by Rhonda Mason
The Pleasure District.
The idea was as revolting as it was perfect. Since the release of her identity by Isonde, a fetish had started, giving rise to a new breed of pleasure workers and sex bots dressed to look like her. Not just her—Ilmenan lookalikes had become popular as well, Tia’tan and Noar especially. Why not make the perversity of the imperials work in her favor? She’d blend in like a TNV victim on Wei-lu-Wei.
Kayla ignored the faster, more expensive bot-driven cabs and hopped on a decrepit transport destined for the Pleasure District. With one credit for a fare, an apathetic driver and a group of passengers disinclined to look too closely at anyone else, it suited her perfectly. The cheap organoplastic windows were nearly opaque and she tried to let that fact calm her.
I’m safe here. This is safe.
Then why did it feel like the IDC was breathing down her neck?
“Come on come on come on,” she muttered under her breath at the driver. The sooner she was buried in the heart of the don’t-ask-don’t-tell district, the better.
The hoverengine wheezed to life as the output pumped like bellows and struggled to lift them off the street and into the flow of traffic.
Low-priced anonymity at its finest.
The lights in the cabin dropped to nothing, cocooning her in the illusion of safety. Kayla pulled her mobile comm out of the bag that held her kris and slouched in her seat. A minute later—Corinth could have done it in thirty seconds—she completed her hack into the low-tech imperial comm system. They’d have her comm signature by now, so she wiped it.
Now no one would be able to trace her. The downside? Friends wouldn’t be able to reach her either.
She set the comm to scan the area for sympathetic signals. Of the four passengers and one driver, three others had mobile comms. Kayla mirrored the signal of one of them to her own comm and commandeered the answering and messaging functions. It was a low-grade, very temporary fix. All calls and messages sent to the ID would hit only her comm. Both she and whoever’s signal she boosted could make outgoing calls, as long as it wasn’t simultaneously. The comm system itself would identify the hack before long so she’d have about a day of use before she needed to switch mirrored IDs.
Content that, for the moment, she’d done all she could to make herself invisible, Kayla took a minute to think.
When, exactly, had things gone to shit?
Last she heard, Parrel was going to break the IDC’s secrets wide open. That should have been at eighteen hundred, though, and the newscast reported that Vega had made her announcement an hour before. Vega must have learned of Parrel’s plans and preempted him somehow.
Unless that had been Parrel’s plan all along.
Had it?
Had Parrel said the one thing needed to entice her to leave Ardin and Isonde’s protection at the palace in order to take her into custody and use her as the scapegoat to hide the IDC’s corruption? Had she been a fool to trust Malkor’s faith in Parrel?
Kayla thrust that thought away. Malkor wouldn’t be so blind, not even about a beloved superior. Had to be a mole inside Parrel’s camp. One of the very people Parrel had trusted had turned on them, warning Vega what was about to happen.
Shit. Considering Senior Commander Vega had every detail about her own treason, it would take next to nothing to provide real-life examples of what had happened, and alter the facts to place the blame on Malkor; turn him into an enemy of the state while keeping her name clean.
The octet would have been brought down in a second. Probably incarcerated alongside Malkor. And Parrel? Where was he in all this? The question made her uneasy.
The transport’s air intake sputtered and quit, dropping the bus to the ground with more force than the cheap shock-absorbers could handle. Kayla nearly jolted out of the seat. The halt brought her anxiety back to desperate levels. Should she run? Bust out the transport’s doors and hit the street?
She tried to see outside through the windows, expecting any second to be caught by an IDC agent rounding the corner. Her breath hitched as the net drew tighter and tighter around her. Vayne’s haunted face leaped into her mind. She would never, ever, allow herself to be taken prisoner by imperials.
Ever.
“Happens all the time,” the driver called. A minute later the engine kicked back to life and they were on their way again toward blissful oblivion.
Twenty minutes later the transport crashed with the same violence. Apparently that was its natural landing procedure because the doors opened and the driver ordered everyone off.
