Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet

by Mike Resnick

  “But you know I was sent there to falsify the financial records?”

  “Of course, Mr. Redwine. It is my business to know such things.”

  “Do you also know a murder was committed just before I left?”

  “It was most unfortunate.

  “Unfortunate?” snapped Redwine.

  “A poor choice of words,” said the old woman. “It was tragic.”

  “Someone's going to pay for it,” said Redwine grimly.

  “Oh?”

  He nodded, withdrew a small package from inside his tunic, and tossed it onto her desk.

  “The original records and the ones you forged?” asked the old woman.

  “That's right,” said Redwine. “It's everything you need to nail whoever's been sabotaging your companies.”

  “And you're giving them to me?” she asked.

  “Yes. But there's a price.”

  “There usually is,” she said with a wry smile. “All right, Mr. Redwine. What is your price?”

  “Two other people have to take the fall along with my employer.”

  “Victor Bonhomme and whom?”

  He stared at her for a moment, startled. “A girl named Suma.”

  “Ah, yes, Suma. A lovely young woman.”

  “She killed the Madonna.”

  “I was under the impression that a former athlete named Gamble DeWitt killed her, and was killed in turn.”

  “He was her weapon.”

  “You, of course, have certain knowledge of this?” asked the old woman.

  Redwine stared at her. “Do we have a deal?” he said at last.

  “I'm afraid not, Mr. Redwine.”

  “Why not?” he demanded.

  “First of all, the only person implicated by those records is yourself.”

  “You put me on a witness stand and I'll have Victor Bonhomme in jail in five minutes’ time.”

  “Even if it meant you had to go to jail yourself?”

  “Even so,” he said resolutely.

  “You loved her that much?” asked the old woman, curious.

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “I think you do.”

  “My motives aren't important,” said Redwine. “Do you want the records or not?”

  She took another sip of her tea.

  “No, I do not,” she said.

  “But I'm giving you this guy's head on a silver platter!”

  “I have enough heads and enough platters, Mr. Redwine. I don't need any more.”

  “I don't think you understand what I've been saying,” persisted Redwine. “My employer has been systematically sabotaging Vainmill operations all over the galaxy.”

  “Do you really think I wasn't aware of that?” asked the old woman. “What a low opinion you must have of me, Mr. Redwine.”

  He stared at her, trying to comprehend her answer.

  Finally he shook his head. “It doesn't make any sense!” he said. “Are you just going to let him keep bankrupting your companies?”

  The old woman took another spoonful of sugar and spread it on her desk.

  “Do you see this sugar, Mr. Redwine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even in a single spoonful, there are tens of thousands of grains. Let us pretend that it represents the Vainmill Syndicate.” She wet her finger. “Now let us remove the nine companies you have successfully sabotaged, as well as the Velvet Comet.” She placed her finger down at the edge of the sugar, then took it away. “Do you see a difference?”

  “What's the point of this?” said Redwine.

  “The point, Mr. Redwine, is that Vainmill is too big and too powerful and too far-flung to be diminished by the removal of ten companies, just as this pile of sugar remains just as full and potent despite the removal of ten grains. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Do you mean you're going to let this bastard get away with what he's done, just because you can afford it?” demanded Redwine.

  “In essence, that is precisely what I am going to do,” she replied.

  “You're crazy!” he snapped.

  “No, Mr. Redwine. I'm old, and I'm tired, but I am definitely not crazy. I plan to retire next year, and must leave behind me the most able successor possible.”

  “The most able criminal, you mean.”

  “Corporations are not human beings, Mr. Redwine,” said the old woman, “and they cannot be ruled by human laws. If your employer is bold enough and ruthless enough to pull this off; then he is my logical successor.”

  “But he's not pulling it off!” insisted Redwine. “I've got the evidence to put him away.”

  She shook her head. “You're a wild card, Mr. Redwine. You don't count.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If you hadn't committed the unpardonable error of falling in love in a whorehouse, you wouldn't be offering me your evidence. Your employer gets a free pass for that.”

