A Gluttony of Plutocrats (The Respite Trilogy Book 1)

by Ella Swift Arbok

  The crowd chanted Sy’s name, excitement rising as she narrowed the gap. At the line I couldn’t separate the runners, and from their shrugs, they too seemed uncertain. They both accepted handshakes and pats on the back from the others after they reached the finish.

  Just one, the Barford contestant, lay back on the track breathing heavily. Sy walked over and sat beside her. I don’t know what she said, but soon they were laughing together.

  A photo finish was called.

  Sy and her coleader jogged a lap of honor. When Sy reached us, she climbed a couple of steps, smiled at Linnet, and kissed me on the mouth, with more firmness than passion.

  I put a hand on her shoulder. “What happened to superstition?” She still had another final to run.

  Sy rubbed a sweaty cheek against mine. “It’s only a relay.”

  A reporter hurried over, struggling with his camera. “I missed that, Sy. Any chance of another?”

  I held up a hand. “Sy, there’s a little mud on your face.”

  Sy stared at me and raised her eyebrows. “On my face?”

  We kissed again, then Sy stepped back and winked at Linnet.

  Fifteen minutes later, the loudspeaker announced a dead heat.

  On Monday evening, after the closing ceremony, Sy got away from the team hotel.

  Dick had taken his day’s interviews to the head office. With Linnet and me, he waited in the bar of Barford’s finest, or at least its most expensive, sea-view hotel. For the only time during the games, the four of us had an evening together.

  Sy hurried in, an explosion of beauty in a sleeveless, calf-length turquoise gown, the nut-brown bandage around her left elbow a perfect match for her skin. When we were seated, she took a beige envelope from her purse and held it out to me across the table.

  Linnet reached it before me. “Ladies’ room, now, Sy.” Not loud, but firm. She passed the envelope to Dick and took Sy’s arm as they left the table.

  Dick glanced at me. He took a pair of eyeglasses from his breast pocket and put them on. Taking care that the papers faced away from me, he eased them from the envelope and began to read. He beckoned to a waiter. “Perhaps you could inform the ladies we are stepping outside for a cigarette.”

  The waiter took a lighter from his pocket. “Sir, you may smoke here, sir.”

  Dick stood. “I prefer not to.” He passed me the papers as we made our way to the exit. “An inside pocket.”

  We left the hotel. Thin clouds covered a darkening sky. From across the coastal road, waves broke against a sandy shore. Dick nodded in that direction.

  He didn’t speak until we had our feet on the beach and stood near the water. “Lemuel, inside that envelope are two sets of papers. One is for the purchase of shares, in your name—a small computer company that has attracted some interest—dated last Thursday. The other, undated, is for their sale. What are you two idiots up to?”

  I hadn’t asked Sy to buy shares. I couldn’t believe she would use my credit without speaking to me first. “You must know Sy is my agent at Draco. Beyond that…”

  Dick sighed. “Linnet clearly knows something. They spoke on the phone last night.” He reached for his cigarettes, took one out, and lit it. “No sale document for the Wellar land?”

  If Sy had sold my stock on Wednesday, the last full day she worked, at least my financial problems would disappear. But we had spent the night together. She would have told me. Could she have known by then? “I think I signed one the day I bought the stock.”

  Dick shook his head. He drew on the cigarette, letting the smoke drift toward the waves. “You two are playing a dangerous game, with dangerous people. Sy should know better. To bring those papers out in a public place, in the bar of a hotel reserved from my home phone…it’s an invitation to spying.”

  He smoked in silence.

  Stars shone across a clear sky, the storm having run its course. A crescent moon hung low over the ocean.

  Dick turned his head to follow my gaze. “Do you think of Earth, Lemuel? I can imagine how primitive we seem to you.” He finished his cigarette and flicked it into the waves. “When we go back, say something to her. Maybe ‘I’ll read your story later,’ or whatever. Or follow Sy’s lead. Linnet will have prepared her.”

