Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet (7 page)

“I didn't mean to embarrass you, Harry,” said Rasputin, following him. “But these are
my
people. Nothing you say in front of them will go any farther.”

“Maybe not,” said Redwine with obvious disbelief. “But Mama Redwine didn't raise any children stupid enough to talk about their private business in front of the Chief of Security, two of his employees, and a batch of recording equipment.”

Rasputin chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I can appreciate your point of view. Shall we continue the tour?”

Redwine nodded. “Where to now?”

Rasputin spent the next two hours showing him the security system for the Mall, the tramway, and the Resort's public and fantasy rooms. By unspoken mutual consent, they sparred about the Security chief ‘s interest in Redwine only when no one else was within earshot, though Redwine soon got the feeling that nothing that transpired aboard the
Comet
, even within the Security Department itself, was ever completely private.

“Well, does that about do it?” he asked after enduring a boring explanation and demonstration of how the
Comet
's life support systems and orbital engines were constantly monitored.

“Just one more room to go. Then maybe I'll bend a rule and have a drink with you after all.”

“Is seeing this last room absolutely necessary?”

“No, but I think you might find it interesting,” replied Rasputin.

He took Redwine across the hall and entered what was by far the largest room in the security complex. There were fewer computer terminals here, but the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with upward of four hundred holographic screens, about a third of them currently activated.

A team of three men and six women, all in standard green security uniforms, were posted about the room, sitting on stools and monitoring the displays.

A huge pot of coffee, the first sign of any creature comfort he had seen since leaving Rasputin's office, sat on a small table, surrounded by a number of disposable cups. Other than that, the working conditions were as Spartan here as elsewhere in the complex.

Redwine found his gaze drawn to the screens, many of which displayed scenes of frenzied sexual activity.

“The Resort suites?” he asked.

Rasputin nodded. “The cameras are activated when the room is entered. If you can tear your eyes away from the fun parts, you'll notice that a number of the screens just show people sleeping.”

“Do you have a similar display for the Home?” asked Redwine, trying not to appear too interested.

“After what our prostitutes go through day in and day out, they deserve
some
privacy.”

Which wasn't exactly an answer, but Redwine decided not to push it. If they tried to observe him in the Leather Madonna's auxiliary office, he had ways of handling the situation.

“Do the patrons know they're being watched in their own rooms?”

“Not officially, but I'd be surprised if most of them didn't.”

“And they don't mind it?”

“The ones who have figured out that we're doing it are bright enough to figure out the reasons for it,” answered Rasputin. “We're not voyeurs, Harry. Hell, after two days on the job, it's all just that much meat on the hoof. But we get some pretty wild sado-masochist scenes from time to time, and we have to make sure that things don't get out of hand—and if a prostitute is going to swipe some jewelry or a wallet, it makes more sense to do it when the patron is undressed and maybe asleep.”

“I'll be sure to smile into the camera tonight,” said Redwine sardonically.

“Do you mean to say you're going to let us watch?” replied Rasputin with a disbelieving smile.

“How can I stop you?”

“Come on, Harry—we both know what you're carrying around with you.” Rasputin paused. “If I frisked you right now, would I find it?”

“No,” said Redwine calmly, trying to remember which shoe he had slipped the skeleton card into.

“I could have your room searched while you're at this end of the
Comet,"
suggested Rasputin pleasantly.

“Just be sure to tidy things up when you're done,” replied Redwine. He paused, then added seriously:

“You know, if you find it, they're just going to send me another.”

“I know,” agreed Rasputin. “That's why I'm not going to make you take your shoes off.”

“My shoes? What are you talking about?”

“Harry, the second I mentioned frisking you, you looked down at your feet like they were on fire. Now, either you're afraid to meet my steely gaze, or you've got more inside those shoes than your feet.”

“I'll take them off if it'll make you happy,” said Redwine, forcing himself to look bored and deciding that Rasputin was a lot more formidable than he looked.

