“Welcome, sir. May I be of assistance?”
“Yes. I would like a woman ... for about an hour.”
“Very good, sir. May I ask the name of your bank so that we can handle the necessary credit transfer?”
“I prefer cash cards.”
“Very good, sir. Will this be a relationship based on the popular norm or would you prefer your own variations?”
Gillian grinned. He had never met a pimp’s assistant who was so polite. “I am interested in sensual implements—the old-fashioned variety.”
“Hmm. Well, sir, I’m afraid our collection isn’t that extensive. But we do possess a rather prehistoric accelerator couch. It is complete with transfer sensors, four-level vibratory massage, and a double Diablo enema unit.”
“No, that sounds too complicated. How about smaller implements? A good old-fashioned itchystick would be very nice.”
The man smiled serenely. “Yes, sir, we have several of those. They’re very old, but all in excellent working condition. You may be interested to know that a new line of itchysticks are currently being manufactured by a plant in Delhi.”
“I prefer the older types.”
“Of course, sir. And do you have a preference as to the lady?”
“No preference.” He did need some excuse to get her out of the room, though. He matched the man’s smile. “Could she bring along some of her extra underwear?”
“Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“No. That will do.”
Gillian paid the desk clerk and was escorted up the plush staircase by a young girl dressed in a bellhop’s uniform. She smiled sweetly, handed him the key to room 227, and wished him an enjoyable evening. He gave her a cash card. She curtsied.
The room was neatly furnished; twin bureaus, a dresser with an ornate mirror, white satin sheets rippling on the waterbed. The silky looked to be in her early twenties. Blond hair, blue eyes, Nordic features—Gillian was glad she bore no resemblance to Catharine.
“I’m Mocha.” She smiled professionally and sat down on the edge of the bed. Her short skirt bunched up to reveal tanned thighs.
Gillian sat beside her. “Do you have the itchystick?”
Mocha opened her handbag, took out a tapered cylinder with a flat glazed plate at one end. “Will this do?”
It would. Gillian even recognized the brand. “And I asked for some of your underwear.”
She opened her mouth, let her tongue wander to the edge of her lips. “Undies are so very nice, aren’t they? I mean, what would we ladies do without our bras and paste panties?”
Gillian supposed she was trying to arouse him.
She caressed his arm. “You’re very tense.”
“Your underwear?”
She reached back into her handbag. “How about these?” She handed him five cotton bras and several pounds of colored stick-on bikinis.
He tried to sound impressed. “Oh, they’re beautiful.”
“They’ve all been freshly laundered but if you like I can get you dirty ones.” Her eyes sparkled.
He shook his head. “I have sort of a fantasy. I’d like you to leave the room for at least twenty minutes—your underwear stays here, of course. When you come back, I’ll be ready.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Will you be bad while I’m gone? Will you have to be punished?”
He sighed. “No, that won’t be necessary,”
She shrugged and bounced her hips toward the door.
“Remember,” he called. “Twenty minutes. And please knock first.”
“Try not to stain the sheets,” she chided.
“I’ll be careful.”
The door closed. Gillian leaped from the bed. He kicked off his boots and stripped away his olive slacks, turning them inside out in the process. They became light wool pants with blue pinstriping. The jacket, too, was reversible—gray nylon crinkled into jet-black leather. He threw his shorts on the floor.
Naked, he picked up the itchystick and lay face down on the bed. The massager vibrated softly in his hand as he ignited its mechanism. He began rubbing it across his buttocks, felt pleasurable tingling as the itchystick’s energy field interacted with the nerve endings beneath his flesh.
He slowly caressed one buttock, then the other. Nothing. Next, he tried the back of his thighs, starting at the crease and working downward to the knee.
At about the halfway point on the right leg, he felt a gentle stab. He rubber the massager past that spot again to be sure.
There could be no doubt. The itchystick’s field had reacted to another energy pattern just beneath the surface of the skin. He had found the first of Haddad’s subcutaneous transmitters.