  “Does Sy write?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  I pointed toward Ursa Major. “Up there somewhere is Earth’s sun. You won’t see it from here without a good telescope.”

  Dick grunted. “Lemuel, Linnet is concerned about your friendship with Bandstorm.”

  “Hardly a friendship.”

  “Whatever the word. You know we’re struggling to build a case against him and his like. Without proof, it’s dangerous to say anything and suicidal to put it into print. With proof, it’s even more dangerous. These people make laws to protect their own interests, enforce their laws selectively, even hide behind those laws. They also work together, and we don’t fully understand what unites them.”

  “Their common interest?”

  “Yes, but something more.”

  Why did my association with Draco’s chairman concern Linnet? “Sy warned me Bandstorm might be one of them.”

  Dick nodded. “His name comes up as often as her own father’s.” He took out his box of cigarettes, opened it, counted the contents, and took one out. “I’m down to eight a day, and I’m weakening.”

  “It’ll kill you.”

  “That’s not what the RMA report says.”

  I saw no point arguing against the Respite Medical Association.

  Dick lit his cigarette. “Your presence on Respite has made me think. We, Linnet and I, can’t attack individuals, even the hundred or more we are certain about. The laws against libel are strong, and we know who makes those laws.”

  “So, where do I come in? You know I’ll help if I can.”

  We strolled through the warm evening air.

  Dick looked up at the sky. “There are many who believe you came from another world, and that gave me an idea. We don’t have the strength, or, despite your island, the immunity to attack the individuals who make the laws, change the laws, enforce the laws, threaten and disappear witnesses. But perhaps we can attack the complacency that protects them. I’m going to write a novel.”

  “A novel?”

  “Why not? How difficult can that be? Linnet says I’ve been writing fiction for years. But until you came along, I couldn’t think how to do it safely.”

  “And now?”

  “Now? Isn’t it obvious? I’ll set it on another planet, a fictional planet, with no character who could be identified as from Respite. So what if I’m creating a new literary genre? Fictional science, or whatever they might call it, could catch on. That isn’t important. What matters is that I would get to tell a story that needs to be told.”

  I didn’t doubt Dick’s enthusiasm, but his reason gave me cause for anxiety. His avowed aim was to shake foundations of the establishment. Even done with subtlety, that must carry some risk.

  We crossed the road to the hotel. I stopped by the door. “No bugs in the ladies’ room?”

  “Linnet couldn’t see any yesterday, but she’ll be discreet.”

  Dick’s paranoia had once puzzled me. I was beginning to understand.

  By the time we entered the restaurant, Sy and Linnet were engrossed in a study of their menus.

  Sy looked up as we approached. “Dick, I can’t believe you read my letter to Lemuel.”

  He stared at her. “I certainly did not read it to Lemuel. I read it to myself. Skimmed it, really. There’s a comma missing on page two, and I’m sure you could apply your own ointment, but whatever fills your sails.”

  Linnet glanced first at Sy, then at Dick. “Behave yourself. And sit.”

  Dick said he had business in Cragglemouth the next day, which seemed to surprise Linnet. Sy insisted on a training run, and it was midmorning before we set off with Dick at the wheel.

  Dick spoke little. He grunted when pressed.
Sy knew him well enough to recognize his mood. I trusted Sy.

  Five miles from town, he spoke. “Sy, I want you to tell me exactly what is going on with the Wellar land and with that computer company purchase you waved in public yesterday.”

  Sy shrank against the side of the car. “It’s a good investment. Nothing to get excited about.”

  Dick rolled down his window, took a cigarette from an open pack, and lit it. “I want details. You’re messing with dangerous people, and you’re doing it almost openly. Very stupid, both of you. Now, tell me exactly what you have done.”

  I started to object, but Sy interrupted me. “No, Lemuel. Dick is right. This needs to be cleared.”

  She dropped her head back against the worn leather of the upholstery, sighed, then sat forward to face Dick. “Someone from Wellar’s office phoned Trading on Thursday morning and asked me to buy a large stake. I don’t need to tell you which stock.”

