Succession (9 page)

I frown at the thought of being on a “team” with Oliver. He is my business partner out of necessity, but he’s talking like we’re about to take on the world. Like he hasn’t abandoned me here while exploiting my slave.

“I’ve already made legal arrangements. I’m just in prison. I’m not dead.”

The look on his face reveals his surprise and annoyance. It doesn’t make me trust him any less than I already do. Argova is a relative stranger, but that still puts him in a more trustworthy position than Oliver. Argova has never tortured me or mine.

“Well, if you think that’s wise,” Oliver says, clearly disapproving. “I assumed you needed my support.”

I can’t burn bridges with him just yet. He has our data, and he knows far too much about our project. “I do. I appreciate it, I just moved on this as quickly as possible. Your public support will be vital to making this work out, and I’ll need someone to post bail.”

Oliver shakes his head. “Try not to look like you hate me when you say it,” he advises, standing up. “Sascha played his part far better. I do look forward to seeing him again.”

Always, Oliver has to get the last dig in, but I can see he’s still in my corner. He can stay there until I’m finished with him.

I don’t even have a chance to leave the visiting room before the guard announces that my lawyer has arrived. I just told Oliver I have arranged for my own lawyer; if this is one he hired, I won’t risk speaking to her. An older woman comes in, eyeing me up as I sit there, cuffed.

“Hello Mr. Michaud,” she says, sitting across from me and pulling out a tablet. “My name is Adele Edson.”

“Hello.”

She studies me for a moment. “Mr. Argova said you needed assistance. I rearranged my schedule to consult with you. Have I been misinformed?”

“No. I apologize. It’s nice to meet you.” I watch her, trying to figure out what she’s doing, why she’s interested. It’s been so long that I’ve trusted anyone, and she’s as much of a stranger as Argova.

“I’ve been in the industry since I started my career; I know all the players. Some, like Ms. Miller, are well-known. Others are a bit more behind the scenes. And then there’s you. You took us all by surprise.”

I nod, welcoming her introduction. I don’t know her well enough to trust her, but in her line of work, I would imagine that trust is hard to come by.

“The data you released set off quite a movement. When this first broke, you were just a villain. But things have changed. You’ve become a household name, a popular topic. You’re being set up as a victim of a corrupt system, the perfect symbol of change, of meeting the demands of the new generation. You’re a martyr, a whistleblower.”

“And what does that do for me?” I ask. I assume it’s what’s kept me alive so far, but I’m not sure whether I’m being kept alive for good, or for the right time to arise to execute me.

“Hopefully, it gets you out of prison and keeps you out,” Edson suggests. “For now, the state wants you out of the way. You caught them by surprise; right as your story was moving from tabloids to reputable news venues, you were having your house raided, getting arrested. You couldn’t have staged it more perfectly if you and Ms. Miller had actually coordinated it in advance, except you’ve exposed her errors. I’ve run up against her before. She would never have approved of something so detrimental to her business.”

I nod in agreement. It seems she does know my mother, or at least knows of her. “I’m assuming I’ve caused a national commotion.”

“International,” Edson corrects. “The Miller System’s foreign supporters aren’t too pleased.”

As twisted as it is, it makes me smile. Sascha was smart to release the information like he did, when he did. It makes it look like Kristine tried to frame me for exposing her system. Of course, Sascha would have made it work perfectly. He makes everything work perfectly.

“So they want me out of the spotlight.”

“Yes,” Edson confirms. “Dampen your effect a little bit. Make everyone forget you. Not to mention give them time to gather any additional evidence against you. Which leaves me plenty of time to gather information about your case.”

“They won’t forget, though,” I theorize. “This is big. As much as they’re trying to keep it out of the media, it creeps in. I’ve heard the inmates here talking about it. Everyone has to know.”

“Yes, and we’ll make sure that they don’t forget,” Edson says, a smile spreading across her face.

“Publicity? That really requires me to be out of prison.”

