there. Unless
he just happened to be on an extended vacation, this was only an address of
record and not a place he actually stayed. There was hardly any mail delivered
-- junk-fliers on Wednesdays and little else -- no newspapers delivered, no
trash nor recycling taken to the curb for pick-up. The landscaping was a
stylish mix of native plants and decorative rockery, which needed no mowing or
trimming nor even watering. The place was empty and their lead had fizzled.
Time to try something else.
 
One afternoon, Mr. Anderson came in and said, "We're going to transfer you to
another Commerce office, David. They'll finish your training and find you an
owner."
David stood up obediently and followed Mr. Anderson out into the hall. When the
man closed the door of David's cell behind them, he must've caught a glimpse of
a question on David's face, because he added, "This is only a small office, and
most of our sales here are for farm laborers and a few low-level clerks. We can
get more for you in a more metropolitan area."
"I see," said David. It did make a certain amount of sense. And he was happy to
hear he wouldn't end up doing farm labor. "Thank you, sir."
Mr. Anderson nodded and led him toward the back of the building, stopping at
the reception desk on the way to pick up a briefcase and his suit jacket. David
had a vague memory of having come in this way, but it was fuzzy, like a long-
ago dream.
They drove south through heavy traffic for what felt like a long time. David
didn't have a watch but figured it was at least a three-hour drive, maybe more.
It was fully night time when they pulled into the parking lot of the Commerce
Processing Center for Santa Ana, according to the large sign out front. Mr.
Anderson pulled in around the back and parked in a space right near the rear
entrance. The rear lot only had a few cars in it and the front lot had been
completely empty. There were a couple of lights visible through windows, but
they were small and low, like night-lights or security lights. David had
glanced into the front reception area, through the glass window-walls, and it'd
been dark and empty.
They got out of the car and Mr. Anderson led David through a small, solid metal
door and into a small, bare reception area similar to the one in Bakersfield.
He said, "Hey, Parker," to the man sitting behind the desk. Mr. Parker, a
skinny blond man with an impatient look on his face, said, "Anderson," and gave
David a quick but penetrating inspection. The sharp gaze was uncomfortable and
David had to fight not to shift his weight or fidget.
Mr. Anderson set his briefcase down on the desk and opened it. He took out a
file with David's name on it, and a white business-size envelope, and handed
both to Mr. Parker.
"All his records," he said. "And paperwork on his debt."
Mr. Parker opened the white envelope first. He didn't take anything out of it,
but looked inside, nodded and put it into a desk drawer. Then he looked over
the papers in the folder.
After a minute or so, he looked up at David and scowled. "Says here you're a
liar, boy. And a troublemaker."
David felt a chill down his spine and he swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, sir. I
was...." He felt off-balance and confused. He still couldn't remember much
beyond the... month? however long it'd been since he'd been brought to
Commerce. He glanced up at Mr. Anderson, then said to Mr. Parker, "I was
confused. I can't really remember."
Mr. Parker snorted. "And why should I believe you can't remember? Awfully
convenient, that."
David opened his mouth but couldn't think of what to say. He looked at Mr.
Anderson again, but the man just looked back at him and offered no assistance.
David went to his knees, bowed his head and repeated, "I'm sorry, sir."
"Well. We'll see." He and Mr. Anderson shook hands and Anderson left without a
word to David. Mr. Parker made a sharp gesture and David stood up and followed
him into the heart of the building.
***** Chapter 22 *****
Marton parked his car at the top of a cliff about half an hour out of Monterey.
A couple slots over was a run-down Ford with a large unrepaired dent which had
started to rust. A strong ocean wind moaned through the air, whipping past the
distorted Monterey cypresses and howling between the two cars and across the
all-but-empty expanse of blacktop. Waves crashed against the rocks below. There
was no one else within sight, or at least not visible; it was too cold for
anyone else to've been attracted to that particular scenic lookout point. Good
enough.
A skinny man with unkempt dark hair and a few days' growth of stubble got out
of the dented car. He moved over to Marton's side, looking around and over both
shoulders, then said, "So?"
"My part's done," Marton replied. He pulled a flimsy slip of paper with a
Commerce seal out of an envelope and showed it to the other man, one finger
held strategically over a particular spot. The other man reached out for it,
but Marton jerked it up and away. "You don't need to touch it. Just look. It's
genuine. So far as the system is concerned, David Grant has been enslaved and
his debts absorbed into Commerce's bookkeeping."
The actual David Grant gave him a pouty scowl. "How much did you get?"
Marton tightened his grip on the voucher for a moment, as if ensuring that his
finger still covered that blank on the form. "That's none of your concern. I've
performed a service and the fee you agreed to pay is now due." He put the
voucher back in its envelope and returned it to his jacket's inside pocket.
The ex-Mister Grant took a step back toward his car. "If you've really done it
and it's official, what's to stop me from just leaving?"
Marton rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his scorn. "If you were to do
that then I'd have to make sure you don't live much longer, just as a way of
protecting my business reputation. It wouldn't even be illegal -- you don't
actually exist anymore." Complete bullshit, of course -- a dead body turning up
would attract official attention no matter what -- but it was a good line and
he'd used it a number of times. The casual, impatient delivery usually sold it.
Grant held up both hands and said, "Hey, no problem, just asking. Bad joke,
sorry. I've been kind of stressed, you know?"
"I'm sure you have," Marton said. "So how about if we finish this and move on?"
"Right, fine. Hang on, I'll write you a check." He reached into his coat but
stopped when Marton barked out a laugh.
"You're still joking, obviously, if you think I'd take a check from someone who
was within a hair's breadth of being enslaved for debt." Marton stopped smiling
and stared at him hard. "Cash. As we agreed."
"Right, right, sorry." Grant turned away and popped the trunk of his car. He
pulled out a battered briefcase, then took three tries to get the trunk to stay
closed. He set the case down on the trunk of Marton's car and popped it open to
show messily-bound stacks of cash. "There, fifteen thousand." He looked down
and muttered, "Hardly seems fair, you already getting paid for the job."
"You're paying me because I did you a service and you agreed to do so," Marton
said. "And because paying five percent of your indebted amount is much better
than paying a hundred percent. Besides, it's good for you to get back into the
habit of paying what you owe. Repeat customers are charged ten percent."
Grant snorted, and apparently found where his spine had been hiding, because he
said, "You're a real ballsy fuck, aren't you?"
"I'm a rich ballsy fuck, who has a lot of friends who aren't afraid to commit
illegal acts. I suggest you remember that." Marton closed the briefcase, opened
his trunk and tossed it inside. "Speaking of which, if you like I can refer you
to some of my friends to create your new identity. Unless you have someone in
mind already?"
"Huh? What new identity?"
Marton sighed. "Obviously you can't be David Grant anymore. David Grant has
been sucked up into Commerce and is even now being taught to kneel, walk on a
leash, and enthusiastically suck on anything stuffed into his mouth. If any
activity shows up under his name, if you get a job or pay taxes or apply for a
marriage license or anything which comes to the government's attention, they'll
notice the discrepancy and be right back after you."
"What?!" Grant stared, then snarled, "You never told me that!"
"No, you're right, I'm sorry. I just assumed you had an ounce or two of brains
in your head and could figure it out for yourself."
"You fucker!" Grant came at him swinging. Marton dodged easily, and a punch in
the nose sent Grant sprawling on the pavement.
"It's not my fault you're an idiot," Marton said. "Although you might want to
work on that once you have your new identity, or you'll just find yourself in
the same mess again." He moved around to the driver's side of his own car and
opened the door, then added, "Or maybe you'd be better off as a slave after
all, with other people telling you what to do, keeping you from screwing up
your life. Some people are just better off that way. I guess you'll know within
the next few years whether you're one of them." He waved, then got in his car
and backed out.
Grant scuttled back, even though he was a good five feet away from Marton's
path. Whatever. The man was clearly a moron and would probably end up in a
collar eventually, just from his own bad judgement. Hell, he'd probably kept
his house, despite Marton's advice when they'd first made the arrangements to
find a substitute for Grant. He could've sold it before and stashed the cash,
but once the new Grant had been processed into Commerce, the government owned
all his property of record. Trying to sell it after that point would ring every
siren in the place. Same with his car; that was the same one he'd been driving
when he'd made contact a long five months earlier.
Idiot.
It wasn't Marton's problem, though. He had Grant's fifteen grand, and within a
couple of weeks, when Grant's debts were settled by Commerce, the Silver Oasis
would be "repaid" the one-point-two-mil he'd faked up in paper. Grant's fee was
pocket change, but it was the principle of the thing. And besides, all those
five percent fees had added up to a nice pile.
A couple more weeks and he'd be on a beach, drinking something out of a
hurricane glass, with clever hands of both genders rubbing tanning oil into his
skin. Almost there.
 
Liam slammed into Johnny one last time and then collapsed on top of him in a
boneless sprawl. Johnny lay still beneath him for the minute or so it took Liam
to get his brain functioning, then his nervous system, then his arms and legs.
He rolled off into another sprawl, this one face up on the mattress, his eyes
closed and his breath still short.
He felt the mattress shift and heard Johnny moving quietly toward the bathroom.
So normal and so not. The immediate tension was gone from his body but the
stress deeper inside still coiled and twisted.
It'd been over a month and he'd honestly expected to have gotten over it by
now. Not completely, no; there'd always be some sadness, some loss. Like when
his father had died, or his first dog. But instead it was all still there -
- the sense that something was missing, the feeling of emptiness even in a
house full of staff, the lack of real satisfaction having sex with anyone else
-- even Johnny, who'd pleased him very well before Orlando'd first come to his
bed.
Johnny still pleased him of course, but it wasn't the same.
He couldn't help remembering the last time he'd almost lost Orlando, when he'd
almost convinced himself that selling the boy was the right thing to do. The
logic still held -- he could see that as well as he ever had -- but logic
hadn't been a part of it when he'd decided to keep him after all. It'd been all
about raw need and no, that wasn't healthy, but he hadn't been able to bear
even the thought of it, when it'd come time to go ahead or go home.
And yet even then it'd seemed like it was the initial pain of the losing that
he couldn't stand, rather than the longer-term loss. He hadn't been able to
make himself yank off the bandage, and he'd been ashamed but he couldn't help
it. And he'd been sure that if only he had found the courage to get through
that initial ripping pain, that it would have faded and healed in time.
You lost people, you just did, that was how the world worked. He'd lost his
grandparents, and his parents, and an aunt and two uncles. He'd lost dogs and
horses he'd loved, in the way one loves dogs and horses. And he'd lost the
person he'd believed Natasha had been; finding out that he'd been mistaken
about that was just as much of a loss as if she'd died, in a way.
He'd lost people and grieved and gotten over it and gone on. It was what one
did.
And slaves -- people weren't supposed to become attached to slaves. Certainly
no more than one became attached to dogs or horses. And he never had, never
before.
But it had been a month and there was still a hole in his life where Orlando
had perfectly fit, and there shouldn't be. Not after all this time.
Johnny glided back into the room, cleaned Liam off with a warm washcloth and
tossed it into a hamper. Then he went down on his knees beside the bed, bowed
his head and said, "Master?"
"Yes?" Liam glanced over at him and wondered what had come up.
"Master, I beg your forgiveness for any impertinence, but it's my duty to look
out for your business interests and I feel I have to ask -- have you considered
searching for a new body-slave yet?"
Liam sat bolt upright on the bed, any relaxation the sex might've left gone
from his body. "What the fuck brought that up?" he snarled. "And yes, that is
damned impertinent."
Johnny ducked down to press his forehead to the carpet. "I apologize, Master.
But the deadline is in three weeks, and it takes time to find someone suitable
and negotiate a purchase. You need someone to serve you--"
"I have you," snapped Liam. "And despite this current wave of insanity -- for
which you will be thrashed, by the way -- you do an adequate job of serving my
needs."
"Master, I'm sorry," said Johnny again, his voice muffled by being pressed even
further into the carpet, "but I'm scheduled to go to Baltimore next week, and
then straight to Paris. I'll be gone for at least ten days. Unless you've
decided to cancel my trip?"
"No."
"Then you'll be alone for that time. It's not right. You need someone to care
for you, and you need someone to assist you with the business on this end. I've
been travelling for you for almost fifteen years and you seemed happy with how
things have been arranged. If you prefer to go back to doing business over the
phone, or online, or travelling yourself, then arrangements need to be made. I
can't do both, though. I'm sorry, Master, I wish I could."
"I... fuck."
"Also," Johnny said, his voice tense, "it's not right for me to be your body-
slave on social occasions. I'm forty-five, Master. I'm too old to do you
credit."
"You're still gorgeous and you know it."
"Thank you, Master, but that's not the point. Other people will talk and make
disrespectful remarks. It could hurt you in negotiations."
It could make you look weak. Johnny hadn't said so, of course, but it was what
he meant. There's Neeson, a bit of early dementia there, can't get over the
loss of a slave, hah! What a pity. Pathetic. Obviously lost his edge.
He could show the whole fucking lot of them that he hadn't lost anything
(except one gorgeous boy, a little voice whispered) but swimming with the
sharks meant persuading them not to mob you, meant maintaining the reputation
of being too tough to take down. If they all tried it, or even just a barely
strong enough alliance, it could hurt him. He couldn't afford to look weak, to
show any kind of breach in his defenses. Liam knew he had a reputation as a
hard-ass and it'd served him well enough for the last four decades; he'd gotten
used to operating that way. He needed to maintain it.
The overheard conversation from the At Bay dinner flashed into his mind.
Everyone knew how highly he valued Orlando, how rarely he let anyone else touch
him. Everyone knew, and there must've been some suspicions that maybe he was
more attached than was usual all along. Hell, Tasha'd mentioned it too, that
people had talked about him, although he'd assumed at the time that she was
just sniping, throwing any weapon she could come up with.
He'd always had enough power to ward off the sniping, force it to stay under
cover. But if he made a spectacle of himself...?
Fuck.
Liam swung his legs over the side of the bed, barely missing cracking Johnny's
head with a heel. Johnny didn't move, of course, although Liam could see the
muscles in his shoulders tense up. He reached for his pajama bottoms, just
because it was undignified to administer actual punishment while naked, and
said, "Go fetch me a flogger."
Johnny said, "Yes, Master," and rose gracefully before heading into the
dressing room. Just because he was right didn't mean he hadn't been impertinent
and presumptuous.
***** Chapter 23 *****
David had a headache and felt like he was about to vomit.
He shuffled along in line with a bunch of other slaves, some old and some
young, some calm and some panicking, some beautiful and some who definitely
weren't going to end up as body-slaves. On either side of the line there were
staffers, guards, handlers -- whatever they were -- scowling at all the
confused slaves. They dealt with any behavior they disapproved of quickly,
using electrified batons.
Behavior they disapproved of included not moving, moving too fast, moving in
the wrong direction, staying silent when spoken to, speaking when not
addressed, and yelling or screaming no matter what. Minor infractions got a
poke, which delivered a quick shock. It was painful but didn't do any lasting
damage, which David learned when the slaves ahead of him held up the line and
he got shocked along with them when the guards got things moving again.
At first David had just thought his sick headache was from hunger; he hadn't
had any dinner and the meal before it had been... well, a while before, and
it'd only been a muffin and a banana. He'd been stuck in a tiny cell after his
transfer and left all night, then rousted out in the morning and shoved in with
the other new slaves, groggy and frightened and disoriented, with a tiny pin
memory on a chain locked around his neck. His first stop had been a station
where a Commerce employee -- who looked dull and zoned out, and did his job
with zombie-like boredom even first thing in the morning -- took the pin off
him and slotted it into his desk unit.
Data scrolled up a tiny screen, too quickly for David to read, but no one asked
him to so it didn't matter. The unit hummed, then spat out a small chip, about
the size of his fingernail, into a slot. The Commerce drone inserted the chip
into some kind of hand unit while one of the staffers with a baton tapped him
on the arm.
David flinched back, turning away from the shock. The drone shoved on his other
shoulder to keep him rotating until David was looking completely the other way,
then pressed the hand unit against his back, right next to his spine at
shoulderblade level. David felt something else sting him, then felt his chip
burrow under his skin with a sharp, sliding pierce. It sat there stinging and
itching. He tried to reach for it out of reflex and got another poke with a
wand, even though he couldn't get his hands anywhere near the spot.
The next station, after another wait in the slow-moving line, had a fat pillar
with straps bolted to it next to a work table loaded with smoking metal
cannisters. David caught a bare glimpse of a long-handled implement with a
smaller rendition of the Commerce seal on the end before he was pressed up
against the pillar, with his face in a padded depression. He couldn't breathe
and tried to struggle, but a padded shell of some kind clicked into place
around the back of his head to hold his head still. His wrists were strapped
into thick cuffs around the other side of the pillar, so he was hugging it, and
two flat straps were fastened around him at shoulder and rib level. It was all
done in just a few seconds by multiple sets of hands.
He couldn't get a breath to yell, couldn't fight or struggle. His legs were
free to kick, but his upper body was so secure that it stayed still; all his
kicking got him was a more prolonged shock. Just as he was sure he was about to
black out, he felt something searing cold pressed against the right side of his
neck. It held there forever while his heart slammed to escape his chest and his
flesh melted around it, then it pulled away. The pressure was gone but the
frozen burn remained.
The straps loosened and two sets of arms hauled him away from the pillar and
gave him a shove forward, to the back of yet another line. He tried to raise
his hand to his neck out of reflex, but every time his hands got above his
waist he was shocked, and he quickly learned not to do that. He was gasping for
air, dizzy and hurting and disoriented and he fell to his knees on the concrete
floor. Half a dozen more baton shocks got him back onto his feet again.
The slaves in this line were all leaning on one another. Most were sobbing in
pain, or gasping as they tried not to. There were at least a dozen wet-stained
splotches on the concrete around the end of the line where slaves who'd just
been branded had vomited and then cleaned it up; David saw one spew his guts a
few places behind him, then have a bucket and cloth shoved into his hands.
He considered letting his own stomach go; at least he'd get a few minutes of
kneeling down without being shocked for it.
Some time later, his line wound past a station where another Commerce staff
person swiped a layer of some cool, stinky lotion or ointment or something onto
his neck with a spongy instrument. It looked kind of like the sponge-type paint
applicators he'd seen... where? On television, maybe?
Another slow, shuffling wait, with only two people vomiting along the way, and
he was directed to strip and drop his clothes into barrels. Shoes, socks,
pants, shirt, briefs... he skipped the undershirt barrel because he wasn't
wearing one. He skipped the belt, purse, jewelry and miscellaneous accessories
barrels too. Everyone else seemed to have more things on them than he did, to
be wearing watches or rings or earrings, to have brought along a wallet or a
cell phone, pictures or keys. Everything went into the barrels.
He was handed a pair of cheap elastic-waisted shorts and a plain T-shirt, both
in bright red, both stamped with the Commerce seal in black, with "SLAVE"
curved over the top; the T-shirt had the seal across his chest and the shorts
across his butt. There was no question what he was, coming or going, and even
if he was stupid enough to try to escape, he'd attract attention wherever he
went -- either from wearing bright red clothes that said he was a slave, or
from being naked.
Slaves who needed medication were split off into another line. David didn't, so
he stayed in the main line.
The next station was food. David got a thick slice of crusty bread spread with
something that looked like it was trying to pretend it was butter, along with
two apples and a pint of milk. He was pushed along into a bare room, at which
point the line dissipated. Most of the slaves were leaning against a wall or
sitting on the floor to eat; he crossed his feet and lowered himself down to
sit.
The bread was decent, although his mother's was better. He ate carefully at
first, afraid it might come right back up again. By the time he was about
halfway through, in slow, carefully chewed bites, his stomach felt a little
less chaotic. He finished the bread, then opened the carton of milk and took a
slug before biting into an apple. It was past its prime, mealy and not very
sweet, but it was edible and he discovered he was hungry.
By the time he finished, he wasn't full but he wasn't hungry anymore either.
His stomach felt kind of delicate but not actively roiling. That was an
improvement and he was willing to live with it. It looked like part of his sick
had been hunger.
His head still ached. He wished he dared ask for something to take for it, but
he knew instinctively that that'd be an incredibly bad idea.
A few minutes after he'd finished, a staff-guard-whatever came by and tapped
him on the shoulder, then pointed with her baton to another door, this one with
a huge trash barrel next to it. David climbed up to his feet and headed over to
it, dumped his trash and passed on through. On the other side of the door was
another line.
 
