Subjection (8 page)

I continue to stare at him, his words landing on my ears like an alien language. The meaning sinks in bit by bit, in little pieces. He knows I stole training manuals. Soda. He knows how terrified I am. He
wants
a soda. And for me to get it. Calm down. My heart is racing and I can’t breathe, and I realize I’m having a panic attack, which must be why he told me to calm down.

I nod, unable to speak because my chest is too tight and my tongue is too big and my mouth is too dry. My master looks on calmly, through me almost.

I finally manage to force my legs to cooperate, and I get up and walk into the kitchen. I start crying, even though I know I’m being ridiculous, and I go to my knees in there, too, just for a minute, just long enough to catch my breath. Get a soda. Calm down. Show off what I’ve learned.

It shouldn’t be this fucking hard.

I stand up, shaky, and run some water over my hands and face, hoping my eyes won’t be so red. I take a few deep breaths, dry off with a towel I’ve left hanging off the stove, and take a soda from the fridge. I’ve never seen him use a glass for his soda before, so I don’t bring one, I just carry the can out and crack it open before handing it to him, still silent.

He doesn’t say anything, which I’m glad for, because I’ve apparently gone non-verbal for the moment. A thousand thoughts inside my head, and I can’t even manage a “yes, master” out loud.

We spend the better part of two hours with me serving him, or bringing him things, or showing things off. Unlike the position training, this doesn’t require me to move my arms into any painful positions, and I can perform as expected. He is pleased, and while he isn’t overly congratulatory, he shows his approval. I’m elated to be smart and successful again, even if it is just fetching drinks.

He sends me to retrieve my tablet, and I take notes while he rattles off his preferences for drinks and food in various settings. As a brothel whore, I never had to worry about things like that. At some point, I remembered what my clients liked, but that was going above and beyond my duties. If I hadn’t recalled, or didn’t bother to try to recall, they’d tell me, quickly, and correct me for doing it wrong.

As a personal slave, I realize it’s important for me to know that if my master says “get me a drink” at home when we’re alone, he probably means a soda, and if he says it in the casual bar he goes to with Bobby, it probably means a vodka martini, no olives, and if he says it in a place where his superiors will be, like at the Peace Day Celebration, it probably means a classic, sophisticated cocktail, like an old-fashioned. It’s important because it makes me look attentive and obedient, and it’s important because my master doesn’t have to waste any more time than necessary ordering me around.

He drills the preferences into me, and orders me to memorize them.

“Think that will be enough to keep you busy?” he asks.

If it was anyone else, I would think he was joking, but he’s always so serious. “I’m sorry, sir,” I mumble. I want to tell him how I could help with his business, how I could learn and join like a real person, but I don’t. I consider offering to let him fuck me, but what purpose would that serve? He can do anything he wants, and he doesn’t. He lets me sit around like a spoiled house pet, and I repay him by sneaking around behind his back. I’m lucky he hasn’t sold me, yet. “I’ll do anything you want.”

I was impressed with Sascha’s demonstration, not to mention his quick learning, although it’s not proper to tell him that. Just like it isn’t proper to ask how he had so flawlessly installed the software on his tablet, a feat I doubt I would have been able to accomplish, much less a slave. Every slave trainer I’ve ever met would have suggested I punish him for that, but I saw it for what it was; exploration, a desire to learn. I have that same desire, and I admire it in the slave.

“How are your arms?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.

I watch him go stiff and still.

“Fine, master.”

Nobody who is fine goes pale at the mention of a potentially injured body part. “Arms above your head,” I order, keeping it short and simple in hopes of cutting through his panic.

He obeys, partially. I can see the way he sets his jaw, gritting against the pain, and I notice the careful way he stops when his arms get to a certain point. He can function, I’m sure, shower and clean and dress himself, but he should have a far wider range of motion. I wait for him to lift them higher, to tell me it hurts, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me, questioning.

I frown, place one hand on either arm, and push them higher up.

The yelping and whimpering catch me by surprise, and I pull my hands away instantly. He lets his arms drop, looking terrified.

Does he really think I’ll be angry because he’s injured? Hell, I was part of the institution that caused these injuries! I remember when my mother took over the very re-education center that Sascha spent his years at. The merger had been cause for celebration, although I was too young to attend the grand opening party she threw.

“I told you to let me know if they didn’t stop hurting,” I remind him. It’s been a week, and he’s allowed himself to hurt this whole time? I’m angry at him for not mentioning it, but far more angry at myself for not noticing.

Sascha gives me a stupid, scared look. “Yes, master.”

I smack him in the chest without even thinking about it. Years of training have primed my movements for violence, and he’s annoying me. I don’t hit him hard; I can’t, knowing what’s been done to him. Still, he yelps and recoils. I regret it. I didn’t mean to scare him further, but it’s far easier to fall back on the training methods I was raised with than to figure out something new.

“When I give you an order, I expect you to follow it,” I snap. It’s far more comfortable to give him orders. Despite the fact that I didn’t hit him that hard, he still appears terrified.

“I’m taking you to the doctor.”

I walk out, unable to figure out what else to do. He doesn’t seem to want comfort, and I’ve never been good at providing it. I call ahead and make sure my doctor can get me in. I wish I could call him over to the house so I don’t have to take the slave out, but I suppose the doctor’s time is valuable, too. I indicate that Sascha sit in the passenger seat and the act of pointing seems to terrify him. I stay quiet as we drive.

