Little Big Man

LITTLE BIG MAN – a serial novel by Travis Creel

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE – TINKER, TAILOR, SLAVEBOY, SPY

Previously: Ruslan is at the Royal Palace, having served his practicum (48 hours spent as a slave – a requirement for admission into IAMSO). He remains there, acting undercover, posing as a slave to investigate an attempt on the life of Prince Abdullah, the Prince Regent's son and heir. The principal suspect is Abdullah's slave – Matti – whom the Prince Regent's Brothers Khalid and Mustafa wish to make a Dome Slave – the palace's humiliating version of Death Row. Ruslan meets with Prince Abdullah, who swears that Matti is innocent – and leaves the two of them alone, so that Ruslan can begin his investigation.

RUSLAN: WEDNESDAY, 7 DECEMBER, MID-AFTERNOON – PRINCE ABDULLAH'S SUITE

I was alone in the Fuck Room with the principal suspect in the poisoning of Prince Abdullah.

I took a moment to observe him. He was, like most of the non-trusty slaves I'd seen here, Alexei's size, making me wonder if he'd come through the Little Big Man program. He had dark, well-trimmed hair and a handsome, round face that looked Polish to me, but could have been a variety of other ethnicities; most Americans were a mix of original stock. But it was his body that drew one's attention – sublimely proportioned, fit without being showy, and buttocks that equaled Alexei's in perfection. I wished I could use the room for its intended purpose.

After appreciating his body, my eyes were drawn once again to his face, which was expressing a mixture of anxiety and joy. To me that combination connoted gratitude, which was exactly what his words expressed.

• Oh, thank you, Boy. Thank you so much for being here.

• Are YOU happy to be here?

• Where else could I possibly want to be?

• Home in America?

• So you've detected I'm not local. A shrewd observer, I see.

A grin – and a sexy one at that.

• Are you happy that if someone is going to be poisoned, it is me and not you?

• No, I'd rather be the food taster, frankly. That way, I'd at least get some meat. The food here for slaves? It got the first negative seventeen star rating ever from Michelin. The kitchen boys say that once in a while they get camel meat, but Master says it's not good for me, so I'm on the George Gershwin diet.

• The George Gershwin diet?

• Porridge-y and Less.

• How long have you been a slave?

• Just under six months.

• And you're that devoted to your master already?

• I'll be honest. I could never have predicted this. I've always been a pragmatist – do what you need to do to produce the best outcome that's realistic. After I was captured, I did everything I could to stay a virgin as long as possible. Little did I know that I was a natural bottom, that my whole being could be subsumed by belonging to another man. The irony is that only by staying a virgin could I be assigned such a high-profile master. It is such an honor, B – what should I call you? I hate calling other slaves `Boy'.

• (Shit, what did the P.R. say my name was? Oh, yeah.) Marat.

• I'm Matti. You probably heard Master say that. From your size, I'm guessing you're a trusty?

• Yes, my former master gave me the responsibility of fucking some of his slaves. Not here, they tell me, not for a while. I arrived here a virgin myself – that didn't last long.

• Your old master let you stay a virgin? What a concept! My virginity disappeared faster than a beer at a hockey game.

• I have to say I far prefer giving to receiving. What your master asked you before – about wanting to be fucked by (grabbing my cock) this? I have to tell you, my cock would love to be up your ass right now. You said you wouldn't look forward to it, but I think you were lying.

• (a wistful grin) Horizontally.

• What?

• An old joke. (suddenly less jovial) You brought me back, for a minute. You're Russian, aren't you? That brings me back, too.

• Sounds like there's a story there. Want to share it?

• . . . It's difficult. (Pain showing on his face) When I was captured, we were put on a boat. There were fifty-two of us, all snared in the same net, run by some Russians.

• (So he WAS a Little Big Man slave.)

• But one of my fellow captives was . . . (becoming misty) very special to me. I fell in love with him. I think he loved me, too – he said he did once, but it might have been just to make me happy. But he wouldn't admit there was anything physical. He didn't accept that he was gay – I knew we both were, but Alex wouldn't admit it.