  “Then I'll go to the press.”

  “No you won't, Mr. Redwine,” she answered. “This entire conversation has been monitored by two of my most trusted security personnel. If you kill me, you won't leave this room alive—and if you allow me to live and try to take those records with you, I have five hundred security men prepared to take them back before you reach the nearest exit.”

  Redwine slumped back in his chair. “What will you do with them?”

  “Destroy them, of course.”

  “And let my employer keep bankrupting your companies?”

  “If he can,” she agreed. “This is survival of the fittest, Mr. Redwine.”

  “Or of the least moral,” he said bitterly.

  “It comes to the same thing in the end,” she acknowledged pleasantly. “And don't speak so harshly of survivors, Mr. Redwine. You used to be one, before you got sex and love all mixed up.”

  “And what will become of the Comet?” he asked.

  “Oh, Eros always survives, of course,” she replied. “The Velvet Comet is much too impressive a showcase to be allowed to die.”

  “Who will run it?”

  “Suma, I suppose. She's a very ambitious young woman. In fact, she reminds me a lot of myself when I was younger—not that I was ever a prostitute, you understand.” She paused. “I am told that Mr. Bonhomme has already agreed to make her the madam and to give the ship motive power.”

  “She'll have your job in ten years’ time,” Redwine predicted.

  The old woman shook her head. “She's not subtle enough. Still, I suppose I'll have to keep an eye on her.”

  “How can you do that if the Comet has motive power?”

  “Then I guess I can't allow it to have motive power, can I?” she said with a smile. “I think we'll put it in orbit around Deluros VIII, just for safe-keeping.”

  “And what happens to me?”

  “You?” she said. “Why, you're free to leave whenever you wish, Mr. Redwine—just so long as you leave your package on my desk.”

  “There's something I want to know first,” said Redwine.

  “And what is that?”

  “Who is my employer?”

  “I'm sorry, Mr. Redwine,” replied the old woman, “but I can't see that any purpose would be served by telling you. You're still distraught over the Madonna's death, and I'm not sure you can be expected to behave in a rational and intelligent manner.”

  “So that's it?” said Redwine. “The Madonna is dead, and everyone responsible for it keeps right on working for you?”

  “Life goes on, Mr. Redwine.”

  He glared across the desk at her. “You're worse than the rest of them.”

  “Not worse, Mr. Redwine,” she said. “Just harder. I have to be; it's the nature of my job. And now,” she added, “if there's nothing further, I really must get back to work. It's been a very enlightening conversation.”

  She smiled at him. “You will undoubtedly wish to hand in your resignation. I'll arrange for a very generous severance fee to be deposited in your account.”

/>   “It's not necessary.”

  “I realize that, but we'll do it anyway.”

  “I don't want your money!”

  “Oh, it's not mine, Mr. Redwine. It belongs to all the people you put out of work over the years.”

  He glared at her and made no answer.

  “Oh, I see,” she said with mock sympathy. “You had forgotten them during our little discussion. I suppose it's just as well. It would never do for a man playing the tragic lover to have so many people on his conscience.” She paused. “Or was this supposed to be the noble act of expiation that would mitigate all your prior actions?” She chuckled. “I suppose I shall have to remind Suma never to underestimate the redemptive power of love.”

  “You were right,” said Redwine bitterly as he got up from his chair.

  “About what, Mr. Redwine?”

  “Suma will never replace you.”

  “I'll assume that's a compliment.”

  “Assume any damned thing you want,” he said, walking to the door.

  “Mr. Redwine?” said the old woman as the door slid into the wall.

  He turned and faced her. “What?”

  “You probably won't believe it, but I am truly sorry about the Madonna.”

  “You're right about that, too,” he replied, and stalked out of the office.

  Chapter 20

  Rasputin was sitting at his desk, carefully studying the Lady Toshimatu's every move at the poker table on his holographic screen, when the door to his office slid back and Victor Bonhomme entered the room.

