by David Bishop
Constructed on a vast pontoon and powered by solar energy, the Okiya sailed the Empire, offering a taste of the Orient to all who could afford its exorbitant prices. Alas, the Makarov-Romanov war came close to bankrupting this unique endeavour in the annals of professional sexual services. Within three years it had become a honey-trap, infamous for turning tricks into dupes with customers forced to pay for fake divorces or face public shame and disgrace. The end came in 2673 when the Geisha House of the Rising Sun was all but destroyed by a devastating enemy attack. No group ever claimed responsibility for the surgical strike, but many suspected the paramilitary wing of the puritanical, sex-hating Church of Skoptzy..."
- Extract from MacCoy's Imperial Sex Guide,
2677 edition
Waking up with a hangover was an all too familiar sensation for Dante. Since puberty he had been a prodigious consumer of alcohol, his intake increasingly dramatically since bonding with the Crest. Having enhanced healing abilities enabled him to recover far quicker than most from the debilitating effects of inebriation, but even that was not enough to ward off the worst of hangovers. This time, he decided, either his skull had shrunk in the night or his brain had doubled in size, such was the vice-like pain clenching his cranium. Plus someone had replaced his tongue with a furry flap of roadkill and his eyes felt like pinpricks in a frozen potato.
"Bojemoi," he whispered feebly, not daring to look around. Better to stay still and try to get his bearings by other means.
He was lying between silk sheets on what felt like a waterbed, the mattress offering gentle undulations in response to any of his movements. The scent of jasmine and cinnamon mingled in the air like lovers savouring the afterglow of a particular vigorous bout of lovemaking. The sound of voices murmuring nearby was audible, along with the lapping of water. A curious plink-plonk tone in the distance nagged at the senses, at once familiar and foreign. None of that answered the most pressing question in Dante's mind. "What did I drink last night?"
More to the point, what didn't you drink? The Crest's voice was akin to a sudden creeping barrage of explosions in Dante's brain, each syllable a dull detonation across his synapses. Not only did you sup your way to oblivion, you anaesthetised my systems so completely the last twelve hours are missing from my memory.
"Please, don't shout," Dante whimpered, nursing his thumping head in both hands. "I'll do anything you ask if you'll just stop shouting."
You'll give up drinking for a week?
"When I said I'd do anything, what I meant was-"
I ASKED IF YOU'D GIVE UP DRINKING FOR A WEEK, the Crest roared.
"Yes, yes. Anything, anything!" Dante cried, his face stricken with agony, desperate to stop the cacophony in his mind.
Very well, the Crest replied, its voice now back to a murmur. Is that better?
"Yes, thank you."
Good. May I suggest you find some more suitable clothing while I analyse the surroundings. You could be in imminent danger, and your present attire offers little protection against the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune.
"What's wrong with what I'm-" Dante's words stopped once he'd opened his eyes and looked downwards. "Interesting. Very interesting."
A more accurate description would be obscene.
Dante was stark naked but for two items of what could charitably be termed clothing. A garter belt of red silk was strapped tightly around his left thigh, while a whisper of cloth covered his crotch. This miniscule triangle of black silk was encrusted with crimson sequins embroidered into the shape of a heart. The legend "GET IT HERE" spelled out by more sequins within the heart. Two tiny straps led away from the crotch and round his hips. Dante could feel them knotted together behind his back, joined by a third strap rising from between the cleft of his buttocks. The size and shape of the g-string suggested it had been designed for female use, as it struggled to encase any of his genitalia. "Perhaps I should have asked for a Brazilian before swapping underwear?"
My sensors are coming back online, the Crest announced. Beginning analysis of the surroundings.
"Good." Dante sank back on to the bed. "Let me know if you find something significant. I'll be busy concentrating on lying very still and wishing I was dead."
You should consider yourself fortunate inebriation did not disable my subcutaneous defence mechanism.
"Anytime you want to speak in words I can understand, just let me know."
Subcutaneous - beneath the skin. That's why I'm not currently visible.
