Lee chapter 49

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(SIX MONTHS LATER)


At seven minutes after four on the second day of jury deliberation, the phone rang.

Everyone was in the lounge; ever since the trial had begun, nobody wanted to be alone, not even Jer, so they stayed close, piling on the furniture and the floor, insomniac at night but dozing off at odd hours on each other's shoulders. Lee curled on the couch, his head in his master's lap and his feet in Mona's; Jer, sitting on the floor at Andrei's feet, was stroking Lee's hair, and Lee's eyes had been closed, but popped open at the sound of the ringing phone. Inga leaned on Mona, and Greta had been leaning on Inga, but was now sitting bolt upright as if she'd been shocked. Valor, standing up behind her mother and nervously braiding and unbraiding her hair, exchanged a look with Alix, who was sitting on the floor next to Jer, leaning her head on Greta's knee; Yves, pacing restlessly along the bookshelves, scanning them as if he'd find something there that he'd somehow never detected before, stopped stock-still. Bran, who'd been asleep in Holden's lap, woke up and instantly flung his arms around Holden's neck, in an act as reflexive as if he'd woken to find the house rocking wildly under him and grabbed at the nearest solid thing for balance. Holden pulled him close.

For a moment nobody moved; then Alix got slowly to her feet and, pale but steady, went into the hall without speaking. Nobody moved or spoke; they could hear the phone stop ringing, Alix's quiet voice, and then she came back in.

"They say to come back to the courthouse right away," she said. "They're ready to deliver a verdict."

Yves whirled around and looked at Holden, his blue eyes sparkling, a hectic flush brightening his cheekbones. Jer, his eyes locked with Lee's, didn't look up. Bran's arms tightened around Holden's neck.

"Are we ready for this?" Holden asked, looking from Jer to Yves and back.

Yves nodded. "Yes, master."

"Yes, master," Bran whispered.

"Yes," said Jer, still without looking away from Lee. "Master."









"Not guilty," said the head juror, and the courtroom rumbled, and Robin yelled, "Oh, fucking bullshit!" and the judge hit his desk angrily with the wooden hammer.

Dunaev, not guilty of attempted murder, let a slow, oily smile spread across his face and turned around to look straight into Holden's eyes. Holden sat very still; Bran's hand slipped into his, and he squeezed it hard.

"You okay, kiddo?" he whispered, and Bran nodded.

Holden smiled reassuringly at the twelve-year-old lawyer Valor's group had dug up wherever-- he probably wasn't actually that young, but Holden was starting to think of anyone younger than thirty as dangerously immature, which he accepted as one more sign of his own advancing decrepitude-- who looked as if he'd just been punched in the face.

"It's okay," Holden said to him, and then turned around to check on Lee, but Lee had his face hidden against Andrei's shoulder; Andrei, stroking Lee's back, looked very serious, and rather adorable.

Or possibly Holden was overexcited right now.

He turned to Alix, on the other side of Bran; she smiled, her hand on Greta's knee, and said, "Val and I will get a cab, and leave you the car. Just give us a running start."

"Okay," said Holden, and looked up at Yves, who was clutching the clipboard he'd brought from home, with the papers on it, as if for dear life. "Let's do this."






There were swarms of reporters swirling around him the moment he was out of the courtroom, and around Alix and Greta, Valor and Inga, Robin and Denys, Andrei and Mona and Lee, Dunaev and whatever horrible people Dunaev had with him. Holden forced himself not to watch anyone else as he said the same thing over and over again, "I have a statement to make-- outside."

The reporters found that much more intriguing than the doggedly repeated "No comment"s from Alix, Val, and Andrei; Dunaev had a comment that Holden didn't catch, and Robin caused some sort of brief stir in one corner before Denys dragged her away, but by the time Holden was standing on the courthouse steps, with his three slaves around him, most of the reporters had attached themselves to his party. He held up his hand for quiet, without much success, and yelled, "I have a statement to make!"

