“Thank you, Saburo-san, you are very wise, but I have not been told to go, so sorry.”
“I’ll show you sorry,” he said, the usual phrase of his before something unpleasant, and I prepared myself for a slap or a command. But he did nothing, only stood slightly back and inclined his shoulders. It was not low enough to Sakai-sama. It was too low for another trainer of his level. I turned and immediately knelt for Noriko-sama, Sakai-sama’s prodigy daughter and presumptive heir.
“Parker has not been added to the roster,” she said to Saburo, also speaking slowly, but not with that edge of ridicule that Saburo cultivated. She, like most of the people there, pronounced my name Pah-kah. She was one of the few who used it as a name instead of making it sound like a vaguely annoying piece of furniture that no one had bothered to move out of the way. I had also noticed that the various nicknames vanished when she was around.
“There are no slaves who wish to have this as their trainer,” Saburo said with a shrug. “Your honored father has said that no one shall be forced to train with it.”
“Then I will find the right slaves for Parker,” Noriko said. “Please tell my father that he will be added to the roster next week.”
Saburo almost choked—I could hear him cough back a breath, and I wished that I could grin. But I remained impassive, not showing any sign of listening to a conversation to which I had not been invited.
“Thank you, Noriko-san, I shall,” Saburo said. “I’m sure your help in this matter will be most appreciated.” Angrily, he turned and left, and Noriko gave me the command to look up. She looked concerned, perhaps a little annoyed. But not, I knew, annoyed at me. She was serious and thoughtful and very precise and the only free person at the school who was younger than I was.
In English, she said, carefully, “Do not disappoint me, Parker.” And she too, left. I struggled for almost a full minute, but I couldn’t stop the tears that formed in my eyes. I wiped them away with the sleeve of my (American) shirt and tried to compose myself before I had to face anyone else.
It had taken two months—but someone had finally suggested that I might do what I was sent here to do. And what’s more—she expected me to do it well. My heart almost broke with the first sign of kindness, and I finally understood how powerful it could be.
* * * *
“Chris?”
His eyes flew open and he started, disturbing the surface of the water. He blinked and looked at a very concerned Ninon.
“I’m so sorry, Ninon,” he said, shaking his head. “Not enough sleep, I’m so terribly sorry. My God, how embarrassing. In the bath with the single most desirable woman here and I fall asleep.”
She waved one hand at him. “Never mind more flattery, what was wrong? Your entire body became tense! I thought I would have to summon one of those marvelous massage people to pry you out!”
Chris shook his head and sighed. “A memory. You mentioned Tetsuo and a king’s daughter—and I remembered Noriko-san.”
“Oh my goodness, how thoughtless of me!” Ninon was aghast at her faux pas. “Yes, you knew her, oh, I am the one who should be sorry, Chris. Her loss was such a tragedy for Tetsuo.”
“It’s been years,” Chris said, stretching and wincing at the lapping water. “I’m just so tired I can barely think. Please forgive me, Ninon, I’m going to shower off with some cool water and take a nap. I’ll see you at dinner?”
“Yes, I will be there,” Ninon promised. “After all, I must take the first glass of champagne as we celebrate a new era for the Marketplace.”
“And I’ll take the second,” Chris promised. He pushed himself up and out of the tub, and Ninon’s slave eagerly waited on him until he gently shooed her away. Wrapped in a robe and his thoughts, he walked back to his room and didn’t bother to call for a slave to set out a futon for him. With one arm behind his head, he instantly fell into a deep sleep on the floor, not caring about comfort or—for once—proper behavior.
* * * *
Two hours later, the main meeting room had been transformed. Chairs were now grouped around tables, small couches brought in to create comfortable seating areas, and all the panels leading to the outer gardens were opened, allowing the slight afternoon breezes to waft through. William Longet’s raised table had been reduced to a simple podium for announcements, and a new table was set up for his staff to check the member rolls and register proxy votes. Trainers wandered in after lunch and naps, after swimming or light bouts of sex with slaves or each other. Alcoholic drinks were much in evidence. The mood was light and energetic, and at the chiming of the hour, Longet opened the membership book and locked the ballot box.
