Succession (5 page)

The truth, it seems, is that she’s saving her own ass. “And what case might that be?” I ask, surprised that the state would take any sort of action against the beloved director of the Miller System.

My mother smiles, and for the first time, I see her looking worn out, exhausted. I see a glimmer of fear. “The only reason I’m on this side of the table is because the state’s publicity department needs someone to make it look like they’ve been doing the right thing for all these years. I’m the public face of conformity, of tradition. When this tradition gets exposed as inadequate, our roles might be reversed. If you come out of this alive and free, they’ll place the blame somewhere else. Right now I’m the most likely candidate.”

I sit there, silent. It’s a game, manipulation, but the look on her face makes me wonder. I wouldn’t put it past her to lie about this; she’s lied about everything for as long as I can remember. But the state doesn’t do forgiveness well. If she isn’t lying, she could be in considerable danger if the state chooses my side over hers. Even if they don’t, she might go down alongside of me. I struggle, trying to figure out what she’s gaining from her advice concerning Sascha, but other than me putting the blame somewhere else, she’s getting nothing. A part of me wants to watch her go down.

“Thanks for the tip. I’ll think about how I present your involvement to anyone who cares.”

She nods, standing up. “That’s fair of you.” She turns and walks to the door, pausing before pressing the button that will call for the guards to let her out. “I still have some friends in the judicial department. When I arranged to visit with you, I spoke to someone about the conditions you’re being kept in. You won’t be secluded any longer.”

I stare at her, surprised, and trying not to be pleased. I don’t trust her, especially when it seems like she’s doing something nice. “Why?”

“Because I taught you not to give favors freely, and I came here to ask you a favor.”

Because she taught me strategy, in addition to cruelty, and she knows I learned it well. It’s what she would want in this situation.

“I do love you, Cashi,” she says softly. “I’ve just done what I thought was best.”

Before I have a chance to reply, she pushes the button, and a guard immediately opens the door, letting her out before freeing me.

True to her word, I’m returned to my cell only briefly, where I contemplate her words, her visit, her motives. There’s nothing that I can see her gaining from it, unless what she really said was true. But I know my mother, have known for years how manipulative she can be. I can’t trust her, but I have no one else to trust.

An opportunity to correct that problem presents itself sooner than I expect.

I’m given the option to attend activities in the common room, and I take it, if only to break the monotony. More than anything, I’m eager to find out more about the outside world, to see what connections I can make, to use what little I have at my disposal while I’m stuck in here.

The first thing I do is find a vidscreen; fortunately, the major prisons are equipped with them, as enough studies have shown that they do a remarkably good job of keeping the population calm and compliant. I’m not surprised to see the thinly veiled propaganda—coverage of national unity events, historical productions detailing and glorifying the Peace Declaration occurred after the fourth World War so many decades ago, educational videos about slave ownership and the value of the Demoted system. There is always some sort of media available for these events, but the amount skyrockets any time there is political upset. The news won’t show the riots that I’m certain are happening, that will be hidden in favor of “positive” news—that which benefits the system. Some of the other inmates are complaining about the lack of entertaining shows, and I try not to smile, certain that Sascha and I are responsible for the interruption of their regular programming.

I sit on an empty chair, welded to a metal table along with a few others. Harder to throw, hard to sit on. I wonder what sorts of accommodations Sascha is enjoying.

Only a few minutes pass before another inmate joins me. I keep staring at the vidscreen, wondering if he’s just in need of a place to sit.

“Mr. Michaud?”

When he says my name, I look at him. I don’t recognize him, not even a little. Why would I?

“Yes.”

The man smiles a little. He’s found what he’s looking for. “It’s good to see you out of your cell. I’ve been waiting for you.”

I wait, silent. He seems to know who I am; I won’t give him any other information until I find out who he is, what he wants. Why he’s been waiting for me.

“My name is Emile Argova. I’ve been interested in your work for quite some time. We have a common interest in the Demoted.”

I can’t tell if he’s bluffing, so I wait, keeping my face blank.

