The Watcher clears her throat. “Yellow, erm, gold.” She cannot read, though her eyes follow the holographic numbers and lines as though a secret may be revealed.
She is fascinated.
Outside Trade-approved buildings, there is minimal tech available. A single, large vision screen is in every tower to broadcast a weekly update and weather cautions. The Trade Connect Building has centralised computer networks to store data, and communication between other TC buildings is done through underground copper wiring. This is used strictly for security and intel purposes. We uncovered an old disc a few years back and are working on locating a satellite from the old-world, but throwing signals out into a hazy-cloaked abyss is the same as wishing on a star.
That is it.
Besides the Trade medical laboratories, all other tech has been banned since the Gene Age, when everyone had a device and the ability to communicate, create their own propaganda, influence… Dangerous times.
The Trade resurrected the land with the peaceful notion of returning to our roots, to Meaningful Purpose.
No entertainment. No confusion.
Basically, we don’t fucking trust Common with tech anymore, nor do we think they are capable of peace and sustainability when they have access to it.
History proved this.
Cairo hums approvingly. “She is very agreeable.”
Conditioned. He means conditioned. Compliant. I must admit, I am somewhat surprised she didn’t choose a different colour or flower and give her individuality away.
It’s there.
Cairo finally offers the girl his attention. “Isn’t she.” Then he looks at me. “Paisley,” he adds, “Why do we have different Trades?”
She straightens, thinking it’s a test. “So we all contribute to The Cradle, Master. So we all serve The Cradle.”
“Yes, of course, sweet girl,” he muses, “But why just one each? They link in some cases. Blend. For instance,” —he leans backward in his chair— “why not have you dress Aster, too? Or bathe her?”
Her breaths become shallow, feeling an ulterior motive to his conversation. She is right, but not in the way she suspects. It is for me. Not her. “I was born for parchment. I'm to guide, watch, and convey.”
“Yes,” he keeps his face impartial, “but why can't you do more if it relates to your current role and placement?”
She presses her hand to her frantic heart. “I suppose that I could do more—"
“Don't panic yourself,” he offers, leaning forward again, and she exhales hard. “I'm not asking you to do anything outside of your Trade, Paisley. I never will.”
“Thank you, Master.”
“That was scary? Wasn’t it? The unexpected? My expectations? Not knowing what I needed. Overwhelming. I am sure you would prefer the comfort of the boundaries given by The Trade. And something always has to give—if we try to be too much. It's why a Silk Girl must not revel in grand ideas. She is to be singularly focused on producing. One can't be available to their lord, focused on his needs, if they dream of adventures. Their true Meaningful Purpose would suffer. Wouldn’t it?”
“Yes, Master. Have I done something wrong?”
He smiles smoothly. “No, Paisley. Good girl. You may go back to your Purpose.”
With a quick curtsy, she scurries away.
“Wonderful speech,” I note. “Who was it for?”
I stop in front of The Trade Master, and he stands, offering me the slightest bow before sitting again. Ever the traditionalist, nothing stops him from his sequence of interactions and customs.
“Rome. You cannot execute a Wardeness without a trial,” he states as he returns to his screen.
“I don’t intend to.”
“Good. I have booked it in two first-lights. We will travel together when you wake tomorrow. The Wardeness was born in the Lower-tower and so she will be trialled there, and this will give us an opportunity to meet with the Trade men at the weir, it is on the way, and they need to see your interest in their Purpose.” He looks at me, intrigue well-hidden on his face. Not well enough. I know you, fucker. “What was the Wardeness’ crime?”
I deadpan. “She was careless with my property.”
“The little Silk Girls. Iris and Aster. She took them on an outing, correct? Without permission.”
He knows the answer.
I nod, curt. “Yes.”
He returns to his screen. “I watched the young Silk Girls leave the tank. The redhead seemed perfectly formed. Were there any issues with her that you noticed?”
“I didn’t.”
I didn’t notice her at all.
“But you travelled with the other? Aster? Am I right? To what purpose did you need to accompany her?” he says, not asking the question he actually wants. “She must have needed something to warrant your attention?”
Does he know she was one of the babies taken from the Common community during my first campaign? Would he remember? We have harvested hundreds of babes since that day, so I wouldn’t know how deep his recall goes.
I wouldn’t put it past him to remember each baby.
“I met her at the parlour weeks ago,” I state, withholding that piece of detail. “She was wounded when I arrived, and the CR Guard was having a field day with the campaign. I played along, for once.”
He clicks his tongue, dubious. “I see. She seemed perfectly formed. Clean. Pretty. Is she well in all other senses?”
Clean. Pretty. “Her sigil was cut off and her tongue was lacerated,” I say plainly.
“But she has been with the doctor for four days, yes?” He reads his answer on the screen. “The tongue is healing nicely, and so is the skin graft. We can brand her again once it’s fully taken. But I have not been able to see either girl, as I’ve been occupied by the lords’ imminent visit. Either way, we don’t need her tongue or her voice, but trauma is generational. Epigenetics can change the path of DNA forever. Transfers from babe to babe. Are you certain you want her Meaningful Purpose carried out with a member of your Collective? There are other Silk Girls from other Silk Aviaries to choose from. If this Wardeness is as careless as you have seen, perhaps these girls need to be placed with lower value Trade men— a Guard perhaps.”
Like fuck they will.
The past week I have spent balls deep inside most of my House Girls trying to fuck out the thought of her. I’ve been out of my mind, fierce, and hurt one of them badly.
And forgetting her?
It didn’t work.
I widen my stance, making the mass of my body even larger. “You visited Kong and pressed me for an heir. I now have two new Silk Girls. A random selection. I don’t seek anything outside of an heir. They will do fine.”
He lifts his gaze once more, eyes hitting me hard. “You will choose one, then, Sire?”
He wanted this. He’s desperate for the entire set of five to have Meaningful Purpose, a complete house. But I’ve never been a willing part of The Trade’s chessboard, a piece placed just so. The king. The queen. The pawns.
“Who has the most power in the game of chess?” Kong asks me the day before my eighteenth birthday.
“The king,” I answer, moving the pawn ahead of my favourite piece to give him an opening. I like moving the king around the board. He is the largest piece and that is my misguided priority.