“Well, this is a foregone conclusion,” declared Tucker, walking in with Michael. They had found each other after lunch, watching an impromptu demonstration of various forms of hand signals from several trainers who advocated different methods. It had been lighthearted and competitive, and the slaves drafted for this use had an eager-to-please amusement that made them cheerfully attractive even when the signals invariably got crossed.
These are people who don’t like to fight about important things, Michael thought idly. They may love to argue or show off their skills or compete in all these silly ways—but they don’t like to disagree on fundamental beliefs. Of course not. They feel like they’re alone in the world, they have no other place to be this way, to do these things. To lose it would mean—tragedy. For anyone, on any side. No wonder Chris backing down was such a big deal.
“I’m glad it is,” Michael answered. “It wasn’t pleasant to be here when you guys were all fighting. Now, it’s one big happy family again.”
“Well, I dunno about that!” Tucker laughed heartily. “But then, I guess we are kind of family, in that sick and twisted sort of way. Thrown together by God, you could say, and makin’ the best of it.” He leaned over the table and cheerfully accepted a ballot after initialing his name in the member rolls. He excused himself to fill it out over by a shaded desk, folded it and dropped it into the box with a flourish. “There—I done my duty for the year.”
“Do you train trainers?” Michael asked as they walked over to one side, making room for two others.
“Oh, hell, no,” Tucker said with a shudder. “Every once in a while, I take on someone’ else’s student for a few weeks or months, let ’em help me out a bit, it keeps me on my toes. But it’s too iffy, taking on an apprentice. No offense, son, you’re a nice fella, very smart. But I’ve seen it a dozen times—you take on a sharp apprentice and at the end of three years, they’re either gone to the block, left the world, or, worse, they want to set up shop across the street from you and take away your business. It ain’t like slaves, see, where you lose maybe three, four months. Trainers take years, no matter what that California nutcase says. I’d say it’s only one in ten trainers that wants to take on apprentices. Me, I’d rather raise water moccasins. They’re as pretty and seductive as a good apprentice, but if they leave you, you don’t cry as much.”
“And there’s always anti-venom in the refrigerator, right?” Chris Parker came into Michael’s peripheral vision, and Michael thought that the bath had done him a world of good. He had changed into fresh clothes, and his tie was the one that Michael had given him when Rachel had whispered that his birthday was coming up. It was a rather bold design for Chris—but he had taken a liking to the colorful dancing figures on it, radiating beams of energy shooting from them.
“Yessiree, Chris, that is the truth,” Tucker laughed. “Dammit if they haven’t come up with anti-venom for human relationships though. You just can’t put years in with someone else and not be changed by them, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”
“You won’t find an argument with me in that statement, Tucker,” Chris replied. And then, remarkably, he winked at Michael, before reaching down into his inside pocket to take out a sheaf of envelopes all marked with the green stamp of the Marketplace’s official proxy ballot.
I’ve had an effect on Chris, Michael
marveled. It’s more than the haircut, the tie. Jesus, he as much said that to me right now! Could he—is he still proud of me? Is he glad I came?
He shivered slightly, even though the air was heavy and warm, with the weight of afternoon thunder in the distance. Tucker and Chris continued to chat lightly, and their voices seemed to fade as Michael’s heart pounded to an ever louder intensity.
I feel like kneeling, he thought, dizzily. I feel like I want to start crying again and just get down on my knees and wrap myself around his legs and thank him. Oh my God, I feel like I’m going to burst! What’s happening to me? He blinked rapidly and tried to figure out how to breathe without panting, without gasping for air. Suddenly, the room seemed monstrously calm, as though the breezes from outside and from the overhead fans had stopped. People’s voices were only a slight buzz, their faces a blur. Take me out of here and do what you want to me, Michael thought. I don’t care what it is, make me a trainer, make me a slave, I’ll do it, I can do it now, it’s real now.
And then, suddenly, he realized that Chris was turning sharply to one side, and Michael thought he had spoken out loud. But Chris continued to turn, a look on his face of pure astonishment, and Michael’s ears seemed to pop as one voice cut through the light buzz of the room.
