Subjection (22 page)

I can’t stand the thought of him being around Sascha again, ever. It’s not enough that I deny myself the pleasures of his body; I want to make sure that nobody else takes advantage of him. I’ve always been a little uncomfortable using slaves for sex. Everyone does it. I’ve even sampled a few, but it seems wrong, and I rather prefer the challenge of finding a willing, eager partner. But it’s more than principle with Sascha. I see the way he flourishes when he’s safe, and I want to make sure he can stay that way. I have my rules and demands, but at the end of the day, I have my idle fantasies, too, that one day, he’ll stop grouping me with the other people who have hurt him. People like Bobby.

Once Sascha is taken care of, I can deal with the other problem that has arisen from this ordeal. I place a few calls, make a few arrangements, and set up a dinner date with Bobby to remove him from my town and my life.

Bobby is the only person who has been with me through the first run of my research, through the scandal I caused, through all the changes. He was the only one who never judged me, not by my birth name, nor by my new one. He’s been my best friend since we were twelve and we’ve shared everything. But I arrange dinner with him, and all I can see is him brutalizing my slave.

We barely speak, focusing awkwardly on our food.

“I found a great job for you,” I mention, pushing the food around on my plate. “It pays well, it has good benefits, and they’re looking to fill the position soon.” Most importantly, it’s far away from me and Sascha.

Bobby gives me a curious look. “I didn’t know I was looking for a job.”

“I know,” I mumble, trying to downplay it. “One of my colleagues mentioned this great position, though, and asked me if I knew anyone who might be interested. I thought of you—you’d fit perfectly. I can give you a recommendation and everything. You’re pretty much guaranteed the job, and it will nearly double what you’re making, unless you’ve gotten a raise recently. I think you’d be really happy there.”

“Where is it?” he asks.

Good. He’s considering it. The offer should be good enough that he can’t turn it down. When my mother did this to me, so many years ago, I tried to fight it at first. Now I am just amazed by how easy it is to follow in her footsteps. I only hope that Bobby accepts it as passively as I did back then.

“It’s out of state,” I tell him. I give him a little more information, launching into the story of the city he’ll move to and the company he’ll work for like a paid salesman. He looks surprised, at first, and then I can see him starting to put it all together.

“Cash, are you trying to get rid of me?” he asks, looking shocked. “Look, I’m sorry about the slave. Christ, if I realized you were going to get this upset, I would have asked permission—”

“You knew exactly what you were doing,” I reply coldly. I had heard the rumors before, but I never believed them. Slaves, interns, pretty girls at bars… Bobby was “fun,” and everyone knew that, but a few had stepped up to suggest that his fun had gone too far.

“You can’t make me move,” he mutters, looking hurt.

I’m hurt, too. I’m losing my best friend. But Sascha was hurt worse. And making people do things they don’t want to do is simply a matter of finding adequate motivations and punishments for disobeying. The thought of what he did to Sascha turns my stomach, makes the pleasant aroma of cooking food seem vile and nauseating.

“I don’t want you anywhere near me,” I let him know. “Don’t com, don’t visit. Just go.”

“I’ve got family here,” he complains.

“I’ll pay for them to visit you. They can visit you there, or in jail.”

“You don’t go to jail for fucking a slave,” Bobby snaps.

“No, but for enough money, you can go to jail for raping a free person,” I reply casually. For enough money, almost anyone can be bought and sold, Demoted or not. I glance at our server. “How much do you think it would take for him to sell you out? Or the one over there? She looks fitting. Or maybe I’ll find someone you really did it to.”

Bobby goes quiet, and suddenly, it’s over between us. Twenty-some years of friendship destroyed by a single action.

“This is blackmail,” he mutters. “You can’t do this. I know secrets about you.”

He doesn’t know the important secrets. The only one who really knows anything about my work is Sascha, and he doesn’t know half of it. “The secrets you know are public record,” I remind them. “Any journalist worth their paycheck could find them. Yours aren’t. You can take my offer and live in comfort, or you can try to ruin my reputation. You won’t win.”

He nods, knowing I’m right, and knowing that I’m perfectly aware of how this works. After all, it was done to me. We work out the details, have our food boxed up to go, and he’s gone.