“We also share a partner in business,” he continues, like we’re in a board room instead of a prison. “Mr. Torenze has worked with my organization for many years. He mentioned a new partnership, hinted that there might be some changes in the future. I have to admit, I expected something less dramatic. The information reveal you staged makes a lot of important people look very stupid.”

“What’s your interest in my business?” I ask, still unsure of who he is.

Argova smiles at me. “I like to make sure that my industry ties stay relevant. It looks like the Miller System is about to take some hard hits. You, however… you’re a good candidate for succession. I’d like to build a relationship with you.”

It’s unnerving that he knows this much about me. I wonder if he’s working with my mother, but the fact that he’s working with Oliver makes me doubt it. They’re rivals; more importantly, they don’t usually run in the same circles. My mother’s circles are legitimate, political, governmental. Oliver’s tend to be more underground, bordering on criminal. “I’m not sure how criminal ties would improve my chances for success,” I remind him, hoping to dismiss him.

He just shakes his head. “It’s all the same in the end, Mr. Michaud. The government, my organization, your business, the Miller System. We’re all working toward the same goal. We can just help you get there faster. Set you up with a competent legal advisor, support your future negotiations. It’s good to have friends in the industry. You’ve been alone for far too long.”

I try not to frown, because what he’s saying is correct. “And what would I have to do to earn your help?”

Argova smiles at me like a kindly grandfather. “Nothing. Promoting your development is in line with our interests. The Argova family would be grateful if you would consider a relationship with us in the future, but we’re offering our support now with no strings attached. Consider it a welcome gift.”

“Welcome to what?” I ask.

“To the new future of the Demoted system.”

Chapter 4
Defense

While I become accustomed to the routine of the detention facility, I try to figure out my new protector. Sy doesn’t usually answer my questions directly, brushing me off or shaking his head, like he’s bound to some code of silence. I try to draw him out in other ways, exploring how he thinks, trying to understand him.

He’s still. He almost always is, and I envy him for his calm and ability to tolerate anything that comes his way. I’m bored, fidgety, unnerved by my utter inability to do more than think about what I will do when Cash gets me out. I’m grateful that we aren’t being forced to do hard labor or menial tasks like we did at the re-education center, but I’d rather have something to fill my time. I spend probably an hour one day debating the cost of hiring labor when there are perfectly good slaves who could be doing it. I explain in great detail to Sy how it would provide us with a sense of purpose and ownership and responsibility, and all sorts of things, and his response is simple and elegant.

“Work is a liability, Sascha. I hear some detention facilities lock the slaves up in small rooms where they can’t possibly hurt themselves. All they want is to make sure they keep you unharmed and alive to generate fines.”

He’s right, of course.

As I get to know him better, I realize that a lot of people mistake him as simple, a misconception he doesn’t bother to correct. He’s quiet, observant, and when he does talk, he doesn’t like it to be about him. I’ve pried a few pieces of information out of him, though, and they only confuse me more. He’s told me that he grew up poor, never had many hopes of succeeding, and now he’s Demoted. He says it like that’s all there is to him. He’s a bodyguard, or he was, and after displeasing his first master, he was sold to a low-level street thug who used him as an intimidating guard dog and human shield. He describes the tiny pieces of his history with as much detachment and factual accuracy as possible, and he never seems bothered, not even when I ask about the knife wounds on his stomach.

I have some knife wounds, too, but mine were from purposeful torture. They’re light cuts and grazes and slices; deep enough that they hurt and bled a lot, but not quite deep enough that I really needed stitches.

His were punishment for flinching, and from what he tells me, his went deep enough require stitches inside and outside of the wound. They were done by one of his master’s friends, with a sewing needle and some dental floss, and the closest thing to anesthesia he received was a punch in the face when he struggled. The rough dots surrounding the scars back his story up, and the thick, ridged edge makes me believe him. I am horrified when I hear the story, but he just shrugs.

“I don’t flinch anymore,” he remarks, staring off into space.

Most of the guards ignore him, as do most of the other slaves. We move around the common areas together, keeping an eye out for drama or disputes. Sy is distant from it, but not immune.