• (Alarm bells.) Alex?

• That was his name. We were from neighboring states and we actually met before Little Big Man – that's the contest that – well, never mind, it's complicated.

• (Am I thinking what I'm thinking – could Alex be . . . ?)

• And he . . . he and I . . . we were separated. He wound up in Russia.

• (Another shoe dropping.) I'm sorry.

• There was so much to adjust to after getting here. I had to learn a whole new lifestyle. That was good for me – it took my mind off Alex.

• (Alex = Alexei. There can't be any doubt.)

• As time went on, I grew attached to my master. Not in a loving way, but in a slave-appropriate manner. I am fond of Master, but my heart still . . .

• You miss this Alex.

• God, yes. There was this awful time a few months ago. He came here – he actually CAME here with his Russian Master, `Richard' – well, that's what they called him on the boat. There was some kind of international gathering here of masters and slaves, and Master's father invited some of them to the palace. And that's when I saw Alex. There he was, right in front of me a few feet away. I couldn't bear to look at him. I didn't want him to see me. I couldn't let anyone see the emotion I was feeling, most of all him. Marat, I love him so much. (His voice cracking, tears running down his face.) I love him so very, very much. And I had to pretend I didn't. I had to – it's complicated, but they put me in a position where I had power over him. And I was trying to show him I didn't love him anymore, so that he wouldn't feel the ache of separation that I felt. So I was as cruel as I could be, I wanted him to hate me so that he'd forget me, but then I – (absolute sobs now) – I almost killed him! I almost killed him, Marat, the man I loved. He nearly drowned in that swimming pool because of what I did. My God, I almost killed him!

There was nothing to say. I was stunned. And then things started to make sense. It was after Dmitri came back from the convention that he noticed a decline in Alexei's performance and enthusiasm. It was after this reunion between lovers who had never been quite lovers – but should have been. Alexei must have been devastated at the rejection.

• Even after he almost drowned, I had to fuck him. I did it without lube just so he would hate me. But I couldn't keep pretending. I couldn't let him think I hated him so much that I would let him die. And I've regretted that decision ever since. It would have been better for him if he just hated me. We're never going to see each other again and I didn't want him to go through the pain and anguish that I feel because of that. And I blew it. When I used that word – a coded word, a secret between us – I saw it in his eyes. He saw that I still loved him. And I saw that he still loved me. And now I feel like a total shit.

• I'm so sorry. (What else could I have said?)

• At least it'll be over soon. I'll be dead in a matter of months.

• Why do you say that?

• I have a trial coming up in January. All new slaves do after they've been here six months. They think I poisoned Master. They're going to cut off my balls and put me up on the Dome. Have you seen the Dome – do you know what I'm talking about?

• Yes.

• There are only twenty dome slaves. When a new one goes up, the guy who's been up the longest – hello, Hall of Shame. I won't see my next birthday. It will upset Master, which makes me sad.

• Why do you think they think you're guilty?

• Because they don't know me, how devoted I am to Master. Why would they know what kind of person I am? I'm just a slave, not worth the effort to find out. But Master says that his uncles resent me and want to put me on the Dome whether I'm guilty or not. And he'd be powerless to stop them.

I totally believed this boy. I was as convinced as Abdullah was of his innocence. I wanted to assure him. As inappropriate as it would have been for me – the real me – to embrace a slave, I wanted to wrap my arms around him, embrace him, comfort him. And so – taking advantage of my disguise – I did.

Which only reminded Ruslan Jr. of how much I wanted to fuck the daylights out of him. I had to work hard to keep myself soft.

I failed. Sexy little beast.

WEDNESDAY, 7 DECEMBER, DINNER HOUR – ROYAL KITCHENS

The kitchens were enormous. There was a central room with dozens of ovens, stoves, grills, and pots, filled with slaves preparing what looked like a common meal, in quantity, for the scores of royals in the palace. Smaller, side rooms seemed to be for preparing more elaborate meals, presumably for VIPs like the Prince Regent or his brothers. And was another largish room where some kind of porridge was being produced, destined, as Matti had indicated, for slaves. Fortunately for me, trusties were entitled to excess food from the royals' menu, and didn't have to settle for the porridge-y thing. (And less.)