The second Kayla hit the pavement she was moving, striding away from the half-hearted lighting that lit the transport stop, and rushing into the enveloping warren of the Pleasure District. The other passengers scattered even faster than she had. It immediately became apparent that while the Pleasure District had a polished, upscale, respectable side, she had been dropped at the opposite end of the pool—which suited her needs perfectly.
First stop—wardrobe. “Princess Kayla, Lady of the Night” needed something skimpier than a bodysuit that covered her from shoulders to ankles.
Most of the city’s glow globes were burnt out or broken in this section and she slinked easily in a near-constant cover of shadow. The sidewalks canted at uneven intervals, tripping her up while she looked in all directions for threats.
Door after door after door lined the streets. None had signs, but everyone seemed to know where they were headed. As club doors opened, people came and went, lit by squares of red and blue and strobe lighting, ringed in smoke and followed by music as the doors slammed shut again.
Kayla kept close to the wall, dodging propositions and catcalls. Suddenly the door at her left elbow was flung open, knocking her aside. A man sauntered out with a happy smile and a lightness to his step. He caught her elbow as she reeled. Back on balance, she jerked her arm away, glaring at him.
The man laughed and called back into the establishment. “One of yours, Fantasmo? I might be interested, next time.” He winked and went on his way.
Sounds of a string quartet drifted outside on perfumed air, the melody so sophisticated and elegant that she stopped in surprise. Dim purple light fell on the pavers from the open door and a black shadow grew as someone neared from inside. Fantasmo, Kayla supposed. She expected a gaudily dressed, bedazzled dandy oozing charm.
Instead an austere bot stood there, looking at her with unblinking, glowing eyes. It had a silver ovoid face with only two distinguishing features, his eyes and a polite smile etched onto the metal. The rest of his body was made of the same highly-polished silver material, vaguely humanoid in shape—not so much that it threatened a person’s perception that it was, in fact, a machine. The words Butler Extraordinaire 5c were embossed on his chest where a nametag might be.
“Fantasmo, at your service, my lady.” The bot swept her a precise bow. The gently masculine voice held the same elevated accent that Isonde and Ardin employed.
Okay, she had officially ventured into crazyland. An antique household bot had somehow acquired—and ran—an elite establishment in the bowels of the Pleasure District.
How in the…?
The silver head tilted slightly, as if studying the particulars of her attire and possessions. “Are you, perhaps, looking for work?”
What exactly would “work” entail in an establishment like Fantasmo’s? She was momentarily transfixed by the oddity.
“Um, I’m looking for clothing.”
He continued to study her, golden-lit eyes unblinking.
“More appropriate clothing,” she offered.
“Ah. Of course, my lady. I understand completely.” Butler bot cum vice-caterer extraordinaire stepped back and invited her inside with an automated arm flourish. “I could see to your needs immediately.”
Was she really having this conversation? A glance over her shoulder showed that a well-dressed couple was waiting impatiently for their chance to enter Fantasmo’s establishment.
“I provide whate
ver you desire, my lady. This is Fantasmo’s, where nothing is out of reach.” He gestured again.
Anyone who could afford to keep an antique bot in such beautiful repair, not to mention cater to such exclusive clientele, would be well beyond the range of her meager credits. “I’ll look elsewhere.” She started to back away. Fantasmo’s multi-articulated arm snaked out with such agility that he caught her off-guard.
“Nonsense. This is on Fantasmo. A gift for a potential friend.” That arm movement certainly hadn’t been possible with the bot’s original build. Someone had cranked this thing to a whole new level of ability, and his fingers were entirely too manacle-like around her arm.
Kayla’s fight or flight instinct kicked in and she broke the hold, then beat it out of there. Between one word and the next she had crossed the street and slipped into the alley that led to another section of the Pleasure District.
Within ten minutes she realized she’d hit rock bottom.
Perfect.
Two male whores on a dark corner, one fresh from a blow job, gave her an excellent tip for an outfitter and she soon found herself in the competent hands of Madame Jessiel.
