The Academy (35 page)

The army of service slaves were all in black, unrelieved by color. The slender ones wore tight bodysuits; those who would not be improved by such a garment wore a nondescript yukata. All of them were covered, though, their duty to disappear.

Michael gave his name to a slave, who guided him to a table where he was seated next to Paul Sheridan. Paul was in a Naval officer’s white dress uniform tonight, and it looked good on him. He introduced Michael to Joost de Graaf, the good-looking, light-skinned black man sitting next to him. “He’s from Amsterdam,” Paul said with a smile. Joost, who had ignored Michael the first time they met, back when he had been hanging out with Ken Mandarin, seemed far more friendly now. He was dressed in a white linen suit, which contrasted beautifully with his cafe au lait skin and looked wonderfully tropical next to Paul’s severe uniform. “This is my country’s formal wear,” Joost laughed, brushing invisible dust from his jacket with his long, slender fingers.

Chucking at Michael’s grin of confusion, Joost explained, “I am from Suriname, ja?” They chatted for a few minutes, and Michael realized that he had never even heard of the country formerly known as Dutch Guyana, and certainly never imagined that Amsterdam had a population of dark-skinned, Dutch-speaking “natives.”

“Suriname is a most beautiful country,” Joost said, carefully, accentuating his words precisely. “Tropical and lush. But difficult for this trade. Amsterdam is much, much better.”

The three men started to compare experiences with and rumors about the large Amsterdam auction houses. But as the Japanese trainers came in, conversation stilled, gradually spreading silence throughout the entire room. They were all wearing the kind of kimono that Michael had seen Chris dressed in, and in fact, it looked like most of the Asian members were wearing their national clothing over more western styles. He was fascinated by the sight of Kim in what looked like a long, colorful gown topped with an extremely short jacket. But Ken Mandarin took his breath away.

Tonight, she was not wearing masculine costume, but a long, impossibly tight cheongsam, the Chinese dress that had become the preferred style for millions of Asian women. It was slit up the side, almost to her hip. And it was a work of art! A rich pattern of bamboo shoots rose up from the bottom almost to her thighs, where the deep green and browns gave way to a gradual night sky, with blue and purple fading into black, and a moon hiding behind clouds on one shoulder. As she turned to greet someone, Michael grinned when he saw that crouched in the bamboo at the back of the dress was a tiger, mostly hidden, but his orange stripes and bright eyes showing in flashes of bright color.

Paul whistled through his teeth. “You know, if I went for girls,” he said with a grin.

“I do,” Michael laughed.

“Oh, ya,” Joost almost purred.

“More’s the pity for you two, then!” Paul laughed too, and as Ken got closer to them, Michael realized that she was being escorted to their table. He rose, biting his lip.

“Fantastic as usual,” Paul said, saluting her. “You always know exactly what to wear!”

She smiled at him, pleased. “But you, you with this white uniform, how charming you are! Much more interesting than all the black leather. Joost, you pretty man, where have you been hiding? And look, here is the wild dog, the dingo.”

Michael snorted. “Why, thank you for the nickname, ma’am,” he said.

She laughed and sat casually in her held chair, the men following her. Joost leaned over to tell her about his meeting with the South American trainers earlier in the day. Their table quickly filled with two people from Australia, a rough-looking, fair-eyed and gray-haired woman named Fi and a dark-skinned man who had straight black hair and Asian eyes. He introduced himself as Juan Matalino, and he turned out to be from the Philippines, relocated to Sydney.

“But where is your teacher?” Ken asked of Michael as the last seat was filled.

Michael repressed a grin and pointed. Ken followed his finger across the room to where the Japanese were being seated, and her eyes widened. Then she muttered something that made Mr. Matalino and Joost cough into their napkins.

“You know,” Ken suddenly grinned, “when I say such things in America, or Egypt or England, no one understands me. I must remember that here I am among those who might.”

“Really, Ken,” Juan said, shaking his head. “His mother and his sister?”

“And brother, too!” she said defiantly. And then she reconsidered. “Well—perhaps not his brother.”

Paul laughed. “If it’s kinky, then sure, throw him in. Because Ron Avidan is a major kinkster.”

Michael blinked. “Avidan? But—I didn’t know they had different last names.”

