The Slave (32 page)

They were essays of a sort. From the
language, she guessed that he had written them. They were about
dominance and submission, slaves and owners, and the rewards and
limitations of those roles and that kind of life. They were
abstract, speaking generally as opposed to specifically, but they
were filled with personal observations that were almost poetic in
their clarity.

Chris had been a slave once, Robin was now
sure of it. It was so... classic. He had completed the great
journey, gone from apprentice to mastery. That was where he learned
all of the things he knew, that was how he so easily slipped into a
service attitude from time to time. Flashes came to her, the sweep
of his arm as he poured a drink for Dr. Emil, the quiet and firm
acceptance of a responsibility thrust onto him, the way he held his
body when offering a robe or a coat.

How wonderful! How exciting! It was just
like one of her favorite books. He would watch her being sold and
remember that same feeling in himself, and experience an emotional
flashback, something dangerous and thrilling and a little sad. And
then he would go back to his life, training more slaves, and
helping them on their journeys.

It’s so romantic. So melodramatic.

And it was so hard to believe that tomorrow
evening, she would be a commodity, displayed and bid upon like all
the artwork and antiques and collectibles she had handled in her
years as a buyer and appraiser.

She leapt for the door when he arrived, and
took his jacket. “It’s cold as hell out there,” he said, heading
for the living room. “It will probably snow tomorrow.”

“
Oh! Will that affect the
sale?”

“
No, not in the slightest. You’re
still on. Make some tea and come look at your contract.”

The contract! He took the leather briefcase
he had been carrying and opened it on the coffee table. Robin made
the quickest cup of tea in her life and rushed to her accustomed
place on the carpet.

“
It’s a two-year contract,” Chris
said, sipping gingerly. “I know you wanted three, but you can
always renew in favorable conditions. I’ve included all of the
standard clauses we’ve discussed. You must read it all, very
carefully, and allow the weight of it to sink in. And then you will
sign it, and date it today.”

Because it was her last day of
freedom, she knew, taking the heavy sheets of paper into her
hands.
Tomorrow, I’ll be considered a slave, and slaves don’t sign
contracts.

The pages rustled when her hands shook.

Well, it was all there. The language wasn’t
as difficult as legalese could be, probably because it would never
withstand a courtroom examination. But it was very similar to a
personal service contract in many ways. She read over the
paragraphs that Chris had discussed with her, and nodded several
times.

And when she looked up and nodded to him, he
passed her a gold pen, and she initialed and signed and dated where
she had to, on three copies.

“
This is it, Robin,” Chris said as he
opened her file and slipped two copies into it. “You are now an
official member of the Marketplace.”

“
It’s hard to believe.”

“
Believe it. Tomorrow, your body will
be sold to another human being, in a manner that the greater
outside world can barely comprehend. And in doing so, you will
contribute to a society and culture, not to mention economy, that
has existed purely to serve the needs of those of us who must see
the world in dichotomies of master and slave.”

Robin nodded again. But his use of the word
economy had triggered yet another nagging question that she hadn’t
found a way to ask. He saw it flicker in her eyes and shrugged.

“
You might as well ask. The worst
thing that can happen is that I’ll be annoyed.”

“
I wouldn’t want to annoy you on my last
day here, sir.” But she smiled, and then gently bit her lip,
considering how to ask. “It’s just that―well―I am curious about the
money.”

“
You should be. I was wondering why
you hadn’t asked.”

“
Oh! Well then, um, how much do you think
I’ll go for? How much do slaves normally go for? Is there a market
rating system for them? Is it objective?” She leaned forward
eagerly.

“
There are several rating systems;
they apply to different kinds of property, and sometimes to
different styles of markets. But I’m afraid that I’m going to
disappoint you with my other answers. It is against regulations to
discuss prices, especially particular prices, with slaves.” He
laughed at the way her face fell. “And no, that doesn’t mean I
would have answered you before you signed the
contracts.”

