A Gluttony of Plutocrats (The Respite Trilogy Book 1)

by Ella Swift Arbok

  He smiled. “An interesting body?”

  Time to hedge. “I saw nothing unusual. Wait. There was a tattoo on her left buttock. Numbers?”

  “What numbers?” A challenge? A hint of suspicion?

  I took a couple of breaths, wrinkling my forehead in an imitation of concentration. “Well, the tattoo didn’t have my full attention. I didn’t expect a memory test. I think there was more than one seven. Does it matter?”

  He drew on his cigar, holding the smoke in his mouth before releasing it. He jabbed a finger toward me. “Lemuel, you’re clever, perhaps too clever, but you don’t play the game. We are a team. We own and rule Respite. I’m sure you understand that. Two things unite us. Do you know what they are?”

  Linnet had been curious about the use of one phrase. “Full comforts? Would that be one? You cater to each other’s perversions, meet any desire no matter how depraved. Between you, I think you also control the law. Why else diplomatic immunity, or the secretive laws of National Security?”

  There was still wine in my glass. I drained it. Bernard, or another, glided across crisp snow. I declined a replacement.

  Bandstorm waved the young man away. “And the second thing?”

  I had nothing to suggest.

  A modest saloon car drew up nearby. Briggs stepped out and waited by its door.

  Bandstorm nodded toward the car. “It’s for you. I’m sending you home. You’re not ready for tonight’s fun and games, and you probably won’t enjoy tomorrow’s breakfast.”

  I started to rise, but he held out a hand. “Not yet. The second thing that unites our circle is knowledge of each other’s peccadilloes. By knowledge, I mean photographs, sometimes recorded sound. In the deepest archive of every estate, on every yacht, in every temple or plantation of Respite, information that binds us is protected, usually in the name of National Security. You need not fear discovery.”

  I glanced at Briggs and at the waiting car, desperate to join them. “That’s comforting, Hector. I shall remember that next time.”

  If I could leave with Briggs, I would be safe. I might not have achieved everything I came to do, but I would have survived. At that moment I could ask no more.

  For the second time during our brief meeting, Bandstorm glanced at my combi.

  I reached under the collar of my coat and lifted the hydro-leather thong over my head. “This was one of my first purchases on the planet—twenty-fourth century, according to the shopkeeper, from I-don’t-remember-where in Elysium.”

  “So, not your grandfather’s.”

  “Ah, no. In those early days I desperately wanted to be a part of this planet.” I laid it on the table in front of him. “Will you accept it as a token of my thanks?”

  Bandstorm picked it up, took an eyeglass from his pocket, and examined it. “This is fine workmanship. The silver inlay suggests quality.” He pocketed the combi and eyeglass. “Why the gift?”

  “After what you have given me? You’ve opened my mind to a world of power.”

  Bandstorm clicked his fingers. The guards moved toward him. One put a hand by Bandstorm’s elbow and helped him to his feet.

  He called to Briggs, spoke a few words that sent Briggs hurrying off, then shook his head. He turned to me. “Lemuel Oneway, you’re a puzzle. I don’t like puzzles, and I don’t tolerate disappointments. I shall be watching every move you make, and I have eyes everywhere.”

  Briggs opened the car door for me with less than his usual animosity. “We must make a stop on the way, sir. The master’s instructions. I’ve put a goat meat sandwich in the wine fridge. Anything else?”

  I opened the panel in front of the seat. Sandwich, wine, glass. “Justin, could you get me water please? In a wine bottle will do.”

  Soon we set off. As we passed through the gates of Bandstorm’s estate, I began to relax. I hadn’t escaped his tyranny. I still worked for him. I was in a car driven by one of his more intimidating employees, but I was free of his immediate control.

  The wind rose, whipping snow from the ground and throwing it against the car. Wipers slugged across the windshield.

  Briggs pulled aside the window that separated us. “Why did you call me that?”

  What had I called him? “Justin? Isn’t that your name?”

  He pulled the window back.

  After a few minutes, we turned off the Cragglemouth road to a small side road. It entered woodland.

  I tapped on the window, but it brought no reaction.

