Eros Descending: Book 3 of Tales of the Velvet Comet Read online

  “Perhaps,” said Simon. “But I still think you should stay here.” He paused uneasily.

  “Yes?” said Gold.

  “It means so much to me that I will volunteer to go in your place.”

  "No!" exploded Gold.

  “But —”

  “Nobody's keeping me away from them!” snapped Gold furiously. “Not you, not your mother, not anyone!”

  “Them?” repeated Simon, puzzled. “What are you talking about?”

  Gold blinked his eyes very rapidly for a moment, as if he were as confused as his son.

  “Them?” he repeated. “I meant him, of course. Nobody is keeping me away from Kozinsky,” he concluded lamely.

  Simon stared at him. “It's the faeries, isn't it?” he said suddenly.

  “I don't know what you mean,” said Gold uneasily. “We're talking about Vladimir Kozinsky.”

  “No,” said Simon decisively. “We're talking about the faeries.”

  “You may be,” said Gold, trying to hide the sudden panic that gripped him. “I'm not.” Not my son, Lord, he prayed silently; Dear God, please don't let my son find out!

  “You're planning to smuggle them off the Comet!” exclaimed Simon. “You're just using Kozinsky as a subterfuge!”

  “I'm going up there to give the Final Blessing to a dying man,” said Gold.

  “I'm not the enemy,” said Simon in pained tones. “You can confide in me.”

  “All right,” said Gold, grasping at the straw Simon had unwittingly offered him. “The thought of taking the faeries off the ship has crossed my mind.”

  “I should have guessed!” said Simon. “What other reason could you possibly have for wanting to go up there?”

  “None,” agreed Gold. He noticed that his hands were starting to shake, and he thrust them into his pockets. Let him believe it, Lord!

  “You'll never get away with it,” said Simon.

  “I think I will,” said Gold. He tried to force a confident smile to his lips, found that he couldn't manage it, and settled for staring defiantly at his son.

  Simon shook his head. “You've already described their security system to me. You certainly can't sneak them off without anyone knowing.”

  “There are other ways,” said Gold, his mind racing to create a believable plan of action.

  “You don't even know for a fact that they'll be willing to come with you,” continued Simon. “After all, you'll look like just another customer to them.”

  Gold stared at his son, unable to come up with even a mildly acceptable answer.

  “And even if they did,” persisted Simon, “you've still got to get them through the airlock, and onto a ship or a shuttle.” He sighed heavily. “I don't think you've got the ghost of a chance. I've got a feeling that their Security team will be watching every move you make.”

  Simon continued analyzing the situation, coming up with more and more reasons why his father's nonexistent plan was doomed to failure, and Gold began to relax as Simon moved further and further from his real reason for going up the Comet.

  Thank you, God. I'm a moral man, and I have the strength to subdue this evil within me—but not if I had to face the condemnation in his eyes.

  “The odds are a thousand to one against it,” concluded Simon some five minutes later. “And even if you could succeed in removing them from the ship, they might be of more use to us right where they are, where we can keep their plight in the public eye.”

  “You're right,” said Gold, with an sense of infinite relief. “It was a bad idea.”

  “Then whom shall we send to the Comet?”

  “I'll go. I may have been wrong about helping the Andricans to escape, but there's one thing I was right about: I can't in good conscience send anyone else up there.”

  “You're sure?” asked Simon.

  “I am.” He looked directly at his son. “Unless you'd like to continue arguing the point?”

  “No,” said Simon with a sigh of resignation.

  “'Good.”

  Gold stared at his son for a moment, then ordered his computer to contact Richard Constantine. An hour later he was en route to the Velvet Comet, his mind dwelling upon his own personal demons rather than those that might be lusting for Vladimir Kozinsky's confused and darkened soul.

  Chapter 8

  “Where are we?” asked Gold, surveying the wide, dimly lit corridor that seemed to stretch to infinity in both directions.

  “In the service area beneath the Mall,” replied the Steel Butterfly. “This is where the Comet's supplies are delivered. In fact, they kept the racehorses down here.”

  “It must have been a different area,” said Gold. “This doesn't look at all familiar.” He paused. “What's that noise I hear overhead?”

  “The tramway.”

  “I don't remember any tramway,” said Gold. “Did you remove it for the race?”

  “It's on a different level.” She smiled. “Besides, you were on public display. We had orders to walk you everywhere.”

  “Then why aren't we riding it now?”

  “Because this time I have instructions not to let anyone see you. Patrons occasionally take the tramway from the Resort to the airlock; they never come down here.”

  “By the way,” said Gold stiffly as they walked past rows of neatly stacked, unopened cargo crates, “I hope you will believe me when I tell you that I have never met Vladimir Kozinsky, was completely unaware of his intentions, and would have done everything in my power to prevent him had I known of them.”

  “Of course I believe you,” said the Steel Butterfly.

  “We may be on opposite sides of the fence, but I've never thought of you as a man who would condone murder.”

  He frowned. “I wish Vladimir Kozinsky had held that same opinion,” he said grimly.

  “I don't think he really intended to kill anyone,” she replied.

