The Jupiter War
Page 21
The boy wrenched out of Arsène’s grasp and threw a punch at him, missing by yards. Myessa ducked out of the way. The burly bouncer grabbed both the marine’s wrists. With his advantage of height, he hoisted the boy up into the air, yanking his feet off the ground. Kicking, the young marine shouted for help, and other heads popped out of cubicles on the upper floor and from comfortable seats around the common room. Before Myessa could stop them marines in various stages of undress streamed down the stairs to defend their comrade. One man dashed into the fray carrying an inverted wine bottle, the mouth of which still dribbled wine, as a club. Two of the sconce lamps on the staircase were pulled down and shattered as a handful of marines attempted to yank Arsène and the other bouncer, Columbe, up the steps where they could beat them. Jose Maria’s lady extracted herself from the love seat near the bar, and piled into the brawl, shouting for attention.
“Quiet! Tone it down!” she yelled, both hands raised above her head. It was too late. Battle was joined. On one side, the club’s employees were trying to separate the combatants and throw out the brawlers. On the other side were marines, spoiling for a little action on the neutral station, whatever the excuse. In the middle were Arsène, the young marine, and Flor, who, just before the crowd shoved her backward, Myessa could see scoring the face of her erstwhile boyfriend with her nails. She ran for the station security alarm and pushed the button. In a moment she was connected to the office, who assured her help, and the shore patrol, were on the way.
It took less than ten minutes for Arsène to fight his way through the crowd and throw his burden out of the door into the corridor. The bloody-faced marine landed with a thump in front of the security force’s open-topped car. Twenty minutes later the fight was over, and the marines who showed signs of having been in the fight had been removed from the premises. All the other clients had fled when the brawl began.
“Lousy Fed dirtbags,” one of them spat as the shore patrol pushed him out of the door. “Here just to spy on us.”
Myessa kept her expression dignified as she closed the door on him, but she was quaking inside. What if their cover had been revealed? “What brought that on?” she demanded of Flor, who was sitting on the carpet amidst the ruined furniture, sucking at a slash on her wrist.
Flor looked up at her sideways, trying to seem innocent. “Just asking him questions about his work, mamacita.” The cut began to bleed again, and the dancer dabbed at it with the edge of her costume.
“Don’t be so obvious, ninita, if you love your life! What if they knew why we want to know?” Myessa grabbed the girl’s arm. “Your blood would boil away so prettily in vacuum, like a red cloud. They do not spare spies.”
Proudly, Flor rose to her feet. “I meant no harm. I will be more discreet.”
“For your life’s sake. For ours. Now come with me. I shall bandage that.” Myessa led her to the office. “You others, begin to clean up this mess. I will join you in a moment.”
The next morning, two members of the shore patrol called to retrieve the rest of the young marine’s garments and other possessions. A silent Flor led one of the officers up the stairs to her room while the other interviewed Myessa.
“We’ve heard Private Edmundsen’s side of the story, Señora,” the muscular female sergeant said, showing her a statement on her clipboard screen. She was a Northerner, but didn’t seem to hold Myessa’s nationality against her. “It sounds like an over-eager boy shot his bolt too quickly and blamed it on the girl. She offered him another round on the house. Embarrassed, he became abusive. He starts a fight. End of story. Do you wish to press charges?”
“Relieved that there was no mention in the young man’s narrative of Flor’s clumsy interrogation, Myessa shook her head. “Where is he now?”
“Spent the night in the brig sleeping it off. His face is a mess, but apart from that I don’t think he remembers much. I would guess he’s out now policing the general area for wrappers and beer cans, or swabbing latrines. That was his lieutenant here last night. She saw the whole thing.”
“A night in the brig I am sure has done all that I would have done. Thank you for responding to the call so quickly, sergeant.” The other sergeant appeared, carrying the boy’s undergarments in a bundle under his arm. Myessa smiled at both of them, and dipped her lashes playfully. “Stop by anytime, officers.”
* * *
She called her artistes together in the common room for a talk on discretion, and thereafter things ran much more smoothly. “There is no need to get a full curriculum vitae from each contact,” she chided them. “I understand that you wish to do the best job, and the most quickly, but hold back. One misunderstanding, one man or woman who comprehends what it is you are doing, and we will never see Earth again. Do you understand? Little facts, little rumors which we can gather up and check, which they will never know they dropped in your lap, is what we want. They believe you are here to give them pleasure. Never let them think you have come for any other purpose.”
It wasn’t possible to record the information her artistes picked up into computer files. Such things were too easily infiltrated. Myessa chose instead to record them in a code of tone and rhythm, tucking them into one of the sixteen tracks of her personal library of audio compact disks, a different track on each. When it was time to transmit a report she had the song transmitted back to Earth, as part of an audio letter to Charles Njomo, pretending that he was her lover waiting at home for her.
“Send me more music, my darling,” she wrote, wickedly picturing Njomo’s expression of amazement. “I want to know what you are thinking of me today.”