  After another half mile, the car pulled up in a clearing just off the road. Briggs got out and opened the passenger door. “If you would care to step outside, sir.”

  An icy wind entered the vehicle. I pulled my coat around my shoulders. “I’m comfortable here, if you’d close the door, please.”

  Briggs’s smile tightened. “Sorry. A serious case of overtraining. Nothing personal, but the master’s instructions. Get out, or I’ll pull you out, sir.”

  I got out, my legs shaking.

  Briggs leaned his back against the car. He took a pack of cigarettes from a pocket, extracted one, offered me one, and pocketed the pack when I declined. He lit his cigarette with a silver lighter, drew hard on it, and blew out smoke in a stream. He pointed. “Senator Wellar’s estate. See? Over there.”

  I followed the line of his arm.

  A house no less impressive than Bandstorm’s flickered through the trees and falling snow, beyond a stone wall. Landscaped gardens and farmland surrounded it.

  Beyond the farms and near the main road were two gray, windowless buildings. Briggs pointed to one of them. “That’s the senator’s sausage factory. The smaller building is his bonemeal plant. He’s an enterprising man. Now, the master thought you might like to take a few moments to consider your future. I’ll wait with you, if you don’t mind.”

  I brushed snow from a cut-off tree trunk.

  Briggs reached inside the car, extracted a blanket, and threw it over the stump.

  I sat.

  He paced as he smoked. He turned to me as if to speak, then changed his mind. When the cigarette became too short to hold, he flicked it into the snow and watched as its red glow died. “Come on, I’m getting cold.”

  We had reached the outskirts of Cragglemouth before he spoke again. “You can’t beat them, you know. They’re everywhere. They make the rules and enforce the rules. They stand together in all things. Now, where to?”

  I mulled over his words as we traveled.

  After dropping off my baggage at Dempster’s, Briggs drove on, letting me out at the south end of Revelation Bridge.

  I stepped out, not waiting for him to open my door. “You think I’m fighting them?”

  He closed the door. “Why else would you come to such a gathering? Word gets around, you know. You clearly have no interest in the pleasures they offer.”

  He took a cardboard box from his pocket. “A gift from the master, but don’t get too excited. It’s a Draco Trading pentagram.”

  I waited until he had driven away before I turned toward the houseboat. You can’t beat them, he had said, not You can’t beat us. Whose side was Briggs on?

  Chapter 19

  The ecstasy of freedom proved ephemeral. I had escaped Bandstorm’s immediate control, but while I lived in Eden, I couldn’t evade the tentacles of Respite’s cabal.

  What to do? With Sy and Emily at the Winter Games, I couldn’t sleep alone on the boat. What if they came for me in the night, whoever they might be?

  On the last night of 2626, I stayed at Bluefinch Avenue. No logic involved. They could take me from there, but it was less isolated, and the walls were stone. Twice I woke to the sound of boots marching over pebbles—Mabel snoring in the next room. Dreams, none of them that I would share with a child, flitted across my semiconscious mind. Children screamed. Bandstorm’s pudgy fingers wrapped themselves around my skull and squeezed.

  The radio-alarm woke me. Hearing that the Molotaver dam was once again to go ahead brought me less cheer than it w
ould once have done.

  I rolled on my back and stared at the cracked plaster of the ceiling. I had no desire to get out of bed, but what else? Lie there until I died of starvation or cowardice? I had to face my fears. I had to exhaust my body and refresh my mind.

  I dressed and hurried from the house, denying second thoughts a chance. So what that it was Wednesday? Time for the long Sunday run. A few stretches, then a steady jog to complete my warm-up.

  At Ramblers’ Bridge, I started the stopwatch and set off along the canal path. Past woodland and metalworks, farms and waterfront estates, I maintained a steady pace. One easy step after another. Step. Step. Step. I embraced the repetitive, meditative calm of that simple action. At one with the holiness of nature. No attempt to rein my thoughts.

  What next? Had I done enough to placate Bandstorm? Cereal farm on the left, the Craggle’s northern tributary to my right. Dark-gray clouds. The song of a thrush. Water lapping against the river’s edge. Janet 773 and our elevated meeting. Was Bandstorm fooled?