He ran the massager across every square inch of skin, paying careful attention to the most likely areas to hide bugs—the groin, between the toes, the armpits. Apparently, Haddad’s technicians were unaware that subcutaneous transmitters, located where the flesh was folded or creased, were more difficult for the subject to locate. They had opted for the standard practice of implanting the devices in areas that would not normally be examined by the subject.
In less than five minutes, Gillian located the other two bugs: one on the back of his left thigh and the third near the base of his spine.
Bugs were usually planted in threes and the chance that a second trio had escaped his careful scrutiny was remote. In theory, Haddad could also have backed up the subcutaneous transmitters with intravenous ones. But Nick had accessed E-Tech’s security system and had assured Gillian that such a procedure was rarely implemented. Intravenous bugs could sometimes prove dangerous, leading to blood poisoning and a host of related ills.
Gillian’s other concern was the possibility that this room might be under surveillance. Camouflaged microcams were the rule rather than the exception within silky palaces. Ostensibly, they were installed for the safety of the prostitutes.
Nick had chosen this particular palace with care. The Home of Shared Fantasy catered to the upper strata of Intercolonial society. Technicians swept the rooms daily, searching for bugs and microcams. The management here prided itself on its discretion.
Gillian withdrew the Cohe wand from what was now his inner jacket pocket. He hoped Nick was right. An unwanted voyeur might get his kicks from watching Gillian caress himself with an itchystick. But that observer could easily become alarmed at the sight of a Paratwa weapon.
From another pocket he produced a roll of anesthetic gauze and a tiny tweezers. He tore off three strips of gauze and slapped a piece over each of the bug locations. Carefully, he squeezed the Cohe, felt the hard egg compress. The tiny needle popped out, ready to focus the destructive light. He squeezed harder. The black beam lanced several feet into the air.
He released hand pressure on the egg. The light dissolved. He repeated the procedure several times, until he felt in control of the Cohe’s energy. Then he turned his back to the mirror and craned his neck to stare over his shoulder. He jerked his wrist and squeezed the wand.
Three times, in rapid succession, the black energy whipped up and over his head. Three times the Cohe found its mark. He smelled burned fabric as the gauze covering each of the subcutaneous transmitters smoldered.
The trio of tiny holes burned into his flesh were just large enough for the tweezers. Quickly, before the anesthetic wore off, he probed into the first hole. A minute later he felt the tiny forceps clamp on something solid.
One down. He deposited the minute transmitter on a fresh piece of gauze and attacked the other thigh. He found the second bug immediately and laid that beside its mate.
The third, however—the one at the base of his spine—proved difficult. Again and again he gently speared the tweezers into the anesthetized hole, searching for the telltale hardness. Each time he met with failure.
He debated another burn with the Cohe, but decided to try one more stab with the tweezers. He entered the wound at a slight angle and located the bug just as someone knocked on the door.
“
It’s me,” Mocha called softly.
“Wait a moment! I’ll let you in.”
He withdrew the final bug, laid it on the gauze, and folded the fabric into a tight ball, which he stuffed into his pants pocket. Tweezers and Cohe were quickly hidden. He took a step toward the door and then suddenly remembered her underwear. It was still neatly piled on the bed, undisturbed.
Quickly, he staggered the panties in a large circle at the foot of the bed and used several bras to form a pentagram in the center. It seemed reasonably fetishistic.
Mocha entered. She smiled at his naked form. “Say, you’re handsome. I’ve never seen such a gorgeous body!”
Just wait till you see my back, thought Gillian. The anesthetic was starting to wear off and the three holes in his flesh were beginning to burn. At least there was little bleeding—the Cohe had effectively cauterized the wounds.
She closed the door and raised her eyebrows at the circle of underclothing. “Having fun?”
“I haven’t had such a good time in ages.”
She moved to him, coiled her arms around his waist. “What would you like?” Her voice dropped to a husky growl.