"Wait, wait, wait," said someone, and handed him a black, phallic object that Holden identified after a confused moment as a wireless microphone. He lifted it to his mouth and repeated, "I have a statement to make"; his voice echoed, frighteningly loud, across the crowd, which hushed, except for the rustling, clattering, and hissing as dozens of tape recorders suddenly appeared and started rolling.

"Thank you," he said to the reporter who'd given him the microphone, and cleared his throat. He had the paper, in Yves' careful copperplate handwriting, in his money pouch, but he didn't need it; he had it committed to memory.

"The decision of this court," he said, in the deep, resonant, well-modulated voice in which Yves had carefully drilled him, "is that when a child's parents care less for him than they care for the money for which they could sell him, it is the child who becomes something less than human. The decision of this court is that of the four men who stand here, only I am human. That these three others, as my property, have no rights, and no protection except by my whim."

He took Bran by the shoulder, turned him to face the crowd, gripped his chin and jaw hard in the hand that wasn't holding the microphone, and added, "By the decision of this court, if I snap Bran's neck at this moment, no blame attaches to me, any more than if I smash a wineglass belonging to me. I could kill him where he stands, here in this crowd of witnesses, and walk away, and not one among you would have any grounds to protest my actions."

The crowd was disturbed; this wasn't what they'd expected from him. Holden wished he could see Bran's eyes.

"Or I could kill him more slowly," he said as his grip tightened brutally on the boy's face, yanking his head back. "I could slice his jugular vein and let him bleed to death in front of your eyes, while he begged for his life, for someone, anyone, to stop the bleeding-- and if any of you acted to help him against my will, the law would find you in the wrong, not me. He is my property. You have no legal right to interfere."

The muttering of the crowd grew louder, and Holden, who didn't want to get killed by an angry mob before he finished making his point, released Bran; Bran turned and dropped to his knees before Holden in one graceful motion, bowing his head low. Holden leaned down and touched Bran's head, running a soothing hand through his hair, before he straightened back up and looked out at the crowd.

"That makes you angry," he said into the microphone. "Well, it makes me angry, too. And yes, I do intend to appeal this decision. All the way to the highest courts in the land, if necessary. But the intention to appeal is not enough for me at this moment. By the decision of this court, Bran is not human-- has no right, as humans do, to life, to the protection of the law and of his fellow men."

He let that sink in before he added, "Not unless I give it to him."

He handed Yves the microphone and reached his hands to Bran, who took them, his own hands cold and trembling, and let Holden raise him to his feet. Holden let go so he could take the clipboard from Yves-- who also had a pen, of course, since it was Yves-- and sign his name to the writ of manumission that began, "This is to certify that I, Holden Larssen, being heretofore in possession of the slave known as Bran..." Then he unclipped it and handed it to Bran.

"You're free," he said, loud enough for the closer spectators to hear, even without the microphone, and heard the excited murmur that meant it was spreading backwards, to the rest of the crowd, as Bran lunged into his arms and clutched at him desperately. Holden kissed the boy's hair and whispered in his ear, "I love you so much, my Bran, my precious boy, my darling--"

"I love you, master," Bran answered, and then caught his breath and said, "Holden-- Holden, I love you so much--"

"I love hearing you say my name," Holden whispered. "I want you to keep saying it for the rest of our lives. Say it again, sweetheart."

"Holden," said Bran fiercely.

Holden hugged him hard, and then loosened his arms, and Bran stepped back, looking dazed. Holden lifted the clipboard again and signed the second writ, which he handed to Yves.

"Thank you," said Yves, clearly, and then did something to the microphone before he stepped forward into Holden's arms.

"You're doing a fantastic job," he whispered in Holden's ear. "You've got them eating out of your hand. Have I ever told you I love you more than life itself?"

"Not since you were free to say otherwise," Holden whispered back. "So you aren't going to leave me now?"

"Oh, yes, I am," Yves whispered. "Right after this, for that cute boy who's ogling me from behind you. Don't turn around! And don't be an idiot... Holden."

