Now Playing on Outworld 5730

by R. T. W. Lipkin

  As it sank to the ground, Violet’s heart plummeted. Even though he was wrong for her. Even though he didn’t love her. Even though she didn’t know who he really was. Even though he’d said Charlotte’s name this morning. Even though.

  It seemed as though it might’ve taken longer, as though something this serious, this deadly, would unfold in a slow, deliberate, understandable way. But instead the shots were immediate and nearly simultaneous, the loud reports startling everyone in the crowd, and the reverberations lasting horrifyingly longer than the event itself had.

  At first Violet couldn’t tell what had happened. The uproar from the Brixton contingent, who’d swiftly moved from silent observers to angry opponents, arguing furiously over their bets, overtook the gathering, their voices somehow obscuring the scene on the field below them.

  “I saw the earl go down first,” one voice shouted.

  “You can’t say that when everyone here knows the marquess was the first to fall,” said a harsh soprano.

  “If we were in a proper century, we’d just watch it again,” said another of the Brixton bettors. “Damn this majestic.”

  “If they’re both done for, does it really matter?” said Thalia Rivers, who hadn’t had a better morning in years. When word of this majestic got out, her services would be in high demand and she’d be able to raise her rates.

  “Of course it does!” said the harsh soprano. “How could you think otherwise?”

  Violet wrenched her arm from Rosie’s grip and raced down the hillside. The nearly bloodless corpses of the two duelers were sprawled out in ugly disarray, their pistols still in their hands, but their chests unmoving and their eyes horribly open to the ultimate nothingness.

  “Mr. Calvert! Call for a doctor!” Violet said as she made her way past the voices and chaos and oncoming rain.

  Was there a doctor at Hollyhock? Didn’t there have to be one attending every majestic? Although she’d never encountered such a person, even when she’d been so ill.

  Violet ran toward Trevelton, but Calvert grabbed her arm and stopped her. “There’s nothing that can be done, Violet.”

  “No!” she shouted.

  “Yes,” he said with a calmness that enraged her. “It’s what they both wanted.”

  “No one wants this,” Violet said.

  “I’m afraid you’re wrong about that,” Lady Patience said. She’d followed Violet down the hillside. “Calvert is right.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Calvert said as a jolt of a deep recognition passed between him and Lady Patience.

  Violet went over to Trevelton’s unmoving body.

  “Rafe, you stupid idiot,” she said as she embraced him. She imagined he could feel her arms and hear her words. Didn’t it take some time for the soul to escape its former prison? He must know how she felt, how she loved him. “Rafe. You can’t have done this.”

  Was every man she fell in love with doomed to die? Yet she hadn’t felt anything near this when she’d discovered Booker’s body. This was something else, something worse. A truth perhaps that she’d now forever lost.

  Chapter 56

  Calvert, Johnny, and a group from the stables helped to clear the bodies of the duelers from the ground where they’d fallen. Calvert had made plans for every contingency, and the two men were quickly removed to an enclosed area that’d been prepared the night before at the back of the stalls.

  After the bodies had been settled into their places on stacks of baled hay, Calvert padlocked the door so that no one would disturb them until the funeral tomorrow.

  Out on the hillside, the Brixton group was still arguing, and two men were now fighting each other, throwing their fists and kicking at each other with building fury. No one could agree on who had fallen first, who’d taken the first shot, who’d died before the other.

  Thalia Rivers stood back from her group, smiling. This was the most fun they’d had since the virus that had felled them all for so long. Much better than a ball or a hunt, she thought. Much better.

  Here they were passionately engaged. Maybe those two would have a duel as well. That would be fantastic. Although nothing could’ve been more perfect than the stunning spectacle they’d just witnessed. Thalia sighed in gratitude, soaking in the sheer wonder of the morning.

  Still on the hillside on their ground cover, the residents of Hollyhock Manor sat in shock. The duchess was crying, and Lady Patience did her best to console her, but Sophia seemed inconsolable, out of proportion to her involvement with either of the two duelers, Lady Patience thought.

