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mother’s circles are legitimate, political, governmental. Oliver’s tend to be more underground, bordering on criminal. “I’m not sure how criminal ties would improve my chances for success,” I remind him, hoping to dismiss him.
    He just shakes his head. “It’s all the same in the end, Mr. Michaud. The government, my organization, your business, the Miller System. We’re all working toward the same goal. We can just help you get there faster. Set you up with a competent legal advisor, support your future negotiations. It’s good to have friends in the industry. You’ve been alone for far too long.”
    I try not to frown, because what he’s saying is correct. “And what would I have to do to earn your help?”
    Argova smiles at me like a kindly grandfather. “Nothing. Promoting your development is in line with our interests. The Argova family would be grateful if you would consider a relationship with us in the future, but we’re offering our support now with no strings attached. Consider it a welcome gift.”
    “Welcome to what?” I ask.
    “To the new future of the Demoted system.”

    Chapter 4
Defense
    While I become accustomed to the routine of the detention facility, I try to figure out my new protector. Sy doesn’t usually answer my questions directly, brushing me off or shaking his head, like he’s bound to some code of silence. I try to draw him out in other ways, exploring how he thinks, trying to understand him.
    He’s still. He almost always is, and I envy him for his calm and ability to tolerate anything that comes his way. I’m bored, fidgety, unnerved by my utter inability to do more than think about what I will do when Cash gets me out. I’m grateful that we aren’t being forced to do hard labor or menial tasks like we did at the re-education center, but I’d rather have something to fill my time. I spend probably an hour one day debating the cost of hiring labor when there are perfectly good slaves who could be doing it. I explain in great detail to Sy how it would provide us with a sense of purpose and ownership and responsibility, and all sorts of things, and his response is simple and elegant.
    “Work is a liability, Sascha. I hear some detention facilities lock the slaves up in small rooms where they can’t possibly hurt themselves. All they want is to make sure they keep you unharmed and alive to generate fines.”
    He’s right, of course.
    As I get to know him better, I realize that a lot of people mistake him as simple, a misconception he doesn’t bother to correct. He’s quiet, observant, and when he does talk, he doesn’t like it to be about him. I’ve pried a few pieces of information out of him, though, and they only confuse me more. He’s told me that he grew up poor, never had many hopes of succeeding, and now he’s Demoted. He says it like that’s all there is to him. He’s a bodyguard, or he was, and after displeasing his first master, he was sold to a low-level street thug who used him as an intimidating guard dog and human shield. He describes the tiny pieces of his history with as much detachment and factual accuracy as possible, and he never seems bothered, not even when I ask about the knife wounds on his stomach.
    I have some knife wounds, too, but mine were from purposeful torture. They’re light cuts and grazes and slices; deep enough that they hurt and bled a lot, but not quite deep enough that I really needed stitches.
    His were punishment for flinching, and from what he tells me, his went deep enough require stitches inside and outside of the wound. They were done by one of his master’s friends, with a sewing needle and some dental floss, and the closest thing to anesthesia he received was a punch in the face when he struggled. The rough dots surrounding the scars back his story up, and the thick, ridged edge makes me believe him. I am horrified when I hear the story, but he just shrugs.
    “I don’t flinch anymore,” he remarks, staring off