He loosened his grip, and Holden let him step back. Then he looked up at Jer.

Someone in the crowd gasped when Jer took a step forward, and Holden didn't entirely blame them; though he didn't make any overtly aggressive move, he looked intimidating as hell. Holden nodded to him, and signed the last paper, and handed it to him.

He stood still for a moment, reading the paper, and then he stepped forward again and yanked Holden against him, and said in his ear, "It's about motherfucking time, you prick."

"I know," said Holden. "I'm sorry."

"No," said Jer, and Holden could feel him trembling. "It's okay. It's-- oh, fuck, Holden, it's okay."

They gripped each other so hard it hurt, and then Jer disengaged abruptly and stepped back, turning slightly away from the crowd. Yves did whatever he'd done to the microphone before-- or undid it-- and handed it back to Holden, who turned back to the crowd and asked, amplified, "Does anyone have any questions?"

An affirmative cacaphony went up from the crowd; Bran flinched, and Holden stepped closer to him, in front of Yves, who whispered, "Lady in the blue jacket, front right."

"Yes," said Holden into the microphone, pointing at the woman in question.

"Mr. Larssen," she said loudly, "where will your former slaves go now, and what will they do?"

"That's up to them," said Holden into the microphone. "They're certainly welcome to stay with me."

"What's your wife going to think of that?" yelled a man.

Holden had memorized the answer to that, too, but he went blank for a moment, until Yves muttered from behind him, "If you consider me depraved..."

"If any of you consider me depraved for my willingness to shelter these three men under the same roof as my wife, I would ask you to consider why an acceptable domestic arrangement should become unacceptable, simply because some of the parties involved now have the right to consent to it," he said, and heard Yves say, under the crowd's murmur, "There you go." "The six of us have shared a home for five years. The only difference is that now, any and all of us are free to leave at any time."

"Any and all?" called another woman. "What about your wife's slaves?"

"One slave," said Holden, "although by now-- probably none. She didn't want to do this as public spectacle, but she didn't find the decision of this court any more acceptable than I did."

The crowd took a moment to digest that, and then a young woman near the front called, "Bran, what are you going to do now?"

Bran blushed scarlet as Holden handed him the microphone.

"I," he said, and stopped, his eyes widening in shock at the sound of his own amplified voice; the crowd laughed a little, and someone said, "Awww." Bran looked nervously in that person's direction, and said, in a tiny, wobbly voice, "I-- my-- I mean--"

"Take your time," said Holden gently, without even thinking about it, and Bran looked up and smiled, suddenly, the rising-sun smile.

"I was about to say 'my master,'" he said into the microphone, to the crowd, in a steadier voice. "I'm, uh, not sure what to call him now."

"Holden," said Holden, and Bran turned to him and said, still into the microphone, "I mean, to them."

"What did he say?" yelled someone from the crowd, and Bran turned back to them and said, "He said to call him-- his name. But I, uh-- well, he's offered me a job, a paying job, with the business. He said I help-- with the trainees-- enough that if I were free, I should be getting paid. And I-- well, I'm free now, so--" He turned back to Holden and said, with a shy smile, "I'd-- I'd like to accept that offer, please."

Holden smiled at him. "It's yours, kid."

"He said okay," said Bran, looking up at the crowd with the smile still on his face. "So I guess that makes him my boss. So, um, next time I give a speech, that's what I'll call him, okay?"

"Oh my sweet golden Sif," said Yves softly, as the crowd laughed, "you are a natural, kid."

"So you'll keep living with your 'boss'?" the same young woman asked, and Bran answered, "He gave me the only real home I've had-- since my parents died. I'll stay as long as he'll have me."

Holden leaned forward and said into the microphone in Bran's hand, "Forever, for the record."

There was more laughter and a few isolated cheers, and then someone yelled, "Will you still suck his dick?"

The crowd went silent, shocked. Bran blinked uncertainly in the direction of the voice, looking more puzzled than hurt or insulted, and Yves stepped forward and took the microphone gently from Bran's hand.

