Subjection (19 page)

Part of that similarity lies in the ability to overlook details and cleaning, but the conversation with my mother has me worried. She was far too interested in my slave, and she mentioned visiting me, something she rarely ever does. For years, she insisted that she didn’t want her reputation soiled by associating with me, something I was happy to support. The more I think of it, the more uncomfortable I am with the chance that something incriminating is in my house.

I come home to find Sascha working diligently on some of the outside work I’ve given him. “I want you to put that away for a while,” I inform him. “And I’ll need you to help go through some files.”

“Yes, sir,” he says, looking at me blankly, waiting for more orders. There’s a hint of fear, as there always is, like I’m going to take it all away from him.

“I need to focus on some other projects,” I tell him, which is partly true. “My promotion has come with more work, and we are about to make a big breakthrough. All this business with the re-education centers… that isn’t a priority right now.”

Sascha looks at me for a moment, unfiltered doubt on his face. If he’s this transparent with me, my mother will be able to read him too easily.

“Something you want to say?” I snap, challenging him.

He cowers, looking down and shaking his head. “No, master. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

He’s silent for a moment. “I just thought you said the other day that this was the top priority, sir.”

I sigh. I’m not angry at him, I’m angry at my mother. I try to be a little more calm. “Regardless of what I said the other day, today your top priority is clearing away any evidence that any of this was ever here.”

Sascha nods, even daring to look up at me. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry.”

I shake my head, dismissing his concerns. “You’re thorough and attentive. Those are great assets. But I set the priorities around here.”

“Yes, sir,” he replies immediately. “Can I ask what it is? The project? Why you’re shelving it? It has nothing to do with your job.”

The little shit is too smart for his own good. “You may not,” I reply, keeping my tone mild. “I don’t want you speaking about it or asking about it unless I bring it up. You’ve done good work so far, but I asked you when we started to be discreet. I trust you can still manage that?”

“Of course, sir,” he replies.

He’s disappointed, but it’s for the best, at least for now. I tell him what things I need him to collect, from his files and mine, and I give him a box to place the hard copies in. I have him back up the data on his tablet and send it to me, and I run a program to clear any evidence of it from his tablet. The process takes a few days, but I feel more comfortable the less there is to connect me with the research.

In the meantime, we focus on my day job, and I find out soon that I am to host a “celebration event” at my house. I’ve never been less thrilled to celebrate anything, or more relieved that I’ve already started to clear any incriminating evidence from my house.

“Sascha, you’ll need to ready the house for a celebration event,” I inform him, trying not to turn my nose up at the thought. I’m not that social, and more than anything, I’m afraid. So many people in my house means a lot of opportunities for important information to be uncovered. “Rearrange the furniture to make space; there should be enough food and drinks and supplies for about forty people. Oh, and select some music to play in the background. Nothing too trendy or loud, this will be for work.”

He nods obediently, immediately attending to his tasks. I need his help with the logistics, but I also need him out of the way.

I begin with the hard copies of the data. A quick call to one of my less legitimate associates finds me someone who will take it off my hands; a few more calls make it disappear entirely. So much work, scattered through the city, but these people make it their living to hide things. Usually it’s things like drugs and murder weapons, but for enough money, anything can disappear.

The digital data is far more difficult to hide. I know I would be safer destroying it all together, but I can’t bring myself to part with it. It’s the heart of my work, the vital information I need to start my project over again. Unfortunately, it is the information that could do the most damage. I can’t risk it being discovered, but I want access to it, immediate access. I have spent too long working on it to let it go.

“Sascha, bring me your tablet,” I call out from my office. I try to keep my tone level, pretending like it’s nothing out of the ordinary.

“What do you need it for, sir?” he asks, handing it over and giving me a curious look.

“Is it your place to question me?” I ask, giving him a dirty look. The last thing I need is my slave poking around where he shouldn’t. It will put us both at risk.

“No, sir,” he mumbles, backing away. “Sorry. I just thought I could help.”

I’d rather scare him than let him know how worried I am. “You can help by doing as you’re told and not asking questions,” I tell him firmly.

