Succession (18 page)

I choose my response quickly. Years of training and experience guarding my masters has prepared me for this situation far better than the guards who are failing, perhaps on purpose, to control the situation.

My first concern should be my master, but it’s really Sascha. I compromise and grab one of them with each hand, shoving them behind one of the lighting panels where they are surrounded by thrown objects and flames. The event security is trying and failing to handle the crowd, and I realize that nobody will put out the flames. I grab the fire extinguisher from where I took note of it earlier, spraying it out. I hope it looks like an accident when I spray the few audience members who rush the stage, but it’s not. I’m protecting my interests.

Our idiot host is standing there with wide eyes, torn between smiling and cringing away from the debris. I catch his attention and motion for him to follow me off-stage, guarding him carefully until he joins Cashiel and Sascha.

He looks exhilarated, and I wonder whether knocking him down could be excused in the level of chaos we’re experiencing.

“This is going to get so many views!” he exclaims, the fact that he’s bleeding slightly from a cut on his face not dampening his excitement at all. He yells at his camera crew “don’t stop recording!”

“Is that why you failed to control the crowd?” Cash snaps at him. I’ve never seen him so angry, and I’m glad I’m not the only one who realizes we’ve been set up.

One of the crowd members makes his way onto the stage and rushes to where Cash and Sascha are hiding. I handle him with ease and precision, snatching the knife from his hand and pinning him to the ground. He struggles, but I don’t back off; Cashiel has arranged my paperwork, and I am perfectly within my rights to restrain this assailant.

Through the smoke, I see another figure approaching, and I glance around, hoping for the event security to start doing their job. I don’t see them, but the face of this person becomes familiar. With my ex-master out of the picture, Conrad is the new “executioner” for the 27th Street Gang.

“You seemed awfully cozy with your new master,” Conrad accuses me. My ex-master’s associate has a dark look on his face, the look he had right before the state department had intervened and stopped him from killing me so they could take me to Leadview.

I don’t respond. For all I know, they’re still filming, and my past ownership could cause problems. Besides, speaking has never been my strong point.

Conrad doesn’t say much, either, he just grabs a metal bar from the half-destroyed set and comes toward me with it, his intentions clear. The man I’m restraining stops struggling for a moment, looking pleased. I wonder whether this was all a diversion, and whether that diversion was meant to kill me, my master, or both of us.

A slave, even a bodyguard can’t defend himself against a free man, not when that free man isn’t putting his master’s safety at risk. Conrad knows this, it’s evident on his face as he swings the bar, striking me hard. I move so he misses my head, but he gets my back hard enough to knock the wind out of me, and I feel the pain deeply. He raises it again and I make my move, darting away at the last second, watching in relief as he strikes the knife-wielding diversion, instead. A startled look crosses Conrad’s face, but I’ve always been a better fighter than he is. The security team finally catches up, handcuffing the man who had the knife, the one who’s just taken the hit I was supposed to receive. Conrad darts away, taking his improvised weapon with him. He’s smart enough not to leave fingerprints, at least.

I hurry back to my master, relieved to see him and Sascha still safe.

“Master, we should get out of here soon,” I advise, giving him a warning look. “You’re not safe here.”

I’m not, either, but that’s not something I can discuss in public.

Cash nods his agreement, and I hear the wailing screech of police hov-cars approaching. They should have been here ten, fifteen minutes ago. They’re working on their own public image, I’m sure.

“Get the police to send a unit to retrieve us!” Cash snaps at Veracity. “Before someone gets hurt or this place burns down!”

“There’s people outside protesting, too,” our host informs us, an apologetic look on his face. “It might be a while.”

The crowd’s noises are becoming louder, and we hear crashing noises as they begin to destroy what parts of the set they can reach before the event security holds them back. Pieces of the set are flying everywhere, and the security team is having an increasingly difficult time keeping them all back. We won’t last until a police unit retrieves us.