“It will happen,” Edson promises. “Your bail hearing has been set for a few weeks from now. They’ll set bail; the public won’t stand for it if they don’t. With what you’ve done already, there are riots, protests, unrest. The attention of the nation is focused on you—if your imprisonment continues, it will add fuel to that fire. With the data you released, you’re being viewed as a hero, a revolutionary. With the raid and all, you responded like you did as an act of desperation. It fits, all of it, and it fits perfectly. I was quite happy when our mutual friend sent me your case.”

I nod. This would be a career making case. But I know that’s not enough for most professionals to take the risk that Edson is taking. Fighting the Miller System is stupid. Fighting the government that supports the Miller System is worse. It’s why my own lawyer bailed. “I assume you want more than fame?”

Edson smiles. “You’ll pay me a significant amount of money,” she says. “And, if things go well, we’ll be in a position to make other arrangements in the future.”

She’s talking about Argova. His cut, his demands that I consider working with him. She’s not threatening, she’s just moving forward as if it’s assumed.

“And if I’m not interested in future arrangements?”

Edson lets out a slight laugh. “I’m certain you will be. You’re a slaveowner, a businessman, a compliant citizen, perfectly attuned to the way our world works. You can’t just dump a bunch of research and then retreat. Do you really think the state would let you do that?”

Honestly, I haven’t known what to think. She’s making it sound political, like the state might have a vested interest in my involvement. It makes sense; I know my mother’s connections run deep, and they run high.

“I’m not really into politics,” I start, trying to exit before this even gets off the ground.

“You are, now,” Edson says. “Or at least, you’re connected. Are you going to fight it, or are you going to make the best of it?”

I think of Argova’s advice, his statement that we are all working toward the same goal. I think of my mother’s backroom meetings with politicians, judges, sponsors. When she still wanted me to be her prodigal son, she let me attend some of those meetings, just a taste. I was too self-centered at the time to pay much attention back then, but I always knew she was in deep. The Miller System was a private company, so it was acceptable for outside interests to support it. Our proud nation, Nitorra, adopted the Miller System, which didn’t interfere with that at all.

“I suppose I made that choice when I released the data.” More accurately, when Sascha released the data. I never intended to get political with this.

The lawyer nods. “You put the truth above your own safety. Without that, they might have just locked you away without a thought, but this will be a trial heavily influenced by public opinion.”

No matter what my intentions were when I set out with this research, it is political now. And it isn’t about money, or research, or even changing the face of the Demoted system. It’s about keeping myself and Sascha safe. The only way we can even try to come out of this unscathed is to go with it, full force, to play our roles like wanted this all along. And we have to pretend that we’re doing it for the sake of the Demoted system, for the sake of the nation.

“We can use that,” It’s what I’ve been doing already, building my image, buying Sascha, attending the right events. I just need to make it a lot more public.

“Yes we can. And we’ll need to. We need to make you more of an asset than a threat.”

Chapter 8
Retrieved

A week after his visitor arrived, Sy has interviewed a few men to take care of me, and I feel the impending threat of his absence looming. I try not to pout, because he is helping me, but I can’t stand the thought of being here without him. I can’t even think of what his penalties will be for keeping my secrets, but I know. When I ask him about it, he just shakes his head, changing the subject. He is determined to protect me, even from that.

Bulldog interrupts my sadness, and he doesn’t sound too pleased.

“Pretty boy, get your ass over here!” he snaps. “Make it quick.”

I glance at Sy before getting up, and we walk over to our least favorite guard together.

Bulldog gives Sy a shove. “Fuck off, mountain man, the kid can come with me.”

Lanza joins us. “Syrus, you come with me. I have something to talk to you about.”

Lanza takes Sy in one direction, and I am taken by Bulldog in the other. He leads me out of the locked area, a door that I haven’t gone through since I was brought here, just over five weeks ago. Five weeks and two days, to be exact. I grow increasingly nervous as we walk.

“Sascha.”

Everything in my world collides and collapses. The hopes and dreams and fantasies that my master would come and rescue me—all of a sudden, it all comes true, and Cash is standing there, looking almost exactly as he did when I last saw him on Kristine Miller’s tablet being arrested. He’s wearing the same outfit, even. His hair is longer, and he looks exhausted, but it’s my master.