  Dick flicked ash out of the window and pulled over to the grass verge. “And you didn’t ask why you? Or why so close to a market closure? You didn’t ask about the land consortium?”

  Sy sat back and examined her fingernails. “Ten minutes later, red lights started flashing on the trading screen. The Wellar land had dropped out of sight. I panicked. No point selling Lemuel’s stock for pennies. I looked for a way to make the money back.”

  “And if Lemuel doesn’t sign the papers?”

  “At the moment, there’s a blank line in my journal. It should have been countersigned on Thursday, but they know I left in a hurry. I can sort it out.” Sy opened her car door and swung her feet to the ground. “Stupid, maybe, but don’t make me sound like a criminal.”

  Dick banged on the steering wheel. “Of course you’re a criminal, Sy. You know what you did, taking advantage of confidential information, was illegal. That doesn’t matter. I’m sure every trader does that and worse. What matters is that you are a thoughtless criminal, and that’s dangerous. Does either of you understand why Bile was murdered?”

  Murdered? Surely, he killed himself. I had Dick’s article in my pocket. “The gun was still in his hand, you said.”

  “Wrong. The gun was in his hand, I said, not still in his hand. Sloppy writing on my part. I should have known that most readers would insert their own still. No, there’s little doubt he was killed because he got too confident. Too cocky. There is a recording of an interview, now suppressed, but I have a copy. A reporter from Elysium accuses him of being a pedophile—a rapist and killer of boys. Bile doesn’t bother to deny anything, just saying he has friends, he gets things done.”

  I stared at Dick. “You are comparing me to a man you say is a serial killer?”

  “In one respect only. Powerful friends may protect you from prosecution. But if you overreach yourself, as Bile did and as you are in danger of doing, they won’t protect you from assassination. Quite the opposite. And when you’re dead, they’ll hang your reputation out for the crows.

  “Do you ask yourself why Bile and Bandstorm were so close? Bile taunted that reporter. He neither admitted nor denied the accusations but made it clear he had powerful friends.”

  He tossed the butt of his cigarette to the grass and shook his head. “Lemuel, if you feel immune because of your friendship, or whatever you call it, with that nice man Hector Bandstorm, think again. What happens if Hector asks some favor that you can’t, or won’t, provide? Anyway, it’s done. No going back. But if you want my advice, you won’t buy any more.”

  Sy stepped out of the car. “I need the ladies’ bush.”

  Dick threw open his own door and called after her. “That’s the problem, Sy. We all do. And sometimes we piss on the wrong strawberry patch.”

  He got out for another smoke. His eight-a-day limit would be a struggle. “My point, if you missed it, Lemuel, is that there are two ways to bend the law without reprisal. One is to be careful. You weren’t. The other is to join the ruling clique, in which case you can be as stupid and as blatant as you wish, until you become a liability. I hope none of us chooses that route to wealth and power.”

  He dropped us off at Sy’s boat then headed back to Barford.

  Darken’s Day had passed without my being taken in for questioning, as Bandstorm warned me would happen. Had my trip to the clearing and report of the craft’s theft fooled anyone? I contacted Newton that evening.

  “It is possible, Lemuel, that they are waiting to see if the craft returns. It does not mean you are safe. Another thing that might be relevant is that someone is constructing a stone building within the clearing. A coincidence? I’ll continue to monitor.”

  Cause for concern? At the least, it was a development to track.

  Chapter 16

  I didn’t invest in the computer company. Sy and I agreed there would be no more trading, but there was no point selling the Wellar stock. If I needed to pay off my credit to Draco, the chairman’s bonuses would cover much of it.

  Weeks passed. Leaves took on golden hues. Some, the pikos in particular, adopted a deep-red sheen before being torn free in a squall of wind. Fall lived up to its name. In the mornings, leaves lay strewn across Bluefinch Avenue. Children swept those leaves, lifting them into wheelbarrows for their families’ compost heaps.

  Fall gave way to winter.

  I continued to read the dailies. My collection of clippings threatened to overwhelm my capacity for storage.

