Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet Page 9

  “Idiot!” muttered Lori. She rose from her chair, climbed up to the ring, and had DeWitt deposit a huge wad of gum in her hand.

  “If there's another guy aboard the Comet who chews gum, I've never met him,” she muttered as she rejoined Redwine and Rasputin.

  “He looks reasonably fit,” commented Redwine. “No more than five or ten pounds over the weight he fought at.”

  “He looks beautiful,” she replied earnestly. “You ought to see him with his clothes off!” She paused. “What a goddamned pity that he has to move!”

  A young man stepped into the ring, called the two antagonists together, and quietly explained the ground rules to them.

  “Is he the referee?” asked Redwine.

  Rasputin shook his head. “There isn't any referee,” he answered. “I told you—this is a grudge match.”

  “Then what's he doing there?”

  “Explaining that if Gamble gets his left hand free and uses it, all the bets are off. It won't stop the fight, of course—I mean, who the hell is going to get in there and try to separate them?—but the casino will return all the money.”

  The young man directed the two fighters to their corners and then clambered out of the ring. They stood, staring at one another, until the young man took his seat and yelled “Time!”

  The Duke bounded out to the middle of the ring with a speed that belied his years, and DeWitt slowly moved out to meet him. They circled each other for a moment, and then the Duke, head low, bobbing and weaving, blocked a short blow from DeWitt and landed a quick three-punch combination, spinning away quickly and delivering a powerful kick when DeWitt pursued him.

  “He's rusty,” said Redwine. “His timing's off.”

  “He's wearing ten pounds on each foot,” replied Rasputin, as DeWitt plodded slowly after the jabbing, kicking pit boss.

  The next three minutes were pretty much like the first, with DeWitt landing an occasional blow but taking six or seven in the process.

  “You want your money now or later?” whispered Redwine.

  “I'll trust you for it,” grinned Rasputin. “Ten minutes from now will be fine.”

  Redwine shook his head. “He used to be such a damned fine ring general. If he could just get him in a corner where he could land a kick or two...”

  “Not today, Harry,” said the Security chief. “Three of his four weapons aren't firing.”

  “Sounds familiar,” commented Lori wryly.

  The Duke gained in confidence with each passing second. No longer did he strike and run; instead, he closed with DeWitt, as if the strain of carrying the weights around the ring had sapped most of his opponent's strength. Finally a whirling kick to the side of the neck dropped DeWitt to the floor.

  “Get up, you big oaf!” panted the Duke, standing over him, fists clenched. Suddenly he grinned. “Oh—I forgot! Getting things up isn't exactly your specialty, is it?”

  DeWitt's expression turned ugly, and he was on his feet in an instant.

  The Duke landed two quick left jabs, then closed with him again.

  “Low blow!” cried someone from the other side of the ring.

  Lori leaped to her feet.

  “Don't you hit him in the balls after all the work I've done!” she yelled furiously.

  “I tried,” laughed the Duke, “but he doesn't have any!”

  Everyone in the audience laughed—and suddenly Gamble DeWitt went crazy. He lumbered across the ring and hurled himself, feet first, at the Duke. He didn't hit his target dead center, but the very suddenness of his actions froze the Duke for an instant, and a lead-weighted foot caught the pit boss on the shoulder and spun him into the ring post. He bounced off groggily, and then DeWitt was all over him, pummeling him with sledgehammer blows. Finally he grabbed the Duke's arm and hurled him against the ropes. The Duke came flying off, and DeWitt cracked him across the throat with a karate chop, and as quickly as that the fight was over.

  While one of the men from the casino jumped into the ring to revive the Duke, Lori climbed the stairs and began unwrapping DeWitt's left arm. As soon as it was free she knelt down and took the weights off his feet.

  “I'd have bought out of my bet for five hundred credits about a minute and a half ago,” confessed Redwine.

  “I wouldn't have sold it to you for six and a half,” replied Rasputin. “Damn! If he'd just kept his mouth shut!”

