Sedition (9 page)

I nod, because I believe him. I might not be completely invested in this project, but I’m willing to give it a try. “I’ll be more careful.”

“I hope so,” he says, looking sad. “I don’t want it to happen again.”

I nod, resting my head against his shoulder. For once, he doesn’t seem to mind, and for a moment, I wonder if this is really what human interaction can feel like. It feels good.

Chapter 8
Merger

It’s amazing how quickly things go back to the way they had been.

Except it’s different; we’re both on the same page. The incident with Torenze and the confessions from Cash have thoroughly disillusioned me in a number of ways, but I think it’s better. I know what I’m facing, so there’s less to fear. I can evaluate things logically instead of doing whatever scares me the least.

I’m still not sure if I want to be Cash’s partner in this venture, but I appreciate that he’s letting me try, and I enjoy the sex we’re having again, as regularly as before.

That first night was a little underhanded on Cash’s part. I was vulnerable, and he was demanding, but I did want to have sex with him, The underhanded nature of it didn’t even start to hit me until I was drifting off to sleep in my bed, my master beside me, and by then, it didn’t seem to matter. He didn’t ask me to come back to his bedroom, but he didn’t leave mine, either. I suppose it was a compromise. My master deals in business mergers, and everything that we discussed that night seemed like part of our own private merger. A part wonders if he really will sell me if I decline his offer. I wonder if he’d go beyond that, if he’d have me “put down” like an animal, but I doubt it. He’s never hesitated to threaten me before. I could see him selling me, locking me away, but if he was really concerned about security, he would have eliminated me already. As I find out more about his plans and research and goals, I become more invested.

Cash’s project has some humanitarian gains: the training process has grown more violent throughout the years, more destructive, and that’s an area where real progress can be made. It ignites the tiny spark of hope that I think every slave has, that maybe things won’t be this bad forever. And even if they are, at least I get to join the research that seeks to prove otherwise. I feel like I’m doing something worthwhile for once, really worthwhile, more than just helping my master. I’m careful with how close we get, and I’m careful with the sex. If I let myself think that he cares about me more than just a business and casual sex partner, he can hurt me again, humiliate me, devastate me. I can’t let that happen again. I move my things back into his bedroom, because I spend so many nights there. We fall into patterns, traditions, jokes, habits. On busy mornings, I brush my teeth while he combs his hair, but I do my best to keep distance between us, even if it’s a false distance. Sometimes I sleep in my room, alone, whether it’s for a midday nap or all night. A few times, I even turn him down for sex, just because I can, and just because I like the feeling of it.

The first time he looks startled, gives me this goddamned sad puppy dog look, but he doesn’t fight me. The second time he just accepts it, and that’s almost more disturbing. The third time, when he comes home from work and finds me in my bedroom and asks if I want to join him, I shrug, looking at my tablet to hide the desire I’m feeling for him.

“I think I’m okay in here for the night,” I mumble, wishing I could at least sound firm and assertive about it.

He looks at me for a moment, a little confused, and then he walks in, depositing himself on the bed next to me.

I wait, a little nervous, wondering what he’s going to do. To rape me after all this time would be counterproductive at best, and the thought is ridiculous enough to calm me down a little bit.

“Sascha, are you playing hard to get, or do you really not want to come to bed with me tonight?” he asks, sounding frustrated.

“I’m just not in the mood,” I reply, lying, because he’s kind of hot sitting here at my mercy. It sounds weird to admit that I’m testing him because I can and because I want to prove it to myself that I’m right.

Cash sighs. “Is it something I’ve done to upset you?” he asks, frowning.

I’m amused that he would think that I’d keep sex from him as a weapon, although it’s a good one to have in my arsenal. “No. I’m just not feeling it.” That’s a little closer to the truth.

He’s quiet for a minute, puzzling over this revelation. To be fair, I’m usually aching for sex, it must be a surprise to think that I’m suddenly not interested.

“Okay,” he says, looking no less puzzled. “Would you tell me if it was something that I did?”

