Amy lay on her bed at home that evening, trying to get her mind on the movie she had rented for her TV, a comedy in which one woman goes through a series of misadventures trying to keep her appointment with the guillotine, while another woman mistaken for her is nearly snuffed in her place. Amy tried to concentrate on the story, but her mind kept wandering. She had felt wonderful after her interview, and certainly while having sex with Scott at his apartment, but now every point of concern kept crowding back into her mind. How important was it that she had never played any hanging games? Dean Porter seemed to like her naked body, but did he really? Would he say so if he didn't? Did the dean, despite her efforts at redirection, figure out that she'd only been conscious of her need to go to the Academy for barely over a month? How many minuses did she really have?

She groaned, audibly, when she saw Andrew looking in through her door. She had meant to close it. And lock it. And barricade it with steel bars. "What do you want?"

"So how did the interview go?"

She sighed. "Okay."

"Come on, Amy. You know I really do want to know. Just give me an impression."

She sighed more heavily. "I thought it went really well. I answered all his questions, showed him my body, let him choke me. I felt good about it after."

"You don't sound like you feel good now."

"You know me. Am I the Optimism Queen?"

Andrew looked at her, and seemed to come to a decision. He brought his hand from behind his back, showing a small, transparent capped bottle and shaking it. "I need you to take a capsule for me."

Her jaw dropped as she gave him an are-you-crazy look, and then she burst out laughing. "So you've decided poison is the way to go? After all I've done for you?"

He gave her an impatient look. "Ignoring the question of who would want to poison his next meal, why would I kill you? Okay, yeah, I know I've got a reason, but look at all the drawbacks. I imagine the law would be with me, you being my sister and all, except they'd want to know if it was okay with Dad, and there you have it. Even if the law lets me off the hook, and even if I could find some foolproof way so they don't even know it was me that did it, Dad would know somehow. Or suspect. Why would I even want to take a chance of his suspicion falling on me, when I can get you out of here just by sending you off to the Academy?"

"Thought you assumed I wasn't going to get in."

"Well, I've got that covered too, don't I? Except for one thing -- suppose you get your rejection letter and just decide to disappear? That's fine if you stay away and get declared dead, but I can't count on that. I can see you showing up suddenly with some fancy lawyer who manages to find a way to void the contract. Or at least be a pain in the butt."

"You think too much, Andrew."

"Oh, right, and you don't? How much time have you spent on all that Academy crap in the last month?"

Amy lay back on the bed, her fingers laced under her head. "Touche'."

"Look, I just need you to take one of these capsules for now. They're slave trackers. Have you heard of that?"

Amy wrinkled her nose. "I've heard of tracking slaves, but not with pills. What the hell are they?"

"The latest wonder of bionanotechnology. They've just come out with them for general usage. When the outer skin of the capsule dissolves in your stomach, inside there's a tiny GPS transceiver that signals your location. I can go to a Web site on my computer and track you by that -- the frequency is a little different for each capsule, and I write down the code on the capsule and log in using that. Find your location within about ten feet."

She sat up and looked at him in silence, and finally lay back and said, "Bullshit. My body would flush it out in a day."

"Look, hold on..." He went back to his room, and came back in a moment to hand her a sheet of paper. "Somehow I figured you wouldn't trust me on this. I ordered this stuff online. Here's a printout of the invoice. Go to this Web site and read about it."

She dropped the paper on the bed beside her. "Later. I'm busy."

He looked at her sourly. "Yeah, you look busy. Anyway, by tomorrow, Amy. This is the last bit of assurance I need that you'll be around when I own you. That guarantee, remember?"

She sat bolt upright and glared at him. "I thought we were done with that. That's what the contract was for."

"Yeah, the contract is one thing, but what stops you running out on it before I get a chance to enforce it? I want this one last thing, Amy. Then I'll stay out of your way till you hear from the Academy." He smiled. "I've got used to this idea of waiting on the sex till I own you. It'll make that first time that much more fun."

