Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet Read online

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  Copyright ©1984 by Mike Resnick

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  Prologue

  The Velvet Comet spun slowly in space, resembling nothing more than a giant barbell.

  Its metal skin glistened a brilliant silver, and its array of flashing lights could be seen from literally tens of thousands of miles away.

  It orbited about the planet Charlemagne, a tepid green-and-blue world that was barely visible beneath a layer of swirling white clouds, but it was owned by the Vainmill Syndicate on the distant world of Deluros VIII. Seventeen different engineering firms had worked on its design, thousands of men and machines had spent literally millions of hours on its construction, and it housed a permanent staff of more than six hundred men and women.

  During its brief twelve years of existence it had become a byword for opulence and elegance, a synonym for hedonism and dissipation.

  Its fame quickly spread throughout the worlds of the Republic, and while its Sybaritic luxuries and even its air of exclusivity were often imitated, they were never equalled.

  The Velvet Comet, after more than three decades of gestation, had been born in space, and less than a century after its birth it would die in space, mourned by few and forgotten by most. But in the meantime, it did its living with a grace and style that would not be seen again for many millennia.

  It was the crown jewel in the Syndicate's Entertainment and Leisure Division, a showplace where the rich and the famous—and occasionally the notorious—gathered to see and be seen, to conspicuously consume, and to revel in pleasures which were designed to satisfy even the most jaded of tastes. For while the Velvet Comet housed a compendium of the finest shops and boutiques, of gourmet restaurants and elegant lounges, while it boasted a fabulous casino and a score of other entertainments, it was first and foremost a brothel.

  And it was the brothel, and the promises of secret delights that it proffered, that enticed its select clientele out to the Comet. They came at first by the dozens, then the hundreds, and eventually from both nearby and distant worlds.

  Money was no object to these men and women; they came to play, and to relax, and to indulge.

  All except one man. His name was Harry Redwine, and he had come to do a job.

  Chapter 1

  “Activate.”

  Whiskey glass in hand, Harry Redwine leaned back in his fur-covered contour chair and watched the holographic screen flicker to life.

  “Main memory bank, please.”

  The screen remained blank. Redwine sipped his drink, stared at it for a moment, then spoke again.

  “Financial data bank, please.”

  There was no reaction, which didn't surprise him.

  “This is Harry Redwine, Company Identification Number 00345, code name Fixer. Scan me, check out my retina identification pattern, and bring up the main memory bank, please.”

  This time there was a reaction, and it did surprise him. Six life-sized nude bodies—three male and three female—suddenly appeared in the holographic field and happily began enacting every sexual combination and permutation that had yet been devised.

  “Cancel.”

  The screen went blank, and Redwine poured himself another drink.

  “Okay, we'll try again. Activate.”

  The screen came to life.

  “This is Harry Redwine, I.D. 00345, code name Fixer. Please tell me what procedure is required to bring up, the financial data bank.”

  This time a single nude woman popped into existence, lips and legs both slightly parted. She ran her left hand through her long, flowing hair, then down over her breasts and belly, and kept going.

  “Cancel,” said Redwine.

  The woman vanished.

  Three more attempts to bring up anything other than erotic images were unsuccessful, and finally he awarded the first round to the machine.

  “Intercom.”

  A young woman's face appeared almost instantly.

  “Yes, Mr. Redwine? How may I help you?”

  “I have been trying, without much success, to get something besides pornography on the screen for the better part of ten minutes.”

  “If you will turn to Channel Z, you will find a complete listing of our holographic and video services,” she said smoothly.

  “Perhaps I expressed myself poorly,” replied Redwine. “I don't want your stock quotations or your newspaper or your morning line either.”

  “Channel Q is an open channel. If you desire any particular stage play, opera, sporting event, or cinema that is not in our current listing, I will be happy to see if we have it in our library and patch it through to you.”

  Redwine shook his head. “I need to tie in to the ship's main computer.”

  “I'm afraid that's off-limits to our guests, Mr. Redwine.”

  “I don't doubt it,” said Redwine patiently. “But I'm not a guest.”

  “I'm sorry, but I find you listed as a guest.”

  Redwine looked mildly amused. “Come off it. You know who I am, and you know what brought me here.”

  “I just came on duty five minutes ago, Mr. Redwine,” she said with impressive innocence. “However, I'll be happy to look into the situation if you desire.”

  “Your loyalty is admirable, but misdirected,” replied Redwine. “Sooner or later you people are going to have to cooperate with me. In the meantime, I'm drinking valuable liquor and taking up a valuable suite, neither of which bothers me half as much as it ought to bother you.”

  “I'm so glad you've already found the liquor,” she said sweetly. “We always provide a bottle of a fine Deluros blend for our guests.”

  “Found it?” he repeated sardonically. “I practically fell over it when I opened the door.”

