by John Ringo
“I’ve noticed that effect myself,” Sheida admitted, dryly. “If they stay awake. Now, let’s get the information on your agents on the ships and I’ll get on to the billion other things I have to do. And I wish you luck on your harem adventure.”
Chapter Seventeen
Megan smiled thinly as the vendor’s eyes flickered down and then back up to look her in the eye.
After a certain amount of persuading, Paul had allowed her to begin looking for another “sundries” vendor. Paul was constantly on Christel, and Megan now, to keep costs down and one of the harem’s worst expenses, after food, was cosmetics. When Megan had arrived there hadn’t been any. Prior to the Fall there were a variety of ways to “touch up” the face, and body, from skin color mods to nannite makeup. After the Fall it had taken a while for “luxury” items to appear; as far as she knew Megan was still the only perfumer in Ropasa. But as part of her plan Megan had found, through the kitchen staff that handled all the “sundries” vending, a cosmetics supplier.
Unfortunately, the price the supplier charged was infernally high. Admittedly, some of the materials were either not found in Ropasa or exceedingly rare. But still, the prices were just outrageous.
Paul had finally let her accept bids from competitors and this vendor was the winning bidder. If his material met spec.
And if he could keep his eyes in his head.
“Sorry about that,” the man said. He seemed to be over the “outfit” and examining her face. But she decided to ignore it.
“That’s fine,” Megan replied. “As long as you remember that my eyes are up here,” she added, pointing at her face.
“Yes, Miss…?”
“Sung,” Megan replied. “Megan Sung. Now, I like your pricing, but I’m not comfortable with the shades on your blushes. They’re a tad brown.”
“We don’t have access to a firm red,” the vendor replied, nodding and looking down at his notes. “The best red, the brightest available, is vermillion. But it’s made from…”
“Mercury,” Megan said, smiling thinly. “A toxic heavy metal.”
“Did my predecessor…?” the man asked, looking up in startlement.
“I tested all the cosmetics for base materials in my lab,” Megan replied. “I rejected his reds for that very reason. Another point against him, besides price. I’m glad to hear you don’t use it. There is no other high quality red available?”
“Say rather that there is none that is not toxic,” the man said with a grimace. “To one degree or another. My lab is working on a petroleum based red. We know that it once existed, but I’ve been unable to find any hardcopy data on how to produce it. And, even then, we anticipate that it will have some trace of metallics in it.”
“There are red dyes being used in clothes,” Megan said, gesturing at her top. It was a brilliant red silk.
“And the people using those dyes are quite reticent about what they use.” The vendor grinned. “Also, some high-brilliance red dyes that are functional for clothing are not functional for cosmetics. There is an… intimate contact with cosmetics. Any volatile in them is transmitted through the skin. Which is why testing for them used to be so acute.”
“Unfortunately, I need a red,” Megan said, frowning. “If you’re willing to give up some of your industrial secrets, I’d be willing to do some experimentation of my own. Not for production; the girls use far more than I’d be able to produce.”
“I understand,” the vendor replied with a grin. “We’ll keep working on it. We’ve got some new mixtures,” he continued, pulling a sample out of his case. “And we’re working with some of the less toxic materials, to try to find one that is suitable. But you can understand that I truly do not want to poison any of Paul Bowman’s… friends.”
“Understandable.” Megan grinned, opening up the leather case. The man held out a hand mirror as she brushed some of the rouge onto her cheek and considered the color. “That’s… better. Nearly right. What about lip gloss?”
“That’s actually easier,” the man replied. “An addition of yellow brings out the red. The yellow does have a trace quantity of lead in it. But our test subjects haven’t experienced any notable side effects.”
“Test subjects?” Megan asked, carefully.
“We test all the cosmetics on animals first,” the vendor replied, shrugging. “Then employees use them. There is no compulsion used. And none of our customers have had any complaints. So far, so good.”
“Is there much of a market?” Megan asked, doing her other cheek as the man pulled out a gloss sample.
“More and more of one,” the vendor admitted. “Although this account will be… substantial from what you’ve alluded.”
“We use a lot of cosmetics.” Megan sighed, pouting her lips to apply the gloss. Now that was red.
“Again, I understand,” the man said, carefully.
“Oh, Paul’s not here that much,” Megan said, looking up from the mirror. “But he turns up without any warning. So the girls use it every day regardless. And they’re always trying for the right new ‘look’ that he’ll particularly like. Harem politics.”
“Yes,” the man said, uncomfortably.
“You can use the word,” Megan replied, smiling thinly. “We do.”
“As you wish,” the vendor said. “I can start supplying by the end of the week. The terms are acceptable?”
“Quite acceptable,” Megan replied. “Much better than your competitors’.”
“My competitors have neither my sources nor my business acumen,” the vendor said with a grin. “On the subject of a ‘new look.’ I have some employees, female, who perform makeup seminars. Would it be possible…?”
“Unlikely,” Megan said with a moue. “I had to practically twist Paul’s arm to let me do the negotiating on this. Visitors are extremely rare in the harem.”
“Must be boring,” the man said, frowning.