Dante checked his left arm. The area below the shoulder was bare; normally the Crest was visible as a circular tattoo resembling the double-headed eagle symbol of the Romanovs. But when Dante was rendered unconscious, an automatic defence mechanism hid the Crest from view.
There's someone approaching this room, it warned. Be on your guard!
Dante looked round for an escape route or a weapon. The room was sparsely furnished, just the bed, a small wooden cupboard to one side and a stack of white towels atop that. The only light spilled in from a circular porthole above the bed, while an assortment of oriental paintings and tapestries decorated the white walls. A white door on the far side of the room was the sole exit.
Five seconds...
Dante groped for his Huntsman 5000 rifle under the bed. He habitually hid it there before falling asleep each night, within easy reach. The footsteps were rapidly getting closer as his fingers closed around a heavy cylindrical object on the floor. He snatched it out from under the bed and aimed one end at the door while groping for the trigger with his right hand. But instead of a firing mechanism he found himself pressing a button near the end of a three-foot long rubber phallus. It began vibrating in his grasp, accompanied by a gentle humming.
That's certainly offensive, the Crest observed, but I doubt it'll make much of a weapon. Perhaps you could use it as a flexible truncheon?
Dante was still clutching the double-ended dildo when the door swung open to admit an Oriental woman clad in a red, silk kimono that scarcely covered her crotch. She had dark hair, scarlet lipstick to match her kimono and a hungry look about her. Her eyebrows rose at seeing what was clutched in Dante's hands. "You like that, Quentin? I love you long time, but I try anything once if you want."
Realising his actions were being misinterpreted, Dante quickly threw the still-vibrating phallus to one side. "No, no, no, I didn't mean-"
The woman advanced on him, her hands reaching for the sash that kept her kimono closed. "Or maybe little Quentin too tired? For five dollar I wake him, yes?"
"A generous offer, I'm sure, but I've never paid for sex yet," Dante replied, scrambling his way off the bed.
Not with money, the Crest agreed, but in plenty of other ways you have.
"You said you'd shut up!" Dante protested.
No, I simply agreed to stop shouting - not the same thing.
The woman looked perplexed, since she was only hearing Dante's half of his conversation. "You want me shut up? I have rubber gag and blindfold in next room, but you pay extra for that, Quentin."
"No, no, I wasn't... I didn't mean-"
"You want me put gag on you instead?"
"No, I was talking to... Look, it doesn't matter." Dante sat down on the bed, all too aware of the g-string strap that seemed intent on garrotting his rectum. He patted the mattress, motioning for the woman to sit down beside him. The bed gently rippled beneath their weight. "Now, could anybody tell me where I am?"
I can, the Crest replied. My sensors are now fully functional. You are on a floating platform some three hundred nautical miles from the oceanic city-state of Pacifica. I detect close to a hundred people in the surrounding rooms.
"You on our bed, Quentin," the woman said in broken speech. "You no remember?"
Dante bashfully shook his head. "Sorry, no. I drank too much last night."
That's putting it mildly.
"We celebrate. You too happy," the petite woman agreed.
"In fact," Dante admitted, "I drank so mu
ch I seem to have forgotten your name, Miss...?"
"Sang Gen."
"Miss Sang Gen."
I've heard that name before.
"But now I will be called Mrs Durward."
It's all coming back to me now. Oh dear. Dante, I have good news and bad news. Which would you like to hear first?
"Really? Did you get married recently?"
Sang Gen punched Dante playfully on the arm. "Don't you remember, Quentin? It was big wedding. You very generous man."
"Well, I don't like to be a tightwad."
No, you just like getting tight. The good news is this minx believes you are the entirely fictitious Quentin Durward. You must have used that old alias last night while drinking yourself into a stupor. If you'd been using your real name, this little gold digger would have already handed you over for the multi-million rouble bounty on your head.
"And the bad news?" Dante asked.
"Now is time for honeymoon, yes?"
I believe you may have married this woman.
"Honeymoon?" Dante spluttered. Beside him, Sang Gen's smile broadened even further, revealing a mouthful of golden fillings.