Chapter 19
Simplicity

I’m surprised when I find a bunch of information on re-education centers hidden away on my tablet.

Since my master brought me home from seeing the doctor, it’s become clear that he isn’t getting rid of me. He puts me to work, at least a little, carrying stacks of paperwork over to my office and flashing over file after file onto my tablet. It’s all legitimate work stuff, not his secret project, and he never rushes me as I work one-handed. I know he would have rushed me before, demanded that I perform to the best of my ability.

I become depressed, and I wonder how long he’ll tolerate it, how long he’ll tolerate me. I can’t even bring myself to say anything to my master when he goes out of his way to do nice things like replace my wardrobe with pullovers and drawstring pants and slip-on shoes, or order takeout food for me. My master notices. He makes no secret about monitoring what I eat, and how much, and during the first few weeks, he gives me a little blue pill along with my painkillers. They make me feel nice, floaty, and content. Bobby doesn’t come around anymore. I don’t know what happened to him, and I don’t care to.

Instead of thinking, I waste time, playing with new mods and enhancements and all sorts of things that I probably shouldn’t. When I come across a file I didn’t install, I investigate, making sure it’s nothing that could harm the system or get me in trouble.

I don’t look too closely; I know it’s not for me to see, and I remember my master’s insistence a few weeks ago that I not pry into his project. I look just closely enough to see what it is, and to put it together that it’s not anything to do with his legitimate business. Then I consider what to do with it. He obviously tried to hide it; it’s disguised under layers of protection and security. Of course, that’s what tips me off in the first place. It’s too obvious, too perfect, too well-hidden. He’s done the equivalent of putting a giant safe in the middle of a banquet hall—it’s drawing attention, and once it draws attention, it’s only a matter of time before it will be broken into. I consider his secrecy, the giant house cleaning we completed right before the party. Maybe he’s in trouble; maybe someone wants something from him. I’m alarmed at first that he used my tablet to hide the data, but I realize it makes sense. I’m supposed to be a stupid slave; nobody would ever suspect me of hiding anything more than a stolen cookie. His logic was sound, but his final method of hiding it wasn’t.

I don’t have to think long before I decide to fix it for him. I break into the first few layers of encryption easily, pulling out any of the data that looks suspicious. I encrypt the data with much simpler security methods, making sure that it is protected without drawing attention to itself. Finally, I compress it and hide it in a system file that controls the brightness of the screen. It’s simple to find if someone knows where to look, but if not, it is so easily overlooked as to be invisible.

I hide some porn in the other location, as a detour, and I encrypt it again. Once again, it is glaringly obvious that something is hidden.

With this finished, I decide to research my family. It’s been so long since the Assessment, since I’ve seen my family. I wonder if they still remember me. I finally find Abriel’s college registration, and read the same graduation notices that I assume he’s reading. I think about our parents going to watch him, how proud they must be. He was always the more loyal son anyway, the responsible one who helped dad out and remembered to tell mom that she looked nice. I spend some time looking up our parents, but there’s so little information on them. I’m just relieved when I don’t find an obituary or anything terrible like that.

It’s only after I’ve exhausted searches on my family and friends that I have the idea to run a search on my master. I don’t really know why I do it—I suppose I’ve been living with the man for seven months now, and I know so little about him. I assume he grew up wealthy—was it normal wealthy, or over the top? Does he have siblings? Is he even from around here? He’s so closed-off all the time, and I doubt he’d answer if I asked.

He doesn’t seem to exist, which is frustrating. Could he really have no electronic presence? Everyone does. Everyone has records and schools and businesses and embarrassing photos from when they were twelve. I certainly have my share—the question is, where are his?

I’m completely engrossed in my hunt for my master’s history when I feel a rush of air near my head. The tablet goes flying and I recoil in an instant, covering my face reflexively.

My master towers over me.

“You just don’t fucking know when to stop, do you?” he snarls, glaring at me like I’m lower than an insect.

I don’t say anything. Agreeing with him seems like a terrible idea, even though it is true, and contradicting him might even be worse. I cower and say nothing.