She gritted her teeth and turned away from him, turning up the sound on her TV. She wished she could stop him from even hinting he wanted to get her into his bed, but it was too trivial to use up her blackmail on that. "Get out. And close the door."

He pointed at the paper on her bed before closing it. "Read about it."

She sighed and tried to concentrate on the TV. The paper Andrew had given her caught her eye. She started to crumple it, then stopped suddenly with a gasp.

Andrew, when he'd reminded her of his need for a "guarantee," was doing more than just stating what he was looking for. He was reminding her of the alternative. If she refused to set his mind at ease on the possibility of her not making the Academy, he was, no doubt, still prepared to set her up for the kidnapping he'd spoken of before. To have her carried off and made a helpless puppygirl for some stranger who would be happy to train her with a whip. She would be gone before she heard from the Academy.

Her lips compressed in a hard line, and she muttered "Shit!" between them. She turned her TV off, and her computer on.

It was easy to find complete information on the product Andrew had bought, as described on the invoice. She read about it, and cross-checked it on several other reliable Web sites.

The capsules were for real. On being ingested by a slave, the outer covering, as usual for a capsule, dissolved in the stomach. Inside the capsule, the tiny GPS transceiver, powered by a chemical battery that would last nine months, signaled the slave's location. The transceiver was enclosed in an outer coating that was biochemically compatible with the cells in the digestive system -- in fact, it attached itself to the cellular walls of either the stomach or intestines, gradually being absorbed into them, safe from being ejected from the body as unused waste. Removing it required major surgery, but after the slave was snuffed it came out automatically during the gutting process before cooking. In its experimental stages there had been no cases of ill effects on the test subjects. Before its battery gave out -- six months was the recommended time -- the slave simply swallowed another capsule.

Up to today, Amy's feeling of certainty about admission to the Academy had persuaded her not to bother planning an escape if it didn't work out. But she had to admit the idea had run across the back of her mind.

This would make it impossible.

On the other hand, her fretting over the results of today's interview aside, she still did feel her admission must be inevitable. It had to work that way. How could she, with Miranda's help, have finally discovered her lifelong dream, only to have it snatched away from her?

And of course, if she did go to the Academy, it was irrelevant whether Andrew had made her swallow a slave-tracking capsule. If she was at the Academy, Andrew had no use for the tracker. He'd know exactly where she was, for what it was worth, even without it. Nothing Andrew had asked her to do, from signing the contract to ingesting the tracker, made any difference once she was admitted to the Academy. And Amy did believe him when he said the Academy was his preference -- she would be completely, permanently out of his way without the slightest effort on his part.

Even that didn't really matter, though. The fact was, she didn't have a choice. She believed him on the puppygirl threat, his one stated way of taking her Academy dream away if she didn't cooperate with him. She couldn't afford not to believe him.

Pushing her chair back angrily from her desk, she turned off her computer and grabbed the invoice. Down the hall, she pounded on Andrew's door.

When he opened it, she snarled, "Are you going to be tracking me all around town, wherever I go?"

Andrew looked genuinely surprised. "Why would I give a shit where you spend your time every day? I'll just feel better now if I know I can find you when the time comes. I'll test it once in awhile to make sure it's still working. If I watch your progress while you walk around the house, will that violate your precious privacy too much?"

"Can I wait till early August?"

Andrew shook his head. "Who knows when the Academy might mail out the first rejections? I'm sure they've had girls apply that they wouldn't want within fifty miles of the Academy. How long does it take them to figure that out? If you're going to do it, do it now." He fixed his eyes on hers. "Otherwise I need to make other plans."

She tried to stare him down while her fury pointlessly rose. Forcing her voice to calmness, she held out her hand, open palm up. "Okay, give me the thing."