  “I hope you didn't hurt yourself. As for your other problem, I'll do what I can, Mr. Redwine,” said the woman, showing no sign of tension or irritation. “In the meantime, I will append a list of auxiliary entertainments to our standard listing on Channel Z.” She broke the connection.

  Redwine, who had expected no more initial help than he had thus far received, finished his drink, left the parlor, and walked through the bedroom to the bathroom. He hesitated briefly until the sensor in the low-hanging chandelier registered the heat and motion of his body and illuminated the room, then stepped carefully around the oversized sunken marble tub and stopped in front of the sink. He held his hands under the water tap, muttered “Cold,” waited for the water to come rushing out, and rinsed his face off. Then he returned to the parlor, poured himself another drink, and picked up one of the books he had brought with him. He considered going to the bedroom and stretching out on the huge circular bed, but decided that the mirrored ceiling would prove too distracting, so he sat once again on the contour chair and began reading.

  He found that he had trouble concentrating, even without being able to see the ceiling. Visions of the holographic display kept racing through his mind: pie charts suddenly resembled breasts, tall columns of numbers seemed strikingly phallic, and he realized after fifteen minutes had passed that he couldn't remember a single thing he had read.

  Finally he put the book aside, picked up his computerized room card, and dec
ided to see what it could do besides unlock the door. He placed his thumb on a colored square, and an elegant fireplace, aglow with a roaring though heatless fire, suddenly materialized.

  He pressed a second square and found his chair tingling pleasantly, then touched a third and set the entire room to rocking gently. He got to his feet and checked out the other squares which, alone or in combination, started water flowing in the whirlpool, activated the sauna, dimmed the lights, filled the suite with a pleasantly musky odor, piped in a strikingly erotic symphony, dilated the door to a closet he had not previously noticed, and slid back a section of the wall to reveal a fully-stocked wet bar.

  When he had finally seen all the features that the suite had to offer, he went over the card again, restored the rooms to their original condition, sat down, and tried once more to focus his attention on his book. He was more successful this time, and wasn't even aware that he was no longer alone until he heard the door slide back into the wall.

  Startled, he looked up and found himself staring at a striking brunette. Her hair was piled high in the haute couture fashion of the day, and she wore a diaphanous purple gown that had never been intended to hide the exquisite body that lay beneath it. Her cheekbones were high, her nose small, her lips full, her pale blue eyes slightly tilted and oddly catlike.

  Redwine estimated her age at eighteen or nineteen.

  He also guessed that she had packed one hell of a lot of living into those years. She looked like the suite: elegant and expensive, and just a bit overwhelming.

  He suddenly found himself wondering if the two went together.

  “I didn't know anyone carried books around anymore,” she said at last, and he noticed as she approached him that she possessed a supple feline grace that went with her eyes.

  “I'm old-fashioned,” replied Redwine.

  “It's so much easier to read a screen.”

  “It's easier to read this screen, that's for sure,” he said ironically. “By the way, I'm Harry Redwine.”

  “My name is Suma.”

  “Do you come with the room?”

  “Occasionally.”

  He had the feeling she was laughing at him. “But not today?” he asked.

  “I thought you came here to work, Mr. Redwine,” said Suma, arching a perfect eyebrow.

  “That's what I thought too, but I'm having a little difficulty gaining access to the material I need.”

  “I know.”

  "Everybody knows,” said Redwine wryly. “But nobody seems to want to do anything about it.”

  “You mustn't feel persecuted, Mr. Redwine,” said Suma. “I'm here to help.”

  “Can you patch me in to your financial data bank?”

  “I can take you to someone who can.”

  “Good,” he said walking to a closet. “Open,” he commanded. The door dilated and he reached in and withdrew a briefcase.

  “I hope you haven't been waiting long,” said Suma.

  “A couple of hours.” He opened the case, quickly checked its contents, and then closed and locked it.

  “Is your suite satisfactory?”

  “It's a fabulous suite of rooms, but I can't work here.”

  “But this is one of our finest facilities. It's close to the restaurants and the casino and —”

  “I'll be happy to spend my nights here, but there are just too many distractions. I'll need a plain little office with a chair, a computer terminal, and a steady supply of coffee.”

  “I don't know why you can't do your work here,” said Suma. “I find these rooms charming.”

  “May I suggest that your job specifications are likely to be just a bit different from mine?”

  Suma stared at him, and for just an instant her mask of elegant sophistication slipped and Redwine thought he could glimpse a predator lurking beneath.

  He wondered what she would be like ten or fifteen years up the road, when she had better control of the mask, and decided that the only word for her would be formidable. Then the instant passed, and she smiled.

  “We'll certainly endeavor to provide you with what you need, Mr. Redwine.”

  “Thank you.”

  “That's a very interesting pin you're wearing,” she noted. “Does it mean anything?”

  Redwine looked down at his jerkin and adjusted the small gold pin. “It means I won't get arrested for impersonating an accountant.”