Gillian felt himself tense.
Mocha squeezed, rubbed her thighs against him. “I like just about anything you can imagine. I like a virile man like you, someone with a body—like yours—with snap in it.”
Gillian had never heard the expression before. He analyzed. The girl had probably been in this business since puberty. She must be an excellent sexual partner. Nick had said that only the best worked in Velvet-on-the-Green’s silky palaces. She would know all the tricks, all the ways to bring him pleasure; the right words, the right movements.
“Relax, honey. Relax and enjoy.” Gently, she fingered his penis.
Her knowledge of the male anatomy would be exquisite. She would understand the rhythms of his arousal, know how to blend herself to them. Mentally, of course, she would be somewhere else—thinking about the next client, perhaps, or buying new clothes at one of the shops in this exclusive sector. She was, after all, a professional.
Her other hand cupped his buttocks. Lips touched the base of his neck. “A man of strength.” Her voice dropped even lower. “Power snaps from you.”
Her hand on his buttocks moved upward, came precariously close to the gauze-covered wound at the base of his spine. He shuddered.
“I love a man like you.”
A simple act, he thought. Physically, the process of sexual intercourse was quite simple. An array of sensitized nerve endings were stimulated. For the male, blood flowed into the penis, making it erect. The tissues became oversaturated with blood and then the pressure caused muscle contractions. Orgasm.
“Let go,” she hissed.
He grew erect and imagined the flow of blood.
“On the bed,” she whispered.
“No. Here.” He lifted her and she wrapped her thighs around his waist. In the lighter gravity, he was easily able to support her.
Soft hands gripped his neck, fingernails scratched his skin. She leaned back, guiding herself onto him. The skirt bunched at her waist. He found it vaguely amusing that she wore no panties.
I merely have to support her and sustain my erection. When she is finished, I will have been relieved.
She thrust onto him. He closed his eyes and thought about Nick’s motives in having him come here.
Naturally, there were other ways to remove subcutaneous transmitters. It was a relatively simple surgical procedure for any well-equipped doctor. Haddad would know that, too, and would have immediately tightened surveillance had he suspected Gillian of attempting to remove the bugs. But going to a house of prostitution and using an itchystick and a Cohe wand ... Well, the chances of Haddad knowing that trick were slim at best.
Mocha gasped and gyrated wildly. He gripped her shoulders to maintain his balance.
Nick might also have procured a jamming device for the bugs. In the long run, though, such a method was impractical. Gillian would be forced to have the jammer on his person at all times and even a temporary power failure would instantly expose him to E-Tech’s surveillance. This way was best.
Her strokes became more violent. His penis felt ready to burst.
Actually, the first part of Nick’s plan had been carried out yesterday at the Irryan restaurant. They had exposed Haddad’s people. Later in the evening, Nick had implemented his diversion. Several men had been paid to gather in the doorway of the restaurant, momentarily blocking the watchdogs while Gillian raced down the street and into a dark alley. The diversion had been successful; Gillian had lost the trackers.
Naturally, he had not really gotten away. The watchdogs had probably gone straight to their car and radioed E-Tech for a grid-map location. With the subcutaneous transmitters, they would know Gillian’s exact location to within ten feet. Their next step would have been to notify Haddad of the attempted escape.
It had all been part of Nick’s plan. Haddad had reacted as they had intended. Instead of tightening surveillance on Gillian, the Pasha had pulled back his watchdogs, thinking that he was tricking Gillian into believing the escape had been successful. We’ll let him run a little, Haddad had probably said to Franco. See what he’s up to.
Mocha cried out, climaxed with rapid thrusts. He set her down on the bed, withdrew.
“You were wonderful,” she breathed. Her eyes tried to sustain the lie.
I did nothing. I stood there and you relieved me. My tension level has been lowered. Several days from now, I will repeat the process. If a woman is not present at that time, I will masturbate instead. Either method produced the desired result.
