Interlude: Twelve

The boy lay quietly in the bed, his face hidden by the blanket, and watched out of one half-open eye as Sir dressed himself and readied himself for the morning. The boy was sore, and stiff, but he didn't dare move. He didn't want to take the chance that Sir would realise he was awake, and decide that he wanted to play some more before he went out. So the boy kept his breathing regular, and he didn't stretch his legs, nor did he try to find a more comfortable position where he wasn't partially laying on the newest set of welts he'd been given. Sir had told him the night before that he'd be up early and out all day; he had a meeting in Nuvia, he'd said; a shuttle would be coming to pick him up. That was when the boy finally understood the danger he was in. Sir was not just one of those men that he'd learned as a little boy to avoid when he saw one coming his way; Sir was not just a client of Behlar's who had a large credit account; Sir was something for the Federation – they were sending a shuttle to him, here in the middle of nowhere – Sir had wealth, and power, and arms. The boy felt a tear trickle out of the corner of his eye. He'd known that Behlar would do just about anything for credits, but it had never occurred to him that he might be sold to someone who would kill him when he was done.

He waited until Sir left the room – so far he'd not been told Sir's name, and he doubted he ever would – and then he rubbed his eyes and tried to find a better position in the bed, one that wouldn't hurt quite as much. Sir had been very restrained, so far – the boy knew, of course, of much worse things that had been done to boys like him – but he was unused to pain, to the constant aching and soreness. He hadn't yet learned to block it out the way he'd heard other boys could.

Sir was whistling, which meant the meeting would go well. The boy – he refused to call himself Billy – was relieved. Sir would want to play when he returned tonight, but there'd be no anger involved. It would hurt, but it would be safe. He heard Sir stand in the doorway, still whistling, a melody the boy had no way of knowing or understanding.

"I'm leaving now, Billy," Sir said. "The shuttle will be here in about two minutes. You don't have to pretend to be asleep anymore. I don't have time for you this morning." And he laughed, a low laugh that raised the hairs on the boy's arms and neck.

"Yes, Sir," the boy said.

Sir said, "We might try something new this evening. You can spend the day thinking about it," and he laughed again and left the room.

The boy heard the door to the cottage open and then shut. Still, he didn't get out of bed. Sir had a way of keeping him off-guard, and he knew Sir was fully capable of returning to the bedroom and instigating some sort of play. The boy waited until he heard the shuttle arrive and then leave before he slipped out of the bed.

At first, the boy didn't know what to do. He hadn't been left alone by Sir for more than half an hour before, and Behlar certainly had never left him alone for an entire day. But that had been in Nuvia, a place where the boy could easily disappear; he was in the middle of nowhere now, on the edge of the sea and the jungle. He knew that Risa had no real dangers that weren't human on it – no wild animals, for example, that would eat you – but the jungle still frightened him, almost as much as Sir did. Besides, Sir had made sure he didn't have shoes. He knew he wouldn't survive long in the jungle without shoes.

He decided he could take a shower – Sir had not forbidden him to do anything – so he went into the bathroom and turned the water on, nice and hot. He looked at himself in the mirror. There were dark circles under his eyes and a fading bruise on his cheek. His eyes were dark with starburst flecks in them, his lashes long, his hair dark and somewhat curly at the nape of his neck. His teeth were white and even, his nose a pleasant shape. He didn't understand why he'd been sold to a man like Sir – surely it would have been more profitable to keep a boy as pretty as he was.

"My name is Jindyl," the boy said to his reflection. "Not Billy. Jindyl."

He turned away from the mirror, and stepped into the shower. It was a wonderful shower, just letting the warm water cascade over his aching body, not having to worry about Sir and his flickering moods. He dried himself in a large, fluffy towel and then dressed in the loose trousers and tunic that Sir provided for him. He cleaned up the bathroom efficiently – one thing he was good at, organising and cleaning – and wandered into the kitchen. He was hungry, and he approached the replicator and ordered the foods that Sir had introduced to him – blueberry pancakes with maple syrup, orange juice, scrambled eggs.

He enjoyed his breakfast but was careful to clean up after himself thoroughly. He assumed that Sir was a military man in some way, with the Federation or maybe even Starfleet – he preferred everything "shipshape" and in its place.

