Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet

by Mike Resnick

  She turned to him. “My current partner should be through swimming in about twenty minutes, and it wouldn't do to keep him waiting. Some other time, perhaps,” she added, smiling invitingly if insincerely at him.

  He tried with equal insincerity to look hopeful, then entered the room and walked to the desk.

  “My name is Harry Redwine.”

  “We've been expecting you,” replied the woman.

  “Won't you have a seat?”

  He walked over to a chair, looked around for some reading matter, and finally settled for reading the sports headline that appeared on a small screen to his left. A moment later a short, stocky, gray-haired man wearing a dark green uniform entered the room through another door and approached him.

  “Mr. Redwine?” he said, extending his hand.

  “Right. And you're...?”

  “Chief of Security. You can call me Rasputin.”

  “An interesting name for a Security chief,” remarked Redwine.

  “I chose it myself,” replied Rasputin proudly. He turned to the woman at the desk. “Hold all my messages while I'm with Mr. Redwine.” He walked to the door through which he had entered. “Follow me, Mr. Redwine—or may I call you Harry?”

  “Harry's fine,” said Redwine, falling into step behind him. They walked down a narrow corridor, past a number of closed doors, and finally entered a modestly-furnished office that would easily have fit into one of the Resort's bathrooms.

  There was a small computer console on a plain metal desk, and right next to the control panel was a holograph of a rather pretty woman and two small boys. There were a pair of rather uninspired prints on the wall, one an astronomical scene and the other an alien landscape of some distant chlorine world. A small shelf held a holograph of the two boys, another showed them as young men with their own families, and a glass case contained a trio of medals.

  Redwine approached the medals and scrutinized them.

  “New Rhodesia,” he read. “Did you see much action there?”

  “Just mopping-up stuff,” said Rasputin. “Some nut named Bland set up a death camp there, and the Navy moved in and ran him off the planet.”

  “How long have you been out of the service?”

  “About fifteen years. I signed on here when they activated the Comet twelve years ago.”

  “Your wife?” asked Redwine, indicating the woman in the holograph.

  Rasputin nodded. “She's dead now. Spaceship wreck.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  The Security chief sighed. “It happens.”

  An awkward silence ensued as Redwine wondered what to say next.

  “Have a seat, Harry,” said Rasputin at last, indicating a chair. He walked over to a small, built-in bar.

  “Can I offer you something to drink—a Cygnian cognac, perhaps?”

  “Just whiskey will do. Straight.”

  “You're an easy man to please,” remarked Rasputin, pouring out a glass and handing it to him.

  “You're not joining me?” asked Redwine, as the security man sat down behind his desk.

  “Never when I'm on duty,” he replied. “It's a holdover from my military days.”

  “Well perhaps later, then,” said Redwine. “If you're over at the Resort later tonight, hunt me up and I'll buy you one.”

  “I wish I could take you up on that, Harry,” said Rasputin, “but I'm afraid I'm going to be working late tonight.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope.”

  Rasputin stared at him. “I won't know that until I can figure out what you did to the main computer last night.”

  Redwine almost choked on his drink.

  “I'm afraid I don't follow you,” he said, coughing.

  “Oh, come off it, Harry,” said Rasputin easily. “We both know what I'm talking about.” He paused. “You're good, I'll give you that. I still don't know how you got into it or what you did to it.”

  “Then what makes you think I did anything at all?” asked Redwine, quickly recovering his composure.

  “Because I'm good at my job, too,” replied Rasputin.

  “That's why I thought we ought to have this little chat before I showed you around.”

  “If you really believe I did something to the computer, are you sure you want to show me around?”

  “Well, that's something else I gave a lot of thought to. But I've already checked you out with headquarters. You really are a company accountant. Your retina checks, your identification checks, everything checks.

  Whatever else you are, you're not a ringer.” He paused and sighed heavily. “The thing that bothers me is that you couldn't have done it without a skeleton card—and not just any skeleton card, either. It has to be one that can transmit a Priority Code to the computer. That means you've got an awfully high security clearance.” Rasputin frowned. “What I want to know is why I wasn't told about you? I mean, hell, I'm the Chief of Security!”

  “Have you ever considered the possibility that you might be mistaken?” suggested Redwine mildly.

  “Not a chance, Harry.”

  “Have you told anyone about your suspicions yet?” asked Redwine.

  “Not yet.”

  “Not even the Leather Madonna?”

  “There's nothing to tell,” admitted Rasputin. “If headquarters didn't see fit to inform me, they're sure as hell not going to own up to it now.” He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “But I'm a very persistent man, and like I said, I'm good at my job. If I don't find out what you did tonight, I'll work at it tomorrow night, and next week and next month if I have to. And once I know, you and I and the Madonna can all sit down and have a nice friendly little talk.”

  Redwine stared at him for a long moment, then took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.

  “It won't take you that long,” he said at last. “Three or four days if you're as good as you think you are, a week if you're not.”

  “Then why not tell me now and make it easy on both of us?”

  “Because it's none of your business.”

  “My business is the security of the ship,” Rasputin pointed out. “And you breached that security, Harry.”