Andrew's eyes lit up. "Okay, but not quite like that. Come over here." He backed away from his door to let her in. He ducked quickly into his bathroom, ran some water, and emerged with a partly-filled drinking glass. He set it on his desk, next to the tiny bottle of capsules. On closer examination, Amy saw that the bottle held just two capsules.

Andrew looked in his desk and found a small square of paper. Opening the capsule bottle, he shook one of the capsules out onto the paper. Bending down, he rolled the capsule slightly until its code number came into view, and wrote it on the paper. Then he picked up the paper, folding it into a small valley with the capsule at the bottom, and brought it towards her.

Amy reached for it, and Andrew jerked it away. "Nope, nope, nope. Don't touch it, and don't lift your hands to your mouth. I don't want you palming the little bugger and pretending to swallow it. Then carrying it around in your pocket so I'll think it's inside you. Tilt your head back and open up."

Rolling her eyes, Amy did as requested. Andrew lifted the square of folded paper, tilted it, and let the capsule roll into her mouth.

Keeping his eyes on her as he backed towards the desk, he recovered the glass of water and brought it to her. "Keep looking up. And keep your hands down." He held the glass to her mouth and tipped some water in. "Now swallow."

Amy didn't have much of an alternative, other than choking. With a sinking feeling, she swallowed the capsule and felt it slide down her throat towards her stomach. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter, she told herself. I hadn't even made plans to run away anyway. Where would I go?

"Now say, 'The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.' "

She nearly choked anyway. "What??"

"Just say it."

She rolled her eyes, shaking her head, and repeated the nonsense.

Andrew nodded. "Fine. You could only say that clearly while you were trying to hide a capsule under your tongue if you were a trained ventriloquist. Just making sure you swallowed it. Now don't mind me if I follow you back to your room."

"What? Why?"

"Just go back to watching TV or whatever you feel like doing. I just want to make sure you don't stick a finger down your throat and barf the thing up in the next twenty minutes. After that it won't matter."

Amy walked stiffly, her hands clenched into fists, back to her room, where she flopped on her bed and turned the TV back on, starting up the movie again. She lay on her stomach, her chin propped on her fist, her eyes looking in the direction of the screen, not seeing it, while Andrew lounged in her doorway, slouching against the frame, a study in relaxation.

The movie reached its predictable ending, with the woman who was supposed to be snuffed finally arriving just in time and straightening everything out. All came out happily, with a final scene in which the right woman's head falls into the cushioned basket, looking towards the camera with a relieved smile on her face before her eyes glazed over.

Amy's eyes kept trying to wander up towards Miranda, and she'd pull them back, quickly. She felt too ashamed to look at her friend. Miranda would never, ever let anyone do to her what Andrew was doing to Amy, Amy thought miserably. She'd never let a man tie her up in knots so tightly she couldn't shake loose. I know Andrew, Amy screamed within. I know him better than Miranda ever did! Why can't I handle him any better than this? Or at all, in fact?

After a time, Andrew straightened up and walked back to his room. Amy knew the time had passed when she could do anything about the tracking device now lodged permanently in her body, giving out its signals for the next nine months. Long before it died, Amy would be Andrew's slave. Probably secured so that he didn't even feel a need to bother giving her another capsule. But he would anyway.

A tear rolled down Amy's cheek, and she lay her head down on the bed. Why today of all days? The interview seemed to go so well, and she'd been so excited. But now her earlier misgivings came crashing back on her more intensely than before. She pictured Dean Porter going over application folders with the director of admissions. Not this one, they'd agree. No experience. Never tried a hanging game in her whole life. Didn't even think about the Academy till a month ago. Too flighty. No commitment.

She buried her face in her hands and cried. Quietly. Quietly enough that she could hear Andrew in his room. The jerk, jerking off.

Over the next few weeks, Amy's confidence gradually returned. Andrew, amazingly, left her alone, almost entirely ignoring her. It must be that he thinks I'll get in! she told herself. It's understandable he wanted a contingency plan in place, but he doesn't think he'll have to use it. It's the middle of July now. A month till I hear. He knows what's coming.

