Eros Ascending: Book 1 of Tales of the Velvet Comet (13 page)

But he didn't feel stark raving mad, or anything like it. He felt aloof, withdrawn—
alone
. He was so stunned by the realization that he momentarily lost his concentration on what Suma was doing to him.

She noticed—given where
he
was and where
she
was, she couldn't help but notice—and after a quick glance at him to make sure he wasn't in the throes of a sudden coronary, she went back to her ministrations with renewed vigor. As she did so, he tried to cope with the discovery that since his first night with the Madonna he hadn't felt the emptiness that had become second nature to him.

He knew with a grim certainty that it wasn't solely the sex he had had with her that he cherished. Certainly those encounters, gratifying and fulfilling as they were, didn't measure up to what he was experiencing at this moment as Suma whirled about the bed like some incredibly soft, smooth, insatiable dervish, touching, kissing, massaging, stroking, pulsating, using sections of her body, familiar and unfamiliar, in ways that he was sure no one else had ever conceived.

He stared up into the mirror and watched her, fascinated, as she climbed atop him, did something with her legs that even a contortionist would view with professional envy, and began rocking and swaying with a primal, sensual rhythm. The sensations were almost unbearable, and yet he felt no closeness, no sense of joining emotionally as well as physically.

She was just a stranger, albeit an incredibly talented one, doing a job. Even as he finally succumbed to the inevitability of his orgasm, he knew that while he may have responded to her physically—indeed, that he couldn't help responding to her physically—he didn't really like her. He was equally sure this entire episode would vanish from her mind the instant she left his room, nor did he especially want her to think about him once this encounter was over. After all, her job was to please
him
; if she enjoyed her work, as she seemed to be doing, so much the better, but it was a job and nothing more.

And then he realized the
real
reason for the emptiness that had once again fallen upon him. The Madonna's pleasure
mattered
to him; Suma's did not.

More, it mattered to him not as an affirmation of his own sexual prowess, but because it was important to him that she feel what he felt, that he know he was giving as well as receiving. It was simply another way of
caring
, a way of reaffirming their closeness when even words proved inadequate. The only bond he had with Suma would diminish and then break in a matter of half a minute or so; sex with the Madonna merely reaffirmed a bond that already existed.

At least, he decided unhappily as he finally separated from Suma and lay on his back, panting heavily,
half
of a bond existed. His half.

Smart, Harry,
he told himself ironically.
After forty-three years of being alone, of ruining a decent woman's happiness and siring three girls whose names you still get confused, who do you finally fall in love with? A whore. And not just any whore, but a whore who won't even talk to you. Shrewd move, King of the Saboteurs!

Suma turned to him, grinning triumphantly. “Well?” she said expectantly.

“You kept your promise,” he replied.

“Want to do it again before I leave?” she asked.

“You're kidding, right?”

“It's good for the muscle tone,” she said seriously. “Besides, I might not be able to get back here for a few more days.”

“Give me a raincheck,” he said. “I feel ten years older than when we started.”

“Was it memorable enough for you?”

“It was memorable.”

“I'd like to see that Madonna do
that
!” she said proudly.

“So would I,” he answered sincerely.

Her mask dropped again for an instant. Then she was on her feet and slipping back into her negligee.

“If I hurry, I think I've got time to change into my clothes and grab a meal before my next appointment—if you have no objections?”

“None.”

She walked into the parlor, then paused and turned to him.

“You're a fool, Harry.”

“I know,” he said softly.

“That doesn't make you any less of one,” she replied.

Then she was gone, and Redwine, after lying on the bed and sorting out his emotions for another few minutes, got up and slowly began putting his clothes on.

He pulled a cigar out of his pocket, stared at it for a moment, then shrugged and put it back. As he walked into the parlor he was suddenly aware of the security system. There were more than a dozen cameras hidden throughout the suite, all of which he had located his first night aboard the
Comet,
but now he walked up to the one that transmitted his image on the ship's intercom system.