  Allene kept staring over at them, but Lady Patience stared back, warning her to stay away. The last thing the duchess needed right now was her lady’s maid.

  The silence on their section of the hillside was finally broken by Vernie Dalston.

  “Do you think it’d be all right if I had one of those cakes?” she said to the viscount, who was leaning back on his elbows. He half sat up, took an elaborately carved small box out of his pocket, opened it, and reached inside for his snuff.

  “Could you get one for me as well?” Fitzmore said as he inhaled. “I’m suddenly ravenous.”

  “I know, my lord. It’s almost humorous,” Vernie said as she unsuccessfully suppressed a giggle while Fitzmore sneezed.

  “Oh, Vernie, do bring one back for me as well,” said Baron North, who was sitting on her other side. The three of them had become inseparable.

  They’d watched the duel as if it were a play or perhaps a sporting event, with Vernie giving constant commentary right up until the two men had fallen. Then she’d shut up. Even for her, the fun momentarily ended.

  But when she returned to North and Fitzmore with a plate of cakes, the morning was again like a play. Rosie brought over a pitcher and three glasses, and the trio enjoyed their pear nectar and cakes.

  Soon everyone on the hillside, except the staff, Lady Patience, and the duchess, was eating. Some were still sitting on the ground cover, but others were standing, pointing down at the field where the duel had taken place, discussing what had just happened.

  “I’m certain that Lord Saybrook shot first,” said a tall, willowy woman.

  “Then why did he fall first?” a freckle-faced man asked. He was eating a wedge of the cold pheasant pie, and a piece of crust had lodged itself on his cheek. The tall woman reached over and flicked it away as the man caught her hand in his, turned it over, and kissed her wrist before going back to his pie.

  “Trevelton fell first,” said Baron North. He’d managed to stand up, but only because he hadn’t been able to convince Vernie to bring back more food, and he had his eye on the salted fish, which he fancied he could taste just by looking at it.

  “That’s not the case at all, my lord,” said Johnny, who’d returned from his morbid errand to the stables. “Saybrook fell first.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I saw him, my lord,” Johnny said.

  “See?” the freckle-faced man said. “Just as I said. The footman here was watching carefully, as I was.”

  “But he did shoot first,” Johnny said. He held out the tray that Cook had given him, offering fresh glasses of pear nectar to the grouping. The tall woman took a glass and downed it in two slugs.

  “Lord Saybrook, I mean,” Johnny added. “Shot first.”

  “How is that possible?” Rosie said. She’d been circulating the group with a basket laden with sliced cold meats and breads and had just made it to the group where Johnny was standing. “If he fell first, he must’ve shot second.”

  “It’s because of the atmosphere here,” Johnny said as though he’d studied aerodynamics, ballistics, and meteorology and had worked out a formula that would explain everything perfectly.

  “I told you he shot first,” the tall woman said as she bit into a fruit pastry and winced at the tart lemon, then licked her lips.

  Below them, the field was empty except for the two stakes marking the places where the duelers had stood, one facing the other, the one on th
e crowd’s right, the dark-haired one, trembling enough that the spectators could see it from their perches, the light-haired one cold, grim-faced, and steady.

  The two had stood there at their marks, aiming their weapons, still alive, less than a half hour earlier.

  Chapter 57

  “His bullet actually took longer to get to Lord Trevelton,” Johnny explained, enjoying his unexpected role as resident ballistics expert. He knew nothing at all about guns, never having seen one before this morning.

  “That makes no sense at all,” said the tall woman, who finished the pastry in a flourish and swigged down more pear nectar.

  Several feet away, Lady Patience turned to the duchess. “Where’s Lettie?” Lady Patience asked.

  “I haven’t seen her since she ran down there to be with her lover,” said the woman sitting in front of Sophia. She’d awkwardly turned around to speak with Lady Patience. “Trevelton,” the woman added.

