Succession (33 page)

Sascha seems to consider it for a moment. “You’re not angry that I talked to him?”

“I’m not pleased, but I have bigger problems to worry about. I need you by my side. For publicity and… Sascha, I miss you. I miss you so much. I know you’re angry, and I’m trying to let you deal with that privately, but this project can’t work without you.”

He is quiet for a moment, considering it. I can almost see his mind working, comparing his options, weighing his trust of me. Finally, he nods. “What exactly do you need me to do?”

I explain the event we’ll be attending tomorrow. It’s supposed to be an educational event, sponsored by the state, and my visibility is supposed to strengthen my commitment to the Demoted system. I’m being allowed to participate in part to pacify the angry public, to demonstrate that even the man who is trying to “destroy” the Miller System supports the Demoted system as a whole. I’m supposed to discuss the “favorable” elements of my research, or so the lawyer explained it, so it is clear that any problems I found were not with the Demoted system itself, but with the Miller System. It’s being held at a convention center near the local university, and the reserved seats disappeared within hours of my confirmation of attendance. Not only does it make the Demoted system look good, it improves my image: I am nothing more than a patriotic, Demoted-system-loving researcher who wants to improve the best peace solution the world has ever discovered.

And Sascha is my pretty arm candy, the good luck charm who will hopefully keep me out of jail. Or so I hope.

By the next afternoon, he looks the part—a professional yet appealing outfit, hair perfectly styled, a smile on his face. He’s taken it upon himself to choose my clothes as well. Normally Sascha would help me dress, maybe surprise me with a revealing piece of underclothing that hints at the fun we will have later, but nothing of the sort occurs today. At least he hasn’t purposely wrinkled them. He’s all business, and I remind myself that it’s an improvement. After all, business is where we started out.

The event features a few other players, including members of the Miller System board of directors, some of the state agencies, and a few local officials. Kristine Miller is noticeably absent. I recognize the politicians I spoke with at the sponsorship event. They’re saving my speech for last, holding the audience captive. Regardless, there are countless pictures snapped of me and Sascha, to the point where I close my eyes to block out the blinding flash. I’m relieved when they finally welcome me to the stage.

Sascha and I walk up together, and as I take my place at the front of the stage, he kneels next to me, a look of utter contentment on his face. I begin to present my research, and as I explain some of the differences I found between the re-education centers I examined, he rises gracefully and takes my tablet from my hands, effortlessly taking over the technical aspects of the presentation. He smiles as he does it and the audience notices; he is the perfect complement to my professionalism. Without having to manage the display of the charts and graphs that our new data analyst has devised, I can focus on the audience, make small hand gestures, not have to worry about dropping the damn tablet. Sascha is communicating his own message, and it furthers our cause: the Demoted can be so much more useful when they’re doing things they’re good at.

I think I conclude the speech on a high note; surely I’ve convinced at least some of the audience. I have time left for questions, so I choose a young man standing eagerly in the front, waving a tablet at me.

“Mr. Michaud, what about the research that shows that the Demoted subjects scored better on tests than free people?” he asks, his face lighting up at the opportunity.

“An error in the data analysis,” I respond, giving the stock answer that my Edson has prepped me with. “The official reports will not contain that data.”

“But it’s true!” the young man insists. “The raw data that got released, it proves it!”

I give him what I hope is a patronizing smile. Of course the data proves it, but I am no abolitionist, nor am I willing make myself look like one, even if the numbers speak for themselves. The numbers aren’t at risk of being executed. “I’m sorry, but I support the Demoted system and so does my research. Don’t believe everything the tabloids say.”

The crowd becomes less friendly, with murmurs of disapproval. A group at the very back is holding signs protesting the Demoted system, and I can hear the faint echo of chants even from where I stand. I see things being thrown, and a team of armed guards enter through the back doors. I can smell a faint cloud of pepper spray making its way over the convention center.

“If that’s true, look at my figures!” the same young man challenges me. “I looked at them myself. Put my tablet on the display screen and show me where I’m wrong!”