  On Bandstorm’s advice, I had become a citizen of Eden. My application for patents—ring binders, hole punches, and prepunched paper—had been registered but not yet approved. Negotiations with a local stationery manufacturer for production terms had reached an advanced stage. I used prototypes for my own clippings, clumsy but better than nothing.

  On the morning of Wednesday, December 3, Sy and I woke above the Craggle, snuggled more closely than usual. It had been a bitter night.

  Sy’s alarm radio gave the news.

  “Every day, new accusations are heard against the deceased children’s entertainer and turkey farmer, Ronald Bile. Yesterday, Eden police announced that they had expanded the investigation relating to sexual assaults on children, mostly boys, to cover assaults within the EBC Headquarters building.

  “Jules Gofer, assistant deputy undereditor at the Eden Broadcasting Corporation, said, ‘We’ve all known. It’s been an open secret here for years, but what can you do?’

  “Of the three charities for which Bile raised considerable sums, each aiming to help abused turkeys or the misfortunates, none was willing to give an interview.”

  Dick had said as much weeks before. There was something else I didn’t understand at the time, about hanging a reputation out for the crows.

  With less than a month to the Winter Games in Elysium, Sy’s training session that day, at lunchtime because of the limited daylight, consisted of three timed miles at the Merlin Athletics Stadium.

  I held the stopwatch. At each lap, I called out her time or signaled with a thumb up or down against her targets if other runners were about.

  Snow fell. It lay over grass but hadn’t settled on the track.

  Sy knew better than I if she needed to make allowance. But when I saw the time on the second mile, I knew it wouldn’t matter. Three and a half seconds over five minutes, as good a time as she could hope for in such conditions.

  Sy slowed to a jog and turned. “Well?”

  I held up the watch, a sign that I couldn’t call out the time.

  Sy stared at the figures. “There’s more to come, I can feel it. You’ll be there, I hope.”

  “Nothing could keep me away.” Simple words, soon turned to lie.

  Two hours later, I leaned over my desk, working on a data-capture program for the trading system. A diminutive, white-haired woman approached and held out an envelope.

  I took it. “For me, Fifi? And I’ve got nothing for you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s an invitation from the chairman, a two-day party, twenty-ninth to New Year’s Day.”

&nbs
p; I turned the envelope in my hand. “Sorry. That clashes with the Winter Games.”

  For a woman of slight stature, her glare carried considerable authority. “Be there. Mr. Bandstorm feels it’s time for you to extend your contacts. He has hopes of you, youngish man, and you must not miss this opportunity. It will shape your future.”

  She pointed to the envelope. “On the second page is a list of clothing you must bring. If you need to hire, send me the bill. The master insists on formality.”

  I hadn’t heard Bandstorm referred to as the master before, but I had seen the enthusiasm with which underlings lit his cigar or adjusted his seat or nodded in agreement.

  He had a large house on Cragglemouth’s northwest coast, with private mooring. A little remote perhaps, but if I had to, I could walk home. What risk? And yet, what benefit?

  Offending against Bandstorm’s expectations didn’t come naturally. The little favors had become more significant—allowing him to change trading records, increasing salaries for a chosen few. I couldn’t complain. I was one of those few. The bonuses mounted. I could leave and still be independent. But if I left without Bandstorm’s approval, he could make my life difficult.

  Dayton Heyho—banker, senator for justice, and Bandstorm’s very good friend—no doubt had as many disreputable devices at his disposal as Bandstorm. He could turn my balance into great debt and slide a bonus to a corrupt programmer for the favor.

  I still found it difficult to accept myself as corrupt, but how else could I describe my actions? I was no better than any insider trader.

  A party at Bandstorm’s house. The question then was not, Did I need to be there? But, What might be the benefit? And the answer, without doubt, was Linnet’s campaign, born of Sy’s torment.

  Linnet couldn’t prove any single member of the establishment to be an active, aggressive pedophile. I could. I had an invitation. I had little doubt about the nature of the party. And I had my combi to record audio and video.