"Shipshape," Jindyl said to himself. It was a funny word. "Shipshape."

He decided he could please Sir by making sure that the cottage was shipshape, so he set about thoroughly cleaning the kitchen and organising the drawers and cabinets. He didn't know how to whistle; he didn't really understand music, even though Sir had given him his own padd to play with, which had music on it. He worked quietly and diligently, making a contented hum in the back of his throat that would have sounded curiously atonal had there been anyone there to hear it.

Then he found the fake bottom in the drawer by the sink, and the soft leather portfolio underneath it. His heart stopped momentarily when he saw it. This was part of Sir's power – why else would there be this special place for it? He touched the portfolio, enjoying the smoothness and softness of the leather, and he brought it up to his face, smelling its pungent animal scent and running his tongue briefly over it. He'd never felt something like this before. He didn't know that animals could be used to make things. He opened the portfolio, and was disappointed to find that it just held four discs in it, secured in pockets. He knew what discs were, of course, they held programs that you could watch on a viewscreen, or the weird sounds that Sir listened to that he called music, and the games that Sir had programmed onto his padd for when he needed to be quiet so Sir could work.

Maybe, Jindyl thought, there were games on these discs too. He left the portfolio on the counter and took the discs out, and then carried them into the bedroom where he'd left his padd. He booted the padd up and slid the first disc in and was disappointed again – there was just writing on it, writing and some strange pictures, nothing that he could understand, since he couldn't read and he'd never heard of the possibility of school. He'd been picked up off the street when he was maybe five or six, he had no real idea how old he was, by Behlar, who'd found him running wild – and since that time he'd been employed pleasing men like – or almost like – Sir. He took the disc out and put the second one in. Again, more writing; the same on the third. He was sure that the writing was important – why else would Sir hide it? – but it had no value at all to him. He slid the last disc in and his heart stopped.

Pictures.

It was a minute or so before he thought to breathe again. There were boys in the pictures, boys like him, some of them by themselves, some of them with Sir, some of them with other men. All of them were humanoid but many were not human, not the way Sir was. They were all of them doing the things that Sir liked, or so he thought – until he realised that some of them were dead. Very dead. Jindyl wanted to shut the padd down, throw the disc away, but he was caught by the images he was seeing, caught by the eyes of the boys whose eyes could have been his own eyes. He scrolled through the pictures, pictures of live boys and dead boys, boys who looked happy and boys who looked scared, boys whose eyes were haunted and boys whose eyes were blank. The men looked happy. Sir looked the way he always did, until Jindyl came to the last group of pictures.

These pictures were different from the others. Sir was a much younger man in these pictures; there was a woman in them, who looked happy; and a baby, who looked a little bit like the woman. The place in these pictures was strange, not like any other place he'd ever seen; it was by the ocean but the ocean was a dark blue with white; the beach was not sandy but rocky; there were mountains that were white on top, and tall, dark green trees. Sometimes the white that was in the water and on the mountains was on the ground. There were pictures of the baby – who'd become a boy – and Sir standing in it. There were pictures of the boy and other children; of the boy holding a fish. The boy was pretty – tall and strong-looking, with dark hair curling at his neck and ears and eyes that were the brightest blue Jindyl had ever seen. These pictures made Jindyl ache; it was clear that the boy was Sir's in a way he could never be.

Jindyl scrolled to the last set of pictures and he felt tears fill his eyes. These were pictures of the boy doing what Sir liked best – and the eyes of the boy were very much like the eyes of the dead boys in the other pictures. This boy wasn't dead – but his eyes were.

Jindyl took the disc out, and he shut down the padd. He walked back into the kitchen and carefully put the discs and the portfolio back in its hiding place. He finished what he'd set out to do in the kitchen, organising and cleaning, but it was mindless now. When he was finished he went into the bedroom and climbed back into the bed, burying himself underneath the blanket and then curling himself up into a ball. He'd known, of course, when Sir had pulled the phaser on him that first night, that Sir was a bad man. And after Sir had introduced him to the way he liked to play, he'd known too that his own life might be in danger.

He wondered where the pictures of himself were, with Sir. He wondered if he would be added to the live boy – or the dead boy – collection.

He wondered if the real Billy – the one whose eyes were dead – was still alive.

He stuck his thumb in his mouth and waited for Sir to come home.