  “If the Vainmill Syndicate wanted you to know what I was here for, they'd have told you.”

  “I thought you were here to go over the books.”

  “I am.”

  “And what else?”

  “Nothing else—and if there was anything else, it also wouldn't be any of your business.”

  “I don't know what you did last night,” persisted Rasputin, “but I do know this much: you never called up the financial data banks.”

  “If I give you my word that what I did has nothing to do with the security of the Velvet Comet, will you back off and leave this alone?” asked Redwine.

  Rasputin shook his head. “Look,” he said reasonably, “you broke into a computer that was under my direct jurisdiction. Probably everything you just told me is true, and probably I'm going to regret finding whatever it is that you did. But this is my job, Harry, and you made a fool of me.” He extended his hand across the desk. “Nothing personal.”

  Redwine stared at the outstretched hand, then shrugged and took it.

  “Fair enough,” he said. He downed the remainder of his drink. “Now how about that tour?”

  “Glad to,” said Rasputin, rising to his feet and walking to the door. “I like you, Harry, I really do. I sure as hell hope I don't have to clip your wings.”

  “Accountants don't fly that high, believe me,” said Redwine, following him out into the antiseptic, tiled corridor.

  Rasputin walked about forty feet to another door, then waited for Redwine to catch up to him. He uttered a five-digit code and the door slid back, revealing a very small room filled with a number of computer banks and readout screens, as well as a large hologram of the airlock. A single security technician, a tiny receptor in his ear and a miniaturized microphone affixed just in front of his mouth, was monitoring the equipmen
t while simultaneously carrying on a conversation with someone at the other end the system. As Redwine looked at the hologram, he saw two well-dressed men presenting their credentials to a trio of security guards.

  “This is where it all starts,” explained Rasputin.

  “We let the wrong people through the airlock and we've really got our work cut out for us. These three machines”—he indicated a trio of computers—“check out their luggage. We've got a lot of patrons who like to flash their jewelry or their cash; it wouldn't do to have a guest bring along a weapon or any burglar tools. In fact, I'm surprised we missed your skeleton card, but I suppose they made it peep-proof before they gave it to you.”

  Redwine chose to ignore his last remark. “Why would someone who could afford to come here in the first place want to rob another patron?”

  “If you were a big-game hunter, you wouldn't take an expedition to a lifeless planet, would you?” said Rasputin. “Well, if you were a jewel thief...”

  “I get the picture.”

  Rasputin turned to another bank of computers.

  “Now, while those first three machines I showed you are checking out the baggage, this batch here is checking out the patrons themselves.”

  “You don't need this much equipment just to take retina scans,” noted Redwine. “What else does it do?”

  “Harry, there are more than three hundred venereal diseases currently known and cataloged, and more are cropping up every year. We can't have our prostitutes spreading them, so they undergo a daily scan at the infirmary. But that only takes care of half of the potential problem.” He paused. “Now, a number of our customers would probably be offended if we asked them to produce health certificates, and it would spoil their vacations if we made them undergo thorough examinations once they arrived, so we scan them surreptitiously in the airlock, and if there's a possible problem, one of our personnel tactfully but firmly takes them over to the hospital for treatment.” He smiled. “You'll he pleased to know that you're in perfect health, except for slightly high blood pressure and a little excess weight.”

  “How very gratifying,” replied Redwine dryly.

  Rasputin stepped back into the corridor. “Now, if you'll come next door...”

  Redwine followed him to the next room, a claustrophobic cubicle where he found two uniformed young women intently studying an array of sixteen holographic screens.

  “We call this place the Duke's Castle,” commented Rasputin.

  “I can see why,” said Redwine, noting that each of the screens displayed a section of the casino.

  Rasputin tapped one of the women on the shoulder.

  “Is my friend the Lady Toshimatu at her usual place?”

  The woman checked a screen, then shook her head.

  “I think she's back in her room with a companion,” she replied.

  “Too bad,” said Rasputin, turning back to Redwine.

  “I was going to show you the sharpest little old lady I've ever seen. She inherited a fortune that took ten generations to build, and practically doubled it in five years. She's got money she hasn't even counted yet.”

  “And?”

  “Best goddamned card sharp I ever saw,” said Rasputin, not without a touch of professional admiration.

  “We've barred her from the blackjack and baccarat tables, but we still haven't figured out how she's cheating at poker. I think she goes to bed with the prostitutes just so she'll have access to the casino.”

  “So what do you do about her?”

  “Once we figure out how she's cheating, we bar her or change the rules on her. Given the clout she carries, probably the latter. And in the meantime, we subtly warn her opponents off. But the thing that fascinates me is that here is a woman who could buy the Comet with her pin money, and she still risks humiliation and possibly even arrest, just for the kick of getting away with cheating at cards when she knows we're watching her.” He sighed. “One of these days I'll nail her.” He turned back to Redwine. “She and you are my two special projects, Harry.”

  “Maybe you're wrong about her, too,” suggested Redwine.