“Listen, I don’t think half of us here have the names we were born with,” said Paul, sitting back and watching as large, shining carts were rolled into the room. “Nature of the business. You don’t get here by staying the same person you were when you were a kid.”

“That is true,” said Ken, choosing a wine from the selection arrayed for her pleasure. Michael was grateful to see that there was also beer, and he had an ice cold one sitting in front of him before he even finished nodding. “Many of my slaves changed and lost many names before they found me.”

“It’s not just the slaves, though,” said Fi, after softly making a special request of a server. “Lots of us just want to make sure that mum and da back home don’t look us up at the wrong time! Can’t have the nephews come over for a dip in the pool when you’ve got a different kind of party goin’ on.” She cackled and grinned when a bottle of Victoria Bitter was brought out for her on a mirrored tray. “Bless the little details,” she said.

Paul nodded. “Between the real names, the married names, the scene names, and the Marketplace names, sometimes I need two Rolodex cards for one person,” he said. “And what’s worse is that I finally got my new computer and modem hooked up, and now I have e-mail names, too!”

“E-mail is a wonderful thing!” Ken declared. “I have many computer names, now. Andy keeps my records anyway, he tells me who I am when reading and who I am when I am answering.” She laughed. “You must all give me your e-mail, so I can send you amusing stories and pictures of all the beautiful slaves I find.”

“Bloody mess, all this Internet rot,” Fi grumbled. “Spend more time sittin’ in front of the damn screen than out lookin’ at folks, sometimes!”

“Join the Twentieth Century,” laughed Paul.

“Yes, join we forward-looking people,” Ken echoed. “Michael, you have e-mail, correct?”

“I did when I lived on the West Coast,” Michael said, “but right now, the only access I have is through the Marketplace BBS. Chris doesn’t even have his own access code, he uses Anderson’s. Eliot and Selador are pretty hooked in, though, both on the BBS and out there on one or two of the big commercial providers. I’ve tried to tell Chris about some of the stuff out there, discussions and live chat and everything, but he doesn’t think it’ll amount to much. I don’t think he’s looking forward to having auctions advertised on the ’net, let alone this idea of catalogs on web pages.”

Ken looked scandalized. “No wonder he is wearing some old clothes tonight,” she scoffed. “He is—what is the word—he hates the future?”Luckily, before anyone could provide a word that Michael might consider an insult, Paul leaned his arm over the back his chair as slaves industriously unfolded and arranged great silver carts arrayed all over the room. “Now—what do you think they’re doing with those things?”

The devices were scattered throughout the room, one for every three or four tables. Slaves took up positions next to them and bowed to incoming chefs, who bowed to the tables surrounding their positions and ceremoniously took up a pair of knives.

“It is teppanyaki,” declared Ken. “Excellent, I was getting weary of sushi.”

“Like at Benihana?” Michael raised an eyebrow as he accepted an exquisitely arranged tiny platter of fresh and pickled vegetables.

“Boy are you lucky Chris isn’t here to smack you for that one,” Paul said genially. “This is like some Americanized chain restaurant like Monaco is like Las Vegas.”

Michael shut his mouth as the dinner was served. The chefs were in fact not much like the somewhat tired but showy men he had seen the last time he was dragged out for “Japanese steak.” They were acrobatic with their knives, yes, but didn’t rely on tricks like banging things loudly to startle the diners. And even though he had been very good about accepting the variety of raw seafood available to him on this trip, the sight of still living shrimp hitting the grills and actually wriggling for a moment was a little troubling.

And when a server gave him what looked like one slender cut of really rare meat, sliced into a three-section fan onto a special little plate and bowed with a flourish, he raised an eyebrow to his table, afraid to ask.

“Kobe beef,” Ken purred. “Do not even chew. It is like heaven.”

“Massaged and fed beer all day, that’s the life for a cow, huh?” Fi said, shamelessly requesting another serving. “You have to hand it to the Japanese—they know how to live it up.”

Ken shrugged. “They live in houses smaller than a cat’s eyebrow. They work more hours than almost anyone, oui? If they find that massaging cows is what makes them happy—” she shrugged again. But ate the slices of beef slowly.

