Authors: Marianne de Pierres
Crash Deluxe (6 page)
I had to be content with that.
I caught the Trans north, changing connections until it brought me to a huge, badly air-conditioned puffball dome full of comings and goings.
Trains, Aeros and Cruisers all docked at Viva’s Eastern Interchange, which made the place busier than most of the supercity’s checkpoints and the best point of entry to slip through cracks.
I paid for a luggage drone and walked to the Viva Visitors lattice to dodge the Militia with body scanners positioned along the ped-ways. When I got there it was bottlenecked, with everybody being physically searched.
‘What’s the go?’ I asked the p-diary salesman lined up in front of me.
‘Someone heard that Garter Thin and the VBs are coming to town to play at some big, rich party for the Pan-Sats. Seems like everyone on the east coast’s come to Viva thinking they might catch a glimpse of ’em.’
Thin and the VBs were a big deal in the Southern Hem. I’d heard their music. OK if you liked that old-style hard-girl-rocker image. Personally I thought they looked like they wouldn’t last a round with Mama.
Or me, come to think of it.
The doors to the celeb lounge seemed a helluva lot quieter than the cattle grid so I headed for the nearest san, slipped off my coat off and re-emerged in full borrowed
Amorato
regalia. Translucent high-collared shirt and floaty skirt, high heels and pliable snake bracelets up to my armpits. I’d left my leather crop in my case.
Amorato
regalia. Translucent high-collared shirt and floaty skirt, high heels and pliable snake bracelets up to my armpits. I’d left my leather crop in my case.
I passed through the weapons scanner without a problem and the doors popped open.
Four stoned-out bodies and one luggage-burdened intimate occupied the perfume-aired, satin-decorated lounge. A couple of ornately uniformed Militia sat in a booth near the exit.
I threaded between the bodies, giving the Militia boys time to look at me.
And me time to look at the bodies.
I recognised Garter Thin, the singer from the VBs by the tattoos on her voice supplemental and her cosmetically adjusted lip sneer. The rest of them could have been any dregs from the street.
Maybe they were.
‘Go round the other way,’ the singer rasped.
I ignored her, stabbing my heel into her leg as I stepped over it.
She swore and kicked out at me.
I caught her foot in both hands and twisted it, dumping her on the floor.
Without breaking stride I walked on to the booth. The soldiers hadn’t seen my antics. Too busy watching porn.
I tapped on the booth to attract their attention and slid my fake visa under the glass.
‘Jales Belliere.
Amorato
,’ read the one with the vreal implants and a svelte muscle-conditioning suit.
Amorato
,’ read the one with the vreal implants and a svelte muscle-conditioning suit.
The other, wearing the logo of a runner on his uniform and prettily plaited hair, opened the door and stepped out to make a more personal survey. He began to feel me over, his tongue busy in the corner of his lips as though he might like to taste me.
‘Haven’t had one of your . . . kind through in a while,’ he said.
I stood rigid in his grip and slapped his hand away when it reached my waist. If he was hoping that I might jump his bones for free, then he was way, way, waa-aay south of wrong.
‘Hands off,’ I growled and stepped back.
Mr Pretty Plaits looked affronted and confused.
The one with the suit stiffened at my reaction. I saw his head shake as he ran a more thorough check of my details through his oculars.
‘Bend over,’ he ordered me through a monotone larynx.
Plaits smilingly held up a tissue probe.
Do something, Parrish,
I told myself. Anything to avoid breaking their heads and ending up arrested before I’d even begun my business in Viva.
I told myself. Anything to avoid breaking their heads and ending up arrested before I’d even begun my business in Viva.
I thought back quickly to the lecture that Ibis had given me about
Amoratos
before I left.
Amoratos
before I left.
‘
They have class, Parrish. And they’re comfortable with what they do. Sex is like breathing to them. They have all sorts of tricks and artistry that no one outside their profession understands. They’ve turned it into an art form. A reputation like that builds expectations. You can make a little work a lot for you, depending on how smart you are.
’
They have class, Parrish. And they’re comfortable with what they do. Sex is like breathing to them. They have all sorts of tricks and artistry that no one outside their profession understands. They’ve turned it into an art form. A reputation like that builds expectations. You can make a little work a lot for you, depending on how smart you are.
’
Amoratos
certainly didn’t bare their teeth and growl at potential customers. And now these two were suspicious of me.
certainly didn’t bare their teeth and growl at potential customers. And now these two were suspicious of me.