The Security chief shook his head. “Don't bother. If I find out you lied to me it'll spoil a beautiful relationship—and besides, you're probably cleared to carry the card. I just want to know what you're doing with it.”

“I wish I could help you out,” said Redwine sincerely.

“You're the
friendliest
antagonist a man could ask for.”

“I just never found that screaming and threatening did all that much good,” answered Rasputin. “But the operative word in your statement is
antagonist."
He shrugged, as if momentarily tired of the subject. “Is there anything I can show or explain to you before we go back to my office?”

“As a matter of fact, there is,” said Redwine. “But first, how about answering a silly, question?”

“I'll do my best.”

“Calling the other two sections of the ship the Mall and the Resort makes sense—after all, that's what they are. But what idiot coined the term Home for this end of it?”

“You're looking at him,” answered Rasputin. “And it made a lot more sense when you figure that the other end used to be called the House.”

“As in, a house is not a...?”

“Right. But when the Madonna took over a few years ago, she decided that it was too vulgar, and she changed it to the Resort.” He paused. “I liked my term better.”

“So do I,” agreed Redwine, “It has a certain tasteless elegance to it.”

“Well said,” laughed Rasputin. “All right. What else can I show you?”

“I keep hearing about the Gemini Twins. They wouldn't happen to be hard at work right now, would they?”

“Let's find out,” said Rasputin. He walked over to one of the computers, called up a complicated schedule, and studied it for a moment. “You just may be in luck, Harry,” he announced, walking directly to one of the screens. “Yeah, there they are.”

Redwine joined him and stared at the small holographic display. Two dark-haired young men were sitting on opposite sides of a huge bed composed entirely of alternating layers of silks and furs. Between them sat a rather pretty redhead, perhaps forty years old, clad in a rather insubstantial nightgown. All three held long-stemmed crystal glasses filled with some exotic concoction.

As Redwine watched them—and they appeared so identical that he could differentiate them only as The One on the Right and The One on the Left—first one and then the other began gently stroking the woman's arms and her legs. Occasionally one—though never both together—paused to take a sip of his drink, or to utter some comment which seemed to elicit a pleased reaction from her. Gradually, so slowly that Redwine was hardly aware of it, the intensity of their ministrations increased, and with no awkward pauses or cessation of their gentle touching and stroking, he noticed that they had somehow removed the woman's gown, and that her glass was now on the nightstand.

The tempo of their love-making increased almost imperceptibly. The touches and kisses become more intimate, and still they seemed unhurried, relaxed, leisurely.

Now one of the Twins, now the other, would pause to say something, or simply to offer the woman yet another sip of her drink, while the remaining Twin would lower his lips to an erect nipple, or gently trace little patterns on the inside of her thighs with his fingertips.

Before long the woman began writhing sensually, and the Twins shifted their positions with the precision and timing of skilled athletes—which, decided Redwine, was probably the closest analogy to what they actually were. Intimate kisses and touches increased in speed and fervor, and still neither of them would mount and enter her until the posture of her trembling body made it clear that no other response would be acceptable. Then, by some predetermined game plan, one of the Twins swiftly and gracefully moved on top of her while the other, with no apparent effort, managed to move his body out of the way while still kissing and caressing those portions of her body that were available to him.

“Harry,” announced Rasputin, an amused grin on his face, “I think you're undergoing just a touch of culture shock.”

Startled, Redwine stepped back from the screen and wondered just how long he had been staring in rapt fascination. “You people are expected to watch this
objectively
?” he said at last.

“After a day or two, so could you.”

“I've seen my share of pornography, and most of it is pretty grubby and sweaty. But those two guys—they make sex look like a ballet.”

“That's why they're so popular,” replied Rasputin. “Though
all
of our people are pretty skilled. You're welcome to check some of the other screens, if you like.”

Redwine shook his head. “I'm feeling quite inadequate enough, thank you,” he said with a wry smile.

Rasputin nodded knowingly. “Getting used to that aspect of it occasionally takes a little
more
than a day or two. Shall we go back to my office?”

