Unusually, Esther was unable to tell exactly when she awoke. It had a lot to do with where she found herself. The enclosure she was confined in was small and narrow, its dimensions similar to a telephone booth, only this space was cylindrical and tilted slightly at an angle so that Esther woke up feeling like she was on a jungle gym slide tunnel, with only the panel her feet were resting on preventing her from sliding any further down. There was no light. The darkness was inky and complete, and whether Esther's eyes were open or closed made no difference in her perception. Her return to conscious awareness was therefore slow and faltering. For a time she thought she might still be asleep, dreaming, or, more accurately, having a terrible nightmare, the most terrible nightmare she had ever had. This fantasy proved fleeting as the hours crawled by.

I'm being kidnapped, she thought, the first real thought she had had for a long time. On the heels of it came another, this one a question: Where are my clothes?

Awareness of her predicament, her nakedness, and, horribly, the memory of the men in her apartment casually fondling her while she lay helpless, brought on a panicky reaction, and Esther's hands rushed up and down her nude frame checking for her t-shirt and pajama bottoms. They were gone. She hadn't felt them being taken off, any more, she realized, than she had felt the gag in her mouth or the cords around her ankles and wrists having been removed. Yet, like her sleepwear, she no longer wore them. They had disappeared . . . or she had.

I'm being kidnapped, the young banker thought again, then she corrected herself. I've been kidnapped. The idea was a dreadful one. She was a junior district manager. She had a little influence - well, not just a little - but certainly she wasn't a worthwhile target to professional kidnappers? If she was being held for ransom, though, it slowly dawned on Esther that the bank wouldn't miss her for two whole weeks. Today - was it still the same day? she couldn't tell, it had been hours! - was the first day of her first vacation in over three years. No one would come looking for her. Bobby was gone. Her parents and friends knew she was leaving. She wouldn't be missed until she didn't show up for work next month. Her kidnappers had picked the perfect time to take her. They could do anything to her in that amount of time - rape her, kill her, bury her body somewhere - and the trail would already be weeks old before the police were alerted.

Esther whimpered in the darkness.

Her dire predictions about the future were interrupted when the panel beneath her feet abruptly pulled back. She slid and screamed hoarsely, her voice worn out from crying and the vain yells for help she had made during her hours alone in the tube. She fell out of the enclosure and into the arms of the two men waiting below as simply and efficiently as the contents of a pill bottle turned over into someone's palm. She hit a padded surface. The room-normal lights blinded her painfully. No opportunity for escape had been permitted. Before she knew it, Esther's arms had been grabbed, and she was being forced down over another padded surface, a table, her face pressed flat against a cushion. She screamed again incoherently. Her legs twitched back and forth fruitlessly seeking purchase. The men didn't even have to breathe hard to keep hold of her.

"Hold her head steady," she heard someone say ahead of her and the two handlers. "Lift her hair up." She couldn't see anything but the cushion. One of the men was holding the back of her head down like a vise. She felt her dark locks piled up over her forehead, exposing her neck.

"Please," she muttered, her mouth muffled by the position she was forced into. "I haven't done anything to you! Let me go! Please!" The only response she received was a hard slap against her upraised buttock, and she yelped in pain and fear. "For the love of God, please!"

Esther felt a third pair of hands examine her neck. Fingers traced over the knob between her shoulder blades and up to the hollow at the base of her skull. "Right here. It goes right here."

"Right."

A small, round something was pressed against the base of Esther's head. She cried out again, the scream petering out into a long, drawn-out moan of despair. Her captors paid it no mind. The object felt like a ball bearing or a very small marble. It was cold and metallic to the touch, and the person holding it pressed it tightly against Esther with his fingers, almost as if he wanted to push it into her skin. Some instinct, some primeval sense of warning perhaps, stirred in Esther, and when she struggled again in reaction, the men holding her had to use a little more of their strength than they had before. The "ball bearing" warmed through contact. It began to vibrate.

Slowly, gradually, it did begin to sink into her flesh, pushed in mysteriously through the pressure of her captor's fingers. Esther screamed again and again as the weird sensation consumed her.

No pain was involved, at least no pain in any ordinary sense. Esther felt the tiny sphere pass through her like a sieve, her flesh not so much opening up to accept it as it appeared to absorb the small thing. Its passing left no hole to mark its progress. Her captor's fingers simply pushed in until they came in contact with her smooth, Avion-scented skin. She could feel it moving underneath, though, and the feeling was ghastly, awful beyond words. It burrowed painlessly through her like a maggot through a soft apple. The banker bucked harder and harder; the men had to exert more and more force to hold her down. The sphere slid beneath her skin, rotating, turning, sliding between muscle and bone, passing through the layers of her body like a barely tangible ghost. She could feel it traveling. No matter what the doctors said about the brain having no real sense of pain or sensation, she could sense this burrowing thing enter her gray matter. For a moment Esther's head felt as if it were under some great internal pressure, as if her whole skull were filling up with fluid. There was a brief moment of almost-pain as this pressure increased, as the tiny ball in her head settled into place in the middle of her brain, and then, quite abruptly, the feeling was gone. With it went the sensation of having something foreign inside her. The only perception she felt now was a slight warm spot on the base of her neck where it had gone in, and this was caused more by her captor's pressing fingertips than by anything else probably.

Esther screamed again and cried at the same time. The two men holding her suddenly let go.

The young woman pushed away from the padded table as if it were on fire. She jumped back so fast she lost her balance and fell over on her ass on the padded floor. Her vision was still blurry with tears. Through a haze she saw the three men, two to either side of the table - it looked more like a podium from this angle, though, a podium of blue foam and pads than wood or plastic - and the third in front holding a flat, circular object in his hands like he would a calculator. They were all looking at her. "Please . . please!" Esther cried. "Let me go! I promise I won't tell anybody. Oh God, please!" She pushed away from them with her feet, suddenly more aware than ever of her total nudity. Her heart was pounding so hard she felt she would faint.

"No, we're not letting you go," the man holding the calculator said. He pushed something on it.

A wave of vertigo passed through Esther, and for a split second she thought she had fainted, or was fainting, or having a heart attack brought on by never-ceasing terror. It was none of these things, though. Instead, with the sudden dizziness came a strange tensing of Esther's muscles.

