Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet Page 4

  “Quite a few. Our customers are very sophisticated people with very sophisticated tastes, and by and large they're here for a unique experience—which we do our best to provide.”

  “I assume you charge proportionately more for extra bodies.”

  “Extra companions, Harry,” she corrected him with obviously mock severity. “Yes, we do.”

  “Do you get many requests for full-scale orgies?”

  “Of course. In fact, we have a specialty group that we call the Demolition Team.”

  He laughed. “That's a hell of a name for them.”

  “They received it from the Governor of Belore's granddaughter—and I might add that she coined it with a great deal of respect.”

  “I don't doubt it,” replied Redwine, amused. He paused to light a cigar. “Demolition Team, Gemini Twins, Duke, Madonna. Does anyone around here ever use their real name?”

  “Very rarely. Our customers seem to prefer it. It lends a certain air of mystery, a little touch of the exotic.”

  “And of course not knowing names makes it a lot harder for a patron to try to form a permanent relationship,” added Redwine.

  “Harry, I think you're a secret romantic,” said the Leather Madonna. “People don't come to a brothel to form permanent relationships.”

  “Nobody's ever tried to get one of your prostitutes to run off with him?” he persisted.

  “I take it that you haven't read our employment contract?”

  “I'll bet it's a beauty.”

  “The best.”

  “Getting back to your customers —”

  "Patrons," she corrected him.

  “Excuse me: patrons. What if they haven't made a prior arrangement?”

  “Then they go to their suites, and at such time as they feel like selecting a companion they instruct the computer to produce holographic displays of all of our available employees as well as a list of their interests.”

  “You mean their specialties?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “You're still thinking of this as some kind of planetbound meat shop, Harry. People come up here to unwind and relax, and sooner or later—usually sooner—they will want a personable partner as well as a passionate one. All of our employees are sexual professionals; the holographs inform our patrons of their other qualities.”

  “What happens when you get someone who finds pain stimulating?”

  "Everyone has unique needs,” responded the Leather Madonna, “whether it's a salt-free diet or regular medication or an interest in the more exotic sexual disciplines. We ask our customers to inform us of them when they make their reservations, so that we can be prepared for them.”

  “Ever get a sexual request you couldn't fulfill?” he asked, curious.

  “Infrequently.”

  “Such as?”

  “You really wouldn't want to know, Harry.”

  “No,” he admitted after a few seconds’ reflection. “I suppose I wouldn't.”

  She paused for a moment, then checked her belt buckle again, and announced that two of the fantasy rooms were now available for his inspection.

  “Up or down?” he asked, trying to remember the details of the map as he followed her to an elevator bank at the far end of the foyer.

  “The fantasy rooms and athletic facilities are on the upper decks, above the public rooms, and the suites are below them.”

  The elevator doors opened, and they quickly ascended to the Resort's highest level. They stepped out into a narrow, brightly lit corridor, and Redwine stepped aside hastily to avoid a huge, muscular young man and a petite blonde woman who were hurrying to catch the elevator.

  “Wasn't that Gamble DeWitt?” asked Redwine as the doors slid shut.

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  He shook his head. “I saw him fight once, on Spica VI, before he beat Nkimo for the title. It must have been, oh, seven or eight years ago. I think he retired about half a year back.”

  “Eight months,” said the Madonna.

  “Does he come here often?”

  “He works here.”

  “Under a pseudonym?”

  She smiled. “That would be rather silly in his case, wouldn't it?”

  “True enough,” agreed Redwine. “I would imagine they're lined up halfway to Deluros for his services.”

  “Not really,” said the Leather Madonna dryly.

  “There's a vast difference between blood sports and bedroom sports.”

  “Then there's hope for me yet,” he grinned.

  They walked down the corridor, turned to their right, and finally came to a halt before an oversized door.

  “Open,” commanded the Madonna. The door slid back into a wall and they stepped into the room.

  Redwine found himself on a flat outcropping of rock that overlooked a tropical lagoon. Opposite him was a small waterfall, and to his left was a glade of fruit-bearing trees. A number of brightly plumaged birds flew overhead, and off in the distance he could see what appeared to be a small, dormant volcano, its peak hidden behind a layer of mist. A pleasant breeze carried the scents of jasmine and honeysuckle.

  It was cooler and less humid than he would have anticipated from such a setting, and somehow he knew that the water would always be a perfect 68 degrees Fahrenheit. He turned to his right and saw a small thatched hut some fifty feet away. Next to it was a pair of coconut trees with a hammock strung up between them, and behind it a path climbed up a small hill to a lush tropical forest.

  “What do you think of it?” asked the Leather Madonna.

  He looked around for another moment before answering.

  “I'd like to retire to a place like this someday,” he said at last.

  “There are no places like this,” she replied gently. “A real tropical island is hot and muggy, and has about ten thousand hungry insects per cubic yard. Jasmine doesn't grow in that kind of climate, and the place is likely to smell of rotting fruit. That's why we call this a fantasy room.”

  “I take it that you're not much of a romantic,” he remarked wryly.

  “Only when I'm paid to be.”

