by Gwynn White
They flew alongside a cobblestone promenade adorned with canopy-covered gardens and cafes. There was no mist, no dank, no darkness, only the vibrantly colored night sky. The Uppers were out on Saturday, enjoying climes the Low would never know.
“There we go,” Jazz said. He straightened himself into his seat. Several meters up, valets waved gliders onto a landing. “Dexy, you got this?”
“You know it, baby.”
They fell into the queue to the promenade, one there, all three exited from the rear of the limo.
A valet rushed over to them. “Sir, you can’t—”
Jazz reached out and clutched the boy’s hand. The valet glanced at his wristband. When the credit total pinged three digits, his eyes lit up.
“Could you clear my driver?” Jazz asked.
“Yes, sir. Certainly, sir.” The valet looked toward the tinted canopy of the black-chromed craft then signaled toward another outside of a garage opening, further up the promenade. The glider gently slid forward and away.
The three strolled toward the deep red carpet, Leta escorted by a tuxedoed man on each arm. The other luxury craft gliding up to the landing were as high priced as any in the Homeland, and the mortals exiting them among the wealthiest. Except that the immaculately dressed guests exiting the crafts weren’t mortal at all, and as they walked past the three, the other guests studied them intently, with fiery embers glowing in their eyes.
32
The Marquis de Sade’s newly arrived filed up a red carpet to a waiting ember-eyed doorman. Abby, Leta, and Jazz stood in queue, watching him repeat his task. As each party approached, he ceremoniously parted the red velvet sash gate to allow entry through the club’s smoked glass doors. Each time the doors parted, the throbbing electronic bass pulse emanating from the great scarlet hall beyond sent a thick shrill hit to Abby’s neck.
Abby toned down his chin chip.
The bouncer at the door was merely aesthetic. The true gatekeeper waited in the dark wood-paneled room within, another Maro disguised as a mortal, the maître d’. Like the design of the club, the style of the maître d’s tuxedo was pulled from another time, as was his slicked-back black hair and pencil-thin mustache. With eyes glowing fire, he cast a menacing glare to every guest approaching the red curtain. The ominous demeanor that wouldn’t serve well in other establishments couldn’t be more expected, or fitting, in the Marquis.
As each guest waited to be seated, the mortal who wasn’t a mortal flashed a disapproving discriminatory sneer, waved his hand to someone unseen, then let his face become expressionless until a near naked beauty, a mortal girl wearing only a short sheer robe and an intricately embroidered black masquerade mask, would appear from inside the hall. She escorted the party to their table, and the sneer on the Maro’s face would return for the next guest.
Saturday evening was a peak time for the Marquis, and Abby figured nearly every Maro in the Upper was there in the pit. He eased forward in the queue, gazing over the shoulder of the maître d’ into the scarlet ballroom. The sheer space alone was a flex of Upper wealth. His Low bar could fit into the grand hall of the Marquis at least four times. A thousand shards of twinkling crystal dangled from the high ceiling chandeliers descending from concentric hoops. Beyond the huge chandeliers, a heavily ornamented wrought iron balcony was backlit by tall, thin, tinted French doors lining the entirety of the upper portion of the hall. Lush red velvet fabric covered the wall below, and in the center hung a magnificently huge, framed, oil-painted mural of a hooded nude woman, chained and in stocks, being whipped by another, the latter’s face hidden beneath an embroidered black mask of a kind that escorts wore. Below the painting, booths lined the wall. In front of them, curved leather sofas created small alcoves of the pit.
When their turn came to be greeted, the pencil-stached maître d’ made his obligatory show of distaste and began to motion for a girl, then stopped mid-gesture. The red of his eyes flared a determined, incriminating accusation. Dryly, he said, “Mister Jazz. We are…” He paused to lasciviously scan Leta head to toe, then, focused on her midsection, continued, “Pleased that you have chosen to join us once again, and may I remark that you have such a beautiful pet.” His eyes darted toward Abby. “However, you must understand, this is a members only club.”
The electronic beat in the hall had softened, and Jazz absently bobbed in time with the subtle seductive notes. Jazz briefly acknowledged the thin man with a half-smile.