“
But what if I wanted to be sure that
I would have enough money to get back on my feet when the contract
ended?” Robin asked. “I mean, since the money is coming to me
anyway, don’t I have the right to know?”

“
The money isn’t all coming to you, my
dear. Your spotter, your trainer, the auction house, and the
regional office all have their cuts. Ken has effectively wagered
that twenty percent of your purchase price will be large enough to
cover my training fee plus her spotter’s fee. She may be right;
twenty percent is often split between the spotter, trainer and the
auction house, and sometimes even with a previous owner, although
that doesn’t happen as often as it used to. But this much I can
tell you. As a novice, you will not be worth much compared to
slaves who have had more training or have been sold two or three
times. Your price will most probably fall into a category equal to
or slightly surpassing a comfortable living for someone of your
education and age bracket, over a two-year period. If you were
taller, and your breasts fuller and your mouth a little more
sensual, you’d fetch more. Even as you are, you are an expensive
little chit.”

“
I don’t understand. How can I be
cheap and expensive at the same time?” Robin frowned, but then
realized the answer. “Oh, because of my upkeep. I’m like a painting
that has to be kept in a specially designed box.”

Chris’s mouth turned up a little. “If you
like. You may be purchased as a bargain, but you eat as much as any
better trained or more beautiful woman, and you take up the same
room, and need the same physical care. But I wouldn’t be worried
about the size of the payment you’ll receive when your contract
comes due. If you love this life, you will not see that money for
many years to come.”

Robin flushed and swallowed hard. “Oh God. I
hope so.”

“
For your sake, I hope so as well. Now
I need time to write my report on your training. I want you to take
the exercise tape into the master bedroom and work out there. I
want you to work yourself hard, stretch every muscle, make yourself
sweat. It will add to your edge tomorrow.”

“
Sir? Won’t I be stiff then? Won’t it
make it harder for me to hold my positions?”

“
Tsk. Still don’t trust me, do you? Do
as I told you. Be glad that I need you well rested for tomorrow, or
you’d be spending the night sleeping in an inch of water in the
bathtub.”

Robin shut her mouth firmly, nodded, and
ran.

* * * *

Saturday was a flurry of activity. Robin
woke up, as stiff as she had predicted, and when Chris tossed some
of her clothing to her, she blinked in confusion.

“
We are going to make a try to push
your price up a little,” he said with a smile. “Get
moving!”

Mutely, she dressed and followed him out of
the building. It was still cold, and there was that hint of
something in the air that suggested snow. But Chris didn’t stop to
examine the weather. He hailed a cab and the two of them rode
downtown in silence.

When they got out on Hudson Street, Robin
followed him to a private dwelling on one of those short, twisting
little named streets that hide some of the most beautiful
brownstones and courtyards in the city. They were let in by a young
man in a short robe, who yawned and jerked one thumb at the stairs.
“She’s waiting,” he said gruffly. “You staying or going?”

“
I’ll be back in three hours or so.
Robin, strip and go upstairs.” Chris gave her a pat on one shoulder
and left just as she had managed to pull off her jacket.

He must love doing
this
, she
mused.
One
mystery after another.
The man in the robe pointed at a chair in the
hallway and nodded when she started to pile her clothing there.
Then, with another yawn, he went back to reading his
paper.

Upstairs was a stern-looking, powerfully
built, dark-skinned woman whose hair was shorn close to her scalp,
except for a row of dreads that topped her skull like a rooster’s
crown. She was dressed in dark Danskins, with an artfully ripped
sweatshirt falling across her wide shoulders and hanging suspended
over her taut stomach. The room she was in was almost bare, with a
pale wooden floor that gleamed in the morning sun. On one wall was
a huge dancer’s mirror and barre. On the other, two tables were
lined up, and pushed out of the way. Several folding chairs were
stacked near the door.

“
Hello,” the woman said, folding her
arms. “I’m Teralia. And you’re my latest victim.” And she grinned,
and then threw her head back and laughed. “Well, don’t just stand
there, you little wimp! Come on in and shake yourself loose. Parker
wants himself a little dynamo tonight, and he’s gonna get
it!”

