“So we get the tattoo removed. I’ll take you to the clinic right now. Move-ins are often asked to have visible tattoos removed for historical accuracy.”
“You don’t understand, Danica. The tattoo doesn’t make me a slave; it keeps me alive. Look,” he says, pushing his right ear forward with an index finger so I can see behind it. “Do you see that scar?”
“I…” At first I don’t, but on closer inspection, I can see a wrinkle that might once have been an incision, just where his jawline and earlobe meet. “Maybe?”
“Well, Reginald’s plastic surgeons are some of the best in the world.” Saber grimaces. “There’s a chip in there. If it doesn’t pick up the right authorization codes at the right time, it cooks my brain. The tattoo is a part of that process; the slaveminder—”
“Slaveminder,” I repeat, my world swirling into a sickening surrealism I can’t escape.
“It’s a bot, just nowhere near as fancy as the ones you’ve got here. It scans my tat and blasts whatever it is my chip wants to hear. Then I’m safe for a while, but I’m never told how long I have before my next check-in comes due. It’s why I sometimes meet with Reginald alone on the weekends.”
I remember thinking yesterday that I didn’t know how dark Reginald’s underground world was. But this? “The police…” But the look of amusement on Saber’s face makes my words trail off.
“Oh, they know. Some, anyway. But as far as they’re concerned, all this tattoo means is that if they take me into custody, I’ll be dead before I can be of use to them. Doesn’t matter if they’re trying to liberate me, or arrest me, or use me to get to my…employer. The markings are a warning to leave me alone.”
I’m aghast, but my brain automatically shifts into coder mode. “Can’t you…hack the chip? Get it removed? Surely someone—”
“Surely,” Saber interrupts with a bitter chuckle, “someone, somewhere, is working on some way to fight the gangs, and the mobs, and the cartels. To free the slaves, to stop the drugs, to tax the smugglers. That’s always true. But the chip in my head is designed to fry me at the first hint of tampering. You can probably imagine that there aren’t a lot of slaves out there volunteering to beta-test solution proposals.”
I can’t give up. If I give up, I’m accepting, and I cannot accept this. “But—there has to be some way—”
He shakes his head. “No. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not telling you out of some misguided belief that you might be able to help. I didn’t want to tell you at all. I’m stuck, Danica, and I’m not getting unstuck.” He shrugs. “So I do what I’m told. Who knows? Maybe someday Reginald’ll free me. It’s been known to happen.”
I feel empty inside. Like knowing the truth about Saber has ripped my soul out and there’s nothing to replace it. “You must hate me. The things I make you do. I’m as bad as him.”
“I don’t hate you. I tried to hate you, don’t get me wrong. But I couldn’t.” He places his hands on both sides of my face and leans in to kiss me so very lightly on the mouth. “But make no mistake,” he says, his breath warm against my lips, “I hate what you do.”
“I’m so sorry,” I say, and the tears I’ve been holding back spill over the edge, trailing down both cheeks. “I wish…I wish I could stop. For you. But I—”
“I know, you can’t.” He scrubs one tear away with his thumb. “You are the best thing that’s happened to me since I was sold to Reginald, and I only get to have you for fifteen more days. So you can bet your ass I’m going to make the most of it.”
I try to smile through my tears, but it’s too difficult. I can’t accept this the way he so obviously has. I hate that he has. Because I know his spirit, and I can only imagine what it must have taken to break it. “I don’t know if I can leave without you, Saber. You—you make me feel like I don’t have to pull my laces so tight. And I know that doesn’t mean anything to you, but you”—I clamp my teeth down on my trembling lip—“you make me wish I were a better person than I am.”
“Neither of us is really in a position to be good people right now. Maybe that’s just the way it’s supposed to be.” He kisses me once more—long and lingering this time—then grabs his livery jacket. “Come on, help me into this damned thing.”
“We’re going back?”
“To the party? Yes. I promised a hell of a lot of batting eyelashes that I’d return with more product. Plus, if we don’t move this stock tonight, we’ll be too backlogged to catch up.”
I give the jacket a good yank and settle the starched collar into place. He turns and offers me his arm, but before I take it, I look into his eyes and whisper, “I’m so, so sorry.”
He raises my satin-gloved fingertips to his lips and kisses them with all the gallantry of a Sonoman gentleman. “I’m not.”
DESPITE OUR MUTUAL melancholy, we move our inventory quickly. Heart in my throat, I palm a container of rouge and walk over to Molli.
“The real stuff?” she whispers when I show it to her.