She stopped kicking herself away. Her mouth snapped shut, almost catching her tongue between her teeth. She stopped moving altogether. Then, feeling like a puppet on a string, Esther gathered her hands and feet beneath her and stood up. Her heart continued to race. A red blur passed over her eyes, and she heard the leader of the men mutter, "No, no, that's way too high."

There was another crash of dizziness. A peculiar numbness settled over Esther.

"That was fast," the man on the right said, and the fellow holding the calculator nodded. They weren't the same ones from her apartment, though they were dressed the same in dark shirts and jeans. They had no accents and sounded more American. "I had no idea it was that fast."

"You haven't seen anything yet," the lead guy said.

The pounding in Esther's ears quieted. Her breathing became regular. The red haze diminished, and she blinked several times to clear her eyes of tears. The room slowly came into better focus. The walls were white and padded, like the cell in an asylum. The floor was divided in two. On her side it was covered with blue pads. Over by the table and the three men, and the door out, it was regular carpeting. A large, cylindrical tube slanted out of the plaster ceiling like a piece of broken-off plumbing. Esther blinked again. The images came into photographic perfection in her head, but with this newfound awareness came a complete lack of control. It wasn't like the paralysis from before. She could still move. She just couldn't move on her own.

Esther came to a position of almost military appearance in front of her captors. It was her arms and legs that moved, not her. Her mindfulness of herself was distant, as remote as if she were on the other side of the room watching somebody else pose. Her body stood stiffly. Her arms came to rest at their sides. Her feet came together closely. Her shoulders straightened back, and she pushed her breasts forward as if she wanted them to be stroked and played with. One of the men whistled, and as she robotically strode toward them she saw a rising look of lust in their eyes.

What's happening to me? she thought, horrified at the way her body moved outside her control.

What did they put inside me? Her fear now seemed muted, notched down the way the volume on a radio is turned down. Her heartbeat was no longer a discernible thing. Esther's eyes no longer fluttered back and forth in panic. In a way, though, this numbing down felt worse than her raw panic had. It only emphasized the hollow feeling now inside her, as if the actual core of herself had been removed, slipped out, leaving behind only a puppet shell guided by someone else.

Her face felt like a mask. Her expression, she knew, must look as neutral as a statue's.

"You see," the man holding the remote control - Esther had no other name for it - said. "Total physical control from the start. She could be sold just like this, with no training or programming at all. Of course, the market for that level of domination is small. It's too much like owning a robot." He concentrated on the object in his hands - it was shaped like an octagon and looked like it was made of silver - and then hit more controls. Esther stopped in front of them.

Sold! her mind shouted at her. Owned! She struggled to break free of the control, but, really, there was nothing for her to fight against. It was her own body that was betraying her, after all.

The lead captor touched the control device. Another wave of vertigo swept through Esther.

"There's a bathroom down the hall," he told her. "When we're finished here, you can use it if you need to. There are cosmetics in there, too. Use them to make yourself look pretty. When you're done, come back here and sit down in that chair." He indicated one near the far wall.

He used the control again. More vertigo. Esther felt herself nod.

"Yes, I understand," she said. The voice felt like someone else's speaking through her. "I can use the bathroom. I will go nowhere else. I will make myself look pretty."

The lead man nodded, and he shrugged his head at the others for them to go. They went to the door and left Esther standing at the edge of carpeting feeling absurdly like a mannequin.

"I didn't think it would be so fast," the guy from before said again, and they all laughed. The leader followed them to the door, then hesitated and looked back. He called out into the hallway. "Go on without me. I want to use her first."

Use me! Esther's eyes widened. It was the only voluntary motion she could muster. Oh dear Jesus, NO! She had no doubt whatsoever what the man meant by that. Her soul screamed.

Esther heard the other two laugh again uproariously. "Aw c'mon," one of them said. "You can have Ebony if you want." There was more laughter, and the leader waved his hand outside.

"Call it a test-run," he shouted, and the others catcalled him until they were out of hearing. The man with the control turned around then and closed the door behind him. He smiled at Esther.

"Come here," he ordered her. His thumb pressed a control on the device. Esther's body strode forward like a clockwork figure until she stood directly in front of him. Unbidden, she sank smoothly to her knees. The woman inside the body-turned-machine fought nausea at the certainty of what she was going to do next. Again, she tried to fight, but, again, there was nothing for her to fight against. Her captor dropped his pants and underwear, and his thick and pulsating member beckoned before her. "Make sure you swallow it all," he told her.

Vertigo. Nausea. Her head nodded. "I will swallow it all," the not-her voice agreed.

Instructions - nonverbal images rather, a whole set of instructions, in fact, on what was an almost subliminal level - flooded Esther's mind. Like an experienced whore who had gone down on customers a thousand times, the young banker bent forward and delicately began licking her captor's testicles. She accepted them into her mouth and sucked gently, then with increasing ferocity. She traced the length of his manhood with her tongue, slurping over it like a little girl with a candy cane. She used her teeth, exerting pressure in just the right spots. Esther had no idea how she knew how to do this - she had never blown a man before, the idea disgusted her beyond measure - but she did now, the instructions flowing as smoothly as her lips did around her captor's engorged tiny helmet.

His shaft throbbed like a small animal in her mouth. Controlling her breathing - God! where is all this coming from? she thought, dismayed and disgusted - Esther took more and more of him inside. Her suction was careful. Her tongue played with him lewdly. He came finally, erupting inside her, and she swallowed the thick fluid he made . . . slurped it up, in fact, like a starving little minx. The man grabbed Esther's head and thrust forward, fucking her mouth brutally, and she took it all, slowly, methodically. Minutes later she finished by licking his groin clean.

After he pulled his pants back up, he held the remote control in front of her. Esther was still licking her lips. Her mind utterly rebelled at the abhorrent taste of his spunk, yet she was unable to stop herself from cleaning up every last bit. "Follow directions. Don't touch this."

She nodded. "I will not touch the controller," she agreed/disagreed.

Satisfied, the man left the small octagon on the center table and left. Esther stayed on her knees for several more minutes. After finishing him, and then herself, irresistibly she found herself bending to the floor to lick up the stray remains that had settled there. She felt like she was going to go insane with revulsion, yet she did it. She felt like she was shutting down inside.

After awhile, she had a need to go to the bathroom. She followed every direction to the letter.

Then she began waiting.