Oh dear
, Robin thought.
What has he done to me
now?

Another workout, this one purposefully
graceful and disciplining, with dancer movements and long pauses.
Unfamiliar with some of the motions, Robin felt clumsy and awkward,
but as she got used to them, they began to flow with more grace.
Teralia spent a lot of time working on breathing and concentration,
and then went back to working Robin with some basic aerobic
repetitions until Robin’s sweat ran off of her body in
rivulets.

“
Now, we get some of that stiffness
out,” Teralia explained, leading her victim into a tiny sauna.
Inside, the physical trainer made Robin do more stomach crunches,
and then more stretches. When the heat became too oppressive, she
stopped, let Robin drink some cool water, and then began to massage
her.

I like this
part
, Robin
thought, fairly purring under the strong manipulations of the
trainer.

Then a cool shower, and back to the sunny
workout room, for more stretching, and more massage. And when Robin
began to feel that her body just couldn’t take another second of
being pummeled by this muscular woman, she was swept downstairs,
wrapped in a white terry cloth robe, for the now wakeful young man
to examine her hair and nails and sigh with exasperation.

“
What do you use on this, baby
shampoo?” he asked as he started selecting little colorful bottles
from a window box.

“
Uh, sometimes, sir,” Robin
answered.

“
Jeez. It’s disgustingly healthy. No
color, no ragged ends, no chemical burns, nothing. What am I
supposed to do with it?” He came back to examine her again and
nodded. “Okay, here’s the plan. How’s about we go with a natural
style. Kind of layered on the sides, but long in the back. You’re
still young enough to stand it. And we’ll leave some nice wisps
flowing down here... here...” He fingered the hair at the side of
her face. “It’ll give you that debauched maiden look. Very romantic
novel. Okay? Your nails are a disaster. We’ll just smooth them down
and put a little clear polish on them and maybe you can hide your
hands. OK? What am I saying, of course it’s OK, you don’t get to
say anything about it. So close your eyes, sweetie, Glen is gonna
make you beautiful.”

She did close her eyes, as he pulled her
head into a sink basin and washed her hair and anointed it
with-who-knew-what. And unlike a beautician’s, where she would
stare at herself in the mirror while a stylist worked on her hair,
he simply positioned her on a stool in some good light and worked
away without another attempt at explaining what he was doing or how
it would look.

He covered her hair with some kind of lotion
after he cut it, and wrapped it all up in a towel. Then he worked
on her short nails, doing exactly as he described. Robin had never
paid a lot of attention to her nails; she just couldn’t justify the
time spent on it. When she was with Troy, she would occasionally
get one of those five-dollar nail jobs for the weekend, but he
rarely noticed them or seemed to care much.

In minutes, Glen finished one hand and
showed her the contrast between the finished one and the plain one.
They looked like the hands of two different people.

“
Now, if you can only get a job that
doesn’t have you writing so much, you can get rid of these,” he
said as he fingered the light calluses on the insides of her
fingers and on the pad of her thumb. “Thank God you weren’t a
secretary, though,” he continued, even as she gave him a look of
amazement. “Secretaries get the worst calluses on the pads of their
fingers, although now, with all these word processors, it’s not as
bad as it used to be.” He looked up into her eyes and shrugged.
“Hey, you think Sherlock Holmes is the only guy who can pick up
clues? It’s all in the hands, sweetie. The stories I could tell
you!” And he went back to work, chatting aimlessly.

He uncovered and rinsed out her hair, and
styled it with his fingers. “I hate blow dryers, don’t you? They’re
one of the three grooming aids that Amnesty International should be
investigating. The others? Well, how about that little machine that
catches your leg hairs up in a little silver coil and then rips
them out by the root? Oh my God, it’s like being set on fire! And
for bikini hair? I’d rather stick a porcupine up my ass.”