I need a moment to think about this one, because such a scenario has never crossed my mind. I am still his slave, I shouldn’t be manipulating him. I wouldn’t have any right to do that, even if I do have the right to refuse him sex. Even if he’s
given
me the right to refuse him sex. It’s an important distinction to keep in mind.

“I’d rather you tell me than try to sabotage things,” he says, the words coming out as more of an order than a preference. “It still stands that you can say no whenever you’d like, but if you’re doing it to get back at me for something, you need to tell me what I’ve done that’s made you act this way. I’m doing my best to keep you informed; I’d appreciate it if you give me the same courtesy.”

He’s not trying to be demeaning or shaming, but I do feel ashamed. I’m treating this as a game, a test to see if he can pass without knowing the rules, and he’s seriously concerned about my happiness. “It’s nothing you did,” I mutter. I go for a lie, because I can’t bring myself to tell him the truth, that I don’t completely trust him, that I’m testing him. “I’m just not feeling that well tonight. My stomach’s kind of upset, but I didn’t want to bother you with it.”

“Oh,” he says, suddenly looking relieved, but also worried. “Well, can I get you anything? I don’t want you to be in pain.”

I smile, feeling even more guilty about the white lie. “I’ll be fine,” I promise him. “I just… I kind of want to just let it pass, you know?” What I really want to let pass is my bizarre insistence on pushing him.

“Of course,” he replies, moving to stand up.

I grab his hand, smiling as I feel the warmth in my own. “Cash?” I ask, drawing his eyes to mine again. “Would you really want me to tell you if you’ve done something that makes me uncomfortable?”

“Yes,” he answers instantly. “Sascha, you’re not just a dumb slave that I keep around for cooking and cleaning. You’re not even just a wonderful bed partner, although, trust me, you are that. You might end up being my partner in research, or even in crime, and it’s vital that we both be as honest as possible about how things are going. I made a mistake in not telling you about it sooner, and I don’t intend to make that mistake again. It was stupid and risky for both of us. However, I can’t have you keeping things from me, either. I’m willing to trust you with a lot, Sascha; I hope that the courtesy gets extended both ways.”

I squeeze his hand. “I’ll tell you if you do something that bothers me,” I promise. I’m not lying to him; he hasn’t done anything to upset me at all. I’m upset by being a slave. I’m testing him because a slave should expect his master to demand sex, not because he has ever demanded it from me.

He believes me, which doesn’t make me feel any better. He doesn’t push the issue.

“Get some rest,” he says softly, walking to the door. “I hope you feel better in the morning.”

It’s moments like this that make me start to trust him. He is still cold and hard as ice sometimes, and if I interrupt him, he’s quick to snap or correct me. I work to be less sensitive to it, especially after observing him on a video call with one of his associates. He cuts the person down with as much viciousness as he does me, but the business associate doesn’t cower and hide, he corrects himself, corrects Cash where he has misconceptions, and moves on. I think back to the times when Cash and I have engaged similarly, and I realize he does respond better to a fight than to sheer submission. He’s looking for someone to meet him at his level.

I try to, while still being respectful enough as a slave. It’s a fine line, but I start to understand the boundaries quickly, and it becomes clear that he won’t hurt me for disagreeing with him, or even for arguing with him. He gets particularly demeaning when he’s tired, and one day, I dare to remind him that he’s the one who asked for my help, not the other way around. I tell him further that his treatment isn’t making me any more likely to get things done well. He bristles, but he doesn’t retaliate, and he approaches me next time with a bit more respect in his tone. We both need to be reined in at times.

We work best when we’re slightly at odds, each one challenging the other and pushing toward perfection. Worries of pushing too far and ending up sold start to slip from my mind, and the familiar fun of rivalry comes back to me. I was coerced onto the debate team as a student, and despite being antisocial and outperforming everyone else, it was nice to have someone to play the game with. It’s still is. Even when I lose the debates, I am pleased to butt heads with someone on an academic level. Sometimes I can even forget, just for a minute or two, that I’m a slave, and he has every right to beat me or sell me or kill me as he does to respond politely to my questions. As much as I spend my time and effort testing and feeling Cash out, sometimes in hurtful little ways, just to see what he’ll do, he seems to be putting up as much effort as possible treating me decently. He is as quick as ever to correct or criticize me, but he can take what he gives out, and he’s never as dismissive as he used to be. I appreciate it, just like I appreciate the way that he is starting to thaw a little bit. He needs a business partner; I need to feel human again.