  He let me live, at least for the moment, with a clear warning. Why? Did he still believe I could be won over? Did he think I had been won over?

  Step. Step. Step - after hypnotic - step.

  Had Briggs spoken to the elevator Janet? What did he report to the master? Did Bandstorm think I would become an asset to the brotherhood, with my knowledge of Earth’s more advanced technology?

  Where did they come from, the Janets and the Bernards? Where did they go when they could no longer serve or please?

  And the misfortunates, by any other name. And those taken from safe homes. Could I doubt how their days ended?

  Step. Step.

  The scent of pine as I plowed along a woodland path. Crunching ice underfoot.

  Powerful men. Each knew the form. Day two, over breakfast and into the afternoon, talk business. Carve up the world. A bit for you, a bit for me. And then, what horrors did that evening hold? Did Satan join the festivities, arriving in time for the main event? The dome of the Great Hall held his image, side by side with that of Darken.

  Step, step, step. Upping the pace. Warm now. Slopping through soft, sunlit snow. The smell of goose droppings mingling with that of pine.

  Madness to treat Bandstorm as a fool. Never again.

  A bridge to the right. I checked the watch. Twenty-four something. Doing well.

  The homestretch. Almost at the end. Two men, solid, running toward me along the path. They didn’t give way.

  Step, after cautious, step. Almost together.

  I came to a halt. So did they, blocking the natural path. I recognized one of them. Police?

  He grinned at me. “Lemuel Oneway? Happy New Year, sir.” They moved apart, one passing me on each side.

  Step, step, step. Hurrying to Ramblers’ Bridge.

  A message from the master? No direct threat, and yet…I ran on.

  Back over the bridge, I checked my stopwatch. For Darken’s sake, why?

  Nine weeks after I first set foot on Respite, the day Dempster and I had signed our patent applications, I popped into the office of Eden Telephone and filled out an installation-request form.

  The receptionist took it. “If you tick the urgent box, it’s just a twelve-week wait.” She passed the form back.

  I ticked the box.

  Two days later, a telephone was installed on the wall of Dempster’s hall—bugged, unless my newfound paranoia had misled me.

  That phone rang twice as I showered after my New Year’s run, its grating tone audible throughout the house. Mabel still slept after a celebratory bottle of wine to herself.

  It rang again as I finished dressing. I hurried through storeroom and living room and grabbed the receiver.

  “Oh, Lemuel, so glad you’re home.”

  Despite the crackly tone, I sensed tension clouding Linnet’s voice.

  “I didn’t stay for the second day,” I said. “Tell you why later.”

  “Lemuel, Dick has been arrested.”

  The words hit me like an ocean wave, taking my breath away. “Why?”

  “National Security? Something he wrote more than two years ago. An excuse. I don’t know.”

  “Linnet, I’ve no work until Monday. I could get a cab.” How much should I say over a line I didn’t trust?

  Linnet sighed. “I hoped you’d say that. I’ll get the van to pick you up, midafternoon sometime. If I’m not in, the driver knows where we keep a key.”

  I put the phone down, grabbed the scarf from my briefcase, made the contacts, and set it on the kitchen table.

  Newton appeared. He wore a black leather cape with a hood that almost concealed his dark features. Snow fell through the twilight background. He appeared to be approaching.

  I didn’t expect good news.

  He pulled the hood closer around his face. “Lemuel, you may not want to see the evidence I have.”

  It took a moment to follow his meaning. “Do you mean the second evening?”

  “Bandstorm wore your combi.”

  I’d hoped as much when I gave it to him but hadn’t believed it possible. “But he mistrusted it.”

  “He trusted Justin Briggs, who suggested that it had an aura of quality. A friend, perhaps?”

  At that moment, I wanted a friend, someone whose hand I could hold. I could hear, or feel, blood pounding through my ears. “Newton, were children involved?”

  “Yes.”

  I could smell blood, though there was none to smell. “And death?”

  Newton sighed. “What I have, if it came to court, would decimate the establishment. Do you need the details?”

  It was enough for me that the evidence was safe. Maybe someday I would have the courage to face the full horrors, but this was not the day.