A voice came over the intercom. "Rose? Your nine-thirty appointment is here."

The young attorney touched a small control on her desk. "Thank you, Charlotte." She paused, one finger held over the button. The nail was exquisitely manicured and painted a deep, dark red.

"Was there anything else, dear?" The supervisor imagined her assistant sitting on the edge of her seat in the outer office. Her voice had been a dead giveaway. "Is it Mr. Gordon?" she guessed a moment later, and there was noticeable relief in the pretty secretary's tone when she replied.

"Yes, Rose. He . . he's already on his way, Rose."

Rose nodded and released the control. She should have known, even before Charlotte spoke.

Oh, Martin, she thought calmly, with mild contempt. You should have waited longer. Let our visitors become nervous and anxious for our arrival. Impression was everything. By going to see them at once, now, and by extension forcing her to do the same, the Partnership would lose face. They would be seen as catering, weak and eager to please. True, it was a small loss of prestige, and it would likely have no effect on the negotiations, but the thing was, Martin would never even notice the mistake. He was too blunt of a man to notice, a fatal flaw in an attorney.

In a way, though, Rose was glad her colleague cut so many corners. It would make crushing him all the more easy . . . and enjoyable.

Tongue clicking silently in disapproval, this the only outward sign of her emotions, Rose got up and walked around her desk to the door. By the time she got there her customary slight and winsome smile was back. She paused at the mirror. Rose had practiced the smile assiduously, knowing the impact it had on men. She was a beautiful woman, and, deep in their hearts, she knew most men were afraid of beautiful women like her, ones that were as powerful as they, as intelligent and capable. It was an advantage, then, the perfect, knowing smile. It disarmed them. Her makeup too had been selected equally for impression, achieving just the right pale shade to so flawlessly complement her above-the-shoulders dark hair and porcelain complexion. Her lipstick and shadow had been applied with a comparable level of surgical care by her live-in expert, as it was every day. The end results were stunning. She stepped out of her office.

"This may take longer than I had anticipated. Reschedule my other appointments."

"Yes, Rose," Charlotte said, eyes downcast, long lashes fluttering prettily.

The young attorney left and walked down the Firm's hall to the meeting room. She wore a dark blue power business suit. The shoulders were slightly padded, and the skirt was cut to show exactly the right amount of leg at a more or less knee level. She wore, as always, stockings, never nylons. As she walked, other attorneys and employees of the Partnership stepped out of her way. A junior associate working at his desk failed to notice she was coming until Rose was almost right beside him. When he finally did see her, he immediately jumped to his feet.

"Ms. Rose," he managed, with only a small squeal. Rose was pleased by the reaction.

"Elliot," she said, simple acknowledgment. Then, even more sweetly, "I trust you'll have the Wilkerson-Jennings brief ready tomorrow morning." She saw Elliot's eyes widen, like a deer's would facing onrushing headlights. "I'm looking forward to seeing your thoughts on it."

She waited while he scrambled for something to say. She could tell he was mentally canceling his plans for that evening and working the night through. "Uh . . yes, ma'am . . absolutely." He shuddered. "It'll be ready for you first thing in the morning." He had turned a cheesy pale.

"Splendid." Rose continued on her way. Behind her, Elliot sat down and cursed her in a whisper she could just barely make out. She didn't mind. It was just another indication of how soft he and all men were. So long as he fulfilled his purpose, she was more than satisfied. Then she forgot Elliot as, ahead and to the right, she saw Martin Gordon about to step into Meeting Room "A." She gave him the smile, knowing he had seen her, and a moment later she saw him stumble into the half-open door. If not for him, she wouldn't be half the woman she was today.

"Rose," Gordon said, through half-clenched teeth. He lifted her hand in greeting. She let him.

He despised her.

"Martin," she replied. "Shall we go greet our guests?"

He muttered something. Weakness, she thought. They went in together.

Two men sat facing them at one end of the room's central long table. The wall to their left was one entire window overlooking a thirty-story view of downtown Chicago. Opposite it was another glass wall, this one facing the inner office. Both were made of one-way glass and were nearly unbreakable. The cost had been hugely expensive, though absolutely necessary for a small minority of the folk the Firm dealt with. Case in point: the Partnership's current guests this morning seemed more than ill at ease with their surroundings. They looked as if they were ready to explode. Their fingers drummed against the tabletop. They picked at the edges of their business suits. Their ties had been pulled into shapeless masses. They were not happy campers.

They were huge fellows. Both were seven foot, at least, and proportionately built. They looked not a little like professional wrestlers would if taken out of their costumes and put into elegant business clothes. The combination, in other words, was a little surreal. It was painfully obvious neither had ever worn such clothing before. The long and dangling mustaches they sported didn't improve their image, either. They were handlebar length and of a fashion that had gone out of style sometime around the era of Vlad the Impaler. Their skin was tanned and lined, roughened by the sun. One of the two had a healed scar over his left eyebrow. They were, in Rose's estimation, purposefully barbaric, and, clearly, they would have been far more at ease on a pair of horses overlooking tundra than at that table in Chicago, with swords at their sides and leather armor rather than Armante adorning their thick bodies. She scrutinized them carefully.

And as she examined them, so too did she see them do the same with her.

She saw the look in their eyes as she walked through the door, a look with which she had become very familiar these last few months, and she let them have it back with the smile.

These men - these barbarians so uncomfortable with what they wore - wanted to see her a slave.

They wanted to see her in chains and a collar, kneeling at their feet, naked or perhaps with some slip of a semi-transparent slave cloth on, something open at the bottom and easily pushed to the side for convenient and immediate penetration. They would like to enslave her, twist her mind with programmed instructions, chemical aphrodisiacs, or, if they were arrogant enough to believe it, the power of their own pricks inside her, making her climax for them uncontrollably, making her dark eyes tear and her full lips quiver with undisguised slave need, reducing her from a person to something little better than a living toy. That was what she saw in their eyes.

"Good morning, gentleman," she said innocently, sitting down. "Welcome to Chicago. I'm Ms. Rose, and this is my colleague, Mr. Gordon. We greet you on behalf of our Client and Partners."

The barbarians looked at one another briefly. The one with the scar opened his mouth to say something, but his partner silenced him with a stern look. He's the one in charge, Rose saw.