Mr. Duncan wasn't actually an awful owner, as owners went. At least not yet. He
fed Kevin the same meals he ate himself when he was home, and let Kevin raid
the fridge when he wasn't. The alcohol was off limits, but that wasn't exactly
unusual, and that soon after being bought, Kevin wasn't stupid enough to try to
sneak any.
His new owner didn't try for sex, either. Of course, he wasn't supposed to, but
Kevin knew that didn't always stop them, so having an owner who followed the
rules was good.
The work wasn't hard, either. Once he learned where everything was and how Mr.
Duncan wanted things done, Kevin could finish his work, the secretary type
stuff and the chores both, by early afternoon. He waited a few days, just in
case there were any gotchas lurking around, then, after one of the most boring
weeks he'd ever dragged himself through, he decided to get to work on
contacting that Lord Neeson guy.
Kevin spent another four days' worth of leisure time searching for one of the
free-anon e-mail sites. He found a fresh one, and created an account. The feds
stomped on those sites as soon as they found them and there was no telling how
long this one would last; Kevin could only hope it'd be around long enough for
him to get his business done. If not, he'd find another one and continue,
hoping his Lordship was smart enough to catch on when some new mail ID wrote to
him and picked up their conversation.
Dear Lord Neeson, [no sense not being polite, at least to start]
I'm a slave who was stolen. While I was held by the thief, I met another stolen
slave who said he belonged to you. He said his name was Orlando, and that you'd
want him back. If he was telling the truth and you do, write back and we can
talk about terms.
He thought about it for a few minutes, then signed it,
Ben
Heck, he wasn't allowed to use that name anymore, so it'd make as good an alias
as any.
He read it over again, fixed a couple of typos just because, then hit the SEND
button.
Now to find something to do to keep himself from checking his remote mailbox
every five minutes.
***** Chapter 24 *****
"There's Father Serra!" Jamie knelt up on the seat, careful not to kick his
daddy, and plastered his face against the car window as it rounded a curve of
the highway and passed the kneeling statue, one long arm and pointing finger
extended. The sun was almost down and it was too dark to really see anything
clearly, but Jamie had seen it a bunch of times before and knew what it looked
like anyway. It was cool, the huge statue up in the hills, by the side of the
freeway in the middle of nowhere. Just hills, trees, grass, trees, bushes,
trees, then bam! Statue! Then more trees and stuff.
"Tell us again about the time you gave him a helmet and a football!" he asked,
bouncing with eagerness. He remembered that too, the story about how when his
daddy was at Stanford, they'd made a huge football helmet in red and white,
'cause those were Stanford's colors, and an even huger football, and put the
helmet on the statue's head and put the football under the statue's finger,
like it was holding the ball for some giant to kick. He liked it when Daddy
told it, though.
His father gave him a look and said, "Say 'please.'"
Paula, on Daddy's other side, just rolled her eyes at him and went back to her
book. Jamie ignored her; she was always trying to pretend she was so much
smarter and cooler than he was, but she was just a brat.
"Please?" Jamie bounced a few more times, but slid back down to the seat,
twisted around to watch his daddy. He seemed upset about something and Jamie
didn't know what it was. He hadn't been all that interested in what he and
Paula had been doing in school, or what Jamie wanted to get Mommy for
Christmas, or anything. He'd pretended to listen but it wasn't the same. Jamie
was eight -- he wasn't a stupid little kid anymore. He could tell when people
were pretending around him.
He'd tried to think of all the stuff he'd done since last time he'd seen his
daddy. There'd been all that blue paint he'd spilled on Mrs. Taylor's classroom
floor. She'd been pretty mad, but it'd been an accident and the slaves had been
able to clean it all up so you couldn't even tell. And he'd kicked over Maddy's
juice at lunch a couple of weeks ago, but she'd been saying nasty things about
a picture Jamie'd drawn so she deserved it. Although he wasn't sure if his
daddy would agree. Mr. Kitchener hadn't, even though Jamie had explained. Maybe
that was what Daddy was mad about?
Except he didn't seem mad. Not really. More sad. Maybe he was sad because
Jamie'd been bad? Except he hadn't been that bad.
Maybe telling about the time they'd made the statue a football player would
cheer him up. He'd always had fun when he told it before.
Daddy smiled at him and gave him a hug with one arm, and even if he didn't seem
as happy as he usually was when it was the first day of their vacation
together, Jamie was feeling a little better.
Paula was sighing loudly at both of them and Jamie was saying,
"Pleasepleaseplease!" some more when his daddy's phone went off, in the bzz-
bzz, bzz-bzz code that meant Johnny had sent him something he had to look at
right away. He held up one hand to Jamie and pulled out the phone to check his
e-mail.
Jamie sighed and looked out the window again. Business sucked. His mom and
daddy both spent too much time doing boring stuff, even when it was supposed to
be vacation.
But then Daddy straightened up like someone had poked him hard, and said a
really bad cuss word. (Which was one of the best parts about growing up, in
Jamie's opinion -- being able to cuss if you wanted without getting smacked or
yelled at for it.)
Daddy punched keys really fast for a while, then sent his mail, then did it
again and sent another mail, then another one. By the time he was done it was
too dark to see anything outside except lit-up signs and stuff and they were
close to home.
He put away his phone and looked at Jamie, then at Paula, then said, "I have
something to tell you both before we get home." He paused a moment and Jamie
wondered what it could be, because it sounded pretty bad. Maybe whatever
Daddy'd been upset about?
"About a month and a half ago, someone stole Orlando. I've been trying very
hard to find him, and I hired someone to help me, but we haven't been able to
find him yet. I'm going to get him back, though."
Jamie was still trying to figure out how you could steal a someone. Usually it
was things that got stolen. Slaves were sort of like things, because they
belonged to people, but they weren't really. But then Paula gave another loud
sigh and said, "Are you still fussing about that? Mommy told me ages ago. I
don't know why you haven't just gotten over it and bought another one."
Daddy's head jerked around to look at her and Jamie shrank back as far as he
could get into the corner of the seat. Even the back of Daddy's head was
glaring. He was sure Paula was going to get yelled at good and maybe smacked,
but Daddy just said, very quietly, "It's not a good idea to repeat what your
mother says when you don't understand what's going on."
And he was right, because thinking about it, Paula had sounded exactly like Mom
when she said that. She was just copying Mom, trying to make them think she was
all grown up again.
Jamie couldn't see Paula from where he was, just her legs shifting. She whined,
"He's just a slave! He's nice and all but you're not supposed to have slaves
forever! Not body-slaves, anyway! You get one and you play with him for a while
and then you sell him and get a new one. You're supposed to!" By the end she
was almost yelling and Jamie ducked down again, afraid Paula was going to get a
spanking right there in the car.
Instead, Daddy just looked at her for a little while, then said, "I'm sorry,
baby," and pulled her into his lap. She started crying and he rocked her and
rubbed her back all the rest of the way home.
When Javier pulled up the long driveway and parked the car, Jamie looked at the
big house and it really hit him that Orlando wasn't there, that Orlando
wouldn't come out to get their suitcases, wouldn't listen to what they'd been
doing and what they wanted for Christmas, wouldn't be there to play with them.
Johnny and Samantha came out to get baggage and bundle them all into the house,
with Daddy still carrying Paula. Jamie felt kind of like crying himself, but he
didn't because he was a boy and boys don't cry, at least not out in front of
everybody.
Samantha took Jamie's jacket and told him they were having fried chicken for
dinner, and that there was mint-chocolate ice cream for dessert, then went
away. Johnny'd gone to take their suitcases to their rooms, and Daddy had taken
Paula upstairs. The sounds of the house were familiar -- footsteps and quiet
voices. If he walked up the hall he'd hear kitchen sounds, making-dinner
sounds.
This time, the just-gotten-home-from-school time, was when Orlando would come
and listen to what he'd been doing for all the months since he'd been home, and
play with him or find something fun for them to do. Jamie didn't know what to
do, though, by himself. Johnny would be unpacking -- and that was usually
Orlando's job too, something he'd do while listening to Jamie -- and putting
things away in his room and he didn't feel like going up there yet.
He wandered into the big living room. The Christmas tree was already up. It was
huge -- twice as tall as his daddy even -- and had a million ornaments and
lights and stuff on it. It already had some presents under it, too.
Jamie went over and looked at the presents. He didn't touch anything, but he
read the name tags. There were some things for Daddy in different kinds of
wrapping paper, with names Jamie didn't know. Probably people he worked with. A
few presents from neighbors, including a couple of presents each for him and
Paula. They were just box-shaped, though, and he couldn't tell what they were.
He knew better than to pick one up, to shake it or even see what it weighed.
He ran out of presents to look at and he knew all the ornaments. Most of them
were just colored balls but there were some like little toys or dolls -- birds
and bells and snowmen and angels and tiny stockings and drums and horns and
stars and snowflakes and a bunch of other ones they'd had all his life.
Boring. Jamie didn't know what he wanted to do. He felt like running or yelling
or crying but he couldn't do any of those things, so he went over to the couch
and curled up in one corner. He stared at the tree but didn't really see it.
He didn't even notice when his daddy came into the room and sat down next to
him.
"She'll be all right," he said. "She'll probably skip dinner, have a good sleep
tonight, and be fine in the morning."
"Whatever," Jamie said. "It's not like she really cares about Orlando. She just
didn't want to get yelled at so she started crying."
He felt his daddy shift next to him and Jamie looked up, suddenly worried that
maybe he'd gone too far, grumped a little too much. But Daddy didn't look mad
at him, just sad and tired.
"It's not Orlando," he said. "You're right, she doesn't know him as well as you
do and she doesn't miss him as much. But do you remember Shane?"
Of course he did. "That was Mom's second-to-last old body-slave. I liked him.
He was pretty cool."
"He was a nice boy," his daddy agreed. "Paula knew him a lot better than you
did, though. She lived with your mother for most of last summer, remember?
Shane was there and Paula liked him a lot."
"Liked him, liked him?" Jamie asked, ready to jeer. Because, yuck.
"No, not like that." His daddy poked him in the ribs. It tickled, but only for
a second. "But he was a good friend. They talked a lot, and played together,
and he took her places when your mother was busy -- the zoo and museums and
shopping. They were good friends, best friends maybe. And then he left."
"Then Mom sold him," Jamie said. It wasn't correcting, not quite. "So she
should know how you feel! How we feel, because Orlando's gone! Why was she so
snotty about it, then, in the car?"
Daddy sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. He always did that when he was
trying to figure out something hard. He finally said, "You know your mother and
I don't always think the same way about slaves."
"About body-slaves," Jamie said, nodding. He was pretty sure it was just body-
slaves. They treated the others the same.
"Right, about body-slaves. I've had Orlando since he was born, you know that.
Johnny was my body-slave before, then when he was old enough it was Orlando.
He's done that job for a long time."
"Mom thinks too long?" Jamie was careful about that. His parents were mostly
careful about not letting him and Paula be disrespectful of them, although Mom
didn't mind sometimes if you said something she'd said herself, like Paula had
in the car. He didn't think saying that Mom thought Daddy'd had Orlando for too
long was disrespectful. It was true, and he couldn't think of a nicer way to
say it.
"Yes, she thinks I've had him too long. But that's not what I meant. Your
mother doesn't keep her own body-slaves for very long. She thinks they're just
like other slaves, that you shouldn't really get attached to them the way you
would with a person. She's not really wrong -- a lot of people agree with her.
And it makes things hard later on, if you become attached."
Jamie frowned and nodded, even though he wasn't really sure what his daddy was
trying to say. It made sense that it'd be hard if you liked a body-slave a lot
and then he got sold. But it'd have to be someone else's body-slave, because no
one could make you sell your own slave, unless you lost all your money or
something.
"Think about Paula," Daddy said. "She liked Shane very much. He was her best
friend all summer. And then he was sold and he left and she'll never see him
again. She was very sad, but your mother scolded her and told her that she
shouldn't have let herself get attached to him, and that it was a good lesson.
So Paula tried very hard to forget about Shane, and not let herself be sad
anymore."
"So... it didn't work?" Jamie was still kind of confused. He could see how it
would've sucked for Paula, though. She'd never mentioned it, but he remembered
she'd been kind of quiet and touchy when they'd gone back to school that year.
"It... sort of worked." Daddy held up one hand and tilted it back and forth.
"She got good at pretending she didn't care. She worked hard at it, and
probably cried sometimes by herself, but she got good at pretending it didn't
hurt anymore, maybe even pretending she'd never really liked him that much.
Then she was in the car tonight and heard about how I'd lost my slave, someone
I'd gotten attached to, and that I was going to get him back, that I was
searching and hiring people to get him back."
"That's not fair," Jamie said immediately. He might not always understand
things grown-ups thought were important, but he knew when something wasn't
fair. All kids did.
"No, it's not. I get to go hunt for my slave and get him back, but she doesn't
get to hunt for Shane. She isn't even allowed to admit she misses him. It's not
fair and she got mad, and then she got sad about it again, because she couldn't
pretend anymore that she didn't care he was gone."
"But she still doesn't care about Orlando."
"No, she probably doesn't. She doesn't know him like we do."
"So... it's all right to miss him?"
His daddy laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh. He pulled Jamie over for a hug.
Jamie hugged him back, then climbed into his lap. He was too big to get in his
daddy's lap, but there wasn't anyone around to see. He felt the tears he'd
wanted to cry earlier coming back.
"I do miss him. He's supposed to be here. What happened?"
"I don't know, kiddo. Someone stole him. I'm trying my best to get him back,
and I think I have a big clue now."
Jamie sniffled and said, "What?" without taking his head off his daddy's chest.
"I got an e-mail from someone who says he's seen Orlando. Another slave who was
stolen too. He wants me to help him, if he tells me about where he saw Orlando
and what happened to them."
"Help him what?"
"I don't know, he didn't say. I wrote back to him saying I wanted to talk. I
hope he'll tell me what he wants."
"You'll do it, right?"
"Of course. If I can."
That didn't sound very good to Jamie. That sounded like what adults said when
they didn't think they could but wanted to keep you from whining about it for a
while. "You have to," he said. "You can give him whatever he wants, right?"
"I don't know what he wants, Jamie. I'm sorry. I want Orlando back more than
you do, and I want to promise I'll move the whole world to do it. But it's been
a long time. I don't even know how long ago this other slave saw him. I'm not
going to lie to you and promise it'll be all right. You're a big boy now and
you understand that sometimes we can't have what we want, no matter how much we
want it. If this other slave wants something I can give, something I can get,
something I can help him with without breaking the law, then I'll do it. But he
might want something I just can't do. We have to wait and see what he says."
Waiting sucked. Jamie hated waiting, and hated not knowing if there was even
anything to wait for. It was worse than waiting for Christmas, because at least
you knew Christmas was going to come, even if it took a long time.
He remembered Orlando riding him piggy-back, and helping him with his reading,
and playing Batman and Robin with him, and taking him galloping on a horse back
when he'd been too little to do it by himself. The tears fell. Jamie kept his
face buried in his daddy's shirt and hoped no one would see him crying.
***** Chapter 25 *****
Before yesterday, Liam had been looking forward to his meeting at the Commerce
office with a grim sort of anticipation, but now it was just an annoyance -
- something to take up a block of his time when he wouldn't be able to check
his e-mail.
It was ridiculous, really. Johnny was monitoring his account even more
diligently than usual, and this was important too; there were larger issues at
stake than one missing slave, much as it made Liam's jaw clench to think about
it that way.
If it was really that easy to pull a slave out of the system with a slash of a
blade and some fishing around with a tweezer -- and Liam was sure there were
plenty of slaves who'd be willing to grit their teeth and put up with the pain
for a minute if that's what it took to be able to run away and not have
commerce's agents after them with GPS units -- that was a catastrophic hole in
the system. If the news spread, there'd be hordes of slaves escaping and trying
to disappear into the underground economy. Aside from the chaos of vanishing
workers and tasks undone and businesses losing money, the slaves themselves
would be soft targets for anyone looking to exploit them. He'd seen for himself
what happened to slaves who fell into the hands of unregulated owners and it
was a horrible life, however short it might be.
Commerce had to be made aware of what was going on so they could do something
about it.
Half an hour later, though, in the utilitarian but not shabby office of Stanley
Parkinson, the Regional Director of the Department of Commerce, after having
explained what was going on to said director, the man just looked at him and
said, "Thank you, Lord Neeson, but we're aware of the problem."
Liam stared at him for a moment, then narrowed his eyes. "So why haven't you
done anything, then? Have you any idea what's being done to these slaves?
They're not all runaways, did you know that?"
Parkinson's expression didn't change. He looked straight back at Liam and said,
"Contrary to what you seem to believe, Lord Neeson, we're not stupid. We've
been working on a solution for some time, and have been testing it on our own
in-house slaves. We should be ready to implement it in the population at large
within the month. Making any kind of announcement beforetimes, however, would
be fatally stupid, for the exact reasons you've just finished enumerating.
"We don't want to give any of them ideas, Lord Neeson. Not the slaves
themselves, nor anyone who might be tempted to liberate them if someone gave
them a hint about a method that might work. We have no obligation to inform the
peerage in general, nor you in particular, of our plans. Begging Your
Lordship's pardon."
He was begging no such thing. He knew it and Liam knew it. Commerce was not and
never had been impressed by titles or money or anyone's power except their own.
Liam leaned back slightly, not wanting to appear overbearing or agressive.
Despite how he might be feeling, he knew that wouldn't work with these people.
"Would it be possible for you to tell me what you have planned?"
Apparently he was sufficiently non-agressive, because Parkinson said, "In
confidence. You know the other, and obviously understand why it shouldn't be
spread around. So yes. We've upgraded the chip, as well as the implantation
procedure. Chips will be inserted inside a bone in the torso, into the marrow.
The insertion procedure will be slightly more time-consuming, but it will take
significant surgery to remove them. The chips are also designed to be longer,
with a weak spot in the center. If it breaks, which it has over eighty-three
percent of the time in testing when removed, the chip will send out a short
signal burst which will activate the GPS tracking on that unit immediately."
Huh. Liam tried to think of any loopholes or weak spots in the scheme, but
couldn't come up with anything. "That sounds secure enough," he said finally.
"You said you'll be ready to implement that within a month?"
"Approximately. We're still working on the insertion unit. Even once it's
perfected and is standard procedure on new slaves, it'll take a number of
years, and perhaps decades to get through the currently existing slave
population. Privately owned slaves will be first up, since they're the most
likely to go missing."
Liam nodded approval. "Good."
He sat up a bit straighter and changed the subject. "Speaking of which, what is
Commerce doing about the theft problem?"
Parkinson tilted his head, still neither smiling nor frowning. "The new chips
will take care of that."
Liam felt his jaw tighten once more. "Yes, they should. But there's still the
question of differentiating between stolen slaves and runaways."
"Investigating each and every case of a slave's vanishing is neither cost-
effective nor necessary. Treating them all the same provides incentive for
slaves to be extra careful not to be 'stolen.'"
"My body-slave--"
"You don't currently have a body-slave, Lord Neeson." Parkinson stood up and
walked over to open the office door. "I suggest you browse through the display
corridor while you're here; maybe something will interest you. If you have
time, of course. If you're in a hurry, then there's always another day."
And that... was as curt and friendly a dismissal as Liam had ever been handed.
He stood, nodded to the man and left the office.
He had to restrain himself from punching a hole in a random wall on the way
out. Good news about the new chip -- that should help protect slaves, and with
any luck would shut down whatever theft rings might be out there for good. But
they weren't budging on the issue of runaways who were no such thing, which
meant... what? What for Orlando? What if they found him? Should they even keep
searching for him? If he hadn't turned up yet, then he was somewhere safe from
Commerce, at least.
He might well be in some underground club where they'd butcher him for
entertainment. That had been his overwhelming fear ever since he and Thewlis
had gone out that night and the thought of Orlando being someplace like that
was enough to twist Liam's guts. But if that was what had happened to him then
it likely had happened already. Face facts, he told himself. It's been too
long. If he was taken by someone who counted him disposable, then he's likely
been disposed of already.
Wherever he was after all this time, if he was alive then maybe he was safe
somewhere. Maybe not safe safe, maybe not in a good place, where he'd be happy
and well cared for, but if he was alive then likely he was with someone who had
some interest in keeping him alive.
That would be better than letting Commerce find him. They'd brand him a runaway
-- maybe literally, who the fuck knew, since no one ever actually saw runaways
again -- and send him to the asteroid mines or to be a rat in a drug lab or
cleaning up toxic waste or whatever other horrific job they could find where
he'd be worked to death or have the flesh melted off his bones.
The only thing he knew for sure was that if Orlando was found again, Commerce
wouldn't be handing him back to Liam. And if he found Orlando first they'd just
confiscate him and the end result would be the same.
He slammed out the front door and strode over to the patron's lot, where Javier
was waiting with the car. He settled into the back, said "Home" to the driver,
and stared out the window, his eyes unfocused and his heart clenching in his
chest, compacting down to a tight, painful rock.
He'd never thought about it before. Never considered having to make this
decision. Never wanted to consider it. Whenever this issue had drifted into his
conscious mind, he'd chased it away with other, more immediate matters.
Something would turn up, some issue, some change, some factor they hadn't
thought of yet. It would work out, he would get his boy back.
But that might not happen and he was finally staring squarely at the
possibility. You didn't argue with Commerce. There was no convincing, no
pressuring, no leveraging that worked against Commerce once they'd made up
their mind to something. Parkinson had made it clear that there was absolutely
no hope of arguing about Orlando's status as stolen property rather than a
runaway. Persisting in the face of his so-polite shutting down of the topic
would only draw more attention to Orlando, if he was ever found. Leaving an
annoyed Commerce director with a grudge against Liam, no matter how minor,
which could be taken out on Orlando if he was found was unthinkable, as well as
pointless. Liam was sure that even in the dead-end of guaranteed-fatal jobs
assigned to runaways, the worst of criminals, the useless and the plain
unlucky, there were greater or lesser degrees of horror; he wouldn't do
anything to encourage Orlando's placement in one of the greater.
Which left him with the fact that he couldn't protect his boy. That if Orlando
was found, he wouldn't be allowed to protect him. That, therefore, it might be
the best thing for Orlando never to be found.
Liam stifled an angry groan and leaned his head against the back of the seat.
Just as he closed his eyes in a ridiculous attempt to shut out the images
taunting him, he felt the familiar bzz-bzz, bzz-bzz coming from his phone. Liam
grabbed it and checked the message.
E-mail from Ben.
 
The new slaves had gone bare-necked for the first few days, while their freeze
brands healed. Every morning before breakfast, they lined up and passed by
three stations.
The first swiped some sort of cleanser over the branded area. It took off the
layer of lotion from the previous day.
The second swiped them with something that had to be an antiseptic; it burned
like acid and David had to grab the table to keep from falling when the pain
hit. The staffer there didn't seem to mind so long as he straighted up and
moved on within a second or two.
The third was a fresh application of lotion. It didn't stop the pain any, just
sealed it in, or at least that's what it felt like.
All the swipes were done with the same kind of sponge-on-a-handle that'd been
used the first day. Everyone working the stations was perfectly efficient,
perfectly impersonal.
After having their wounds "tended," they got breakfast. A few of the slaves
didn't want to eat, but pokes from the shock batons convinced them to at least
try.
On the fifth day, though, after the antiseptic swipe, the third table held a
heavy wire rack full of collars. They were the cheapest metal collars
available, the kind Commerce kept on all its slaves -- lengths of sturdy chain,
the twisted kind that would lay sort of flat. Each chain hung by the link at
one end on the wire rack; on its other end, a small, open padlock was looped
through the bottom link.
The staffer grabbed a collar, wrapped it around the neck of the next slave in
line, sized it by deciding by eye which link on the loose end to thread the
lock through, then clicked it shut. That was it, next slave. They didn't bother
clipping off the dangling links; David's collar had eight of them.
At least his headaches had gone away. He still felt nauseated sometimes, but it
wasn't as often or as bad. He took more notice of what was going on around him;
the staffers became individual people rather than identical drones in uniform.
Or maybe "people" wasn't the right word, considering how they treated the
slaves like cattle, but at least he could tell them apart, could notice that
the thin woman with greying hair who worked the lotion station that morning was
the same one who plopped a cheese sandwich on his tray at lunch.
The dark man with a paunch who jabbed his baton at the dawdling slave ahead of
David on the way in to get their dinner, then shocking everyone within reach to
get the line moving again, was the same one who pulled two of the slaves in
David's dormitory off of him in the middle of the night.
They'd crept over to David's cot, one pressing a hand over his mouth and
holding his arms while the other yanked off the thin blanket -- all that
covered the naked slaves while sleeping -- and wedged his legs open before he
was awake enough to fight.
Before anything could happen (beyond a few bruises and stark terror) the dark,
paunchy man had burst into the room and beaten the two slaves to the floor with
his baton. David could hear the buzz of the shocks, turned up high.
When the two rapists were reduced to crying, gasping huddles on the floor,
shaking and stinking of urine, the man pointed to David and said, "That is
Commerce property. It is not for your use. You won't touch, use or damage
anything not specifically given to you for your use." Then he'd turned and left
them there on the floor, and David naked and stunned on his cot, closing the
door behind him.
***** Chapter 26 *****
Ben -- I'm certainly interested in getting Orlando back. Let me know what you
want, and if it's within my power then we'll do business.
Neeson
***
Lord Neeson,
You can't give me what I really want, my freedom, but the next best thing is a
good life. Can you promise me that? I don't mind doing stuff sometimes but I'm
not into sweat-labor or anything, and I don't like being bored. Will you
promise to support me for the rest of my life and not hassle me and just let me
do my thing? Give me your word and I'll tell you who I really am and where I
am. You come make my new owner an offer he can't refuse. Once I belong to you,
I'll tell you everything I know.
Ben
***
Ben -- I'm sorry you're in a bad situation but how do I know you have any
information that'd be useful? If you just met Orlando in passing for a few
hours, in a warehouse or something similarly temporary, that's not really worth
what it's likely to cost to persuade a reluctant owner to sell you.
I'm anxious to get Orlando back but I need some reassurance I'm not just being
played here. A lot of people know my Orlando is missing by now, and you could
be anyone.
Neeson
***
Look, I'm the one taking all the risks, here. I'm a slave, right? I could hand
you your guy on a golden plate and you could turn around and fuck me over and
I'd have absolutely no one to complain to. So pardon me if I don't feel all
that sorry for you, having to take a chance with some cash. If you're as filthy
rich as Orlando said, you could buy twelve of me and not notice.
I'm not asking for a pile of money for myself. I'm not asking you to smuggle me
out of the country. I'm not even asking you to support me in my own 50-room
mansion with a fleet of Italian sports cars and a dozen slaves of my own. I
just want a decent future with no one messing me over. I didn't ask for this
and I'm not going to apologize for taking the only chance I've got to make the
best I can of a really shitty life.
And by the way, the longer you fuck around, the harder it's going to be to find
Orlando and the less likely it is that he'll be in decent shape if you do catch
up with him.
So do we have a deal or not?
***
Ben -- for someone asking for a damned huge favor, you don't seem to care what
impression you make. That's bad negotiating, just as a tip.
Some other things have come up and I'm not even sure anymore that it'd be in
Orlando's best interest to be found, Commerce being what it is. I'd still love
to get a crack at whoever took him, though. It doesn't sound like you know
where Orlando is right now anyway -- can you give me the thief at least?
Neeson
***
Oh, what-fucking-ever. You're right, I don't give a shit what you think of me.
If you want to drop this then we can drop it. If you want Orlando then I can
set you on his trail. If you want the thieves (more than one) then I can give
you two of their recent addresses, and that was two places they used at the
same time, not two in a row with one abandoned already.
Let me know if you ever make up your damn mind.
***
Ben hit SEND on his latest e-mail and cussed under his breath.
Owners all sucked, and the nobles were the worst of them. How did rich assholes
ever keep from going broke if they couldn't even make up their minds what they
wanted?
He might just be better off saying fuck it all and staying with Mr. Duncan. He
wasn't totally sucky, as owners went. He still hadn't tried to fuck Ben, or hit
him more than a smack here and there. The work wasn't really hard and he could
do whatever he wanted once it was done -- watching TV or playing on the
computer or whatever. So far as he could tell, Mr. Duncan wasn't even
monitoring his computer usage. Not that it'd do him a lot of good to try,
'cause Ben was smart enough to erase any tracks he didn't want found and
replace them with normal stuff, mostly porn 'cause that was iffy enough he
could pretend to be embarassed if anyone confronted him about it and throw off
any suspicion that he could doctor the caches.
But staying with Duncan probably wouldn't be all that bad. The problem was, Ben
didn't know that he would be with the guy for the long haul. Sure, if he was
really as satisfied as he seemed to be, maybe he'd keep Ben for the next forty
years and it'd all be cool. But maybe he wouldn't -- maybe he'd get bored, or
decide he'd rather have a woman, or just use a PDA and do the work himself.
Or, fuck, he might get hit by a bus tomorrow and then what? Ben had no idea
who'd inherit him if Mr. Duncan died. Maybe no one -- he might end up back with
Commerce. Either way, it was owner-roulette all over again.
He made a mental note to ask about heirs and all, if Neeson ever got his
fucking act together and decided to deal. Make sure there was something in his
will about his heirs keeping the bargain. For all Ben knew, he could be ninety-
six and on his deathbed; even if not, there was always the bus option.
Ben had never been curious before, but suddenly he was. He got back on the
keyboard and a minute later was looking at a bio of Neeson on one of his
company web sites, with a formal portrait.
All right, definitely not ninety-six. Not bad if you liked older guys. And
Orlando'd been right -- the guy was rich enough to buy a hundred and twelve of
Ben if he wanted to, so all his screwing around obviously didn't have anything
to do with money.
It'd been a couple of months, so maybe he was starting to lose interest in
Orlando? The guy was hot, yeah, but he was over thirty and after this long, how
many owners would still be interested? Neeson probably had a new body-slave by
then anyway. Besides, Orlando'd said he was into kids, so why did he even care
whether he got his way-too-old slave back anyway?
 
Thewlis put down the last of the print-outs and said, "This Ben could
definitely use a few manners, but he has a point. Why the delay?"
His employer leaned back in his office chair and stared at the ceiling. "I
don't know what to do. I'm just not sure anymore. What if we do find Orlando -
- then what? Parkinson as good as said right out that whenever he's found
they'll take him as a runaway and that's that."
"So, what then? Do you want to abandon the search?"
"Maybe I should."
Thewlis blinked. He'd never seen Lord Neeson looking so tired, had never
imagined him looking so... so empty. Deflated. He'd always been the
irresistable force, or at least had behaved like one. But now?
It was true that Thewlis had never known anyone to take on Commerce and come
out the winner, but Lord Neeson had always forged ahead, sure that he could
power through and end up getting what he wanted, on sheer force of personality
if nothing else.
Now, though, all that was gone.
"Well, it's your choice, My Lord." Thewlis stood up and fiddled with his coat
buttons for a few moments. When the silence stretched, he added, "You have my
number if you need anything else," then bowed and left.
 