"Actually, that's a question that's somewhat applicable for all of us," he said pleasantly, to the crowd in general, raising some nervous laughter. "I can't answer for Bran, of course, but I hope no one minds if I answer for myself. When-- I'll follow Bran's example and call him my boss, since I've also received a job offer-- when my boss was my master, he never used his power over me to coerce my consent-- to anything. I see no reason why that should change."

He smiled at the crowd, sweetly and with just a touch of conspiratorial mischief, and then stopped smiling; his friendly tone grew discreet, genteel fangs as he added, "I admit, I'm a little puzzled at the way the question was put. It almost sounded as if you thought Bran should be embarrassed about something. But if any shame attaches to the state of sexual slavery, surely everyone here would agree that it should not attach to someone who did not choose what he would become."

The crowd was silent again as Yves handed the microphone back to Holden, who said, "Any other questions? Yes, the gentleman in green."

"Jer, did he offer you a job too?" the man said, but when Holden turned to him, offering the microphone, Jer kept his arms crossed, the writ of manumission clutched tightly in one hand. Holden said, "Jer's not taking questions. Yes, the young man in gray?"





There were other questions, some of them from people who had obviously read the article ("Yves, are you really planning to become a college professor?" "Mr. Larssen, will you buy Jer some alcohol?") and some of them from people who either hadn't or were playing dumb ("Yves, what's the nature of the job offer you mentioned?"). Holden, Yves, and Bran answered-- Jer standing silent behind them, his arms still crossed-- until Holden glanced over at Bran, realized the moisture on his cheeks wasn't just sweat, and said into the microphone, "Okay, we're done here. Whose is this?"

The crowd didn't want them to leave, but Holden shoved the microphone at a random person and they made it down the steps, to the parking lot, and into the car, Bran and Yves diving into the back seat while Jer took the front passenger seat. It took longer to maneuver the car out of the crowd without running anyone over, but they managed it in the end.

"I'm going to wake up any second," said Yves, who had collapsed across the seat, his head in Bran's lap, so that Holden couldn't actually see him; Bran bent over him, his curls obscuring his face in the reflection in the rearview mirror. "There's no chance it all actually went that perfectly. They ate that shit up, it's going to be a billion times more legendary than the article, and we're going to win the appeal so fucking hard-- once we get a lawyer who's actually worth a damn. Was it mean to hire that poor infant in the first place? Will it give him a complex, to have his failure be the jumping-off point for the case of the century?"

Holden grinned. "Adversity builds character."

"We're going to win so hard," Yves repeated, his voice beatific. "We're going to set such a damn precedent-- the next asshole who so much as dreams about fucking up a helpless kid is going to wake up screaming Jer's name."

Holden smiled again as Yves sat up abruptly and added, "And you're probably not even going to have to pay my way to university like you offered, because the public is going to be in such hopeless drooling love with all of us now that I'm going to get pity scholarships to every university in the country because they all want the tearjerker story about the doddering old ex-slave clutching a diploma in his age-withered hand."

"You're not that old," said Bran, in the wobbly little voice again, but smiling, too.

"Shut up, twenty-three-year-old," said Yves. "Oh, gods-- I think you were right, Jer, I think we should all get fucking plastered when we get home, and pass out without having to deal with what sex is actually going to be like when nobody owns anybody else, because wow was that thing I said to them an oversimplification, what did I say, that nothing needed to change? Everything's changed, kids, everything--"

"We knew it would," said Holden, not quite as steadily as he might have liked. "We've been talking about this for six months."

"In theory, sure," said Yves. "Master-- oh, see?-- Holden, is there any liquor in the house? How did we not plan for that? Because I really, really think we all need to get absolutely shit-faced tonight, so tomorrow can be all about nursing Bran through baby's first hangover and we don't have to think too much too soon because fucking wow, Jer, Bran, Holden, what the fuck just happened? What now?"

There was a pause.

"Seconded," said Jer, his voice tight, and Holden glanced over, and saw that he was crying. "Let's get drunk."