Slowly, the data trickled in. Myessa realized as she compiled rumor here and revelation there, that she was hearing more now every day about the world outside the cylinder than she had heard in any amount of gossip over the weeks the club was being built. Joao, one of her lithe sword-dancers, brought her the tidbit that the U.N. had managed to make their new jetpack work, but his source hadn’t seen it himself yet. Myessa held that piece of information until the Thai girl Narntil told her that the fact was confirmed. She had slept with one of the pilots who tested it and, she confided, he was as much of a rocket as his jetpack.
Not every report went into the mail circuit on a music disk. Once or twice she arranged to have the data etched in bar code onto the plastic surface of a disk mailer, with a hint in the nondescript message inside that it was there, and sent to the base on Ganymede, addressed to a nonexistent friend. Very occasionally, when Fed personnel were in Jupiter Station, she had the opportunity to pass on a report directly.
One morning she had the pleasure of presenting her data face to face with an MI colonel, or face to ear, while she buttered toast for him in bed. She handed the bread down to him as he lay with his head propped against her breasts. Colonel Esteban Cordon ran his hand up and down the skin of her thigh as he digested both the toast and the report.
“Muy bien,” he said, glancing at her upside down. She kissed his forehead. “I take it this room is soundproofed.”
“Sealed against audio devices. If anyone is looking in on us, they see a woman and her satisfied customer speaking words of insincere love after a night of mutual enjoyment.”
“The customer is very satisfied, Myessa. The colonel will be pleased with you, as I am.” His eyelashes dipped slightly, inviting her to share the humor of his remark. “I am pleased not only because this is a breakthrough—your girl has established a ‘friendship’ with the pilot?”
“Oh yes, I think so. He has already returned once. His ship leaves in twenty-seven hours.”
Esteban nodded, smiling. “This is also the only decent food in the quadrant, as you must know. Dios mio! You should open a restaurant, with your cook and baker.”
“So sorry, but they’re a team—and for what you don’t want to know. They make a hundred times in bed what they could in a kitchen.”
Esteban slid rel
uctantly from the sheets and began to put on his uniform. “I should go. The pleasure was all mine, dear lady major.”
“And mine.” Myessa leaned forward and ran a gold-edged fingernail delicately down into the cleft between her breasts under the neck of her satin shift. “Come back again anytime, Colonel.”
With a sweeping gaze that summed up and stored her most attractive image for his memory, Esteban Cordon bowed himself out of the room.
There were more brawls in the club’s common room in the ensuing weeks. Whenever a Confederation ship was in port at the same time as a U.N. ship there was trouble. It usually resulted in bruises and broken glass, but occasionally there were more serious injuries. After taking one of her young men to the infirmary with a badly broken arm, Myessa brought her problem to the director of Jupiter Station in hope of a solution.
“Can’t you ask them to take shore leave at different hours?” she pleaded. “One shift for each, and the third dark so my children can get some sleep?” Myessa knew she was beginning to look haggard. Her mirror had told her that her complexion was suffering from the sleeplessness. She was vain of her smooth skin, and didn’t like to reveal weaknesses. Cosmetics could only hide so much.
“I can’t,” the director said mournfully, clenching his hands. “I can’t openly suggest that there’s anything wrong between the two factions, though it’s obvious to anyone who listens to the news. The war is heating up.”
“Every day now there are fights in my common room. I have hired two more bouncers but it won’t be enough.”
The director bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to continue the station’s policy of neutrality. It can’t be long before someone makes me declare for one side or the other, and then goodbye, Jupiter Station!”
Myessa patted his hand. “It is in their better interests to leave you alone. But if they don’t, I beg that you give me notice so I can get my people away. Whichever way you declare, there’s bound to be more trouble for me. If you declare for the U.N. we’re targets, and we had better leave quickly. If you declare for the Confederation all right, but the U.N. will attack us because we’re vulnerable. We need to be open for our clients,” she explained apologetically, “or their support fades as quickly as their memories. Our long work day makes the club an easy target for terrorism. “
The director began to bite his nails. Myessa took his hand out of his mouth and set it firmly back on the desk. “I am scared, too, but do I mutilate my hands? No. Why don’t you come back with me? Have a relaxing massage, my cook will make you a meal fit for a gourmet, and one of the girls will be nice to you, eh? You look like you could use the break.”
Gratefully, the director followed her back to the club. The strain was indeed beginning to tell on the residents of the station. Columbe let her in hastily, and directed her to the third floor, where Arsène was mediating a dispute between one of the girls and a client. Sighing, Myessa put the director into the capable hands of Kytera, one of her ladies, and hurried up to handle the argument.
At the top of the stairs, a U.N. officer was shouting and waving his arms. Matching him for volume and vituperation was Yao Pei, a tall Chinese girl whom Myessa had spotted waiting tables on Earth. Normally, Yao Pei was the most placid of creatures, patient with even the most obstreperous clients. What kind of crank was this officer to set off her temper?