Trusties circulated, supervising the food preparation. I saw one of them berating a cowering slave for overcooking a cauliflower, but for the most part the room was silent, the slaves simply working without any more conversation than was necessary to complete their tasks.

An Asian slave noticed me checking out the place. I tried to look lost and took the initiative.

• Excuse me, I'm new. I was told to report to the chief steward. Do you know where I can find him?

He directed me to a man nearly my height but a good thirty pounds lighter, who looked me over cautiously. His skin was the color of a cup of coffee without cream. His English had a Caribbean lilt.

• Never seen you before. What the fuck are you doing here? Jesus, you've got His Majesty's seal?

• That's right, I belong to him. On loan to Prince Abdullah. I'm here to pick up his royal hiney-ness's dinner.

The steward's eyebrow raised a foot or two.

• `His royal hiney-ness'?

• This place isn't bugged, is it?

• If it was, this place would be empty – they'd all be on the dome.

• Then I can call the fucker whatever I like, can't I?

I broke into a broad grin and giving him a conspiratorial wink.

My strategy was to establish my `bad slave' bona fides as quickly as possible. If Matti wasn't responsible for poisoning his master – and Khalid and Mustafa had neither a real motive nor direct access to Abdullah's food – then the guilty party most likely was somewhere in this kitchen. And the best way to smoke him out was to position myself as a potential ally. Starting with a little disrespectful name-calling.

• My name's Marat.

• Ian. You're collecting Prince Abdullah's dinner?

• That's right. And taste it, too, to make sure if one of us dies from it, it's me. Nothing like putting your life on the line with every bite.

Ian picked up a phone hanging on the wall and spoke into it. As he did so, I heard his voice over a loudspeaker.

• Dinner for Prince Abdullah.

He turned back to me, a frown creasing his face.

• Why you? Where's Matti? Is he okay?

• (waving my hand casually) Oh, yeah, he's fine. He's fuckin' devoted to that little prick. And when I say `little prick', I mean it – I've experienced it and it's nothing to write home about.

• You're sure he's okay? You're not replacing him?

• Do I look like a replacement for that shrimp? No, Matti's fine. Seems like a nice kid, though a little too complacent if you ask me. He's glad I'm around, though. I'm supposed to protect his master if someone tries to attack him.

I made sure my tone of voice gave plenty of doubt as to whether or not I actually would. Ian looked me over a bit, suspicious.

• How long have you been a slave? You're not tattooed.

• My former owner didn't go in for that shit. And he used me as a stud, not a pussy. He sends me here and I've been done up the ass half a dozen times in two days. (A big understatement.) Like I'm supposed to take it up the ass and LIKE it?! If somebody jumps His Nibs I'll make sure that Arab prick is dead and then blame it on one of his uncles. Those guys are real assholes – if it were me, I'd try to poison ALL of them, but Ab-dull-boy's a good place to start.

• Continue to talk like that and you'll be treated to a bird's-eye view of the rotunda and a reservation for the Hall of Shame.

• Look, you're all a bunch of pussies – figuratively and literally. How many slaves are there in this building? And you all just bend over nicely and say, "Yes, master, stick your cock up my ass whenever you like, master." There's enough of you, you can start a fucking rebellion. And maybe I mean that literally. We ought to be fucking THEM. And then take them up to the roof and toss them over the side, one by one. The only slave in this joint I have any respect for is whoever dosed the boy-king's food with arsenic. Seems like he's the only one around here with any balls.

• Keep talking like that, and your balls will wind up somewhere else. I like to keep mine right where they are – between my legs.

• Fat lot of good they're doing you.

Several nearby slaves seemed to have been listening closely to our conversation. One in particular, too tall and too Middle-Eastern to be an LBM slave, kept looking at me with interest, sizing me up.

An Alexei-sized boy (whose skin was the color of a cup of coffee WITH cream) arrived with a cart bearing Prince Abdullah's food tray. I grinned at him.

• No poison in this, is there, boy?