  As though there were someone at the majestic who didn’t suspect the two of them had been a couple, Lady Patience thought. As though anyone didn’t know.

  “Lady Patience,” the duchess said. “I’m afraid I have to go back to the manor house.”

  “I’ll get Allene for you,” Lady Patience said as she scanned the crowd for the duchess’s lady’s maid. It was hard to see through the throng, some still sitting, some standing, and the servants milling about with their trays of post-execution food, which food seemed to become increasingly popular by the minute.

  But Lady Patience couldn’t find either Allene or Lettie, so she helped the duchess stand and walked slowly back to the manor house with her.

  At roughly the halfway point, Sophia pointed to a bench, and she and Lady Patience made their way over to it.

  “Are you feeling well, Your Grace?” Lady Patience said. There was obviously something the matter, something that might not have been the two deaths they’d just witnessed, although Lady Patience herself was feeling horribly queasy in their aftermath even though she hardly knew either of the participants.

  She’d never seen anyone die like that, not in person. Only in fabulas, and she preferred romantic stories, ones with happy endings, so she rarely watched kill mysteries or thrillers.

  “I just haven’t felt right for a few weeks now,” Sophia said.

  “Since the duke left,” Lady Patience said.

  “He’s not coming back,” Sophia said. She couldn’t look at Lady Patience when she said it. “And now two men are dead. There’ll be an investigation and they’ll close down the majestic.”

  “They will?” Lady Patience said. “Even that plague majestic wasn’t stopped, you know. The one where the woman died. I’m not sure they ever found out of what. But it wasn’t the plague. I don’t think.”

  “It wasn’t stopped?” the duchess said. “I’d thought it was.”

  “I’m sure your husband will come for you if you have Jewel Allman contact him,” Lady Patience said under her breath. She was breaking the first rule of a majestic by referring to a player’s actual life, something she herself would never want done. But Sophia looked terribly distressed.

  “No.” That was all Sophia said, then she turned to her side, away from Lady Patience, bent over the edge of the low garden bench, and threw up in the wet grass.

  When she turned back around, wiping at her mouth, she said, “Where do you think Violet went?”

  “Shouldn’t you get back to the house?” Lady Patience said. How could Sophia possibly be thinking about Violet right now? “Allene will be able to attend to you, and I’m sure you’d feel more comfortable reclining.”

  As any pregnant woman would, Lady Patience thought. Because the Duchess of Bedford—Marguerite Idrest, that is—was definitely pregnant. She’d been showing all the signs for weeks and, even under her pelisse, Lady Patience could see the growing bulge in Sophia’s abdomen.

  Was it the duke’s baby or Clive Idrest’s? Lady Patience wondered. The Idrests were in a class by themselves, much wealthier than even Pamela Hyland herself, who was among the elite of the elite. People like that led very different lives, Lady Patience knew, having affairs and dalliances that their spouse was fully aware of and probably approved of. Indulging their every whim. Finding new pastimes to fill their empty hours.

  As Pamela herself did. Yet today it all felt tragically wrong. Two men dead, Lettie destroyed, and her own heart’s desire seeming more distant and more impossible than ever.

  She’d seen the duke and duchess—Marguerite Idrest and whoever the duke was—together and had suspected the two were actually in love. You could clearly see that sort of thing in other people, especially when that was what you so yearned for yourself.

  Lady Patience glanced down at Sophia’s belly and took a guess. It had to be the duke, she thought. They’d been here too long, and Sophia was still able to hide it a bit.

  The two women stood.

  “What are you thinking, Lady Patience?” the duchess said.

  “That you’re a very lucky woman,” Lady Patience said.

  Sophia intermittently laughed and cried all the way back to the house.

  Chapter 58

  After Clive sent Alexander away, he sat, naked, stretched out on the wide slab that spread from the house’s living area out into the ocean itself. The woven mats had to be replaced every few weeks as the spray rotted them, but Clive liked the way the rough material felt under his skin, and the mats were cheap.