  The Duke was awake now, and he was led, groggy and rasping, back to the locker room. Once the crowd saw that he was all right, they began to disperse, and Redwine walked over to DeWitt's corner.

  “Gamble?” he said.

  “Yeah?” said DeWitt, looking down at him.

  “My name is Harry Redwine, and this is the second time I've had the pleasure of watching you work. I made seven hundred credits off you this afternoon, so the least I can do is invite you by for a drink.”

  “Were you one of the ones who laughed at me?” DeWitt demanded.

  “Not me. I was cheering the whole time.”

  The fighter's face lit up. “Yeah?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “For just a minute there, it felt like the old days,” said DeWitt wistfully. “Not like ... well...” His voice trailed off.

  “I'll be in the Madonna's auxiliary office all afternoon,” continued Redwine. “Come on by after you've showered and rested.”

  Suddenly DeWitt's expression changed. “I don't go to her office, not even for a drink. I'll catch you some other time.”

  He stepped through the ropes, jumped down to the floor, and headed off toward the shower room.

  “You said a wrong thing, Harry,” remarked Lori.

  “So I gather.”

  “He blames the Leather Madonna for his being here, and he isn't very happy with his new occupation.”

  She paused. “Not that anybody twisted his arm to get him to sign his contract. It's just that he didn't know quite what was going to be expected of him.”

  “Well, not everyone's cut out to be a prostitute,” said Redwine.

  “True enough,” she agreed. “I had a good four-year run of it, and then I figured I'd better learn to do something else before they told me I had to.”

  Redwine watched DeWitt walk across the gym.

  “He's as strong as an elephant!” he said admiringly.

  “I read about elephants, Harry,” said Lori. “They could tear down trees, kill lions, carry a dozen men on their backs.” She smiled sadly. “But they couldn't peel a grape.”

  “Maybe that's why they died out,” suggested Redwine.

  “That's why this one's dying out, that's for sure,” she said. “I suppose I could put up with what we euphemistically term his technique if I didn't have to hear a blow-by-blow account of his career.” She sighed: “And now he's got another one to add to the list. Sometimes I wonder if the extra money is worth it.”

  Redwine chuckled. “I think I offered the wrong one of you a drink.”

  “I was wondering how long it would take you to figure that out. I'll be by in a couple of hours.”

  She turned and left, and Redwine rejoined Rasputin.

  “Well, back to work,” said the Security chief. “I'll drop you at your office.”

  “Sounds good to me,” said Redwine. “And thanks for letting me know about this.”

  “My pleasure,” said Rasputin. “Now, before I forget...”

  He withdrew a billfold and handed over a wad of credits.

  “Invite me in for a minute, Harry,” said Rasputin as Redwine commanded his door to open.

  “Won't you please come in?” he said sardonically.

  “Thanks. I think I will.” Rasputin walked to a sofa and sat down. “We've got a couple of things to talk about.”

  “About the fight?”

  Rasputin shook his head. “About you.”

  “I thought I asked you to back off,” said Redwine.

  “You did.”

  “Well?”

  Rasputin smiled. “I thought I asked
you to tell me why you were here.”

  “I assume my being here is what you want to talk about?”

  “Right.”

  “I don't know how to tell you this,” said Redwine, “but I'm really not interested in your speculations.”

  “Then you'd better get interested in them,” answered Rasputin easily. “Especially considering how you've been spending your nights—and with whom.”

  “You don't have any idea what I've been doing at night,” replied Redwine. “I've jammed the security system in my suite.”

  “Have you jammed it anywhere else?” asked Rasputin.

  “No.”

  “Now, if you were me, and you couldn't find the Madonna anywhere else on the ship, what conclusion would you draw from that?”

  “My conclusion, like my free time, is none of your business,” said Redwine testily.