"You drink too much last night, you no perform for Mrs Durward. But now you all better, you make me much happiness, yes?"
Dante, better make your excuses and leave, the Crest suggested, urgency apparent in its tone. Now. While you still can.
Sang Gen was sliding one hand inside his g-string while her other retrieved a rolled document from within her kimono. She firmly clasped the contents of Dante's underwear while unrolling the sheet of paper to reveal what was written on it. "We husband and wife now, yes? You make me happy." Sang Gen clenched her fist around Dante's testicles, making him gasp in pain and dismay. "Or else you be very unhappy. You understand, little Quentin?"
Five rooms away, Lord Peter Flintlock was having a perfectly dreary time. It was more than twelve hours since Dante had disappeared and, to Flintlock's way of thinking, even the finest houses of ill repute began to pall if you stayed within their walls too long. Savouring the delights of the Orient's finest courtesans was all very well, but eventually you became sated both in body and in spirit, no matter how gargantuan your sexual appetite. You reached a point where you had seen and experienced enough - any more was, quite literally, an anti-climax.
Dante had brought him and Spatchcock to the Okiya, the Geisha House of the Rising Sun, after a particularly successful piece of piracy. The freebooting threesome had intercepted an Imperial cruiser bound for St Petersburg that was heavy with wealthy passengers but light on security. Having stripped the Tsar's allies of their possessions, Dante gave his two accomplices the choice of where to celebrate their good fortune. It was Spatchcock who wanted to visit the Okiya. "I had a cousin who had such a good time there he ended up in hospital. It took the surgeons three hours just to get the smile off his face."
So Flintlock had spent several tumultuous hours in the arms of a creature calling herself Fragrant Lotus Blossom. But when he emerged from her bedchamber, with a blush on his face and a spring in his step, his two partners in crime were conspicuous by their absence. Dante's vessel, the Sea Falcon, was still moored nearby, but the brothel's okami could offer no clue about where Flintlock's friends had gone. Exhausted from his exploits, the man from Britannia hired a private room for the night, paying double for the privilege of sleeping in it alone.
Alas, whoever was responsible for the Okiya's interior decor failed to realise using rice paper for the walls was not a sound idea. It gave the place a veneer of Japanese antiquity, but also meant you could hear everything happening in the adjoining rooms. Flintlock had spent the night trying - and failing - to get some sleep while being aurally assaulted by the comings and goings of innumerable clients, their hostesses screaming with feigned pleasure in a dozen different Oriental tongues. "I'll never eat sushi again," the exiled Brit muttered as he rolled off his unforgiving futon in the morning. He found a washbasin filled with ice-cold water beneath a mirror and splashed the liquid on his face while contemplating his reflection.
There was a haughty, almost arrogant aspect to his features, no doubt a product of his aristocratic origins and severe upbringing. A loveless childhood and fifteen years of schooling with regular thrashings in various boarding institutions - no wonder the upper classes of Britannia favoured a stiff upper lip. Born a lord of the realm, Flintlock had fled his native land for certain offences he preferred not to recall. He still had a full head of hair and all his own teeth, but time was leaving its mark around the corners of his gimlet-eyed expression. Flintlock rasped a hand across the greying stubble on his chin and jowls. What I wouldn't give for a straight razor, some shaving foam and a badger's hairbrush, he thought wistfully. A female scream from outside the spartanly furnished room got his attention. "I know that voice," he muttered and strode to the door.
He looked out in time to see Fragrant Lotus Blossom sprinting past, a hand towel clasped over her groin, an expression of pure disgust curdling her pretty face. "You bad man. You nasty! I hate you. I tell the others. You no joy here!"
"I say, steady on old girl. What seems to be the matter?" Flintlock inquired politely, but the woman had already dived into another room, slamming its door shut behind her. "Dash it, what could have repulsed a woman of her experience so? I'd have thought there's little she hasn't seen or done in her time here."