Michael ate in silence, mostly, afraid to open his mouth again. The tender, fat-laced beef did indeed melt on his tongue, and he almost groaned in pleasure. But when Fi brought up the afternoon debates, he cautiously raised his eyes.

“I tell you, it’s a tough one for me,” she said thoughtfully. “I understand what Parker’s saying, and I agree—somewhat. But I figured I was gonna vote against it, because, well, I don’t like being managed, you know?”

“I know,” sighed Ken.

“But now—I dunno. I have to think some more.”

Ken snorted in frustration and neatly decapitated some of the shrimp that were brought to her at her special request with their heads intact. (Michael had preferred his naked of all reminders that they had been in swimming shape before being grilled alive.) “It is an awkward thing, when one who is your ally arranges to embarrass one, that is true.”

“Well, I warned you, Ken,” said Paul. “But really, we’re not allies as much as we’re coincidentally on the same side. We don’t have to take responsibility for what he said.”

“We do not? I disagree. I choose my friends. I choose my politics.” She ate one of the heads thoughtfully. “Right now, I am considering my choices.”

“Excuse me,” Michael dared. “But—I thought that maybe Geoff got a little strong in some language—but—what was the big deal? I mean there have been three debates over this, hasn’t everything been said a dozen times now?”

Matalino looked surprised. “No one suggested that we are better than the clients, the slaves, before today,” he said.

“Did Geoff?” Michael asked. “I don’t remember him saying that.”

“He said that we were trainers, not slaves,” Paul prompted. “He implied that because we are trainers—and spotters, I suppose—that we didn’t deserve to be treated like slaves. And Mike—that was fucking out of line. I understand what his point was—the old-fashioned ways of training trainers aren’t for everyone. But he insulted every former and current slave in that room. By saying that old-fashioned training is abuse and some people don’t deserve abuse—do you see where that goes? That somehow, the slaves deserve to be abused. Idiot.” He shook his head angrily and stabbed at the last piece of beef on his plate. “And I guess Ken is right, if it looks like we’re on his side, that we let him talk for us, then we’re fucked, too.”

“Current slaves? There—there are trainers here now who are—really slaves? Right now, in service?”

“Always,” said Ken strongly. “There are always slaves among us. Once, more than half of all trainers were themselves owned. Now there are fewer, yes, but they are here.”

Michael thought about his next question carefully. “But how can you tell?” he asked finally. “Everyone is so dressed up, no one seems to be wearing a collar. And although some of the junior trainers respond like slaves—when they’re being good,” he added with a grin, “I don’t think I’ve met one who said that they are in service and owned.”

“We are first trainers and spotters here, not masters and slaves,” Ken said indignantly.

“But sometimes they forget,” laughed Fi. “They’re still talkin’ about the year that Andorjan, that Hungarian fellow, told Nelka to fetch him a drink and then put her mouth to proper use between his legs. By God, she nearly ripped his lungs out.”

“You mean it’s like a secret?” Michael asked.

“No, it can’t be a secret,” Paul answered. “After all, we can all look up sales records. But think about it—lots of trainers are former slaves, whether they’re old guard or not. Spotters, too. Nowadays, some large houses own their own trainers, and then there are owners who like to own and then lease a trainer to other owners. Not to mention trainers who are just so happy being slaves that the only way to keep ’em is to keep ’em collared.” He laughed and shook his head with a shrug. “But it’s—impolite—to mention someone’s status as owned or not when we’re together. You know.”

“It is simply not done,” said Joost firmly. “We already operate on formal manners to try and keep the peace together; imagine how complicated it would be if we had to consider the rankings of slaves as well? When the Academy gathers, we are all trainers and spotters, and we have status based on what we do, not who we might belong to and what we might do in private.”

Paul nodded. “So when Negel said that the old training styles were abusive and cruel and that we—the trainers—didn’t deserve to be treated that way—well—he dissed a lot of important people, Mike.”

“More importantly, he—dissed? He dissed many good people,” Ken said. She worked her mouth carefully around the slang word. “Dissed. He disses? They diss? I don’t like that word, it sounds stupid.”

Michael tried to control his urge to look around the room and try to figure out who might be a slave and who used to be one. But apparently something gave him away, and Paul clapped him on the back. “We are not telling you a thing, Mike. And neither will Chris.”