“Men need sex,” she had said. “They cannot think clearly, otherwise.”
“Thank you for your concern,” Michael said, “but really, you needn’t trouble yourself.”
“You are being foolish,” Gloriosa declared.
“Perhaps I am, but I will do my best to keep a level head despite my unruly hormones.”
Gloriosa sniffed, clearly disapproving.
“I appreciate the offer. Thank you anyway,” Michael said. Truthfully, he wasn’t entirely certain why he was refusing. Gloriosa was beautiful and willing and undoubtedly skilled, but something about the situation just didn’t feel right. She had been a slave and now she was free. She could make her own choices. Maybe it was just that Gloriosa seemed a little too sure of herself for somebody who was still very young and whose experience was limited to the very worst of mankind.
Also, of course, Gloriosa tended to be a little bossy, rather disconcerting coming from a very small, fragile looking young woman. Michael appreciated the fact that Gloriosa let you know what she was thinking but her opinions on things did tend to be rather uncompromising. So, no…
The casino was colorful but the lights were not bright, deliberately soothing to the eyes. The décor was plush, not quite garish. A waterfall tumbled down a rocky cliff in one corner of an enormous, ten-story atrium and splashed into a lazy river. The river, bounded on both sides by a metal railing and then a walkway, flowed out through the wall of the casino and into the night. The casino’s floor was covered in travertine tile. A raised platform cut off one corner of the room, where waiters dressed in formal evening wear served food and drink to elegant looking guests seated at linen covered tables.
The rest of the crew had been given leave. He noticed a few of his Illyrians wandering through the crowd. They were big men and women, well-built and invariably good-looking. People tended to stare at them. Marissa was chatting up a small blonde in a wispy, red dress. She noticed Michael looking and gave him a wink. Matthew sat a blackjack table, his attention focused unerringly on his cards.
Michael played poker for an hour or so, winning a little and losing a little more. Gloriosa stood close behind him and Andrew and Richard stood off to the side, scanning the crowd. Finally, he shook his head, rose to his feet and followed the river out into the gardens, which were softly lit and spacious. Gloriosa, Richard and Andrew trailed behind. He stopped to sniff a hibiscus and admired a stand of magenta colored bougainvillea, wandered past a stand of roses outlined by spotlights and after ten minutes or so, he headed back into the restaurant.
“Table for”—the maître d’ hesitated—“four, sir?”
“Two,” Michael said. He turned to Richard and Andrew. “Why don’t you two go for a walk? I’m certain I’ll be quite safe, here. I’ll call you when I’m ready to go on.”
Neither man said a word. They both turned and walked away. Michael offered his arm to Gloriosa, who took it. They were shown to a table near the edge of the raised area, where they could look down upon the casino, and Michael ordered a drink. Gloriosa hesitated and ordered the same.
So far, the evening had been minimally entertaining but frustratingly uneventful. He had been hoping for much more. Still, the night was young. Something useful might yet come of it. In any case, he had no choice but to continue on with his usual pursuits and hope that the bait would be taken.
Nothing on this world was cheap but most of it was first class. The meal was excellent. A seafood bisque was followed by a small game bird in a sweet and sour sauce, then an aged steak so tender it fell apart with the edge of a fork, and then following quickly, before it could collapse, an orange soufflé.
Gloriosa ate without speaking at first. She stared out at the crowd with seeming equanimity but Michael knew her well enough to see the tension around her eyes and in her posture. “What’s bothering you?” he finally said.
“These people, they remind me too much of home—the owners.”
Michael frowned. Gloriosa had seen her parents murdered before her eyes and her village destroyed, before being captured at the age of twelve and sold into slavery. Gloriosa had very few good memories of her home world. “Most of them are rich,” he said. “They have no worries and they can live their lives just as they like. I imagine that these characteristics are similar among the wealthy in every time and place, but there are no slaves here.” He picked at his food and felt his throat grow tight as he thought of Lynette Chapman and Jeremy Baylor. “There aren’t supposed to be any slaves here,” he amended his statement.
