Crash Deluxe

by Marianne de Pierres

  Crap. Who the hell is that talking? Another freaking stranger in my skin.

  My body invaded my mind and tossed out its inhibitions. I found my hands sliding down to cup my breasts and rub my nipples erect under the gauze of my top. I shivered down the length of my body and leaned over to the svelte suit, breathing raggedly in his ear.

  The effect was electric, as if the Eskaalim reached out of me and into him.

  A small part of me watched and hated what I was doing. Parrish Plessis did NOT put out.

  But as usual when I got into these situations, I was on a one-way road to no good place. And the alternative to flirtation was the probe that Plaits was waving around like a weapon.

  Surely I could coquette a second or two longer.

  Suit abandoned his search on me. Plaits stared openly at my fingers as if they were capable of great things.

  ‘. . . For a little extra pleasure,’ I finished.

  One of my hands had left my breast and was finding its way up under my skirt.

  Plaits’s eyes glazed over.

  Suit’s thin, tek-dependent body jerked and shivered in his chair. Through the glass I saw dampness stain his crotch. He crossed his hands over his lap in humiliation and wheeled out of the booth towards the san.

  Involuntary orgasm.

  Well, at least it wasn’t me for once.

  I signalled my luggage drone and headed for the Welcome to Viva doors.

  Plaits didn’t even notice me go - his private fantasy had him with one hand down his own pants and a distant expression on his face.

  As the bombproof doors sucked shut, I found myself in a long corridor.

  Right about then my control wavered.

  Lust claimed me. I wanted to grind my hips against something. I wanted to moan and climb onto a large—

  Jeez, Parrish. Get a grip.

  I scrambled on to a table and knocked the security cam from its mount. Then I kicked over a singing-frogs terrarium and punched a hole in a glass tapestry. I stamped and swore and punched until my hands bled and sweat ran and the desire, finally, waned.

  When I’d finished the corridor looked like a demolition site and the security sirens had started to waahwaah.

  A single punter cowered at one end, clutching a wad of complimentary map holo-shells like a shield.

  ‘Who do you think you are?’ he squeaked, outraged.

  ‘Garter Thin, of course.’ I smiled, took a map from him and stalked past to the exit.

  As soon as I was out of the building, I ran.

  Outside, Viva shone. Literally. The latest craze for chrome gutters, downpipes and window trims, as well as for rainbow glass created a radiance of its own. When I figured I’d put enough distance between Puffball Central and me, I stopped to marvel for the millionth time at the super-city’s fragrant air, law-abiding cits and immaculate streets.

  I’d grown up in the ’burbs where the shine had tarnished some. Central Viva still awed me. I inhaled the cleanliness, moving automatically to find a public san where I washed my hands and used the free medi-kit next to the sperm-kill dispenser to patch them. While I waited for them to stop bleeding, I gave myself a lecture.

  Trashing the corridor - stupid.

  I extracted some gloves (courtesy of the Babes on the strip - one of them had even given me a royal-blue cheongsam with slits to my armpits: a bit frayed but not as tacky as the lamé one that she’d tried to offload as well) from my suitcase and headed for an Interchange café and a table where I could see the door and study my free map.

  My fake ident worked fine for the tea I ordered and I began, at last, to settle. Ibis - with Honey’s input - had worked me up a fake performance history. The pair of them had argued over the details of my profile as if I hadn’t been there. Ibis wanted me to have an imaginary customer base in Eurasia.

  Honey thought that was posey and unrealistic.

  Teece added that if I were introduced as a newbie it would explain my rough edges and perverse nature . . .

  Me - rough edges? Perverse? Must have had the wrong grrl.

  ‘More importantly, though,’ they all harangued me, ‘don’t attract unnecessary attention.’

  ‘Amoratos get it anyway - without trying,’ added Honey.

  ‘There’s attention. And then there’s ATTENTION,’ warned Ibis. ‘No violence, Parrish. No headlines. Your cover won’t stand up to close scrutiny.’

  I guessed that included trashing corridors.