• (insulted at the suggestion) Of course not. I'm not the one responsible – I didn't handle his food that day. And Minnesota wouldn't do that either.

• Minnesota?

• That's where he's from. If you get a chance, tell him Pennsylvania says `hi'.

I looked at Ian as if I had no idea what he was talking about. He felt obligated to explain.

• It's a Little Big Man thing. One of the palace's sources of slaves. Don't ask me to explain it, I just know we get an influx of them every year.

Two other slaves came up to talk to him and Ian dismissed me.

• Get that up to His Highness before it gets cold.

• (mockingly) Yes, Master.

I turned to leave and then, turning my attention to a group of kitchen slaves nearby.

• Look at you all chopping vegetables like good little slaves. In case you haven't noticed, those are knives in your hands. Knives that could do some real damage to the men holding you here. Men who are depriving you of your freedom. If you acted together –

• (a voice) Who the fuck is this?

It came from a German-accented trusty supervising the area. I'd imitate his accent, but Oleg told me it would be rude, and he's probably right.

• All we need is another goddam insurrectionist. (to me) Obviously, you're new here and have no idea what you're talking about. Even if they wanted to, how are these boys going to get knives out of this kitchen? Every entrance has metal detectors and cameras. We can't carry a fucking napkin out of this place. Can you imagine what would happen if you were caught with a knife? Where do they get slaves like this? And this one's a trusty? With – oh my god, with the Prince Regent's seal! (to me, again) You won't last long, boy. I hope you're not afraid of heights.

The majority of the slaves around him murmured assent regarding his assessment of my stupidity. But I noticed a few looking in my direction admiringly. Whatever impression I had made, tonight in the slave quarters I was certain to be a topic of conversation.

But I had learned something from this trusty that the Prince Regent would find interesting.

I went back to Prince Abdullah's room where I discovered the cart had three dinners – one for the Prince, one for me, and one for Matti. The Prince's was obvious – it looked delicious. Matti's was obvious, too – porridge. Mine had real food, but not as fancy as the Prince's. I sampled the Prince's; ten minutes and no ill-effects later, I heated it up in the microwave and then left him alone while I got to know Matti better – longing to `know' him in an altogether different manner.

WEDNESDAY, 7 DECEMBER, EVENING – PRINCE REGENT'S APARTMENT

• Your Majesty, the boy is innocent. He has absolutely no motive. He is devoted to your son and would not harm him.

• He could be lying.

• He could be. But he isn't. He's too genuine for that. I can tell when people are bullshitting me – it's one of my talents. It's one reason Dmitri trusts me.

• And you're telling me he's in love with my son.

• No. He's devoted to your son the way a slave should be devoted to his master. Here's an ironic coincidence – he's in love with Alexei, Dmitri's boy.

• Dmitri mentioned there was some kind of relationship there.

• It's deep.

• So if the trial results in the boy going up on the dome and I obtain Alexei as a replacement, I should make sure they never see each other. Alexei would be a better slave for Abdullah if he doesn't know what happened to his friend. Does Abdullah know of this relationship?

• No. I asked about that specifically. I'm the only person that M – that Abdullah's boy has told.

• You started to call him Minnesota. That's how I think of him, too, sometimes. The only problem is we've got at least two other Minnesotas here somewhere.

Actually I had started to call him Matti – thank goodness Minnesota starts with the same letter; I can't let the P.R. know Abdullah is using the boy's real name.

• So have you learned anything else? You went to the kitchens this evening, yes?

• I did. I made a noise down there, being, I'm afraid, exceedingly disrespectful about your family. I saw a few ears perk up. And I found a trusty we should talk to. He's not involved, but might know something. His number is 3974 and is from Germany or another German-speaking country. When he heard my trash talk, he made a comment about not needing another insurrectionist. Another insurrectionist, Your Majesty. Like he already knew of some.

• Ah. Useful. We will interrogate him – what did you say his number was?

• 1. But I would hold off on that. He will wonder why him, why now? And what has changed recently? Me. He may put two and two together and figure out that I'm a spy.

• So what do you suggest?

