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

  The main walkway of the Mall was some eighty feet wide, with a sixty-foot strip of polished parquet flooring separating the two slidewalks that ran in front of the stores. At first Redwine thought the stores weren't doing much business, but then he realized that the sheer size of the Mall tended to make it seem far less crowded than it was. Once he began concentrating on the shoppers, he was surprised to find that there were well over two hundred of them within his field of vision, riding the slidewalks, walking across the parquet floor from one side to the other, or browsing at various windows.

  The shoppers were grouped in twos and threes, with one party of eight particularly catching his attention simply by virtue of its size. From this distance he was unable to see the discreet little badges that identified the Comet's personnel, and found to his surprise that he was frequently unable to distinguish client from employee. A few were dressed formally—the women in gowns, the men in the pleated tunic tops and dark pants that had become so popular on Earth and Deluros—but most of them wore stylish leisure clothes, some very exotic, some less so. Here and there he could spot a woman in a particularly revealing dress or costume, but based on his brief observations in the Comet's casino and restaurants he wasn't sure whether they were prostitutes or patrons.

  A juggler in mime's makeup suddenly walked out into the center of the floor about a quarter-mile from the Resort and began putting on a truly remarkable display of expertise. He drew a crowd of perhaps twenty people, but most of them, after watching for a moment, applauded politely and went back to the slidewalks to continue their tour of the shops.

  “Does he work for you?” asked Redwine.

  “The juggler? He's one of the technicians. He just likes to entertain the patrons during his free time.”

  They stepped onto the slidewalk.

  “Fascinating place,” he said.

  “Didn't you pass through it when you arrived?”

  He shook his head. “They put me on some kind of tramway system. I assume it runs beneath the Mall.”

  “That's right.”

  “VIP treatment?” he asked.

  She laughed. "Employee treatment. They knew you worked for the Vainmill Syndicate. We like our VIPs to have a chance to spend their money at the shops.”

  “Chardon of Belore, The Ice Crystal, DeLong's,” he read as they passed a trio of boutiques. “It looks like the lobby of the Royal Hotel back on Deluros.”

  “You might try thinking of the Velvet Comet as an exclusive resort that provides a number of luxuries, including sexual assignations, rather than as simply a brothel,” commented the Leather Madonna. “After all, our clientele can certainly purchase any sort of sexual partners they want without going to the trouble of coming out here. We have to offer them a total experience.”

  “Makes sense,” agreed Redwine.

  “You wouldn't believe how hard I had to fight the Vainmill Syndicate before they saw the sense of it.”

  “The shops are new, then?” he asked.

  “The shops, the quality of the restaurants, the headline entertainers in the nightclub, even some of the fantasy rooms,” she answered. “They've all been installed over the past six years, always after initial opposition—and they've all turned a profit.” She turned to him suddenly. “I made the Comet what it is, Mr. Redwine,” she said passionately, “and no one is going to take it away from me.”

  “Nobody's trying to.”

  “Then why are you here to appraise the operation?” she demanded.

  He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe I can spot a way for you to make a little more money.”

  Her expression said that she wasn't satisfied with his answer, but she decided to accept it for the moment, and Redwine went back to surveying the stores and shops.

  “Sovereign & Crown,” he said, gesturing to an office on the far side of the bar. “Isn't that a brokerage house?”

  “Yes.”

  He looked puzzled. “All the suites have computers. Why the hell should a bright outfit like Sovereign's think they could do any business up here?”

  Suddenly two men walked out of the office and took the slidewalk back to the reception foyer.

  “A bright outfit like Sovereign's thought our clientele would like the human touch of conversing with a live broker,” said the Leather Madonna. “Evidently they were right.”

  Redwine shrugged. “That just goes to show how much an accountant knows,” he said self-deprecatingly.

  The Leather Madonna turned to face him. “I want to apologize for flaring up at you a minute ago,” she said.

  “It's already forgotten.”

  “No,” she insisted. “I'm sure coming here wasn't your idea. I was rude and ill-mannered. I promise that it won't happen again.”

  He smiled. “You're about to embarrass me, which is something even the so-called entertainments I saw on the holoscreen last night couldn't do.”

  She laughed. “All right, Mr. Redwine. The subject is closed.”

  “If you really want to make peace,” he said, “why not start calling me Harry?”

  “Harry it is.”

  “By the way, your comment about Sovereign's brings up an interesting question,” he said, stepping aside to allow a middle-aged man who seemed in a hurry to pass him.

  “Yes?”

  “I notice that about every sixth or seventh shop has somebody working in it. Isn't that unusual?”

  “Certainly—but our patrons can afford it, and they like the personal touch of dealing with people rather than machines. Also, the nature of the stores demands it. Whoever heard of a computer acting as a custom tailor? Usually one employee services half a dozen clustered shops. If you require personal service, simply announce it when you enter and someone will be with you as quickly as possible.”