He stared into it for a long, uncomfortable moment, then sighed deeply, and hoped Rasputin wasn't monitoring him at this precise instant.

“I think I love you,” he said softly.

He continued to stare at the camera, his face a battlefield of conflicting emotions.

“I'm sorry,” he added. “For what I just did, for what I feel, for everything.”

And for what I'm still doing to you every time I go to your office.

Then he jammed the security system again, sat down heavily on the contour chair, and tried very hard not to think of the Madonna doing with her handsome, loincloth-wearing servant what he had done with Suma.

Redwine spent most of the next morning and early afternoon locked in his office, staring at the Madonna's alien tapestry and feeling very confused. He was so steeped in his own thoughts that he didn't hear Rasputin pounding on the door for almost a minute.

When the insistent rapping finally broke through into his consciousness, he jumped to his feet, startled, and then adjusted the skeleton card to let the Security chief in.

“This just came for you,” said Rasputin, entering the office and handing him a rather heavy package. “I didn't know you played chess.”

“I do, from time to time,” said Redwine, taking the package and setting it down gingerly on a table. Suddenly he turned back to Rasputin. “Who told you you could open it?” he demanded.

“I didn't. But we
did
scan it. That's part of our job.” He shifted his weight uneasily. “Harry?”

“Yes?”

“I
had
to tell the Madonna what I found out. I hope I haven't caused you too many problems.”

“More than you can imagine,” said Redwine bitterly. “And you didn't find out a goddamned thing.”

“I think I should warn you that I'm finding out more all the time.”

“There's nothing
to
find out,” Redwine replied mechanically.

Rasputin shrugged. “Have it your way. I just hope we can still be friends.”

Redwine stared at him. “I don't know if we ever were.” He sighed. “When I met you, I thought you were a pretty nice guy.”

Rasputin shook his head. “I'm a pretty nice Security chief. There's a difference.”

“I know.” He paused again. “Did you monitor my room last night?”

“No. I figured that if you were willing to let the signal go through, there was nothing worth watching.”

“Do you know if the Madonna did?”

“I can find out.”

Redwine considered it for a moment, then shrugged “No. Don't bother.”

“Whatever you say,” replied Rasputin. He began to leave, then stopped in the doorway and turned back to Redwine. “Protect your ass, Harry. I'm getting close.”

“There's nothing to protect.”

Rasputin stared at him, genuinely concerned. Finally he turned and left the office, and Redwine instructed the computer to lock the door behind him.

Then he picked up the package, sat down on a sofa, and began unwrapping it. It took about three minutes to remove all the protective substances, and when he was through what remained was a large, ornately carved wooden box made of what seemed like mahogany from Earth itself.

He opened it gingerly and found that all thirty-two pieces had been individually swathed in protective coverings. He removed one of the larger pieces, unwrapped it, and held it up to the light. It was a castle, complete with tiny moat and drawbridge, each brick clearly discernable, with a tiny pennant flying atop it.

It had been created from a piece of milky translucent quartz, which acted as a prism when he held it up to the light, reflecting all the colors of the spectrum, changing its delicate patterns every time he moved his hand. He examined it closely, seeking the name or mark of the artisan who had so meticulously and lovingly crafted it, but he could find no trace of a sign or signature.

He rewrapped the piece carefully, then examined two more, a knight and a pawn, before he came to the first opposing piece, a regal, full-breasted, absolutely beautiful queen wearing a gown right out of Elizabethan England. Every stitch, every pattern, every button, every piece of jewelry seemed to have a reality of its own. At first he thought it was made of onyx, but it too seemed to glow and take on a life of its own when he held it up to the light, and he decided that it must have been carved from some form of volcanic glass with which he was unfamiliar.

He spent the next hour examining each of the pieces, and then gingerly replaced them in their box.

Finally he closed and latched it, and placed it back on the table.