• Let me continue to lay my groundwork. If there are insurrectionists there, let me see if I can attract them to me. I was not subtle – I even suggested they sneak knives out of the kitchen to attack you. That's what set this trusty off. He's a loyal slave – if you do question him, be gentle.

WEDNESDAY, 7 DECEMBER, LATE EVENING – TRUSTY SLEEPING QUARTERS

My prediction that I would be the subject of conversation among the slaves was accurate – including in the trusty sleeping quarters. I was worried that Declan would have heard of my insurrectionist talk; I was hoping to spend the night in his arms again – or vice-versa. But when I arrived at my bed, there was no Declan and the bed had been stripped. Instead, I found the German-speaking trusty waiting for me.

• You don't deserve sheets.

• Maybe not, but Declan does.

• Declan's not here. He's assigned to the common room tonight. Some of us have to supervise the common slaves at night so they don't do anything foolish like listen to the likes of you.

• Fine, you've made your point. You don't like me. But I'm entitled to sheets and pillows.

• Get them yourself.

Like I knew where they were. But another guy, who had overheard our conversation, saw my obvious ignorance, and said, "I'll send a boy," and disappeared from the room. The German-accented trusty sent withering looks in his – and my direction. But most were trying to ignore this confrontation in their midst.

Which, in his opinion, wasn't over. He continued to stand by my bed, and I anticipated that when my sheets and pillow arrived, that he would try to prevent me from using them. I could probably take him in a fight, but I didn't want a fight.

I decided to try to lower the tension and took a gamble.

• Look, is there somewhere we could talk?

• You want to include me in your little conspiracy?

• (almost whispering) Please. Let me explain.

He looked at me appraisingly. Something in my face made him reconsider. Then he said, in a normal voice:

• Okay, asshole, let me explain to you how things work around here. But we'll go into the hall so that the rest of these boys can go to sleep without listening to your bullshit.

When we were outside the sleeping quarters, I said:

• Can we talk civilly?

• I don't understand why we're talking at all.

• I'll explain. My name's Marat. You are?

• Günter.

• You're German?

• Austrian. Who the fuck cares, why are we talking?

• Günter, I'm not an insurrectionist.

• You're giving a good impression of one.

• Thank you.

• Excuse me?

• That's my job. I was ordered to give an impression of one.

• What are you talking about?

• You know about the attempt on Prince Abdullah's life.

• Of course. That was a week ago. I'm surprised you know about it, you just got here.

• You see this seal. I'm the Prince Regent's property but he assigned me to be Prince Abdullah's bodyguard and food taster.

• Ah, so maybe now we should poison the food.

• Ha ha. Abdullah says his boy is innocent.

• Matti? Yes, we all think so too. The boy was framed – Matti's a good boy, we all like him.

• Between you and me, I'd like to fuck him.

• (grin) I, as well.

• Anyway, the Prince ordered me to talk like I did tonight.

• He ordered you to?

• I have to obey him. He wants to see if anyone responds if I pretend to be disloyal.

• And you're not disloyal.

• Look, I'm not crazy about being fucked every day – my previous master didn't do that – but I've been a slave for three years and I've always done what my master tells me to, without question. It's a matter of survival. No way I want to wind up in the Hall of Shame.

• Marat, why are you telling me this? You want me to tell the others to leave you alone?

• No. I want you to pretend to hate me – but only pretend. Plus I'd like to sleep in sheets tonight, even though I wish Declan was next to me.

• Declan is pissed at you. He was the one who suggested we strip the bed.

• Maybe you can have a quiet word with him tomorrow? I've grown fond of Declan in a very short time. But you can help in another way.

• Yes?

• I heard you say that all we needed was another insurrectionist. Like you knew about other insurrectionists.

• I've heard some talk.

• Do you know who they are? There were a couple in your crew who looked at me with some interest, like they were sympathetic.

• Can you describe them?

• Not really. I didn't get much of a chance before you hustled me out of there. One was Western – white, small; the other looked local to me. Taller than most of the common slaves.