"We . ." the second barbarian grumbled and coughed. He cleared his throat. "We . . want license. License to . . ." He stopped, clearly searching for the right words. He gave up after a moment and looked directly at Gordon. The next words to come out of his mouth were not in English. A layman would not have identified them as words at all. They sounded rather like the kind of noises a man would make if he were drowning and water filled his lungs to the brim.

The words spilled out of the man's mouth in liquid gulps, each syllable a separate guttural slop.

"Of course," Gordon said, in similar syrupy-sounding splashes. They continued in that language. "Whichever you prefer." Rose did not miss his triumphant grin. She allowed him the moment.

The barbarian spoke.

"Pleasure-filled. On favor of our Client, we acknowledge you. Our appellatives are Procurer Wahinan Met and Procurer Kal Skil. We are representative-constituents of the Kedia Thrall Enterprise of the Eastern Corporate of Molos. Your cordiality has been most courteous."

"You're welcome," Gordon said. He gestured toward the window. "I hope the weather's not too cold for you. Have you ever been to Chicago before?"

The second barbarian - the one with the scar - shook his head. The gesture was a universal.

"This is our primeval attendance to your sovereignty and municipality," the other, Wahinan Met, said. "It is an opportunity."

Rose and Gordon stared first at the man, then at each other. The choice of words was . . . odd.

"The edifices are very high," Met continued. "It is like going afoot through a basin of steel and asphalt. You are favorable to live here." He pointed to the building next door. "It feels like we're commuting across the firmament. Corporate edifices are lower-built and hug the loam."

"Is that so? That's . . interesting." Gordon took out a piece of paper. "I've never been to, uh . . Molos? Are there . . other differences?" He began scratching out notes.

"Yes. Your sovereignty is very disparate. The people are manifold dissimilar . . so variegated. We are much more unvarying and immaculate." He leaned forward. "Efficacious."

The barbarian with the scar, Kal Skil, spoke.

"I saw a fem in your facility. An annalist-thrall? Her hair was crimson, like a gloaming firmament with the luminary blazing. We do not have such fems or such hues on Molos."

Met nodded. He plucked at his coat sleeves. "This is an intention. We want to parley traffic. An opportunity for trade."

Gordon blinked confusedly, then added something to his pad. "Ohh . . kay."

Rose watched the three of them intently, not minding whatsoever that they were completely ignoring her. Their inherent chauvinism was enlightening. As they slurped away at one another in syrupy gulps of Language, her practiced eye absorbed much. Before today, she had never heard of Kedia, the Eastern Corporate, or Molos. Nonetheless, she had already learned quite a bit, not the least of which was their people's attitude toward women. She could use that.

It was always helpful in negotiations when one party underestimated the other.

The scar-face spoke again. His mustache fell past his mouth almost to his chest. He was trying to relax in his leather-backed chair and was apparently failing. His jacket collar had torn.

"We require obtainment of an authorization to procure femthralls in your sovereignty. We looked at a cartographic print. The western half of your sovereignty is commensurate to our needs. We want to allocate immediate traffic, with prospective trade opportunities for credit in unfolding generations." He pounded heavily on the table for emphasis. "Our Client is amenable, and the Kedia Thrall Enterprise is affluent. This is an intention."

Met added, "A pledge would benefit both our Clients, I'm undoubted."

Rose watched through half-slit eyes as her Partner absorbed this. They're blunt, she thought. A simple people, though far from simple-minded. Their body language, too, was interesting. It was confident, arrogant. They projected power and strength unconsciously. Rose pictured Vikings in spacesuits but immediately dismissed the categorization as being too limiting. Gordon and the others prattled on without her. Their choice in words was intriguing. The liquidy speech they were all using, Language, had been specifically designed to be understood no matter where a person came from. Even so, she supposed, every human culture had its own peculiar rhythms.

She wondered if they found Gordon's word-choices equally as strange.

"You want to 'procure,' eh, exactly how many slave . . er, femthralls?" the lawyer asked.

"We have not yet settled a precise totality, Procurer Gordon," Skil said. "We have necessity for eight to ten dissimilar thralls, for cloning and heredity tailoring."

"We would favor an unsettled pledge, if such is feasible," the other added, "for a continuance not to exceed four to six sevendays." They both gazed at Gordon in an open and frank manner.

Eight to ten abducted women, Rose translated. Unsupervised, and over a four-week span.

She sniffed at the utter absurdity of the request. Even Agencies the Firm had dealt with for decades didn't warrant that kind of access . . . and especially not in the United States, where even the disappearance of "average" citizens sometimes attracted unwanted notice. Well, these Molosians have gall, I'll give them that, she thought. She began planning alternative offers.

Rose's shock was profound when, a moment later, Gordon gave the newcomers a tentative yes.

The young Partner sat up from the half-slouch she had fallen into. "Mr. Gordon," she said, catching his eye. "A word, please." Gordon sighed in an irritated, put-out way, but he leaned over as Rose did the same and tilted his head so she could whisper urgently in his ear.

"Are you mad?" she asked bluntly, in English.

"I have special authorization, Rosalie," he whispered back to her, emphasizing a name she no longer liked using. "Just wait and watch, dear." He grinned at her in a superior, confidant way, and Rose began thinking very quickly, very thoroughly. Gordon was impulsive and reckless - it was his mishandling of the Celestra problem eleven months ago that had ultimately brought Rose into the Firm in the first place - but by and large he wasn't stupid, or, at least, not stupid enough to blindly grant open licenses to virtual unknowns without something to guarantee his own freedom and identity. She was therefore missing key information. She was out of the loop.

As the meeting wore on, Rose came to realize how badly she was out of the loop.

The scar-faced barbarian stood. "Is there a quandary? We are amenable to moderation."

Rose opened her mouth to say something, but Gordon beat her to the punch. "There's no problem at all," he slurped in fluidy Language. "We can have your license ready in a few days."

The other barbarian, Wahinan Met, stood then.

"This is an admirable standing. We are pleasure-filled."

Rose resisted the impulse she felt to disavow Gordon's statements. Not only would it have caused a scene and made her look even weaker than she probably already did to these "representative-constituents," it would make the Firm look bad by presenting to outsiders their internal disagreements. Rumors of Celestra's attack last year had done much to affect their reputation, none of it to the good. The fact that there were internal disagreements among them stemming from that incident did not help. As such, Rose merely stood by as Gordon and the Molosians finished the tentative makings of their deal. The Firm was offered "substantial accruals in credits for biological technologies," which to her mind might have meant anything.

