by M. Suddain
‘But so obstructive. Worse than you. I mean, the pair of you … You should hear the way she spoke to me last night. The names.’
‘Really? What did she call you?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t.’
‘No, go on. It would help me understand. I do want to help.’
‘… Well, she called me “fucker”?’
‘Obviously. Classic.’
‘And she called me …’ He cleared his throat, ‘“… Doctor Difuckyourmouth”?’
‘Mmg-hmmmg. Go on.’
‘Well, she called me … “Captain Shitbeard”? … Are you laughing?’
‘No, I’m … No. Please, go on.’ The taste of blood. I could feel the sinew in my fingers crackle between my teeth.
‘She called me … Doctor Fatty McFatenfucker? And … You are laughing!’
‘I’m sorry!’
‘You people! You’re very hurtful. I haven’t had your benefits, Jonathan. I only knew women from photographs before I was a teenager. I grew up inside a giant computer, way out there in the hubs.’23 He pointed somewhere as he began to pace in front of his bookshelves. Which, as I think I’ve mentioned, contained only copies of his book.24 This strange little goblin. Stomping and waving his arms. ‘Which you’d know if you even bothered to read my book.25 We can’t all be some … paragon! Some of us have work! I need to gather the widest possible amount of information to tailor the user experience. Yes? I think you gave me false data. To sabotage me.’
‘Never!’
‘If you don’t want to cooperate, fine. Maybe we’ll get Mr Blades to pay us a visit again. Yes?’
‘Let’s not do that.’
‘See what he has to say about things.’
‘Let’s not do that. No point, really.’
‘Oh, you don’t want to do that?’
‘No.’
‘To get Mr Blades in here?’
‘No.’
‘To talk about your fears?’
‘No. Just complicates things.’
‘Does it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Does it complicate things? Having a seven-foot-tall, blade-wielding clown take you through a breathing and relaxation session?’
I spoke as gently as I could. ‘Listen, Doctor. I apologise. It’s been a hard day. My staff and I have been exposed to unusually high levels of extreme violence for a seven-star establishment. Maybe we can help each other. See, I very much want to have my meal. And in the process I very much want us not to get horribly murdered. And Gladys will be impressed with the way you drugged me. So bold. And the fact that she’s resisting is a good sign.’
‘You think?’
‘Most definitely. It’s a good sign she’s calling you names. It’s schoolyard psych.’
‘Yes, I suppose it’s true. Is it wrong, Jonathan, that I … no.’
‘Go on, please. I’m listening.’
‘Well. Is it wrong that I kind of … liked it?’
‘Liked it?’
‘It doesn’t matter. Such names, though. Gods. How do you even begin to understand these creatures?’
‘Well, you just have to do your homework. Gladys hates flowers. She collects cactuses. Her interests are killing, and skating.’
‘Ice skating?’
‘Yes.’ (This is actually true, Colette. Gladys often sneaks off to go ice skating. She thinks I don’t know.)
‘That’s useful. I can use that information.’
‘I know. I’m here to help. Help me and I’ll help you.’
‘She won’t participate in our mandatory sessions, Jonathan. So hostile. And my Master is asking questions. You do not want him to ask questions, believe me.’
‘I do, Rubin, I do.’
‘Ms Green has the potential to be extremely disruptive. Her sleep-defences are fantastic. You know she doesn’t even really sleep? She’s unihem? She shuts down half her brain at a time. Like a duck.’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Fascinating specimen. Have you read any of her journals? They’re wonderful.’
‘No.’ (A lie.) ‘But I can tell you she enjoys discussing them with people. You should definitely bring it up in your next session. Now. My meal.’
‘Huh? Oh yes, I’ll ask around about that. Just don’t mention it to Shabazzniov. He takes pleasure in finding out what guests want most and then withholding it from them.’
I woke on my back, on the restroom floor. Now the back of my head was throbbing, too. Someone had put a pillow under it. They were definitely fucking with me. ‘… Tommy?’
Gone. Sam the elevator man loomed over me. I smothered a small unmanly yelp.
‘Had a cousin who used to nap on restroom floors at airports when she went about. Said they were cooler and more comfortable than the communal rooms. Said that’s why they call them “restrooms”.’