  Alexander really was quite accommodating. He’d have him over again soon. Perhaps tomorrow. Or later today. Besides being a loyal employee and an adept businessman, Alexander was a genius at displaying passion and an almost feral need. Clive appreciated that. The last few women had been very poor at portraying anything other than indifference and selfishness.

  Marguerite wasn’t selfish, but she was neither passionate nor did she have any need for Clive other than, of course, her need to stay alive and out of the slave labor colony on Outworld 12, where they sent convicted murderers. The average life expectancy there was five torturous months—the unlucky lived longer—and the stories that came out of the colony were unpleasant at best and horrifically gruesome at worst.

  Although these fearsome stories must have been a deterrent to most, yet they didn’t keep everyone from committing high crimes.

  Clive himself had murdered two people, neither of them anyone the universe missed, although he knew he’d never be caught. Marguerite knew she would be—if Clive chose to turn her in. Gilbert could actually turn her in as well, and she must have known that, but he’d never do it if he wanted to keep up the lavish life he was leading . . . or any life at all. Unless Clive ordered him to.

  Clive’s other lovers—and particularly Alexander—were incapable of giving him what he wanted most. What Marguerite would give him—a son.

  Clive hadn’t heard from Allene Dickens in nearly a month, and although he realized how difficult it could be to communicate during a majestic—even though he himself had found it rather easy at the two majestics he’d attended—still, Allene didn’t have the qualities necessary for such clandestine endeavors. Too hesitant. And too obedient, although that was really to his advantage.

  Allene had been hard enough to train as it was. He knew she was completely loyal to him, however, and he’d given her a task that only someone who was completely loyal to him could do: feed Marguerite the antidote every day without her suspecting what was happening.

  Clive knew Allene had done as she was told. She’d communicated with him once and assured him that everything was going according to plan, and of course Allene would do everything expected of her. She always did. But if Coburn hadn’t done his job before he was called back to Earth, Clive’s plans would have to be postponed yet again.

  He’d missed his opportunity at the last majestic Marguerite had gone to because he’d been unable to find anyone even half as reliable as Allene.

  The red-gold ocean washed up onto the slab, covering Clive’s legs and torso.
When the waves rolled back again, he looked down at his useless cock. It could fuck anything it wanted, for as long and as often as it wanted, but it couldn’t produce a son.

  At first he’d been certain it was Marguerite’s fault. Her resistance had created a chemical environment that made her barren. He’d convinced himself that was the case. But they’d been together now for nearly ten years, and three years ago he’d finally gotten himself checked and discovered the only thing he’d ever failed at.

  Nicholas Coburn would have to be his surrogate. Not the man he would’ve picked—in truth there was no man he would’ve picked—but he was the man Marguerite had chosen, so he’d have to do.

  If Allene didn’t contact him in the next few days, he’d have to resort to contacting her. That was more difficult, although there were other possibilities.

  The dark waves washed over him again and Clive sighed in sensual appreciation. He was so close to having everything he’d ever wanted.

  He knew that once Marguerite returned from the last majestic she’d ever be permitted to attend, that once she had her child and they were a real family, she’d finally return his love.

  In the meanwhile, he’d see Alexander again and revel in his freely given passion.

  Chapter 59

  Ah. So death wasn’t that bad after all.

  All those petty concerns everyone had about it. The fears. Sleepless nights. Terror. Ugly scenes. Morbid imaginings. Clawing at the eternal box, unable to open it, unable to hope to open it. Your screams unheard except by your own despairing soul. Assuming you still had one.

  This wasn’t the sulfurous stench he’d been expecting but instead the lovely aroma of horse manure and damp hay. Hell had never smelled so good in his imagination. Because that’s certainly where he was. Where he deserved to be.

  He’d killed the man who’d been his trusted friend for years, so it was fitting that he himself was dead, although he hadn’t felt the bullet and wasn’t sure he’d felt the impact either.