  “How very amusing. Shall we go, Mr. Redwine?”

  “Lead the way,” he replied, following her out into the long corridor that led past some forty doors on the way to the elevator banks. “And call me Harry.”

  “If you wish, Mr. Redwine.”

  He smiled and chose to ignore the remark. “You know,” he said, changing the subject as they continued walking, “this is the first spaceship I've ever seen that had bas-reliefs on the corridor walls.”

  “We prefer to think of ourselves as an orbiting resort rather than a spaceship.”

  “Well, resort's as good a name as any,” he said with a shrug.

  They reached the open area in front of the elevators.

  “Nice frescos, too,” he said, looking at the ceiling.

  “We like them.”

  “Are they all pornographic?”

  “They are all artistic," she replied.

  The elevator arrived, and a smartly-tailored elderly woman got off, nodded pleasantly to them, and began walking down the corridor.

  “A customer?” asked Redwine, watching her until she vanished around a corner.

  “One of our best,” said Suma, entering the elevator.

  “And we prefer to call them patrons.”

  “I suppose it's better than Johns and Janes,” he remarked, stepping in after her.

  The elevator ascended three levels, then let them off in a large, opulent foyer decorated by muted tapestries and furnished with antique chairs and sofas from a period when the French were more concerned with making love than losing wars. A number of people, their clothes running the gamut from expensively casual to expensively formal, sat or stood in small clusters, conversing in low voices about topics ranging from business to politics to the selection of one of the Comet's restaurants. Suma wended her way among them, finally passing through an archway into a truly opulent lounge. There was a long, polished bar made of a wood that Redwine couldn't identify, a number of small marble-topped tables at which people were eagerly consuming everything from dainty pastries to exotic coffees to triple-strength drinks, and stationed in one corner, partially hidden by a fountain, was a quartet of musicians in formal dress.

  They went through the lounge, passed a pair of restaurants—one a formal candle-lit affair featuring crisp linen tablecloths, fine china and silver, and servants dressed in powdered wigs and Revolutionary America costumes, the other a huge silk tent in which the customers sat or reclined on large cushions and ate off a very low table—skirted the casino, and came at last to an ornate door.

  “We're here,” announced Suma.

  “Good,” said Redwine. “For a while there I thought we were in training for a marathon.”

  “That's not the kind of marathon we run here, Mr. Redwine.”

  She waited for the door to slide open, gestured to him to step through it, then followed him inside as the door closed behind them.

  At first Redwine couldn't decide whether he was in an office or just another sumptuous suite. There were two couches facing each other across an angular chrome table, a strikingly original metal lounge chair made of some incredibly reflective substance, a massive wet bar, and a fruitwood secretary. Then he saw a number of small lights flash and realized that the secretary was actually a computer in an elegant cabinet.

  The plain, wheat-colored carpet was not as thick as some of the others he had seen, but it looked more expensive, as did the objets d'art that were discreetly displayed around the room. An alien musical instrument resembling a harp was in one corner of the room, and a pair of chairs framed an ancient and priceless chess tabl
e in another.

  Redwine walked over to the chess table and examined the carefully-crafted inlays, the beautiful unity of design, the exquisitely-carved legs.

  “What do you think of it?” asked a low voice.

  “It's stunning,” he replied. Then he suddenly realized that he was not speaking to Suma, and he turned around and found himself facing a tall, auburn-haired woman.

  She wore a low-cut jumpsuit made of some iridescent blue-green lizard skin. It fit like a second skin, and the millions of tiny scales dazzlingly reflected the light of the room. Her only other items of apparel were long leather gloves and a pair of calf-high boots that possessed spiked heels. She wore no jewelry except for a pair of delicate wire earrings that sounded like tiny chimes when she moved her head.

  She used very little makeup, nor did she require much. Her green eyes appraised him frankly, and finally she extended her hand. He took it, and was surprised by the strength of her grip.

  “You're Harry Redwine?” she asked.

  “Right. And you are...?”

  “You know perfectly well who I am, Mr. Redwine.”

  “True,” he admitted. “But I'm not quite sure what to call you. The only name I could get from our comptroller was the Leather Madonna.”

  “Well, then you do know what to call me after all, don't you?”

  Redwine saw a grin of amusement spread across Suma's face, and decided to change the subject. “Where did you find the table?” he asked.

  “On a colony world near the Spica system,” she replied, absently stroking the polished wood. “I spent seven years looking for something of that quality.”

  “Where are the pieces?”

  “There aren't any.”

  “A chess table with no pieces?” he said with a smile.

  “When I find a set that's worthy of the table, I'll buy it.”

  “What do you use in the meantime?”

  She raised her head and met his gaze. “I don't play chess, Mr. Redwine.”

  “Strictly a collector, eh?”

  “No,” she responded. “I just don't play games that I can't win.”