David had gotten used to the routines -- sleeping in the open, shuffling
darkness; eating whatever he was handed, whenever food was available; obeying
without question anyone who wasn't wearing a collar, and even some who were.
The training was more dull than difficult, and emotionally taxing rather than
physically. David seemed to be having an easier time of it than most of the
others, something he only noticed after he'd been there a while.
Some "while" he couldn't measure, because the first... "while" had passed like
a cold, distant dream. He only noticed it later, when everything around him
began to change.
Colors were brighter, sounds were clearer, people and things were sharper, and
his memory was retaining and sifting and processing it all. His headache was
gone, as was his nausea, and that probably helped. But it was like he'd been
dragged around in his sleep for some unknowable period, and had only recently
woken up.
Which was why, in the middle of lunch one day, while eating his baloney
sandwich, he saw one of the staffers leaning against a wall, watching all the
slaves gulp their food while eating something of his own. It was a cookie, a
big one, golden brown and studded with something dark. And Orlando remembered.
Because cookies meant his mother and the kitchen and his master. Some of his
first memories were of sitting with Master Liam outside, of his master sharing
cookies with him.
Orlando dropped his food and scrambled to his feet. He wove his way through the
crowd of slaves, stepping over legs and tripping over feet and slipping once on
someone's spilled milk, moving faster until by the time he got close to the
staffer with the cookie he was running and had to skid to a stop. Which was
just as well because the man had seen him coming and had his baton up and
pointed right at Orlando's chest; he stopped a bare finger-width away from
getting shocked.
"There's been a mistake! I don't belong here! I have a master!"
The staffer swallowed his mouthful of cookie, then said, "Aww, fuck."
Someone behind him hooked Orlando's legs out from under him. He hit the
concrete floor with a thud, flat on his face and gasping for air.
"Figures," said a harsh female voice from somewhere past his feet. "Not a lick
of trouble out of this one for all this time, and he picks our shift to have a
looney break."
Orlando felt a heavy hand on the back of his neck, pressing his face into the
cold floor. His tunic was shoved up and something hard and plastic ran across
his back, then beeped.
"David Grant. Says here he's a liar and a troublemaker. Babbled some story
about already being a slave when he was first brought in, thought that'd make
Intake let him go so he could run on home to his owner."
A chorus of harsh laughter echoed through the concrete room; more staffers
must've come over to see what the fuss was about.
"No, it's true!" Orlando had an empty feeling in his gut and was sure no one
would believe him, but he had to try. "If you'd just call him!"
"Give it up, slave," said the man with the cookie. He took another bite, then
added, spewing crumbs, "If y'keep spouting bullshit, y'll just get hurt. You
been smart s'far, keep it up."
"But--!"
A baton tapped his shoulder, sending a jolt through him. If he hadn't been
still sprawled on the floor, he'd have fallen again. The woman's voice said,
"Shut up. At least you could've come up with something plausible. Usually the
whine is that there was a mistake in the accounting, or they could've paid
their debt if they'd had another month, or some crap like that. 'I'm already a
slave' has to be the stupidest whine I've ever heard, so just save it. Right?"
She jabbed his ass with her baton, sending one last jolt through him. "Right."
Orlando just lay there, gasping for breath and waiting for his limbs to start
working again, until the lunch period was over and they were all hustled out to
their next training session.
But he remembered who he was, and what had happened, and he would find someone
who'd listen.
***** Chapter 27 *****
Liam clicked SEND on a letter to one of his project managers, then shut down
the mail window and closed the design review reports he'd been quoting out of
while listing instructions.
That was it; everything that needed to be done for the day was finished and
everything else could wait. He stretched, feeling the ache in his back and the
pull of his muscles, then just closed his eyes and relaxed back into his chair,
arms draped over the sides and head resting on the back. He had no idea what
time it was and didn't particularly care.
The house felt cold. It was probably just the December chill, although the
heating system was perfectly efficient and the panel in the hall had shown a
perfectly steady seventy degrees all day, every day. Must be something wrong;
he made a mental note to have someone come out and look at it.
He heard the door open, then soft footsteps across the carpet. Something
clinked down on his desk and he opened his eyes. A plate with two brownies in
it sat next to his keyboard.
A glance at the clock showed that it was well past dinner time. Liam started to
say "Johnny" while turning to look over his shoulder, then stopped. It wasn't
Johnny.
Gloria put her hands on his shoulders. The were thin, bony hands with wrinkled-
crepe skin and dark spots. He covered her right hand with his left and
squeezed. "What are you doing here? It's a long way from the kitchen."
"I can manage perfectly well," she said. "I'm just slow."
"That may be, but you still shouldn't be standing there like that." Liam slid
out from under her palms and helped her over to the sofa.
She sat, slowly, then patted the cushion next to her. "Come sit with me," she
said. It was as good an idea as any; as he sat, she said, "You hardly ever come
to the kitchen anymore."
Liam looked away and stared at a print on the wall, two golden retrievers in a
meadow. He tried to think of something to say, but words came rushing through
his mind in a jumble and refused to fit together or make any sense.
She clasped his hand in one of hers and squeezed lightly. "We all miss him too,
you know," she said. Her other hand reached up and brushed through his hair.
"There's not a single person here who'd think the less of you for showing it."
He felt his jaw clenching, and the hand she held fisted. If anyone else, any
other slave had dared so presume, he'd have dealt out a whip-crack reprimand
and probably at least a smack to teach them to hold their tongue.
But this was Gloria, and without even thinking, he said, "I don't know what to
do." His voice was low and strained and plaintive, and showing that much
weakness and uncertainty in front of anyone else -- slave or free -- would have
had him dying of shame, or wishing to.
But this was Gloria. She'd seen him in worse circumstances, been witness to and
recipient of his teenage fumblings, when he'd been fifteen and his father had
thrust her into his room and ordered her to show him the way of it. She'd been
thirty-three and still a lovely woman, but from his perspective of excitement
and terror, she'd borne a horrifying resemblance to his mother. He'd been
unable to perform for most of the afternoon, and when he'd finally managed to
work up the interest, he'd spurted onto her thighs the moment his hand had
brushed between her legs.
She'd never laughed at him, never shown any irritation. Nor had she shown the
sort of neutral patience a discreet slave might've put on to hide distaste or
contempt, nor had she gone right to work to get him up and ready quickly.
Instead she'd pulled him down beside her and cuddled him, with his burning face
hidden in the soft curve of her throat, and rubbed his back until sleep took
him away from his masculine humiliation. At some point later that evening, he'd
woken up to a wonderful sensation, and found her straddling him, impaling
herself on his newly-interested cock, and from there it had gone as well as any
fifteen-year-old virgin could hope for.
Liam had always been grateful to her, a feeling he'd instinctively hidden from
his father. He'd held the man in great respect, but some things weren't shown.
He honestly couldn't have said whether his father would have strongly
disapproved of any son of his feeling gratitude toward a slave, or whether he
would have strongly disapproved of any son of his showing gratitude toward a
slave. Either way, the result would have been the same and Liam had known to
conceal his feelings.
And now, forty years later, he realized that he still felt safe in her
presence. Not physically, of course, but rather in knowing that he could trust
her not to scorn his failings. With everyone else he had to be strong and
decisive and in control, and usually that wasn't at all difficult because he
was a strong and decisive man and he rarely lost control of anything. Now,
though....
"I don't know what to do," he repeated. "Even if I find him, they won't let me
have him. And I can't even say that what happened to that boy at the club was
worse than what Commerce does to runaways. At least it was over with in one
evening, a few hours instead of days or weeks or months of slow murder."
She shifted position and he felt her rubbing his back. "So, what can you do?"
"Nothing. If I find him, Commerce will take him away from me."
She was silent for a while, just rubbing, then said, "Well, what if you don't
tell them?"
He shook his head and squeezed her shoulders, only realizing then that his arm
had gone around her in return. "They'll find out. Someone will tell them. Or
even if not, they can do inspections whenever they like. I'd have to hide him
in a secret cellar or something, and even then hope that a Commerce agent
didn't terrorize one of the others into telling."
"No, that's not what I meant. If you find him, can't you just check on him,
make certain he's better off where he is than with Commerce?"
"I--" Liam blinked and cut himself off. He'd just assumed that finding Orlando
meant scooping him up and taking him home, whether grabbing him out of the
hands of criminals or writing however large a check was required to buy him
from someone who'd unknowingly been sold stolen property. He hadn't thought
beyond that, nor even taken the process apart to see if there were any earlier
point where he could stop.
Just finding him and then deciding -- that was actually an excellent idea, one
which hadn't occurred to him in his desperation to find Orlando and get him
home. And in fact he was a little embarassed for not thinking of it himself.
But it was all right. Gloria wouldn't laugh at him for that, either.
 
Ben hadn't bothered to check his secret e-mail for a couple of days. He was
pretty sure Neeson had bailed on him for good, and only boredom sent him
looking that afternoon, just for the fuck of it.
He read the note, then sat back and scowled at the monitor.
Changed his mind again. Great.
All right, then, it was his decision. This was it -- he could send the guy his
actual name and contact info and let Neeson buy him from Mr. Duncan. Who really
wasn't that bad, but you never knew and there was always the bus option.
Although Neeson could end up screwing him over -- pump him for info and then
sell him to the mines if he wanted -- and Ben would be basically, well,
screwed, with no one to squawk to.
Or for that matter, Neeson might decide to go all Good Citizen on him and hand
him back to his old master.
Ben shuddered. The mines would be worse, but only by a hair.
He stared at Neeson's e-mail with one elbow on the table and chewed on his
thumbnail.
Decide, decide, decide....
Fuck it. He hit REPLY and started typing.
 
Marton handed the girl -- new name Alice Hong -- over to Brendan and went back
to the van to get the boy who was still shackled in the back. They'd get them
settled into their cells and then they'd be Anderson's problem.
Mitchell Thurston had managed to get himself indebted for over a million, so
while the switch fee was higher than usual, Marton wasn't going to be able to
tack as much on as he'd hoped; Commerce would only reimburse for so much,
unfortunately. Still, with Ben's sale earlier, it'd put him over his target and
he was getting out. The two slaves had been crowded into the back of the van
with records and equipment he wouldn't be needing anymore; he'd shut down the
office operation and was dumping the detritus on Anderson. He could rent a new
place, or not, and do whatever he wanted.
Marton had no idea what Anderson was going to do for a plastic surgeon, but
that wasn't Marton's problem either.
Ten minutes later he headed into the office where the new slaves were now
visible on two of the monitors. He grabbed a cup of coffee and said to
Anderson, "The rest is in the van and the main office is empty. It's all
yours."
Anderson grinned at him and lifted his own coffee mug in a toast. "So, when are
you heading out?"
Marton eyed him and took a leisurely sip. "Perhaps I misspoke. It's not quite
all yours yet. I'll be leaving soon after I have my checks for these last two
slaves."
"Oh, sure, sure! That's what I meant!"
His erstwhile employee sounded a bit too hearty and Marton sighed. He glanced
around to make sure they were alone, then said, "All right, just as a thought
experiment, let's make sure we touch all the bases. I'm being wildly generous
to you, having set this whole operation up and then being willing to hand it
over and walk away. Generous does not mean stupid, however.
"An acquaintance of mine has a letter, addressed to the Secretary of Commerce,
with instructions to mail it if he doesn't hear from me, in a letter postmarked
from a certain city and country upon which we've agreed, by a certain date. If
anything unfortunate were to occur to me, et cetera, et cetera. And if, again
purely for the sake of our thought experiment, you should attempt to cheat me
out of anything which is rightfully mine -- especially considering all that I'm
giving you out of the goodness of my heart -- I might just find that even if I
do survive to leave this forsaken country, I might not be able to spare the
cost of a stamp to write to my old acquaintance and assure him of my well-
being. I'm sure you wouldn't want this person to be left worrying over me,
wondering whatever could have happened."
Anderson smirked, and gave Marton another salute with his coffee mug. This
second gesture had less of celebration about it and more of irony. "No, that'd
be a shitty thing to have happen, I'm sure."
"Then we're agreed that we would both rather this thought experiment never be
carried out."
"Oh, sure, absolutely." Anderson swiveled around in his chair to face the
monitors once more, and pretended to be busy with something in a second window.
Marton rolled his eyes. Too predictable. He'd have to think about giving
Brendan a hint; Marton didn't think things were going to go all that well once
Anderson's were the sole hands on the reins.
***** Chapter 28 *****
The one thing Kevin did not expect was to have Lord Fucking Neeson show up,
briefcase-toting body-slave in tow, and ring his master's fucking doorbell.
It was Sunday morning and his master was still at the table with his coffee and
a laptop, surfing the newsblogs. The doorbell rang and when Kevin opened it he
found himself staring up at the man whose picture he'd been looking at on the
computer just the other day. He didn't even say hello or ask what he could do
for the visitor; he just stood there with his lips parted and his eyes about to
fall out of their sockets.
Neeson looked him over, then said, "I assume you're Kevin?"
"Uhh... yeah. Yes. I am." He glanced over his shoulder, then looked back and
whispered, "What the fuck are you doing here?!"
"You wanted me to buy you," Neeson said. Kevin wanted to punch the sardonic
humor right off his face. "So here we are. Is your master home?"
Kevin's master noticed the delay at the door right then, just to make
everything perfect. "Kevin? Who is it? What's up?" Mr. Duncan stepped up behind
Kevin and took in the visitors. He and Lord Neeson sized each other up while
Kevin shifted from one foot to the other and considered the practicality of
just bolting out the door.
Nah, he probably wouldn't make it out of the building. Even if the two free
men's attention was occupied with one another, the body-slave -- and what the
hell was Neeson doing with a body-slave that old?! -- was eyeing him and didn't
look like the kind to just conveniently step aside if Kevin made a break for
it.
Neeson broke the silence by saying, "Liam Neeson," and handing Mr. Duncan a
card.
There was another pause, then Mr. Duncan said, "Well, good morning, Your
Lordship. What can I help you with?"
"I'm here about Kevin, actually," Neeson said.
"Kevin? What'd you do, boy?"
A huge hand on his shoulder turned Kevin around so he was facing his scowling
master. Kevin just shook his head, unable to think of what to say, how to
explain, but Neeson said, "No, he hasn't done anything wrong. The situation is
rather complicated, though. Is there a place we could talk?"
Mr. Duncan gave Kevin one last glare, then said, "Sure, come on in." He led
them to the living area and made a wide gesture toward the seating. Neeson took
an armchair. His slave knelt down next to him and set the briefcase neatly on
the floor at his knees.
"Kevin, bring the coffee in here."
"Yes, Sir." Kevin headed out to the kitchen as fast as he could without
actually running, then leaned stiff-armed over the sink and took some deep
breaths.
What the fuck? Because seriously, what the hell was Neeson thinking?
Kevin had thought that maybe he'd find someone who knew Mr. Duncan, figure out
how to meet him, get invited over for dinner or something so he could pretend
to meet Kevin, then maybe do the, "Hey, your slave's really hot and I suddenly
have to have him. Couple mil? Three? Four? Four and a half?" Or whatever, but
something at least a little sneaky, 'cause just showing up at the door wasn't
at all sneaky and Kevin had no clue how the guy was going to pull it off.
Not that anyone was asking his opinion.
All right, fine. Coffee. There was only a little left in the pot, so Kevin
poured it out and got another one going. While waiting, he found a tray and
clean cups and some napkins, got the sugar bowl and put milk in the little
pitcher, a couple of teaspoons.... The coffee still wasn't done so he dug some
cookies out of the pantry and put them on a plate, then added a couple of
smaller plates to the tray.
It was kind of silly just for after-breakfast coffee, but if Kevin didn't have
something to concentrate on, something to do, he was going to faint in the
middle of the floor and that wouldn't be cool at all.
Although if he did that, at least he wouldn't have to deal with this totally
fucked-up situation for a while, at least until someone noticed he'd been gone
too long and found a bucket of water or something to toss on him.
The coffee finally finished dripping and he added the pot to the tray -- and
damn, that was heavy with all the crap he'd piled on it -- then bit his lip and
walked carefully back to the living area.
Conversation stopped when he walked in and he almost dropped the tray.
Mr. Duncan pointed to the coffee table and Kevin got his feet moving again. He
set the tray down and served the two men, offering sugar to his master, then
milk and sugar to Neeson. Then around again with the cookies. Mr. Duncan waved
them away; Neeson took five, then gave one to his slave.
Then Kevin was done. There was nothing left to do, so he went and knelt next to
the coffee table and stared at the carpet.
"Kevin, you tell Lord Neeson what you know about his missing slave."
Kevin clenched his teeth and had to take a breath to keep from swearing. Fucked
over -- of course. Why should Neeson spend the money when he could just go to
Kevin's owner and have him order Kevin to tell what he knew? And how stupid had
Kevin been to actually believe that an owner -- a lord -- would think twice
about breaking his word to a slave?
He looked at Neeson, then at Mr. Duncan, then back at Neeson, then snarled,
"That wasn't the deal."
"Excuse me?" There was hell to pay in his master's voice, but just then Kevin
didn't give a damn.
He ignored his owner and said, "You're supposed to buy me and then I tell you."
Neeson opened his mouth to answer, but before he could get a word out, Mr.
Duncan said, "You're that eager to be owned by someone else that you'll look
away and ignore me? Look at me, boy!" Kevin's head snapped around, his heart
pounding because he was sure he was going to get a punishment that'd cripple
him for a month, and the man went on, "What's your problem all of a sudden? You
have a complaint? You don't like it here? What's your issue? I don't beat you,
I don't fuck you on the sly, you get good food and easy work and plenty of
spare time -- what's wrong, then? You have an issue being owned by a Black
man?"
"What?" That one threw Kevin off balance for a moment. "No! I don't-- Master-
- look, I'm sorry but it's not personal. You're right, it's fine here and if I
have to be a fucking slave--" Oh, shit! Well, fuck it, keep going. "--Then this
isn't a bad place to be. You're the best master I've ever had and that's not
necessarily saying a lot but it is. You're a decent owner, more than anyone
I've ever known. But I don't want just a decent owner. I want security. I want
to know that I've got a good life and that it's forever, no matter what."
No one was stopping him so Kevin just keep rambling, everything that'd been
flowing around and round in his brain for years, it all finally had an outlet
and had to get out. "You're good to me, yeah, but what happens if you get tired
of me? I'm right back at Commerce rolling the dice again. Or when you die?
Who'd own me then? Are they as good as you, and if so would they even want to
keep me? Or would I go back to Commerce? Who would I end up with next?"
Mr. Duncan was scowling, but he looked thoughtful as much as angry. "What got
you all worked up about that? You're doing a good job, never made any fusses
until now. And I'm not planning on dying for a good while, you know?"
"Your pardon, Master, but it's not always your choice. You could get hit by a
bus tomorrow and what would happen to me then? You're the best master I've ever
had," Kevin repeated, "but I can't count on that forever."
Mr. Duncan's scowl deepened. "That's right, you've been a slave before.
Commerce told me you were just enslaved, that I'd be your first master. What's
up with that?"
Which... was just another request for the whole story. And fuck it -- if Mr.
Duncan was going to kick his ass then it was going to happen and no point
making it worse. He'd just as soon tell Neeson to go fuck himself, but he
didn't have that luxury.
He looked down at the carpet again and said, "I was out with my master. He was
getting a new suit fitted and he sent me to get him a table and order his lunch
for him at a restaurant a few blocks away. On the way there, a couple of guys
pulled up in a van and yelled to me, asked if I knew how to get to the 405 from
there. I went over to the window so I could tell them, and the sliding door
opened and another guy grabbed me. They drugged me and I woke up with my chip
and my brand gone." He looked up at Mr. Duncan and said, "You're my fourth
owner. Not counting the guy who stole me."
"Where were you? Do you know?" Neeson was leaning forward, like he was about to
grab Kevin and shake the information out of him.
"Bakersfield. They have a place there -- a rented space in an industrial park -
- where they take the slaves and do the surgery and keep them for a while. They
also have a fake Commerce center about ten minutes away, in a sort of a strip
mall, where they take slaves who won't just agree to go along with Plan A."
"How do you fake a Commerce center?" Mr. Duncan asked, sounding skeptical.
"People'd notice."
"No, Sir. The front is just blank and locked; it looks empty. Slaves are taken
in the back. There aren't any signs outside, just inside. There's a reception
area and a hallway and a few cells and a training room. That's all the slaves
see when they're there, the ones who think it's a Commerce office. There's
another office room with monitors and stuff, but they never see that."
"But you did," Neeson said. "How did you get to see how everything worked if
they were hiding it from the slaves they stole?"
Kevin shrugged. "I made a deal with the guy who ran it all. I helped him
process the other slaves, tried to persuade them to go along, or played like I
was another slave if they wouldn't. Having another slave around who didn't
believe them made it...." He trailed off and looked away from Neeson. "I
helped. Csokas, the guy in charge, he said that if I helped him he'd give me a
new identity and let me go when he was done. I didn't really believe him, but I
had to try."
"Judas goat."
Everyone looked at Neeson's slave, who looked away and murmured an apology.
Neeson ruffled his hair, then rested a hand on his shoulder and murmured back,
"It's all right." Then he looked back at Kevin and said, "Go on, what else?"
It took a while. Neeson's slave, whose name was Johnny, got a pad and pen out
of the briefcase he'd brought in and took notes. He told them how it all
worked, Plan A and Plan B, the drugs and beatings and how it worked almost
every time. He gave them Parker's name and a description, and Neeson got a
hard, ugly smile while he listened to Kevin tell about the Commerce guy. They
had Kevin spell names and repeat addresses. Kevin didn't care anymore. Neeson
had outmaneuvered him -- not that it'd been tough to do, him being free and
Kevin being a slave and all -- and Kevin was going to be left to catch the shit
when Neeson was done with him.
Except when they were done, once Johnny had put away his pad and the owners had
finished their coffee and everyone had wrung the last drops of information out
of Kevin -- even Johnny, who'd shot his own questions at Kevin and their
masters had just stared at Kevin like, "So? Answer him," so he had -- Neeson
said to Mr. Duncan, "So, I promised Kevin I'd buy him, and ensure he's taken
care of for the rest of his life. What do you think we can do about that?"
"You still want him?" Mr. Duncan sounded kind of surprised, which was barely a
fraction of the shock running through Kevin.
"I never particularly wanted him," Neeson answered. "But that's not the point.
I'm ready to offer a generous price for him."
Mr. Duncan frowned and watched Kevin, still kneeling on the floor, for a few
seconds. "I need to think about it. Talk to Kevin. He's a good secretary, minds
things around the house, doesn't cause trouble till now."
"He's been of considerable help to me, and others who've lost slaves," Neeson
said. "If we can see this crew branded and collared, and Csokas first in line,
I think it will've been worth the... inappropriate behavior. That's just my
opinion, though. You're his owner."
"Yeah, you've got a point," Mr. Duncan agreed. "At least, he didn't start it.
Let's see what we can work out. I'll give you a call if I decide to let him
go."
"Excellent." Neeson stood, and his body-slave slid into place next to him.
"I'll be waiting to hear from you, then."
And he left. The door closed behind him, and Kevin turned around to face his
owner.
***** Chapter 29 *****
They picked up Mr. Thewlis, who'd been on a later flight, then headed out to
the industrial park where Kevin had said this Csokas guy spent most of his
time. Johnny could tell that Master Liam's gut instinct was to head straight to
the fake Commerce office where Kevin had last seen Orlando -- the clenched jaw
and fidgeting hands while they drove in a different direction communicated that
as clearly as a billboard to someone who'd known him as long as Johnny had. But
Kevin had been absolutely certain that Orlando would've been sold on already,
so getting the man who was running the show was the next best move.
Or would have been, except he wasn't there.
Johnny, who'd been driving their rental car, triple-checked the map he'd
printed out, went back to his notes for the address Kevin had given them, then
checked again with Liam's own memory, all with an increasingly sick feeling in
his stomach that he must've done something wrong, something stupid.
Nothing changed -- they were still parked in front of a small printing shop.
The address was correct, a unit toward one end of the block in a light
industrial area. The property was sort of like a strip mall, except with lots
of roll-up doors and no big display windows.
Thewlis went in to investigate while Johnny paged through his notes again, over
and over. His master sat in the back seat, his silence a condemnation.
Or, not really. Johnny knew Master Liam wasn't actually blaming him. If he'd
thought Johnny had made some kind of mistake, he'd be giving instructions or
just taking over himself to fix it. The fact that he was just sitting only
meant that he was stressed-out too. But still, a stressed-out owner was never a
good thing, no matter whose fault the stress was.
Thewlis came out about five minutes later and slid back in next to Master Liam.
He pulled out his laptop while saying, "They've only been there about three
weeks. I got a card for the management company; we can find out who leased the
space before the print shop was there. We might as well head over to the second
site."
Unspoken was, "And hope they haven't moved out of that one too."
Master Liam nodded to Johnny in the rear view mirror, so he pulled out and
drove west -- carefully, though his foot wanted to get there a hell of a lot
faster -- toward the main commercial center, and then a little past it.
Thewlis found a number that wasn't just voicemail and Johnny heard him talking
to someone with the company that collected rent on the industrial building. He
asked about Csokas by name, then after a long pause, gave a description of him.
That one worked; he'd leased the building under another name, or maybe someone
else had leased it but he'd been there at the time. Whichever, it looked like
that part of Kevin's story checked out, at least, which made Johnny feel a
little better. Maybe a little optimistic, even.
The next stop was another strip mall only that one was real, complete with a 7-
Eleven and a Starbucks. One unit was blank and looked like it was between
occupants, like Kevin had said. Johnny pulled around to the back, counted
doors, and parked near the one they wanted.
He hoped. He hoped this was the one they wanted.
Master Liam was out of the car before Johnny got the keys out of the ignition,
Mr. Thewlis right behind him. Johnny scrambled after them, catching up just as
his master rattled the doorknob, then banged on the panel with one fist.
He waited maybe five seconds, then pounded again, harder. He was about to make
it number three when there was a rattling click at the level of the knob and
the door was yanked open by an annoyed but otherwise average looking guy who
was saying, "Swear to God, if you forget--" then cut himself off.
The guy looked shocked for about half a second, then glared and started over.
"This is a private--"
Master Liam cut him off by bulling his way inside; the guy backed up, probably
preferring that to getting run over by someone who had five inches on him.
"This is a Commerce office, is that right?" Straight to the point with no
bullshit, that was Johnny's master. Mr. Thewlis followed him in and helped with
the looming intimidation thing. Johnny stepped over the threshold and then
stopped to look around, both because someone probably should and because no one
had ordered him to get anywhere near where a fight might break out any time
now.
"Of course it is, and we're closed now. I have to ask you to leave."
There was a desk to one side, the sort of plain, cheap, metal-frame desk one
would expect of a very low-level bureaucrat type, and the sign behind it read
"Commerce Processing Center, Bakersfield."
"Oh? When are you open, then? Odd to be closed in the middle of the afternoon."
Master Liam pulled out his phone. "As a taxpayer I disapprove. I think I'll
call Stan Parkinson and complain." He bipped numbers into the phone with one
thumb, then put it to his ear while saying to the fake-Commerce guy, "You've
heard of Parkinson, of course? Regional Director?"
Johnny recognized the name of the man his master'd had a meeting with. He also
knew that Parkinson was Regional Director for the Bay Area back home and had no
direct authority over an office in Bakersfield. Of course, if he'd really been
as friendly with Master Liam as he was implying with his tone and the quick
call, he'd probably have been interested in hearing about a local office
slacking off, and at the very least would know where to send the complaint.
Fake Commerce Guy being fake, though, he likely wouldn't know the difference
either way.
Apparently he didn't because his next move was to snag the phone out of Master
Liam's hand, then before anyone could react, turn and make an awkward leap over
his desk. He landed hard in a sort of kneeling sprawl, but instead of getting
up he fumbled in a drawer.
Johnny had a good idea what was next, which was why he dove down to the floor,
right up against the mostly-metal desk, while Master Liam and Mr. Thewlis
lunged after the guy. Legs flew over Johnny and he got kicked in the shoulder,
then another foot used his back to launch off of for a jump. Johnny heard
grunts and swearing and thuds and creaking, and the sound of one silenced round
being fired -- which got his head buried even farther under his arms, whether
that would've done any good against flying bullets or not -- before the
reception room went quiet again.
"Now," said Master Liam, sounding just a bit winded. "Let's start over."
Johnny felt a nudge against the sole of one shoe. He uncovered enough of his
head to see Mr. Thewlis, who now had a pistol in one hand, gesturing for him to
get up.
"I'm looking for someone," Master Liam continued. "Two, in fact, and you're
going to help me find both of them. One is a Marton Csokas. The other is a
slave named Orlando Bloom."
Fake Commerce Guy coughed out a short laugh. "You want Csokas? You should've
said so instead of all the 'taxpayer' crap. He's gone. He made his target and
got out. This is my operation now."
"Gone where?"
"Out of the country, that's all I know. He was gonna liquidate and head out
somewhere, retire and live the good life."
"When was that?"
"About a month ago, something like that."
"He left a month ago?" Master Liam glared down at the guy, whose shirt front
was still clenched in two large fists, and Johnny saw the guy's head shrink
into his collar, like he thought he could hide or get away.
"No, no! He wrapped stuff up about a month ago, turned everything over to me.
He was just waiting on some money and I paid him that a couple days ago. He
might be gone by now or maybe not, I don't know, I swear! He didn't let me know
where he was going or when or anything, and I don't expect to ever hear from
him again!"
Master Liam muttered something that had "fuck" in it, then said "What about
Orlando?"
"I don't know any Orlando."
Master Liam let go of the man's shirt with one hand and slammed a fist deep
into his belly. The guy let out a breathy cry of pain, then gasped for air.
"Try again."
The guy shook his head and waved his hands in frantic little flutters. Mr.
Thewlis pulled a photo out of his inside pocket and held it up in front of the
guy's face. "How about this?"
The head shakes turned into eager nods. "Yeah, yeah! David! Right, he said his
name was Orlando, I forgot!"
"Of course you did," snarled Master Liam. "Where is he?"
"I don't know. No, I don't, I swear! I... I sold him, I took him to a, you
know, up to Santa Ana and processed him in! I don't know where he is now, could
be anywhere!"
"How long ago?"
"About two and a half weeks ago! That Wednesday! He coulda been sold by now, he
might be anywhere!"
"He's still there," said Johnny. All three men looked at him.
"Why?" asked Master Liam. "He could've been sold right away."
"Begging your pardon, Master, but if they sold him as a new slave, then he
couldn't. Basic indoctrination takes three weeks so he couldn't have been sold
yet." It'd been a long time, but Johnny still remembered. Still had terrifying
dreams about it every now and again.
"Excellent." His master gave him a grim nod, then dragged Fake Commerce Guy up
onto his feet. "Who's your contact at the Santa Ana office?"
"I don't--"
"And don't try to convince me you just trot them all in and hand them off to
whoever's working that shift. With all the fake paperwork you must deal in,
that kind of risk would've had you caught a long time ago. You've got someone
on the inside -- who is it?"
The guy shook his head again. Master Liam slammed it into the cinderblock wall.
"Who is it?"
"Parker!" The guy was starting to sound a little off, whether from the beating
or from sheer terror. Johnny didn't feel at all sorry for him either way.
"Warren Parker! He works swing."
"Good. Now, you're going to take us on a tour, and if I'm satisfied by what we
see, we'll leave." He shoved the guy ahead of him toward the second door,
leading to the inside.
They toured the place, which didn't take very long because it was pretty small
-- about the size of a strip-mall restaurant, just partioned differently. There
was one slave, a young man locked in one of the cells with recent marks from a
flogging crusted across his back. Johnny, with his collar obvious over the
unbuttoned collar of his polo shirt, went in to talk to him.
He said his name was Gerald. He didn't know how long he'd been there, but
thought it was probably about a week. Long enough, anyway, that the flogging
was definitely done there, and not something his old owner had done.
"Do I have to go back to her?" Gerald asked. He whispered, eyes down on the
floor and arms wrapped around his stomach, as though afraid someone was about
to leap out and punish him.
Johnny actually didn't know the answer to that. He wished not, but was afraid
they'd have to give Gerald back. "I don't know," he said. "But you won't be
here anymore, so that's good."
He touched Gerald's shoulder, then said, "Hang on, it's all right," when the
kid flinched. "I'm not going to hurt you, I just want to see something." He ran
his hand up one side of Gerald's neck, then the other. There, on his right
side, the skin felt different. He tugged Gerald by the hand out into the hall
where the light was brighter.
Gerald stopped when he saw the three men, or maybe it was just Fake Commerce
Guy, who might well have been the one who'd been beating on him. Johnny
repeated, "It's all right," and put his body between Gerald and the others. He
tilted the kid's head to one side and took a look. Sure enough, the margins
where the skin had been replaced were obvious -- smooth lines, no dimples from
stitches, a few red and swollen places but nothing that looked infected.
He turned Gerald around to face the wall and searched across the center of his
back. Again, a healing scar, this one much smaller and fainter.
"He's out of the system," Johnny said. He kept his voice neutral but it was a
struggle. Gerald was free. Really free, not just run away and waiting to be
tracked down "free," which was no such thing. He could just leave if he wanted
to, go out and find a life. They could do this to anybody. To him. Johnny was
momentarily overwhelmed with images of what his life could be like, if someone
would just do this to slaves and then let them go instead of selling them
again.
Johnny wasn't young anymore but he wasn't old, either, not really. He had a lot
of mileage, maybe, but still, forty-five was barely approaching middle-age. He
had valuable skills and experience, he'd travelled all over the world, he knew
business down to the ground -- he could make a good living for himself, if he
only had the chance.
But of course, he wasn't going to get that chance. Gerald probably wasn't
either.
His master's voice startled his attention back to the there-and-then and Johnny
pushed all the longing and anger away, forced them out of his mind the way he
always did. There wasn't anything he could do about it, and being angry just
made you make mistakes and do stupid things, and that got you punished.
"--all we can get from this," Master Liam was saying. He looked around, then
hauled Fake Commerce Guy into the small training room. It wasn't spacious but
it was thoroughly equipped. Master Liam shoved the guy down onto the floor,
buckled on a leather gag that'd been lying in the dark scum in one corner, then
clicked his wrists into manacles set into the wall.
He said to Johnny, "Give his pants to the boy," then waited while Johnny hauled
the guy's pants off, ignoring his protests, and helped Gerald into them.
Then Master Liam led them all back to the reception area and stopped. "Stay
here with them," he said to Thewlis. "And give me the gun. I'll be back in a
minute."
Johnny felt his stomach twist, and Thewlis said, "My Lord, you can't."
"Who's going to complain?" Master Liam asked. His jaw was set and his voice was
cold and hard. "You?"
"No, of course not, but--"
"Johnny can't testify unless I let him. We'll think of something to do with the
slave, but he can't testify either. And I don't imagine the other participants
in this 'operation' of theirs are going to be terribly eager to call in a
police forensics team. They'll dump his body and maybe think twice about what
they're doing."
"But--"
"He knows Orlando!" Master Liam stepped right up in Mr. Thewlis's face and
looked like he was about to roar. "If we just turn him over to the police, or
to Commerce, they'll suck every bit of information out of him with drugs and
they'll find Orlando. And no, I'm not letting the fucker go. Now give me the
gun so we can leave."
Thewlis stared at him, his eyes searching for something, then handed him the
gun. He didn't say anything, or even nod, but he put his hand on Gerald's
shoulder and turned his back.
Master Liam went back in through the inner door. Johnny half expected to hear
the gunshot, even though he knew the gun was silenced. He didn't hear anything
except his own breathing and the thudding of his own heart. His master was back
less than a minute later.
"The gun?" asked Thewlis.
"Barrel of bloody rags and who knows what else, plenty to obscure a DNA
analysis. And yes, I wiped it off first. Out."
Thewlis stayed behind to wipe down the office, then came out the door, wiped
the knob and the spot where Master Liam had knocked, then got into the car.
As Johnny pulled out of the parking lot, Thewlis said quietly, "I can take care
of the boy for you."
Johnny glanced up in the mirror and saw his master nod. They drove on in
silence.
***** Chapter 30 *****
Orlando remembered.
He remembered being taken from the parking lot, fighting against the hands
holding him down, and then losing his grip on the world. He remembered waking
up with the men who called him "David," remembered being taken to a Commerce
office to be sold, to be trained, remembered being so sure his master would
come for him, that it was all a mistake.
Having had time to think about it -- and a clear head, because the fuzzy
memories and weird experiences convinced him that he'd been drugged at some
point -- he was sure there was some kind of fraud going on. He'd been stolen
out of that parking lot, stolen from his master, by thieving asswipes who just
wanted to resell him like any other stolen property, like a car or a computer
or a watch.
Except they must've gone to a lot more trouble than it'd take to steal and sell
a watch because you couldn't just resell a slave out of the trunk of your car.
Orlando was even pretty sure that the first Commerce center had been in on the
scam. Maybe the people who worked in that tiny office had come up with it
themselves and that Csokas guy and his friend were Commerce employees. They
could slip stolen slaves right in with the others and who'd ever know?
Or maybe that whole Center had been fake. He was wondering because what he'd
gone through there had been nothing like what'd happened to him since arriving
at the Santa Ana Center. Not only had the routines and the training been
completely different, but the very first thing they'd done the morning after
he'd been "transferred" was to chip and brand him. If the other Center had been
real, why hadn't they done that there?
But the most important thing he'd remembered was his master. He knew -- knew -
- that Master Liam would tear through anything and anyone to find him and get
him back.
Except he hadn't, had he?
Orlando still didn't know exactly how long it'd been since he'd been stolen,
since no one thought any of the slaves needed to know the date, but he was sure
it'd been a long time. More than a month, maybe more than two. It'd definitely
been six days since he'd remembered who he was.
Nothing had changed since then, except that they were coming to the end of
their basic training and evaluation period, when most of them would be put up
for sale and some would be sent for body-slave training.
The idea of getting body-slave training terrified him. He'd gotten used to Mr.
Travers, when Master Liam had hired the man to train him at home, but he knew
that sex training from Commerce would mean getting fucked by whole crowds of
strangers, and that he'd be forced to learn things Master Liam had never wanted
from him, things he'd heard about from other body-slaves. Just the thought of
it made his cock try to retreat up into his body, and his stomach twist and
heave.
And he was still there, and his master hadn't found him, hadn't come for him.
Was he even looking?
Orlando had never felt so alone before, ever, not even when his master had left
him behind and gone to Turkey with only Johnny.
So, all right, he was on his own. He couldn't just sit there and wait -- like a
car or a computer or a watch -- for his owner to find him and reclaim him. If
he was ever going to find his way home, he'd have to do it himself.
The staffer who'd thought he was lying about being a slave already, the one
who'd said it was a stupid whine and had shocked him, had been keeping an eye
on him. She was always there whenever he was eating or exercising, was always
one of the guards in the corners of the room during training. His record said
he was a liar and a troublemaker and that had to have been something the men
who'd sold him had set up, to keep anyone from believing him if he tried to
tell, but there had to be some person who'd believe him, or at least check.
Someone free, someone on staff, someone higher up than the low-level staffers
with the shock batons, who were really just gofers who did whatever grunt-level
work was needed. Orlando knew from experience that the lowest employees in the
trenches were often the least likely to want to even hear about serious
problems; anything outside their routine made them confused or hostile.
No, to solve the real problems you needed someone higher up. Orlando was
willing to wait and watch for the right person.
 