‘Makes sense, Sam.’ I stood, tucked the pillow under my arm.
‘You were told about fraternising with staff?’ He towered over me.
‘It was mentioned. Anyway, isn’t your line in elevators?’
‘Elevators are part of my job. I’m Head of Security.’
‘Ahhhh.’
‘Yep.’
‘Well, good for you!’ I gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder, was like slapping granite. ‘Quick question, Sam. Am I actually going to get my meal, or have they just brought me down here to fuck me over?’
He smiled. ‘Not my department.’
‘Right, security.’
‘And elevators. You’d better get back. Your friends will be getting worried.’
Espantapájaros was at his desk. An upgrade would not be possible.
‘We are fully booked. Fully.’ He wandered over to a small file-index on the counter and flipped through it to a card near the back. Then he put on an outsized pair of phones, punched a forty-six-digit number.
‘Where’s Gladys, Beast?’
‘Ladies’ conveniences. Said she wouldn’t be a minute. Where’d you get the pillow?’
‘Restroom.’
‘Makes sense.’
‘Can I perhaps offer you gentlemen compensation for your inconveniences?’ continued Espantapájaros as he waited for the call to ring through. ‘Perhaps a massage, or a round of cocktails?’ I imagined this massage: a set of muscled hands closing around my larynx, gently kneading me into a state of relaxation. ‘Ah, Ms Grillmouth, good day, it’s Mr Espantapájaros from Station One …’
‘Shit’s getting weird, Beast.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘We might need to add another problem to the problem list. A big one.’
‘Oh?’
‘This Doctor Rubin guy is coming on strong. I think we might have a Nettlemeyer situation.’
‘Oh? Crazy.’
Christopher Nettlemeyer was a strange kid with a big dream, Colette. He wanted to make bespoke viruses for lovers. He wanted them to become as central as perfume in the courtship ritual. He called his company Animal Attraction. He met our G at the party and became obsessed. He wanted to test his prototype on her. She laughed him away. Months later he came back. He’d sold his company to Radioware Omniheart for billions. He said he’d give it all to her if she’d be with him. She laughed louder. So he did the only thing left to a man in his position: he indulged the darker side of his obsession. He haunted her. Which, I mean … if you could pick a woman not to try that shit with … Didn’t end well for Christopher. G is a professional, until you cross a certain line.
‘So how’s my legal position?’
‘Hmmm?’
‘The contract.’
‘Oh. Well, you’re fucked.’
‘Right.’
‘You signed a contract which contains an iron-clad non-disclosure agreement preventing you from writing a single word about this place. They can sue you for everything. It’s actually kind of funny, from one angle. Though not from all the other angles.’
‘They can’t take everything, surely.’
‘You agreed to level
your estate as bond. Also, the company who owns this place is legally established in the Near East, so there’s a potential death penalty for defaulting.’
‘Amazing.’
‘I know, hilarious. You also agreed to give them unlimited access to the contents of your conscious and unconscious mind. Also something called a psychological modality forfeiture clause, which I don’t quite understand.’
‘I’m being played here.’
‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’
‘You know what, Espantapájaros? I think we will take those cocktails. And an audio-visual tour.’
‘Both excellent ideas, sir. And when would you like to schedule each of those?’
‘Presently, and concurrently!’
He looked at his watch. ‘It is a little after eight, sir.’
‘I know, an uncivilised hour for a tour.’
‘What he means,’ said Woodbine, ‘is that we would like our audio-visual tour, and our cocktails to go.’
G came sauntering out of the ladies’ conveniences, too casual. I saw a maid leave directly after.
‘Look at that. Acting casual.’
‘Like I said, Beast. Shit’s getting weird. All right, Gladys?’
‘Fine.’
‘What’s our security status?’
‘Fucked in all holes.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Did you really write a love note to that ginger girl?’
‘How the fuck could you have –’
‘Everyone’s talking about it.’
‘Seriously, Boss?’
‘Look, I sent a polite note to an individual apologising for some words which might have upset them.’
‘Sure, and she’ll definitely take it that way. And so will the guy who wants to buff her shoes.’