The biggest problem now weighing on her mind was her father. There was still that problem of his permission. The Academy's offer of admission, she knew from their literature, was contingent on parental permission. It might be a tricky legal point as to whether the slave contract she'd signed would be in force if the Academy accepted her application but then Dad said no.

She made an appointment with the attorney who had witnessed and certified the signing. Andrew and I, Amy told her, both know how important the Academy is to me, so that's why that condition is in the contract. Does the contract take effect even if the Academy says I'm in but my father won't let me go? Yes, the lawyer explained. The Academy's own stated policy made it clear that admission wasn't final without the consent of the parents. Or surviving parent, if only one is alive. Thank you, Amy said, I just wanted that clarified. I didn't want to end up in some legal limbo, but I guess everything is taken care of.

Yes, Amy thought at home, all taken care of. Wonderful. She had to persuade Dad to let her go to the Academy. She had known that, of course, but had not been sure of the full consequences of failure. She knew now.

She knew when to tell him, of course: after the letter of acceptance came, no earlier. It was crucial to show him she wasn't dreaming, that the Academy really wanted her. But knowing when wasn't telling her how. He could easily get mad if she presented him with a done deal, worked out behind his back. He wasn't happy with that sort of thing. She had to have the right way to present it.

She did go back to considering telling him before the letter came. She soon discarded that idea, reminding herself that, from his point of view, that was not only working behind his back, but on top of that it was backing out on the agreement to "marry" Andrew. When the time came, she needed Andrew to back her up by saying he knew the Academy was what she really wanted. He had promised to do that. She wasn't sure what the promise was worth, but she did believe he really did prefer she go to the Academy. If he didn't, he could have wrecked her chances with Dad already. But under no circumstances would he help her before the letter arrived.

I need that picture, she suddenly thought. That fake with me wearing a slave collar. I've got to show Dad that Andrew wasn't being upfront with him. That and the contract. Or no, maybe not the contract. It looks like I signed that voluntarily. I'll tell him Andrew was tricking me into being his slave, instead of marrying him like Dad thought. Dad won't like him being dishonest about that.

Andrew was out on one of his evening rambles, so there was no problem about getting into his room. Amy went in and reached under the bed, nodding to herself when her fingers found the sheet of paper. She pulled it out and looked at it.

She blinked in surprise. Wrong picture. She bent down to look under the bed. There was nothing else there.

She looked at the picture again, her lip curling in disgust. It was a drawing, very realistic, almost of photographic quality, but not quite. It showed a blonde woman, wearing a slave collar, kneeling in front of her master, sucking on his very erect manhood. She was very pregnant, perhaps near delivery -- obviously a breeding slave. The picture was drawn from a point of view just behind the master's hips, showing the slave's tear-streaked face and the front of her body down to her knees on the floor. Her hands were behind her as if tied or cuffed, and one of her ankles was visible, showing a shackle to which a hobble chain was attached. And all of her visible skin surface, other than her hugely swollen belly, was striped with whip marks, including her rounded breasts, themselves looking full to bursting, ready to produce milk. Her pregnancy suggested she must have been his slave for many months, yet the whip marks, some faded and healing over time, others fresh and angry red, suggested the whipping was constant in her life, that she still tried to resist her master's orders. Or perhaps that she just didn't follow them quickly enough or enthusiastically enough to suit him.

Amy's eye was drawn to a handwritten message in the space below the drawing:

"Amy -- like it? I'm impressed with this artist's work. I've contacted him about doing some custom work."

Amy threw the drawing down suddenly as if it had burned her fingers. Andrew, obviously, had known she would find the pic. What does his message mean? Is he telling me he's going to do this to me? Why tell me now? Dad wouldn't like it, would he?