Neeson had gone hostile when Thewlis proposed the plan, because it would take
longer than the two days Orlando might have before being sold, but Thewlis
persuaded him that doing a good job and having to pressure someone into
reselling him later was better than going in half-assed and fucking up
completely. Neeson obviously didn't like it, but he'd eventually agreed with a
curt nod.
Thewlis found out which of the intake clerks at the Santa Ana office was
Parker, then followed him home several days in a row. He always took the same
route, the idiot, and always stopped in the same bar for drinks after work. So
on Friday, Thewlis was waiting in the bar, dressed as a hot-shot businessman
(in a suit borrowed from Lord Neeson, actually, which was the first time in his
adult life Thewlis had run into another man the same height and almost exactly
the same build) in town to make money in the daytime and spend it in the
evenings.
"Sure, you should come!" he said with more enthusiasm than enunciation. He
leaned against his new buddy Parker, bumping shoulders. "It'll be a great
party! My boss is a lord, you know? Always the best, nothing cheap or stingy.
An' you should see his body-slave -- gorgeous, beautiful, and can suck your
brains out through your prick! Come with me, I'll introduce you, we'll have
fun!"
Parker had been all for that, and had followed with panting eagerness to the
hotel, where he was impressed by the lobby, then even more impressed when
Thewlis swiped his card in the elevator to access the top floor. "Presidential
suite," Thewlis bragged, leaning just a little cockeyed against the wall.
He slung an arm around Parker's shoulders and steered him down the hall to the
room, which he'd swept for bugs as well as he could that afternoon. Another
pass of the card and he ushered Parker into the elegant entryway. Thewlis
pulled the door closed behind them and made sure the lock clicked.
Parker was still craning his neck like a tourist when Thewlis led him into the
living room with a strong grip on his arm. "My Lord, this is Mr. Parker."
"Mr. Parker." Lord Neeson stayed seated in a throne-like armchair. The man knew
how to make an impression, and Thewlis smirked from behind Parker's shoulder.
"My Lord." Parker made an awkward bow and lost his balance halfway down.
Thewlis caught him and hauled him back upright. "Thanks!" Parker looked around
and asked, "So where's the party? We didn't miss it, did we?"
"No, Mr. Parker, you haven't missed anything. We're going to have a private
party, just the three of us." He stood up, suddenly looming over Parker, who
was only of average height. Parker tried to take a quick step back, but bumped
into Thewlis. Neeson turned away and headed out of the living room, into the
main bedroom, and on through to a large and sumptuous bathroom.
While Thewlis was frog-marching Parker in, Neeson went over to the already-
filled hot tub and turned on the water full blast, then the jets and then the
bubbles. He flipped the drain switch so the thing wouldn't overflow.
The noise from the rushing spigot, and the gurgling drain, and the jets, and
the bubbles would hopefully provide enough random noise to mask what was going
to happen from any bugs Thewlis might have missed. They were hoping, at any
rate. Betting their freedom, in fact.
"Wait, uhh...? What?" Parker was trying to step back toward the door but he was
nowhere near strong enough even sober to take on Thewlis, much less drunk. "I
mean, you're a good-looking guy and all but I don't know--"
"Shut up," said Neeson. He turned back toward Parker and Thewlis and punctuated
the order with a fist to Parker's gut. Parker doubled over gasping, then
vomited, then gasped again, then started choking. Thewlis, who'd worked over
one or two drunks in the pursuit of his profession, wrapped both arms around
Parker and did a quick Heimlich jerk, without being too terribly worried about
cracking ribs or anything similar.
Parker coughed up the last of his martinis and a few semi-digested bar snacks,
then knelt on the carpet sucking in air, letting each breath out with a pained
whine.
"Just as well," said Neeson, his voice perfectly cold and clinical. "Maybe
he'll even be sober enough to remember in the morning."
"Please!" Parker coughed again. "Please, don't hurt me, don't do-- I don't have
anything, I haven't done anything!"
"You're lying, Mr. Parker. You've been consorting with thieves, illegal slave
traffickers. They stole something of mine and you helped them sell my slave to
Commerce. He's out of my reach and in deadly danger and it's your fault."
Neeson reached down and grabbed a handful of Parker's hair, right at the scalp
where pulling was most painful, and yanked the man's head back to look into his
eyes. "You took something of mine. Now you're going to help me get it back."
Parker babbled half-coherent pleas and denials but Neeson just slapped him back
to silence. A long stream of bloody spit dripped from Parker's mouth and joined
the mess already pooled on the rug.
"So, this is what you're going to do for me. Commerce won't let owners search
for a particular slave by name, but there must be internal tracking of
individual slaves. You're going to find this one for me." Neeson paused while
Thewlis got Orlando's picture out of his jacket pocket and held it in front of
Parker's face.
"He's in the system under the name of David Grant," Neeson went on. "You're
going to find him, and find out what happened to him. If he's been sold, you'll
tell me who owns him. If he's in body-slave training, you'll tell me that too,
and you'll let me know when he's due to be sold after that. Is that clear
enough?"
"Uhh, what?" Parker tried to shake his head but Neeson still had a grip on his
hair. "Wait, I can't! It's against the rules, I'll be enslaved for it!"
"You didn't mind breaking the rules to line your own pocket, and you'll be just
as enslaved if I let your superiors know what you've already done. And I will
if you don't do this for me. I'll also strongly suggest you be sold to the
mines, or to a drug company, assuming your superiors would need any such
suggestion from me to set an example."
"I will! I will, I'll do it! Please don't tell anyone!" Parker reached out to
clutch at Neeson's trouser leg, but Neeson stepped back, his mouth twisted in
disgust.
"I expect to hear from you on Monday, letting me know where David is now. If
he's been sold I want a full name and contact information. If he's in body-
slave training, I want to know that for certain, and when he'll be through, and
you'll let me know again, twenty-four hours before he's put up for sale."
"I will, I will! Let me write--!" Parker scrabbled through his pockets.
Thewlis guessed he was hunting for a pen but he gave the man a hard tap on the
shoulder and handed him an envelope. "Your instructions are in here, along with
an e-mail address," he said. "Remember that we already know where to find you.
I suggest you don't upset my employer any further," he added. "This is what he
looks like when he's restraining himself. You don't want to get him really
angry."
"No! I mean, yes! I mean, I will, I'll do it, it'll be fine!" Parker shook his
head, then nodded, while babbling assurances of performance. He tried to stuff
the envelope into his pocket; Thewlis did it for him after watching him miss a
few times.
Neeson nodded to Thewlis and left the bathroom. Thewlis imagined he was going
to get Johnny, who'd been waiting downstairs in the restaurant; Neeson hadn't
wanted him anywhere near the interrogation for whatever reason. After that,
Thewlis imagined he was going to get very drunk, but Neeson had certainly
surprised him before. Thewlis, at least, would be getting very drunk when the
night was finished, because it'd been a long, rough few days.
"All right, then, up you get." He hauled Parker to his feet and scrubbed
spattered vomit off him with a damp towel -- enough that he wouldn't attract
any attention on their way back down and out through the lobby -- then walked
him out of the bathroom and toward the front door. He'd get the man home and
into bed and reinforce his instructions verbally one more time. He'd also make
sure the envelope, which besides a repeat of his instructions contained a blind
e-mail address and no identifiable names except that of David Grant (dangerous
but necessary), was propped up somewhere so that it'd be one of the first
things Parker saw when he woke up the next day.
That was two down. Now all they had to do was wait, hope Orlando was going
through body-slave training, and in the mean time, take care of Marty.
Five and a half weeks, best-case scenario. Thewlis couldn't wait to be done
with this mess.
***** Chapter 31 *****
The end of training came without any fanfare, or even an announcement.
The lack of ceremony or even a special marker made sense once Orlando thought
about it. When Jamie and Paula had finished kindergarten and been promoted to
first grade, there'd been a special ceremony at their school, with the
graduating students in special caps they'd made themselves out of construction
paper, and they'd all gotten a certificate and a hug from the teacher; it'd
made the kids feel special and proud of their accomplishment, and eager for the
next step to come. Master Liam and Mistress Natasha had been smiling and proud
too, and Orlando supposed they'd been happy with the school for the job it was
doing educating the children and making them enjoy the process.
No one cared how slaves felt about their training, though. And while there
would soon be rich patrons purchasing each one of the slaves, they weren't in
the picture yet, so there was no reason to put on a show to impress them.
Orlando hadn't even realized that the previous day had been the end of slave
training, until the next morning when the line-up after breakfast hadn't led to
the any of the training rooms. Instead, it filed past a clot of staffers who
scanned each slave as they shuffled by. Most were shoved forward through a door
which Orlando later learned led to a new dormitory for the slaves who were
currently up for sale. A few, here and there, after having their chips scanned,
were pulled out of line by one arm and shoved into a smaller group.
When Orlando stumbled over to that group, he looked around and knew what had
happened. Paul had been right, after all; Commerce only trained unusually
attractive people to be body-slaves.
By the time everyone had been processed and sorted, there were eight of them
there in their corner. Orlando was the oldest, although not by as much as he
would have thought.
He knew about the children trained to be body-slaves, kids as young as Jamie or
even younger, although he'd never met one. Everyone in his group was an adult,
though; the youngest was a teenage girl, probably somewhere between fifteen and
eighteen.
They must have separate groups for children. Not out of any sense of what was
proper or appropriate, of course, but because younger kids learned differently
and at different rates from adults. The one thing he'd figured out about
Commerce was that they were pragmatic all the way. They weren't deliberately
cruel, just brutally efficient.
Somehow, that made it worse, treating the slaves like lumps of plastic to be
pressed and cut and melted into a shape which could be sold for the greatest
amount of money with the least amount of effort. At least cruelty would
acknowledge that they were living, aware beings.
An unknown time after the last addition to the group scurried over to join
them, they were marched down a hallway they'd never taken before, to a new
training room. This one had the usual large, open space in the middle, but
along the walls were benches and frames and racks of equipment. Orlando had
seen enough of it before that his throat went dry.
The staffers prodded the slaves into a spaced line across the middle of the
floor and ordered them all to strip. Clothes were collected and shoved into a
slot in the wall, then the staff people retreated to the corners. Orlando ended
up near one wall; the woman he'd been thinking of as his shadow was still
nearby, propping up a wall a few strides away.
They all waited for another unknowable interval, then a well-fed man in a suit
came striding in, followed by a man wearing more casual slacks and a button-
down shirt. He deferred to the suited man and ignored the uniformed staffers.
The man in the suit stopped and took in the whole line of slaves, then grunted.
"Decent enough group," he said. "Probably make some money on these."
That was it. Orlando stood perfectly still in his place at the end of the line,
but excited thoughts raced through his head. That was the person he'd been
hoping to contact, someone higher up, someone who should care about problems
and be able to fix things.
Orlando felt a tingle of electricity running through his body, an excitement
and hope he hadn't experienced in weeks. Months, maybe.
Both men walked slowly down the line, poking and patting and scrutinizing each
body-slave trainee as they went, handling whatever parts they felt like
handling and poking fingers wherever they felt like putting them. The man in
the more casual slacks was treating the man in the suit like a horse broker
treated a wealthy buyer -- showing deference and a quiet enthusiasm and a lot
of salesmanship. The man in the suit had to be someone important, and they were
nearly down to Orlando's end of the line.
Suddenly the woman who'd been watching him was right next to him, kicking his
feet out from under him. Orlando went down and the hard fall knocked the wind
out of him. The woman glared at him and jabbed her baton into his chest; it
must have been set all the way up because Orlando'd never felt that much pain
from a shock baton before.
Real electricity ran through him, convulsing his body until his arms and legs
flopped up and down, slamming into the floor. He tried to beg for her to stop
but could only manage an animal cry, all agonized vowels.
By the time he noticed that the pain had stopped, the woman and the two men
were standing over his jerking body. The woman was saying something about
disrespectful gestures behind his back. Orlando tried to deny it but all he
could get out was a grunted "No..." before his dried-out throat seized up.
He heard the bleep of a scanner and then one of the men said, "This is the one
who claimed to already be a body-slave?" Someone snorted out a laugh and then
two or three arms hauled Orlando to his feet.
The man in the shirt and slacks smacked Orlando's face until his eyes focused,
then snapped, "Present!"
Orlando slammed to his knees in the present position he'd practiced for so long
and so hard...
...and only after he was in position did an alarm slam through his brain.
Wrong! It was all wrong! And the mental image of all that practice shifted and
widened and he was in the other Commerce center, the one where the other guy,
Anderson, had drilled him so hard while he was drugged and starving.
He tried to shift into the correct position but it was too late. The two men
were already laughing and one was making some kind of comment about how he'd
probably played around with his girlfriend and wasn't even bright enough to get
the position right, and there were enough TV programs with body-slaves that he
should've been able to find some decent example to copy, and how it didn't
matter because they'd beat all the bullshit out of him soon enough and have him
looking like a real body-slave and then Orlando felt strong, rough hands
hauling him to his feet again and forcing him to stagger off in some direction
he could only squint at through tear-filled eyes.
A male voice said, "Need back-up?" and a female voice said, "No, got it."
She steered him with one arm twisted behind his back until they entered a tiny
room and she shut the door behind them. Orlando recognized this room; he'd been
shown one like it weeks before and told that it was for the kind of punishment
that couldn't be done on the spot.
The woman maneuvered him across the room, proving easily that she was stronger
than he was, and pushed him up face-first against a frame made of steel piping.
She clicked steel bands around his wrists and throat and waist and ankles. It
was uncomfortable and the frame held him spread out without giving much
support; trying to let the bands take his weight just hurt.
There were some footsteps, and a couple of hollow clicking sounds, and then
something whippy and stingy slashed down across his shoulders. Orlando yelled
and tried to jerk away, but he couldn't move and the bands bit into him again.
"You don't seem like a bad slave," said the woman from behind him. "You're just
stupid. Stupid we can fix." Another line of pain crossed his back, a little
lower than the first time.
"You were going to try your story about already being a slave again. I could
tell. That would have been a stupid thing to do and I'm going to explain why,
one time, and you're going to understand and never bring it up again."
Orlando wanted to answer that it wasn't stupid, that it was true, but when he
sucked in a breath to speak she gave him another hard strike with whatever it
was she was using.
"You're going to stay silent and listen, because you're stupid and I'm
explaining something important," she said. "You weren't a slave before you came
here. If you keep insisting that you were, there are only three possibilities.
One is that you're a liar. That's what your file says and that's the one I
believe. Lying is a bad habit for a slave no matter how bad you are at it and I
will beat it out of you while you're here."
Another slash, this one crossing two of the others. Orlando yelped in pain,
gasping for breath and trying to stop the tears that were flowing again.
"The second possibility is that you're crazy, that you actually believe you
were a slave before when you weren't. We have people who can fix that too, but
you don't want to meet them. They'll get you behaving perfectly well, but
slaves who've been through the p-docs are too robotic to make good body-slaves,
which means we'd lose money when we sell you. That would be bad, so I'm hoping
you're not crazy."
Whack! That one went right into the crease beween his ass and his thighs and he
screamed.
"The third possibility is that you were a slave before but you ran away from
your owner."
Orlando tried to gasp out "Stolen!" but before he could produce more than the
first syllable, three more lines of fire tore across his back. He screamed and
sobbed and begged her to stop.
"Ran. Away," she repeated. "Some runaways try to claim that someone else forced
them to leave their owner, that they were stolen. It's obvious to everyone that
this is a weak excuse used by runaways to try to avoid the punishment given to
every runaway." Slash, slash. She waited for Orlando to stop crying out before
continuing. "Which is immediate assignment to medical testing, the mines, or
waste clean-up. The best any runaway can hope for is a slow, painful death.
What usually happens is an extremely long and very painful death. Every time.
No excuses, no what-ifs, no mitigating circumstances."
He flinched, expecting more pain, but she didn't hit him again. She just stood
silent for a few moments and he finally realized she was giving him
undistracted time to think about what she'd said.
And he did. If he understood what she meant, she was saying that Commerce
didn't believe slaves were ever stolen. Or they pretended they didn't. It
didn't matter because the result was the same either way.
So he had two choices -- he could convince someone he'd been stolen and be
branded a runaway and die of radiation sickness, his body covered with oozing
sores, or some other similar nightmare death, or he could keep his mouth shut
and be a good slave and live as David Grant for the rest of his life.
Either way he'd never be able to get back to his master.
The woman stepped up next to him, grabbed his hair in her hand and twisted his
head around to force him to look at her glaring face. "Are you still stupid or
do I have to go over it again?"
"No!" he gasped. He tried to shake his head but that just pulled his hair so he
stopped. He tried to smile, though, wanting to do something to show his
gratitude. This room had to be monitored like every other room, so she couldn't
have just straight-out told him what was what, but she'd saved him from
committing slow, horrible suicide and he was grateful. "No, not stupid anymore.
Thank you. I--"
She cut him off with a painful shake that felt like his scalp was being torn
off, then let him go and took a step back. "Don't think this means I'm your
friend or any shit like that. You'll be valuable if you can keep your head out
of your ass. If we lose you to the mines after all this, that goes on my record
and I don't get a raise next year. So make sure you don't lapse back into
stupid or I'll kick your ass and it'll make this feel like a birthday
spanking."
She manipulated the latches on the steel bands and released him, then pointed
to the door. "Walk. You're going back to training, and you get to do it with a
sore back. Hopefully that'll help you remember this talk."
Orlando wasn't going to need any help remembering, but he said, "Yes, Ma'am,"
anyway and staggered across the room ahead of her.
***** Chapter 32 *****
The e-mail came from Parker on Monday, before noon, even. Orlando was in body-
slave training, which was... better and worse, both. Liam had to admit that he
was selfish enough to want Orlando back completely. He knew that what he should
want was what was best for his boy, and that was to be back safe at home as
soon as possible, with as little abuse and trauma as possible. And part of him
had wished for that, the part that knew Orlando was unusually old for a "new"
body-slave, and hoped that he'd be passed over for that reason.
But at the same time he knew his Orlando was still beautiful, and that it
wasn't just whatever... whatever fondness or whatever it was that had crept
into his heart that was saying so. He couldn't imagine anyone looking at the
boy -- the young man -- and not wanting him. That being the case, it couldn't
be so wrong to be glad, in a way, that when they got through this fucking mess
-- when, not if -- he'd have Orlando back and things could return to the way
they'd been before. They wouldn't have to sneak, wouldn't have to hope no one
decided to make a phone call to Commerce out of spite, wouldn't have to hope a
surprise inspection didn't catch Orlando in his master's bed in the middle of
the night.
This was now, and now was so insane it was all but unbearable, but once it was
over they'd have the rest of their lives, or the rest of Liam's life at least,
and that was a long time to live with the constant fear of losing Orlando all
over again.
Liam didn't want to lose him again, didn't want to have to worry about losing
him again. And yes, he wanted Orlando in his bed, on his lap, kneeling at his
feet, in the open for everyone to see. He wanted life to be normal and that
meant not only having Orlando back, but having the right to touch him and fuck
him and make him fall apart with pleasure. He wanted all of it back, and he
knew his Orlando could get through whatever it took to come home to him and
have things be normal again.
Before he could examine that too closely, his office phone rang. With Johnny
gone again, Liam was answering his own phone, so he picked it up and and heard
a familiar deep voice on the other end.
"Your Lordship? This is Mike Duncan."
Liam changed mental gears and said, "Good morning, Mr. Duncan. What can I do
for you?"
"You still want to take Kevin off my hands?"
The man certainly didn't believe in small talk, or working up to a subject. "If
you've agreed to let him go, yes. He decided not to stay, then?"
He heard a soft snort from the other end. "I decided I'd rather replace him.
He's a good secretary and all, and I thought about keeping him, but he went
behind my back and I can't tolerate that shit." Duncan paused for a moment,
then added, "He said some things, made me think, you know? Maybe I'll do things
a little differently next time. But still, I can't ever trust him again. No
matter what it was for. So if you want him, you can have him."
"That's fine," Liam said. It was too bad it hadn't worked out between them, but
he'd given his word after all. "How much do you want for him?" He listened
while Duncan gave a number, bluntly and with no weaseling and wheedling, then
nodded. "That'll be fine. I'll transfer the money today. If you could keep
Kevin until Wednesday, I'd appreciate it. My agent is on a business trip right
now, but I'll have him swing by your place on his way home and he can escort
Kevin."
"Sure, sure, that's fine. No hard feelings or anything. Like I said, the kid
hadn't caused any actual trouble. I'm sure he won't start any more conspiracies
against me in the next couple of days."
"Likely not," Liam agreed. "Fine, then. It's good doing business with you, Mr.
Duncan."
"You too. Later, man."
Liam hung up the phone and sighed. So he had a new... secretary? He didn't
trust Kevin enough for that -- on that much he agreed with Duncan.
He had a feeling the boy had intended to be kept in completely laborless luxury
like a virgin houri who never got fucked, for the remainder of his life. That
wasn't going to happen, but neither was Liam going to set him to work mucking
the stables or hauling rocks in the gardens. Maybe start him out answering the
house phone, keep him off the net, see how that went. If he behaved himself for
a year or two, he might be trustworthy enough to handle personal
correspondence. Nothing strenuous -- that was part of the deal -- but something
that'd let him make himself useful without needing constant supervision.
Maybe put him in the kitchen, see what Maggie could do with him?
He'd work something out later. Just then, Liam had more important concerns.
 
