When light pierced into Geranium's eyes she wondered how such a small sun could be so bright. Of course, it was the same sun she'd known all her life, the same one that shone on the Earth, but here on Mars it was half the size while somehow still retaining all its painful intensity. She put a hand over her face and told the AI to shut the curtains.

The light continued unabated. Removing her hand for a moment and squinting, Geranium noticed there was not only no AI, there were no curtains either.

Where was she? Whatever she was lying on was hard and uncomfortable. A feel of her clothing revealed it was damp. The light could only mean being outdoors somewhere.

'Sarti!' she groaned.

The Helot's face appeared, frowning; Geranium was in trouble, then. She closed her eyes again.

'What happened?'

'I tried to stop you, miss.' Sarti had become adept at keeping her voice at a monotone. Helots were flogged for daring to chastise wayward Elite. 'But you insisted on drinking.'

Ah, so that was it.

'You were at a night club,' the slave continued. 'There was music. You...danced. It wasn't a pretty sight.'

'Yes, yes, I remember.'

Yesterday was her fifteenth birthday, and Geranium had decided to celebrate. There had been a young man at the night club, a good looking young man. A vision of his face swam into view in her mind. There had been dancing and a bit of close body contact. Oh, crap, did she...? No, it was obvious she hadn't gone home with him, but the memory of having been tempted rose up as well. Perhaps Sarti had intervened to prevent Geranium from ruining the family honour.

'Excuse me, miss, but I took the liberty.'

The Helot pressed something against Geranium's arm and instantly a cool sensation passed through her. The headache vanished, the dry mouth eased up, the nauseous feeling in her stomach passed—even the Sun seemed to diminish to a bearable level. She sat up and looked around.

They were in a park. A few metres away a fountain played, the water changing colours every few seconds. Elm trees formed a small copse around the fountain, which fell into a shallow pool. Sarti stood beside her holding a small injector.

'How did you get that?' Geranium asked. The antidote to her hangover was welcome, but now she could think again the questions in her mind had changed.

'As I said, miss, I took the liberty.' Sarti squirreled the injector away and held out her mistress's fone. 'I thought you might need reviving, so I used your credit to purchase this antidote from an all-night pharmacy. It was expensive.'

'How did you know my password?'

'Well, sorry miss, but you did tell me once yourself. Just in case, you said.'

Geranium growled, took the fone and slipped it back on her wrist. A quick check of her remaining credit revealed it wasn't as bad as she'd feared. Helots who stole from their masters—and it sometimes happened—didn't live long. But Sarti was smart enough to appreciate her position as a slave to the deForêt-Bassyngthwayghtes entailed a special level of trust.

'Don't use my fone again!' she snapped. 'Ever. Do you understand?'

'Sorry, miss.'

The look of chagrin on Sarti's face broke Geranium's bad mood. It was hard to be angry at someone who knew so much about her, who had dressed her and washed her dirty laundry and nursed her when ill.

'Just...forget I said anything. Thanks for the cure.'

They'd eaten last night before the binge-drinking session, but now the bile had been chemically neutralised in her stomach it was calling for something more substantial.

'Where are we?'

'I believe it's just called the New Park, miss.'

There wasn't much new about it. 'All right. I don't suppose while you were out finding medicine you managed to also find some breakfast, or how we get home? Where the hell is New Park anyway?'

Sarti looked around and for a moment. Geranium supposed she was trying to answer the question.

'You should have put me in a taxi, sent me back to my hotel.'

'I wanted to, miss.' Sarti actually wrung her hands. 'I tried to but...you objected. "Leave me here!" you said. "It's my birthday!" Or something like that, begging pardon, miss. You were making a spectacle at the night club, so I thought...'

Sarti had never been off-planet before. She was a house slave, good at domestic tasks, great at looking after her mistress and—mostly—keeping her out of trouble. But hopeless when it came to dealing with different customs and ways on an alien planet. Geranium had been away from Earth before, to the Moon a couple of times. Sarti had not been with them; they'd hired slaves on the Moon partly because they saved the transport costs, and partly because they were familiar with the local ways and knew place like native Lunars.