Edson prepped me for this as well, and I know the exact parts of my data to pick apart. I glance at the head of event security and he nods, clearly informed of the plans. Sascha is watching, and when he sees the plan confirmed, he goes to the edge of the stage to retrieve the tablet.

He’s reaching down for it, unbalanced, when a sea of hands grabs him and pulls him into the crowd.

I stand there, frozen for a moment, before snapping at the security guards to do their fucking job and retrieve my property. But by then, it’s too late.

Against his will, Sascha is dragged through the crowd, passed over their heads like a crowd surfer at a rock concert. Half the attendees look confused, holding him up only to avoid having him fall on them. The other half is cheering, chanting something about “save the slave!” and “no more Demoting” and all sorts of other things that shouldn’t have anything to do with taking Sascha away from me. He’s not fighting back, but he’s not helping, either. There’s nothing he can do but passively resist, and I am just as useless to him. He curls into a ball and tries to protect his face as they drag him further into the crowd.

As Sascha is pulled away from the stage, I struggle against the desperate urge to go to him. I curse, debating whether to take matters into my own hands when the security guards try and fail to follow him. I know it’s not proper to be this upset about a slave, I want to preserve my image, but every muscle in my body tenses, ready to launch myself into the crowd after him. The crowd members who are not actively involved in pulling Sascha away from me are creating an effective blockade for the guards, standing in their way, grabbing their uniforms, and purposely spilling liquids onto the floor to create a slippery, dangerous mess. As I watch, the crowd members themselves start brawling, the pro- and anti-slavery sides fighting with one another, the guards struggling to prioritize the violence. They need to get Sascha out of there to even begin calming the crowd, but they can’t be perceived as placing the safety of a mere slave over that of free people. If the issue of Demoted treatment wasn’t already so inflammatory—and if I wasn’t the wealthy and controversial target that I am—I’m certain they’d shoot him and end the conflict.

I make my way to the front of the stage and start to climb off. I don’t care if the security guards can’t make their way through; I am determined to get to Sascha. The crowd members who are still standing at the front are grabbing at me and throwing things at me, but I bat them away without concern. There is no way they will hurt me as much as they will hurt Sascha.

As I reach the floor below, I feel two sets of hands grabbing me by the arm and pulling me backward. I struggle against them, but they don’t relent. They don’t even bother speaking to me.

The entire room erupts in madness, and the security guards drag me back onto the stage and behind the curtains, blocking my view, but also protecting me from the projectiles being thrown at me. I try to struggle, to get back to Sascha, but the security guards have no plans of letting me go. Screaming, gunshots, and tasers can be heard even from my protected location, and I am terrified for Sascha’s safety. I can’t let on, so I pretend to be upset about my tablet. It’s acceptable to worry about that being damaged.

“We’re gonna have a full-scale riot,” the security guard who’s keeping me out of the way informs me, looking pleased. “Seems some abolitionist group planned to crash the event—even thought you might be on the same page, since you got rid of your slaves. They are pissed!”

“I didn’t get rid of them,” I mutter, but I’m anxiously waiting for Sascha.

They escort me rather forcibly to another room, one that has a lock on the door. I’m about to protest being locked up, but I realize that the room is where another security guard sits, overseeing the video feeds from the event itself. I sit quietly, not caring that I’m being locked in here against my will. I can’t do anything out there, but at least I can watch Sascha from here.

The video feed is dim and grainy, but I still watch in horror as Sascha is pulled through the crowd, tossed from spectator to spectator, fought over like a bone between two dogs. To his credit, he’s not fighting back, but I can only imagine the terror he must be feeling. His clothes are being used as handholds. I can see them ripping as the crowd pulls at him. I think I see blood, but I can’t really tell due to the quality of the video feed. The guards retrieve my tablet first; I can see them waving the shattered pieces at the security camera, and the guard who’s babysitting me gives me a thumbs-up. I don’t even try to be happy.

“I want the rest of my property! How hard is it for a team of guards to retrieve one slave?”

