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At 10:27 a.m., Daniel found himself in a plain little room in the basement of NewWorld Media’s US headquarters, empty but for leather shackles bolted to the top and bottom of a pole near one wall, and four chairs lined up against the opposite wall. Soundproof paneling lined every surface. After all, it wouldn’t do to upset the freemen upstairs with all that unseemly screaming.

Three of the four chairs were occupied. Daniel was an important slave, so he was dismayed—but not surprised—to see some important people. Ben Cheng, Chief of US Programming, looking sad, angry, and disappointed all at once; Eric Foster, the HR boss who’d replaced Daniel’s savior over a decade ago; and his own chief executive producer, Maxwell Epstein, looking about as unhappy as Ben. The fourth seat was reserved for Daniel’s handler, but Tim wasn’t obliged to watch, and Daniel was grateful he wasn’t here.

Daniel stripped off his clothes without a word and knelt at their feet, head bowed.

“Do you know what you’ve done wrong, Daniel?” Ben asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Look at me.”

Daniel took a deep breath and dragged his gaze up from the floor to Ben’s stern face.

“Tell me.” Ben’s tone was no more yielding than his expression.

“I, uh . . .” Daniel swallowed hard, and his eyes drifted to the heavy leather strap on Mr. Foster’s lap, then back to Ben. “I let myself get distracted. I was late to call yesterday. I missed my cue to open the show. I stumbled pretty badly a few times. And I might have zoned a little during the panel talk in C block.”

“A little?” Maxwell said.

“And it wasn’t just yesterday, was it?” Ben said. “All week you’ve been doing this. What’s gotten into you?”

“I—”

“Haven’t we been good to you?” Mr. Foster asked.

“Of course, sir! I just . . .” Daniel swallowed again, shook his head. “I’m sorry, sirs. I won’t try to make excuses.” His gaze was drawn to the strap again, and he added softly, “And I won’t struggle. I promise.”

“Wow. Good for you,” Mr. Foster sneered. “You don’t get a medal for taking what’s coming to you like a properly trained slave, you know.”

“I know, sir, I didn’t mean it like that, I—”

Maxwell held out a hand, silencing Daniel and Mr. Foster, who’d clearly been winding up to shout again. Daniel dared to hope for leniency for just a fraction of a second, but then the pity on Maxwell’s face was overshadowed by grim disappointment, and he shook his head and said, “I’m afraid that’s not good enough this time, Daniel.”

Daniel’s head snapped up even as his gut sank like a concrete block in the East River. “Sir?”

“Four years ago, we took a huge risk on you, Daniel.”

“I know, sir, and I’m forever grateful.”

“Giving a slave his own show. You know how often that happens, Daniel?” He didn’t beyond hardly never, but it didn’t matter; the question was clearly rhetorical. “And when we did that, you swore to us that you would treat it as the solemn responsibility it was. You swore to us that nothing, nothing would ever interfere with you putting on the best damn newscast on television.”

Daniel nodded. He had said that, and he knew damn well he’d made a liar of himself this week. Let his supervisors down. And let his brethren down too, because who here would ever again trust another slave with that kind of responsibility if even their star pupil couldn’t hack it?

“I need you back on your game, Daniel. All of us have superiors to answer to, not to mention investors, you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” Not just my ass on the line. Check.

“So tell me we’re not going to discipline you now and just have to drag you back here tomorrow.”

“We know you were nervous about the leasing program,” Mr. Foster chimed in before Daniel could reply. “But the anticipation’s over now, right? Your first night’s done, you’re here, you’re fine, your world is still in one piece, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” Daniel agreed, but in truth he wasn’t so sure.

“The leasing program is just as important to the company right now as your show is,” Mr. Cheng said. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you know how much of our revenue this year will come from the leases?” When Daniel shook his head, Mr. Cheng said, “Six percent, Daniel. Six percent.”