The maître d’ focused his attention on Leta. She peered right back, her coal black eyes burrowing into his fiery embers.
Jazz waited for a long moment then, without making eye contact, coolly said, “He’s a foreign buyer.”
Abby pulled the vid card from his jacket and offered his credentials.
The eyes of the maître d’ went wide.
Abby offered the man an insincere pencil smile of his own.
The maître d’ shrugged and said, “That means nothing to me.” He returned the vid card. “You will need to set up an appointment.” He leered again at Leta. His tongue ran across his upper lip. “She can enter while you sort this. Alone.”
“Hey, now—” Abby said. Jazz silenced him by placing a hand on his chest. He leaned in to whisper something in the maître d’s ear, then stepped back to the side to resume his absent gaze into the hall.
Abby was sure he saw the Adam’s apple of the maître d’ gulp down the Maro equivalent of stomach acid.
The maître d’ raised his hand again, and from the side a nude nymph approached. His words were forced from pursed lips, “I assume you would prefer to wait near the stage.”
“Not necessary,” Jazz said. “You don’t mind if we just head upstairs?”
The maître d’ was stone silent. The red of his eyes pierced Abby. After a pause, he finally said, “As you wish. The girl will lead the way.”
Jazz and Leta were already stepping forward in disregard of the maître d’. Abby nodded, then let him freely greet his next guest so that the thought of the intrusion would pass.
Their escort led them along an aisle that ran above the pit and the series of small leather-couched alcoves surrounding the stage.
Jazz grinned and said, “I thought he was going to pop.”
Abby chuckled. “I think he was close.”
“What did you say to the creep?” Leta asked.
“One word,” Jazz said.
“Which was?”
With a hiss, Jazz said, “Ssabra.”
“Okay, and what does”—she mimicked the hiss—“ssabra mean, anyway?”
“Sabra runs a Macca game. The maître d’s in large.”
Leta smiled. “Would you look at this place?” she said aloud. The glint of the flickering amber sconces reflected across her shiny black orbs.
Several more expansive murals, each depicting their own sadomasochistic scenes, ran along the high red velvet of the walls, from the entrance to the grand staircase at the far end of the hall. Two more huge chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, and beneath the second, in the middle of the room, was the small circular stage upon which two muscular, hooded naked men mounted a masked naked woman, one from the front and one from behind. The bodies of the three slowly gyrated in time with the throbbing ethereal music which, from inside the hall, was as thick as the air. The expressionless guests surrounding the stage lounged on the sofas in different stages of dress, fondling each other, their escorts, or receiving some other act of pain or pleasure from the girl altogether.
“I take it you’ve never been?” Jazz asked.
“That would be right,” Leta said.
“The Marquis.” The grin across Jazz’s face grew wide. “Nothing like it in the Meg. The pit here is nothing. The casino in the back is high stakes, and what goes on upstairs… Well, you don’t want to know what goes on up there.” Their escort beckoned, and Jazz followed.
Leta glanced at Abby. “Bronson is…?”
Abby smirked and said, “Upstairs.” He offered his arm a
nd she again let him lead.
“Yes,” she said. “Upstairs.”
They followed the large circle aisle a quarter way around the room, then near the stage their escort stopped. The escorts of the Marquis were age modded a year younger than most to possess a particularly youthful glow, and regardless of whatever her true age was, she moved with the elegance of a sprite. On tiptoe, she slowly spun to face them, keeping her feet crossed and eloquently spreading an arm to each side as she did. Up close, they could see the mask she wore wasn’t embroidered, rather a metal webbing and adorned with tiny gems. She tilted her masked head side to side playfully then extended a right-hand finger toward the pit. With a sweet voice, she said, “If you like, we can play near the stage.” She retracted the finger, shifted her gaze toward the nearby booth, and extended a finger from her left hand in that direction. “Or we can play up here.” She pulled her arms in to hug herself then gave a giggle.
Abby’s ocular caught the curtain shift behind the tint of the French door glass above. “Get that?” he asked. The three had done as expected, faced the stage then faced the wall.
Jazz and Leta each sounded back, “Yeah.”
The camera at the door hadn’t been sufficient. Bronson, or one of his Maro minions, wanted a good look for himself.