Honey had assured me that
Amoratos
never got body-searched on account of the booby traps they used to keep themselves safe - part of their immunity to the normal laws.
Amoratos
never got body-searched on account of the booby traps they used to keep themselves safe - part of their immunity to the normal laws.
Plaits here hadn’t read the same rule book.
I needed to distract them and allay their suspicions.
On instinct I sought out the Eskaalim presence and found it crouched inside me like a prisoner down a dark hole awaiting release.
What would happen, I wondered, if I carefully - soooo carefully - loosened my mental control?
The answer came in a surge of black, raging anger. I seized the sensation and tried to focus it all into one image.
Loyl Daac between my thighs.
Instantly the aggression turned to lust. Warmth seeped through my limbs, building into a torrent of urge. Heat blazed off my skin. I could almost smell the thick scent of sex rolling from me. My hips tilted forward of their own accord.
‘What I mean is . . . my business is urgent. But . . .’ I wet my dry lips. ‘Perhaps I could find time . . .’
Crap. Who the hell is that talking? Another freaking stranger in my skin.
My body invaded my mind and tossed out its inhibitions. I found my hands sliding down to cup my breasts and rub my nipples erect under the gauze of my top. I shivered down the length of my body and leaned over to the svelte suit, breathing raggedly in his ear.
The effect was electric, as if the Eskaalim reached out of me and into him.
A small part of me watched and hated what I was doing. Parrish Plessis did NOT put out.
But as usual when I got into these situations, I was on a one-way road to no good place. And the alternative to flirtation was the probe that Plaits was waving around like a weapon.
Surely
I could coquette a second or two longer.
I could coquette a second or two longer.
Suit abandoned his search on me. Plaits stared openly at my fingers as if they were capable of great things.
‘. . . For a little extra pleasure,’ I finished.
One of my hands had left my breast and was finding its way up under my skirt.
Plaits’s eyes glazed over.
Suit’s thin, tek-dependent body jerked and shivered in his chair. Through the glass I saw dampness stain his crotch. He crossed his hands over his lap in humiliation and wheeled out of the booth towards the san.
Involuntary orgasm.
Well, at least it wasn’t me for once.
I signalled my luggage drone and headed for the Welcome to Viva doors.
Plaits didn’t even notice me go - his private fantasy had him with one hand down his own pants and a distant expression on his face.
As the bombproof doors sucked shut, I found myself in a long corridor.
Right about then my control wavered.
Lust claimed me. I wanted to grind my hips against something. I wanted to moan and climb onto a large—
Jeez, Parrish. Get a grip.
I scrambled on to a table and knocked the security cam from its mount. Then I kicked over a singing-frogs terrarium and punched a hole in a glass tapestry. I stamped and swore and punched until my hands bled and sweat ran and the desire, finally, waned.
When I’d finished the corridor looked like a demolition site and the security sirens had started to waahwaah.
A single punter cowered at one end, clutching a wad of complimentary map holo-shells like a shield.
‘Who do you think you are?’ he squeaked, outraged.
‘Garter Thin, of course.’ I smiled, took a map from him and stalked past to the exit.
As soon as I was out of the building, I ran.
Outside, Viva shone. Literally. The latest craze for chrome gutters, downpipes and window trims, as well as for rainbow glass created a radiance of its own. When I figured I’d put enough distance between Puffball Central and me, I stopped to marvel for the millionth time at the super-city’s fragrant air, law-abiding cits and immaculate streets.
I’d grown up in the ’burbs where the shine had tarnished some. Central Viva still awed me. I inhaled the cleanliness, moving automatically to find a public san where I washed my hands and used the free medi-kit next to the sperm-kill dispenser to patch them. While I waited for them to stop bleeding, I gave myself a lecture.
Trashing the corridor - stupid.
I extracted some gloves (courtesy of the Babes on the strip - one of them had even given me a royal-blue cheongsam with slits to my armpits: a bit frayed but not as tacky as the lamé one that she’d tried to offload as well) from my suitcase and headed for an Interchange café and a table where I could see the door and study my free map.
My fake ident worked fine for the tea I ordered and I began, at last, to settle. Ibis - with Honey’s input - had worked me up a fake performance history. The pair of them had argued over the details of my profile as if I hadn’t been there. Ibis wanted me to have an imaginary customer base in Eurasia.
Honey thought that was posey and unrealistic.
Teece added that if I were introduced as a newbie it would explain my rough edges and perverse nature . . .
Me - rough edges? Perverse? Must have had the wrong grrl.
‘
More importantly, though
,’ they all harangued me, ‘
don’t attract unnecessary attention.