Thewlis tore down the dark highway as fast as he could without either crashing
or getting pulled over, taking his frustration out on the gas pedal. He'd
headed back to Marty's house in Nevada as his only point of possible contact,
sure that Marton was about to skip the country if he hadn't done so already.
It'd been possible -- probable even -- that he'd been packed and ready to go
and wouldn't need to go back to the house he clearly didn't live in, but it'd
been Thewlis's only lead and it'd paid off.
After spending the weekend watching, he'd been rewarded -- finally! -- on
Monday evening with the sight of a strange car pulling up into Marty's driveway
and a nearly familiar figure getting out. Mentally adjusting for the passing of
a good twenty years, it had to be Marty.
Some covert work online while he'd waited had shown, after finding the right
cracks to pry open and threads to trace, that Marty had been sending money
overseas for several years. The particular "bank" he used was fronted by an
internet gambling site. Anyone could come along and play, but setting up a
particular sort of account ensured that all "losses" (less a percentage for the
house, of course) went into a numbered account. The transfer was apparently
legitimate, shady and unsavory but not usually criminal, and even in
jurisdictions where online gambling was illegal, it was only a minor offense,
especially for the player. Very few law enforcement agencies had the resources
to chase down the people who were losing their money to those places; they were
more interested, assuming they were interested at all, in shutting down the
casino operations themselves, which was difficult when their servers were
located in a neutral country, or one actively hostile to the Empire.
At any rate, that was a relatively small-time vice concern and the government
was mainly interested in keeping a lid on it so far as they weren't able to tax
the profits. Money laundering was another issue entirely, and from what Thewlis
could tell, no one was heading down that particular track in this case, which
meant Marty had a clear shot to retirement overseas with all his slave money.
He'd gone in with a cardboard banker's box and come out again a few minutes
later with a briefcase. Records? Securities? Maybe even the last delivery or
two from the casino? Thewlis had always suspected those hand-carries were cash.
Whatever they were, it hadn't taken long for Marty to find them and get back
out and on the road, heading toward Vegas.
Thewlis had followed him discreetly, usually from in front, all the way to the
Vegas airport, where he'd seen Marty check in at a kiosk for a flight to
Atlanta with a transfer to Munich, then Mumbai, which Thewlis had caught a
glimpse of by means of a well-acted stumble and a flailing grab on the kiosk
Marty had been using. He'd kept his head down and babbled apologies in response
to Marty's cursing and shoving, then scuttled away, pretty sure he hadn't been
recognized.
Hell, Marty'd hardly recognized Thewlis around campus to wave to back to when
they were at Berkeley.
Back in the parking lot, he'd sent a note to Lord Neeson, then after a minute's
thought he sent second one to Nick.
He wasn't sure Lord Neeson would appreciate the assistance, but he was sure it
was the right thing to do.
After that, he put his decision -- a done deal anyway -- out of his mind and
headed back toward Marty's house. It was on his way home anyway, and there
might be a few clues or even some hard evidence it'd be nice to have. He was
particularly curious about what'd been in the banker's box.
He made it back in record time and parked in the driveway. He sprayed his hair
to keep any from falling off, spent a good ten minutes with a lint brush for
the same reason, then pulled on a pair of gloves, added some IR goggles so he
wouldn't have to use a flashlight outside and maybe draw unwelcome attention,
and started poking around the house for a way in.
The bathroom window'd been left open a crack and there was no screw-lock on the
slide -- not even a dowel in the track. Thewlis shook his head at such
sloppiness while popping the screen, shoving the window all the way open and
boosting himself up.
Marty hadn't taken much. Poking around, using a penlight whenever he wanted to
examine something in detail -- carefully and never near windows -- it looked
like there was hardly any sign that the owner had skipped the country, or even
gone on vacation.
Of course, the guy hadn't actually lived there so it made sense that there
wouldn't be much he'd care about enough to take with him.
The bedroom had been set up for hard play, so maybe Marty had actually lived
there for a while. Maybe while settling in with his new casino? Or maybe the
reinforced beams and various wall-mounts had been installed by the previous
owners; it was impossible to tell.
He checked the closet, then the second bedroom and its closet, but found
nothing particularly interesting. There was a desk in one corner of the spare
bedroom but it was clean and empty except for a couple of pens and a souvenir
staple remover from the St. Louis Arch.
Living room -- old-fashioned chenille sofa, loveseat and chair, oak side tables
and a small pair of low, round tables where the coffee table usually would be.
One of the round tables had an ashtray on it, and there was a lamp on one of
the side tables, as well as recessed can lights scattered around the ceiling.
An indifferently done painting of a desert sunset hung behind the sofa.
Everything was fuzzed by a layer of dust.
Thewlis looked down and sure enough, the carpet was dusty too. It didn't show
as much as it did on the furniture, but there were footprints leading from the
front door into the... kitchen he saw, and a branching path which led through a
set of louvered doors into a study.
Sort of. The built-in bookcases were mostly empty, but the desk showed more use
than the small one in the bedroom. He searched it quickly but found nothing
more interesting than some old utility bills, more pens, a couple of rubber
bands and a handcuff key. The tracks in the dust passed the desk, though, and
went up to the only chunk of bookcase which was actually full of books.
"Come on, Marty, you're smarter than this." He grinned while shaking his head
in mock sorrow and heading over to the full bookcase section, obviously meant
to camouflage something. A minute of poking, pushing and sliding had two full
shelves of books swinging out, revealing a wall safe.
Someone who'd hide a safe behind fake bookshelves and not even bother to fill
all the other shelves with books obviously wasn't too terribly concerned with
security, which had Thewlis wondering whether there'd ever been anything
worthwhile in the safe. The chances of anything interesting being there now,
after Marty'd headed out, were low to non-existent, but he couldn't just leave
it. He did, however, try his standard first option -- the default combo.
Marty's safe was a common model from a large manufacturer and Thewlis didn't
even have to pull out his PDA to remind himself what the default was. Twenty...
forty... sixty... eighty... and click, it opened, and there was even a pile of
papers and a couple of lock-boxes inside.
Stupid.
Which... Marty wasn't. He was a slimebag, but he wasn't stupid, never had been.
He'd have been caught long before if he weren't a smart slimebag.
The hairs at the back of Thewlis's neck started prickling. Something was wrong
and he wanted out, ASAP.
He hauled the papers and boxes out of the safe and dumped them on the desk. He
rolled the papers up and secured them with one of the rubber bands, then ran
back to the bathroom and tossed them all out the window. They were probably
worthless but he'd check later.
The other path in the dust had gone into the kitchen and he followed it,
through the kitchen to another door, which led to the garage. Even with the
overhead light on, it was dim and dusty, and it echoed with the sound of
ticking.
"Fuck."
The safe had obviously been meant as a time-wasting diversion. Marty had either
known someone was following him or he was incredibly paranoid. Maybe both.
The garage was full of banker's boxes, and in the center was an apparatus which
included a wind-up alarm clock, a gas can and a lot of wires.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck...." It'd lasted that long, it'd probably last another minute
or so at least. Hell, it might last an hour; if Thewlis had set it, he'd have
wanted to be at least in the air, and preferably out of the country, before a
bomb at his address of record had the authorities looking for him.
Thewlis wasn't going to waste the time checking out the obvious bomb when he
knew nothing at all about explosives; instead he started yanking lids off
cardboard boxes. Most were empty and he gave up on opening them all. He shoved
the piles down instead and the air-light empties went flying. One went "thud"
instead, and Thewlis saw the wire trailing out the back of the box just before
the garage erupted and a wave of roaring sound slammed into his back.
***** Chapter 33 *****
Marton had almost seven hours between planes in Munich, which was perfect
because he had some business to take care of before he went on. India was a
perfect place to settle, at least for a while -- tropical and cosmopolitan,
easy to get lost in, and none of that annoying language thing one had to deal
with in just about any other place where he could be out of reach of the long
Imperial arm.
It was sophisticated enough, however, that a man who was used to having the
best and not being bothered about it had better show up with a nice bankroll;
tipping and bribes blended rather seamlessly and any foreigner without cash
became invisible. Or far too visible to the wrong kind of authorities, who
after all had to be seen doing their jobs on someone.
That someone wasn't going to be him, so in Munich he visted a discreet
financial establishment and withdrew about five million dollars in Euros, which
at the current rate of exchange fit conveniently into the medium-expensive
duffle he'd purchased from the shop next door. (And he was fairly sure the
location of that shop right next to the discreet financial establishment was no
coincidence, or at the very least that the purveyors of various hand-size bags
did considerable slop-over business with the financial establishment's
customers.)
He had a few hours left and did some more shopping, including a larger
suitcase, before heading back to the airport. He'd left the Empire with a few
changes of clothes, about eighty thousand in cash, disguised by an
"accidentally broken" aftershave bottle in his bag well enough to defeat a
random sniffer dog, most of whom in modern times were trained to either drugs
(for the smaller cases) or hidden slaves (for the larger ones) anyway.
Obviously rich people travelling medium-light drew much less attention from the
security goons than rich people who looked like they were trying to haul out
everything they owned, or any sort of less-rich people, who rarely had the
money to travel internationally unless they were doing something the
authorities found interesting.
Thus, shopping, with a few exasperated comments to random store clerks about
the airline losing his bags. New clothes, some actual toiletries he planned to
use, and some of that really good chocolate the Germans made would get him to
India and let him take his time settling down.
He spent some time in a public bathroom (five euros!) taking the tags off of
everything, pulling out pins and cardboard and tissue. It was all right to have
things that looked nice, and even new, but it shouldn't look like he'd just
bought them an hour ago, in case anyone looked; a story about lost baggage
would work, but he'd just as soon not have to use it.
Back to the airport.
Fourteen long, exhausting hours later, Marton was settled into a small but
reasonably comfortable guest house toward the back of a discreet resort
property a short way outside Mumbai. It wasn't perfect but it'd make a decent
base; from there he could find a more permanent place, something out of the
way, with all the modern conveniences and no neighbors near enough to get nosy.
India was perfect; he was surprised there weren't whole colonies of ex-
Imperials. Or hell, maybe there were -- it wasn't like there'd be a lot of
advertising. But the atmosphere was a perfect blend of the cooperation bought
by freely-spent money and the look-away distaste left over from the Imperial
attempt a decade earlier to pressure India into converting to a slave economy.
The Indians, who'd had enough and then some of life under foreign rule before
(by the Brits, and wasn't that a crack-up considering how self-righteous they
were now over the American-Imperial "outrages") had told the USNA where it
could go and what it was welcome to do when it got there. Very politely, of
course -- North America was still an economic market worth having access to,
after all -- but they'd made it plain that another foreign slave system wasn't
going to happen.
Relations had been open but cool since -- open enough that a USNA citizen with
enough cash could come over and settle down with minimal hassles, but cool
enough that extradition attempts on folks who hadn't caused any actual trouble
in India were politely ignored.
And if anyone from his past came to make trouble, well, the local authorities
didn't much care what ex-pat Imperials did to each other either, so long as
they didn't bother the locals or leave a mess in the streets, and Marton was
willing to clean up his messes when necessary.
Perfect.
 