I lead the slave into my own doctor’s office without a word. There are slave doctors, under-qualified medical students looking to make some side money, but I would never take my property to one of those. We wait in the reception area, and the slave even glances over the magazines and loaner tablets scattered on the counter. It’s not long before the doctor comes through the door with a smile on his face. He’s been my doctor since I was a child, and his hair had already started to whiten by then. He’s always claimed to be too old to care about politics, but as I age as well, I realize it’s little more than a convenient cover. He cares about health and well-being; he knows that the Demoted are no different from anyone else.

“Cashiel, what brings you here in such a hurry?” he asks. “Naleen said you told her it was urgent.”

I walk over to the door, looking back at Sascha when he doesn’t follow. The order seems unnecessary, so I wait until he finally jumps to his feet and makes his way to us. I can see the doctor’s eyes taking in my slave, and me.

“And just who is this?” the doctor asks, his voice holding a hint of judgment.

I wait until the door is closed and we are on our way to the exam room before replying. “Slave,” I mutter, just now wondering if slaves are accepted here. I know the doctor is friendly to slaves, too friendly, some would say, but even the friendly ones don’t want to risk contaminating their offices by treating slaves in them.

“Your mother would shake her finger at you for bringing him in here,” the doctor teases as we enter the exam room. “I didn’t realize you were back in the business, anyway. Tell me what’s going on?”

I glance at Sascha and nod at him. “Lift your arms.”

He does, getting them about as high as he did earlier, and then he gives me that nervous look again.

I turn to the doctor. “He can’t lift them any higher without being in pain. It’s been that way for a little over a month, hasn’t it?”

I glance at Sascha, but it takes him a moment to come out of his panic.

Finally, he nods. “Yes, master.”

The doctor frowns. “Cash, what’s gotten into you? I’ve known you and your family for years; you’re not the type of people to bring down the value of a slave like this! Especially not a personal slave.”

I scowl. “It wasn’t me; I just bought him a few weeks ago. It was an interesting situation… Anyway, I want him taken care of. I would have brought him in sooner, but he didn’t mention that he was in pain. When I bought him, he was all beaten up, bruised and cut and burned all over, but I took care of that. I suppose you could look him over, though, while he’s here.”

The doctor doesn’t seem exactly pleased with the answer, and he focuses his attention on Sascha. “Be that as it may… what’s your name, my boy?”

The slave freezes, as if the simple request to say his name is about to destroy him. “It, um, sir, I… Sascha, sir.”

The doctor nods. “All right, Sascha, go ahead and take your shirt off and sit up on that table for me.”

I stand to the side of the room, trying to look bored. I’ve never taken anyone else to a doctor before, much less a slave. I watch as the doctor leans over runs his hand over Sascha’s skin, where the scars shine on his flesh, making Sascha wince.

“Someone got him bad,” the doctor comments. He goes on to peek at a few of the other ones before looking back at me. “Well, you’ve done a good job patching him up. I’m surprised none of them got infected. They were very deep.”

I just nod. I’d rather move onto other things.

“Now, Sascha,” the doctor says, his voice calm and professional. “What happened to your arms?”

“Sir, at the last place I was owned… someone… they tied me up, with my arms above my head, and they hung me like that, from my arms.” Sascha squirms and fidgets; clearly, the conversation is more painful than his arms at the moment.

The doctor’s eyebrows narrow, but he nods. “Did anything happen to put strain on them?”

I watch my slave struggle to answer, barely getting the words out as the doctor continues to probe.

“Um, they hit me, sir,” he manages. “Hard, a lot of times, uh, with a lot of things, and I probably struggled. I think they wanted me to struggle, sir. I don’t really remember much. And then, uh… well, there was probably some strain when…”

It’s too degrading for me to watch. I cut in with my version of what I’m sure happened. “He was a brothel whore. They tied him up and tortured him and raped him for hours, and this is what it does to a person!”

“Ahh, all right,” the doctor says. He seems bothered by the information.

The doctor puts Sascha through a variety of diagnostic movements, pushing to see where things hurt. Sascha is surprisingly quiet. It takes me a moment, but I see the distress on the boy’s face and realize that he’s flinching away every time the doctor goes to touch him.

“For god’s sake, Sascha, tell him if he’s hurting you!” I snap.

He does, although with quite a bit of hesitation. The doctor is more gentle, and Sascha no longer looks like he’s going to pass out. The doctor finishes his tests, then he puts a little radiation-scanner on Sascha’s shoulders for the x-ray. While we wait for the results, the doctor glances at me.

“Cash, why don’t you give Sascha and me a moment alone?”

I hear the order in his voice. He wants me out. It irks me to be ordered about. “It wasn’t me who did this to him. I’m disgusted. It’s why I dragged him in here as soon as I found out it wasn’t healing right. Besides, he’s a slave. You don’t need to treat him like a child.”

The doctor just gives me a pleasant smile, the same one he gave me when I protested things as a child. “That may be, but this is my policy, and I’d appreciate it if you’d respect it. I just want a few minutes alone to talk to the boy, nothing major. Be a good boy now, Cashi, run along.”

There is something about being seen by the doctor who delivered you that makes you feel like an eternal child. I roll my eyes and storm out, equally mortified by the nickname as I am at my behavior.

I take my place in the waiting area, pawing at the outdated magazines and wondering if they arrive outdated and irrelevant. So many people grace the covers; how many will be forgotten in a year? Five years? I fell from the public eye in just months, but I had some encouragement.

My eye catches a flier for a slavery protest rally that happened last week. I’m inspired enough to pull my tablet out and look it up. The results are not surprising. The peaceful rally took a “sudden violent twist,” requiring heavy police intervention. Eighteen dead, over a hundred wounded, almost all the attendees imprisoned. The preservation of the Demoted system is considered vital for the functioning of our peaceful society. Everything about it, the selection criteria, the Assessment, the re-education centers, the slave placement… it’s all so carefully constructed.