• Sounds like Mehmet. And you're right, he's local. His father was a reporter who wrote a story exposing that the Prince Regent lived in an all-male palace. His editor reported him into the police. They put him in jail. Mehmet's mother and younger siblings were deported. But Mehmet, at eighteen, was old enough to be enslaved, so they brought him here.

• When was this?

• About six months ago. Mehmet has been smart enough to keep his balls – and his head – but he gripes a lot in slave quarters.

• I'll see if I can connect with him tomorrow. Thanks, Günter.

We entered the sleeping quarters, where Günter immediately put his hands on my chest and shoved me.

• And if you continue to talk like that, don't do it around me, okay? I don't want anything to do with you!

And he stalked off in apparent fury as I maneuvered my way back to my bed, now newly made, as the other trusties avoided making eye contact.

Good job, Günter. Good job.

THURSDAY, 8 DECEMBER, BREAKFAST TIME – SLAVE DINING HALL

I ate alone. None of the other trusties would sit with me. Declan specifically avoided me – either Günter had not spoken with him yet or he was play-acting his disdain for my feigned disloyalty.

The trusties had pancakes. The common slaves had porridge – did they eat nothing but porridge? No, they also got some fruit, as well as coffee. The coffee was strong and intense, in the Middle Eastern mode.

I made it my point to pass through the common area when returning my tray. And to comment loudly.

• That's all you get to eat? I wouldn't put up with that. Why the fuck don't you go on strike? They can't put all of you on the dome. They can't replace all of you at once. Strength in numbers, boys.

A boy who looked like he was from Latin America but was small enough to be a Little Big Man alumnus, looked at me with hostility.

• Who the fuck are you? I haven't seen you before, and you're telling us what to do? Don't you realize most of us LIKE being slaves?

Yes, I did, and that was reassuring – but there had to be some who did not.

• Then you're all fools.

In as condescending a tone as I could muster. I kept an eye out for reactions. And there were definitely a couple of slaves who looked interested. One was the same local boy who had made eye contact with me yesterday. Was this the Mehmet that Günter had mentioned?

At another table three slaves were huddled together, sneaking occasional peeks as if they were discussing me – and not disapprovingly. One was Asian – Japanese? The second was white and well-tanned. But I was startled to recognize the third – the Black eunuch I had seen in the gardens that I was pretty sure was "South Carolina". All of them were short enough to be Little Big Man alumni.

I tucked this away for future reference and collected Prince Abdullah's breakfast to take it to him.

THURSDAY, 8 DECEMBER, MID-MORNING – PRINCE ABDULLAH'S SUITE

The Prince had left me alone with Matti, giving us another chance to talk. I looked at his delicious form, and wished again that I could bury my bone in his sweet behind.

• You asked me yesterday if anything unusual had occurred since Master's poisoning.

• And you said no.

• But there was something I forgot about. I don't know why I didn't think of it, it just seemed so insignificant at the time. A slave approached me and said he had been ordered to collect one of Master's robes, that his master had spilled something on it and he wanted to get it cleaned for him. I asked which robe, and he said he didn't know, the one with a stain on it. He wanted to enter Master's suite and look for it himself but I knew I couldn't allow anyone else in without Master's permission, so I'd look myself. Well, I didn't see any robes with a stain and I told him that Master must have gotten it cleaned himself.

• Is it unusual for other slaves to convey requests like this?

• Sometimes a slave will show up if their master has ordered them to give something or get something from my Master. But no one has ever requested to enter Master's bedroom like this. And I didn't recognize the slave. I asked him who his master was and he mentioned some prince I hadn't heard of. Later I thought he looked like someone I had seen in the kitchens.

• What did he look like?

• He wasn't one of the Little Big Man slaves. He wasn't American. He was Arab, like Master and his family. And he was taller than most of us – about Master's height.

• Did he have anything with him – was he carrying anything?

• No, it was just him.

Mehmet? The description fit. But why would he want one of Abdullah's robes? It wasn't as if he was going to plant something dangerous in Abdullah's wardrobe if he was carrying nothing.

I didn't see how it was related to the attempt on Abdullah's life, but the possibility that it was Mehmet made me suspicious that somehow it was.

[COMING UP NEXT: CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX - ZEROING IN]