  “I was told that he tried to smuggle a bomb onto the ship.” He looked sharply at her. “Did he or didn't he?”

  “Oh, there's no question that he tried to bring the bomb aboard the Comet,” said the Steel Butterfly “I can show it to you later, if you like. But I don't think he planned to detonate it.”

  “Why would someone bring a bomb up here and not detonate it?” asked Gold.

  “Attila—our Chief of Security—believes that he merely planned to threaten to blow it up unless we gave him what he wanted.”

  “What did he want?”

  “Didn't Richard Constantine tell you?” she asked, surprised.

  “No one has told me very much of anything. All I know is that he tried to smuggle a bomb aboard the ship, and that he was mortally wounded in the ensuing struggle. And that he has been asking for me, of course,” he added as an afterthought.

  “He wanted us to release the faeries from their contract and send them home.” She turned to him. “I know that you didn't mean to encourage this sort of action, but I must point out that he wouldn't even have known the faeries existed if it hadn't been for your sermons.”

  “Vainmill doesn't have a monopoly on stupidity or madness,” replied Gold. “There are a lot of Vladimir Kozinskys in the universe.” He paused. “But that doesn't mean I must stop confronting evil when I see it.”

  “Perhaps not—but if you hadn't confronted it so vigorously in this instance, Vladimir Kozinsky would be contentedly designing tools on Declan IV right at this minute. And as for Titania and Oberon,” she continued, “they can't understand why anyone would think they aren't having the time of their lives up here.”

  “They know they were the reason he came up here?”

  “Of course,” replied the Steel Butterfly, walking forward once again. “If someone had tried to kidnap me, I'd want to know about it.”

  “What Kozinsky was trying to do was wrong, but I'd hardly call it kidnapping,” said Gold.

  “If you can think of a better word, I'll be happy to use it.”

  “How about liberating?”

  “Wh
y don't you ask the faeries if forcing them to leave here against their will qualifies as liberation?” she suggested.

  “Perhaps I will,” he replied, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Where are they?”

  “They'll be stopping by the hospital a little later,” said the Steel Butterfly. “They want to see you.”

  “They do?” he said, startled. “Why?”

  “Before your broadcast they were just curiosities, albeit very popular ones. Now they're celebrities. I have the distinct impression that they'd like to thank you.”

  “To thank me?”

  She nodded. “They're very human in many respects—and everybody likes being famous. Even you, Doctor Gold.”

  He stared at her but made no comment.

  They reached the hospital's storage areas, and took the freight elevator to the main level. As they emerged Gold found himself in a luxurious reception foyer, filled with chairs and couches that would have seemed more appropriate in the brothel. The floors and walls were spotless, the metal chairs were polished and shining, and the reception desk brilliantly reflected the overhead lighting. A holographic map that was suspended in the air just to the left of the desk gave directions to the handful of private rooms, the low-gravity ward for heart patients, and the physical therapy rooms. There were certain areas on the map that were merely marked as being off limits to visitors, and he assumed that these were the operating theater and drug storage rooms.

  “Impressive,” admitted Gold as they passed through the foyer and entered a well-lit corridor.

  “Thank you,” said the Steel Butterfly. “We're quite proud of it.” She signaled a door to open. “Here we are.”

  Gold followed her into the room.

  Vladimir Kozinsky, a small, portly man in his mid-forties, lay on his back on an air-bed, his eyes closed, his breathing harsh and sporadic. He was entwined in a maze of tubes, all of which led into a network of life-support equipment. There were tubes running into his arms, into his left thigh, into his neck, into his nostrils. His hands and feet were secured to restrain him from moving and dislodging any of the apparatus that was extending his life from one moment to the next. His torso was swathed in pressure bandages, but Gold noticed that they were starting to stain with Kozinsky's blood.

  There were three large machines on the far side of the bed, each with a multitude of screens displaying complex readouts that changed constantly and were totally incomprehensible to Gold.

  “They subdued him, and when he managed to get his hands on one of their weapons in the struggle, they shot him,” explained the Steel Butterfly. She stared at him. “What would you have done?”

  “The same, I suppose—but I wouldn't have shot him six more times for good measure.” He stared in fascination at the tubes and the stains. “I'm surprised that he's still alive.”

  “I'd feel a lot more compassion for him if he hadn't come up with a bomb,” remarked the Steel Butterfly.

  Gold bent over the dying man. “Vladimir Kozinsky!” he said in loud, clear tones. “Can you hear me?”

  Kozinsky opened his eyes.

  “Thomas Gold?” he whispered weakly.

  “I'm right here,” said Gold, laying a reassuring hand on the dying man's shoulder, then removing it quickly when he groaned at the touch.

  “Would you like me to leave?” asked the Steel Butterfly.

  “If you don't mind,” replied Gold.

  She walked to the door. “I'll be waiting for you in the lobby.”

  “How do I find it?”

  “Just turn right when you leave the room, and follow the corridor.”

  Gold nodded, then turned his attention back to Kozinsky as the Steel Butterfly stepped out into the hall and ordered the door to close behind her.