  “I thought you were strictly an administrator,” said Redwine. “Do you still get out into the field, so to speak?”

  “I was being facetious, Harry.”

  “I wasn't.”

  She shrugged. “I still service an occasional special customer. Why?”

  “Just curious. Do you enjoy it?”

  She smiled. “I'll answer that when you can prove to me that it's essential to your work.”

  ''Touché!'’

  “Would you like to see the other room now?”

  “In a minute,” he said, walking to the edge of the outcropping and looking down into the lagoon. “How big is this room, anyway?”

  “I think the actual dimensions are something like ninety feet by two hundred.”

  “That small?”

  She nodded. “Most of what you see are holographic projections.”

  “What's real?”

  “The rock structure, part of the lagoon, some of the grass—though of course it's artificial, the hut and hammock, a few trees. The rest is illusion.”

  “It's one hell of an illusion, let me tell you.” He looked down into the lagoon, then over to the glade of fruit trees. “There's got to be a setting like this somewhere in the universe,” he said wistfully.

  “There is,” replied the Leather Madonna. “You're standing in it.”

  He turned to her with a sardonic grin on his face.

  “I may be a romantic who spends his life dealing with columns of numbers, but you're a professional paramour with the soul of an accountant.”

  “Maybe that's why we're getting along so well,” she laughed.

  “Maybe,” he agreed. He took one last lingering look, then turned and stepped back from the edge of the rock. “All right. I'm ready for the next illusion.”

  “The next one isn't an illusion,” she said, walking toward what appeared to be a tree and murmurin
g “Open.” The door slid back and they stepped out into the hall.

  “It's just next door,” she told him, walking about one hundred feet down the corridor and ordering the next door to open.

  Redwine followed her into a much smaller room, perhaps forty feet deep, thirty feet wide and twenty feet high. The walls were heavily padded, and there were no props or holographic displays of any kind.

  “I've heard of this one,” he said, looking up toward the padded ceiling. “It's the free-fall room, isn't it?”

  “That's right. I suppose it's the most famous fantasy room we have. Sooner or later everyone wants to try it out.” She paused. “I wish I'd never gotten the bright idea of installing it.”

  “Why not?”

  She looked at him. “Have you ever fucked in freefall, Harry?”

  “No. I never have.”

  “Well, don't. You can sprain everything you've got.”

  “I'll take it under advisement,” he replied. “Where are the controls?”

  “There aren't any,” she answered. “Oh, we could put a panel over here by the door—or anywhere else for that matter—but it's pretty unlikely that our patrons would be anywhere near it when they decided to turn it off.”

  “So how does it work?”

  “By voice command.”

  “Maybe you'd better spell out the command words so I don't inadvertently say them and go floating off,” he suggested.

  She laughed. “Don't worry. The room is deactivated until it's scheduled for use, to avoid just such a possibility.”

  He looked around. “No music, no light show, no nothing?”

  “We had them originally: but it's hard enough to concentrate on what you're doing in free-fall without added distractions.”

  “If you say so.”

  “You look unconvinced. Someday you'll have to try it and see for yourself.”

  “Is that an invitation?” he asked her.

  “A prophecy,” she replied. “And Harry?”

  “Yes?”

  “When you do try it, make sure you do it on an empty stomach.”

  “My friend the romantic,” he muttered.

  “My friend the hard-headed businessman,” she shot back.

  Redwine took a last brief look around the room, then turned to her. “Well, what's next on the agenda?”

  “I suppose we'll end the tour with our Security section, unless you've an undying urge to see the hydroponics garden.”

  “Not really.”

  “Just as well. We've turned part of it into a picnic area, and it tends to be a little crowded this time of day. Anyway,” she added, “after we're through with Security, I'll turn my auxiliary office over to you.”

  “What about the casino?”

  “I thought you saw that last night,” she replied, and he detected a note of tension creeping into her voice.

  “True enough,” he replied quickly, following her out into the corridor. “Security it is, then.”

  They walked to a different elevator bank and rode down to the public room level, emerging just outside a restaurant that was decorated to resemble a sanitized and opulent version of one of the notorious drug dens of Altair III. The waiters looked like blackhearted villains, and a sultry, olive-skinned girl, an unlit analog of a hashish cigarette dangling from her lips, was doing a slow, sensual dance to the music of a single flutist. Redwine noted, however—as he had earlier in the day—that the food was as well-prepared and carefully-served as in the other restaurants.

  Suddenly the Leather Madonna's belt buckle beeped twice, and she turned to him. “Wait here just a moment, won't you?” she said, walking over to a small visual intercom on a nearby wall. She returned a minute later.

  “I'm afraid a little problem has come up,” she said apologetically.

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “It won't be if I attend to it quickly. We have a very assertive lady who has decided to extend her stay, and a very demanding gentleman who has booked her suite and insists that no other rooms are acceptable.”

  “Can't your computer come up with a solution?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Computers are rational machines, and they expect people to behave in a rational manner.” She chuckled. “Poor things.”

  “Where would you like me to wait for you?”

  “That won't be necessary. I've arranged for Suma to take you to Security.”