Perhaps that's what Geranium should do: rent or buy another Helot, one more familiar with Mars. There must be a slave market around somewhere. She should buy a native Martian Helot who knew her way around and take some of the pressure off Sarti.

Her stomach growled. 'What about breakfast?'

At least there were no money problems: Geranium was using her father's bank account, and her mother, who had little interest in finances, was unlikely to inspect the accounts. Geranium's calls home were becoming less frequent these days, since all her mother did was howl at her and demand she get on board the next shuttle home. She had called her father, and he'd said fatherly things and basically wished her well, and gave her access to one of his accounts.

Great. They never wanted me in the first place. Now they're fighting over me.

The park bench was hard and she realised now the cold night air had seeped into her bones. It was summer, but on Mars that was still close to winter in Europe.

'Let's get something to eat,' she mumbled, but Sarti didn't catch the words. 'Come on!' she snapped louder, and started walking stiffly towards the entrance to the park, which was a plastic barrier made to look like iron railings. The Helot followed.

Outside, a solitary vehicle was pulled up at a taxi rank, although it was still too raw an hour for much business. Geranium dialled into the taxi service and the door opened. She climbed into the back and Sarti made to follow her, but Geranium pointed at the slave platform on the back of the car. Normally she would have been allowed in the back seat with her mistress, but Geranium still harboured some resentment that Sarti hadn't thought of a taxi last night. The Helot climbed on board without saying anything. Geranium pulled up a map of the city and checked how far away the nearest food shop was.

Last night's details were still vague, and it might be best they remained that way. Unlike most of her friends, Geranium had decided to wait before experimenting with sex. While she was studying, there had been little time, and the desire, when it arose, had very little influence on her. Danae had been around a fair bit, but that was Danae. The last thing that Geranium wanted to believe was that a random boy in a night club had been at all tempting. In the week she'd been on Mars, Geranium had made few acquaintances, and no close ones.

On the back platform, Sarti shifted a little as the taxi moved off. Geranium giggled at the slave's discomfort, then regretted it.

They had breakfast at a restaurant that was just opening its doors as they arrived. Geranium ate alone at a table by the big picture window, her hunger sharpened by the hangover-curing chemicals that raced around her veins. Sarti was relegated to the kitchen, where no doubt they fed her something. Geranium checked her fone for the news at one point, but spent more time looking out of the window as the city came alive for the day.

Then it was back into the taxi. Her mood was mollified by a full stomach and she allowed Sarti inside the vehicle, but still believed it might be a good idea to find some local slave who knew her way around.

After a few minutes the taxi pulled up outside the slave market. Geranium told the car to stay engaged to her and stepped out. Sarti descended from the platform staring at the sign above the market entrance. She could read, something the Marchioness insisted on with all her slaves. Her voice whined as she said, 'What are we doing here, miss?' Old memories associated with her initial purchase by the deForêt-Bassyngthwayghtes were no doubt rising unwanted into her mind. Sarti had been with the family for as long as Geranium could remember, but the memories of being bought in the first place apparently still haunted her.

'Are we...?' Sarti pointed at the entrance.

'No,' said Geranium. 'We aren't. I am. Stay here.'

She left Sarti standing by the taxi and walked up to the door of the market. This was a heavy steel construction, with armed guards standing to either side—not to keep people out, but as a last line of defence against any attempt at revolt within. They opened the door. Inside was another door like an airlock. Two more security guards stood on the inside of this. All four had carbines and full body armour. Geranium felt the slightest whisper of nerves as she passed between them. Visors obscured their faces so they were like black statues.

The market had only just opened for the day and there were no other customers. The main room consisted of a bare reception area from which several doors led off. Geranium had never been in a market before and wondered how much further she'd take this idea of a new slave. It wouldn't come cheap, and her father might well question the item on his account summary.

As she hesitated just inside the room, a man approached. He was not how she expected a slave trader to look: bald, in an expensive suit. More like one of her father's business executives than a salesman. He tapped on his fone to open a sales file as he came up to her.