  I folded and pocketed my scarf. When I had stared at the wall in front of me and absorbed Newton’s news, which was no worse than I had expected but far worse than I could handle at that moment, I heated up what was left of last evening’s goat stew and settled back.

  Mabel poked her face through the doorway, grimaced at the smell of food, and hurried back to her room.

  An hour later, in the passenger seat of the Wider View’s mail van, in the company of a gaunt, world-weary driver, I had time to fret.

  The driver spoke little until we passed the outskirts of Barford. He fiddled with the car’s radio, which had delivered little more than static since we left Cragglemouth. “I heard a joke on this, just before I picked you up. D’you want to hear it?”

  I didn’t, but saw no need to be rude.

  “What’s the difference between a Cragglemouth miler and a chicken? Or was it an egg? No, it must have been a chicken, I think. Egg wouldn’t make sense.”

  I knew just one Cragglemouth miler, and she didn’t resemble a chicken or an egg. “Tell me, what is the difference?”

  He laughed. “None. They both came second.” He scratched his head. “Maybe it was the egg.”

  Sy had come second? I tried to recall her schedule. Just a heat? “I don’t get it.”

  “Didn’t you hear? The Heyho girl. Broke the world record in her race. Trouble is, someone else broke it by a bit more.”

  I had forgotten about Sy’s race that morning. That hurt. “Did she make the final?”

  “Yes. Friday, I think. I laughed when I heard that. It reminded me of that other man. What was his name? You know, the pedo with the turkey farm. The one what killed hisself. Same sort of humor.”

  “I don’t know who you mean.”

  “’Course you do. He interviewed you once.”

  Did everyone on Respite know about Ronnie Bile? Why was nothing done? But I already knew the answer to that. I had been to Bandstorm’s party.

  Linnet wasn’t at home when we arrived. The driver took a key from above the doorframe and handed it to me.

  I put it in the lock.

  What would Hitchcock have made of that?

  Maybe a thirty second collage: Dick at his desk at the Wider View, hungove
r, banging at his typewriter. Cut to Linnet arguing at a meeting, flip charts showing names, suspected crimes, and known crimes. Cut to a misty, sunlit outside scene focusing on the front door and zooming to the lintel. A hand reaches up and takes the key. We see a man’s back or shadow as he reaches a hand toward the lock. Throughout the scene, we hear only unmuted violins in frenetic serialism.

  Maybe a whole movie, with scattered scenes shot from the interior of a truck, Secret Service, monitoring audio and video, muttering, smoking, drinking coffee and whiskey.

  Before I turned the key in the lock, I looked around. No sinister trucks. What does a sinister truck look like? No trucks of any sort.

  Two hours after sunset, Linnet arrived home. Her eyes lacked their usual sparkle. Her dark hair, unbrushed, showed gray at the roots. By habit meticulous about her appearance, the disregard she gave to it at that moment displayed her state of stress.

  With her was a shortish man of about my age, stocky, tousle haired, bearded, and earnest. “Lemuel, this is Ginda Joyle, a good friend, also a reporter. He’s been wonderful today.” Even her voice lacked its usual strength.

  I shook Joyle’s hand. “Kind of you to help.” I embraced Linnet. “Any news?”

  “He’s at the West Barford station, the other side of town. That’s all we know.” She stepped back and forced a smile. “Have you eaten?”

  Soon, the three of us were settled around an open fire that I had already started on my third attempt, with snacks and coffee. Linnet stared into the flames. “I did think for a moment I might not see him again. It happens, of course.”

  “You’ve seen him?”

  “No. He’s held under National Security. But they admit they have him, which is a relief. And Ginda has a recording of the words.”

  Joyle reached into a pocket of the overcoat folded at his feet. He took out a metallic block. Two reels of tape revealed its function. “The latest model. Only weighs six pounds, plus two for the batteries. Under a big coat, who’d know?”

  We ate in silence.

  Joyle poured something from a hip flask into his coffee. He offered the flask to me.

  I shook my head.

  Linnet picked wood from the pile and tossed it into the fire. “The charge is an excuse, Lemuel. I read the article again today. It’s a lighthearted piece about Senator Wellar, saying what everyone knows but most won’t say out loud. It isn’t treason. Someone wants to frighten us, and they are doing a good job.”