“Yes, sir,” he says quietly, turning to leave.

“Sascha,” I call after him, stopping him in his tracks. “Bobby will be coming by to help set up with the party. I know he can be… distracting, I suppose you could call it. I’ll be having him take care of errands outside of the house, picking up food from local vendors who don’t deliver, arranging for parking, handling contracts, that sort of thing. Get any lists and addresses to me so I can give them to him without having to interrupt you.”

I want to keep the two of them apart as much as possible, for my sanity as well as Sascha’s. Bobby has gotten on my nerves lately by harassing my slave, and I worry that he might push Sascha too far.

“Thank you, sir,” Sascha says, smiling like he knows exactly what I’m doing with Bobby.

I nod, and he leaves me with his tablet. I move the data from my own tablet to Sascha’s, disguising it under layers of security. The slave’s tablet is far less suspicious than mine is, and I doubt that anyone interested in investigating me would look too closely into a slave’s tablet.

Besides, if anyone does look into Sascha’s tablet, my plan is to place the blame on him. I can just say he stole it. Perhaps he found the old research somewhere and tried to recreate it. There’s very little to place the data in context; and what I’ve found out about his past sets him up as a likely suspect. Unearthing juvenile browsing history can be difficult, but it is possible, and I’ve looked into Sascha very carefully. He was precocious, not particularly fond of rules, and he has made a game of sneaking into digital places where he shouldn’t be since he was a child. Based on what I’ve found on his past, it wouldn’t be hard to convince a jury that he discovered this old project and investigated it again just to see if he could. If anyone catches us, I’ll work to protect him, but neither of us is safe if I am exposed. A criminal master can be excused or even redeemed more easily than a criminal slave.

I consider telling him, briefly, but we are both at increased risk if he is cognizant of the plans. The fewer people who know about this, the better. I give him his tablet back and feel relieved when he doesn’t seem to notice anything different. As embarrassing as it is to depend on a slave, I trust that his discerning eye will catch anything that I might have missed. I review my security devices, the ones that alert me if anyone enters my home without the activation code, the ones that alert me if any police officers are dispatched to my home, the ones that alert me if anyone attempts to access my network from inside or outside of the house. Everything is tight, flawless, safe. I have only my own paranoia to deal with.

I invite Bobby to help, more to calm myself than anything else. Despite the friction between him and Sascha, he was there for me when my life collapsed years ago. To keep him safe, I haven’t told him anything about my new research, but he knows about everything else in my life, and he has always stood by me. I start to relax, at least somewhat, and try to believe that my home and my research are safe. I focus on the party, pleased to see that Sascha has handled the majority of the preparations. I want nothing more than for the party to be over and for things to return to normal.

Chapter 17
White Knights

On the day of the party, I’ve been dressed up in suit, not as formal as my master’s, but certainly nowhere near the extravagant showpiece I was made out to be for the Peace Day Celebration. Similarly, I am much more than a simple decoration on my master’s arm; I run around getting drinks for people and taking coats and fulfilling a hundred different roles at once. I don’t even think to talk back or be anything but the picture perfect slave. My master has given me exactly one warning, right before the party started, and it was simple: “Fuck up tonight and I’m selling you.” He knows how to hurt me, and he’s clearly willing to do it.

I don’t dwell on it, though, because I suppose it would be an appropriate consequence. I want to stay with him, badly, so I perform perfectly.

Even when I’m trying to be good, I’m still underhanded. I purposely overhear his conversation with a coworker.

“Mr. Michaud, I didn’t realize you owned a slave!” the older man exclaims after I hand them drinks and nod deferentially to my master.

“It appears that way.” My master is all grave and displeased about it as usual.

He must be grave and displeased as a general rule, because his colleague doesn’t seem bothered in the slightest.

“That’s the same boy you had at the Peace Day Celebration, isn’t it?” he realizes, and I resist rolling my eyes. “I almost didn’t recognize him all formal and such.”

