Page 17 of Anchored

The new issue of the Economist lay on the coffee table. Did the master’s never-have-to-ask rule apply to that as well, or only to the newspaper? It seemed absurd that the intention would be so narrow, so he reached for the magazine. Except . . . His hand froze, hovering over the coffee table. If the master had meant that he could read whatever he wanted, wouldn’t he have said so? What if he was possessive about certain things? A producer had punished him just last month for borrowing hers without asking. He drew his hand back.

Really though, he was probably being ridiculous. His master seemed reasonable, maybe even kind. He wasn’t some jerk with a chip on her shoulder and a shock prod she used behind Maxwell’s back. Plus, the master had no reason to be jealous of Daniel—his ratings were three times higher, and he spent his broadcasts rubbing shoulders with A-list movie stars and influential politicians, not the unknown academics and policy wonks who made up Daniel’s guest roster. Besides, the master clearly wasn’t using the magazine right now. No harm done if he read it carefully. He leaned forward, reached for it again—

Unless, of course, his master saw fit to correct him for taking what wasn’t his.

“God!” Another whip-crack exclamation from his master—the Lord’s name in vain again, no less—and another hard startle from Daniel. “What did I say about the fidgeting?”

The master rocketed up from the couch, snatched the Economist, and rolled it into a tight tube. In two short, angry steps, he was in front of Daniel, magazine hand drawn back to his ear. Daniel squeezed his eyes closed and hunched his shoulders, waiting for the blows. At least they shouldn’t hurt too much.

Or at all, apparently. Daniel popped his eyes open, surprised, when the magazine plopped into his lap. His master looked oddly apologetic.

“Hey,” the master said, touching fingertips to Daniel’s cheek and tilting his head up. “I told you, you don’t have to ask, remember? I meant it. Books, papers, the TV, the bathroom, the kitchen, whatever; you live here now too. The only things off-limits are my laptop and the last slice of pie, okay?”

Daniel nodded, a hesitant smile creeping up his lips to match his master’s own. That was more than okay, that was . . . “Thank you, Master, I— That’s—” Despite his better judgment, he was starting to rewrite his initial impressions of his master. No way some sick fuck could be this nice, over and over and over again—and Daniel was pretty sure that was a truth and not just something he wanted to believe. “I mean, that’s very kind of you. Thank you.”

“Yeah, well, don’t go saying that too loud,” the master groused, grabbing his laptop off the coffee table and settling back on the couch. “You’ll ruin my reputation.”

The football game moved into the fourth quarter. Jane had returned about an hour ago with two canvas shopping bags and no partner (“The foreman called Dave in to work,” she’d said to the master’s raised eyebrow). She was puttering around in the kitchen now, baking something that made Daniel’s mouth water.

Daniel was perhaps halfway through the Economist, starting to get restless with so much sitting around. His feet were jiggling. His ass was still sore, and he shifted his weight for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes.

“So what do you think of that Bishops guy?”

The master was looking at him expectantly, as if he thought Daniel should be able to read his mind. Daniel put down the magazine and asked, “Master?”

“You know,” the master said, eyes traveling between his computer screen and Daniel, one hand on his keyboard and the other twirling short, impatient circles in the air. “The British barrister campaigning to legalize manumission. That guy.”

Daniel’s eyes narrowed—was this . . . some kind of trap? Who the hell discussed slavery with slaves? “Nathaniel Bishops, you mean?”

The master turned to smile at Daniel. “Yes.” He held the smile, as if waiting for a reply, so Daniel offered a tentative, “I think it’s more likely to succeed in the UK than the US?” and the master went back to his laptop. He typed furiously for a few moments, then stopped and looked at Daniel again.

“Why?”

“Because the UK’s core moral and scientific basis for slavery is a deeply embedded class system which, on very rare occasion, allows for upward mobility. Manumission in limited numbers wouldn’t harm their economy or their social strata.”

“And the US?” The master regarded him with open curiosity. “Ours isn’t the same?”

Of course it wasn’t, and surely the master knew that. There was no such history of classism here, only powerful religious roots, racist assumptions, and—for those whose faith in God didn’t suffice—faith in science and the as-yet-unfound “slave gene” that gave people like him dampened affect, among a host of other behavioral and emotional issues. He opened his mouth to say so before Tim’s words about confidential information popped into his head. “There’s always a potential for corporate espionage. You have an obligation to protect the intellectual property of this company.” The master was obviously working on a story about this, so . . .

“I, I’m sorry, Master, but I can’t— I mean, my handler says I’m not allowed to talk to you about anything that might . . . well, anything that might help you compete with them.”

The master’s eyebrows slowly knitted, and his hands tightened on his laptop casing. When he spoke, it was with audibly forced calm. “I know the rules of the lease I signed, Daniel. It’s not like I’m going to torture you for company secrets. I just thought it might be interesting to talk politics with someone who understands both the policy and the reality of slavery. It’s a rare opportunity, is all.”

Daniel pinched his lips together and turned his eyes to his lap. That same anger he’d felt in his office yesterday surged back, and for a moment, he actually hated NewWorld—both for subjecting him to something so patently unfair, and for ever having made him a “rare opportunity” in the first place. Ignorance and bliss and all that . . . “I know, Master, and I really would love to, but they wo—”

“Fine.” Though spoken softly, tightly, that single word reverberated like the harshest shout. “I get it. God knows what I’m paying for then, but fine. It’s fine. Why don’t you . . .?” The master tossed his hands up, clearly exasperated. Though he was a patient man on Whitman Live, he was also a passionate and occasionally vociferous one, not afraid to call a spade a spade or a lie a lie; Daniel was surprised the man had kept his anger reined in for as long as he had, or really that he’d bothered to at all. “I dunno. Do some”—more angry hand waving—“push-ups or something. You look like the kind of guy who’d enjoy that. Whatever, just . . . stop fidgeting.”

Eyeing the master warily, Daniel slid off the couch and to the floor beside the coffee table. Plenty of people watched him in the gym, sometimes quite openly, so it came as no surprise that his master might take pleasure from that too. He did one push-up, then another, grunting at the pain rippling through his right shoulder blade. But it was better than the alternative, and if the master’s demeanor was any indication—Daniel could practically smell his irritation—the alternative was just one more slipup away.

He heard a loud sigh in the middle of the fourth push-up. “I didn’t mean right here,” the master said.

Daniel scrambled to his feet and sat back down. “I’m sorry, Master, I thought—”

“Doesn’t that hurt with your back all bruised like that?”

Daniel blushed, realized he was tapping his fingers, and forced his hands to his sides. Answering a direct question wouldn’t be seen as complaining, would it? Of course, even if it were, not answering would be worse. “Yes, Master.”

Another loud sigh from his master. Daniel chanced a sideways look at the man and saw his head tilted back, a grimace on his broad face. “Jesus.”