“Upstairs is fine,” Jazz said aloud.
The girl clasped her hands and she lifted herself even higher on her toes. “Oh?” she asked. “We’re going directly to a suite?”
Jazz cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
The girl bowed her head, spun back around toward the grand staircase, then led them to the edge of the hall. As they passed the side booths and passion pits, they witnessed more carnal acts and more than a few fiery leers. The leers weren’t because of the audacious browsing as they passed. The Maro rather enjoyed exhibition and these lascivious acts were mild for the Marquis, merely heavy petting with a cocktail. The leers were for what the Maro knew the three to be, or rather what they weren’t. Had they been Maro, the three would’ve fit perfectly in their guise. Jazz wore his boyish scruffy charm as if he were born in a tux, and Abby, shimmer or not, was easily as debonair. Age mods aided all in staying beautiful, and the silk scarf he wore lent charm. He was unaware if Leta had mods. Regardless, she was astounding, and like any true beauty, carried herself in a respectful demure manner, despite being dressed in less than anything she would ever choose to wear publicly.
The discomfort with revealing herself in the scant attire wasn’t a matter of mere modesty.
Leta was a Bureau captain. That meant she was trained in a coed camp the same as Abby, only hers was co-race. Showering with fellow cadets was one thing. Sure, there were hormones, but walking through the Marquis in something close to a negligée was something far different, and the Maro were all too ready to share their lewd thoughts through long licks of their tongues across lips, fingers, or other parts as daring invitations to the passing three.
“Are you—” Abby began to ask Leta through his chin chip.
“Fine,” she said, cutting him off.
Abby was sure that she was fine. There was power in being a member of the Bureau. The three strutted with cocky swagger, untouchable. Still, Abby, Jazz, and Leta didn’t belong in the hedonistic den, neither by morals nor by race.
“There are mortals here,” Leta said through her chin chip.
The fiery eyes on some was produced by shimmer. If Abby could see it, so could she.
“Wealthy Elite and Upper wannabes,” Jazz said. “You’ve heard of the Lumen order. Here they are, mingling with the Reds.” He smiled at a tall guest as they passed each other in the aisle. “Sick, if you ask me.”
“The Marquis,” Abby said, “isn’t just a Maro club. It’s a gathering place for a certain type of Maro.”
“The Kasmine,” Leta said.
“That’s right. Those special Maro that have always had a fetish for the Alpha Plane, for the mortal, for the grandeur of mortal wealth.”
“And for their Lumen dogs,” Jazz said. “You know, they say the Marquis himself was a Kasmine.”
“I heard he was Lumen,” Abby said.
Leta glanced up at the balcony atop the grand stairwell. “You really think this Bronson has what you’re looking for?”
Abby’s eyes darted up. “I have a hunch.”
33
Their ascension of the grand steps revealed another vast ceiling beyond, more cascading chandeliers, and ultimately the Marquis casino. The casino furnishings mirrored the hall they’d just left: red velvet walls, debauchery-themed murals, and, continuing from the first hall, a line of black tinted French doors behind an ornate iron balcony. The pleasure pit and stage show were replaced by games of chance. Finely-dressed players slid stacks of rectangular platinum chips across tightly packed Macca tables, betting sums that meant nothing to most. Spinning holographic spheres hovered above other crowded tables, the crescendo of those huddled close, building to match the higher and higher speed of the multi-colored lights that bulleted around the circumference in lightning orbits, letting out cheers at each explosive collision. Though the sphere games were among the most festive, all of the tables were crowded, and all aisles full.
Rather than descend the stairs to the casino, the escort veered to the right, toward a curtain. Leta asked, “Bronson is that way?”
Abby answered, “That curtain is the passage to the suites.”
“The suites are private, I take it?”
“Very. The ones above the casino are for the high stakes tile games.”
“High stakes?”
“No-chip games, where wagers are digitally recorded.”
On cue, the high pitch of a phase pistol rang out and a tuxedoed man burst from a set of French doors near the end of the casino. He soared high above the crowd, then, barely missing the farthest of the huge crystal chandeliers, slammed down onto a table. The casino fell to murmur at the breaking of the glass then, upon the thud of the table, resumed their gaming fervor. A patron near the table threw his hands up, and a floor man rushed to console him.