“Yes, well, different atmospheres,” my master replies, eager, as usual, to stop talking about me.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to keep him,” the man comments. “I’ve heard… well, I probably shouldn’t listen to rumors, but I’ve heard that you weren’t exactly in support of slavery?”

The man is clearly prying, and my master seems as displeased by his coworker prying as he does when I do it.

“Rumors can be misleading.” His eyes are darker than usual, and if I wasn’t so interested in the conversation, I’d be running away to hide.

Instead, I linger, pretending to adjust some drinks on a tray, pick up some dirty glasses. I know my master said he didn’t want a slave—would I finally find out why?

“Of course, of course,” the coworker amends. “It was just surprising; most young men are so eager to surround themselves with pretty slaves; especially those without a partner or family around to keep them company. When I found out you didn’t even have one to keep up around the house, I couldn’t help but wonder.”

“Ideals of youth,” my master dismisses the idea. “I thought things were easier on my own. I’ve found that having a slave around can be quite useful. I’m responsible for quite a lot more than I was years ago, and it only makes sense.”

“Well, I can see that he’s up to the exacting standards of the most stringent re-education centers,” the colleague says, and I can feel eyes on my back. “Hasn’t been idle a moment tonight.”

“No, he hasn’t.” Shit, my master does not sound pleased. He’ll know damn well that I’m loitering on purpose. “Sascha, I think you have quite enough dirty dishes for one trip. Don’t look for more than you can handle.”

I get his message to clear the fuck out, and I try not to rush too obviously to do so. “Yes, master,” I reply, an innocent smile on my face as I duck out. I can tell he doesn’t buy it, but the colleague does, smiling at me like I’m just a pleasant slave boy.

I hide in the kitchen, ignoring the dishes and pondering what I heard. The doctor that my master took me to had mentioned my master’s mother, said he had known the family for years. How, then, did my master’s colleague seem to think he was estranged from them? I wonder if there is any truth to accusation that my master doesn’t support slavery. But then, why did he buy me in the first place? It is rather strange that in all this time he has never mentioned or even commed his family, at least not that I’ve noticed. If I weren’t a slave, I would certainly still be in touch with mine. I think about them every day.

My thoughts are interrupted by the sound of footsteps, and I look over to see Bobby standing in the doorway, hands on either side of the doorframe.

“Hello, sir,” I mumble, keeping my eyes cast down. I hope he thinks I look proper; really, I just don’t want him to look at me.

“Hello, Sascha,” he mocks, smiling.

He’s drunk. I’ve brought him six drinks already, and god knows whether he’s helped himself to any others. This is supposed to be a work event, but my master allowed him to stay because of all his “help” setting up the party. And the fact that he can’t seem to say no to his best friend.

“Having fun?” he asks me.

“I’m performing my duties as my master requests, sir.” As if to prove it, I grab up a tray of snacks and take a few steps toward him.

He doesn’t budge.

“I need to take these out to the guests, sir,” I try to sound assertive without being pushy. I think I just come off as scared, which I am.

“You need to relax,” he says, smiling. “Put the tray down.”

I pause for a moment, silent. “Please, sir—”

“Put the tray down, Sascha!”

I jump at the tone, and years of training have me reacting before I can even think to do otherwise. The tray is safely sitting on the counter, and I am growing more terrified with every second.

“That’s a good boy,” he says with a smile. “It seems like I never get to spend any time alone with you.”

I blink back tears. “It is as my master wishes it, sir.”

“Of course, of course,” he says softly.

I dare to look up at his face, wishing I could trust that tone. Wishing I could give in like I used to, back at the brothel, when everything was clear and I could count on being raped and miserable every day. I curse myself for feeling safe.

“Your master wishes for me to have a good time, Sascha,” he says, his voice low and sultry.

I shudder. “Yes, sir.”

I stand, frozen, as he strides across the room to stand in front of me. His hand reaches out and I flinch, thinking he’s going to strike me, but he doesn’t. His hand tangles in my hair at the back of my head and he pulls me close and kisses me. His lips are rough and wet and too big, and his tongue is cold and tastes like alcohol as it forces into my mouth.