“Avidan, a-v-i-d-a-n...under spotters, there ya go!”
“Ron?” Chris said. “Ron?”
Ron Avidan, quintessential leatherman, gay sexual explorer, and, coincidentally, Chris Parker’s older brother, turned away from the table with a ballot in his hand and a big grin on his face. His mustache had a little more gray in it than when Michael had last seen him a few months before. He was wearing a black tee shirt and jeans that showed off his handsome, long body, and the powerful muscles on his upper arms, and he had a thick earring in one ear.
“Hey, baby bro, what’s up?” he asked, his dark eyes dancing.
“Ron?” Chris repeated. He closed his mouth and then moved forward to catch his brother in a strong forearm embrace, and then in a hug. “What the hell are you doing here?” he asked, laughing.
“Hey, can’t a man come and vote for his kid brother’s big ideas?” Ron asked, waving the ballot. “Shit, I’m still a spotter, I still got the right to be here, if I want to. I usually just don’t want to.” He laughed.
Chris took a half step back, and turned his head to one side suspiciously. “You did not come all the way to Okinawa on the last day of the Academy to vote on something, no matter who put it up.”
“You’re right,” Ron nodded. “You know, you always were smarter than me. Truth is, I’m here ‘cause someone’s a white-knuckle flyer. And kid, when she calls and says pack up a tux and a passport, you’re coming with me, I still jump.”
Chris paled suddenly, and Michael paled with him. “What?”
Ron only nodded, and Chris turned too sharply for such a practiced and disciplined man, to face a tired and rumpled looking Imala Anderson. Both shocked silence and whispered news spread in the wake behind Chris, and he bowed carefully to her as Tucker made a little gesture of welcome as well. One second too late, Michael followed suit, hating himself for not noticing her arrival and warning Chris.
Anderson nodded back to Chris and smiled briefly at Tucker. Her long, navy blue cotton skirt was light and crinkled, her white blouse limp across her upper body. She looked slightly pale herself, and tired, her hair drawn back sharply into a long black and gray ponytail, her wrists, as usual, decked in bracelets that jangled. Without a word, she walked over to Chris and held a hand out.
“Welcome to Okinawa, Trainer,” he said softly. He placed the sheaf of envelopes into her hand and stepped back as she sorted through them and walked over to the ballot table.
“What a surprise, huh?” Ron laughed, as other trainers came forward to formally welcome Anderson as she registered her name and had the monitors check off her various proxies.
“Why didn’t you warn us?” Michael asked, pitching his voice in a whisper.
Ron shrugged. “I figured if she wanted you to know, she would have told you. Besides, what’s the big deal? We heard you got it wrapped up neatly before we even got here!” He punched Chris lightly on the arm, and Chris let him.
“How did you hear that?” he asked, consciously straightening his tie and shooting his cuffs. “How long have you been here?”
“I dunno, maybe ten minutes. Man, am I beat!” Ron shook his head and stretched a little. “You’re lookin’ good, squirt, and so’s our student here. Mind if I borrow him for some R&R?” He laughed comfortably and leered at Michael, who by now was used to this from Chris’s brother. The first time he had met Ron, Ron had knocked a hat off his head and given him a lesson in old-guard leather etiquette, but in subsequent meetings, he had loosened up a little and begun a campaign of teasing that had changed from threatening to flattering. Especially when Chris told him that he had no intention of letting Ron “handle” Michael, because, as he put it, “Ron is out of touch with Marketplace mores.”
But if he was so out of touch... “You’re a spotter?” Michael asked.
Ron shrugged. “Yeah. Sometimes. I found a few winners, didn’t I, Chris?”
“One or two,” Chris said, slightly distracted. Anderson had finished turning over the proxies from her former students who had given them to her and which she in turn had entrusted to Chris. She then took her own proxy ballot, ripped it up, took a fresh one, initialed her name in the register, and voted, all the while returning the greetings of trainers who wandered over to her to pay their respects. As she dropped her own ballot in the box, she seemed to be totally unconcerned with the procedure, and when she disengaged from Walther Kurgan’s enthusiastic welcome, he did not pursue her, only backed away and re-joined his own conversation group.
