But that did not stop him from quietly masturbating to the scene, in his polynet hammock, as the ship lurched and plunged through the heavy northern Pacific swells. Remembering: his cock in one of their mouths, then the other’s, his fingers inside them both, the furred pressure of their crotches against his wrists, their little gasps in his ears, faked but sounding real enough.

These were the last, flickering images he had of a life before. The kidnapping might have happened right there at the brothel, or elsewhere, hours or even days afterward. He couldn’t know: it was all blackness. Whatever drug he had been given had blotted out a block of time. His next memories were of this life.

He could not find it, the cut between the two lives, the moment when he was taken. It was gone. On one side of a darkness was the Eiko who had come to the HCMATZ looking to get rich. On the other side was a slave.

Sometimes Eiko still thought of his parents, back in Okinawa. They had saved the money for his trip to the HCMATZ, just as they had scraped together the money for his education. This was the next step, their next investment in his future.

When he had left for the HCMATZ, on a charter flight managed by a company that specialized in supplying the zone with young Japanese talent, his father and mother had both accompanied him to the airstrip. It was an old place, half abandoned, servicing the few charter companies that still used human-piloted small craft. His father and mother, with identical expressions on their careworn faces, had said goodbye and turned to leave abruptly, as was their way. But as the plane banked after takeoff, Eiko had glimpsed their car, still parked in the parking lot. The sun reflected off the windshield, but he knew that behind that glare would be their faces, looking up at their only son’s plane as it dwindled into the sky.

There were times when Eiko indulged the fantasy that Japan was searching for him. He knew this was a lie. By this time his parents had certainly alerted the authorities to his disappearance. By this time they had spent days and weeks in front of their aging terminals, haranguing officials of the HCMATZ. They had contacted, he was sure, the Okinawan authorities, and possibly even Tokyo. But what would they find? Any of them? His life was cut through, its frayed end dangling in the HCMATZ hotel where he had left a bag of his possessions. Beyond that point, there would be no trace of him.

The cut between the two lives.

Some of the other crew had similar fantasies, in their first month or so on the ship. People were looking for them. People would find them.