’
More importantly, though
,’ they all harangued me, ‘
don’t attract unnecessary attention.
’
‘
Amoratos
get it anyway - without trying,’ added Honey.
Amoratos
get it anyway - without trying,’ added Honey.
‘There’s attention. And then there’s
ATTENTION
,’ warned Ibis. ‘No violence, Parrish. No headlines. Your cover won’t stand up to close scrutiny.’
ATTENTION
,’ warned Ibis. ‘No violence, Parrish. No headlines. Your cover won’t stand up to close scrutiny.’
I guessed that included trashing corridors.
I slipped Merry 3# out of my bag and fixed her processor to my wrist. Then I switched her settings. The tiny, discreet 2D display scrolled through the story they’d concocted.
Jales Belliere was born in Katchemite, a descendant of the famous Interior family . . .
I flicked on to the last section, vaguely suspicious of the final touches that had been added while I was collecting accoutrements from the babes.
Jales Belliere is a second-position
Amorato
from the Yo-Rakine school. Included in her specialised repertoire are advanced auto-erotica, transcendental-energy sex, prolonged orgasm and related stamina, group work, and chic oral story-telling.
Amorato
from the Yo-Rakine school. Included in her specialised repertoire are advanced auto-erotica, transcendental-energy sex, prolonged orgasm and related stamina, group work, and chic oral story-telling.
I got a choking sensation in my throat.
What was Ibis thinking? Wait till I get hold of him.
I put the p-diary back in my pocket and went over the map of the Inner Gyro until I found the location of the Hi-Tel that Honey’s ex-boss visited.
I sighed. What would her involvement mean in the end? You’d probably never do anything if you knew how it would affect other people’s lives.
I savoured the tea leaves in the bottom of my beaker and the precious minutes of calm. I was getting a whole lot better at enjoying the little things.
I got up and queued for a slot on the café’s public net-access. When my turn came I requested recent images of James Monk and the infamous ‘Delly’.
I took care to spread my searches so that none of the watchdog programs were triggered. The ‘Delly’ search came up with nothing, which meant that I only had Honey’s description to go on.
On James Monk, though, there was a fotosmorgasbord of a heavily built older man and a public address to direct mail to. I mulled over Honey’s comment that her ex-boss was obsessed by Monk.
It had to be the perfect bait.
I noted Monk’s call address and began to plan my trap.
Chapter Six
T
he InterGlobe lobby was on the seventieth floor. I wafted in past the human doorman, trying to do the gloved and sinewy thing. He followed my trajectory with limpet eyes and twitching fingers. His eyes were explained by an ID scanner, his fingers . . . well, I guessed, maybe I was still exuding some of that crude sex scent. Or he was using some old-fashioned sign language.
he InterGlobe lobby was on the seventieth floor. I wafted in past the human doorman, trying to do the gloved and sinewy thing. He followed my trajectory with limpet eyes and twitching fingers. His eyes were explained by an ID scanner, his fingers . . . well, I guessed, maybe I was still exuding some of that crude sex scent. Or he was using some old-fashioned sign language.
I marched up to the desk. ‘I’m expecting a message from James Monk. My name is Jales Belliere.’
The desk clerk checked his messages.
‘I’m sorry, Ms Belliere. There is nothing. Do you have a reservation?’
I sniffed, as if annoyed. ‘That was not up to me. I shall call him.’
I flounced over to one of the plush comm booths and sank into the armchair, leaving the screen ajar. A pad automatically slipped up under my hand.
I thought about the ‘private’ booths I’d frequented in The Tert and MoVay. In this one you couldn’t catch your breath for perfumed velvet. In The Tert you could catch anything.
After the comm had ascertained my gender, a cache in the velvet wall opened and shot out a complimentary lip tattoo, cover-all cream and a hairbrush. I snaffled the cover-up and pushed the cache shut.
I recited the address loudly and began my charade. Honey said Delly knew all the comings and goings at the Globe. If she was right, then attracting his attention was just a matter of time.
The comm welcomed me to the Interchange Globe, listed locations of the other luxury Hi-Tels in the chain and asked me to confirm the name of the person I wished to speak to at that address.
‘James Monk.’
The connection hummed for a few seconds before it asked me to give more details.
I requested an F-T-F, knowing it would never happen, and waited for the request to be processed. The answer came back soon enough.
‘Mr Monk is unavailable. Please insert your ident if you wish to leave a message.’
I dropped the fake ident spike into the slot and worked hard at summoning a breathy softness to my voice.
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