The man just shrugs and goes back to watching as the rest of his team continues to pursue Sascha. The crowd is growing out-of-control, and I look at another security screen anxiously, wondering if they will really manage to steal my slave and take him out the back doors. There’s a team of armed, uniformed guards at those very doors. The police force has arrived with reinforcements, and only moments later, the screens go dark.

“Smoke bombs,” the security guard informs me. “Should get them calmed down quickly.”

I don’t reply, because becoming hysterical about the whereabouts of my slave will only cause problems. I hear a com device beeping in the hallway, and I overhear a voice announcing that they have secured the slave. I can only wait for them to bring him back up through the crowd and to where I am waiting for him.

The only time I’ve ever felt so helpless was when my mother took him away from me.

It seems like hours, but I know it’s only a matter of minutes before a pair of security guards return him to me, his clothes torn and bruises visible everywhere skin is exposed, he’s coughing, and his eyes bright red and puffy.

“You pepper sprayed him?” I snap, outraged.

The security guard rolls his eyes at me. “He was in the middle of it. Needed to get him out. Quickest way to get that done. He’ll be fine in a few hours.”

Sascha stumbles blindly toward me and I grab him, feeling my hands and throat burn as he gets too close.

“I know you have treatment for it,” I remind the security guard, doing my best to act concerned about myself and not about Sascha. “Spray him or whatever you do so it doesn’t spread to me.”

The event coordinator rushes over with a spray bottle and some towels and starts spraying us both down, likely concerned about the liability. “Sorry, Mr. Michaud, this really should have been done before we brought him back to you. He assured us that you would want him immediately, though.”

I nod, fully agreeing. “I didn’t come here to have my property damaged,” I remind him.

“We’ll reimburse you for the full cost of the tablet and the medical expenses for the slave,” he offers as he continues to spray. He even offers me a private room and a change of clothes for both me and Sascha, for when we deactivate the majority of the pepper spray.

I accept the offer, glad to have a moment alone with Sascha. “Are you all right?” I ask him, continuing to spray the soothing solution all over him. When he doesn’t respond, I come in front of him, needing to see his reaction. He’s barely able to open his eyes, but when he does, it’s to glare at me.

“This was your fault.”

Chapter 29
Damages

The ride home is tense and itchy. I’m sure Cash did his best to clean the pepper spray off of me, but it doesn’t work all the way, and I’m too angry with him to tell him where he missed. Not only that, but the various parts of my body that were scraped or cut by signs or fingernails or who knows what else feel like they’ll never stop burning.

I’m sore all over. Most of the crowd that was tossing me around wasn’t particularly gentle, and many had tried to grab hold of me, to keep me in one place to prove some point. Maybe some were even trying to kidnap me. If that was their goal, perhaps they only needed little parts of me, because they were damn near tearing me apart. I haven’t felt this much pain in my shoulders since Cash bought me, but my arms feel like they’ve nearly been wrenched from their sockets. My clothes are torn, and it bothers me that I was so quickly reduced to nothing more than a statement by members of both sides of the Demoted argument. Those in support of the Miller System saw me as nothing but a tool to be used in making their argument, those who supported the new system saw me as a valuable trading tool, those who opposed slavery all together were trying to “save” me—as much as one can be saved by being ripped apart.

If Sy had been there, none of this ever would have happened.

Cash tries to apologize to me, once, but I can’t even listen to it. I’m silent until we arrive at home, and I go to clean off further, bringing oil and rubbing alcohol with me. I hear Cash offering to help, but I continue to ignore him. It takes well over an hour to clear my skin of the burning solution, but I manage. I hope he hasn’t had as much luck.

He’s waiting for me when I get out of the shower, lying on my bed with an unsettled look on his face. I know I’ve pushed my luck with him quite a bit already, so I just stare at him silently.

“You know I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he reminds me. “I’ve said I’m sorry… and I know that doesn’t mean a thing. I’m doing the best I can and it’s not enough. Would you like to go and talk to Syrus?”