Kevin sat cross-legged on the floor, both hands wrapped around a mug of coffee.
He wished it had something stronger in it -- brandy, scotch, anything. There
was a movie on the set, something with revving engines and flashy explosions,
but he wasn't paying attention.
Mr. Duncan had told him two days earlier that he'd sold him to Lord Neeson and
that the guy's agent would be coming to pick him up that day, Wednesday. He
hadn't said exactly when, though, and Kevin had been packed and ready to go
since before his master had left for work that morning. Not that he had much to
pack, just some clothes and a toothbrush and stuff, but still, he was ready, so
where the fuck was the agent? It was almost time for Mr. Duncan to come home
and Kevin really didn't want to have to deal with him again; the last couple of
days had been tense enough.
He'd actually thought that he and Mr. Duncan were getting along okay, that it
might not be bad to stay. He should've known better; he must've gone
temporarily nuts to think that an owner would, oh, maybe treat him like a human
being, maybe think about what he'd been through and how he felt, maybe
understand why he'd been kinda jumpy.
No matter how decent he'd seemed, Mr. Duncan was an owner and they were all
assholes. The only question was how much of an asshole an owner was.
Even then, he had to admit that Mr. Duncan wasn't too much of an asshole. He'd
known plenty of masters who'd have beaten him half dead for going behind their
back. Hell, he'd been owned by one or two of them, and he'd been beaten raw for
less than that.
That was probably it, though. Mr. Duncan being pretty cool about him contacting
Lord Neeson, once he'd found out about it, had fooled Kevin into thinking he
might be totally cool. That'd been stupid, and Kevin should've known better.
Had known better before he'd let himself start to relax, but he'd gotten a
reminder and would remember next time.
The doorbell rang and Kevin jerked up, startled, and almost spilled his coffee.
He set the mug down, carefully -- if he stained the carpet on his last day, Mr.
Duncan would probably think he'd done it deliberately, out of spite, and he'd
put some shitty comment in Kevin's provenance file.
He walked over to the door and stopped for a few seconds to take some deep
breaths. Then he smirked at nobody in particular and thought, Be a crack-up if
I'm all freaking out and it's Jehovah's Witnesses or something.
He opened the door and there was Lord Neeson's agent -- the way-too-old body-
slave, Johnny, carrying the same briefcase he'd had last time.
"Hey," he said. "Is Mr. Duncan home?" He looked Kevin over but didn't show much
reaction. Kevin felt his hackles rising; those eyes on him seemed to be
checking him out and dismissing him, like he didn't meet some standard.
"No, he's still at work."
The other slave nodded. "That's all right. Everything's done and filed, you're
legally Lord Neeson's property. I have a copy of the certificate of transfer,
but he doesn't have to sign it, so I can just leave it for him. Are you ready
to go?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess." That was it? Hi, let's go? Okay, whatever. "Let me get my
stuff."
Kevin turned to go to his room and Johnny followed him inside. Kevin heard the
snap of a briefcase opening and the rustle of papers as he headed up the
stairs.
His clothes and stuff were all stuffed into a couple of plastic grocery sacks,
since he didn't have a suitcase or anything. He grabbed them and left his room
without a look backward.
When he got back down, there was an official looking paper on the coffee table
and Johnny was standing there with the briefcase and a look of perfect
patience.
"That's it," Kevin said. "I'm ready if you are."
Johnny paused to give him a quick, searching look, then said, "We could wait
for Mr. Duncan to come home, if you want to say goodbye? I already checked into
the hotel, so there's no rush on my end."
Kevin shook his head so hard his hair swung down into his eyes. "No, that's
fine. Let's just take off."
Johnny nodded. "Didn't think so, but I wanted to ask. Let's go then." He headed
for the door. Kevin followed, made sure the door was set to lock and closed it
behind him.
He trailed Johnny down to a rental car, nothing fancy, a mid-size Ford with a
few miles on it, and hopped in. They drove downtown to the Imperial Plaza, a
pretty swanky place.
"You're staying here by yourself?" Kevin couldn't help staring around some as
they walked through the lobby. He'd been to similar places before with his old
owners, but he'd never been the kind of body-slave who did a lot of travelling
on his own, and wouldn't have expected his owner to pay for this kind of plush
just for a slave.
"Nope. You're staying with me." He got raised eyebrow from Johnny. Smart-ass
"Our master always stays here when he's in the LA area. They know him, and me,
and they're used to having body-slaves and agents stay here. If someone tries
to harass us, the staff will intervene."
"Eventually?" Kevin asked.
"Eventually," Johnny agreed. "It's better than a lot of places, though, and
Lord Neeson won't stand for other people messing with his slaves."
They stepped into the elevator and Johnny pressed twenty-two. The door closed
and they were alone. Johnny gave Kevin a hard look and said, "Lord Neeson is a
good man to belong to, if you have to belong to someone. I'm not saying he's
easy or indulgent -- if you fuck up you'll get thrashed and you'll remember it
for a while. But he's fair. He won't beat on you just because he's in a bad
mood. You'll get a good bed, good clothes, and great food, and if you get sick
or hurt he'll get you to a doctor right away. If someone tries to mess with
you, whether it's a stranger or a business associate or another slave or
whatever, he'll take care of it."
"Right, I get it, he's a fucking saint. I'm sure all his slaves dance around
him in circles throwing flowers." Kevin leaned back against the side of the
elevator with his arms crossed over his chest and smirked at Johnny, 'cause
seriously, the guy was a suck-up or an idiot.
"No, he's not a fucking saint." And Johnny was right there in Kevin's face,
both forearms leaning against the wall on either side of Kevin's head, their
noses almost touching while he glared right into Kevin's eyes, and the fact
that Kevin had a good three inches on him didn't seem to matter at all. "But
he's a good man and a good master, as good as they come. It sounds like you've
had some real fuckwads before, and I get that. I did too, before he bought me.
Lord Neeson isn't an asshole, though, and he doesn't deserve any shit. What's
more, he won't tolerate any shit.
"He's got enough shit going on already, he doesn't need any more from you. If
you think you can manipulate him, or that you can set yourself up by fucking
over any of the other slaves, you'd better think again. When he finds out he'll
stomp on you good. And if I find out about it before he does, I'll stomp on you
before I drag your ass over to him.
"He's fair to all of us and gives us good lives, as good as they can be if
you're a slave and start out with 'suck' as a default setting, and I won't
tolerate anyone fucking with that."
"Back off!" Kevin shoved Johnny away hard and scowled down at him. "I don't
know who pissed in your wheaties, but if you think I'll just stand here and
take shit from you--"
Johnny took a step forward and grabbed Kevin's wrist, and half a second later
he was pressed up against the side of the car again, face-first this time, with
his arm twisted up behind his back and his shoulder feeling like it was about
to pop out. "You'll do exactly that and keep your mouth shut and behave."
Johnny tightened his grip for a moment and Kevin jerked up onto his toes.
"Okay, okay, fuck! What the hell, man?"
"What the hell is you," Johnny snarled into his ear. "You're a fucking judas.
You've already screwed over a bunch of other slaves when you were helping that
Csokas guy run his racket. You helped him convince a bunch of stolen kids that
they were crazy, messed up, that no one would believe them. You made it easier
for him to steal and torture and sell them. And you didn't even believe he'd
ever actually give you that carrot he dangled -- you said so. But you helped
him anyway. You're an asshole and a liar and a traitor. I don't like you, I
don't trust you, and you get zero slack from me."
Johnny gave his arm another jerk, then let go and stepped back. The elevator
slid to a stop. He said, "This is our floor," and walked out as though nothing
had happened.
Kevin scowled at his retreating back and followed.
***** Chapter 34 *****
Liam filed away Thewlis's message on his computer and sat back to think. The
rat was running, and the hole he was headed for was one where Liam didn't have
any established contacts. He knew people in Germany, yes, but the chances of
assassinating someone in an airport between gates, on less than a day's notice,
were low to nil. And besides, Liam wanted to be there at the end.
He had to know someone whose reach extended into India. There weren't as many
as there'd been in the past; when it became clear that the USNA's attempt to
get India under its thumb by pressuring them to join the slave economy was
going to fail, a lot of American businesses had pulled out of South Asia,
fearing that the tension would boil over into war. Wars tended to cause hostile
governments to seize enemy-owned assets within their territory, and that was
never good for business. Liam's father had pulled out for just that reason, and
had complained about the losses he'd taken in the process for years afterward.
Liam typed up a brief request for assistance with some business in Mumbai and
sent it out to everyone on his list of theft victims. He didn't dare include
any details over the net, but hopefully a glance at the TO: list would clue the
recipients in as to what he needed help for. He turned his attention to other
work while keeping an ear out for his e-mail signal, which came just over an
hour later.
Lord Smith was similarly concise.
***
I can get that done. Send whatever you've got and I'll shoot it to my guy in
Mumbai. What are we doing when we find him?
***
"Excellent," Liam muttered to himself.
***
Here's the info I got from Thewlis today, plus a photo only a few years old.
Shouldn't be tough for a smart local to find a white man in an Indian city
these days.
I want to know where he is. Once we've got him located, I'll be going over
myself to wrap this up.
***
Works for me. Tell him hi from the rest of us, will you?
I see we still have thieves working the area. Cutting off the head's not going
to slow them down.
***
I'll be sure to pass on everyone's greetings.
We cut off two heads, and once their inside contact has given me the last piece
of info I need, I fully plan to convince him that continuing his activities
would be inadvisable, so this particular group is likely dead in the water.
You're right, though, that it's still a problem. I'm sure there were others;
this group preferred selling through "proper" channels and only went elsewhere
as a last resort. There were enough items of interest in that one incident I
mentioned at the meeting that there have to be other suppliers. I'd love to go
after every one of them, but ending up there myself won't help anyone. All we
can do, realistically, is be aware of the problem and take precautions with our
assets.
***
Sucks, man. I've been keeping Tisha and the kids close to home, but they're
getting restless. I definitely need to look into a bodyguard. I'm not going to
keep my kids locked up whenever Jada and I don't have time to take them out
ourselves.
***
If you're seriously looking for security, I recently met a man named Duncan
down your way who's in that line. I checked him out and he has a solid
reputation, and he seemed like a good man when we spoke. Here's his contact
info if you're interested.
***
I'll check him out, thanks.
***
 
Thewlis turned over and stifled a moan. Even beaten, broken and drugged, he
still had his instincts intact, and one was not to make any noise when he first
woke up, especially in a strange place. He looked around, as much as he could
without actually moving his head, and eventually he remembered where he was.
Some number of days ago, he'd dragged himself out of the burning wreck of
Marty's garage and driven away through sheer force of will. He'd squinted into
the night, trying to keep his concussion-fuzzy eyes on the dark road. The
dizziness hadn't helped either, to say nothing of the headache, or the stabbing
pain in his side where it'd turned out two ribs were broken. He'd known he
couldn't be caught at the site of the explosion, though, nor anywhere near it,
nor could his car be found there, so just crawling off into the bushes
somewhere was out, even if he had any illusions that he wouldn't be found.
As it was, he'd been lucky as hell to get away and he still wasn't sure he'd
gotten out clean. Marty's place was far enough from the nearest police station
that no one had shown up to catch him; there mustn't have been any patrol cars
nearby either. Not that Thewlis imagined that wide patch of road paid much in
taxes, casinos or no; it wasn't exactly shocking that government services were
iffy.
What was shocking was that his luck had held. Assuming it had.
He'd driven west on fifteen, expecting flashing lights behind him every mile of
the way, and finally made Barstow, to a neighborhood where he'd heard one could
contact a discreet doctor. The man wouldn't do anything illegal, but he'd
respect a patient's need to be careful and to stay off the books.
Which was, of course, illegal in and of itself, but the good doctor wouldn't do
anything else illegal.
Thewlis had parked in a dingy lot, then walked up the street and into a bar.
Ordering a certain special got him escorted upstairs, then across a series of
rooftops between flapping laundry and climbing vines and ramshackle shelters,
then down another set of stairs to a windowless room where he was told to wait.
He'd fallen asleep on the bare floor, propped in a corner.
Some time later, a reasonably gentle hand had shaken him awake, led him to a
garage and helped him into a car. "We're going to a poker party," the driver
had said in a low voice. "Try to look like you're heading for a good time when
we get there."
He'd nodded and fallen asleep again.
When they got to the house with the poker party, which was also where the
doctor lived, he'd gone in, managing a grimace and a wave. Another car that
arrived at about the same time had four men in it, one of whom was leaning on
another. "Drunk already!" one of the men called, and they'd all laughed. In the
light of the entry way, though, once the front door was closed, the "drunk" man
looked to be suffering from overindulgence in gunfire rather than alcohol.
Three other men were already there, and five of them sat down to play a noisy
game of poker in the living room while Thewlis and the man who'd been shot were
led down to the basement. The doctor, a thin, balding man with permanent stress
lines in his face, had checked them both, then helped Thewlis into the work
room first.
That'd been... Thewlis actually didn't know how many nights ago. He'd been
drugged and sleeping ever since, with brief waking periods to eat, drink, and
stagger to the toilet. The doctor, whose name Thewlis had never actually
learned and probably never would, had told him he'd live. The man who'd been
shot hadn't.
As near as he could figure, all those empty cardboard boxes had saved his life.
Light and incredibly crushable, they'd absorbed enough of the blast that he
hadn't ended up splattered across the lawn. Then the stark, panic terror he'd
felt at the thought of being caught at the blast site or found on the road by
the authorities had jolted him with enough adrenaline to keep moving; looked
like the government was good for something after all.
Once he was more awake, he shifted slowly, tensing only the muscles absolutely
required to roll over onto his side. Regular nursing care wasn't an option at
that particular clinic, and he felt bed sores forming on his ass. They weren't
quite as bad on his hips, so he propped himself up facing the room and tried to
relax again.
Focusing his thoughts through the scattered, swooping fuzziness, to say nothing
of the headache which still hung on despite whatever drugs he was on, took
considerable concentration. He pushed the pain aside and ignored it in favor of
sorting out his memories and trying to come up with some sort of useful
analysis.
Depending on how thoroughly the house had burned, there might be more or less
evidence of his presence. The police would know that someone had been there;
he'd left the safe open and empty. They might change their mind about that
interpretation once they found out that Marty'd skipped the country, but for a
while, at least, it'd point to a burglary.
The scattered papers and things outside the bathroom window might be another
clue to an intrusion. Again, it depended on how throughly the place had burned,
along with how much of a mess the firefighters made when they stomped around.
Fire hoses could blow small objects quite a distance.
Thewlis thought about that. The house was small enough that a hose aimed in
from one side could probably blast something out the other side, if the walls
collapsed, but it'd depend which angle or angles the firefighters approached
from. He had no way of knowing that, so the things in the yard outside the
bathroom might be considered another piece of evidence of his presence.
His footprints in the dust would be gone, and likewise any fibers which
might've fallen off his clothes despite his precautions. Unless he'd tracked
dirt from a California beach or forest, any evidence of that sort could also be
attributed to the firefighters' boots. He'd been lurking around Marty's place
long enough that anything on his shoes was probably local anyway.
Everything he'd done to avoid leaving evidence at the house would be pointless,
though, along with the fire itself -- a stroke of fortune from that point of
view, despite his slightly mangled body -- if the police were smart enough to
look around and discover that he'd been watching Marty's house on and off for
weeks now. He hadn't used his real name, of course, but there were locals who
could describe him -- starting with that clerk he'd spun the photographer story
to -- and his face probably showed up on hours of surveillance film, in stores
and parking lots and traffic cameras.
He wondered whether they'd accuse him of setting the bomb.
Speaking of which, it was clear Marty'd set it himself. Thewlis wondered
whether that meant he actually knew he was being watched, or whether he was
just being thorough.
If he'd known he was being watched then the bomb had likely been set in hopes
of catching the watcher. If he'd just meant to be thorough then the bomb had
been meant to destroy evidence. It'd been on a timer, and there'd been a wire
on the only box which hadn't been empty, so it'd been set to go off either way
-- slow if left alone, or quick to catch a searcher.
Thewlis scowled and wondered what'd been there that he'd missed. He hadn't even
gotten away with the contents of the banker's box -- even the contents of the
safe, likely trash, was beyond his reach.
All he could hope was that some evidence of Marty's business had survived, and
that the authorities found it. There was a slim hope that if they set off down
that trail, they'd leave focus on Marty and leave anyone else -- like Thewlis
himself -- alone. A completely unrealistic hope, mind, but it was all he had to
hang on to at that point.
 
Within a week of beginning body-slave training, Orlando was wishing he had the
drugged fuzziness back again.
He'd always known he was lucky in his owner. Master Liam was affectionate and
protective, and Orlando'd been willing to take Johnny's word, on an
intellectual level, that most slaves -- even body-slaves -- weren't as indulged
as he was. As he'd been. Real body-slave training was rubbing his nose in just
how spoiled he'd been, though. He wasn't ready for any of it.
Within that first week, he'd been fucked by more people than he'd known by name
in all his life before being stolen. Now that it was part of their training,
anyone who worked for Commerce was allowed to indulge whenever a slave wasn't
actively in lessons, and most of their lessons were about being fucked too,
with additional instruction in pleasing both genders by hand and orally. The
only restriction to the guards and lower-level staff was a line drawn at
injuries. Serious injuries, that was; bruises, scrapes and minor cuts didn't
count.
The only people not allowed to use him however they liked were the other
slaves. They were still off limits to one another, because, as a trainer had
emphasized, their bodies didn't belong to them and weren't for their own use,
whether alone or with another slave. Their duty was to keep ready at all times
to serve their owner or anyone their owner bid them to serve.
The restriction against masturbating didn't make any sense for the female
slaves, who could perform just as well right after an orgasm as before, but
then making sense wasn't terribly high in Commerce's priorities.
But when they weren't in class, they were being used casually, and if that kept
them up all night they were still expected to perform to the trainers' exacting
standards. After all, their owner or his guests might need them all night some
time, and that would be no excuse to laze around in bed all the next day.
By the end of the first week, Orlando was numb to mere fucking, and his mouth
would automatically start sucking on anything pushed into it.
When they'd started on some of the more unusual kinks, one of the trainers had
said nothing would ever be as bad as training, that they'd be able to properly
appreciate their new owner, and do whatever was bid of them with a cheerful
attitude because compared with their training, anything an owner was likely to
want would seem tame. Orlando wasn't convinced that was true, either that the
comparison would turn him into a cheerful little fuck-toy or that there weren't
owners out there who could make life just as bad as a trainer. He didn't give
it more than a passing moment's thought, though; most of the time his attention
was focused on the now, on whatever stimulus he was aware of at that particular
moment and whatever the proper response was that had been or was being
conditioned into him.
Four more weeks. Orlando couldn't imagine getting through it, but he had to.
Hell, they'd make him; he doubted very much that suicide was a viable option in
this place, no matter how much he wished for it in the near future.
***** Chapter 35 *****
Thewlis had been out of contact for ten days, since sending the message about
Csokas leaving the country. Ten days had been long enough for Liam to go from
annoyed to worried; he hadn't gone so long without a report since hiring the
man, and it'd never taken more than a few hours to get a response to an e-mail
or phone message.
He'd considered putting in a missing persons report, but only briefly. Given
what they'd been up to, drawing the attention of the authorities could only
make things worse.
Ten days had also been long enough for Lord Smith's contact in Mumbai to have
found Csokas. It took four more days for Liam to make travel arrangements and
get things set to keep going without him for a little while, but he wasn't
willing to just wait around any longer than that. Thewlis was a good man to
have at your side in a tough spot, calm and steady. Liam was honest enough to
admit to himself that Thewlis's calm was a good balancing influence for when he
himself saw red and his throttle stuck on full blast, which he'd been doing too
often during the hunt for Orlando. If Thewlis wasn't available, though, then he
wasn't, and once Liam was ready to go, that was it, he left.
He had a story ready about travelling to India to make some informal inquiries
about doing business with one of the companies his father had sold when things
had looked to be unstable between India and the Empire; he actually had an
appointment with one of the directors, although he wasn't particularly
expecting anything to come of it. No one asked, though, beyond the usual
"Business or pleasure?" so it seemed no one was paying any attention to him.
Or maybe he was supposed to think that.
Liam went on the way he always did, assuming there was someone nearby watching
and recording.
He got some work done on the flight over and managed to sleep in his seat for
the last few hours after changing planes in Tel Aviv. Once they landed in
Mumbai, it took a little over an hour to retrieve his baggage and get a car to
his hotel, where he picked up his room key and a package, then was shown to his
room. About twenty minutes later, when he'd barely had time to unpack, someone
knocked on his door.
Expecting a maid or bellhop offering some sort of service, he was taken aback
for a second to find a white man in a western suit slouching in the hallway,
looking him over with a skeptical smirk.
"Lord Neeson?"
"Yes?" The man rubbed him the wrong way right off and Liam gave him a hard
stare. "What can I do for you?"
"We have a common interest and a mutual acquaintance -- Dave Thewlis?"
Liam opened the door wider and stood aside. "Come in." It was more a command
than an invitation, but Liam wasn't ready to relax and make nice yet; the man
hadn't even offered his name and Liam's hackles were still up. He closed the
door after his visitor. "So, who are you and what common interest do you
imagine we might have?"
"The name's Nick Cage. We've been in the same room a few times, but our usual
interests don't coincide. In this case, though, we're both eager to see Marty
Csokas get what's coming to him." He paused, then cocked an eyebrow and added,
"At least, I assume that's why you're here?"
Liam crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, unwilling to give Cage any
mental advantage by sitting down and having to look up at him. "What's your
interest in Csokas? Has he stolen something from you as well?"
Cage sent him a sardonic smile. "Yeah, you might say that. I've recently found
out that he appropriated some ideas some friends and I came up with when we
were all in college together, and has been using them in the service of goals I
find abhorrent." He stopped talking and just looked at Liam, as though waiting
for something.
The something came within a very few seconds. "You're an abolitionist." Liam
said the last word with a distasteful twist to his mouth, and his already tense
back stiffened even more.
Cage smirked at him, but otherwise didn't respond at all to the contempt Liam
was sure he was radiating. "It's something I was into in college, along with
some friends. We made fantastical plans and tossed ideas around, and of course
nothing came of it. The system's too entrenched right now, and the government's
too strong and controls too much of... everything. But philosophically, yeah,
I'm an abolitionist. And the fact that Marty's using our plans and ideas to
steal slaves just so he can resell them himself for a profit makes me want to
have a long talk with him. Or maybe a short talk. It'll be pretty intense,
though."
Liam huffed out a short laugh against his will. "I imagine it will. I get him
first, though."
"Maybe we'll flip a coin," Cage retorted.
"He took my boy," Liam said with a hard stare. "If I'm in a good mood, maybe I
won't kill him and you'll have something left to have your discussion with."
Cage started to scowl, then laughed. "Hard-ass bastard."
"You're damn right," Liam shot back. "And with reason. You remember that and
I'll let you come along." He felt startled for a moment at the offer even as he
made it, but he pushed it aside. His gut reactions were usually right, and he'd
feel better with some back-up. He'd rather have had Thewlis with him, but
Thewlis was still missing and Cage was there, and looked like he could handle
himself.
He might be one of those brainless abolitionists, but his immediate goal seemed
to be the same as Liam's, which meant they could work together for a while.
Good enough.
That reminded him, though, and he asked, "Have you heard from Thewlis lately?"
Cage shook his head. "Not in the last few days. He sent me a note about Marty
being here and that you'd probably be showing up yourself, and that was it."
"Is that unusual?" Liam asked. "To go that long without hearing from him?"
He got another shrug. "Dave and I aren't really close. He contacted me about
this situation with Marty a little while back. The methods used to pull the
slaves out of the system made him think that someone we knew back when might be
behind it. Before that I hadn't heard from him since college."
Well, that didn't help. Although it was somewhat reassuring to know that at
least Thewlis didn't make a habit of associating with abolitionists. "It's
unusual for me," he said. "He's been good about communicating since I hired
him, but I haven't heard from him since the day Csokas left the Empire."
"You've been worried about him?"
"Of course I have," Liam snapped. "Is that so amazing?"
"No, not really."
Despite the reassurance, Liam still got the impression that Cage was smirking
to himself, although his actual expression was neutral. He felt a strong desire
to do something violent, but fought the impulse down. Csokas -- it's about
Csokas, he reminded himself. He'd been stifling his anger for so long, and it
was going to have a valid outlet soon, but the closer he got to his goal the
more difficult it got not to jump the gun. Cage might not be the sort of person
he'd usually want to do business with, but he was there to help and they had a
common cause. Keep that in mind, maintain, don't thrash the abolitionist.
He felt a smirk of his own form and turned his back on Cage, heading over to
the desk and mentally dismissing their brangle. "I know where he's staying -
- address, map, photos. I have an unrelated appointment tomorrow morning -- I
have to do some business, justify being here in case anyone is paying
attention. I'd planned to go see Csokas tomorrow night, then fly back out the
next afternoon."
"Couldn't get a morning flight? Or a red-eye?" There was that not-quite-mocking
tone again, like an invisible stick poking at Liam's ribs.
"I just as soon not seem to be in a rush to leave," he replied in an even
voice. "You can do as you like, of course."
Cage followed Liam across the room and held out a hand toward the pile of
papers on the desk. "May I see?"
Liam scooped everything up and slipped it back into its folder. "Tomorrow. Come
back here at six; we'll have something to eat and make plans then."
"Tomorrow?" Cage asked with a pointed scowl. "It'd be nice if I knew what was
up before we went."
"You will -- tomorrow, before we go." Liam crossed his arms and looked down his
nose at Cage. "He's mine first," he repeated. "I'd prefer nothing unfortunate
happen to him before I've had a chance for a conversation."
"Right," Cage drawled. "You know, I'm really glad I don't work for you."
"So am I, Mr. Cage. I'll see you tomorrow evening."
 