“It’s safe and we’re well cared for,” Megan replied, cutting off that line of questioning. “We can expect the supplies by the end of the week?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the vendor said, laying out some more samples. “These, of course, are on the house.” As he said it he slid a piece of paper out from under one of the samples. On it it said, “Travante.”
“Thank you,” Megan said, looking at it like a mouse in front of a snake. “What is this?”
“It’s a new line of cosmetics we’re working on,” the man said, turning the paper over so she could see the list of available materials. “It’s a much brighter line that has been thoroughly inspected. Some of the colors are unique. For example, we have a lovely azure eye shadow.”
Megan’s father had been on assignment in the Asur Islands prior to the Fall. But this could just as easily be a trap as a real contact.
“I’ve always liked azure,” Megan replied with calculated interest.
“Yes,” the man said, smiling as he packed up his case. “Many do; it’s like the colors of a bright new day.”
It’s a bright new day, Megan. In her memory her father was patting her hair, as he did every morning he was home. Time to wake up. Either Paul had her father and was testing her… no, that made no sense. If Paul knew she was Joel Travante’s daughter he’d act upon it, not test her. And there was no reason for them to know that phrase, even if her father had been captured. It had to be a contact.
“Well, let’s talk about that next week,” Megan replied, handing back the slip of paper folded so the name didn’t show. “You’ll be here?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said, his brow furrowing.
How to reply without giving myself away?
“You understand that I’ll have to do a forensic analysis of your materials?” Megan asked.
“Of course,” the vendor replied. “I could expect nothing less.”
“Paul is very fatherly towards us,” Megan continued. “But if something happened to one of the girls at the very least I would expect that there would be a thorough inv
estigation. The repercussions would be unpleasant.”
“I understand,” the man said after a pregnant pause. “I look forward to meeting with you again.”
“I’d like to add something,” Megan said, looking at him sternly. “You will not discuss this with anyone. That is very important. Am I absolutely clear about that?”
“I don’t discuss my customer’s business, Miss Sung,” the vendor replied.
“Not with your partners and not up any sort of corporate chain,” Megan said, firmly. “Paul will hear. And we don’t want that to happen, do we?”
“Madame, I assure you…”
“And I am assuring you,” Megan replied. “Your new line will go nowhere if you pass around that you’re in contact with Paul’s… friends. He will hear about it. And he won’t respond pleasantly.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man said, gulping. “I understand. Completely.”
“I’ll see about arranging a seminar,” Megan continued. “The girls would like it, that’s for sure. Until next week,” she said, standing up.
“Until next week.”
* * *
Martin St. John was a happy man. He had been a thief, a con artist and a murderer before the Fall, in an environment where all three were, to say the least, difficult. After the Fall he simply shifted his techniques, finding the basic methods and thought processes the same if somewhat more sanguine.
That was until he’d fallen astray of Brother Conner. He and Conner had been in the same society of professional ne’er-do-wells prior to the Fall. Somehow the bastard had tracked him down and blackmailed him into heading an expedition to the Southern Isles to break up the potential alliance of the mer and the UFS. And that had gone so well that he had ended up stranded on a desert island, starving to death.
That was until a friendly fisherman had picked him up and brought him back to town. Back in town the “friendly fisherman” had turned out to be none other than Special Fisking Inspector Joel the Bastard Travante who knew exactly who the “stranded merchant” on the island was. And who had had heavies waiting to ensure “Martin” didn’t disappear in the Caribbean darkness.
So Martin had been given a few unpalatable choices. He could stand trial for various war crimes; the ixchitl, kraken and orcas that he had commanded had not been particularly nice. In which case, if convicted, he would be sentenced to either hard labor, which he abhorred, or death, which he abhorred even more.
Or. There was always an “or.” Or he could, of his “own free will” accept a loyalty geas and go to work for the UFS. Plying his skills, so to speak. Back in Ropasa where Conner was Joel the Bastard Travante’s opposite number.
Nobody said the “or” would be a good “or.”
Let’s see, guaranteed hard labor, probably death. Or, probably death.
But. There was always a “but” too. But if he took the job, and did it well, he would be fisking over Conner. Conner, the bastard, who had left him to die on a burning ship. It was that that had tipped the scales. The chance to really stick it to Conner. He’d never liked him anyway.
Now, though, lord did he have information. Joel Travante, the man he hated second in line after Conner, was about to find out that his daughter was spreading her legs for Paul Bowman. Glorious revenge. And all he had to do was follow his loyalty conditioning. Lovely.
But he had to be careful. If he failed to deliver the information, or if it got picked up by New Destiny, Joel the Bastard would pull his life like a plug. And he couldn’t deviate from routine one iota or, more than likely, Conner’s internal security goons would pick him up with similar results. But, fortunately, he’d set up a hard contact method in advance.
Whether Megan the Harlot knew it or not, she was immured in a castle in the middle of Stayorg City. And no more than two days away by fast coach was Iruck, where his next meeting was to take place. And in Iruck…
Martin tried not to whistle in glee as he strode through the nighttime streets and tapped on a discreet door in an alleyway. A small slot shot back and a grim face looked him over then unbolted the door.
