Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet

by Mike Resnick

  “I hope that's a mandate.”

  “An invitation, anyway.”

  “Accepted without a moment's hesitation,” he said.

  “You do understand, though, that this can't be a regular arrangement?”

  “I understand that it won't be,” replied Redwine. “I don't understand why it can't be.”

  “First, because I'm a full-time madam and only a very occasional prostitute; and second, because I have a feeling that I could grow very fond of you, and that's a serious detriment in my line of work.”

  And in mine, Redwine agreed silently. Aloud, he said: “A point well taken. Maybe we ought to begin before you make me blush.”

  “Let me finish my drink,” she said, sipping it slowly.

  He watched her, and suddenly felt like a schoolboy, unable to sit without fidgeting, not quite knowing what to do with his hands, afraid to get up too soon or to appear too relaxed. Finally he picked up the book and began thumbing through the pages again.

  After what seemed like an eon and was probably closer to a minute, the Leather Madonna put her empty glass down on the table and stood up.

  “How about a whirlpool first?” she suggested.

  “Fine,” he agreed, starting after her as she walked toward the bathroom, then remembering to return and place the book back down on the table.

  “Help me with my zippers, won't you?” she said when he finally arrived.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “You'll find them,” she said, removing her boots and uttering a command that started a flow of hot water into the huge, circular tub.

  And, after a bit of fumbling, he did find them. A moment later the Madonna stepped unselfconsciously out of her jumpsuit, and began unfastening Redwine's tunic.

  “I can do it,” he said, stepping back uneasily.

  “Suit yourself,” she replied, and climbed carefully into the tub. “Aren't you joining me?” she asked as he stood a few feet away, staring at her.

  “Sure. You want me to dim the lights or anything?”

  She laughed. “You never struck me as a conservative.”

  “When it comes to putting my middle-aged body on display in this place I can be downright reactionary,” he said, removing his clothes slowly and entering the tub.

  “I've seen worse,” she said.

  “How comforting,” he replied wryly.

  “Well, if it's comforting you want, let's see what we can do about that.”

  Then she was hard at work at the business of pleasure. At first Redwine felt ungainly and awkward, but as she began doing things to him with her hands, her mouth, and her body, things he had never experienced before, things he had never quite hoped for in his wildest fantasies, he found himself responding with more grace and assurance than he had known he possessed. She was, he concluded during those few brief instants that he could think rationally at all, like the best kind of athlete or actress: she made everyone around her look good, too.

  When the ecstasy became so intense that it almost turned into pain she slowed her pace, teasing and titillating him until he was almost out of his mind with desire and pleasure—and finally, when he was certain that there was nothing further she could do to heighten the sensations he was feeling, she found new things to do, things that made his every nerve end scream for release. And when at last release came, it came with an intensity he had not believed possible.

  Exhausted and drained—as much emotionally as physically—he finally climbed out of the tub and began drying himself off. He shot an occasional glance at the Madonna, who lay back languorously in the tub, only her face above the surface but all of her visible beneath the swirling water, and tried very hard to convince himself that she was just a piece of meat, a whore with neither emotions nor loyalties, who would find work somewhere else after he completed his mission aboard the Comet.

  It didn't ring true then, and it didn't ring true a few hours later, beneath the satin covers of his circular bed, when she made love to him as if she meant it, slowly, tenderly, with softly whispered words and gentle caresses, as delicate and yielding now as she had been forceful and aggressive before. He told himself that nobody this skilled at the art of sex was worth feeling pity or friendship or anything but lust for. He reiterated to himself, as he buried his face between her breasts, that nobody in either of their professions could afford to care about anyone except themselves. He knew, as their bodies joined together with a pulsating rhythm, that saboteurs never felt compassion for their victims, that nobody ever felt compassion for a whore.

  It was, he decided when they were through and lying in each other's arms, an easy litany to reel off in one's mind. Believing it was another matter altogether.

  Chapter 6

  Redwine sat in the Leather Madonna's auxiliary office, a cup of coffee on the table next to him, and stared at the computer as it flashed row after row of financial data from the restaurants’ operation on the screen. Now and then he would order it to pause, make a minuscule change or insertion, and then have it continue scanning the books.

  Finally he checked his chronometer, realized that he had been hard at work for the better part of three hours, and decided to take a break. He went into the bathroom, rinsed his face off, walked back to the computer, and began scanning the entertainment channels.

  There was the usual abundance of pornography, and this time he found that he could recognize a number of the participants. He idly wondered if the Madonna herself would appear in any of the displays, then decided that if she did he didn't want to see it, and changed quickly to one of the news channels.

  After finding out that nobody important had gone to war during the night, he decided to place a call to Deluros VIII. He waited impatiently for the computers to hook up, and for the elderly man he sought to be summoned to a receiving station.

  “Oh, it's you, Harry,” said the old man, squinting at Redwine's holograph. “What can I do for you? Another book?”

  “Not this time,” said Redwine.

  “A magazine?” said the old man, surprised. “I haven't got an awful lot in stock—maybe two dozen at most.”

  Redwine shook his head. “A chess set.”