“I let you do damn near anything,” he says quietly. It’s true. He does, and I just keep pushing.

“It stops now.”

He strides over to the tablet, grabs it, and carries it out of the room. I stop to breathe a sigh of relief. He’s just going to take the tablet. He’s angry that I’m wasting time on it and stealing things again and investigating my family, and so he’s going to take the tablet to punish me. That’s okay. I can deal with that.

He comes in a few minutes later with a piece of paper and a pen. He drops them in front of me.

“Write.”

Once I do, he rifles off a list of tasks, everything from mopping the kitchen floor to oiling the hinges on the doors to cleaning the grout in the bathroom. Mindless tasks, but the list fills almost an entire page. When he finally stops, I look at him, questioning.

“Since you have enough time to go behind my back and look up my family and myself, you obviously have
all
the time in the world to get through this list,” he says, scowling at me. “I don’t want you to eat, sleep, or so much as use the toilet until you finish. And if you
ever
pry into my life again, I’ll make this look like a reward.”

The words terrify me, because I know it’s impossible. If I had two good arms, it would be impossible, and I don’t, and I’m out of shape because I’ve spent the last few weeks doing next to nothing. I feel my heart start to race, and I become aware of a sudden pressure in my bladder.

“I wouldn’t just sit there if I were you.”

“Yes, master,” I mumble, jumping up and mindlessly tackling the first task.

I don’t really need to use the bathroom, it turns out, I’m just nervous, because it passes as soon as I get into the work I’m doing. Three hours later is a different story, however, because I’m squirming and miserable. I can’t even imagine the punishment for pissing myself. I want to give up, lie down and sob until I can’t any more, but I can’t. I have to keep going.

My master is checking on me often, making sure I’m still working, glaring at me every time. I can tell he wants to hurt me more, but he doesn’t. For once, I’m glad he’s so reserved.

“Use the bathroom,” he says suddenly, brusquely. “I shouldn’t have said that. Use the bathroom if you need to.”

I immediately drop what I’m working on and head in that direction. “Thank you master, thank you so much!”

“I just don’t want you pissing all over my floor,” he mutters, but I can tell he’s covering for something else. Shame, perhaps.

He pushes me for hours, although I know we both should be sleeping, and I feel the fingers on my hand start to grow sore from scrubbing and raw from chemicals. I’m starving, and the fact that I’m not allowed to eat makes me hungrier. I slip while attempting to clean the floor in the kitchen, and with only one good hand to catch myself, I land on my ass with a thump. A shock of pain radiates up from my tailbone. I fight the tears and the pain and try to stand up, but it’s too much, and I sit there in a pile of mop water and resent the tears that are rolling down my face almost as much as I resent my master.

I don’t feel better when I hear the door open, knowing my master has come to yell at me or punish me for slacking. But maybe if he hits me it will be over.

He stares at me for a few minutes, silent and angry. “Go have something to eat and go to bed,” he orders, shocking me.

He wakes me up early the next morning with a shake, and it’s all I can do not to start crying again. The glove he gives me protects my hand from chemicals, but it does little to ease the rest of the pain in my body from the unexpected physical labor.

The next few days are similar. He doesn’t hit me, doesn’t even yell at me, he just works me endlessly, forcing the most pointless tasks on me and making them redo them over and over again until they are done to his satisfaction. I don’t know what he’d do if I just refused to do them, and I’m not willing to find out. He wakes me early, orders me to eat breakfast, and then forces me to work. I don’t cook. He orders food for himself and orders me to make dull, quick meals that keep me alive but not happy. Lunch and dinner are the same, as are bathroom breaks. He’s even gone so far as to work from home for a few days so he can supervise me more closely. He never seems to want to stop until I break, until I give in and cry and can’t stop myself from lying on the floor in misery.

He takes me to get the cast removed from my arm, but continues to torment me. It’s the kind of tasks they had us do at the re-education center, the same kind of food, too. Short of the beatings and the sex, I’d feel like I was back there, but I’d rather not recreate that experience. He doesn’t speak to me, doesn’t look at me, except to bark orders or to glare. All this, because I was looking up information on my tablet?