  “Is it really you?” asked Kozinsky. His eyelids flickered, but didn't open.

  “It really is,” said Gold, staring down at him. “How are you feeling?”

  “I feel weak, but nothing hurts.”

  “You're probably all drugged up.” He looked down at Kozinsky. “I'll be honest with you: they don't expect you to last out the day.”

  “I know,” rasped Kozinsky. “That's why I asked for you. I want you to give me the Final Blessing.”

  “That's what I'm here for,” said Gold. “But there's something I have to ask you first.”

  “What is it?” asked Kozinsky.

  “Was it my sermon that led you to try to smuggle the bomb onto the Comet?”

  Kozinsky nodded his head, then moaned in pain.

  “But why?” persisted Gold. “I never advocated violence.”

  “Somebody's got to draw the line somewhere. I've seen what Vainmill has done to aliens out in the Declan system. When I heard about the Andricans, I decided I had to do something about it.” He looked dismayed. “I thought that you, of all people, would understand and approve.”

  “You might have killed hundreds of men and women with that bomb,” said Gold. “How could I approve of that? What purpose would it have served?”

  Kozinsky coughed, then clutched his side and lay back, gasping for breath. Finally he spoke.

  “It would have taught those bastards at Vainmill a lesson. Maybe someone else would have been encouraged to go out and do the same to the new chairman.”

  Gold shook his head sadly. “Where does the Bible say that you have the right to take human life and administer punishment on God's behalf? Vengeance is the Lord's, not ours.”

  “But they're evil!” insisted Kozinsky. The effort left him gasping for breath again, and it was another half minute before he could continue. “You've been condemning them week in and week out! That's why I came to Deluros.”

  “I told my audience not to patronize any merchant who had a store in the Mall, or to buy any Vainmill product or use any Vainmill service,” answered Gold. “I never exhorted people to go out and kill Vainmill employees.”

  “It was implicit,” said Kozinsky doggedly. “You've always told us to confront evil wherever we find it.”

  “There's a difference between confronting evil and trying to take a human life,” said Gold. “You must understand that by doing so, you have placed your soul at risk.”

  “But I did it for you!” Kozinsky exclaimed in a barely audible whisper.

  “We live with the consequences of our actions,” said Gold. “And you must die with the consequences of yours. The Lord has no use for the unrepentant.”

  “I hope God judges you as harshly as you judge me!” muttered Kozinsky.

  “He will,” replied Gold with a grim certainty.

  “The Blessing!” whispered Kozinsky. “Please—while I can still hear it!”

  Gold nodded. “Have courage,” he said more gently. “God is not without compassion.”

  Kozinsky forced a smile to his lips, then lost consciousness.

  “May God, in His infinite wisdom, have mercy your soul,” said Gold without much optimism, “and forgive you your transgressions.”

  Then he lit a small candle he had brought with him, placed it on a nightstand, and recited the Final Blessing. Kozinsky was still alive—though just barely—when he had finished.

  He stood in silence for a few moments, still unable to comprehend why a Jesus Pure would come to the Comet with every intention of committing murder if he didn't get what he demanded. Then he remembered the faeries, and suddenly had considerably less difficulty understanding how decent men could fall from a state of Grace.

  He checked the screens on the monitoring apparatus, saw just enough fluctuation of lines and graphs to convince him that Kozinsky was still alive, and, pausing only to extinguish the candle, walked to the door, exited the room, and walked to the entry foyer.

  The Steel Butterfly was waiting for him there—and standing next to her were Titania and Oberon, their eyes wide and staring. Titania, a number of flowers carefully positioned in her silver hair, was clad in a brief and revealing outfit made of a glittering metallic fabric which gave her the appe
arance of some ethereal temptress straight out of Earth's mythology, while Oberon wore a toga of spun gold and resembled some half-human boy-god on Mount Olympus.

  “What are they doing here?” asked Gold, surprised.

  “I told you before: they want to meet the man who made them famous.”

  Titania opened her mouth to speak, and suddenly the room was flooded by a series of melodic trilling whistles.

  “You forgot them again,” said the Steel Butterfly with mock severity.

  Titania giggled and trilled something else in her native tongue.

  “I'm not going to spend the next half hour trying to figure out what you're saying,” replied the Steel Butterfly. “Oberon, run over to the Home and bring back your translating devices.” Oberon grinned, whistled something to Titania, and raced out the front door of the hospital. “Some of our customers find their language so fascinating that they actually request that they leave the translators behind,” continued the madam, shaking her head wearily. “I don't know how I'm ever going to get them to wear them regularly.”

  Gold was suddenly aware that his mouth had gone completely dry, and that he was sweating profusely.

  “Is there any water around here?” he rasped.

  “Titania, go fetch Doctor Gold a glass of water,” said the Steel Butterfly.

  “I'd rather get it myself,” said Gold quickly.

  “As you wish,” she replied with a shrug. “You'll find a lavatory right across the hall from Kozinsky's room.”

  Gold followed her directions, and a moment later was standing before a sink.

  “Cold,” he murmured, holding a handkerchief beneath the flow of water that followed. He wrung it out and began wiping his face.