  “True,” admitted Rasputin. “But my conclusion may affect your business, and I think it's about time I laid my cards on the table.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Look, Harry, let me be as honest as I can,” said the Security chief. “As near as I can figure it, the reason you're here is because they think someone is fixing the books. I'm a little upset that they didn't let me in on it, but they probably figured that since no one in Security is an accountant, there was no need for it. Anyway, my feelings aren't important. The main thing is that I'm happy working for the Syndicate, and I'd like to keep working for it for quite some time to come.”

  “You are going to get to the point sooner or later, aren't you?” asked Redwine.

  Rasputin nodded. “I just want you to know where I stand on this. But there are also two other possibilities, neither of them very likely, but both worth considering. One is that you're either a thief or a saboteur from one of our competitors.”

  “And the other?”

  “That this is just some kind of crazy test to see what security will do.”

  “That's the first really stupid thing I've heard you say,” commented Redwine.

  “It doesn't make much sense,” agreed Rasputin. “But I'm just trying to clear the air. Either you're a very high-powered troubleshooter, in which case I don't want to offend you or whoever sent you here, or else you're someone that I have to expose.” He paused. “I'm asking you once more: who are you, and why are you aboard the Comet?”

  “And I'm telling you once more: it's none of your business.”

  “Harry,” said Rasputin almost pleadingly, “I'm not playing verbal games anymore. I've got to know.”

  “Have it your way,” shrugged Redwine. “I'm a troubleshooter.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well?”

  “There's a hell of a lot of difference between being able to and being willing to,” said Redwine.

  Rasputin was silent for a moment. “You're forcing me to do something I really don't want to do.”

  “Then don't do it.”

  “I don't have any choice.” He paused again. “I finally brought up the stuff you changed on the computer.”

  “I didn't change anything,” said Redwine, looking him squarely in the eye.

  “You sure as hell didn't change much," agreed Rasputin. “You're still Harry Redwine, and you're still an accountant for Vainmill. Your identification checks out, your tenure checks out, there's nothing damaging there at all.”

  “So?”

  “Damn it, Harry! If you can't give me a reason to stop, I'm going to have to keep digging!”

  “It would make me very happy if you'd stop,” said Redwine.

  Rasputin uttered a humorless laugh. “I'll need a better reason than that.” He fidgeted uneasily. “And if you don't give me one by the time I leave this office, I'm going to have to tell the Madonna what I know.”

  Redwine felt a hollowness in the pit of his stomach.

  “You don't know anything.”

  “I know you lied to us,” said Rasputin stubbornly.

  “I don't know why, and I don't know about what, but I know you lied and I know that you're sleeping with the most important person on the Velvet Comet. That makes you a threat to the ship's security.”

  “You could make this a very unpleasant situation for all three of us,” said Redwine slowly.

  “I know. I'm asking you one last time: give me a reason not to.”

  Redwine shook his head.

  Rasputin sighed and got to his feet. “Okay, if that's the way it's got to be.”

  “That's the way it is.”

  The Security chief walked to the door, then turned to Redwine. “I hope to hell you're a troubleshooter or a test.”

  I wish to hell I was, agreed Redwine silently, as he watched Rasputin walk out into the corridor and ordered the door to slide shut behind him.

  Chapter 7

  Redwine watched the holograph as it flickered and took form.

  “I was expecting you a couple of hours ago,” he said. “Is anything the matter?”

  The image of the Leather Madonna looked out at him.

  “Yes,” she replied. “I'm afraid I won't be able to make it tonight.”

  He frowned. “Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked. “I mean, it's not as if I've got any pressing business that's keeping me here in the suite.”

  'Yes, there is something you can do to help,” said the Madonna. “But I don't think you're going to want to.”

  “Oh?”

  She stared directly at him. “Tell me who you are.”

  He was silent for a moment. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Damn it, Harry!” she said, and he couldn't tell if she was mad or unhappy. “Why did you lie to me?”

  “I didn't lie,” he answered her. “I'm Harry Redwine, I'm an accountant for the Entertainment and Leisure Division of the Vainmill Syndicate, and I'm here on business.”

  “You know exactly what I mean,” she persisted.

  “Why did you sneak into the computer and change your dossier?”