I go to run toward him, but am held back by Bulldog’s death grip. I struggle, desperate to get back to Cash.

“If you so much as scratch him I will have your job and ruin any hopes of happiness you’ve ever entertained.”

Cash doesn’t even raise his voice to make the threat, and somehow that makes him even more threatening. I shiver, forgetting how intimidating the man can be. I stare at him in awe.

He strides toward us, his somewhat disheveled appearance still managing to look sort of regal, especially in comparison to my jumpsuit or Bulldog’s uniform. His outfit is wrinkled, courtesy of a few months in storage, and the unruly, overgrown hairstyle gives him a playful edge. I hope I get the chance to play with it before he cuts it back to his typical orderly style.

He glares at the officer’s arm as if it’s a separate tool, not part of a human, and certainly not something that should be touching his slave.

“Remove your hand from my property this instant,” Cash growls, and the minute Bulldog complies, I run to him, pressing close.

I don’t care if I look like a lost child in a shopping center, or a weak, pathetic slave who can’t stand not touching his master. All I want to do is feel Cash wrap his arms around me and promise me that everything will be okay.

I may have spent a little too much time fantasizing about this moment in the past few weeks, because that is something that Cash would pretty much never do in public.

I’m surprised when he caresses my head for a few seconds, pulling me close before grabbing me firmly by both shoulders and pushing me away.

“Sascha, are you all right?” he asks, his expression intense.

God, I missed looking into those deep, dark eyes. The way they bore into me, demanding every part of me. The way his hands feel, his fingers, every part of his body that I know so well.

The way his face quickly goes from concerned to impatient when I become too lost in his eyes and hands and body to respond.

“Yes, master,” I mumble.

“Did they hurt you?” he demands, severe. “Any of them?”

How do I answer that? They didn’t, really. If Sy hadn’t been there, I would have been hurt, many times, by numerous people. He was using me—probably still is—but he’s kept me as safe as possible. I’ve been terrified and cold and hungry and lonely, but that’s not what Cash is asking.

Cash doesn’t take his hands off me, but he glares in Bulldog’s direction.

“I will need a private room to inspect my slave before signing any sort of release forms to bring him home,” he demands, his tone as cold and condescending as if he were talking to a slave.

“We don’t usually give private rooms like that,” Bulldog complains.

“Did I ask what you usually do?” Cash snaps. “I told you, I will need a private room. Or should I assume there is a reason you would rather not let me look over my slave?”

Bulldog grumbles something, but he waves us toward one of the offices, similar to the ones that he and Lanza first terrified me in. He stands in the doorway, like he’s going to watch.

“By ‘private,’ I mean without an audience,” Cash snaps, glaring until the door closes and we are alone.

The relief makes me start to tremble. It always happens like this, all the fear and terror and anxiety just builds up until I’m safe. I try to fight it, because maybe I’m not safe, I’m still not home, maybe Cash just came to visit—

“Sascha, it’s okay.” Cash does have his arms around me now, just like I imagined it so many times. “It’s okay. I’m sorry it took so long for me to come for you. I never thought it would have taken this long. Five goddamned weeks. I’m so sorry you had to go through this.”

I lean into his arms, feeling his lips brush against my neck. I don’t care that I’m wearing a jumpsuit that’s on its second day of wear, I don’t care that the soap here smells like chemicals, all I care about is that he’s here with me, and he’s not letting me go.

After a few moments, I feel my heart rate stabilize again, and Cash must notice that I’ve calmed down, because he turns me gently so I can look at him.

“Did they hurt you?” he demands again, softer this time.

“Not really,” I manage to answer like a human being instead of a scared animal. “I was scared a lot, and I had to do things, but no. Nobody hurt me.”

Cash nods, even though he looks unhappy about it. “Sascha, didn’t they feed you?”

I flush, aware of how much thinner I’ve grown. “I don’t like the food here.” I don’t mention that I regularly passed half of my meals to Sy. I don’t even know how to start telling Cash about him; he was my protector, but he’s also a threat. I’m not sure how my master will react, and I’m even less sure if this room is secure enough to discuss such things.