Gloriosa sniffed. Her eyes flicked to the side.
“Mr. Barrad?” A man stood there. He was well dressed, neither young nor old, with a nondescript face. He was alone.
“Yes?” Michael said.
“My name is Solomon Towne. Might I join you?”
Michael gave a slight frown, then a shrug. “Of course,” he said. “Please do.”
Solomon Towne pulled a chair out and sat. Within seconds, a waiter hovered by their side. “Nothing for me, thanks,” Solomon Towne said. The waiter bowed and retreated.
Towne looked at him. “I represent a shipping consortium,” he said.
Of course, he did. Shipping made perfect sense. The merchandise had to be transported somehow. Michael nodded his head, pasted a questioning look on his face and hid the satisfaction that suddenly filled him. “Yes?”
“We are organized as a non-profit corporation, more of a club, really, for private individuals who share our interests. It has been suggested that we might be able to assist one another.”
Michael blinked at him, apparently bewildered. “Oh?”
Towne looked at Gloriosa. “I don’t wish to be rude, but might we speak privately?”
“Gloriosa would never betray my confidence.” Michael smiled thinly. “She knows better. You may speak in front of her as if we were alone.”
Towne shrugged and gave Gloriosa a sharp glance. Gloriosa continued eating and appeared to ignore the conversation. “As you wish,” Solomon Towne finally said. “To put it bluntly, we’ve been looking into you. Your ship is an advanced design. Though you’re not a member of the nobility, you come from an old, distinguished family. It occurred to us that perhaps you might be searching for a goal. It does sometimes happen that those who have no need to work for a living find within themselves an urge to do something useful with their lives, to devote their time and their effort to a cause larger than their own petty concerns.”
“Really…” Michael raised a brow, gave a negligent shrug. “And what particular cause might that be?”
“Ah,” Towne smiled. “That, of course, would be up to you. There are many possibilities. Some men wish to build an edifice, some grand work that will persist down through the ages, so that their names will never be forgotten. Some are altruistic and wish simply to improve the lot of their fellow beings. Some few wish to discover the secrets of the universe. Others devote themselves to spiritual pursuits.” Towne gave a rueful smile. “Spiritual pursuits can be taken to an unwholesome extreme. It is not unknown for true believers to give away all their possessions and live in poverty, supposedly as a mark of devotion to their gods.”
Michael blinked at him. “I have no intention of giving away my possessions. This all seems rather abstract.” Not to mention at least borderline insane.
“Perhaps.” Towne looked out over the casino floor. He waved a hand. “But doesn’t this all seem rather trivial? Aside from passing a few hours in idle entertainment, how much gratification do any of these people achieve in a place like this?”
“The goal is to enjoy themselves. They’re having a good time. Isn’t that enough?”
Towne gave him a searching glance. “Is it enough for you?”
Michael frowned. “It is true that looking back upon my life, much of it seems rather pointless.”
And, of course, there is no regret quite as keen as that which comes from losing all of one’s money, speaking of spiritual pursuits and devoting oneself to a c
ause. Michael painted a pensive, regretful smile on his face and thought about causes larger than himself, like strangling this sanctimonious little bastard.
Towne nodded. “I thought that might be the case.”
“So then,” Michael said, “what exactly are you proposing?”
“I’m proposing first that we get to know each other better. Once we are satisfied of a mutual compatibility, then we may offer you a task.” Towne smiled. “Or more than one.”
“Ah,” Michael said. “A job interview.”
Towne winced. “Nothing quite so formal. More of an initiation into the club.”
Michael looked at him. “Where and when?” he said.
Towne smiled again. “We’ll be in touch.”
“Who is he?” Michael asked.
“His name really is Solomon Towne,” Anson said, “and he really is a partner in a shipping combine. It’s called Horizon Interstellar.”
“Excellent,” Michael said. “Give me a listing of the other partners.”