“We’ll go out another way, master,” I suggest. While Sascha was researching our host’s sordid history, I was memorizing the layout of the venue. Large appliances and exhaust fans are accessible from the roof, and a utility closet behind the stage should contain the stairs to make it out there.

Sascha follows me without question; only after he moves does Cash join him, then Veracity. I barrel my way through the few audience members who have made their way back here, guarding Cash and Sascha as well as I can. I slap at the people and the objects they throw, but only when they’re at risk of harming Sascha or Cash. The rest I let hit me. It allows me to focus.

On the roof, at least, we are safe. Trapped, but safe. We don’t wait long before Veracity is screaming to the security staff to rescue him, to send a parachute or a helicopter, but nobody else is that dramatic. The police force has started doing their job in earnest, breaking up the crowd and arresting those who resist. From the distance, I can see armed vehicles, likely full of reinforcements and weapons. They should already have been here; either the event host wanted the drama and neglected to inform the authorities of a possible incident, or the rest of the riots throughout the city are tapping the vast resources. The local officers are doing their best on the ground, but there are simply too many people to contain easily. The electrical buzz of tasers can be heard every few seconds, and the unmistakable smell of a smoke bomb reaches my nose. I keep my eye on the door to the building, prepared to slam it down on anyone who shouldn’t be coming through there.

Once the building is cleared adequately, a team of officers retrieves us, casting a suspicious look in my direction when they see me tense and ready. I retreat immediately, bowing my head and stepping back, making myself look as small and unintimidating as possible. They could beat me just for looking at them wrong, and Sascha and Cash need me around. They seem placated, and escort us down a metal ladder on the side of the building.

The presence of the officers doesn’t deter the most aggressive rioters; the few feet we have to walk before reaching the hov-car are filled with rocks—and worse—being thrown at us. I guard my charges carefully until we reach the car, making sure they are safely inside before relaxing. Cashiel takes off with a screech. Protesters are blocking our way, but since the officers seem happy to shoot rubber bullets at them, my master makes his way through quickly, joining the team of state police officers that surround us on all sides, escorting us to safety.

The drive home is tense; Sascha informs me that there has been an emergency curfew imposed on entire area for the rest of the night. He scans his tablet for information, discovering that similar protests have erupted in a few major cities. The police have responded by authorizing the use of deadly force, and the estimated number of dead citizens is approaching double digits already. Our hunt for information is quickly ended, as the signal jams up. Later, I’m sure the officials will cite the increased number of people accessing information as the cause of the data disruption, but it’s more likely that they’ve released a low-wave magnetic pulse to quiet everything down. The fact that the next few streetlights we come to have mysteriously stopped working adds to my theory.

The officers direct us to take an alternative route home; while a savvy protestor could find the home address, most are just following the crowd. After a few hours, we lose the parties who are following us. The police officers stay, adding to my master’s private security team, and we arrive home relatively unharmed.

I notice a hov-car parked outside of the house. It’s not an officer, and it’s not a member of the private security team.

“Cash,” I caution him as we pull up. “On your left.”

I expect him to keep driving, to notify our police escort, but he just scowls.

“Fucking bitch,” he mumbles. He gives the officers and security team a thumbs-up and pulls up alongside of the vehicle.

A woman is sitting inside of the car, a wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses hiding her identity.

“What in the hell do you want?” my master spits out. I wonder who he hates so much.

“I need a word with you, Cashiel,” the woman demands.

“It’s not really a good time,” Cash tells her, sarcastic. I can hear the hatred in his voice.

“Make it a good time or I’ll find it in my records that it was your little whore who released that data!” the woman snarls. “You do not get to do this to me and then ignore me!”

I glance at my master, slowly putting the puzzle together. I see the way his lips curl back, the way he doesn’t even try to hide his rage. A moment later, he composes himself, setting his jaw and nodding deferentially. Something about this woman has made him admit defeat.

“I’ll clear you with the security team.”