Kayla ignored the pungent smell of stale bodily fluids in the back room of the shop as she changed out of her bodysuit and into her new clothes. The bodysuit would cover payment for her new outfit, which made sense since it had twice the amount of fabric of Kayla’s new costume. She let her hair down and loose.
Kayla exited the backroom in a minidress of shimmery white that barely covered her ass. A sapphire bustier underneath made the most of her modest breasts, and showed through the giant V in the minidress that ended somewhere in the vicinity of her navel. She refused matching sapphire stilettos. Might be de rigueur for showing off her assets, but damn if she was going anywhere in heels where she might need to run at a moment’s notice. She kept her boots, bought a cheap hair dye appliqué of ash brown for later, and paid Madame Jessiel the required credits.
Sufficiently hookered-up for appearances, Kayla walked to a bar—Fishy’s Bait Shack—a block from Madame’s shop. Madame had told her that while it was a popular pickup spot, it was one of the few places nearby that didn’t also contain backrooms for frutting around. The owner, “Fishy,” apparently couldn’t pay the lease for a license.
Once inside Fishy’s, Kayla ordered a liquid-nitrogen-cooled cocktail that she didn’t intend to drink, and sat in a booth in the corner that allowed her a view of the door, the bar, the bathroom and the single vidscreen above the bar. The screen played the news, the audio obscured by music, swearing and a half-hearted fist-fight in the opposite corner of Fishy’s. Kayla had to content herself with reading the scrolling bar at the bottom of the screen.
News of the Protectorate Council’s decision to withdraw from Ordoch was playing when the first Tia’tan lookalike approached her. Even though the real Tia’tan had short lavender hair, tight in the back, with long bangs hanging over one eye in the front, this whore had opted for shoulder-length locks. Boys liked long hair, she told Kayla.
The whore tossed a hank of greasy, badly dyed lavender hair over one shoulder and gestured to a particularly eager guy at the bar. “My client says he’ll pay us each double if he can watch the two of us go at it.”
Kayla waved her away. “Not interested.”
“Come on,” the woman wheedled. She put her palm on the table and leaned in, blocking Kayla’s view of the screen. “I bet you haven’t heard a score this juicy in weeks. Caleb is always generous, and I’ve got him well and greased right now.”
Kayla shot her a glare that could freeze fire. “Not interested. Now leave.” Imitation Tia’tan tottered off in a huff on heels high enough to give her a nosebleed.
Not ten minutes later, as Malkor’s image came on the vid, a couple approached her and slipped into the booth opposite before she could stop them. The woman was a startling ringer for Tia’tan. The man was supposed to be Noar, she assumed, based on the purple wig he wore. He was about ten centimeters too tall to play any powerful male psionic on Ilmena, however.
“Princess Tia’tan and I,” the man said with a twitter, “were wondering if you’d like to join us for… dinner.”
Kayla glanced past them at the news. Without audio, she couldn’t make much sense of what was happening. She looked back at the couple, at the excited gleam in their eyes. The male was practically salivating. Over his shoulder she saw a man at the bar glancing her way, clearly biding his time to see if she’d turn down this pair before he made his move.
Kayla swore under her breath. There were at least three other “Kaylas” in the bar, why did people have to keep hassling her? Apparently in this area of the Pleasure District, her “disguise” was a little too perfect. Then again, in this end of the district, blue hair, blue eyes and a tight ass would pretty much kill it.
Frutt. She didn’t have time for this shit.
She left the table without a reply. Five minutes later she was back in Madame Jessiel’s, trading a few credits for a handful of sedative patches and directions to the more upscale section of the Pleasure District. Here the establishments actually had signs, though the lighting was every bit as low in the streets.
At Caia’s Starhouse Kayla was given a thorough once-over by the host before being allowed entrance. Score some points for having her own teeth and actually showering this week. Kayla slipped into a cozy lounge, halting by the entrance, and began scanning the patrons. It was getting late—or early—and considering that she’d barely slept in days, she needed at least a few hours of sleep to keep going. Who knew how long it would be before she’d have another chance.