“Coming right up,” Anson said.
Solomon Towne, it turned out, was the only individual partner and the largest shareholder. The other four partners were the investing divisions of large, diversified banking firms. To all of these, Horizon Interstellar represented only a small portion of their business and holdings. Each of them placed a member on the Board, which met four times a year as required by Imperial Law. As was also required, minutes of the Board meetings were submitted to the Imperial treasury and available for public download. The company was small, as such things went, but profitable. There were no scandals attached either to Horizon Interstellar or Solomon Towne. Horizon Interstellar, however, was a corporation, not a consortium, and not a very large corporation at that.
No need to wonder, however. All he had to do was wait.
Chapter 7
A day later, he received an invitation. It arrived by courier and consisted of an old fashioned piece of paper in an old fashioned envelope. The envelope was sealed. Michael turned it over in his fist. The envelope was blank. It had been delivered by a thin, sallow, well dressed young man, who had been shown into the ship’s lounge by Gloriosa and asked to wait while Michael was summoned.
“You are?” Michael asked.
“Charles Peralta, sir. I am employed by Horizon Interstellar. I have been instructed to give you this and wait for your response.”
Michael cracked the seal on the envelope and unfolded the paper inside. It read:
The Adventurers’ Club of Dancy and Reliance requests the attendance of yourself and one guest at a dinner to be given on the 5th of Juno, at 19:00 in the evening. Formal attire is requested.
“Adventurers, eh?” Michael looked at Charles Peralta, who grinned. “How long have you worked for Horizon Interstellar?” Michael asked.
“Two years, sir.”
“And what do you do for them?”
“Whatever is required. Usually, I work in Human Resources.”
“Is it a good job?”
“Excellent, sir. The hours are reasonable, the pay is considerably above average and the working conditions are pleasant.”
“And what can you tell me about the Adventurers’ Club?”
Charles Peralta gave a tiny frown. “They’re an eclectic group, sir. More than that, I cannot say.”
“Very well. Please tell Mr. Towne that I will be pleased to accept his invitation.”
Charles Peralta nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
The 5th of Juno was tomorrow. Fine. The sooner, the better.
He showed up at the appointed time with Gloriosa on his arm. She seemed apprehensive, though she hid it well. Michael was fully aware that in the Diamond Empire, such invitations often included amusements more strenuous—and more demanding on the servants—than dinner alone.
The evening, however, began pleasantly and without drama. The dinner was held in the private dining room at the Charter Arms, an old, highly regarded restaurant near Government Center.
The host for the evening was Stephen Malhotra, heir to a firm that manufactured munitions, high powered lasers and shielding devices for the Navy. Michael had met him previously, though he did not know him at all well. Malhotra was a tubby little man with twinkling eyes and a bald head, very unusual in an age when bodily modifications were inexpensive and readily available. Solomon Towne was there as well. He hoisted a wineglass in greeting as Michael walked in, then he nodded and resumed his conversation with a brunette woman in a satin dress. The party consisted of six men, including Michael, and six women including Gloriosa. All of the women appeared young, which of course meant nothing.
The room held a table with twelve chairs, a sideboard covered with glasses and assorted bottles of liquor, and a seating area beneath a bay window, filled with chairs, low tables and two couches. Uniformed waiters circulated with trays of canapes.
Stephen Malhotra walked up to him. “Luciano,” he said, “welcome to our little soiree. Come, let me introduce you.”
The Comte de Sevigny was there, sharp eyed and handsome in the red uniform of the Imperial Guard, and Geraldine Ferret, who owned a mining conglomerate. There was Leland Danvers, a sense-stim star, Cerise Montoya, who owned a chain of smoking establishments, George Levinson, a recently famous poet and Freida Nunez, the woman conversing under the window with Solomon Towne, whose corporation owned vineyards and made expensive wine and old, rare whiskey. Two other women, both tall, blonde and thin, looking much alike, completed the party. These were introduced to him as Ilona Emerson and her daughter, Davida, who together owned a chain of exclusive boutiques.