It took over an hour. Eventually, the two foreigners were thanked and escorted out by Firm Associates, no doubt to a place where they could use their projectors and return home. They said nothing to Rose as they left. The door closed behind them, and she and Gordon were alone.

"I believe an explanation is in order," she said, standing beside the table. Gordon resumed his seat and began casually putting his papers in order. He looked unworried.

"There was no time to brief you," he said. "The decision came down from the Senior Partner this morning. I was having a meeting with him just a few minutes before this one." He turned his head up to Rose. There was an evil gleam in his eyes, she noted. "The Firm wants closer relations with Molos. Biotech is the wave of the future, and the Molosians are about a hundred years ahead of us in that regard. Granting a few small requests now is good business."

Rose laughed. "Small requests," she said, raising an eyebrow. "And what will happen when these biotech barbarians begin grabbing women and enslaving them in the streets, eh? How much net profit will that make the Firm?" Gordon shrugged and stood up before answering.

"I've been assured they won't do that," he said. "In any event, it's not my problem. It's yours."

Rose stared at him, a horrible suspicion forming in her head.

Gordon moved toward the door. "That's why you were asked to attend this meeting, Rosalie. So you could get a head's up on the situation." He stopped with his hand on the knob and turned around. "Congratulations. We're putting you in charge of all matters Molosian here in the U.S."

Son of a bitch, Rose thought. Her facial cast went unchanged, though inside she seethed. They were setting her up. She was more angry at herself than at them, though. She hadn't seen it coming. That was twice today she should have known what Gordon was thinking.

It was scary to think she had slipped so badly. Obviously the man was receiving outside help from somebody.

"Another decision from the Senior Partner?" she asked, buying time to think, and Gordon grinned. "You're certainly turning into quite the lapdog, aren't you, Martin?" He laughed and opened the door.

"Don't be upset, Rosalie," he said, and her anger went up yet another notch. "Bring it up at the Partners' meeting. It's a promotion, a real honor . . . but if you don't want the assignment, you don't have to take it, you know." His eyes raked up and down her body. "I'm sure the others won't mind too much. There are lots of other services you could be doing for the Firm."

Yes, I can just imagine where you would like to have me serving, Rose thought.

She had worked too hard to get where she was. She had made enemies, often deliberately. But the Senior Partner? That was unexpected. The current head of the Partnership had avoided the assault on the building the rogue slaver Celestra had made. He had been on a skiing trip, of all things. With so many gone, and with his wealth of owed favors, the old man had assumed leadership of the Firm with hardly a word said against him. He and Rose had never clashed over anything, nor had to, until now. What was going on? Had he become her enemy? Why?

Gordon was leaving. She tried a new tack. "I find it extremely strange," she said, "that two security risks are being allowed so closely together."

The rival attorney stopped and stood in the doorway. "Two?" Gordon asked, a little warily. "What are you talking about?"

Got him! Rose thought. It was about time, too. If she couldn't control a weakling like Gordon, she deserved to be removed. "I had no idea you were such a fan of pop music, Martin."

Gordon stiffened. He closed the door again slowly. "Those are special circumstances. I had nothing to do with that waiver." Rose looked at him. "Anyway, it's none of your business."

"I suppose," Rose replied, walking toward the door herself now. "I just heard a rumor, that's all . . . and then, of course, there was your meeting with Phillip, too, and . . . ."

Gordon's face tightened.

"What do you know about that?" he demanded, stepping closer and looking down on her. He stood at least half-a-foot taller and was fifty pounds heavier, though by itself that meant very little. The last time they had fought, after all, she won. Rose said nothing.

"That meeting was a confidential matter," he said. "It had nothing to do . . . I mean, it concerned a foreign guest." Rose just continued to look at him blandly. "What did you hear about it?"

She knew nothing, actually, only that Gordon and the Chief Slaver had met and that careless here had tried to keep it a secret. The Chief Slaver was meeting with the Senior Partner this morning, too, and, judging from Gordon's reaction, this was somehow connected. Plans were obviously being made. Against her? Possibly. Probably, even, considering this morning's events.

Whatever it was, including Gordon in the plan had been a mistake. His knuckles had turned white. He was as transparent as glass. "I have my sources," she said and smiled sweetly at him. The smile. She moved past him and opened the door. "Anyway, it's none of your business. Excuse me." Shaking with barely concealed rage, Gordon grudgingly stepped aside.

The look in his eyes spoke volumes. Returning to her office, Rose pondered the situation.

Molos, she thought. Femthralls. She glanced upwards at the ceiling. The Firm's new projector relay was on the next floor. The Molosians might already have used its power to return home.

Popstars and a promotion.

She sighed. She suddenly had lots of new things to do before today's Partners' meeting.

From her limited vantage point, on her knees at the side of the Managing Partner's desk, Tiffany could just make out the lovely young attorney as she stepped into the hallway. She looked like a very successful woman. I used to be like that, she thought, and then winced at the inevitable queasiness a negative thought like that brought. Beside her, the Chief Slaver shifted his legs.

"Gordon's an idiot," Hulfgren, the Managing Partner, said to her Master. "But if he gets that slut properly enslaved, I swear I'll promote him to supervisory level." He turned off the TV monitor.

"He won't last," the Chief said, yawning. They had gotten up early that morning, and it had been a late night to begin with. Tiffany fought a yawn herself. She stretched her back imperceptibly instead and put her palms flat to the floor, relaxing her thighs a little. Spending much of her days on her knees had taught her much, not the least of which was to how gracefully prevent her muscles from cramping up on her. "It's the woman, Rose, I don't understand. What have you got against her? Isn't she the latest darling of our esteemed sponsor?"

Hulfgren snorted. Like Tiffany's Owner, the Firm's Managing Partner was a large, almost barrel-shaped individual, only Hulfgren's hair was steel-gray, not red, and his fingers looked as if they had never touched a farm implement in his life. "A Client doesn't care one way or another, you know that. It hasn't the capacity to care, to focus its perceptions individually enough." The Partner leaned back in his leather-bound chair. "My perceptions, on the other hand, are very focused. The woman's a menace. She's too ambitious, and, I'll admit, too damned capable for her gender. She won't be satisfied until she's in the top seat. That's not going to happen."