She walked back to Chris and Michael and Ron, and Michael was aware of Tucker also backing away slightly.
“Well.” She said the word with a slightly ironic inflection, but her mouth was a grim, straight line. “I think you have some explaining to do, Mr. Parker. Please come with me.” And without another word, she turned toward the door leading back to the Western wing. Chris’s cheek twitched, right along the jawline, and Michael felt a sinking feeling of shame and fear race through him as Chris merely gave a polite nod to Tucker and his brother and then turned as well, to obey her.
Michael started to follow as well—hesitantly, nothing had been addressed to him, but he was now fully disturbed. Anderson did not appear to be pleased—but she had every reason to be overjoyed! The proposal had been doomed from the start—even if it passed, it would have left antagonisms across the ethical and political lines that had made the past few days so awkward. In coming, Chris had saved everyone’s face and gotten the people who believed in his proposal the ability to at least continue their methods in a more organized and mutually supported fashion. It was perfect. She had to see that! And how could she just pull him out of the room like that, not even allowing him the chance to vote, for God’s sake?
But even as he started to move, Ron caught one arm, and another hand caught the other. He looked to his left to see Ken Mandarin, a slender cigar in the corner of her mouth, looking slightly amused.
“That is not for you to see or hear,” she said, drawing the cigar out and blowing smoke in the general direction of the door. “This time, it is best for dingos to stay out of the house, hm?”
“Yeah, you know better than to get involved in whatever’s going on there,” Ron said with a slight note of chagrin. “Just let them take care of things.”
“But—but—it’s not fair! Why is she angry?” Michael almost whispered, not waiting to draw any more attention to what was going on. He struggled and fought down the hint of desperation in his voice. “I don’t understand! What is she even doing here? It’s the last day, for crying out loud!”
“Not your business,” Ron said firmly. “When she wants your input she’ll ask you.”
“Or give it to you, hm?” Ken let Michael go and winked
at Ron. “Hello, there, Ron. You are looking well! Why do you not come out to play more often?”
“Because I don’t need the heartache,” Ron said, sighing. He let go of Michael as well, and brushed his hand down Michael’s jacket sleeve, smoothing it down. “Sorry, kid, didn’t mean to grab you like that. Honestly, I don’t know why Imala’s got a bee in her bonnet, I don’t. She called me up three days ago and told me to come with her, and I did. Believe me, there aren’t many people I’d do that for, even if they are holding first class tickets to a tropical paradise. But if she’s got some bone to pick with Chris, that’s their business. I learned my lesson about interfering there a long time ago. Take it from me, just keep your nose out of it and be a good boy, and things will be just fine. In the meantime, why don’t you and Ken take me on a tour of this place? I don’t even have a room yet. And I need something big and tall and frozen, with some tropical fruit in it and a fucking parasol off the side, so let me at one of these perfect slaves and you can tell me all about what went on here, OK?”
“Yes, sir,” Michael said automatically. There was no sense on dwelling on Chris and the Trainer, especially if he had Ron on his hands now. Best to pay attention to what he could do, and hope to get a chance to speak in Chris’s defense later on. Surely Anderson would listen to him, if he approached her politely and spoke respectfully and explained things in a way he knew Chris wouldn’t. Yes, he thought, idly eying a serving slave and getting them to bring something that would approximate Ron’s requested drink. Yes, it’ll be OK, maybe I can get one of these other big shots to chip in on this. Ninon, maybe. Or Walther. I’ll help. And I won’t embarrass him.
* * * *
“So you took it upon yourself to change the proposal,” Anderson said, as she sat down on the couch in her room, spreading her arms along the back.
“Yes, Trainer.” Chris stood facing her, his hands behind his back, his posture formal and his words calm. He had taken the walk there as time to compose himself properly, the presence of the two accompanying slaves keeping them both silent until Anderson’s luggage had been neatly deposited and the slaves gone with twin bows. Anderson had a room much like Ken’s. She had taken a cursory glance out the window before seating herself, but seemed either unimpressed or uninterested in her surroundings. When she lifted her eyes to Chris, they were as cold as they had been in the meeting room.
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