  “Good morning,” said Bonhomme, “I hope I'm not intruding?”

  “Not at all,” replied the Security chief as he deactivated his monitor. “Have a seat.”

  Bonhomme pulled up a chair, sat down, and lit one of his blue-tinted cigarettes.

  “Do you find my company irresistible,” asked Rasputin, “or does this visit have some purpose?”

  “I think it's time you and I had a little talk,” replied Bonhomme, exhaling two thin streams of smoke from his nostrils.

  “I like talking as well as the next man,” said Rasputin. “Did you have any particular subject in mind?”

  “Business.”

  “I especially like talking about business.” Rasputin paused. “In fact, if you hadn't stopped by, I was going to hunt you up later today.”

  “Oh? What about?”

  “It can wait a few minutes. I'd like to hear what you have to say first.”

  “Fine,” said Bonhomme. “I'll get right down to cases. How happy are you here?”

  “I like my work.”

  “Do you like your salary?”

  Rasputin shrugged. “It's adequate.”

  “But you'd like more?”

  “Who wouldn't?” replied Rasputin with a smile.

  “In that case, we may be able to work something out,” said Bonhomme. “Harry thought very well of you.” He paused. “You heard about what happened, didn't you?”

  “I know he's dead,” said Rasputin. “I don't know how it occurred.”

  “The poor dumb sonofabitch killed himself,” said Bonhomme. “He must have gone a little crazy when the Madonna died. I don't know all the details, but I guess he went back to Deluros, broke into the Vainmill Building, and then went home and hung himself in his apartment. It must have been ... oh, three or four weeks ago.” He paused.

  “By the way, how did you find out? Even Suma doesn't know yet.”

  “Harry told me.”

  “I don't think I follow you,” said Bonhomme.

  “He sent me his skeleton card and the Madonna's chess set,” explained Rasputin. “He'd never have done that unless he knew he was going to die.”

  “You've got his skeleton card?” asked Bonhomme sharply.

  “That's right.”

  Bonhomme frowned for a moment, then shrugged.

  “Maybe it's for the best, at that. Have you learned how to use it?”

  “It's not that difficult,” said Rasputin. “Why?”

  “I don't know if you're aware of it, but Harry did a little undercover work for Vainmill from time to time. Now that he's gone, I'm going to be needing someone to replace him.”

  “I'm not an accountant.”

  “To be perfectly honest about it, Harry had almost outlived his usefulness to us. I only had one more job lined up for him.” Rasputin made no comment, and Bonhomme continued. “He seemed quite taken with you, so I checked out your credentials. They're very impressive: fifteen years in Intelligence, decorated three times, two degrees in computer technology, twelve years as Chief of Security.” He paused. “It's a hell of a record. I especially like those computer degrees; the word I get from the computer experts back on Deluros is that they're going to be installing a number of new fail-safe devices to make them tamper-proof.”

  “How very interesting,” commented Rasputin.

  “Well, what do you say?” asked Bonhomme. “Do you think you might be interested in working for me?”

  “Which particular companies did you want me to destroy?” asked Rasputin pleasantly.

  Bonhomme frowned. “Harry always did talk too goddamned much.”

  “He was a good man who got in over his head and couldn't get out.”

  “Harry was a fool and a loser,” answered Bonhomme. “Why romanticize him just because he's dead?”

  “He tried to redeem himself,” said Rasputin. “Who knows? He may even have succeeded.”

  “We seem to be getting away from the subject,” said Bonhomme. “I came here to offer you a job, not to argue with you about a dead man.”

  “To tell you the truth, Mr. Bonhomme, I don't think I'm interested in your job.”

  “You're sure?”

  Rasputin nodded. “I find my current work very satisfying.”

  “Well,” said Bonhomme, getting to his feet, “I guess that's that. I'll expect you to return Harry's skeleton card, of course.”