He recalled a time when there had been a difference.
Sex with Catharine had been explosive—a multilevel blending of physical, emotional, and mental energies. For a time, they would soar within one another, oblivious to all but their desires.
It’s strange, Catharine. After I’ve been relieved, I can think of you without being overwhelmed by pain. The mere act of sex represses the hurt.
There had been many other women over the years. Not all of them had been prostitutes. But none of them had been able to satisfy his deeper needs.
I’m the cause of the problem, Catharine. Somehow, your death dulled the point of my feelings. Once I could plunge into the darkness with hope, joy, sorrow ... even fear. I could focus an emotion until only it and the darkness existed.
He had lost clarity—repressed that part of himself. To perceive without veils meant to open himself to the agony of his loss.
I cannot look into the darkness anymore, Catharine. I simply cannot do it. He sometimes felt the need to apologize to her for that.
“You have some time left,” Mocha said calmly. “I hope you can come back again soon. I think we were great together.”
I was great. The anesthetic had worn off. The three holes in his back burned and throbbed.
He dressed quickly and played out the charade. “I was wondering, Mocha...” An embarrassed smile came easily. “You see, I’m a married man and, well, my wife suspects. You know how it is. She has me followed sometimes and that’s why I’ve changed my clothes. I figure that if I dress differently, I’ll have a better chance of not being recognized. Now if I could only sneak out the back door...”
Mocha grinned, “There’s an exit that leads to an alley. It’ll bring you out onto the street nearly two blocks away.”
“I’m shocked. I must not be the only married man coming in here.”
Mocha threw her head back and laughed. It was not part of the act. Gillian felt a sudden wave of tenderness for her. By rote, he repressed the feeling.
He said good-bye quickly and took the elevator to the entrance floor. The well-dressed pimp’s assistant listened attentively as Gillian retold the lie about having a suspicious wife.
“Sir, the back door is always available to our clientele. We also offer a discreet limousine service that can pick you up and drop you off at any location within the col
ony. For a rather nominal fee...”
“Thank you, but the back door will be fine.”
“Very good, sir. Please follow me.”
Just before Gillian stepped out into the alley, he turned and profusely shook the man’s hand, thanking him for his assistance.
“It is our pleasure to please you, sir. Our doors are always open.” The man smiled pleasantly, then closed the heavy steel portal. Gillian heard electronic bolts slamming into the lock mode.
Gillian strolled down the alleyway, pleased with himself. He had not lost his touch. The pimp’s assistant was completely unaware that three subcutaneous transmitters were now resting in the bottom of his coat pocket.
In the alley, Gillian completed his transition. Two wads of skin paste melted instantly onto his cheeks, giving his face a fuller look. Skinny lip inserts fattened his mouth. Eyebrow liners darkened his forehead. He tucked his hair up under a brimmed cap and practiced a jauntier walk. Unless Haddad’s watchdogs were incredibly alert, he felt sure he could pass within ten feet of them without being recognized.
Naturally, he had no intention of getting that close. With luck, it would take the watchdogs until morning to realize he had parted ways with the transmitters. The pimp’s assistant would be in for a surprise.
He followed the alleyway until it bisected a quiet street, then took the street back to the main thoroughfare. He covered the mile to his destination in good time.
The shuttle port’s mezzanine and most of the entrance ramps leading to the below-ground docking bays were deserted. Nick had already procured Gillian’s fare, under an assumed name, to Sirak-Brath. There would be no need to deal with any of the ticket or banking machines.
One other notion had compelled Gillian to begin the escape within this cylinder. According to Haddad’s transcripts, the Paratwa had told Paula Marth and her son that it had come from Velvet-on-the-Green. A lie, obviously. But there were over two hundred colonies and the creature had claimed this one as its home. That could be a clue as to the Paratwa’s identity; then again, the assassin could have simply chosen this place at random. Either way, Gillian had wanted to see Velvet-on-the-Green for himself.
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