The answer appeared from the opposite end of the corridor: Spatchcock, stark naked, his clothes clutched in one hand. "Your lordship! You haven't seen a pretty girl go past, have you? Smelly Local Flower was her name, I think."
"No, sorry, I haven't." Flintlock averted his eyes hurriedly, taking care to breathe through his mouth instead of his nose. Spatchcock might be the closest thing he had to a friend, but Flintlock would rather have his own scrotum bitten off by a ravenous rodent than gaze upon the vile little man's repulsive privates. As for the stench... the only times Spatchcock came close to washing was when he fell into rivers or oceans by mistake.
The odorous runt cursed loudly, his face scrunching with frustration as he picked lice from his crusty armpits and popped them in his mouth. "Shame, I thought we was getting on quite well. She didn't scream once when I undressed."
"A remarkable woman," Flintlock agreed. "Perhaps you should think about putting some clothes on. Don't want you catching your death of cold, do we?"
"Suppose not." Spatchcock began getting dressed again, a cloud of dust escaping each garment as it was pulled on. "You seen the boss this morning?"
"Last time I saw him, he was face-down in a bowl of sake with a cunning little vixen admiring the size of his wallet. Why, do you think he's in trouble?"
Spatchcock shrugged, pausing to scratch his pimple-ridden posterior. "He's always in trouble, isn't he? That's why we stick with him. Life with Dante might be dangerous, but it's never dull."
"Durward. He said we should call him Quentin Durward, remember?" Flintlock hissed, glancing along the corridor to ensure nobody was listening to their conversation. "If the staff here found out there was a fifty million rouble bounty on his head, they'd kill him and claim the reward without blinking."
Spatchcock nodded. "Alright, alright, keep your wig on, your lordship."
"I do not wear a wig."
"Sorry, I meant toupee."
Flintlock's eyes narrowed. He knew Spatchcock took great pleasure in antagonising him, but he refused to let such baseless accusations pass. "I do not wear a wig, a toupee or any other kind of follicle enhancement. My blond hair is all my own, thank you very much."
"You sure? Then why can I see-"
Their bickering was cut short by another scream, which was distinctly male. "That was Dante's voice," Flintlock said, already running in the direction from where the scream had emanated.
"I thought we were supposed to call him Durward," Spatchcock replied, racing after the gangly Brit.
"Shut up, you stupid guttersnipe!"
Sang Gen released Dante's testicles, s
atisfied she had his attention. "You read!" she snapped, thrusting the marriage certificate into his hands.
Don't bother, the Crest advised. I've already scanned the Imperial Net for data about this woman. Sang Gen is a notorious extortionist who calls the Geisha House of the Rising Sun home. She gets rich young fools drunk, stages a fake wedding ceremony and then demands they pay an exorbitant fee for a quick annulment. I tried to warn you last night, but you were more interested in the contents of her g-string. Perhaps I should have warned her instead. You're certainly a fool, but not so young anymore. And as for riches...
"Will be you be quiet?" Dante hissed. "I'm trying to read."
Sang Gen looked round the bedroom in bewilderment. "Who you talk to? Me? You tell me to shut up?"
"No, I was just talking to my..."
Better half?
"...Talking to myself."
"Time for talk is over, husband. You listen now," Sang Gen said. "Me your wife. You make me rich or you make me happy. You choose."
"Look, for a start, we can't be legally married. I wasn't conscious when the ceremony took place, so how can I be your husband?"
Sang Gen's face folded into a determined scowl. "You no want me wife?"
"I'm sure you'll make a lovely bride for somebody one day."
Only after hell freezes over with this harridan.
"But I'm not the marrying type, okay? This has all been a terrible mistake."
Sang Gen folded her arms. "You want no marriage, yes?"
She has a delightful knack for tautology, doesn't she?
Dante grinned sheepishly. "Well..."
"You want no marriage, you pay for no marriage."
"I would, but I seem to have mislaid my belongings: my jacket, my trousers, my rifle, my money pouch. I don't suppose you'd know where they are?"
"You want them back, you pay for them too."