'Good morning, miss,' he said. 'How can I help you?'

'I'd like to see the manager, please.'

'I am the manager. Enrique Campillo.'

Geranium held out her ID, which he scanned. 'Ah! I see. The deForêt-Bassyngthwayghtes are...yes, indeed. Well, my lady, we certainly have a variety of stock here for you today. Are you looking for anything in particular or just browsing?'

She'd never actually bought a slave before. Her little sister, Fantasy Unicorn deForêt-Bassyngthwayghte, was almost old enough to have her own slave, and there had been some discussion at the dinner table (on one of those rare occasions when the whole family was there at the same time, including her little brother Wisdom Courage) that Sarti might be given to Fantasy and a new slave acquired for Geranium. So she might well be doing what her parents were going to do anyway: buy another slave.

She smiled at Campillo. 'I'm staying for a while on Mars. I think a more local servant would be appropriate.'

'I understand, my lady. You want someone with parochial knowledge to augment your present staff. Very wise. Is there a price range you were interested in?'

'Not really.' Since she had no idea of local prices—or even Earth ones for that matter—it was hardly a consideration at the moment.

He held out a welcoming hand and indicated a move to the main counter, on which holographic images of Helots were displayed. He muttered some words to the table's AI and the images moved and rearranged themselves. About twenty slaves were eventually shown, some standing still, others performing tasks they were particularly suited for. It was like they were auditioning for a role in a movie.

'I presume you would like a female?' the salesman said. 'Were you after someone young, that you could take on social occasions, or are you more interested in a mere domestic?'

Being produced and raised in special breeding facilities, and having no ability to breed themselves in the normal way, Helots looked extraordinarily alike. They weren't clones, but the shared characteristics of short stature, low brows, black hair and generally morose expressions meant they were hard to tell apart at first glance. Geranium stared at the range on offer. What did she want? But she couldn't stand there like an idiot for too long. She tried to think of an intelligent question.

'How much is that one?'

It was the nearest image to her. The Helot looked young, and had slightly longer hair than the others; ugly compared to a Sape but not bad looking as far as her own species went.

He named the price.

Holy crap.

Then again, it was her birthday yesterday, and her father never could resist spoiling his little girl. Besides, Campillo had no doubt inflated the price because of her family name. If she was truly a deForêt-Bassyngthwayghte, he would expect to haggle over the price.

'That's a starting point,' she said, pretending to think about it for a moment. 'Tell me about her.'

'Twenty years old, my lady,' said the salesman, consulting his fone. 'Bred in New Delhi—a good breeding station, that one. Some of the finest ones come from there. Health rating A1, eyesight and hearing perfect. Speaks fluent Inglish without a discernible accent. No previous owners.'

'Why no previous owners?' Twenty was an advanced age for a Helot not to be assigned somewhere.

'No private owners, my lady,' the salesman continued. 'She has worked as a Syndicate farm labourer in India since she was ten. She arrived here last month.'

'What about that one?'

They discussed various slaves on the holographic table for a few moments, but Geranium soon gained the impression the salesman was wising up and suspected she wasn't serious. 'Tell me,' he said, 'is your father or mother on Mars?'

By this time other customers had drifted in. Another salesman had appeared, and Campillo kept glancing over like he'd prefer to be serving the other people.

'No, just me,' she replied. 'Look, are these on the premises here? Perhaps I could have a look at them in person?'

The man brightened up. 'Well of course, my lady.' He gestured to a door beyond the sample table. 'How about I leave you to look at them while I just attend to other customers?' The door opened. Beyond was a long corridor where a boy about Geranium's age sat behind a desk. 'Jonas here will show you around.'

Jonas rose and smiled a little too widely to be professional, casting an eye over Geranium like she was another sample. She sneered back.

'This is the Lady deForêt-...' He checked his fone. '...Bassyngthwayghte. She's interested in numbers 16, 123 and 97. Show her those, will you?'