  “I'm happy to wait,” he insisted.

  “You don't realize what a favor I'm doing you, Harry. Half of our patrons would happily walk through fire to spend a few extra minutes alone with her.”

  “I never got along well with children,” said Redwine.

  “How flattering,” said the Madonna.

  “Especially very bright, very self-centered ones,” he added.

  “And how perceptive.”

  “So, if it's all the same to you...”

  “Harry, this could take me two or three hours of delicate negotiating,” she said firmly.

  He sighed. “You're the boss.”

  “I'll try to catch up with you later,” she said, heading off toward her office. “Suma should be here shortly.”

  He watched her walk away, and decided once again that she was a damned attractive woman. Cordial and self-controlled, too, especially since she was obviously convinced that he was here to usurp some of her authority at the behest of whoever ran the gambling concession.

  He lit a cigar and let the smoke roll around on his tongue for a few seconds as his accountant's mind kept cataloguing: attractive, cordial, self-controlled, well-read, demonstrably successful at managing a huge operation like the Velvet Comet, doubtless skilled as all hell in bed.

  He frowned. He wished he hadn't hit it off so well with her this morning, that he didn't feel a sensation of budding friendship toward her.

  He was going to feel genuinely sorry when he brought her tidy, affluent little world crumbling down about her.

  Chapter 3

  Suma arrived about five minutes later.

  Her outfit was, to say the least, spectacular. She wore an elaborate golden slave collar, from which were suspended perhaps twenty strips of narrow cloth that hung down almost to the floor and were gathered in very loosely at the waist by a gold belt. The outside of the cloth was scarlet, the inside a metallic gold, and as she moved the strips opened and closed, presenting Redwine with the kind of peepshow he'd paid good money to see when he was a kid.

  She wore huge golden earrings, covered by gold coins, that hung down to her shoulders and jingled when she walked. Her hair was piled high in another complicated hairdo that involved dozens of gold beads.

  Slave bracelets, an armband, and a pair of very high-heeled shoes, also all gold, completed the picture.

  “Good morning, Mr. Redwine,” she said with a feline smile of greeting.

  “Hello, Suma. You're looking exceptionally lovely today.”

  “Do you like it?” she asked, extending her arms and turning around, to the delight of a trio of passing patrons.

  “It's eye-catching, that's for sure,” said Redwine.

  “Have you enjoyed your tour so far?”

  “It's been enlightening,” he replied. “And it's taught me to keep away from the free-fall room.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “The Madonna explained just how awkward it is.”

  Suma looked puzzled, then shrugged her shoulders, a gesture that caused new expanses of smooth, creamy flesh to be temporarily revealed. “Well, I like it.” She flashed him a roguish smile. “Maybe you should try it and make up your own mind.”

  “Right now?” he asked, startled.

  She looked amused. “I'm afraid not, Mr. Redwine.

  I'm supposed to take you to Security.”

  “What a shame,” he said with a secret sense of relief. “I guess my education will just have to wait.”

  “By the way,” she said, leading him away from the restaurant, “why does a Syndicate accountant have to
take a tour of Security?”

  Good question, thought Redwine. “The Madonna seemed to think I'd find it interesting,” he answered her.

  She took him to an elevator, descended one level, and then led him out to the tram tunnel.

  There were a number of cars stationed there, and Suma walked over to the nearest of them. It scanned her retina briefly, and then its door unlocked and swung open.

  Redwine followed her and took a seat, and a moment later the tram began speeding toward the Home.

  “I didn't see any unescorted employees in the Mall,” mentioned Redwine. “Is there some house rule that requires you to take the tram when you're not with a patron?”

  She shook her head. “No, but two miles is a long way to walk, even on a slidewalk. This way it takes about eighty seconds.”

  They rode the brief remainder of the trip in silence, then got off when the tram came to a halt.

  “What if a patron wanders down to the Home while he's shopping?” asked Redwine.

  “Then he bumps into a wall,” she said. “The security system won't let him in unless he's got a reason to be here.”

  She approached a door, again waited for the computer to verify her retinagram, and then they walked into an unfurnished entry hall which seemed to belong to some other universe than that which housed the huge, ornate public rooms of the Resort.

  Suma led Redwine to a bank of elevators, took him up to the top level, and stopped at the first door they came to.

  “Here we are, Mr. Redwine,” she announced.

  “Thanks,” he said. “How do I get back?”

  “The same way you got here,” said Suma. “Someone in Security will transfer your retinagram to the Home's system so that you can use the trams and get in the door.”

  “And how do I get into Security?” he asked, looking futilely for a lock or buzzer on the plain, unmarked door.

  “They know we're here,” she said calmly.

  No sooner had the words left her mouth than the door slid open, revealing a small, functional, but rather plain reception room that caused Redwine to reflect wryly on how little time it had taken him to grow accustomed to opulent surroundings. A uniformed woman sat behind a utilitarian chrome desk, and as he looked in she nodded pleasantly to him.

  “I take it you're not staying here with me,” he remarked when he noticed that Suma had taken a few steps down the hallway.