  “Maybe hell has chilled champagne,” answered Rasputin. “You've got to understand that I don't hold what you're doing against either of you, Harry. After all, if security was never breached, there wouldn't be any need for a Security chief, would there? But by the same token, I've got a job to do too, and nothing's going to stop me from doing it.”

  “I have some friends back on Deluros who could order you to stop,” said Redwine.

  “Call anyone you want,” said Rasputin pleasantly. “Even your pal Victor Bonhomme.”

  “Victor Bonhomme?” repeated Redwine, struggling to conceal his surprise. “I've never heard of him.”

  Rasputin cocked an eyebrow in amusement. “You keep saying things like that, Harry, and you're going to make me wish you were a betting man.”

  Redwine decided that the Duke's Castle, with its two trained observers, was no place to embark upon a further discussion of the matter, so he walked out into the corridor.

  “I didn't mean to embarrass you, Harry,” said Rasputin, following him. “But these are my people. Nothing you say in front of them will go any farther.”

  “Maybe not,” said Redwine with obvious disbelief. “But Mama Redwine didn't raise any children stupid enough to talk about their private business in front of the Chief of Security, two of his employees, and a batch of recording equipment.”

  Rasputin chuckled. “Yeah, I guess I can appreciate your point of view. Shall we continue the tour?”

  Redwine nodded. “Where to now?”

  Rasputin spent the next two hours showing him the security system for the Mall, the tramway, and the Resort's public and fantasy rooms. By unspoken mutual consent, they sparred about the Security chief ‘s interest in Redwine only when no one else was within earshot, though Redwine soon got the feeling that nothing that transpired aboard the Comet, even within the Security Department itself, was ever completely private.

  “Well, does that about do it?” he asked after enduring a boring explanation and demonstration of how the Comet's life support systems and orbital engines were constantly monitored.

  “Just one more room to go. Then maybe I'll bend a rule and have a drink with you after all.”

  “Is seeing this last room absolutely necessary?”

  “No, but I think you might find it interesting,” replied Rasputin.

  He took Redwine across the hall and entered what was by far the largest room in the security complex. There were fewer computer terminals here, but the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with upward of four hundred holographic screens, about a third of them currently activated.

  A team of three men and six women, all in standard green security uniforms, were posted about the room, sitting on stools and monitoring the displays.

  A huge pot of coffee, the first sign of any creature comfort he had seen since leaving Rasputin's office, sat on a small table, surrounded by a number of disposable cups. Other than that, the working conditions were as Spartan here as elsewhere in the complex.

  Redwine found his gaze drawn to the screens, many of which displayed scenes of frenzied sexual activity.

  “The Resort suites?” he asked.

  Rasputin nodded. “The cameras are activated when the room is entered. If you can tear your eyes away from the fun parts, you'll notice that a number of the screens just show people sleeping.”

  “Do you have a similar display for the Home?” asked Redwine, trying not to appear too interested.

  “After what our prostitutes go through day in and day out, they deserve some privacy.”

  Which wasn't exactly an answer, but Redwine decided not to push it. If they tried to observe him in the Leather Madonna's auxiliary office, he had ways of handling the situation.

  “Do the patrons know they're being watched in their own rooms?”

  “Not officially, but I'd be surprised if most of them didn't.”

>   “And they don't mind it?”

  “The ones who have figured out that we're doing it are bright enough to figure out the reasons for it,” answered Rasputin. “We're not voyeurs, Harry. Hell, after two days on the job, it's all just that much meat on the hoof. But we get some pretty wild sado-masochist scenes from time to time, and we have to make sure that things don't get out of hand—and if a prostitute is going to swipe some jewelry or a wallet, it makes more sense to do it when the patron is undressed and maybe asleep.”

  “I'll be sure to smile into the camera tonight,” said Redwine sardonically.

  “Do you mean to say you're going to let us watch?” replied Rasputin with a disbelieving smile.

  “How can I stop you?”

  “Come on, Harry—we both know what you're carrying around with you.” Rasputin paused. “If I frisked you right now, would I find it?”

  “No,” said Redwine calmly, trying to remember which shoe he had slipped the skeleton card into.

  “I could have your room searched while you're at this end of the Comet," suggested Rasputin pleasantly.

  “Just be sure to tidy things up when you're done,” replied Redwine. He paused, then added seriously:

  “You know, if you find it, they're just going to send me another.”

  “I know,” agreed Rasputin. “That's why I'm not going to make you take your shoes off.”

  “My shoes? What are you talking about?”

  “Harry, the second I mentioned frisking you, you looked down at your feet like they were on fire. Now, either you're afraid to meet my steely gaze, or you've got more inside those shoes than your feet.”

  “I'll take them off if it'll make you happy,” said Redwine, forcing himself to look bored and deciding that Rasputin was a lot more formidable than he looked.

  The Security chief shook his head. “Don't bother. If I find out you lied to me it'll spoil a beautiful relationship—and besides, you're probably cleared to carry the card. I just want to know what you're doing with it.”

  “I wish I could help you out,” said Redwine sincerely.

  “You're the friendliest antagonist a man could ask for.”