Here's a snippet from
Trickster:
The groundcar abruptly emerged into bright sunlight. Kendi blinked until the windshield darkened itself to compensate. Harenn continued to sit rigid. A line of slaves stood at an outdoor conveyer belt loaded with lumpy brown cacao pods.
“If you look to your left,” said the computer cheerfully, “you will see the L.L. Venus hands processing the ripe seed pods. First the pods are split in two with a machete.” As if on cue, several of the slaves chopped the pods neatly down the middle as they passed by on the belt. “Next, our hands scoop out the mucilage and cocoa beans inside and put it into wooden boxes, which are then covered with leaves.” The car passed stacks of leaf-covered crates. “Once the beans have fermented, they are removed and spread in the sun to dry. Each pod will produce between forty and fifty cocoa beans, but it takes more than seven hundred beans to make a single kilogram of – ”
Kendi tapped the screen’s red button. When Harenn raised her eyebrows at him, he said, “I can’t stand that syrupy tone anymore.”
“What number of slaves do you suppose this farm owns?”
Kendi looked out at a group of slave children who were using long-handled hoes to spread cocoa beans on screen-bottomed drying racks in the hot sun. Several of them were barely tall enough to see over the racks.
“Lots,” he muttered. “Suddenly the idea of having a candy bar makes me sick to my stomach.”
The driveway ended in at an enormous mansion, complete with cupolas and gingerbread trim. Beyond the house lay a series of low, metal-sided buildings. Kendi assumed they were warehouses, equipment storage areas, and slave quarters. He guided the car into a parking lot near the house. The sun hit him like a hammer when he exited the air-conditioned interior of the car. Harenn didn’t seem to notice, and instead headed straight for the mansion’s front porch. Before they had reached the top step, the door opened and a man in a red tunic and brown trousers emerged. The L.L. Venus logo was embroidered in gold on the shoulder of the tunic. Kendi took Harenn’s arm.
“Let me do the talking,” he muttered.
Harenn gave a curt nod of acquiescence.
“Welcome to Sunnytree Farm,” the man said. “How may I help you?”
Kendi repeated his request to see Douglas Markovi. “It’s extremely important, and I’m afraid we really can’t talk to anyone but him.”
“Mr. Markovi is very busy,” the man said doubtfully.
“I realize that, and I apologize for dropping in with no notice, but it’s very important.”
“What company did you say you were with?”
“I didn’t,” was Kendi’s only reply.
The man wasn’t daunted. “What company are you with?”
“A large private concern,” Kendi said. “I’m sorry, but I can’t be more specific than that except with Mr. Markovi himself.”
Kendi could almost feel the waves of controlled impatience radiating off Harenn. He ground his teeth. In the days before the Despair, another Child of Irfan would have entered the Dream to whisper into this man’s mind. If the man had any inclination toward granting Kendi and Harenn an audience with his managerial majesty, the whisper would magnify it and make Kendi’s job easy. But nowadays very few Silent could even enter the Dream, let alone reach out of from it. Kendi would have to rely on his own powers of persuasion.
The man resisted, and Kendi went to work on him. His instincts told him offering a bribe wouldn’t be effective, so he continued with a non-stop flow of persuasive talk while Harenn looked on. Eventually the man reluctantly led them to a tastefully-furnished waiting room with the curt promise that he would check with Mr. Markovi.
They waited over an hour. Harenn sat like a statue the entire time. Kendi knew she was in agony, but he didn’t dare speak to her – the waiting area was probably bugged. Finally the man returned.
“Mr. Markovi has agreed to see you,” he said with a certain amount of surprise in his voice.
He ushered them into a large, airy office. A blond man with a prominent chin waited behind a castle-sized desk against a bank of windows. A potted cacao tree blocked some of the sunshine streaming in through the glass. The man’s tunic was edged with silver, and he forced Harenn and Kendi to reach across the huge expanse of his desk to shake hands. His grip was iron-hard. Kendi gave a mental sigh. The negotiations were going to be rough.
“I’m Douglas Markovi,” said the blond man. “What’s this about? The computer said you were asking about one of my hands.”
“Hands,” not “slaves,” Kendi noted. As if those people – those children – out there were interviewed and hired. He decided to try the direct approach.
“My name is Kendi Weaver and this is my associate Harenn Mashib,” he said. “We have a problem that I’m hoping you can help us solve.”
Douglas Markovi sat in a tall leather chair behind his desk. He did not offer seats to Kendi and Harenn, though there were smaller chairs behind them. Kendi decided to remain standing for the moment. Although it made him look like an inferior, it did give him and Harenn a height advantage.
“What problem would that be?”
“You have a – a hand on your farm named Jerry,” Kendi said. “According to public record, you bought him two weeks ago.”
“I may have,” Markovi said. “We acquired several hands recently, but I don’t know all of them.”
Despite the fact that you give all of them your last name, Kendi growled silently. “Unfortunately,” he said aloud, “Jerry is not actually a slave.”
“He is my son,” Harenn blurted out.
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