The lamp-lit interior of the room was decked out in red and various females lounged around in practically nothing. Martin tried not to grin again as he looked at the girls, most of whom were slightly Changed. There was a tiger-girl and two wolf girls and one that was a bit too much cat. The girl even had a tail. But what he was looking for was upstairs.
Very few people in the brothel knew that Martin owned it. And the reason he owned the brothel was on the top floor. He knocked on the door and entered at a whistled reply.
The girl in the dimly lit room was enormously tall with what appeared to be hugely outsized breasts. They were, in fact, flight muscles, for Joie had been one of the rare individuals, pre-Fall, to have herself Changed so that she could achieve true flight. Her arms flexed normally but the bones of her pinky fingers had been hyperextended into flight bones. Those bones, and all the rest throughout her body, were a hollow honeycomb of advanced fibers and her skin was covered in a fine down that was both aerodynamic and warm. She stood nearly two and a half meters and her wings at full extension stretched for seven and a half to either side. Between the enormous “breasts,” angelic face, long, downy legs and her beautiful carriage she was incredibly popular with those men who had money to spend on the truly exotic. But it was the ability for fully powered flight that had attracted Martin and caused him to spend Joel’s money like water to purchase her. Because she could carry a message all the way across the continent in a single night.
“Hello, Joie,” Martin said, smiling.
“Hello, Martin,” Joie sighed, sadly. She was reclined on a long, narrow bed. “Let me guess, you want me to play the fallen angel again.”
“I’d love to, frankly,” Martin grinned. “But you’re not going to be playing with me, or anyone else, unless you want to. I need you to do me one more service and then you are free.”
Joie sat up on the bed and turned up the lamp, looking him in the eye coldly.
“Don’t play with me, Martin,” she said, her face working. “Do not do this to me. I don’t care what geas you have on me, I will kill you.”
“Free,” Martin said, extracting a small tube. “Here are your orders. Fly from here to the coast of Ropasa, the Breton coast.” He pulled out a map and pointed to the spot. “You can find it easily by following the Lore then heading north. There is a town at this river. Just up the coast is a house on a promontory. It has a widow’s walk and there is always a light that shines upward. You’ll have to make it there by dawn. Can you?”
“If I stuff myself,” the girl said.
“Stuff yourself, then,” Martin said, handing her the tube. “Take this. There’s a person at the house. Tell her ‘Jean has a long mustache’ and she will take care of you. The next night go down to the beach and carry a lantern. That will be Saturday. You must make it by Saturday.”
“I will,” Joie said.
“People will meet you on the beach. Give them the capsule and tell them you’re to be given transport. They’ll have to arrange it. Stay at the house until it’s time to leave. Never come back.”
“I won’t,” Joie said. “Trust me.”
“It’s a moonless night tonight,” Martin said. “You shouldn’t be spotted.”
“This is real?” Joie said, tears in her eyes.
“This is real,” Martin said with a nod. “It’s dangerous, though.”
“I don’t care,” Joie spat. “I’ve wished I was dead enough nights. To be free again. To be able to soar again.”
“You’re out of shape,” Martin worried.
“I’ll make it,” Joie said. “I’ll make it if I had to fly to Norau.”
“That shouldn’t be necessary,” Martin said with a lopsided grin. “Go now. Eat. Then leave.” He reached out and stroked the down on her cheek. “I know you won’t miss me, but I’ll miss you. Upon the completion of your mission you are freed of all geas, on my word as your owner. Now, go.”
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* * *
Joie felt every day of her confinement as she flew. She had done push-ups in her room, trying to work her wings in the event she could break the expensive geas her first “master” had purchased to control her. But push-ups were not flying, and too many of her muscles were out of shape. She had tried to warm up slowly by being careful heading up to altitude. But she could not rest. Not if she was going to make it by dawn. She had to fly as hard as she ever had in her life and it had strained her to the utmost.
One thing that Martin didn’t know about her was that she didn’t need his directions. She had also opted for a navigational packageÑshe always knew “where” she wasÑand if she had a good idea where a location was she could fly to it almost unerringly. She avoided the Lore, which had many villages growing up along it, and headed straight for the coast, just north of its joining with the sea.
There, nearly out of energy and her muscles screaming, she banked north, a giant white bird against the lightening sky. She hadn’t been able to fly as fast as she’d hoped so the sun was already starting to peek up above the land. She ducked down to get out of the sunlight but she knew that some people must have seen her flying against the sky. Finally she spotted the house and stooped like an exhausted falcon into the garden in the back. With quick, if weary, steps she crossed to the door at the back and pounded on it, looking around at the pleasant herb garden and, even better, the high hedge that surrounded the house.
The door was answered by an old woman, at least three hundred if she was a day. She had gray hair that had remnants of red in it and a pinched face that still echoed a beauty of the old days. The woman looked at the giant bird-woman imperturbably.
“Yes?” the woman asked.
“Jean has a long mustache?” Joie asked. “Does that mean anything to you?”
“Did anyone see you?” the woman snapped.
“Maybe,” Joie said, shrugging as only a woman with fifteen meter wings can. “But I sort of look like a really big bird when I’m flying.”