"Because you want that position yourself," the Chief Slaver said, nodding. "Okay, Gustavo, points taken." He sighed deeply. Casually, one hand reached out to scratch Tiffany's hair, and she closed her eyes, automatically luxuriating in his touch. Bastard, she thought and fought vertigo. "I take it too you're not entirely trusting Mr. Gordon being capable of handling this himself. You want my help somewhere along the line." He lifted his hand away to gesture at the now blank screen. "You know she's already got to have her wind up."

"Mmhmm," Hulfgren hummed and smiled. "That's the beauty of it. She's looking at Gordon on one side, the Senior Partner on the other. She'll think that's where your loyalties are and plan accordingly."

"And . . . ?"

Hulfgren chuckled. "Let me show you something else." The Partner reached inside his desk and produced a video cassette. He put it in the VCR, and a moment later a black-and-white image showed up on the screen. Since no one had told Tiffany she couldn't look, she did.

The screen showed an empty lobby at night. A caption in the lower righthand corner identified the place as LoeserTech HQ, whatever that was. The time was earlier that morning.

"What is this?" the Chief asked. Hulfgren asked him to be patient.

Tiffany watched on the monitor what looked like a very unhappy security guard. There was no sound on the tape, but she could almost make out the curses the man made from the way his lips moved. Then, in an unusual twist, the scene turned abruptly from PG to triple X with the arrival of a new player. Watching the video began to make Tiffany squirm a little on the floor.

"That's . . . that's interesting," the Partner's guest said.

"It gets better," Hulfgren said. "Let me speed it up."

The "sex scene" ended, and for forty-five minutes nothing happened. Then, four figures - the naked girl, the two guards, and a man in a white coat - hurried through to the parking lot. The tape continued to run. Thirty minutes later a second break-in was recorded, this one even more unusual. Hulfgren slowed the tape to play in real time. What it showed was this: one moment the lobby was completely empty, then, with no warning, a great light source suddenly flared.

Projector effect, Tiffany thought. She was more than familiar with the technology. Too familiar.

When the glare went away, five figures who had not been there before suddenly were. They did not come in through the main entrance. They did not come in through the hallway. They just appeared as if out of nowhere. Both Tiffany and the Slaver looked on intently. The video showed the five men searching LoeserTech but apparently not finding what they had been looking for. They were not burglars; they bypassed equipment cumulatively worth hundreds of thousands of dollars without even a glance. Three of the men wore uniforms of a type Tiffany had never seen before, similar to camouflage gear. The other two were naked; their skin looked like it was covered in stripes, and they crouched on their hands and knees rather than stand. They sniffed the air as if they were dogs trying to pick up a scent. One of the soldier-types held on to them by a leash.

The search was methodical and professional, but their competency was somehow at odds with the long handlebar mustaches they wore. Finally, after about twenty minutes, the five of them gathered in the main lobby again. One of them raised a projector. The screen filled with an overwhelming flash of light, and when it cleared they were gone.

Hulfgren turned off the tape. "Obviously they didn't have a relay with them. They haven't used ours, either. That means they're probably still on the planet." He took out the tape. "A little something extra for our new liaison person, eh?"

The Chief Slaver pondered. "You're hoping for a major security violation, I take it." He put his fingers together almost as though in prayer. "A violation bad enough to enslave her over."

Hulfgren nodded. "Yes. Rose'll be so caught up looking for plots, both real and imaginary, that she won't see the real threat until it comes to put her in her rightful place at my feet." His eyes snaked over to Tiffany, and she shivered at the cold, misogynistic malevolence in them. "Just like this lovely creature is at yours. Who is she, Phillip? She's simply gorgeous."

The Chief leaned forward like an old fisherman who had been asked about his latest catch.

"Oh, well, there's a story there. She's a Tiffany now, but . . ." and the rest proved unintelligible to the slave's ears. Her counterprogramming simply wouldn't allow her to understand any talk saying anything about her past. Their words instead came out sounding like an adult in a Peanuts' cartoon. Somebody - and it was probably the Chief himself - had a wicked sense of humor. "And . . so on . . the . . and then she . ." were the only things she understood. Everything else came out as "waaa waaa, waaa waaa." She wondered how Charlie Brown could stand it.

She wondered how long it had been since they had taken her. She had no way of knowing for sure. Her time sense had been edited along with everything else, and she often experienced things out of sequence, like last night's "I'm a callgirl on call" scenario. It might have been only days. On the other hand, it could have been weeks or months. Years even. She had no clue.

"My, my," Hulfgren said finally, in her a way the plug in her brain interpreted as an end to (forbidden knowledge). She sighed. He came around the desk to get a closer look at her.

"Stand for the man, Tiffany," her Master said.

"Yes, Master," she whispered submissively and stood. She was wearing a standard House uniform: a tight blue and black corset around her middle that covered her hips and squeezed her waist into a tight, waspish figure; a pair of black silk stockings held up by garters; high-heeled pumps for the proper "Fuck me, I'm a slut" look; and, frankly, nothing else. Her naked pussy gleamed moistly under the Partner's candid inspection - another bit of programming she had a strong dislike concerning - and her uplifted nipples tensed uncomfortably, pushed up and spread apart by the whalebone stay in the corset's frame. She wore her long blonde hair down today.

"A delicious prize," the Managing Partner said and fingered Tiffany's erect nipples. They, like the needy slit between her legs, had been delicately rouged and perfumed. The Partner bent his head over and tasted her work, his teeth pressing carefully against her sensitive flesh, his mouth sucking gently. Tiffany moaned with sudden desire, her training sessions in the House mixing with her damnably programmed brain to put her in a state of heat almost immediately.

She wanted to be fucked. Dammit, they had made it so she needed to be fucked!

Instead, Hulfgren straightened to his full height again and slowly circled her. "Don't move," he instructed her, so she didn't . . . couldn't. The Partner's hands fondled her ass, and she closed her eyes and clenched her tongue between her teeth to prevent a total erotic breakdown. They liked having their sex slaves needy and desperate all the time, but, paradoxically, it seemed to her, they wanted them to be fully in control always. They just want an excuse to punish us when we give in, she thought, fighting the burning passion now all but consuming her. Like we always do. Her true Master, the Chief Slaver of the House, watched her struggle amusedly.