  I slipped Merry 3# out of my bag and fixed her processor to my wrist. Then I switched her settings. The tiny, discreet 2D display scrolled through the story they’d concocted.

  Jales Belliere was born in Katchemite, a descendant of the famous Interior family . . .

  I flicked on to the last section, vaguely suspicious of the final touches that had been added while I was collecting accoutrements from the babes.

  Jales Belliere is a second-position Amorato from the Yo-Rakine school. Included in her specialised repertoire are advanced auto-erotica, transcendental-energy sex, prolonged orgasm and related stamina, group work, and chic oral story-telling.

  I got a choking sensation in my throat.

  What was Ibis thinking? Wait till I get hold of him.

  I put the p-diary back in my pocket and went over the map of the Inner Gyro until I found the location of the Hi-Tel that Honey’s ex-boss visited.

  I sighed. What would her involvement mean in the end? You’d probably never do anything if you knew how it would affect other people’s lives.

  I savoured the tea leaves in the bottom of my beaker and the precious minutes of calm. I was getting a whole lot better at enjoying the little things.

  I got up and queued for a slot on the café’s public net-access. When my turn came I requested recent images of James Monk and the infamous ‘Delly’.

  I took care to spread my searches so that none of the watchdog programs were triggered. The ‘Delly’ search came up with nothing, which meant that I only had Honey’s description to go on.

  On James Monk, though, there was a fotosmorgasbord of a heavily built older man and a public address to direct mail to. I mulled over Honey’s comment that her ex-boss was obsessed by Monk.

  It had to be the perfect bait.

  I noted Monk’s call address and began to plan my trap.

  Chapter Six

  The InterGlobe lobby was on the seventieth floor. I wafted in past the human doorman, trying to do the gloved and sinewy thing. He followed my trajectory with limpet eyes and twitching fingers. His eyes were explained by an ID scanner, his fingers . . . well, I guessed, maybe I was still exuding some of that crude sex scent. Or he was using some old-fashioned sign language.

  I marched up to the desk. ‘I’m expecting a message from James Monk. My name is Jales Belliere.’

  The desk clerk checked his messages.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Belliere. There is nothing. Do you have a reservation?’

  I sniffed, as if annoyed. ‘That was not up to me. I shall call him.’

  I flounced over to one of the plush comm booths and sank into the armchair, leaving the screen ajar. A pad automatically slipped up under my hand.

  I thought about the ‘private’ booths I’d frequented in The Tert and MoVay. In this one you couldn’t catch your breath for perfumed velvet. In The Tert you could catch anything.

  After the comm had ascertained my gender, a cache in the velvet wall opened and shot out a complimentary lip tattoo, cover-all cream and a hairbrush. I snaffled the cover-up and pushed the cache shut.

  I recited the address loudly and began my charade. Honey said Delly knew all the comings and goings at the Globe. If she was right, then attracting his attention was just a matter of time.

  The comm welcomed me to the Interchange Globe, listed locations of the other luxury Hi-Tels in the chain and asked me to confirm the name of the person I wished to speak to at that address.

  ‘James Monk.’

  The connection hummed for a few seconds befor
e it asked me to give more details.

  I requested an F-T-F, knowing it would never happen, and waited for the request to be processed. The answer came back soon enough.

  ‘Mr Monk is unavailable. Please insert your ident if you wish to leave a message.’

  I dropped the fake ident spike into the slot and worked hard at summoning a breathy softness to my voice.

  ‘Jales Belliere, Mr Monk. I’m at the Globe and I’ll call again.’

  I thought about saying other things but my ident told the story - and, anyway, my call would never make it past his first layer of security screening. It wasn’t James Monk I was after.

  I retrieved my spike and wondered why I felt so exhausted.

  Because you can’t act for shite, Parrish, and here you are pretending to be a professional of the arts of desire.

  It was so ludicrous that it brought a hiccup of laughter to my lips.

  Parrish Plessis, warlord and lust-bunny.

  It just got better and better . . . didn’t it?