  They rode in silence past a pair of lingerie shops, (one expensive and tasteful, one expensive and wildly exotic), a hair styling salon, a very discreet shop that sold very discreet sexual aids, a florist with the too-cute sobriquet of The Blooming Idiot, a dealer in alien art objects, a store that seemed to deal exclusively in fur wraps and feathered boas, and a jeweler of galactic renown.

  “I think I've seen enough,” remarked Redwine, stepping off the slidewalk and onto the polished parquet floor.

  “Is something wrong?” asked the Leather Madonna.

  “No,” he said. “But I'm supposed to be inspecting the premises, not window-shopping. I don't imagine the ambience changes much in the next mile.”

  “No, it doesn't,” she agreed. “But there's something that I want you to see.”

  “Oh?” he said, as she took his hand and gently pulled him back onto the slidewalk. “What is it?”

  “That would be telling.”

  “Well, what the hell,” he said. “I had planned to do a little shopping anyway.”

  “I gather you have a little more to spend than you did yesterday,” she noted. “Or so the Duke tells me.”

  “The Duke?".

  “Our pit boss. He says that you have a very complicated wagering system.”

  He chuckled. "Very complicated. I watch the roulette table until red comes up five times in a row, and then I bet on black.”

  “Very effective," she replied. “Or at least it was last night.”

  “That's because I know enough to quit when I'm ahead.” He flashed her a grin. “The soul of an accountant.”

  “What made you become an accountant?” she asked as they barely avoided colliding with an elderly woman who was emerging from a jewelry shop.

  “It took less work than being a lawyer.”

  “That hardly sounds like a man who is passionately dedicated to his work,” said the Madonna.

  “I'm passionately dedicated to paying my bills. Accounting is the best way I know how.”

  “Is there much challenge to it?”

  “Some,” he replied. “Not much.” He paused. “I trust you're noticing the tact with which I have avoided asking you the very same questions.”

&
nbsp; “It must be quite a strain.”

  “It is,” he confessed.

  She laughed. “Some evening we'll sit down with a couple of drinks and I'll tell you all about it.”

  “I'm sure it'll make better listening than the story of my career.”

  “We'll see,” she promised. Then she looked ahead of her. “Ah! We're almost there.”

  They stepped off a moment later, and she led him to an elegant little antique shop that displayed an ancient spinet in its window.

  “Another chess table?” he asked, following her inside.

  “No. There's only one of those.”

  “Then what?”

  “Come along,” she said. “You'll see.”

  They went to the back of the shop, and suddenly Redwine found himself confronting a huge bookcase, filled from top to bottom with leather-bound volumes from Earth itself.

  He stepped forward and reached out gingerly. “May I?” he asked.

  The Leather Madonna nodded. “Of course.

  They're what I brought you here to see.”

  He pulled out a copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets and began turning the pages very carefully.

  “I got the impression from Suma that she'd never seen a book aboard the Comet," he remarked.

  “Suma has probably never made it past the dress shops,” said the Madonna. “But when she mentioned to me that you had brought some books along with you, I knew that I had to take you here.”

  “Do you collect books too?” he asked her, replacing the volume and withdrawing another.

  “Let's say that I prefer them.”

  “I'm not quite sure of the difference,” said Redwine.

  “I like the feel of a book in my hands,” explained the Madonna. “However, since books are very expensive and I can call up anything I need from the computer's library, I don't actually own very many. But I come here and borrow them quite frequently.”

  “I'm surprised the owner allows them out of his sight,” said Redwine.

  “The owner only gets up here once every two or three weeks.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “He's a very nice man,” she said. “I arrange for him to use our facilities on occasion, and he lets me borrow books and keeps an eye out for certain antiques that I want. It's one of the perks that go with the job. With both our jobs, for that matter.”

  “Sounds like an equitable arrangement,” remarked Redwine. “Who's your favorite author?”

  “Tanblixt.”

  “I've never heard of him. Or is it a her?”

  “I doubt that even Tanblixt knows,” she said, amused.

  “An alien?"

  She nodded. “The poet laureate of Canphor VI.”

  “What does he/she/it write?”

  “The most passionate and lyrical poetry I've ever read.”

  “Sexless love poems?” he said dubiously.

  “Your provincialism is showing, Harry,” she said.

  “Perhaps I'll loan you a copy.”

  “I'd appreciate it. I don't suppose they have any here?” he said, indicating the rows of books.

  She shook her head. “These are all human authors.”

  He went back to examining the books, finally withdrew a copy of Dante's Inferno that contained replications of the Gustave Doré engravings, took it up to the front of the store, and had the computer withdraw the purchase price from his home account. He then laid it very gently on a wrapping machine, waited a few seconds for the mechanism to encase it in colorful plastic and affix a satin bow at one corner, and then joined the Leather Madonna, who was waiting at the door for him.

  “Pleased with your purchase?” she asked him.

  “Very. I've been after a copy for maybe six or seven years.”

  “How many books do you have, Harry?”

  “Oh, maybe five hundred,” he said. “But fine volumes in fine bindings? Very few. That store's a treasure chest.”

  “I guess I know where you're going to be spending your spare time,” said the Madonna.