The boy nodded and ducked around the desk with a remote key. This he used to unlock a grille in front of the corridor. 'Follow me,' he said.

'Follow me my lady,' intoned Campillo.

'My lady. Sorry, my lady.'

'If you see anything you like, just let Jonas know and he'll tell me.'

The corridor led down a short slope at the end of which was another door and two more armed guards. These were bigger men than the ones at the front entrance, and they held their carbines in their hands.

'I thought slaves were genetically unable to revolt?' said Geranium. She could trust Sarti to wait patiently beside the taxi until she returned, without any thought she might slip away and escape. 'They want to be slaves.'

'That's right, my lady,' said Jonas.

'So why all the security?' She looked up at the featureless black visor of one guard's helmet as they passed through the inner door. The man—or woman?—didn't acknowledge her existence.

'We have trouble occasionally,' Jonas said. 'Nothing internal, of course. All our slaves are guaranteed docile. But there are elements from outside who sometimes make a fuss.'

'Terrorists, you mean?'

The door closed after they had passed through. They stood in a large chamber with two seats in front of a small platform. An armed guard waited silently beside yet another door.

'Ninety-seven,' said Jonas, and the guard exited. Jonas indicated Geranium to take a seat. As she did so, an AI asked her if she required any refreshments.

She thought for a second. Her hangover was gone completely, but it was still only early morning. 'Coffee. Black.' She hated coffee, but it seemed the sort of thing a slave-buyer would ask for if they didn't want alcohol.

'Yes, terrorists,' said Jonas. 'They occasionally let us know they disapprove of our business.' He chuckled, as if the requirement for armed guards was perfectly natural. 'We're quite safe here, I assure you.'

'No doubt.'

The guard returned, leading in a Helot. Number 97, the one Geranium had first selected from the sample table. Her hair had been clipped since the holograph had been made. The slave's expression was sullen, but something about the eyes grabbed Geranium's attention, a glint of malice maybe, an inner fire that Sarti would never show. She found herself gulping her unwanted coffee as she returned the Helot's gaze.

'Did you...want to...?' asked Jonas, indicating that Geranium was free to step forwards for a closer look. The guard stood behind the Helot, his gun aimed at her lower back.

For the appearance of the thing, Geranium stood up and walked towards the display platform. She'd never felt this nervous in front of a slave before. Hell, she'd never felt any qualms at all. But this one was different. Perhaps the security precautions were a wise move after all. A slave should never make eye contact, should show deference—there was no reason for a Sape to feel at all uncomfortable in their presence.

This was something new.

'Um...thanks,' she said after a cursory examination. 'What about the others?'

She certainly didn't want this specimen, this slave that looked like she didn't want to serve. Geranium could never trust this one.

'One two three,' said Jonas, and the guard and Helot exited. 'That last one was no good?'

Geranium didn't reply. When the door opened again the new slave was another female, an inch shorter than the last, one of the new type: a Serf they called them.

'So you're thinking of a Serf?' said Jonas. 'They're more for manual labour, although females like this one can be easily trained in domestic tasks.' He looked at his fone. 'This one can read and even compose poetry.' He smirked. 'Got any boyfriends you want to write love letters to?'

'Don't be impertinent. And you address me as "my lady".'

'Yes, my lady.' The boy looked away, and might have muttered something under his breath.

Geranium rose from her seat again. The coffee in her belly had made her hot, or else there was something wrong with the room's air conditioning. There was no hint of rebellion in the Serf's eyes, nothing to show any thought at all. The Serfs were supposed to be more mechanical, more like an AI, but that meant they were less attractive to the Elite, who would often have slaves accompany them in public, like a status symbol. This one would look odd dressed in the family livery, and would probably not be a good conversationalist.

'How popular are Serfs?' It was a vacuous Elite question, one her mother would have asked.

'Well, as I said, my lady, they are more for heavy lifting than anything else. As a lady's maid, who knows?'

She walked around the Serf, inspecting. The arms hung lower than a Helot, the back of the skull more pronounced, the forehead flatter.

'What's your name?' she asked, when she faced the Serf once more.