Free Subjection by Alicia Cameron Page A

have that same desire, and I admire it in the slave.
    “How are your arms?” I ask, hoping to change the subject.
    I watch him go stiff and still.
    “Fine, master.”
    Nobody who is fine goes pale at the mention of a potentially injured body part. “Arms above your head,” I order, keeping it short and simple in hopes of cutting through his panic.
    He obeys, partially. I can see the way he sets his jaw, gritting against the pain, and I notice the careful way he stops when his arms get to a certain point. He can function, I’m sure, shower and clean and dress himself, but he should have a far wider range of motion. I wait for him to lift them higher, to tell me it hurts, but he doesn’t. He just looks at me, questioning.
    I frown, place one hand on either arm, and push them higher up.
    The yelping and whimpering catch me by surprise, and I pull my hands away instantly. He lets his arms drop, looking terrified.
    Does he really think I’ll be angry because he’s injured? Hell, I was part of the institution that caused these injuries! I remember when my mother took over the very re-education center that Sascha spent his years at. The merger had been cause for celebration, although I was too young to attend the grand opening party she threw.
    “I told you to let me know if they didn’t stop hurting,” I remind him. It’s been a week, and he’s allowed himself to hurt this whole time? I’m angry at him for not mentioning it, but far more angry at myself for not noticing.
    Sascha gives me a stupid, scared look. “Yes, master.”
    I smack him in the chest without even thinking about it. Years of training have primed my movements for violence, and he’s annoying me. I don’t hit him hard; I can’t, knowing what’s been done to him. Still, he yelps and recoils. I regret it. I didn’t mean to scare him further, but it’s far easier to fall back on the training methods I was raised with than to figure out something new.
    “When I give you an order, I expect you to follow it,” I snap. It’s far more comfortable to give him orders. Despite the fact that I didn’t hit him that hard, he still appears terrified.
    “I’m taking you to the doctor.”
    I walk out, unable to figure out what else to do. He doesn’t seem to want comfort, and I’ve never been good at providing it. I call ahead and make sure my doctor can get me in. I wish I could call him over to the house so I don’t have to take the slave out, but I suppose the doctor’s time is valuable, too. I indicate that Sascha sit in the passenger seat and the act of pointing seems to terrify him. I stay quiet as we drive.
    I lead the slave into my own doctor’s office without a word. There are slave doctors, under-qualified medical students looking to make some side money, but I would never take my property to one of those. We wait in the reception area, and the slave even glances over the magazines and loaner tablets scattered on the counter. It’s not long before the doctor comes through the door with a smile on his face. He’s been my doctor since I was a child, and his hair had already started to whiten by then. He’s always claimed to be too old to care about politics, but as I age as well, I realize it’s little more than a convenient cover. He cares about health and well-being; he knows that the Demoted are no different from anyone else.
    “Cashiel, what brings you here in such a hurry?” he asks. “Naleen said you told her it was urgent.”
    I walk over to the door, looking back at Sascha when he doesn’t follow. The order seems unnecessary, so I wait until he finally jumps to his feet and makes his way to us. I can see the doctor’s eyes taking in my slave, and me.
    “And just who is this?” the doctor asks, his voice holding a hint of judgment.
    I wait until the door is closed and we are on our way to the exam room before replying. “Slave,” I mutter, just now wondering if slaves are accepted here. I know the doctor is friendly to