‘Massimo’s a reasonable man. I assume. These are reasonable people. Right, Espantapájaros?’
‘Sir?’
‘Oh, they definitely are.’ Gladys flicked her eyes at a spot over my shoulder. I hadn’t noticed the foot-high letters painted in black boot polish on a slab of marble near the Grand Staircase.
DETH TO THE FANCIMAN
‘Gladys.’
‘Yes, Jonathan?’
‘This Mr Fanciman. How much peril would you say he’s in? No need to use the colour code.’
‘No idea. But he probably shouldn’t bother having his dinner jacket cleaned.’
‘I doubt he could even tell you where his dinner jacket is.’
A mess. This was all a complete mess.
Then we heard Beast cry, ‘At LAST!’ as two porters wheeled in an omelette station roughly the size of a small kitchen.
22 ‘… What are the limits of this machine architecture? Could we build machines which could feel pain, or fear? Or love? And is this something we’d want to curse our electronic brethren with?’
23 ‘… I think I understand machines so well because I grew up inside one. True story! My folks were doctors who ran a clinic for the mentally infirm inside a 120,000NM-wide computer out on the eastern side of Fire River. People can be born anywhere. The hubs are fantastic feats of engineering. They are covered in oceans, just like a terrestrial world. This keeps the delicate computer components cool, and shields them from solar radiation.’
24 ‘… As we continue our long journey towards a species, and a society, which has peace, stability and compassion as its goal, which aims to provide all its citizens with the essentials of life: a home, food, fulfilling labour. And love, even? That mystifying obsessional crisis which, if it didn’t give us happiness, we would treat as a hostile neurosis, a plague on our soul. Is there room for love in our ideal model of the future? Could a future without love even be imaginable?’
25 ‘… Exposure to a machine the size of a planet can have a pretty destructive effect on the human mind. A lot of our patients had hyper-kinetic dysphasia. Some had tumours or blindness from working too close to the massive battery arrays. Others had chronic mental conditions from lives spent routing information through their own neural pathways. It never ended. I was still very young when I started to wonder: “Hey. Why do people have to do this kind of work at all? Why can’t we have machines to do it? Machines are faster and more accurate and when they break you can fix them real easy. Just throw in some new parts!”’
NOTES ON AN EGG BREAKFAST AND AN AUDIOVISUAL TOUR THROUGH THE CORRIDORS OF THE EMPYREAN, CULMINATING IN A STRANGE MEETING WITH A BEAUTIFUL STRANGER
Prepare to take a journey into history. Within the prism of this floating jewel you’ll find refracted all the colour and shadow cast by the fires of the ages.
The sandy echo of a woman’s voice from long ago was reading a potted history of the hotel through a hidden audio system. Elviron Kharnovar was a factory heir and influential Western art dealer who had huge success acquiring Eastern fine art and antiquities and selling them to Western collectors. He decided he wanted to build the greatest establishment in the Cloud, and use it to showcase his vast collection of antiques. His venue was modelled on an ancient Kaukassian hunting palace. He wanted a traditional ocean launch, and all the accompanying blessings of the sea gods. A special island was built on Zoraster. A lesser princess was given protective glasses and a kind of shoulder-mounted cannon to fire a bottle of Cru at the ship. The bulk hit the ocean with a thunderclap which sent the VIPs fleeing for their lives. When the wave broke it took sixteen workers to the depths. For almost a thousand years it was the very idea of what a grand hotel should be. It became the venue for members of the fashion, art and entertainment elite. If you were someone, you were here.
This treasure from the East has lived through ages of turmoil and tragedy. Now it is a jewel in the crown of White Star Travel and Leisure. Who knows what treats and terrors await us in the halls above?
Our narrator’s well-modulated voice was oiled with wit, and dusted with husky passion. During some of the more lurid passages it fell to a sensuous whisper. A porter, Ron, stood by with a tray of drinks. He was a snub-nosed boy made prematurely middle-aged by a receding hairline. He held the tray in the palms of his hands as he stared expressionlessly into space. Sometimes I thought I caught his lips moving silently as he meditated, but I wasn’t certain.
‘Why are we taking a fucking tour, John?’