“I think I'm about ready for that drink,” agreed Redwine devoutly.

A moment later they were sitting down on opposite sides of Rasputin's desk, each with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

“Are you properly impressed with our security system?” asked Rasputin, after taking a small swallow of his drink.

“It looks absolutely foolproof to me,” said Redwine.

“Wonderful!” laughed Rasputin. “You're a very amusing guy, Harry. I hope to hell whatever I discover isn't too damning.” He paused. “That's one of my bad habits: I tend to like my enemies much better than my friends, and then I feel like shit when I have to bring them down. Ever hear of anything that stupid?”

“Every now and then,” said Redwine, trying not to think of the Leather Madonna.

“So,” continued Rasputin, downing his drink, “we might as well be friends while we can.”

“Suits me.”

A light suddenly flashed on Rasputin's desk.

“I'm afraid I have to get back to work, Harry. Do you want me to have someone take you to your new office, or would you rather wait for the Madonna?”

“She's probably still busy. I think maybe I'd better just set up shop and go to work.”

“Whatever you say,” replied Rasputin, rising and escorting him to the door. “We've already got your retinagram on file. We'll program it into the Home and tram computers so you can get in and out of here without an escort.” He turned to Redwine as the door slid open. “Are you really going to make me do all that work finding out what you did to the computer, Harry?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Well,” said Rasputin with a shrug, “if that's the way it's got to be.” He extended his hand. “I'm sure I'll be seeing a lot more of you around the
Comet
.”

“I never doubted it.”

“If anyone else tries to hassle you, Harry, you let me know,” added Rasputin. “You're
my
project from now on.”

“I suppose I should thank you,” remarked Redwine dryly, as Rasputin summoned a green-clad woman to take him to his new office.

“We'll just have to wait and see, won't we?” said Rasputin.

Redwine sat in the Leather Madonna's auxiliary office, surrounded by mementoes of the many worlds she had visited prior to coming to work aboard the
Velvet Comet.
Part of one wall was covered by a meticulously woven tapestry from Alioth XIV, a plastic case housed an incomprehensible Domarian artifact that bore a tenuous resemblance to a large ashtray, and a wall shelf just to the left of the door held a trio of Denebian stone carvings. The room itself didn't begin to approach the luxury of her office in the Resort, but it had a desk and swivel chair, a pair of tufted sofas, and a small kitchenette.

Suddenly the largest of the three holographic screens flickered to life, and Redwine leaned forward in his chair. A moment later the image of Victor Bonhomme, tall, well-groomed, and conservatively dressed, stared out at him.

“Harry, you know better than to contact me here,” he said by way of greeting.

“This room is secure,” Redwine assured him. “I've changed the code on the door lock, and the skeleton card will keep anyone from monitoring our conversation.”

“All right,” said Bonhomme. “Give me just a minute to make sure I'm okay at this end.” He leaned over his computer console and began checking his security devices, and Redwine got a glimpse of the tall steel-and-glass towers of Deluros VIII through a window behind his head. Finally he straightened up, obscuring Redwine's view of the planet. “Everything checks out,” he announced. “What's up, Harry?”

“I think we've got a problem,” answered Redwine.

“Can't the skeleton card access the books?”

“I haven't tried it yet.”

“Then what kind of problem are you talking about?”

“I want you to think very hard before you answer this,” said Redwine. “Does anyone else know why I'm here?”

“Just one person.”

“Who?”

Bonhomme looked annoyed. “You know I can't tell you that, Harry.”

“Could this person have told anyone else?”

“Out of the question. Why?”

“Because the Chief of Security knows your name. He knows there's a connection between us.”

“Not to worry. He probably got it from your personnel file.”

Redwine shook his head. “I got into the main memory bank and changed the file last night.”

“Last night?” repeated Bonhomme, looking mildly disturbed. “He's a damned good man if he's already found what you changed.”

Redwine shook his head impatiently. “You weren't mentioned in the original file.”