"You want my help, Gustavo," he said, getting back to the original subject, "you've got it, of course." He paused, and the Partner looked up from his examination - his delightful inspection, Tiffany was such a slut, she was so needy, and so on and on - to read the look on his face. "But I don't come cheap, my friend. I want blanket licenses on three high-profile subjects."

Hulfgren rested one hand on Tiffany's behind, and it took all her willpower - little as it was - not to just melt in his arms. "Gordon told me. The pop duo. I suppose two subjects can be . . . ."

"Three," the Chief Slaver said, standing. "It's three or nothing. You can give me the paperwork before I leave. Or would you like to use this Tiffany first?" He took her controller out of his pocket.

Hulfgren sighed. "All right. Three." He frowned. "The rock stars I knew about. You must have a buyer already set up. But I'm curious. Who's the third girl? It's not someone else famous, surely?" He took the proffered device, and Tiffany gave herself up to the inevitable.

"No, no one famous. The matter's already in hand." The Slaver grinned. "And don't call me Shirley." He laughed. Hulfgren joined in. Tiffany was the only one in the room who didn't see the humor.

Esther sat alone for hours before the next man came.

She had replayed what had happened to her so many times over and over again that toward the end she felt like she really had gone insane, that beyond the calm, emotionless exterior she presented she was actually gibbering like a madwoman inside. The sane, ordinary surface of the world that she had taken for granted had become a teeter-totter, like a room in a funhouse where the floor pivoted up and down. Balance was impossible. The loss of control, the revulsion at the thing she had done, the situation she found herself in . . . surely it was all her imagination? She must be, surely, sitting in some padded cell somewhere, like the pads covering the walls in this room, and screaming about kidnappers, control units, and tubular prisons. Oh God, please let me be insane, she thought. Please make this all a dream. She couldn't imagine how things could get worse, but she knew they would. The words they had used - sell, own, programming - they reverberated inside her head. They were going to sell her. This was a white slavery ring of some kind, of some twisted, magical kind. Oh, please, please, make it all a dream, she pleaded.

But if it was a dream, it wasn't going away easily. The long, nightmarish hours she spent alone in that room had turned into an awful punishment. At first, she had been glad to be alone, to not be victimized - roboticized - by one of her captors. After a time, though, the wait did more to emphasize how utterly helpless she was more than the ordered blowjob had. All she could do was sit there in that chair. She could adjust her position a little, make herself a bit more comfortable in her seat, but that was it. That was the only freedom allowed her. She could no more walk across that room or out that door than she could get up and fly to the moon.

No bonds held her. She wasn't chained to the wall or anything. She had just been ordered to stay put, and so she did. Esther's prison was her own body, and from it she could not escape.

She had gone to the bathroom earlier and used its facilities - that had been permitted her - but then she had looked at herself in the mirror. What she saw was herself, a lovely young woman with dark hair and a nice bosom, and yet it had not been her. The calm, cold expression on her face reminded Esther of a zombie movie she had once seen. Helplessly, the zombie she had become cleaned her face and put on some of the cosmetics in the drawer next to the sink. She painted her lips, shadowed her eyes, used a little blush, and made herself look beautiful.

She knew the reason why, too, and she dreaded it. When she finished, she returned to her cell like a good little slave, sat down in the chair, primly closed her bare legs and covered her breasts, and began waiting. For all the good it did her, she might as well have been chained to the wall.

The wait had been bad. Very bad.

The worst thing, though, the very, very worst, was the knowledge that whoever held the small, octagonal piece of silver sitting on the table nearby her could make Esther do and say anything he wanted, and all she could do, had done for hours on end, was just stare at the horrible thing.

She had been ordered, after all, not to touch it.

A more sadistic devil could not have invented a more diabolical hell.

The door to the room opened, and a new man, someone else Esther had never seen before, came in. She stiffened uncontrollably and twisted in her seat away from him as much as she could.

They hadn't even left her the capacity to whimper.

The newcomer said nothing but walked over to the table where the control unit sat. Unlike the other people who worked here apparently, he wasn't dressed in jeans and a black shirt. This man was dressed in gym clothes, as if he had just come from a workout. His face was flushed, and there was a towel wrapped around his shoulders. He looked like a man who had just come from a workout. He bent down and opened a cabinet inside the table frame. From it he took a water bottle and closed it again. He picked up the controller - earlier, she had used the word "controller" instead of control unit or remote control, she didn't know why - and he drank thirstily as he examined Esther . . . though perhaps the word "ogle" was more accurate.

He pointed the controller at Esther exactly as he would a TV remote control and pressed it. A wave of dizziness swept through her - the sensation was becoming terribly familiar - and when he told her to stand and pose for him, she did so at once. "Do jumping jacks," he told her, and she did. His eyes leered at her flying tits. "Stop. Come over here. Get on your back. Spread your legs. Wider." She exposed herself to him in ways she never had to any man before.

Eventually he told her to stand up again. He stood facing her like a commanding officer reviewing a recalcitrant soldier. So far he hadn't touched her at all, though he had made her do things with her lips and her arms and her breasts that made her feel like a cheap porn star.

Examining the merchandise, Esther thought, unable to shed any of the tears she wanted. He's examining the merchandise. The notion that this was all a nightmare fantasy had vanished.

"What's your name?" he asked her, looking in her eyes. "What were you before you came here?"

"My name is Esther Marie Ruley. I'm an assistant district manager with Sloan Banking."

"You were an assistant district manager with Sloan Banking. You're a slave now."

"Yes, I was an assistant manager. I am a slave now."

The man nodded. "Unusual. We don't get many businesswoman here."

"Please, please, let me go. I don't . . . I don't want to be a slave."

The man grinned. "Yes, you do," he corrected. "You want to be a slave."

Esther's mind whirled with contradictions. "Yes, I want to be a slave. Please make me a slave."

"You came to the right place," the man said. He looked down at the controller. "We're going to lay down your initial programming. Do some editing. There's not much need for banking skills where you're going." He hummed a little as he worked. His fingers flew across the controls.

He . . what? I'm not supposed . . . she kept them in a jar! No, that's not right, that's (forbidden knowledge).

It was like being tossed into a storm at sea. Though she remained standing perfectly still, the slave's thoughts churned like a kite caught in a hurricane.

I don't know that I don't know wanna see a trick? spaghetti is ticklish weeeeeh that's so hard to think about.