  I ordered a drink from the bar and made as if I was waiting for someone. Everyone from the lobby’s human sculptures to a courier in a tuxedo tried to hit on me and I wondered how long I could put up with the masquerade. The pseudo-submissive slash pseudo-predatory manner I was practising was giving me pains in my chest - though the hair extensions were kinda cool.

  I flipped them around and affected an air of purpose, scanning the comings and goings in the lobby until I noticed a man whose stare had locked fast on me. From where I sat his face looked sharp and immature, his expression sulky.

  He studied me from the plush drop couches behind the faux waterfall and his eyes weren’t exactly glowing with appreciation. In fact they burned with raw anger.

  After a few moments he got up and stalked over, a young, self-important predator, on the balls of his feet.

  ‘This ’Tel is spoken for. Staked. Off-limits,’ he said. ‘Savvy?’

  I froze him off with an almost-Parrish stare. ‘Whose stake is it?’ I asked bluntly.

  He held his ground despite being smaller. I glanced appreciatively over his slim physique: either a gymnast, or he’d had a shitload of fine muscle-sculpting.

  ‘Mine.’

  ‘And you are . . . ?’ I slipped into the more snooty tone of my Amorato persona and stared down my nose in a way that really got shorter guys jumping.

  He blinked in disbelief. Then his lip curled. ‘Lavish Deluxe - Delly. And free-lancers never tread on local tours. WHO are YOU?’ he demanded.

  I put my hand out, careful to handshake in the traditional way. ‘Jales Belliere. I’m from . . . out of town. I don’t know anything about stakes and I have no desire to work on your patch. I’m meeting someone . . . important,’ I said.

  ‘Important, eh?’ He curled his lip again, this time in disbelief. ‘Just keep out of my way.’

  He spun on his heel and resumed his pose under the waterfall as if I didn’t exist.

  Not quite to plan.

  I swore a bit.

  Then a commotion started up behind me and I watched a red-haired woman of perfectly paid-for proportions enter the lobby, circled by Militia. I tried not to gawk at the radiant perfection of her skin and the dangerous stilettos that lent her a high power-saturation rating.

  My observations were interrupted by a discreetly veiled Intimate with the emblem of a runner on his gold lapels tapping me on the shoulder. He passed me a palm p-diary and inflated a privacy fedora to slip over my head.

  Seeing my hesitation, he said, ‘Mr Monk does not converse over public comm.’

  I opened my mouth in astonishment and closed it again as quickly as I could, lowering my head so that he could put the fedora in place.

  Underneath it the mature, heavily jowled face I’d been studying on the Net floated into view before my eyes as though we were underwater.

  ‘Jales Belliere, I assume you are looking for a secondment.’

  ‘Er . . . yes. M-my . . . acquaintances tell me your secondments are among the best,’ I stammered.

  ‘And your acquaintances are?’

  I reeled off some of the names I’d just been reading on the media profile lists and mumbled something about being new to town and having a gap in my tour calendar.

  Monk’s mouth spread into a smile that lent some charm to the heavy face. ‘Then perhaps we should let you have the opportunity to be able to say that a secondment with James Monk is the best. When are you free?’

  I gulped in shock.

  ‘Er . . . soon.’

  Lame, but his invitation had caught me by surprise. I didn’t want to shut the door on this unexpected turn of events, but I had other immediate plans.

  ‘I shall leave Derek to make the arrangements,’ he said.

  Monk terminated the exchange and I shrugged out of the bubble.

  The Intimate blinked his live vid-feed off. Seemed I was being cammed while I commed.

  Between the Hi-Tel’s doormen and Monk’s servant my skin itched from the bombardment of photons.

  How the hell had I got an interview with James Monk? What should I do now? My Amorato guise would never stand up to real scrutiny.

  From the corner of my eye I could see that everyone seemed to be staring at me.

  Delly.

  The desk staff.

  The doormen.

  Even the security-clad redhead frowned as though she was trying to place me. She gestured to two of her muscle boys who detached themselves from her entourage and headed over.

  ‘We should leave now,’ said Derek.