  “Harry, I don't handle things like that.”

  “Then find someone who does,” said Redwine. “I'll make it worth your while.”

  “Just any old chess set at all?”

  “I want the best, the most elegant, chess set you can find.”

  “Antique?”

  “If that's what fills the bill.”

  “I don't know much about that stuff, Harry, but I have a feeling you're talking an awful lot of money.”

  “I know. Just get me the best.”

  “Any particular style?” asked the old man.

  Redwine shrugged. “I don't know anything about chess sets.”

  “Then why do you want one?”

  “Look,” said Redwine. “Are you going to do this for me or not?”

  “I don't know. What's in it for me?”

  “A ten percent finder's fee.”

  “Ten percent of the purchase price? You've got yourself a deal.” He paused. “You know how much money you could be spending on this thing, Harry?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “I mean, I'm sure I can hunt up a platinum set studded with diamonds, if I try real hard.”

  “The key word was elegant, not garish.”

  “Maybe you'd better put a top on it anyway, just so we don't have a misunderstanding later on.”

  Redwine wondered what the going price of a conscience was, but named a figure that seemed to hover just between the top end of Reasonable and the bottom of Ostentatious.

  “You're the boss, Harry. How soon do you need it?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “I'll see what I can do. You want it sent to your home or your office?”

  “Neither,” said Redwine. “Send it to the Velvet Comet and mark it to my attention.”

  The old man grinned. “You'
re on the Velvet Comet?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That must be one hell of a bimbo you've got yourself. Don't they charge enough without making you give ‘em gifts?”

  “Just do it!” snapped Redwine.

  “That's by Charlemagne, in the Beta Sigma system, right?”

  “Right. You're going to need my account number to pay for it.” Redwine had the computer transmit his banking code. “If there's any problem, have the bank contact me here.”

  “There won't be. I've done favors for lots of people with no problems. I think banks like to keep their money in circulation.” He paused. “Harry, I'll take nine percent if you'll give me a blow-by-blow description of what this girl did to you.”

  “Do you need anything else?” asked Redwine, ignoring the offer.

  “No, I guess that'll do it.”

  Redwine broke the connection, then finished his coffee. He was about to go back to work when there was a knock at the door. He adjusted his skeleton card and commanded the door to slide open.

  “Hi, Harry,” said Rasputin, stepping into the office. “Hard at work?”

  “Taking a break, actually.”

  “Good,” said the Security chief. “I was afraid I might be disturbing you, since the door wouldn't open.”

  “No. I just like my privacy. Did you come here for any reason in particular?”

  “As a matter of fact, I did,” replied Rasputin, walking slowly around the room and scrutinizing it carefully.

  “You've been here for five days and haven't left this damned office except to go back to the Resort. I thought you might like to take a real break and come down to the gym with me.”

  “The crew's gym?” asked Redwine, and Rasputin nodded. “Why?”

  “There's going to be an interesting little entertainment there in a few minutes, and I figured nobody had bothered to tell you about it.”

  “What kind of entertainment?”

  “Ever hear of Gamble DeWitt?” asked Rasputin.

  “I saw him the day after I got here.”

  “Ever see him fight?”

  “Once, a few years ago.”

  “Think you might like to see him in action again?”

  “Sure,” said Redwine. “How much does a seat go for?”

  “It's free.”

  “Seems kind of silly,” commented Redwine. “You ought to be holding this over at the Resort and charging the patrons to watch it.”

  Rasputin shook his head. “This is a private grudge match.”

  Redwine chuckled. “It'll be a private slaughter. Who's crazy enough to go into the ring with DeWitt?”

  “The Duke.”

  “The pit boss? I remember him being kind of muscular, but still...”

  “It'll be more even than you think. The Duke used to fight as an amateur, maybe twenty years ago, and he's kept in pretty good shape. It seems that he and DeWitt got into some kind of argument in the casino the night before last, and DeWitt said he could tear him apart with one hand tied behind his back and lead weights on his feet.” Rasputin grinned. “So the Duke took him up on it. They're due to go at it at 1300 ship's time.” He checked the time. “That's only about twenty minutes from now.”

  “Then what are we standing around here for?” said Redwine.

  “No reason that I can think of,” replied Rasputin with a smile. He walked out the door, and Redwine fell into step behind him. The gymnasium was two decks down from the auxiliary office, and they arrived there a minute later.

  Redwine had never seen the facility before, and while it fell far short of the luxurious accommodations provided for the Resort's guests, it was nonetheless quite spacious and well-equipped. There were a number of advanced exercise machines, and numerous sets of weights, both of which he assumed were used almost exclusively by the prostitutes for keeping their bodies in shape. But there were also racketball courts, a raised wooden jogging track, a small swimming pool, a row of trampolines, and a heavily-padded free-fall room for those reckless enough to indulge in a little null-gravity wrestling.

  There were perhaps fifty people in the gym, and all but a handful were crowded around a ring that had been assembled in a large open area near the trampolines.

  Rasputin headed toward it, and Redwine followed him, intrigued at the notion of seeing the fabled DeWitt in action once again.