  “Only as a browser. I think one of these every couple of weeks is about all my budget can stand.”

  “I find it odd that an accountant should be so interested in the classics.”

  “I find it equally odd that a madam should be so interested in love poems.”

  “There's a lot of difference between sex and love.”

  “I suppose there is at that,” he conceded.

  She began walking across the parquet floor toward the return slidewalk, skirting two men and three women who were standing and talking midway between the slidewalks, and he fell into step behind her, studying the curve of her hips and the firmness of her buttocks and concluding that she probably still had what it took to entice a customer if the need arose.

  “That large structure down toward the other end of the Mall—toward the Home,” he said, pointing.

  “Is that where the most of the ships dock?”

  She nodded. “That's the main airlock.”

  “They really do have to exercise sales resistance on the way to the Resort, don't they?”

  “And on their way back out,” she added.

  “And what's on the other side of the airlock?”

  “Storage rooms, food freezers, laundry facilities, a small hospital, things of that nature.”

  “A hospital?” he repeated, surprised. “Just how many sick people are there around here?”

  “Very few. But given the nature of our clientele, if they should become ill they require the finest medical care available until they can be moved.”

  “By the way,” he said, as the Leather Madonna nodded a friendly greeting to a nearby couple, “I thought I saw a shuttlecraft leaving the Comet as I was approaching yesterday. I assume you use it to transport patrons from Charlemagne?”

  “That's right—though Charlemagne provides us with no more than fifteen percent of our business these days. If we could install some form of FTL motive power in the Comet, so that we weren't stuck in orbit around Charlemagne, I think we could encourage a real bidding war for our services.” She watched him out of the corner of her eye for a reaction.

  “Deluros to the contrary, most Republic worlds would pay through the nose if we'd agree to take up orbit around them.”

  “It's a thought,” he said noncommittally.

  “If the Syndicate would spring loose the money to take us away from Charlemagne, it would be more than a thought,” she persisted. “It would be a very profitable reality.”

  He smiled. “I don't know how much clout you think I've got, but I have a feeling you're overestimating it.”

  “I guess so,” she said. “Anyway, it would work,” she concluded stubbornly.

  “Probably.” He stepped off the slidewalk.

  “What's the matter?” she asked, following him.

  “ I just want to stop here for a minute,” he said, entering a surprisingly crowded tobacco shop. “I'm running short of cigars.”

  He made his purchase while she remained outside, then rejoined her.

  “I may go broke before the tour is over,” he remarked, transferring the cigar box to the same hand that was holding the book.

  “It's a nasty habit anyway,” she commented as they once again got on the sidewalk.

  “It's nasty habits that keep most people in business.”

  “Then how fortunate it is for me that there are so many people like you,” she said with a smile.

  He laughed and they fell to discussing books again until he saw an elderly couple going into a furrier that specialized in the skins of alien animals.

  “Which one of them is the prostitute?” he asked, genuinely puzzled.

  “Neither,” answered the Madonna. “They're a married couple from one of the Capellan colonies. I think they made their money in mining. Anyway, they come here once every three months, shop their way up to the reception foyer, part company for a week, and then shop their way back to their ship.” She looked fondly at them through the
display window, and smiled when the man waved to her. “I think they're adorable.”

  “Unusual, anyway,” said Redwine.

  They rode the short distance to the ornate reception foyer, which was relatively uncrowded. Two men and five women, none of them employees, sat in large, comfortable leather chairs, reading the latest stock quotations from the main Republic markets on a number of small computer screens, and a handful of other patrons and prostitutes sat in pairs, conversing quietly.

  “How do you spot gate-crashers when this place is packed?” asked Redwine.

  “They never get this far,” replied the Leather Madonna.

  “Except for the casino, all the financial arrangements are taken care of before our patrons arrive.

  Once the payment has been transferred to our account, each patron is given a code number, and he can't get through the airlock until our security crew clears him.”

  “Seems like a waste of manpower,” commented Redwine. “Couldn't a computer check them out just as easily?”

  “Yes—but a computer couldn't stop them from entering without sealing off the entrance and causing serious inconvenience to any legitimate patrons who happen to be in the airlock at the same time. Why chance offending a good customer by forcing him to remain there against his will until the problem is solved?”

  “Yeah, I can see where that might ruffle a few overanxious feathers.”

  “Anyway, after a patron has been identified and approved, he or she comes to the reception area and is given a suite, just as you were, and if any arrangements were made in advance, a preselected companion is waiting in the bedroom.”

  “Is that standard—reserving a companion before arriving?”

  She shrugged. “It varies. Some of our more popular employees, such as Suma and the Gemini Twins and a few others, are frequently booked four and five months in advance.”

  “The Gemini Twins?” he repeated. “I heard you refer to them yesterday. I keep picturing a pair of gorgeous young blondes decked out in very revealing togas.”

  The Leather Madonna laughed. “The Gemini Twins are a pair of young men who have been surgically altered to appear identical. They work only as a team.”

  “Are there many requests for multiple companions?”