She was (forbidden knowledge). The apartment was (forbidden knowledge). It was (forbidden knowledge). She blinked several times. Her name was (forbidden knowledge). The room fluttered inside her head like a flock of birds, breaking apart and then forming back together again.

Yes No Please it's a car, no it's Superman weeeeh and away we go! (forbidden knowledge) is (forbidden knowledge) flowers there's a new month (forbidden knowledge) yes.

It was (forbidden knowledge). The slave blinked. "There's a hole in my head."

The Slaver nodded as if he understood.

The girl looked at the man who held her life literally in the palms of his hands. "What are you doing to me? I don't know . . I don't want . . ." but then the Slaver told her to be quiet, so she had to be.

(forbidden knowledge) (forbidden knowledge) (forbidden knowledge) (forbidden knowledge)

He looked up when he was finished. "What's your name, slave?"

The girl looked at him blankly.

"I am . . I . . I . . I don't know, sir." The nameless slave's face filled with confusion.

"And what were you before you came here?"

She tried to answer, but she couldn't. It was (forbidden knowledge). "I . . I don't know, sir. I think I was . . I mean, I think I was . . ." The Slaver put up a hand to stop her rambling.

"It's not important." He handed the slave her controller. "Take this and go to the training facility. Give it to the man in charge. You have lots of hard, slutty work ahead of you."

"Yes, sir," the slave said. "Thank . . thank you, sir." The confused look on her face stayed there as she fingered the silver device. "Where . . I mean, where . . ?"

"Out that door. Take a right and go to the end of the hall. You can't miss it."

The slave nodded. "Thank you, sir. I mean . . I mean . . who?" She pouted. "What have you done to me?" she asked in a small, frightened voice.

"Hush," the Slaver said, putting a finger to her mouth. "Hurry along."

Bound with orders, the slave nodded, still more than a bit dazed, and left to find the man she had to give her life to. She hurried. The Slaver's instructions were the only thing in her head that held any meaning, though she was sure someone would explain things more thoroughly.

She hoped so, anyway.

Martin Gordon's return to his apartment was so abrupt and unexpected at that hour that his girl wasn't at her accustomed spot waiting for him when he came in. To her credit, though, neither was he. Martin materialized in the middle of his living room in a flash of incandescent light and loud noise, a blue-tinged aura of tachyons still coruscating along his handheld projector.

Sandi rushed out of his bedroom and immediately knelt before him, knees spread wide, head down, and her hands palm up and resting gently on her thighs. She was naked.

"Master," she breathed, her skin flushed with embarrassment as well as from a more customary deep sexual need. "Master, please forgive Sandi for not being ready for you."

She began to cry softly, her tears marring the light makeup Martin had her wear. Her short, dark hair framed a pretty face.

"Be silent," Martin ordered and strode past her.

Sensing his mood, Sandi bent forward and knelt with her face directly to the floor. She was very supple. Her lithe, though curvaceous body flowed as smoothly as any acrobat's. She shivered.

Ignoring her, Martin went into his bedroom and immediately to his wall safe. The bed, he saw, was still unmade. The room itself was untidy. A sour grin broke out on his face. He really had caught Sandi unprepared this time. Good, he thought, knowing how much that would hurt her, knowing she had failed in her duties to him. Her every thought was of his pleasure and well-being. He had an excuse now to really "give it to her" this evening, and he would, hard.

Not that he ever really needed an excuse. He owned her, body and soul.

Just about a year ago, the girl, who had then been a doctor named Sandra Pitzler, stupidly got in the way of his agents while they were investigating a projector anomaly. They captured her, enslaved her, and, eventually, turned her into the mewling slut she was today, just like he was going to do the same with her daughter, Rosalie, whom he too would own, body and soul.

Martin pulled back a painting from the wall and began turning the dial on his safe. He hadn't found a single eavesdropping device in his office back at the Firm, and it was impossible that she could have any in his apartment . . . wasn't it? He paused, considering. No, he was safe.

But, dammit, how had she known about his meeting with Phillip? How much did she know about the Molosians? He continued dialing. Bitch, he thought. God, how I hate that bitch!

Rosalie Pitzler went looking for her mother after she vanished. By all rights, she should have joined her mother in slavery. Instead, through a weird chain of events, and by taking credit for all his work, the bitch somehow ended up a full Partner in Martin's Firm. That was all going to change, though. Soon. Very, very soon. He opened the safe and rummaged around inside.

From amid several stacks of bills and a number of gleaming, silvery tools, Martin picked up a device that looked like a miniature television set. A small screen sat in its front. Along one side was a row of small buttons and other controls. It looked extremely advanced, alien, in fact, but in truth it had been manufactured by a small security company in Israel. It wouldn't be out on the market for another two or three more years, if that. Martin fiddled with the controls, and a long mustached face appeared on the screen. Its owner held the sister-set of the device Martin held, which the attorney had given him at their first meeting - the real one - months earlier.

"You beheld her?" Martin asked, his Molosian fluent. "How presently can you procure her?"

"By the attainment of the twenty-four span," Wahinan Met said. "The Procurers of Kedia are able and unfailing. There will be no pitfall." He paused. "Our pledge is still sound?"

Martin reassured him. What was one more slave among many? The Procurers could search California for as long as they wanted . . . so long as he got what he wanted.

When he was done, Martin put the telescreen back in the safe.

He slapped his hands together excitedly. He thought of Rose - Rosalie - kneeling in front of him, naked and with her knees spread. The image warmed him considerably, and he took a brief look at his watch. He had time. The Partners' meeting wasn't scheduled for another couple of hours.

"Sandi!" he yelled. "Get your ass in here."

His slave hurried in and resumed a headfirst crouch before him. He laughed. He could start on Sandi now instead of later. "Raise your head, slut," he told her after a moment.

She did, tears still staining her face. Though her chronological age approached forty, her body had been completely rejuvenated - ironically enough by Molosian technology! - and she looked close to her own daughter's age, about twenty. They could have been twins, especially now since he had had the slave doing her hair and face like Rosalie's own these last few weeks.

God! but he was going to enjoy owning the two of them together.

"Turn around!" he snarled. "I told you to get your ass up here."

The slave took the desired position, turning around and raising her haunches, gratefully. Martin pulled down his pants. He thought this a much better use of his time than looking for nonexistent bugs.