The massage lessons weren't too bad. Orlando's hands and arms ached by the end
of each lesson, making him wish for hot water and rest, but at least he'd been
taught most of the techniques before, when he was working with Mr. Travers. And
any break from the actual sex training was a good thing.
He got a review of serving, both intimately and in company -- fetching drinks
and food, small items and larger items, giving kneeling massages and manicures.
They got lessons in giving unobtrusive blowjobs, silent and still enough (at
least on the slaves' part) not to disrupt a meeting or a quiet meal.
Doing hair and makeup was completely new to Orlando; Master Liam had never
wanted that level of fussing, and the Mistress hadn't wanted Orlando serving
her personally at all during the short time they'd been in the same household.
It was interesting, and might've been fun if they'd had more than four days to
absorb everything.
Weirdly enough, learning to do the kinds of things a woman owner would or might
want, both sexually and otherwise, made Orlando feel a little less panicky over
the thought of being eventually sold. When Master Liam had married he'd been
nervous enough at the thought that the new mistress might've wanted him to
serve her in ways he'd never done or learned. That was one less thing to worry
about now, even if it was a small thing, relative to other... things.
About a week in they started furniture practice, learning to stretch out or
fold up into the shape of a footstool or a side table or a lampstand. That took
intermittent practice for longer and longer periods, learning to relax through
cramping muscles without tipping out of position, or moving a light away from
where their master wanted it, or shifting a saucer away from where master was
going to put his cup.
They were working their way through a long list of kinks, making sure the body-
slaves could perform up to standard no matter what their owners wanted. Pain
training had begun relatively light, and it'd taken a couple of weeks before
they'd started pushing the boundaries of what Master Liam had done. Of course,
having some grim-faced trainer wielding the flogger or crop or cane while
scrutinizing him for any hint of resistence, or an unpleasing posture or
expression was very different from having his master beat him while telling
Orlando how beautiful he was and how much Orlando's eager submission pleased
him.
He hadn't expected it to be that different -- more like eating with someone you
didn't know, or even someone you disliked, compared with eating with someone
you loved. The food was the same, right?
Well, not so much. The "company" made a huge difference, it turned out. Master
Liam had taught him about pain himself, rather than leaving it to Mr. Travers,
and Orlando's adoration for his master had made it easy to find that place
inside where the pain was just another way of stimulating his body, another
path that led to pleasure. With the trainers, though, that path was missing and
being beaten was something to be endured, not pleasurable at all.
Although, would he really want to respond to a trainer the way he had to Master
Liam? His gut-level answer was no, that he'd be ashamed to give himself up that
completely to anyone else, especially to someone who saw him as just a thing to
be whipped -- literally -- into proper shape. Letting down his barriers that
much, making himself so completely vulnerable, seemed insane.
As time went on, though, it mattered less and less. He was taught to simulate
the ecstatic noises and writhing under a whip whether he felt them or not, to
beg for more wax, a thicker sound, another weight. He also learned to accept a
smack or worse some fraction of the time after pleading for more of whatever a
trainer was doing, because, they said, some masters didn't like slaves who
begged, no matter how prettily, and so they trained him to take a smack without
flinching and beg pardon and spend the rest of the lesson accepting in silence
whatever was done to his body. Then the next day he had to beg again, for more
lashes or a bigger plug or more piss, and wonder whether this simulated master
would appreciate it or not.
After two weeks and four days of that, the beatings got to a point beyond where
Master Liam had ever gone, and Orlando, who'd been doing well relative to the
rest of the class, started earning extra lashes along with everyone else, for
hesitating when he'd been commanded to walk up and position himself for
binding, for flinching when he'd been commanded to stay still, for screaming
when he'd been commanded to stay quiet.
He endured, because there wasn't anything else he could do.
***** Chapter 36 *****
Cage was two minutes late the next evening. It was long enough to be
disrespectful, but little enough that it might be just a difference in watch
settings. Liam despised that kind of game-playing, but he was used to ignoring
it. If an adversary was trying to get an emotional reaction, giving it to him
would be stupid.
Liam let Cage in with a civil nod and led him to a small table under the window
where a spice-scented meal had been spread only a few minutes earlier. They
didn't bother pretending to be pleasant or friendly; Liam spread out the
contents of his file on Csokas and they both shovelled down food while going
over it.
Despite his abrasive attitude and wrong-headed ideas, when he buckled down to
work, Cage had some good suggestions to make about approaching their mutual
goal. By the time they finished it was just full dark -- time to leave.
There was still plenty of traffic in the streets, so they didn't stand out the
way they would have if they'd waited till the small hours of the morning. At
quarter till eight, they were just two more men on their way to an evening of
leisure.
Liam drove his rental car to within a quarter mile of Csokas's bolthole, then
pulled over in a well lit spot and parked. He scanned the locals and spotted a
group of boys hanging out, as boys always did and always had when the
opportunity presented itself. He chose the one the others seemed to be
orbiting, a boy in a neatly wrapped turban and a T-shirt with some Bollywood
actress's face on it, and called, "Young man! You, in the yellow shirt. I'll
pay you if you'll watch my car for an hour."
The young man smirked at him, said something to his friends that got them all
laughing, then sauntered over. "Sahib needs service?"
Liam knew he was being made fun of, but under the circumstances he didn't
particularly care so long as he got what he wanted. He pulled out a wad of
bills -- pre-counted earlier so he wouldn't have to fumble with money -- and
said, "Here, twenty thousand rupees. I'll give you the same when I come back if
my car's still here and in good shape." It was a lot of money -- almost a
thousand in imperial dollars -- but all Liam cared about was the car still
being there when he and Cage were finished. The young man was still smirking,
but he took the money and his friends looked eager.
"One hour, sahib. I have an appointment then, so if you're late then your car
will have to protect itself."
"It's good to be punctual," Liam retorted with a smirk of his own. He added,
"Thank you," then turned and strode off up the road, Cage next to him.
"Wow," said Cage, "you really have a knack for fostering good will and friendly
relations with people from other cultures. You should teach classes or
something."
"He wants money, I want the car to be there when we need it," Liam said flatly.
"We both got what we wanted; that's how business works."
He heard a snort from Cage, but they walked on without speaking further and got
to their destination a few minutes later.
Csokas's place was on the outskirts of huge, sprawling Mumbai, set back behind
lush foliage and a high wall and invisible from the street. That suited Liam
just fine. Satellite photos on the net had shown that the wall around the
property was broken down in several places; he and Cage entered through one of
the breaks, off a dark footpath.
Lord Smith's contact had insisted that there was no significant security around
the property, that it was just a a rental estate like any other, popular with
foreigners; most of the neighbors, when they were in residence, were
businesspeople from Indonesia, China and Korea, who travelled to oversee
companies, partners, deals. That there were no guards, cameras or alarms, no
motion sensors or laser beams, not even a dog running loose inside the fence.
Liam hadn't believed the report, of course. A man who'd made his fortune
stealing from rich nobles used to getting their way and crushing whoever
opposed them had to have taken some precautions. Careful inspection of the
perimeter, the wall, and the gap in the wall turned up nothing, however. The
barely-visible path, a scant thinning of the dense foliage between the gap and
the house, was only that -- a path hardly anyone ever used. Taking care not to
make too much noise nor cause too much swaying of branches over their heads
slowed the two men down, as did searching for lenses and trip-wires and
microphones and sensor plates which didn't exist.
By the time they came within a few meters of the house, Liam was convinced that
Csokas was insanely confident. Or maybe he was just that certain that he'd
gotten away clean, that no one would be after him, that he was perfectly free
to enjoy the rest of his life in luxury.
Pity, that.
Except not really. Liam was looking forward to teaching him just how mistaken
he was. And he was fairly sure that Cage was more than willing to explain any
details Liam himself missed during the first go-round.
Cage leaned in until their shoulders were pressed together and whispered, "Too
easy."
Liam nodded, tapped Cage on the arm, and pointed around toward the other side
of the house. Cage nodded and vanished into the darkness.
After a count of fifty, Liam stood up straight, stepped out of the cover of the
foliage, and strode up onto the wide, covered porch, to the glass-paned front
entrance. It was a pair of tall double doors, flanked by tall windows in the
same style. They were all topped by fan lights. A dim glow shone through the
glass, and from up close Liam could see a darkened entryway, with light shining
through a doorway at the far side of the entrance hall.
The house was quiet, with no sound of conversation, or even music or
television. Nothing indicated that Cage had been discovered. Well, if Csokas
was that insanely confident, the direct approach would likely work.
Liam rang the bell.
He'd counted twenty-two seconds before he heard footsteps approaching. A dark
silhouette appeared in the doorway, paused, then approached and opened the door
just a few inches. "Yes? What can I do for you?" The voice was low and
pleasant, the man himself tall -- within a couple of inches of Liam's own six-
four -- and slender but solid. He looked like a perfectly normal person, the
sort of man you'd do business with, have a drink with. Liam wasn't impressed;
he could project exactly that same harmless aura himself if he cared to, and it
meant exactly nothing.
"Mr. Marton Csokas?" he asked, putting on a friendly and slightly self-
conscious smile. "One of the concierges at my hotel said you'd moved here
recently -- from the Empire -- and I'm having some difficulties with a business
deal and asked about someone who might be able to give me some advice about how
things work here, so he gave me your name and directions...." Liam let his
voice trail off, looked away for a moment, then back at Csokas and shrugged. "I
realize I'm a stranger asking a favor, but I thought maybe for a fellow
Imperial, you might be willing to give me an hour or so of your time, just
explain a few things? I'm sorry if I'm intruding."
There, he thought with an internal snort. You're not the only one who can play
harmless.
"And you are...?" Csokas asked.
"Oh, I'm sorry! I don't usually-- I mean, this is just so, you know." Liam
shrugged and laughed at himself, taking a step forward, making sure his sturdy
shoe was over the threshold. He'd spotted another dark figure approaching over
Csokas's shoulder, and forced himself to stay relaxed. "Neeson," he said. "Liam
Neeson."
Csokas immediately stiffened in clear recognition, scowled, and tried to slam
the door. What he thought it'd do to have the mostly-glass door closed instead
of opened Liam didn't know, and didn't particularly care. The door bounced
against his foot and he moved forward, but Csokas was faster. He backed up
several steps and jerked a pistol out of his jacket pocket.
"How the fuck did you find me?" he snarled. His lips were tight with anger and
agression, but there was fear in his darting eyes. Without waiting for an
answer, he said, "Never mind, I don't care. I can move again -- I have enough
money to go anywhere I want!"
He extended the pistol, gripping it with both hands, and Liam made himself
stand and hold Csokas's gaze. One, two, three....
Cage slipped up behind Csokas and slammed his doubled fists into the man's
temple like swinging a sledgehammer or a baseball bat. The pistol went off with
a thundering BAM! that blew splinters out of the doorjamb just past Liam's
shoulder, and Csokas collapsed down onto the tiled floor.
Liam let out a breath, careful to do it quietly. He wanted to tear a strip off
of Cage, but the man's smirk was fully in place and Liam knew he was just
waiting for an explosive reaction. Damned if Liam would give him the
satisfaction.
He stepped forward to where Cage had Csokas mostly pinned on the floor, planted
a heavy foot on the one wrist that was still free and flailing, and commented,
"I don't suppose it would've bothered you if that'd hit me."
"Not a bit," said Cage with a cheery grin. "Marty's hands on the gun and all,
it would've been unfortunate but not my problem."
"You're a cold bastard, Cage."
"From you I'll take that as a compliment," Cage retorted.
Keeping his attention on Csokas, Liam took a pair of leather gloves out of his
jacket pocket. It was too warm to be able to wear them without drawing
attention, but he needed them then. He pulled them on, one at a time. They were
heavy enough to provide some protection, but light enough not to impede
movement. Specifically, the kind of movement required for fingers to curl into
a fist.
Csokas was squinting up at Cage, peering into the dim as though there were
something wrong with his vision. Likely there was, after a blow like that.
"Nick? Fuck, is that you?"
"Sure is, Marty." Cage gave Csokas a smirk and kicked him hard in the hip.
Csokas gasped out a pained noise. Cage's grin widened. "You know, I didn't
think you were even paying attention when we had meetings at our place back
when. All you ever did was bitch that we were disturbing you while you tried to
study."
"At least I did something with it," Csokas retorted. His voice was tight with
pain, but he was clearly trying to put on a good show. He jerked his wrist out
from under Liam's shoe and scooted back until he could prop himself in a seated
position against the wall. "More than you bleeding-heart whiners ever did."
"Maybe you're right. Of course, we wouldn't exactly advertise it if we ever
had."
Liam broke up the class reunion by grabbing the front of Csokas's shirt and
hauling him halfway to his feet. Without any warning, he landed a hard, precise
punch to the man's nose; he felt cartilage crushing and bone breaking under his
fist. Csokas gurgled out a pained cry as he crashed back down to the floor,
with an intermediary bounce off the wall.
"Wha' you wan?! Fuh, teh me wha' you wan!" Csokas had one hand on his blood-
spattered nose and the other flailing in front of him, as though trying to fend
Liam off.
Liam said, "I want you never to have touched my boy." He kept his voice under
tight control, cold and hard. He knew that if he let his roiling emotions out,
unleashed the lava-hot fury bubbling inside him, he'd start shouting his anger
and that would attract too much attention. Control, always. "I can't have that,
though," he continued, "so I'm going to have to settle for making you regret it
very strongly." He hauled Csokas up again and buried a fist deep in the man's
diaphragm. Csokas bent at a sharp angle around the fist in his midsection,
every molecule of air shooting out of his lungs. He couldn't make any noise
after that one sharp whuffing sound.
Still cold and methodical, Liam slammed him against the wall, then crushed the
man's genitals with a knee.
Csokas opened his mouth to scream, but still didn't have any air. He crumpled
to the floor once more, clutching himself and gasping for breath.
"Fuck, man, leave some for me." There was no snark or attitude in Cage's voice;
he sounded shocked, and Liam doubted he let that show very often.
"You'll get your turn." Liam didn't bother looking at Cage while he spoke, but
kicked Csokas hard in the face with a sturdy, thick-soled boot, adding more
broken bones and teeth to the already crushed nose.
Another yank upright, and then Liam aimed a jab right into a kidney, then again
into the other one. A third punch aimed at Csokas's stomach grazed off a rib
and Liam felt pain radiating through his hand. He ignored it and kept going.
Csokas couldn't speak anymore, barely had breath to whimper. Liam pulled back a
fist, the leather of his glove smeared with gore, but before he could get in
another blow, Cage grabbed his wrist.
"Neeson! Enough! Come on, man!"
Liam's head whipped around and he glared at Cage, jerking his hand away. "I'll
decide when I'm finished."
"You're gonna kill him!"
"That was the idea, yes. Did you want another shot at him before we finish it?"
Cage just stared. His gaze was stark and expressionless. He shook his head,
slowly. "Punishment is one thing, but murder is something else," he said, his
voice low and tight and neutral. "Enough already."
"I take care of what belongs to me." Liam glared at Cage, a hard, assessing
stare, calculating whether he was going to become another obstacle. "My boy is
in a processing center right now, at this exact minute, getting raped and
beaten and taught to eat shit with a smile on his face, or whatever the fuck
they teach body-slaves in those places. I don't give a god damn whether you
think this asswipe has had enough. It's not your choice, I don't want your
opinion, and if you try to interfere I'll take you down too before finishing up
with him. Am I going to need to do that?"
There was a long silence, and Liam tensed -- surprised that it was possible for
him to tighten up any more than he already was -- ready to fend off an attack.
He had the feeling Cage was the sort of man who, if he did decide to attack,
would just lunge without warning.
Eventually it became clear he'd decided not to; he shook his head again, took a
slow step backward, and said, "No." He stared at Liam for another moment,
searching his face, then walked past him, past the quivering body of Csokas
curled on the floor, and continued on out the door.
Some men didn't know how to handle violence, no matter how much they thought
they wanted it, said they wanted it, claimed to be looking forward to it. Cage
had talked a good talk about wanting to find Csokas and punish him for what
he'd done. Liam had believed him, thinking his abolitionist sentiments -
- wrong-headed as they might be -- would carry him through the reality of
eliminating the man who'd perverted all their ideas for breaking slaves out of
the system.
No guts, he thought with some scorn. No backbone when it comes down to reality.
Liam didn't have that problem, and he picked up where he'd left off without a
second thought.
***** Chapter 37 *****
By the time Orlando was shoved into a cell on the display corridor -- a small,
bare room about six feet square with a glass wall at the front and a concrete
bench along one side -- he felt as if he'd been drugged again. He knew he
hadn't, or assumed he hadn't, but he could only vaguely perceive what went on
around him. He had enough awareness to respond properly to stimulus when
necessary, but otherwise it was like he was trapped inside his skull. Or maybe
hiding there. It was safer inside, with as much of his conscious self as
possible focused inward, ignoring what happened to him, to his surface, to his
body.
He sat on one end of the bench and leaned against the walls with is eyes
closed. The bench wasn't long enough to stretch out on, so propping himself up
in the corner was the next best thing. All he wanted to do was wait, daydream,
zone out. If he could only learn to do it right, it'd be like he didn't exist
at all. That'd be perfect.
Some length of time went by, probably not too much since no one had come with
lunch or even water, but eventually he heard a tap on the glass. He looked up
and saw a middle-aged woman standing out in the corridor, looking in at him.
When she saw she had his attention, she raised both hands, palms up. Orlando
stood and took a step into the middle of his cell.
She took a pinch of the fabric of her blouse, then lifted her hands up again.
Orlando pulled his T-shirt off.
He reached for the waistband of his shorts, but the woman was already frowning.
She shook her head and turned to the other side of the corridor, stopping in
front of another cell where there was another man, younger than Orlando and
obviously bulkier. Apparently she wanted someone with more muscle.
Orlando sat back down and leaned against the wall again, not bothering to put
his T-shirt back on. He'd been assigned extra hours in the exercise room, and
more weight work than most of the other slaves got, but his body just wasn't
made to bulk up much. His master had never minded....
That led him back to memories and fantasy, and he closed his eyes again.
More zone-out practice. More time went by.
There was another tap on the glass. Orlando looked up, saw a young man about
his own age grinning in at him, then froze.
It was his master on the other side of the corridor. It had to be. His back was
mostly facing Orlando but hardly anyone was as tall as his master. The build
was the same, or almost the same -- maybe he'd lost some weight? -- and the
hair was the same color, the same length. The shoulders, the hips, it had to be
him and part of Orlando was delirious with joy and another part of him was
terrified because if his master pointed him out, said "That's my slave who was
stolen," the Commerce people would take him away to the mines--
But the man turned around and it wasn't his master.
Orlando slumped back against the wall.
The young man who'd tapped on the glass signalled for him to get up, but while
Orlando got to his feet, the other man who wasn't his master said something to
the younger man. They talked, argued, then the young man scowled and stalked
away. The tall, older man who didn't really look much like his master at all
from the front, looked Orlando up and down, then gave him a small smile and a
nod. He went away up the corridor.
Orlando sat down again. He wondered sort of vaguely what the two men had said
to each other, but didn't care enough to try to imagine what it might've been.
More staring. A few other people strolled up the corridor, but no one else
tapped on the glass of Orlando's cell.
He ignored another length of time passing, then heard the door at the back of
his cell open. One of the staffers, not a handler but a woman in a suit,
stepped inside saying, "--sure? You're entitled to a more thorough inspection."
The tall man from before stepped in after her, looked Orlando over one more
time, then nodded and said, "Yes. I'm sure he's what my employer is looking
for. No sense taking him for a test drive; I'm not the one who's going to be
fucking him."
The staff woman gave him a bright smile and said, "Your employer is lucky to
have you. Most people would do it anyway as a perk of the job. You're clearly
very conscientious about your duties."
The man gave her a smile and a shrug. "He pays well and I'd rather keep my job.
I can get sex on my own."
She nodded and said, "That's fine, then. We'll go to the sales office and take
care of the paperwork; I'll have a handler take David to Escrow. Is your
employer planning to come pick him up himself? There's a bit of a ceremony
about it...?"
The man shook his head. "No, he's on a business trip and won't be back in the
country for a couple of weeks. I'll pick David up myself when everything
clears."
"That's fine." The staff lady ushered the tall man back out the door, and
Orlando heard it close and lock. Neither one had addressed him, or given him
more than a quick glance.
Well, that's it, I guess. That was... painless. And fast.
Two weeks' reprieve before he had to call someone else "Master." But two more
weeks before he'd know, once and for all, what kind of situation he was in.
The door opened again and a handler poked a head in, gestured for him to get up
and come out. Orlando pulled inward again, leaving as little of himself as
possible on the surface.
That lasted for four days.
Life in Escrow was peaceful but boring. There was nothing much to do, no duties
or tasks. Everyone there was just waiting for their sale to be finalized, the
paperwork to complete, their new owner to arrive and take them away. Most body-
slaves were carefully groomed and ceremonially fucked by their new owner before
being led out. Orlando had no idea where that custom had come from, but it was
how things were done and considering what they'd just been through, if they
were new, one more uncomplicated fuck was nothing to get tense over.
Irrelevant anyway, in Orlando's case. A handler stepped into the common room
and called, "David Grant!" Orlando stood up and followed him out, down
corridors and through heavy doors and around corners to a small office where
the tall man was sitting. Orlando stepped up to him and knelt at his feet.
"He's yours now," said the handler. "Enjoy him, and don't hesitate to bring him
back if he gives you any trouble."
Orlando thought, Asshole, while the tall man said, "Not mine, my employer's.
Any trouble is his problem."
"Close enough," said the handler. "Have a good day."
He left, and Orlando just knelt on the floor, eyes on his... well, on the shoes
of the man currently responsible for him.
The man said, "You can relax a bit, you're going to be in limbo for a while,
until your new master gets back. And we have a few errands to see to before
then." He stood up and said, "Come on, let's get to it." Orlando followed him
out of the office.
The man was silent all the way to the car, and for the entire drive down
winding, crowded freeways. They headed north without speaking for a couple of
hours until the traffic thinned out past the grapevine. The tall man stopped at
a Jack in the Box at a tiny town that was basically a wide spot on either side
of the freeway, ordered a sack of cheeseburgers and a couple of drinks, and got
back on the road.
When they were done eating, well in to the flat, boring agricultural country up
Highway Five, he said, "I should tell you a few things about your new master."
Orlando straightened up a bit and tried to look attentive.
"He lost his body-slave a little while ago," the man said, his voice low and
casual.
Wait, he what? Orlando froze.
"Actually, his boy was kidnapped." He paused a moment while Orlando tried to
wrap his mind around that, and fought off hope.
"Do you know what that means," the tall man continued, "when a slave is
stolen?"
"Run away," Orlando said out of reflex. Then he flinched, and looked over at
the man out of the corner of his eye. He was nodding, though.
"Exactly. Run away. There's no such thing as a stolen slave. Your new master
searched hard for his body-slave, pretty much tore into three counties while
looking. He hired me to find him. But then Commerce declared his boy a runaway,
and he found out that even if he found his old body-slave again, he wouldn't be
able to keep him. Commerce would just confiscate him and treat him as a
runaway, and that would be that. So he stopped looking."
Another pause. The man eyed Orlando, as though waiting for some response.
Orlando swallowed, trying to think what to say. "I... uh, that makes sense."
The man nodded. "He was very upset. Actually, that's an understatement."
Another pause. "Your new owner is a proud man, and you probably shouldn't
repeat this, but you need to know what kind of man he is if you're going to get
along with him." Another glance, and Orlando nodded again.
The tall man went on, "I think he was a little crazy for a while. I think he
cared for his old body-slave more than he'd ever admit, even to himself. Not
that anyone with any pretense to class or breeding would admit it, right?"
Orlando murmured agreement. No, no one who wanted to be respected by his rich
peers would ever admit such a thing.
"But once he accepted that the boy was gone forever," the man continued, "and
that searching for him wouldn't help anyone, he assigned me to find a
replacement. I've been hunting through Commerce centers up and down the state
for a young man who looks like his lost boy. You bear a striking resemblance to
him, the closest I've found by quite a lot, and you're going to be spending the
next month or so in a cosmetic makeover clinic making up the difference, until
you're as perfect a match as you can be."
"Wait, what?" Orlando turned and stared outright at the man, all his reborn
hopes rotting away. A body shop? That meant surgery. His stomach turned over
and he suddenly regretted the cheeseburgers.
The man nodded. "It won't be all that much, really." He glanced over, as though
reminding himself what Orlando's face looked like. "Take a little off the chin,
straighten the nose, lower the cheekbones just a touch. Although maybe a bit
less than I originally thought -- you're really quite striking and the
cheekbones are a big part of it. Have to think about that.
"You'll be getting your hair adjusted too -- his old boy was a medium blond -
- and I'm afraid you'll need blue-grey eyes. That part'll be a bit
uncomfortable, and you won't be able to see for a couple of weeks, as I
understand it. But your new owner has authorized top quality treatment, with
full pain management, so it won't be too bad."
Orlando slumped back into his seat, shocked and confused and horribly
disappointed.
Of course, that's what happens when you let yourself hope, he scolded himself.
You knew it was impossible, but you let yourself hope anyway. Stupid.
"You probably didn't expect this," the man was saying, "but really, more and
more people are sending their body-slaves for adjustment. The technology's
really improved, and if you can afford it, it lets you have exactly what you
want. So you might well have had to have work done, even if you'd been bought
by someone else."
It sounded like he was trying to be... what? Reassuring? Comforting? Orlando
nodded and said, "Yes, sir," just in case.
"It won't be that long, and then it'll be over and past and you'll finally get
to meet your new owner," he went on. "He can be a bit harsh, fair warning, but
he's not usually cruel. Obey him, do your best to please him, and I'm sure
you'll be fine."
"Of course, sir," Orlando murmured.
Fine. I'll be just fine. Once the face in the mirror is just "David," I can
forget all about Orlando and everything will be just fine.
***** Chapter 38 *****
Liam sat on a rock next to a picturesque (and rather loud) cascading waterfall,
reading mail on his phone and deliberately not looking at his watch every forty
seconds. He wasn't up pacing, either, or looking over his shoulder at the
driveway leading up to the Monterey Clipper Inn where he'd booked a room,
although he didn't expect to stay the night. The small hotel was near to where
Thewlis would be picking up his new body-slave, though -- Thewlis, who'd
finally surfaced, battered but alive, a few days after Liam had returned from
India with ghostly blood on his hands and grim satisfaction in his gut -- and
they were all meeting at the hotel, outside on the grounds where it was cold
but peaceful and private, him and the young man he'd purchased.
Remember that, he reminded himself. It's a new boy. Orlando will never be back,
he's gone and he's better off wherever he is.
He felt a wave of depression soak into him, his shoulders sagging just a degree
or two, his face tightening into a slight wince.
Waiting. Mail. Check industry news. Stare out past the view for a while. Check
mail.
Life at home was going to be... delicate for a while. He'd thought it'd be
better if he met the new boy elsewhere first, let them at least begin to settle
in before tossing the young man into a house full of strangers, all of whom
would be staring and watching, and several of whom were still mourning his
predecessor. This first meeting was likely to be emotional, on both sides. Best
get it done in private.
Stare out at the bay, through the trees. Check mail. Play solitaire, losing
over and over.
When a car finally pulled up the drive and stopped a ways away, Liam knew it
was Thewlis. It was probably a subconscious recognition of his engine sounds or
some such thing, but it felt like a fist to the gut. He didn't turn around,
just put his phone away and sat, looking at the white curtain of water plunging
down an ornamental arrangement of rocks into an icy-looking pool.
Footsteps. Thewlis's tall, lanky form came into view first, then the young man
he had firmly by the arm. A blue-eyed young man with short, dirty-blond hair
and a look of blank shock on his not-quite-familiar face.
"Lord Neeson, this is David," said Thewlis, his voice formal and respectful but
perfectly calm. "David, this is your new master, Lord Neeson."
Liam said, "David," and looked him over.
Whatever initial scarring there might've been from the facial surgery had
healed beautifully. As it should; actors and other celebrities frequented the
same body shop, which was reputed to be the best in the world. For what they
charged, Liam frankly expected perfection.
The face was a bit blunter in shape. The nose was straighter and a little
narrower, giving it a sharp look. The old hair would've been removed so it
could grow in its new color; it was shorter than Liam liked, but time would fix
that.
They'd adjusted David's metabolism as well, and stimulated his muscle growth -
- another treatment popular with male celebrities. He wasn't brutish, but he
was subtley muscular in a way he never had been before, no matter how hard he
tried, and for a year or so in his early-twenties, he'd tried rather hard.
His olive skin had been lightened a couple of shades, to go with the lighter
eyes and hair. All in all, the effect was subtle.
Perfect. Just the thing to have attracted a pining fool of a master who was
stuck in the past and hunting ghosts, but not so much of a resemblance as to
arouse suspicion.
David opened his mouth once, twice, then said, "Master?" That one word was near
to bursting with an agony of emotion, and the boy jerked in Thewlis's strong
grip, as though he'd tried to lunge forward..
Before David could say anything else, Liam interrupted him. "Yes, I'm your new
master. I'm sure you'll work hard and serve me well, and we'll get along just
fine."
Liam glanced back at the waterfall, and Thewlis said, "My Lord, perhaps if you
and David took a walk...?"
He was right; moving was better.
"Good idea. There's a path down to the beach." It was also windy, and the surf
was making enough noise to be heard up a fifty-foot cliff. It would probably
do. Liam took David's other arm in a grip just as solid as Thewlis's, to
prevent David from doing what Liam wanted just as much -- to crush them
together in a hug that'd probably crack bones. That wouldn't do, however. Not
yet.
He hauled David toward the steps leading down to the sand, and heard Thewlis
say something about waiting inside, at the bar. Fine.
When they got down near the water, enough to feel the stinging-cold spray, Liam
said, "I assume Thewlis told you about my previous body-slave."
"Yes, Master." David sucked in a breath, hard; Liam could feel the tension in
his body, from heart to arm to hand to heart. If the boy didn't relax soon, at
least a little, something was going to break.
"You understand, then, that there can never be any confusion between the two of
you. I realize you resemble him somewhat -- that's one of the reasons you were
chosen -- but if there's ever any question of who you are, Commerce is likely
to confiscate you first and investigate afterward. That would be...
inconvenient for me. I've already been without a body-slave for considerably
longer than I like."
Liam looked over and saw David swallow hard, then nod. "Yes, Master. I do
understand." He paused, then added softly, "There was... an incident during my
training. One of the handlers made Commerce's policy on that subject very
clear."
It took a strong act of will not to grab David and demand an explanation. Liam
could only imagine what David might have done to prompt such a lesson, or how
it might have been taught. Instead he pushed the thought away, searched
frantically for some other topic, and said, "I've never been a body-slave's
first master before -- a body-slave fresh out of Commerce's training. I hope
you found it useful. Interesting." He knew he sounded like an idiot but he
couldn't help it; he had to ask.
David's step faltered for a moment, and Liam was alarmed until he realized the
boy was laughing. It was a quick, harsh laugh, just as quickly stifled.
"I apologize, Master. The training was very thorough. Efficient. I'm sure... I
hope my skills will please you. If you require anything I've not been taught,
I'll do my best to learn quickly."
Liam swallowed and turned his head to stare at the surging water. "I'm sure
you'll please me very well. And... I'm sure it will take you some time to
become accustomed to me. Although I'll tolerate no disrespect, I won't expect
you to show... to display particular affection right away, until you've settled
in, and we've been together for a while."
David looked like he was about to protest, then nodded and said, "Yes, Master.
Thank you, Master." They walked on for another minute, then David said,
"Master? May I ask a question?"
"You may."
"Mr. Thewlis said that... that your old body-slave had family in your
household. Are they, that is, will they likely be still mourning? Missing him?
I-- I wouldn't want to cause them any pain."
And that, of course, was part of the reason they were there, meeting away from
home. How to explain it?
Liam had been trying to figure out how to say what he needed to say for hours.
Days, weeks even, if he were honest. And if he was smart as well as honest, he
knew that talking around a subject was pointless. Anyone who might be listening
to a purpose would be able to decode the vague phrases just as easily as the
people speaking; Liam's companies held enough classified contracts for him to
know that basic tenet of security. If it was safe to talk around a subject,
then it was safe to talk out in the open. If it wasn't, well, they were already
fucked.
He stopped and turned, taking the young man by the shoulders, lowering his
voice out of irrational and unconquerable reflex. "David. You know what
happened. This is the only way I could have you; if you're discovered, you'll
be taken away from me and killed. You know, I know, Thewlis knows. Kevin will
figure it out but he'll keep his mouth shut or I'll sell him to a toxic clean-
up crew, promise be damned. Don't let on you know him, by the way -- he helped
me find you, but he's a conniving little bastard so don't trust him. But that's
all -- no one else can know."
David looked confused for a moment while Liam warned him about Kevin, then
visibly dismissed the question and said, "But my mother? Samantha? They'll
recognize me, I know they will. So will Johnny."
"They might. They might think they recognize you, but if they do, it can't ever
be acknowledged. You know what surveillance is like -- there might well be bugs
at home and we'd never know. You're David, you have to be David forever, and
that's the end of it.
"This will help," he added, running one hand through David's short hair, then
brushing a finger along one eyebrow, down his cheek and neck and out across one
slightly-broader shoulder. "If they come to doubt their memories, to truly
accept you as David, then that's all to the good. If not, they have to be made
to keep any suspicions to themselves. Even in private. It's important, David. I
won't lose you again and anyone who even hints that you might not be my David
will be punished harshly. I will not lose you."
David coughed on whatever he'd almost said in response, then instead said,
"Yes, Master."
That should've been the end of it, but what the hell. If they were under
surveillance, then someone would be listening as well as watching, so it didn't
matter. He pulled Orlando-- David! David-David-David! --to him, arms tight
around his back and waist, and wrapped him in an enveloping hug. David latched
on, hugging back, and Liam heard a faint, hiccuping sob. He rocked back and
forth, pressing a kiss into David's bristly hair.
"You're mine," he whispered. "I'm keeping you, if we have to go to fucking
India and defect."
Another hiccup, this time around a laugh. David murmured, "Yes, Master." And
that was that. They turned and walked back up the beach.
 
