The Academy by Laura Antoniou Page A

harder to figure out where the new clients kin come from,” came a distinctly southern-American voice from over his shoulder. “An’ yet, Ah see the numbers go up every quarter! We gotta put the brakes on, Ray!” Michael half turned to see a middle-aged man in a light, tropical suit waving his hands for emphasis, his Asian companion nodding.
    “Far too many failures,” the younger man agreed. “Yet the demand is extraordinary. Too much money, far too easy to get certified as an owner right now. I think we must eventually consider cutting the market back, sharply.”
    “Restrict the number of available slaves?” Michael asked out loud. “Sorry to intrude—but is that what you meant? And can we do that?”
    The American looked at him for a moment and smiled indulgently. “We sure kin, son. When you control the manufacturing process, you kin sure as hell slow down the shipments! Ah’m Sebastian Pettibone Tucker, Tucker to my friends. This here is Mr. Ray Wong.”
    Michael shook their hands and introduced himself. “Oh—you’re the kid Anderson picked out last year, right?” Tucker said genially. “Well, she ain’t exactly the one to start her trainees on market share principles, tha’s the truth!”
    “But—I don’t understand. Why should we slow down training new clients if the demand is so high?”
    “’Cause when the demand gets high and the money flies, people get sloppy,” Tucker said, heading to one of the inner western-styled rooms and signaling for a slave. When she came, he said sternly, “Coca Cola, with plenty of ice, and keep it coming!” As he collapsed into a tall, bamboo chair, he fanned himself with the schedule. His face was slightly flushed, and his sandy hair curling around his ears. The three of them watched the slave for a moment of silence, and then looked at each other and laughed out loud.
    “Well, you can’t help it,” Tucker said, sighing. “You come to the Academy, and you see everything that was wrong with your last three clients.”
    Mr. Wong motioned to Michael and they sat side by side on a comfortable bench. “Did you notice that the return figures for slaves are up? And the contract renewals are not?”
    “Yeah.”
    “This indicates to me—and to my esteemed colleague—” Tucker nodded, as he accepted a frosted glass of cola from the elegant servant—“that the quality of clients may be suffering. We are noticing a general shortening of training periods. Perhaps you have as well?”
    “Um—actually—Anderson said the same thing to me last time I saw her,” Michael began. He paused as he saw the two men smile in what looked like triumph, and for the first time, got a glimpse of what it must feel like to be representing the Trainer here among her peers. He warmed to the feeling, and continued, “And I think I agree. If it takes years to train a trainer, how can we expect to put a slave on the market in a few weeks?”
    Tucker lifted one hand in an elegant “so there” gesture. “My friend, you are wise beyond your years.”
    “But—then the problem is with the training, not with the clients, right?”
    Mr. Wong shook his head. “It is interrelated, I think. If a trainer thinks he can make a slave in a month, he wants to make twelve a year. And where is he going to find twelve clients worth the training time? That is my question.”
    “Ditto,” sighed Tucker. “I swear, I just don’t know what the damn spotters are thinkin’ of anymore. I had to outright refuse seven ‘pre-selected’ clients last year—and let me tell you, I only work with the best spotters! But there they were—lazy, dumb as a caseload of hammers, and a few that had no idea what they might be gettin’ themselves into! And lemme tell you, son, when I have to do my own spotting, what happens to my training schedule, huh?”
    “I only trained three new clients last year,” Mr. Wong admitted. “Plus, I spent time in New Zealand at a new training facility. I am considering