  When they reached ringside, an absolutely breathtaking redhead approached them.

  “You're Mr. Redwine, aren't you?” she said, extending a long, elegant hand.

  “Harry,” Redwine replied. “And you are...?”

  “Flaming Lorelei,” she said. “You can call me Lori. I've been wanting to meet you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. You see, I'm one of the Resort's accountants...”

  “With no offense intended, I would have sworn you were one of the more popular prostitutes.”

  “I've retired from the ranks,” she replied. “Anyway, I was just wondering why you were here? I mean, if the Syndicate feels there have been any improprieties...”

  He shook his head. “The only reason I'm here is because I'm cheaper than an outside auditor. It's standard operating procedure.”

  “That's a relief,” she said earnestly. “If there's anything I can explain to you, please feel free to ask.”

  “You'll be the first one I call for help,” said Redwine. “So far, though, everything seems to be in perfect order.”

  “By the way, I saw Charlie from the casino setting up a handbook in the mess hall,” interjected Rasputin.

  “You wouldn't happen to know the line, would you?”

  “Six-to-five, pick ‘em,” said Lori.

  “You're kidding!” exclaimed Redwine. “Gamble DeWitt was the champion of the whole damned Republic!”

  “I don't make the odds,” she said. “I just report them.”

  “Is an outsider allowed to lay a bet?” continued Redwine.

  “No—but you're not an outsider, are you?”

  “Fine. I once spent seven hundred credits to watch DeWitt fight. I'd like to put seven hundred on him to win.” He paused. “Maybe I can come out even on him yet. Where can I find this Charlie person?”

  “I'll cover it myself,” offered Rasputin.

  “You're not even going to give the house its percentage?” asked Lori with mock severity.

  “I can give him even money,” replied Rasputin.

  “Why should I give the casino six-to-five? Besides, Security chiefs don't make as much money as high-priced prostitutes. I've got to conserve my resources.”

  “Shall we grab some chairs?” suggested Redwine, noticing that most of the people had taken their seats, except for two young women who were playing racketball, oblivious to all the excitement being generated at ringside.

  “Why not?” agreed Rasputin. He turned to Lori.

  “Are you joining us, or will you be in Gamble's corner?”

  “Why should I be in Gamble's corner?” she asked.

  “You're his trainer, aren't you?” grinned Rasputin.

  “You're terrible!” she laughed. “Besides, the person hasn't been born yet who can train him.”

  Rasputin turned to Redwine. “You look confused, Harry.”

  “I assume it's a private joke,” replied Redwine.

  “The only joke is Gamble DeWitt,” said Lori, leading them around a number of parallel bars and vaulting horses and over to a trio of folded chairs, which they carried to ringside. They set the chairs up, and she seated herself between the two men.

  “I still feel I'm missing something,” remarked Redwine, who had been dwelling on her last remark.

  “How can I put it?” said the Security chief. “Lori isn't a working prostitute any more, but she still helps train a problem case from time to time.”

  “It's a way to make a little extra money and put some old skills to use before they atrophy,” she explained with a smile. “Although calling Gamble a problem is like calling the Vainmill Syndicate a thriving l
ittle company.”

  “You see,” said Rasputin, “Gamble approaches everything in life as if he were back in the ring. Finesse just isn't one of his strong points.”

  “Neither is endurance,” added Lori caustically.

  “So your job is to make him a better lover?” asked Redwine.

  She laughed. “I'll settle for making him a barely adequate lover. He's got ten thumbs, two left feet, and the personality of a fern.”

  “Then why is he here?”

  “The Madonna thought he could draw a crowd, so to speak, and for the first couple of weeks he did. Then word got out, and he's been a pretty lonely young man ever since. Usually the only time he works is when we're packed, or when some sports groupie asks for him—and believe me, they never ask for him twice.”

  “I assume you're rooting for the Duke, then,” said Redwine.

  “Of course not,” she replied.

  “But —”

  “Look,” she said. “After all the days and weeks I've spent in bed with that body, I'll be damned if I want to see somebody smash it to pieces. You're an accountant, Harry—you ought to understand the concept of protecting your investment.”

  He smiled. “Well, when you put it that way...”

  Suddenly all the ringsiders fell silent, and Redwine saw that the Duke was approaching the ring. The pit boss stopped beneath a high bar, leaped up, chinned himself five or six quick times, and then continued his approach. When he reached the ring he climbed the stairs, bent over, and stepped through the ropes. He was a burly man, built along the lines of Rasputin, though about four inches taller. He wore nothing but a pair of sweat pants, and his muscular body glistened with perspiration.

  He nodded to a couple of people in the small audience—Redwine recognized them as casino employees—and began dancing around, shadow boxing and lashing out with an occasional kick.

  DeWitt entered the ring perhaps two minutes later, the physical personification of a Greek god. He wore brief bathing trunks, his left arm was strapped securely behind his back, and he had lead weights taped to his Achilles’ tendons, where they wouldn't come into contact with his opponent if he landed a kick.

  He looked rather bored, especially in contrast to the Duke, and his torso and legs were absolutely dry.