  I ran my options. Go with Derek now - and risk losing a chance with Delly. Or stay and play wrestle-mania with the red-haired woman’s muscle who didn’t look like they wanted to just chat - and risk losing Delly.

  When would I ever get a freaking even break on a choice?

  ‘Sure,’ I said. I called up my luggage drone. ‘Where to?’

  ‘Our transport is on the helipad.’

  I headed at an indecent pace for the express lift, dragging Derek with me.

  In the whoosh-time it took to get to the hundred and thirtieth floor, I remembered how much I disliked flying and how much I liked my feet on the ground - the absolutely best place for them. The last time I’d been in the air had been a mad-brained escape from M’Grey Island. Someone had chopped the damn thing’s rotors off the ’copter I was flying and dumped me in the moat in a cheesecloth skirt.

  Very inconsiderate.

  Outside, the Hi-Tel roof was divided into large helipads by the square outlines of the control booth, the lift hutch and some portable, blinking-light barricades.

  Monk’s transport sat on one of them. I knew it was his because his initials lit the tail like sequins on a cheap bustier.

  Other than two air-traffic staff there was no one else around.

  Derek opened the door. ‘Please get in.’

  I shook my head. ‘Tell Mr Monk I appreciate his offer. I’ll call him later.’

  His hand locked onto my elbow, crushing the joint. ‘I have no wish to use force, Ms Belliere, but I have instructions to do so if necessary. Please get in.’

  I jerked away but couldn’t shake him. My elbow went numb.

  He pulled me around and opened the palm of his other hand to reveal a derm big enough to knock a nightclub full of speed-freaks on their collective arse.

  ‘Please get in or I shall be forced to sedate you.’

  Stunned by his change of tactics, I let him push me into a seat.

  He climbed in next to me and began take-off protocol straight away as if he was expecting trouble.

  Indecision gripped me. What to do?

  I glanced around the cabin, desperate, and spotted emergency flares stacked alongside my seat. I whacked Derek with my best backhander, hoping to disrupt a sensor or two. The skin casing ruptured on one side of his face but he ignored me and the ’copter began to lift.

  Across the tarmac the express lift opened. Delly walked out and around behind the contro
l room to the helipad on the other side.

  Two sensations coincided. Relief - that it wasn’t the redhead’s muscle. Panic - my chance to snare Delly was about to slip away.

  Adrenalin took over. I grabbed two flares, popped the door and jumped the few metres down onto the tarmac, rolling about as neatly as an overripe melon dropped from a Hi-Tel penthouse.

  I dropped the flares as every bone in my body jarred. I tried to get up and crawl after them. At least, my mind told my body to do it but my body refused.

  Lie still and recover, it ordered. Take a sauna. Get a life.

  Then I heard the distinctive whine of gun turrets aligning. Over the ’copter’s shoulder I saw a broad-backed Troop Float rising from a channel alongside the building. This one was unmarked and utterly businesslike, front-mounted .50-cal machine guns cooking and ready to fire.

  Whenever I got close to death - which was getting too damn frequent to be thrilling - it was never how I wanted it.

  Never the right way to die.

  Suddenly my mind and body were in complete agreement again.

  Move.

  I rolled towards the scattered flares as the ’copter nosed forward, altering the angle of its landing struts to try and scoop me up.

  It pummelled into me and somehow snagged the strap of my chic little top. For a second I became airborne - until my weight tore the fabric and I dropped to the tarmac again.

  I kept rolling this time despite the pain.

  The ’copter corrected its lurch and came for me again.

  The Troop Float sent a warning spray of fire along the tarmac. I wasn’t sure if it was aimed at me or at Monk’s ’copter but I wasn’t going to raise my hand to ask.

  Instead, I scrambled the last couple of metres to the flares and set them off.

  The Troop Float fired another warning burst as Derek made his move. In the smoky confusion it caught his aircraft by chance on the tail.

  The ’copter crashed down within metres of me, exploding. The sky rained fractured plastic, hot metal and tiny bits of Derek’s jelly tissue-replica.

  A chunk of rotor cartwheeled straight towards me, slicing into my leg as it bounced on over the edge of the building.