We’re watching the vidscreen one day, a rare occurrence, since both of us usually prefer to read or browse information on our tablets. But one of us flicks it on, and the other comes along and joins, and for a second, I start to fantasize about what it would be like if we were something different, if we were just friends watching the news together. I never really had many friends, but I think that’s what they do, and I think I’d enjoy something like that.

A special comes on the vidscreen about Assessment season, dramatizing all of the associated stories that pop up every year. As usual, there are riots in two or three radical towns, a few reports of a suspected cheating scandal, numerous debates on current politics and next year’s prospective officials and what their views are on it. Should the Assessment score cutoff be raised higher, to create more stringent standards, or lowered, since population control is so successful? Can re-education center budgets be cut to free up more funding for college education?

So many free people, fighting about the lives of people that they don’t even give the benefit of personhood. It’s been four years since I was part of that free people group. I hate being reminded of it, and I get up, all of the happy fantasies I was entertaining just a moment ago effectively spoiled.

I storm into the bedroom that Cash and I share on most nights, flopping into his bed and curling into a ball. A part of me wants to cry, but I’ve promised myself that I am over this already. I berate myself for feeling so miserable when everything is going well. I try not to think of myself as a stupid, ungrateful slave, but that’s what I am. So I lie in bad, curled up like a bug, and feeling about as small.

For once, the sound of my master approaching and the sensation of his weight depressing the bed next to me don’t inspire arousal or trepidation, just a dull acceptance. I feel like all the effort I put into caring has gone to waste, and I may as well have just attracted him from the start by spreading my legs and opening my mouth for him to fuck. Nothing else I’ve done matters, because I’m a slave, and nothing that slaves do matter. I made one meaningful decision regarding my own freedom, and while it may have saved my brother, it has destroyed me.

“Four years, right?” Cash says softly. He’s sitting close, but he doesn’t touch me, which I appreciate. “Hell of an anniversary.”

I don’t answer. I can’t. I just lie here.

“Sascha, you know you’re different,” Cash says, and it takes me a moment to process the sentence as something kind, a compliment, an affirmative statement. I know him well enough to trust that he’s not just saying nice words; if he’s saying it, he means it, and he wants me to know it.

I still doubt it. I huff, still unable to speak, unwilling to put that much effort into it. Why bother arguing or even looking at him?

Effort be damned; Cash grabs me firmly by the arm and wrenches me around, forcing me to lie on my back while he sits above me, his eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Regardless of whether you’re free or Demoted, you are extremely bright and capable,” Cash says firmly. He doesn’t order me to believe it, because he doesn’t need to. “You learn amazingly fast. You’ve mastered my business paperwork better in the past six months than I have in years, and you can be good with people when you want to be. You know all of these things, and you know there is still plenty left for you to do.”

A part of me immediately agrees, because that’s what I’ve been conditioned to do, but another part of me rebels, scowling at him. “You just want me to agree to help me with your research.”

“I do, but I know you’re interested in it, too,” he reminds me. I hate that he’s right. “Don’t be so hard on yourself for something that happened years ago. You’re not dead; you have years left to rectify things.”

“You don’t even know what I did, how can you say that? I made the worst decision of my life.”

Cash rolls his eyes. “You’re talking to someone who got wrapped up in treason accusations and nearly destroyed years of research. I don’t think you had time to make a decision of that magnitude by the time you were up for the Assessment.”

I manage a weak smile, because Cash is trying. His dry jokes have become familiar by now, if his willingness to talk isn’t. I consider telling him my secret, the one I’ve held close in spite of everything else. Could it hurt anything? It could, and I realize it the moment I open my mouth. “I took bets with some people that I could pass the Assessment high,” I mumble, the shame of lying hopefully covered up by the fact that doing such a thing would be worthy of shame in and of itself. “I thought I was so smart, it didn’t matter what I did, I’d still do well. I didn’t even finish my Assessment.”