It was nearly noon by the time Thewlis saw Lord Neeson and David coming across
the lobby. Thewlis finished the last swallow of beer in his glass and headed
over to meet them.
"You two hit it off?" he asked when they met and paused in the middle of the
marble floor. It was a bit more informal than he usually was with Lord Neeson,
but if there was anything wrong, he hoped his Lordship could figure out a way
of getting that across to him. Anything that needed fixing, needed fixing
immediately.
"Well enough," Lord Neeson replied. "It'll take some time to adjust, but that's
normal. I'm sure David will learn how to please me quickly enough."
"I'm sure he will," Thewlis agreed, hoping that meant everything was all right.
"Did you want to head right home, then, or...?"
"Let's get some lunch first. I don't have any appointments this afternoon, and
if anything burns down, people know how to contact me."
Thewlis grinned and tossed Lord Neeson a teasing salute. "That they do. Food
sounds good."
David had been standing silently by his master's side while the free men
talked. His posture was graceful, his position pleasing, and his expression
suitably neutral, but he looked... off. Thewlis had never known David before,
but he'd seen photos and a couple of vids, and the smiling, flirtatious young
man was just a vague memory when compared with the still, tense slave standing
before him. Probably just as well, all things considered -- the more points of
difference the better, especially in the crucial first year or so -- but still,
it was sad. Thewlis could only imagine how it felt for Lord Neeson, if even a
stranger was noticing.
They started across the lobby toward a small but chic restaurant when what
looked like six months' worth of baggage piled on top of a luggage cart
teetered and fell to the floor with a crash.
In the middle of a bellhop diving after the cases, the guest who (presumably)
owned the cases babbling in an angry voice about damage, and a manager-type
rushing over to expedite the clearing up of the mess and the smoothing of
feathers, David had slammed to the floor on his knees, with his forehead on the
marble.
Lord Neeson stared down at him with a puzzled scowl. Thewlis went down on one
knee and coaxed David back up to his feet. "New slave," he said over his
shoulder to Lord Neeson. "They're fairly rigid in their discipline, and they
drill until the reflexes are embedded down to the bone. If you don't plan to
require the same standards, you'll need to work with him, and it'll probably
take some time to re-train him. He really can't help it right now." There was
also a generous helping of fear in the boy, but Thewlis could only hope time
and being back home -- however strange the situation -- would ease that. After
what he'd likely been through, though, healing from it wouldn't be quick.
David looked like he was about to kneel again, this time to his owner. "I
apologize, Master," he murmured to Neeson's shoes. "I didn't mean to make a
spectacle of myself."
And sure enough, when Thewlis looked around, he saw that there were just as
many people staring at them as at the fiasco with the scattered luggage.
Lord Neeson stared at the boy for a few seconds, his jaw clenched. He finally
nodded and said, "Forgiven. We'll work on it." Then he turned on his heel and
continued on to the restaurant.
David automatically knelt next to Lord Neeson's seat, getting up only to serve
his master when new courses came, or to refresh his drink. Lord Neeson fed
David off his own plate; it wasn't something Thewlis was used to seeing, but
his Lordship seemed to be doing it automatically, without any particular
thought, and Thewlis noticed that David was... well, maybe not quite so tightly
strung by the time the server came around to offer dessert.
"Will you need me for anything else, my Lord?" Thewlis asked, after ordering an
espresso. Lord Neeson had ordered the creme brulee to go with his own coffee.
"No, I think we're finished," he said. "You might not've been able to find my
boy for me, but you gave it a solid effort. And you did find me a replacement,
so I'll count that as a good job. You can keep whatever's left on the retainer,
and feel free to use me as a reference."
"Thank you, my Lord. That's very generous."
"You earned it." Lord Neeson sat back in his chair and cocked his head at
Thewlis. "Do you have anything else lined up?"
Dave gave him a wry smile. "Well, I've actually been in contact with Mr.
Vincent over the last month or so. He's insisting he wants to hire me as soon
as you no longer needed me. I tried to explain that I have very few contacts on
the eastern seaboard, but he doesn't seem the sort of man who takes no for an
answer with any equanimity."
Lord Neeson smirked and said, "No, he's not and never has been. I suggest you
give in gracefully." He paused for a moment and frowned, staring into Thewlis's
eyes like he was trying to see the back of his head. He hesitated for long
ticks of the clock, then he said, "You may tell him," and that was the end of
that conversation.
***** Chapter 39 *****
Margaret knelt on the kitchen floor next to Samantha, waiting. Their master had
come in through the kitchen door and commanded the two of them and Johnny to
kneel there and wait while he brought in his new body-slave.
Gloria was sitting at her table to wait, and Margaret couldn't help resenting
it. She knew that if Gloria knelt on the floor for any length of time -
- certainly for the several minutes it had already been -- she'd need help
getting up and probably wouldn't be able to walk at all for days, but it didn't
help much. Margaret knew it was an uncharitable resentment but couldn't banish
it, and all things considered she wasn't about to worry too much about it.
She had no idea why Master Liam had decided to introduce the new boy to the
kitchen staff first. The kitchen staff plus Johnny, and that other new boy,
Kevin, whose purchase Margaret hadn't been able to figure out yet. Why did it
matter if they met him first, that particular group? Why not all the slaves in
the household, if there was to be a big introduction in the first place?
Margaret would just as soon not meet him at all, this boy who was going to be
taking Orlando's place in the household.
Commerce-trained, this new one, and probably all full of himself, pampered and
demanding. Or maybe broken and needing coddling and tip-toeing around him -
- who knew? She didn't think Master Liam would choose someone like that, but
over the last months she'd given up any notion of being able to predict his
behavior.
But her knees were sending shooting pains up her thighs and down to her ankles,
and her back ached, and she had a cheese sauce on the stove that she was sure
was going to curdle despite the flame being turned down as low as it would go
and this was all just so stupid because who cared about the new boy besides
Master? All Margaret knew was that he'd given up searching for Orlando, just
abandoned him to whatever--
Master Liam stepped back in through the kitchen door and stopped. He glared at
everyone in the room, meeting Margaret's eyes before moving on, and then
commanded, "Silence!" His voice cracked out, as harsh and angry sounding as
she'd ever heard it, and Margaret found herself with her head halfway down to
the floor before she stopped herself and knelt back up on her heels. Before she
could wonder what had him in such a harsh mood, he stepped farther into the
room and ushered in a stranger, obviously his new body-slave.
She stared, and opened her mouth to say... something, but before she could get
out a word, Master Liam said, "Don't make me repeat myself, Maggie," and she
shut her mouth again.
And Master said, "This is David, my new body-slave. I expect everyone here to
treat him with proper respect."
But it was Orlando. It had to be. The pretty young man had medium-blond hair,
short and spiky, and when he glanced up at her -- only for half a second -- his
eyes looked blue or maybe blue-grey, but it had to be Orlando. The nose was
straighter and sharper, the chin a bit blunter, but.... She stared at him,
trying to see, to make the minor differences fade away like an optical illusion
suddenly snapping into focus and becoming something recognizable.
Master Liam was saying, "--know everyone here knew and cared for Orlando. He
pleased me very well, and when I went searching for a new body-slave I
deliberately chose one who resembles Orlando somewhat." He glared around at
everyone once more, as though daring them to comment on that. Of course, no one
did.
The boy -- David -- was standing there, still and silent, with Master Liam's
hands on his upper arms. Orlando would've been leaning back against the
master's chest, cuddling as much as he could. And the master would've been
pressing Orlando toward him, his hands clasping more of Orlando's skin,
straying down his arms, covering as much of him as he could, here in the
privacy of home. Margaret hadn't been happy to see the attachment between them
when Orlando was younger, but given that her son was a body-slave -- and as
beautiful as he was, it had been inevitable that he would be -- she'd
eventually reconciled herself to it, and become pleased to see that he cared
for Master Liam, and that their master seemed to care for him too, on some
level. It could have been much worse and well she knew it.
But this, this was different. And the distance between them -- not just the
slight physical distance but the emotional distance -- made her wonder whether
the boy's resemblance to her son and her own desperate wish to see him again
were playing tricks on her. Because watching the two standing there, it didn't
look anything like Orlando-and-Master. It looked like a man and his new slave,
still not sure how they fit together, still learning one another.
"I realize this might cause some difficulties for some of you," Master Liam
continued, "but I want to make it clear that I won't tolerate any nonsense from
any of you. I expect that David won't be harassed or hazed or otherwise
bothered. Nor do I expect that anyone who might miss Orlando particularly badly
would try to make David into some kind of substitute, resemblance
notwithstanding. Anyone 'mistakenly' calling him by the wrong name will be
thrashed."
Margaret's eyes widened at that. Master Liam had never been a particularly
tolerant man, but neither had he ever punished beyond what was reasonable for
the crime, and a thrashing just for mistaking the boy's name was... was--
"I'll make this clear one time," he said, his voice still low and harsh.
"Commerce does not recognize stolen slaves. So far as they're concerned, any
slave who isn't where his master thinks he should be is a runaway, period. No
questions, no exceptions. David's provenance is clear, but if anyone who heard
someone slip in addressing David ever got the idea that he might be Orlando and
decided to cause trouble, David could be taken away from me just on suspicion
and I would be extremely displeased. Likewise, if Commerce has stopped
searching for Orlando, that's just as well, and I would rather no one stir up
their interest again. Is that understood?"
Margaret said, "Yes, Master," in chorus with the others, but her mind was
spinning with new information. Was Master Liam actually hinting or was it her
motherly wishful thinking?
The master walked through the kitchen and out into the main part of the house,
one hand still firmly on... David? the small of David's back. David kept his
eyes down and let Master Liam steer him without looking at anyone. And then he
was gone and Margaret still didn't know whether or not her son had been found.
 
David ate with his master in the study, the food served off of a tray Samantha
brought from the kitchen. It was more private than the dining room, and Master
Liam had said something about wanting to be alone and get to know one another.
Samantha fetched the TV trays and transferred plates of food and cutlery and
glasses and napkins and such to them, arranging everything just so while trying
to stare at David out of the corner of her eye without looking like she was
doing it. That didn't work very well, and Master Liam finally sent her
scurrying out the door with a snapped rebuke. And then they were alone.
Except they weren't really alone. Or they couldn't assume they were. Someone
might be listening, whether one of the other slaves or a free employee skulking
or eavesdropping or just walking in at the wrong time, or someone with the
government listening even more covertly through a microbug. You never knew, and
most people just forgot about it as well as they could. David had never thought
about it much before, but then he'd never had a huge secret that could cost him
a horrible death before.
The thought churned his stomach as it always did and he imagined it would for a
long time. He ate anyway, though, because if he'd refused to eat while at the
training center, a handler wound beat him with a shock wand until he ate or
passed out, one of the two. It had taught him to ignore a queasy stomach
whenever physically possible.
His mother -- no, Margaret, he had to remember that -- had made a ham with
fried potatoes and gravy, and glazed carrots, with a blackberry cobbler for
dessert. It was all wonderful, and it all reminded him forcefully, from his
nose and his tastebuds straight to his brain -- that he'd grown up on this food
and loved it.
He and his master ate, appreciating the food but not talking much. Not that
they'd ever rambled on for hours, but they'd always been comfortable before in
their silences, and that comfort was gone. David was still tense, and he could
tell his master was as well.
Master Liam finally started talking about the household and the property and
the people on it, giving David a summary just as though he hadn't grown up
there. The whole thing -- the whole day, for that matter, from the time Mr.
Thewlis had steered him into his new master's presence and there he'd been -
- felt unreal, like he was unconscious and trapped in some crazy dream.
When his master asked him if he'd ever ridden a horse, and gave him a hard
stare to go with the question, it took David a moment to pick up the cue and
admit that no, he never had.
"We'll take care of that, then," Master Liam said. "It can feel a bit awkward,
learning as an adult, but I'm sure you'll catch on eventually. Might even come
to enjoy it."
"I'll try my best, Master," David said, feeling even more detached from the
real world.
They finished their dinner, then Master Liam said there was work to do. He set
David to reading through the last month's worth of his business mail,
explaining that he needed a body-slave who could function as an assistant and
that David would need to learn the ropes as quickly as possible.
Master Liam sat down to go over a quarterly review agenda for one of his
electronics companies; that was the rest of the evening for both of them.
Getting undressed later on felt surprisingly un-awkward. David still had a
feeling of watching himself move through a dreamworld, and his body had plenty
of muscle-memory for getting undressed quickly and gracefully. When his master
came up behind him and grasped the tops of his shoulders, on either side of his
throat, David flinched away before he could stop himself.
The horror of that insulting, unforgiveable mistake sent him slamming down to
his knees quicker than a thought, twisted around in mid-fall so his forehead
pressed to the top of his master's naked instep. "I apologize, Master."
"David? Get up. I don't want you making full obeisance unless you've done
something serious." His master sounded impatient, and that sent David
scrambling to his feet as fast as he could, even moreso than the mere command.
"I'm sorry, Master."
Master Liam eyed him for a few seconds, then asked, "Did that hurt?"
"Y-yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master."
His master stepped closer and ran a light fingertip along his collarbone. There
were no scars there, David knew, and that light a touch didn't hurt, but he
tensed anyway out of reflex.
"Surgery?" Master Liam asked.
"Yes, Master." His master gave him an expectant look, so he added, "They did
something to make the bones longer, cut through and extended them, then grew
new bone to fill the gap. Just a little."
Big hands drifted across his shoulders from neck to deltoid. "So it's not just
muscle, then?"
"No, Master."
"Will sex hurt?"
The automatic response was, "I'm happy to serve you in any way you might wish."
"I didn't ask that," Master Liam pointed out. "Will it hurt?"
David thought quickly. No one had fucked him since he'd left the center -- the
body shop really had been a first class place -- so he had to make some
guesses. "I don't think so, Master. Or not much? If... it would probably be
painful if you used my shoulders to pull...? And, um, my face is still tender."
Master Liam's kisses could get violent. David loved them, but he was still
healing and didn't want to chance another flinch away from his master.
"Easy enough to work around," Master Liam said with a short nod.
He ran a much gentler hand across one of David's shoulders, then slid it up
into his short hair and tilted his head back for a kiss. This one was light,
gentle, getting firmer over the course of a minute or two, but not too much.
David couldn't help letting out a whimper and relaxing completely into his
master's body. If this was a dream then he never wanted to wake up. The feel of
his master's broad chest, his strong hands, his warmth, the scent of him -
- David had missed all of it, and been so sure he'd never have any of it again.
Master Liam steered them toward the bed and laid David down on it, gentle and
easy, careful not to squeeze too hard or push too hard or let too much weight
rest on him. David had missed that big body pressing him into the mattress,
though, and he wrapped his hands around his master and pulled, coaxing, begging
for more, just a little more, until the pressure was perfect. Completely
covered and held down like that, he felt safe -- safer than he'd ever felt
anywhere else. He could stay there forever and be blissfully happy, whether it
was real or not.
"David," his master murmured. "David, David, David...." It sounded like he was
practicing, and he probably was.
"Master," David moaned. "Let me please you, tell me what you want, fuck me,
take me, keep me, keep me....
He squirmed under his master, wanting to feel that body rubbing against every
part of his. Master Liam growled deep in his throat and practically attacked
him with a kiss. It hurt, David's chin and cheeks and nose aching, his teeth
twinging in sympathy for just a moment, before his master remembered and eased
the pressure. David pushed his hands into his master's hair and held him,
refusing to let him go too far away.
"David, fuck, David, David...."
David could feel his master's hard cock pressing into him, rubbing and
grinding. David's own cock was just as hard, his balls high and tight and
aching for release. It felt like he hadn't really had sex in months -- all the
training, the practice, being raped in everything but name over and over and
over, none of that counted. That was just something done to his body; this was
real sex, like their nerves were entwined and zinging with pleasure. They
weren't even really fucking yet, but it felt to David like he was about to
explode so hard it would turn him inside out.
"David, David, fuck, ahhhh!"
His master arched and spasmed and came, then stroked David to orgasm before
collapsing onto the mattress next to him.
As soon as David had caught his breath, still sizzling with afterglow, smelling
his master all over him and feeling like he was floating six inches off the
mattress, he sat up and tried to roll out of bed. He needed to get a warm
washcloth from the bathroom, but his master pulled him back down.
"Later," he said with a long sigh. "Stay."
"Yes, Master." David willingly lay down once more and snuggled close. It was
almost the same, almost perfect, and more than he'd ever thought he'd have
again.
Master Liam threw an arm across David's back and pulled him closer, shifting
until they were pressed as close as they could get without crawling into one
another's skins. His grip was tight, tighter than it'd ever been after sex.
Usually he went boneless and drifted off to sleep, but that night he was
clutching David closer with both arms. He wrapped a leg around David's legs and
surrounded him completely.
He took a deep breath, then another, huffing each one out against the crook of
David's neck. David realized just then that he was trembling, tense and shaking
and struggling with it, but his iron willed master wasn't able to stop.
His shoulders gave a quick hitch, then another. He sucked in another long
breath and gulped hard.
"Fuck...."
"Master?" David rubbed lightly up and down his master's back, unsure what to
do.
"I-- won't lose you." He sucked in another breath. "I won't."
"I'm here, Master," David said, because he couldn't think of anything else to
say.
"Whatever they did to you, we'll fix it. Whatever it takes, I'll take care of
you."
David stopped breathing for a moment, as if his lungs had forgotten how to suck
in air. They finally remembered, on the edge of a lightly hysterical panic, and
he whispered, "I know you will, Master."
The man in his arms shook again, a fit of trembling the greatest will in the
world couldn't stop, and David felt drops of sweat running down his left
shoulder. Then a last twitch, and a long, gulping breath, and then the big body
cradling his relaxed.
David waited another minute, staring out into the darkened room, then
whispered, "I love you too, Master," and sank into sleep.
 
Liam woke up before David and eased out of bed, careful not to wake him. After
what the boy had been through in the last months, plenty of sleep somewhere
familiar and safe would be good for him. Liam had lain awake for a long time in
the dark, though, and had done a lot of thinking. He'd examined some of his
oldest beliefs and assumptions, including things like "I'm responsible for
taking care of my slaves" and "I am capable of protecting my slaves," and had
decided that the first was true but the second wasn't, which threw the whole
damn system out of whack.
The whole damn system. That was exactly what it was, wasn't it? I had saved the
nation from collapsing into a dirt-grubbing third world country, dead broke,
complete with starvation and rioting. It had worked, and it had helped. But
then, so had communism, at first, in other nations. When a situation got dire
enough, just about anything that prevented utter collapse could be seen as
better. But short-term solutions didn't always work in the longer run, and
slavery was particularly susceptible to corruption.
Liam wrapped up in a robe, then settled into a chair beside the fireplace with
his phone. There was someone he'd heard about, never met but had seen once or
twice, one of those people there was gossip about. He'd never been interested
in an introduction before, but that was before.
The system was sick. It'd served its purpose, and there might actually be a few
people who benefitted under it. Although when he tried to think of specific
examples among the slaves he knew personally, he couldn't come up with any.
That surprised him, honestly.
He could think of counter-examples, though -- plenty of those. Maggie was
skilled at her trade and a hard worker; she'd have no problem making a life for
herself as a free woman, given the chance. She'd raised Samantha the same; Liam
had no doubt she'd do well on her own. Johnny had a sharp head for business and
was a shrewd negotiator, even acting under the handicap of being a slave, and
having a limited set of tools available to him when he was on his own. Lord
Sinclair's Karl, Mark Vincent's Paul. Tasha had kept competent slaves around
the house, even if her taste in body-slaves was questionable. Liam would've
been happy to employ any of them for a good wage, if they'd been free.
But they weren't, and there was no legal way to free them. They were a constant
drain on the state, if only in the need to keep records on them and maintain
some oversight to prevent abuse -- for however well that worked -- and it was
completely unnecessary. A waste of tax money.
Surely anyone fit to be responsible to own another person should be competent
to judge when that person was fit to own him- or herself? To suggest it, at
least? Nominate competent slaves for some sort of review board? There should be
some path to manumission. At least for slaves born to it, or those enslaved as
children, where the fault, the irresponsibility, wasn't their own.
Something. There should be something, because what they had was broken in too
many places.
Aha, that was the name. He'd been spelling it wrong.
He spent some time carefully wording an e-mail, then sent it. He didn't expect
a response immediately -- it was still ridiculously early, after all -- so he
spent the next few hours alternately reading a book and watching David sleep,
his thoughts drifting to all the things wrong with the world and how they could
possibly be fixed, short of mass murder or armed revolution.
He got a Bing! of response just as David had begun to stir.
Liam was composing another message when David slipped out of bed, pulled on a
pair of pajama bottoms and slipped out of the room. He returned with coffee
within a few minutes; Liam looked up at him with a small smile and said, "Get a
shower and get dressed; we have to be on the road within the hour."
"Master?" David set a mug of coffee down on the small table next to Liam's
chair, then knelt next to him, looking up with a question on his face.
Liam reached out and brushed a hand across David's short, light hair. "You have
an appointment with a Dr. Blanchett," he said.
David said, "Yes, Master," and hurried off to get ready.
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