‘Hmm? Because it might lead to something useful. And because if we stay in our suite we’ll end up killing each other.’
Beast was on his second drink, and we hadn’t even left the lobby. He’d eaten three omelettes with a brutality which could only be seen as a declaration of war on egg-kind. G was sulking hungrily.
‘You OK, Boss? You look a little pale.’
‘I’m fine, Beast. Just the eggs sitting funny.’
‘Don’t sweat the contract. Maybe we can argue intimidation, or duress. In the meantime we’ll live plenty well off what Esmeralda gave you.’
‘Yes, good plan.’ I drained my glass, said, ‘Another please, Ron.’
Imagine life in one of the small villages back in the days when the hunting palace which inspired this hotel was built. It is Harvest Eve, and the young girls of the village have gathered at the river to cleanse themselves for the feast …
We heard the swarming trill of spring pipes, saw bathing beauties tastefully obscured by the twilight shadows.
… After cleansing they would flow up in a line through the trees and dance the Dance of Abduction.
A mob of young women fled the shadows, their cheeks flushed, their forms obscured through their frail cotton dresses; they began to dance in circles round us, their bare feet softly slapping on the hard floor. They flung handfuls of golden grain into the air. It made the sound of crashing waves upon the marble. Fat white bees flew past our faces, we heard the sound of birds, felt the warm/wet smell of spring pastures in our nostrils.
‘All right then,’ said Beast.
The girls formed a ring and spun about us. One skipped forward to give Gladys a flower. She accepted it gingerly. I saw Beast take a ste
p back to avoid a collision, expertly shielding the lip of his cocktail glass with his hand. Behind the feverishly moving circle was a second ring of boys in country outfits holding reaphooks and scythes. They performed their own steps with menacing solemnity.
‘This might actually have been a terrible idea. Gladys?’ She said nothing.
Most of us no longer live on Terrestrial worlds, but think how those ancient times are preserved in words we still use – spring and summer; day and night; hour, month and year. They flow past us like a river. Even the word ‘sky’ belongs to those times. And our Harvest rituals remain with us. From Centigrad to Solidad, they still dance these dances at the beginning of each celestial year, in honour of Agrippas, who falls into the Underworld each winter, but whose return brings light into the world.
The ancient dance faded, the girls, the birds, the bees, the golden grain vanished, and we were left alone. Briefly.
Now follow us to the Grand Staircase. It is modelled on the mighty steps which led up to the ancient temples of Atum, where epic sacrifices to the old gods took place. After the siege of Arcitomox, some three million surviving citizens were taken back to Atum to have their still beating hearts removed.
We saw dark gold silhouettes at the top of the stairs. We saw the flash of steel. I heard Gladys say, ‘Might want to look away, Daniel.’ But it was too late. I heard Beast’s breakfast make a run for the front exit.
… The severed vena carva and aorta sends up a geyser of blood. The priest sucks a little from the abdomen with a straw and ritualistically splashes it on the body. The body is cast down the steps of the temple. Then, lunch. The hearts are served to the Emperor and his guests. The leftover hearts are given to the male servers, who gift them to the girls they secretly admire. And this is where we get the name for this most famous Harvest feast: the Feast of Hearts.
‘Fascinating, just fascinating.’
… And while our steps have never seen this much blood, they are by no means pristine. There, near the top of the Grand Staircase, occurred one of our establishment’s more infamous scenes, when the garment artist Dojo Kazmakatzi shot and killed her lover, the multidimensional-photo-impressionist Georgio Fantimas, in a fit of jealous rage.
Kazmakatzi and Fantimas, projected into space and time from the mysterious phantomworld we call the past. The bullet passing on a shallow track through the frontal bone just above the left eye, the body of the man thudding sickeningly on the marble, snakes of blood escaping down the steps. Kazmakatzi lets the pistol fall, too, and falls to her knees beside him, her fur coat splitting at the belly. She cradles his gaping head, and weeps tears which mingle with the blood soaking through her dress, before the scene itself fades like an old picture. ‘I’m drinking,’ Gladys said as she snatched a glass from the tray and slopped the contents into her maw. She threw the glass away and rubbed a hand through her hair. She held the flower in her other hand.