She stormed back to her room -- she knew it was pointless to bother putting the picture back in its place -- and sat in her chair, irritably kicking her foot against the desk, her arms folded, hands gripping her upper arms tightly to prevent them from pounding on things, until Andrew came home.

She jumped out of her chair as she heard him come up the stairs, and followed him into his room. She closed his door, breathing hard through her nose and glaring at him.

Andrew smirked as he saw the drawing lying on his bed. "Pretty good stuff, isn't it?"

She snarled at him in a hoarse whisper, "Andrew, you know that's not what you made Dad think was going to happen. He's not going to go for this crap, not if he sees you lied to him! When you show him the contract, I'm going to show him this!" She darted forward and snatched the drawing before he could react.

Andrew laughed. "How will he think I lied to him?"

"He thinks we're going to be husband and wife!"

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "Is that what he thinks? That we'll get married? I never actually used that word with him."

Amy's hands clenched tightly, the drawing crumpling in one of them. "You know that's what he's assuming, though. He used the word 'marriage.' Why would he think I want to be your slave? Especially this kind of slave?" She waved the paper at him. "He wouldn't think what we've been doing makes any sense. If we're getting married, obviously we're waiting for the gene test results to come back first. Why bother with that if I wanted to be your slave? If a woman agrees to be a man's slave, it's not so she can make babies with him! That's way down on the priority scale."

"That's not true. Lots of guys keep breeding slaves."

"Yeah, if their wives can't have babies, or if they want to sell the kids. None of that applies here. He thinks we're trying to start a family together!"

Andrew grinned and shrugged. "Sounds like you're doing more assuming than he is. How do you know what he thinks?"

"About a family? At least he said that much, remember?"

Andrew started to respond, then blinked as if another thought had occurred to him. "Well, if he's got the wrong idea, I should just clear it up. I saw him in his library when I was coming in. Hold on, I'll be right back." He opened the door and trotted down the stairs, his hands in his pockets, looking casual. Amy followed him partway, stopping at the foot of the stairs in time to see Andrew disappear through the door to the library.

Andrew's voice, a little muffled by the intervening walls but still clear enough, said, "Say, Dad, Amy and I were talking, and it occurred to me we might have left the wrong impression about what we were thinking. It's not that we're getting married. We're talking about her being my slave. We do want to see how the tests come out, though. We're hoping to do some breeding."

Amy's jaw dropped. She knew she couldn't run in and contradict Andrew. All he had to do was whip out that contract, and there was no response to that that Amy could summon up. He might even do it tonight. That would bring the Academy secret out, at the worst possible time. Amy sat on the bottom step of the stairs, her last hope being that her father would have some reason to object to her slavery.

Amy heard her father grunt. "That's fine, son. As long as it's okay with her."

Okay with me! Andrew has the proof that it is! Amy buried her face in her hands.

She looked up and saw Andrew backing out of the library, saying, "I'm glad that's cleared up. See you tomorrow, Dad," and their father grunted in reply.

She turned and ran back up the stairs and into her room, throwing herself onto her bed. By the time she remembered to go back and close her door, Andrew had already returned to his own room.

He knows he won another round, she thought furiously. He doesn't have to say anything.

Calm down, she told herself, calm down, calm down. I still have the Academy. If Andrew had wanted to, he could have blown the whole issue wide open right then, tonight. He must not want to. I'm going to the Academy. Andrew wants me to go. He's just having fun playing with my head. If I'm miserable, he's happy. But I'll be out of his way in a couple of months and all this garbage will be over with.

Thinking about the Academy, her confidence rose. It had its ups and downs, but it was up lately. She was conscious of all of the issues that counted against her, but she had gone back over the interview minute by minute in her head and convinced herself she'd handled them very well.

They'll take me, she told herself, I know they will. She had a feeling Dean Porter had decided already, right while he was talking to her. She dwelt on some of her best moments over and over. I know I did great, she thought.

I still have to think how to tell Dad about it. But I can find a way to handle Dad. I've still got several weeks.