Then he sat down at the computer, but instead of going back to work he found himself staring wistfully at the box. He fantasized about sitting down to play a game with the Madonna, not here aboard the
Comet
, but somewhere else, perhaps her farm on Pollux IV, possibly in his apartment back on Deluros VIII. The background details were blurred, but he knew that they had been together for a long time, and that they were happy, and that the terrible aching loneliness he had lived with for so long was no longer there.

Then he remembered that the Madonna didn't play games that she couldn't win, and he decided that he'd have to let her see him losing a few games so she would know she could beat him, and then he remembered that she wasn't even talking to him, and he sighed and activated the computer.

He worked for about two hours, then picked up the box, shut down the office, and took the tram back to the Resort. He went straight to his room, poured himself a whiskey, and tried to figure out how to get the chess set to her. He didn't know how much it had cost, but he knew it was too valuable to ask one of the prostitutes to deliver it for him. The only person he felt he could trust to act as a messenger was Rasputin, but it was Rasputin who was responsible for the fact that he needed a messenger in the first place, and he stubbornly refused to ask the Security chief for a favor.

He found himself wondering if the Madonna had heard what he said to her last night. Even if she hadn't been watching at the time, she should have been curious enough to review the video disks that had automatically been activated when he unjammed the room.

His little tryst with Suma shouldn't have upset her; after all,
she
had been with literally thousands of men and he had made his adjustment to it easily enough.

But if she had heard him, had seen how sincere and troubled he was, why didn't she acknowledge it?

His unhappy conclusion was that she hadn't yet reviewed the discs, that no one except maybe Rasputin knew of his feelings for her, that she probably hadn't even thought about him since ordering Suma to visit him. Except that he couldn't believe the last part of it: she had made him feel so complete that it was inconceivable to him that she had felt nothing at all.

Love and empathy were not exactly his greatest areas of personal experience, but he was absolutely certain that no one who was able to banish his emptiness after all these years could not be similarly affected.

At least, he
thought
he was absolutely certain, but in the back of his mind was a tiny germ of fear, an unacknowledged suspicion that maybe emptiness
was
the natural state of things, and that far from being unique before, he was unique now. It was too painful a thought to bear, and he pushed it back into the bottomless abyss of fears and anxieties from which it had come.

Finally he decided to try the ship's intercom once more. This time, instead of her activating her end of it, seeing who was calling, and breaking the connection, there was no response at all, and he decided that she must be in one of the public rooms, ironing out one of the dozens of problems and misunderstandings that occurred on a daily basis. He toyed with going out in search of her, but decided against it; it was not that he didn't want to see her, but that he was afraid he would make a fool of himself in front of everyone, employees and guests alike. He could picture the Madonna, years from now, visiting another patron or auditor, and telling the story of how a middle-aged accountant chased her all over the
Velvet Comet,
begging her not to whip him but to accept his gift. Redwine shuddered at the thought.

And then a more devastating mental picture flashed across his mind. Years from now he was sitting at home, alone and miserable, and wondering why the hell he
hadn't
chased her all over the ship. If she wasn't worth a little embarrassment, why did he feel so empty in the first place?

His mind made up, he got to his feet and walked over to the chess set. He leaned down to pick it up, then straightened up again, empty-handed. If she refused it, it might be difficult to offer it to her again.

Better to talk to her first, smooth over their differences, convince her that he truly cared for her. Her table had been without pieces for seven years; another few days wouldn't hurt.

He stared at the door for a long minute, trying to summon the courage to walk out of his suite in search of her, when suddenly he heard a pounding on the other side of it. He frowned; why the hell did Rasputin have to come
now,
now that he had decided not to enlist him as a John Alden after all?

He adjusted his security card, faced the door, and muttered “Open!”—and an instant later the door slid back to reveal the Leather Madonna.

“I was just coming to look for you,” said Redwine, furious with himself for not being able to come up with a more eloquent greeting.