“Excuse me,” Myessa shouted, when both of them had paused for breath. “There are others who wish to enjoy the day without excess noise.”
“You’re the owner? Your girl—” the officer indicated Yao Pei with a sharp gesture . . .
“Not here,” Myessa interrupted him, as Yao Pei started to shriek that she had done everything the officer had asked. “Come to my office. Stay here,” she directed the girl. “I will talk with you later.”
“No!” the U.N. man growled. “I want her to hear everything I have to say.” He seized Yao Pei by the hair and pulled her down the stairs ahead of Myessa. “Which way?”
Something in his manner frightened Myessa, but she kept herself erect and formidable. The officer hauled the screaming girl into Myessa’s office and threw her down on the floor.
“I demand my money back. She’s a cheat!”
At that declaration, Myessa recognized a typical cheapskate. He’d been satisfied, all right, but decided halfway through that he could get his money back. “Very well, sir,” she said soothingly, counting out into his hand vouchers totaling one hundred and fifty percent of what he had paid for Yao Pei’s services. Released, the girl scrambled to her feet and fled the room, sliding the door shut behind her. “I am including an honorarium over and above that price for your disappointment. I lose by this, because I won’t let my girl starve just because you didn’t like her. You may have a refund just this once. If you make such an accusation a second time with a different girl, I will have to assume that there’s something wrong on your side, and our association is at an end.”
Myessa eyed him suspiciously when, instead of storming out or assuming a pleading mien, a slow smile spread across his face. After all, she had just insulted him. “You handle yourself well, Madame. I’m impressed.”
“Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.” Hands on hips, she indicated the door with her chin.
The man shook his head. “I want to talk with you. This was the only way I could arrange a private meeting. “
“What?” Myessa shrieked. She reached for the security call button set into the keypad on her desk.
“There’s no need to call your muscle men,” the man said smoothly, deflecting her hand from the control before she could press, and flipping a card embossed with a chip out of his pocket. “Here’s my identification. I am Captain van Owen of Military Intelligence. I have a job for you.”
She eyed the card. It seemed genuine, but only hooking up the card to an ident unit would prove it. “The only job we do here is to pamper the sexual mores of lonely men and women, Captain. That’s all I want to do.”
“Oh, but I think you can do more.” Van Owen pulled up the lush visitor’s chair and loftily gestured across the desk. “Sit down, please.”
Myessa crossed her arms. With one toe, she pushed the stud under her desk that triggered the recording devices Sparks had hidden in the walls. “I will stand. Say what you have to before I grow tired.”
“As you please. I’ve been watching your club for many weeks now. I observe that many Fed spacemen and businessmen, err . . . sleep over. I want to know what it is they tell your girls and boys.”
“Pillow talk, such as it is, is private,” Myessa said, with a patient smile. “My clients usually talk about themselves and how lonely they are.”
“I know that is not true, Madame. I have sent operatives into this house, and they spoke freely of potentially classified material with your employees, who seemed eager to listen.”
“That’s their job,” Myessa interrupted. “To seem eager, even when the body and mind are growing tired. As I am. Are you finished?”
“You are playing with me, Madame, and I’m not that patient. I want your girls and boys to listen when they hear information, and to pass it back to you, for collection by me. Or . . .”
“Or what?” Myessa said, narrowing her eye at him. “Or else? I’ve been threatened before.”
“Or this: you have had a peaceful enough season here thus far, but it can end like that!” Van Owen snapped his fingers. “There will be brawls every day, problems with waste control, annoyance in the form of official interference from the Space Station Authority, and if those do not move you, Madame, problems with water and air supply—or perhaps you would like to find one of your girls or boys outside on the surface of the capsule, breathing vacuum?”
“And what if I go to the U.N. and the Space Station Authority and request protection from you, citing what you have told me today?”
Myessa shuddered. ID, Incurable Disease. There were plenty of them in the Earth community. Each of her people had been screened over and over again during a period of three months on Earth and for the weeks before the club opened in the station. Some very good performers had been left behind because they suffered from progressive calcium disease. The ailment was more or less harmless to atmosphere dwellers, but it was fatal to spacers who had to metabolize calcium faster than they did, and it was highly communicable. Others had permanent venereal disease or other illnesses that required constant cleanliness to contain outbreaks, an impossibility where water was such a scarcity.
Never mind. Her own people had constant health checks, too. An ID would be detected before it could do too much damage; she couldn’t hope that it would do none. Wait ... The residents of the space station and the armed forces were all put through rigorous medical examination to arrest potential disease threats. Where would IDs be introduced without infecting someone first to give it to them? Any attempt to infect one of her people physically would be categorized as assault, and she would press charges with the World Court. “Get out!” she said furiously. “And do not come back.”
Slowly, insouciantly, the officer rose to his feet and moved to the door. “I will leave now, Madame. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance.”