Marvin, the slave who first tried to claim me as his own, is at the center of most of the excitement that occurs. He toys with slaves and guards alike for his own amusement, and he does it with finesse. Sy tells me that Marvin is the only slave who has been here longer than he has. One of Marvin’s favorite tricks is inciting fights between slaves that have offended him, ensuring that they are whipped or sent to solitary for their actions. Somehow, he always manages to come out looking clean and innocent no matter how deep his involvement runs.

He maintains his interest in me. With the power that Marvin throws around, he could have half the men in here if he wanted them, but maybe that’s what makes me special.

We’ve been outside for maybe twenty minutes, and Marvin refuses to leave us alone, making snide comments, feigning innocence as he keeps coming closer and closer, catching the barest touch of my ass. Sy glares and moves away, but Marvin doesn’t let up. When he doesn’t get the response he wants from me, he moves on to Sy.

Unsurprisingly, Sy doesn’t respond.

“What’s the matter, big man?” Marvin teases, his face just inches from Sy’s. “Too afraid to fight back?”

Sy sets his jaw and stares ahead.

“Worn out from fucking that tight little ass all night?” Marvin continues, gesturing lewdly toward me. “I couldn’t imagine he puts up that much of a fight. Are you sure it’s not the other way around? Maybe I should start calling the pretty boy the big man, huh?”

He’s close enough that Sy must feel his breath. It angers me. If I didn’t know better, I’d say Sy wasn’t irritated, except I can feel him tense at my side.

Marvin continues his taunts, and out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of him bringing his leg up to knee Sy in the groin. My eyes widen in shock.

Sy pulls away, but shows no other response.

“Didn’t feel anything?” Marvin continues. “Maybe you don’t have anything down there!”

Sy tries to steer us away, but Marvin is a step ahead, keeping himself face-to-face with Sy and kneeing him again. The guards are either enjoying the show or Marvin is standing too close for them to notice. When I was at the re-education center, that was how my fellow slaves tormented me. A familiar sense of fury and indignation creeps through my body.

“I claimed him fairly,” Sy remind him. “You owed me. Let it go.”

“Like you let anything go!” Marvin hisses, pressing against Sy, his hand darting between the two of them. From the sharp intake of breath, whatever he’s doing is painful instead of sexual. “How many months did you hold on to that favor for? And you waste it on this fucking little pansy? Do you hold him at night while he cries? Do you like the thought of redeeming yourself before they put you down?”

It happens before I know it. I’ve never been a violent person. I’ve always used my biting sarcasm and wit to exact my revenge, but something about me has changed, something about seeing Sy hurting in place like this triggers something inside of me. Maybe it’s just finally time for me to break.

My fist moves faster than my brain, and Martin is stumbling backwards a moment later, a drop of blood showing on his lip. A look of shock crosses his face, but it is instantly replaced by a satisfied grin.

Shit. I’ve given him exactly what he wanted.

“Officer Reynolds!” he cries out, sounding pathetic and entirely too hurt. “Officer Reynolds, sir, the new slave—he just hit me!”

I look to Sy with wide eyes, terrified now that I’ve actually done something to warrant punishment. Will they whip me? Worse? I start to tremble.

“Dammit,” Sy mutters. He presses his fist to his mouth. He seems to be thinking very hard, but I can’t imagine any way he could help me.

Bulldog and Lanza come over, and Bulldog has the most gleeful look on his face.

“Officer Lanza, remind everyone what the punishment is for fighting?” Bulldog asks, smiling into my face.

“Twenty lashes,” Lanza replies dutifully. At least he doesn’t look happy about it. “Come on, Sascha.”

“That’s not necessary, sir,” Sy says quietly. His body is turned squarely to face the two guards, and his head is inclined toward them, but his eyes are downcast. Perfectly submissive. “It wasn’t him who did it. Marvin was mistaken, sirs.”

“Bullshit! That little fuck hit me!” Marvin protests. “Split my lip open!”

“Stop trying to cover for your toy,” Bulldog snaps. “Or I’ll make sure he stays far away from you.”