Several people gave her the eye as she stood in the entryway, so she quickly selected her mark: the best-dressed guy in the place. He had the confident look that came with having plenty of credits to burn.
A drink, some flirtatious talk, a proposition whispered in his ear and they were out of there, on their way to a hotel. The second they locked the room’s door he got handsy.
Kayla calmly gave him a hammer fist to the temple that knocked him out cold.
“Sorry, guy. Just not your night.”
She made short work of hogtying him with cords pulled from the blinds, and once he was bound hand and foot, she slapped a sedative patch on his arm and rolled his unconscious body into the closet. Even cheap sedative patches should keep him out for about eight hours. Plenty of time.
Kayla turned on the vidscreen. Finding any news was a challenge. Four hundred streams of porn and one lousy news stream. She pulled a kris from the bag, unsheathed it, and then slung the pack back over her shoulder before lying down on the bed, boots still on. Kris in hand, curled on her side, she stayed awake long enough to learn that some of Malkor’s octet had evaded capture, including his second in command, before she fell asleep.
* * *
She woke five hours later to the sound of her would-be lover’s snores coming from the closet.
Thank you, Madame Jessiel.
The guy had a healthy supply of credits in his pocket and Kayla helped herself, then sent a text-only message to Hekkar. Long shot, because he might have dumped his mobile comm, but she had no other option.
A minute later her mobile comm chirped. Thank the stars for tech specialists with the skill for sophisticated comm hacks.
“Kayla. Good to hear from you,” came Hekkar’s voice.
“You too,” she said into the comm. “I wasn’t sure if any of you made it out.” The sound of Hekkar’s voice released some of the tension in her shoulders. She might be neck-deep in a conspiracy that could end in her death, but at least she wasn’t alone anymore.
Hekkar hesitated a moment. “We had warning.”
Now that begged some questions…
“I’ve got Rigger, Trinan and Vid with me. We’re holed up in Shimville, the safehouse we used when your family was rescued. Do you remember it?”
“Vaguely.” Everything had been such an emotional blur at the time.
Hekkar gave
her the coordinates. “Meet us here and we’ll talk more.”
“I’m heading out.” She could definitely afford a cab ride to the outskirts of Shimville now.
“Be careful. The entire city’s looking for you.”
Of course they were. Because who didn’t enjoy a manhunt?
Kayla said goodbye and fussed with her miniskirt, trying to cover a little more ass. While the outfit worked wonders last night, she needed something a little less… well, actually, she was going to need something a whole lot more. Like fabric. She applied the mousy-brown hair dye appliqué in the bathroom and then studied the results. It was a hideous and oh-so-common color—no one would look twice at her hair. She twisted it into a tight bun at her nape and made her way down to the lobby.
The early morning sun hit her eyes when she exited, sending her into a squint. The Pleasure District was decidedly less alluring by day. She hurried to a clothier down the street and exited twenty minutes later wearing a pair of shaded glasses and a beige pantsuit that said, “Hi, I’m a generic worker bee, don’t mind me.” She was light-headed from lack of food but didn’t want to waste any time tracking some down.
After a cab ride and a lot of walking, she arrived at the safehouse. The building showed every sign of collapsing in a strong wind. Lines of mildew and algae crawled across the beige organoplastic façade where water overflowed plugged gutters and ran down the exterior wall. The front was windowless, sign-less and depressing enough to turn even the most desperate of thieves away.
When she knocked, Hekkar opened the door and blinked at her a second. “Kayla? Wow, talk about blending in.” He stepped back to let her enter, gaze shooting past her to see if anyone was taking notice. He closed the door behind her.
“Thanks, I think.” The inside of the building was as she remembered it, a complete one-eighty from the outside. Clean and bright, if utilitarian. High-tech complink and communications equipment could be seen through an open office door. The floor was scrubbed, watertight and thankfully mildew-free. A long table dominated one wing of the building—the “war room”—where any number of ops were planned, and an opposite wing had a cozy collection of chairs and couches for down time. As she remembered it, a storage room below held enough weapons and tactical gear to host a private war.