  “I'm afraid your expectations aren't going to be fulfilled, Mr. Bonhomme,” said Rasputin.

  “What are you talking about?” demanded Bonhomme.

  “Please sit down. We're not quite through yet.”

  Bonhomme stared at him questioningly.

  “I had some business to discuss with you, remember?” said Rasputin.

  “I thought you didn't want the job.”

  “Espionage is your business,” said Rasputin. “Mine is the security of the Comet.” He activated his computer.

  “I've got a little something that I want you to see.”

  Bonhomme glanced at his watch. “Is this absolutely necessary? I'm a very busy man.”

  “Oh, I think you'll find it rather interesting,” replied the Security chief, touching a number of squares on his computer console. “One might even say fascinating.”

  Suddenly the holographic screen flickered to life, displaying two figures in animated conversation.

  “That's Suma and me!” exclaimed Bonhomme, surprised.

  “How the hell did you —?”

  “Shhh,” interrupted Rasputin with a smile. “I wouldn't want you to miss a word of this.”

  “But how did it happen?” Bonhomme was demanding of Suma.

  “I don't know,” she replied with a shrug. “He must have lost control of himself.”

  “I told you to disable her, not kill her!” Bonhomme snapped.

  “Rasputin killed Gamble before he could talk, so what difference does it make?” responded Suma.

  Rasputin touched another square and froze the holograph.

  “It goes on for another ten minutes, but I think you get the picture,” said the Security chief. “Now let me ask you a question, Mr. Bonhomme,” he added pleasantly. “Do you know the penalty for being an accessory to murder?”

  Bonhomme glared at him. “All right, you bastard. How much do you want?”

  “I don't want your money, Mr. Bonhomme.”

  “What do you want?” demanded Bonhomme.

  “A favor.”


  “What kind of favor?”

  “I want you to fire Suma.”

  “I don't have the authority,” said Bonhomme.

  Rasputin smiled. “You're a resourceful man, Mr. Bonhomme. You'll find a way.”

  “And if I do, you'll destroy the recording?” asked Bonhomme.

  “Not a chance,” said Rasputin with an amused laugh. “Work in this place long enough and you run out of trust in your fellow man. But if you fire her, I won't turn it over to the authorities.”

  “That's not much of a bargain,” complained Bonhomme.

  “I've got the recording,” replied Rasputin easily. “I don't have to make much of a bargain.”

  “Since, as you point out, you've got the recording, why don't you simply use it to put us both in jail?” asked Bonhomme.

  “Nothing would please me more,” admitted Rasputin, “but since you both have friends in high places, you could probably fight this thing for years before you were finally convicted. I'm willing to let you go free to get her off the ship now.”

  “Why her instead of me?”

  “Because Gamble was following her orders, not yours. If I can only make one of you pay, it has to be her.”

  “That's not much of a reason.”

  “You should be thanking me instead of arguing with me, Mr. Bonhomme,” said Rasputin, smiling at Bonhomme's sudden discomfort. He paused. “And, for what it's worth, there's another reason: I promised Harry.”

  “You're as crazy as he was!” snapped Bonhomme. “He tried blackmail too, and look where it got him.”

  “He never understood that corruption starts at the top,” responded Rasputin calmly. “If I went after your boss, whoever he might be, I'd probably get slapped down. But you and me, we're small potatoes, Mr. Bonhomme. Nobody will ever know or care what we agree to today except the two of us.”

  “Well, what the hell,” said Bonhomme with a shrug. “She was a dangerous little bitch to have around anyway. We'll probably all be much happier once she's gone.” He frowned. “How the hell am I going to stop her from blowing the whistle?”

  “That's not my problem,” said Rasputin. “I'm sure you'll think of something.”

  “What do you get out of all this?” asked Bonhomme.

  “The same thing Harry and the Madonna got,” replied Rasputin. “The satisfaction of doing my job well.” He paused. “Do we have a deal?”