  “I take it you've been talking to Rasputin.”

  “I have.”

  “Did you find anything harmful in my original dossier?” he asked.

  “That's not the point. Why did you change it?”

  “That's precisely the point,” said Redwine.

  “There's nothing damaging there. I'm not a murderer or a rapist or a fugitive.”

  “There's something there or you wouldn't have changed it,” said the Madonna adamantly.

  “I just didn't see why my entire personnel profile should be available to anyone on the Velvet Comet, so I deleted some of the details and left in the pertinent facts: who I am, who I work for, what I do.”

  “How were you able to get into the computer in the first place?” she demanded. “Rasputin says you made the changes the day you arrived.”

  He paused to consider his answer just a little too long before uttering it. “All the Syndicate's top accountants have pretty high security clearances.”

  “Then why did you pretend you couldn't access the material without my permission?”

  “I had every intention of going through normal channels unless they were closed to me—and the day I got here, everyone gave me a runaround.”

  “You're lying again, Harry,” she said. “You never asked me for permission to change, or even see, your dossier.”

  “ I was curious,” he answered. “And then, when I saw all the data you had on me, even my salary, I was upset. So I changed it. Maybe I shouldn't have.” He paused. “Look. You're the last person in the universe that I want mad at me. Can't you come on down here so we can discuss it?”

  “No.”

  “But this is silly! I want to be with you, and I know you want to be with me.”

  “It's my own fault,” she said. “The first thing a prostitute learns is that you can't get involved with a patron. I broke my own rule. I'm actually more upset with myself than with you, Harry.”

  “Wel
l, I've got no such rule,” he lied. “Can't we get together and discuss it?”

  The Madonna shook her head. “I thought you were different.” She sighed. “You put on a good act, Harry.”

  “I care for you. That's not an act.”

  “Then that's your misfortune,” she replied.

  “What if I came up to your office?” he asked. “I mean, if you feel talking to me in my own suite puts you at a disadvantage...”

  “If you come, the door will be locked.”

  “That won't stop me.”

  “Are you threatening to break it down, or have you some other talent you haven't told me about yet?” she asked caustically, and he realized that he had blundered again.

  “Look,” he said at last. “You're the first person I've met in more years than I care to think about that I actually care for. Whether I behaved badly or not, you have your hands on the original dossier and there's nothing damaging or unsavory in it. I've offended you, and I'm deeply sorry—but how the hell can I make amends if you won't see me?”

  “You can make amends by telling me who you are and why you're really here—and I don't mean your name and your damned accountant's job.”

  “But that's who and what I am,” he said doggedly.

  “Then we've nothing further to say, have we?” replied the Madonna, reaching for the disconnect square on her console.

  “Wait!” he said with such urgency that she froze.

  “You won't come here. Okay. And you won't let me come to your office. Okay. But can't we at least talk this out via our holographs?”

  “I have nothing to talk out, Harry. When you're ready to tell the truth, call me back. In the meantime, who would you like me to send down to your room tonight? I understand that you met Flaming Lorelei this afternoon and had a drink with her; I can see if she's willing to stop by.”

  “I don't want anyone else!” he said desperately. “I just want you.”

  “Good night, Harry,” she said, and broke the connection.

  So he spent that night alone, and the next night as well. The Leather Madonna would answer his intership calls just long enough to ascertain his identity and then break the connection. He haunted the restaurants and the casino, but she didn't come out of her office.

  He tried to tell himself that he was acting like a lovesick schoolboy, or at least a very guilty one, rather than a romantic and dashing saboteur; that the last thing he needed to do was form an attachment to the woman he was out to break; that the Madonna was neither the loveliest nor, very likely, the most skilled woman aboard the Comet and that if he had to establish some kind of relationship with one of the prostitutes, any of the others would be preferable under the current circumstances. He would listen very carefully and thoughtfully to his own advice; then a memory of the Madonna, talking, laughing, or just lying in his arms, would appear somewhere in the cinema of his mind, and the advice was forgotten.