An eclectic group, indeed, Michael thought, but they were all similar in two essential respects. They were successful, and all of them liked to travel. That became apparent as the evening wore on.
The small crowd continued to mill about. One or two frowned and glanced at their interface. Solomon Towne appeared worried. A few minutes later, however, a man, tall, well built and seemingly as young as all the rest, strolled in. Towne looked at him, breathed what might have been a sigh of relief and walked over. The two men shook hands. Michael, who was deep in conversation with Leland Danvers regarding a recently discovered race of semi-intelligent but blood-thirsty avians, saw the new man glance at his face, which Michael pretended not to notice. He was not surprised to see them both wander over a few minutes later. Danvers looked up, gave what appeared to be a minute bow and discreetly withdrew.
“Luciano,” Towne said, “allow me to present one of the patrons of our little group, Lord Benedict Devlin.”
Lord Devlin smiled and held out his hand for Michael to shake. “Welcome to the Adventurers’ Club,” Lord Devlin said.
All this time, Gloriosa had said hardly a word. She nursed a drink and stayed by Michael’s side. Gloriosa, Michael knew, was not happy, though her face appeared calm and unworried. Gloriosa had been trained from an early age to provide sexual service but had never been schooled in small talk or the arts of social interaction. She might have felt out of her depth but if so, she concealed it well. She kept a keen look on her face. She seemed poised and interested in the conversation, and though she spoke little, her beauty spoke for itself.
Lord Devlin looked at her, gave a shark like smile and said. “Who is your delightful companion?”
“Please call me Gloriosa,” she said in her deep, smoky voice, a voice that seemed incongruous coming from her tiny frame, and held out a hand, which Lord Devlin raised to his lips and kissed. She smiled at him, a smile that appeared knowing and sincere, an inviting smile, a smile that clearly said that much more than merely a smile might be his for the taking. Michael blinked. Lord Devlin’s smile in turn grew wider. He glanced at Michael’s face, caressed the back of Gloriosa’s hand with his thumb, then with what appeared to be great reluctance, let it drop. “We’ll talk more,” he said to Michael, “after dinner.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Michael said.
The members of the Adventurers’ Club, it becam
e apparent, travelled widely, all going their separate ways for most of the year but gathering together at least once every few months to discuss what they had done and seen. Mostly seen. The name of the club was a bit of a misnomer, it turned out. Going to unexplored places and doing things that had not been done before—actual adventures—tended to involve a certain level of risk, and few of the club members were keen to assume risk. Mostly, the Club offered an opportunity to get together with people much like themselves, share a good dinner and some interesting conversation and keep up with the goings-on of high society. Nothing wrong with any of that, Michael supposed. The club also, Michael was given to understand, sponsored certain other activities that he would only learn of, once he achieved membership.
The meal was excellent: a spicy hot soup followed by a fish baked in a salt crust followed by a filet of wild orangutan, then a salad of crispy greens, a grouse in green curry, an intermezzo of lemon sorbet, a suckling pig carved at the table, served in thin, folded pancakes with spring onions and a sauce made from sweetened, fermented red beans, and finally a dessert of baked fruits in a gingered cream. Wine flowed. The conversation sparkled. The drugs were subtle but unmistakable to Michael’s enhanced senses. The very same mixture of drugs that Lydia Prescott Jones had pressed upon him. No reason to change a winning formula, he supposed.
Lord Devlin smiled at him now and then as the dinner progressed. His smile seemed quite satisfied.
Michael was looking forward to what might come after dinner.
Finally, the last plate was pushed away, the last sip of excellent wine consumed. One by one, the party rose languidly to their feet, murmured thanks to Stephen Malhotra for hosting the evening and made their way home. Finally, only Michael, Gloriosa, Towne, Devlin and one servant remained.
The Empire of Ruin Page 4