Leta nodded toward the four large tuxedos rushing to remove the fallen man. “Very high stakes, I take it.”
“The highest.”
“And the suites above the pit?”
“You don’t want to know.”
He glanced toward the pleasure pockets of the pit below: black leather alcoves, each a single living cell, symmetrically interlinked into one massive organism that breathed and pulsed to the esoteric music that thrummed through the hall.
The perspective from the balcony was vastly different from the floor level. There were hundreds writhing in the red of the spectrum, reminiscent of the vast lairs in the Maro Plane. Abby had seen this before, here at the Marquis, and in the Maro Plane during the war. In the depths of the ancestral caverns of the large clans, warriors would return to perpetual orgies, the heart of the Maro culture. From the pits came the Maro spawn, their family lines told by the shape of their horns and the markings on their red flesh. The mild pleasure pit below wasn’t the intense orgy of a lair, only a reminder of their home, of their culture. But these Maro had taken mortal form, and down in this pit there were mortals that’d taken the personage of the Red. His upper lip curled at the thought. This was an orgy of pretenders.
Perhaps the century had dulled him, because the thought would’ve once triggered action. He squinted at Jazz, walking just ahead, another of the handful of men that’d shared his experience before, during, and after the war. Jazz didn’t seem to be distracted by the happenings of the Marquis below, the casino, or the pit. Abby looked closer. Jazz was subtly nodding his head, tapping his fingertips to his pants. His friend appeared to be interested in only the music, and nothing else. There was bliss.
Leta also appeared to be unbothered by the pettiness of the flesh. He wondered if her beauty was what made her immune. He guessed her ability to probe into the mind of mortal or Maro had taught her that most shared similar sexual forethought. Tha
t was one of the reasons the female agents were assigned body-tight armor. Certainly, the leather had a superior and technical functionality. But there was that added enhancement of a body-hugging uniform that gave the bearer the benefit of distracting their subject, cultivating, if only briefly, a subject’s hesitation. He’d hesitated in thought for a moment when he met her. Then again, he told himself, that was because she was an Umbra.
After spending one day with her, he’d already become accustomed to the blackness of her eyes.
He was thinking too much.
Abby let his eyes rest on their escort as she led them through the curtained passage, her hips swaying with her stride. This was the second time in less than a day he’d trailed behind a near naked woman. This morning, he and Leta had followed Darya Bedrosian through Mahayana, Winslow’s Arcadian estate. Their escort’s scantily covered hips seemed to sway with the same rhythm as the beautiful doctor. Perhaps, he thought, the motion appeared the same because the doctor had been clad in a sheer robe not much different than the one their escort wore. There was also the similarity that both were incredibly gorgeous. The women of the Marquis were harvested from the syndicate brothels, mortal women chosen for their beauty and tolerance toward pain. This was no secret. Like Abby and Jazz, the girls had mods that would speed the healing process. But unlike him, they had nothing to dull the pain. What numerous tortures had the girl in front of him undergone? An image of a flashing whip and a curdling scream jarred him. He shut down the thought.
That these girls were greatly rewarded for their role in the club was also no secret. A Marquis girl would easily retire MidHi or even Upper if they had the right sponsor, and these ladies worked hard for their sponsors. The same beauties that were dealt pain more often than not were pain dealers themselves. As the three followed, their escort passed the curtained, arched doors of the suites, and he could hear them at work, dispensing loud cracking lashes followed by cruel commentary.
Farther up the hallway, a cat, fluffy and black, lurched his head from beneath a heavy red curtain that covered the entrance of a private suite. When the cat peered up at them, his eyes went bright red, in much the same way as the Maros in mortal form, though not exactly. Abby sharpened his gaze. His ocular optics kicked in and an augment covered the cat’s face. A syn. Their escort raised her hand and flipped her hair, then brought a seductively innocent eye back to them. With her hand still raised, she extended her index finger in the direction of the cat. “Isn’t he marvelous?” she asked. “We call him Lucky. He is the club’s pet.”