They roll up their windows and Cash drives into his garage, slamming the vehicle into park like it did something wrong. Sascha gives me an apologetic look.

“You get to meet the creator of the Miller System.”

Chapter 16
Suspicions

Without making my business too public, there is no good way to tell my security team to send Kristine Miller on her way back home, or to hell, so I let her in. The threat she levied against Sascha played a part in that as well. The fact that she’s coming alone, without her guards and officials, gives me hope.

Syrus stays standing, attentive, his eyes never leaving my mother. He’s identified his threat, and he stays with her. He’s taken to his bodyguard duties quite well.

My mother gives him an appraising look, like she’s examining a rare dog breed.

“Good move, Cash. The muscle really shows you taking this thing seriously. I always thought you should have more slaves. Something legitimate, not just the whore.”

I shake my head. My mother was never a fan of slaves that didn’t serve a purpose. Our house was staffed by Demoted of all types; there were those who cooked, those who cleaned, and those who raised me so my mother didn’t have to dirty her hands with a child. I know my father visited brothels on occasion, and I’m sure my mother made use of slaves in some way while at work, but they were never a household item.

“Did you threaten your way into my house just to critique my slaves?” I’m tired, worn out from the drama. I want to tell her to leave, but that doesn’t work. Going along with her intimidation tactics has always resulted in a less painful ending to whatever plot she’s concocted.

“I came to see if you’ve thought about my request,” she replies, handing her coat to Sy like he’s a butler. He takes it, an amused expression on his face. “Judging by your performance on that trashy talk show today, you’re still committed to bringing me down.”

“I kept it civil,” I remind her. “I didn’t tell them everything you’ve done. The lies. The cover ups. The research you ignore because it doesn’t fit in your financial plan. It’s not the right time for that.”

“Who told you that?” Kristine snarls. “Your fancy lawyer? She’s represented plenty of criminals in the past, Cash. Are you sure you really want her on your case?”

That’s exactly why I want her on my case. “What does it matter to you?”

“What matters to me is that your goddamned research project is going to bring me down with you!”

I pause. My mother doesn’t curse often; she considers it a sign of low breeding and unintelligence. If she’s losing her composure this much, she must really be threatened by something.

“What changed?” I ask. “Since the last time we spoke. You weren’t so anxious, then.”

Kristine glares at me for a moment before responding. “Your lawyer? Edson? I contacted her before you did. She turned me down. So has everyone else I’ve spoken to since then.”

I resist the urge to smile, to mock her. It’s nice to see her getting what she deserves. “Maybe they recognize the likelihood of success with your case.”

“That isn’t the only thing, Cash. Your data analyst? The one who was supposed to be verifying your research and confirming all the crimes you’ve been accusing me of? He’s accepted a lucrative relocation and witness protection deal in exchange for that research.”

I stare at my mother in shock, not quite sure whether I want to believe her. I should be hearing this from Torenze, from my lawyer, on the news—I should be arrested by now. “How do you know this?”

Kristine shrugs. “I heard it from an old friend at the state attorney’s office. Someone whom I had a more personal relationship with.”

She guides us into my living room. Syrus stays standing, guarding, while Sascha takes his place on the couch next to me. My mother frowns at him, like she would if she saw an animal on the furniture, but she stays quiet about it, seating herself in another chair and continuing on as if Sascha doesn’t matter. Or, as if she knows just how involved he is in this, but won’t acknowledge it.

“The state attorney’s office is keeping it quiet for now, no doubt planning the best time to release it,” she continues.

It doesn’t make sense. “The best time to release it is immediately. They could get me back in prison, out of the way, they could destroy you whenever they chose—”

“That’s obviously not what they want, you stupid child!”

I stop, thinking it over. If the state’s agents really needed me out of the way, they could have arranged a thousand ways for me to die already. The arrest, prison… hell, they could have had someone murder me at the talk show today. I wouldn’t be the first political dissenter to meet an untimely end. They want me alive to set an example, to use me, to do something that I can’t do while dead.