Some of Hamilton's clothing she found faulty upon examination. These she separated out for the maids to take care of.
And then she was done, standing there in the middle of the room. "Why don't you take a shower,
Hamilton's hair was full of shampoo and his eyes burning with soap when he heard a small click and felt a cool draft on his wet body. There was somebody inside the shower with him. He immediately backed into one corner, putting out one hand to guard while trying desperately to get the soap from his eyes.
He stopped himself, feeling inexpressibly silly, when he heard Alice laugh. "Didn't you understand?" she asked. "I come with the room . . . like a piece of furniture. I'm here for your enjoyment."
"How did you end up here?" Hamilton asked, later, as the two lay in bed, half-exhausted.
"I was born," Alice answered, cryptically. "I'm sorry," she amended. "That wasn't fair. I wanted to go to school. I couldn't afford it. KHR made me an offer. I get room and board—and it's a very
"Very nice," Hamilton agreed.
"Yes. The company gave me a budget to decorate and I did it myself. I was even able to save a little.
"Anyway . . . well, I get room and board, a small stipend, and can go to class when I don't have duties here. It may take me six years to get a degree, instead of four, but six years is better than never."
"And for that?"
"For that I signed a contract of indenture . . . I have to be nice to men assigned to this suite." She smiled warmly. "I was happy when you were assigned,
"Someday, if I graduate well, I'd like to put in papers to emigrate to America . . . or maybe some of its possessions where the rules for immigration are a little easier."
Hamilton said nothing but thought,
Hamilton's last thought, as he drifted off to sleep, was,
Slave Pen Number Five, KHR House Holding Facility, Cape Town, South Africa,
17 October, 2113
"If you wince," Bongo said, on the elevator ride down to the pens, "if you give any indication that those kids are anything more than cattle, you are out of here." It was an idle threat, after spending so much time training Hamilton for this one mission, he was not going to be replaced. Still, Bongo thought, perhaps he didn't understand that.
"I won't," Hamilton assured his ostensible servant and genuine boss. "But I've got to ask: How the hell do you stand it, day after day, year after year?"
"You can get used to anything," Bongo replied. The subterranean elevator doors opened to the sound of wailing and moaning and utter human misery. "Some things are just a lot harder than others.
"This is one of the hardest," Bongo whispered, before taking the lead and saying aloud, "This way,
There were six pits below the elevator walkway. Separated by some kind of tough, clear plastic, they allowed the staff of the complex to walk between them to distribute food and water. The oddest thing, to Hamilton's eye, was that to one or two sides of each of five of the six pits women, some black, some brown, a few obviously with some white in their ancestry, stood staring at the sixth, their hands seeming desperate to push through the clear barriers that held them.
"Why—"
Bongo answered before the question was fully formed. "Those are mothers, pining for their children. The children—our cargo—are in the sixth pen."
