Chapter 3: No Slaves Allowed

Understand this: slavery is prohibited in civilized space. No human is permitted to own another. I had worried that Concubine Yums would be unable to live independently. I believed that slavery was all that Yums had known. When I found out that Concubine Yums was really Agent English, that removed a great weight from my shoulders. Agent English could fend for herself and didn't need me.

Or so I thought. I kept making incorrect assumption after stupid assumption. The morning after getting out of deep debrief I woke up with the ship's steward, Constance, riding me as if she were a cowgirl from an ancient vid style called 'western.' Holding me down was the engineering officer, Solace. After we both got off (Constance in more than one sense of the word), the two staggered out of my cabin giggling.

"Well, I'm awake now," I muttered after a moment's indecision. A quick shower—didn't have to decide what to wear (the uniform of the day was skin)--walked to the galley and selected a Breakfast Unit from a rat-pac (ration package) and activated the various heating and chilling segments. In minutes I was sipping hot tea and eating cold soup as the rest of the crew filtered into the galley for their breakfasts.

"What are you eating?" Manny inquired.

"Breakfast pac from Rising Sun Ready Meals," I picked up a pickled plum with the eating sticks.

"How can you eat that disgusting--" Manny gagged, turned and fled the galley.

"What was all that about?" I wondered aloud.

"Manny likes her English Breakfast just so," Ashley explained. "Any deviation makes her ill."

"I'm reluctant to chuck this in the recycle chute," I said. "My military career started as a gropo—a soldier in the Fighting 69th Infantry Regiment. This isn't bad. It's tastier than what I ate when I was on the Marsh Hare. Ever have a kibble bar? No?" Ashley shook her head. "When you are up to it, I'll give you a piece. That's a combat ration and it redefines 'doggy chow.' Hunger spices up almost anything."

Ashley perched on the edge of the table, one foot in my lap.

"I love Manny, bu sometimes..." Ashley switched subjects. "I didn't know what I was getting into when I volunteered for this mission."

"Me, neither," I added. "It was just a simple security system upgrade. I completed the upgrade ahead of schedule because Minister Sunday basically had decent estate security. Being drafted does have its perks."

"Yes," Ashley blushed. Blushed? "I was willing to play slave girl. It's too late now. I am a slave. Your slave. We've been bonded for life."

"It's a two-way bonding," Wright interjected. "Ashley cannot live without you now, Peter. Yes, that was deliberate, dear." I wasn't sure if the medical technician was addressing me or Ashley—and did it really matter? "Peter won't abandon you because he's not that sort: 'you broke it, you bought it' is more than a slogan for his people. Manny will come around when she realizes that she can't lose you, Ashley."

"Slavery is illegal," I commented. "How are we going to comply with the law?"

"The law wasn't written with Zheeyad mind control technology in mind," Wright stared at me. "If you command, I will bond with you as your slave, too. It's necessary that you own Ashley—doesn't have to be recognized by law. When the heir is old enough, the Old Way was for the heir to spend years as the lowest of the low, as a slave. None have done so since the Change. It's bad enough that nobles are asses—but the Throne must be educated."

That made no sense to me.

"Another item on my own education list," I commented.

"Ah, but you were a gropo," Wright said. "You know what it means to obey. You learned responsibility. That is why you were chosen for this task. Ashley loves Manny. You will do whatever you can to accommodate Manny because Ashley needs Manny. Ashley won't survive without you."

"Manny is my commanding officer," I pointed out.

"Not officially," Wright sighed. "She is the captain of a private yacht, a large one, perhaps, but you are no longer officially under military discipline."

Not everybody knows what it means to be under military discipline. That discipline has to come from within because in modern militaries soldiers may be light years away from their superiors. Small teams were the rule—small teams with the best weapons and equipment technology could provide. These teams often had to face certain death when they carried out their orders—as I was anticipating execution for touching a noble when I disarmed and subdued E2 when the nephew tried to assassinate his uncle, Minister Sunday. A sudden epiphany.

"My leaders want Zheeyad mind control technology," I guessed. "That's why they are propping up a failing government on a low-tech world."

"Good, Peter," Wright beamed. "That's part of it. Guess how old I am."

"Age is difficult to determine," I said as I fed Ashley bits of my breakfast. It's a bonding thing, eating together—and Ashley didn't care for some things. "I'm fifty-six. High-tech worlds haven't stopped the aging process entirely but in primitive cultures forty was old and sixty was ancient. Now sixty is regarded as the prime of life. You are suggesting that Zheeyad has eliminated aging? I didn't see evidence of that."

"Four hundred and thirty-three," Wright announced. "I was born before Zheeyad became a patriarchy. You can tell that I haven't been through puberty yet—not physically."

"I confess that I have been unobservant," I wondered what else I was seeing but failing to perceive. Ashley tasted a spicy green paste—then grabbed and gulped my tea. I offered her some rice to take the sting out of the spice. "I saw a lot of old people in Zheeyad. If your world had conquered aging, that means the process has been restricted to the elites. How much do you charge to tutor me in Zheeyad history?"

"Your leaders didn't care for the lessons," Wright asked. "Why do you want to study Zheeyad's past?"