by C. J. Ryan
“It’s Jill, and I’ve heard good things about you, too. And I know you’ve met with Gloria about the double-flagging problem. That’s my project-of-the-moment.”
“Yes, I know. Can you tell me if you’ve made any progress? Naturally, I’m curious, although Gloria has been somewhat reticent about sharing all of OSI’s secrets.”
“We have a Financial team on Staghorn,” Jill told him, “but they haven’t really reported much yet. When they do, we’ll be sure to keep you informed.”
“I’d very much appreciate that, Jill.” Opatnu grinned and gleamed, his green eyes all but boring holes into hers. She held his gaze and felt a hot flush creeping into her cheeks and an urgent ache in her stiffening nipples. Spirit, the man is fast! Jill tried to get a grip on herself.
“As you know,” she said with what she hoped sounded like professional detachment, “the investigation is centering on Wendover Freight and Storage, which is based in Sector 19. But they have offices here, as well, so as long as I’m here anyway, I plan to pay them a visit.”
“Mind if I tag along?”
“If you’d like. Say, the day after tomorrow?”
“Splendid. And in the meantime, perhaps I can lure you away from this den of iniquity and show you some of Central’s more intimate and intriguing nightspots?”
Jill shook her head. “Sorry, I’m on duty at the moment. I have hundreds of hands to shake and asses to kiss tonight, I’m afraid.”
“As long as mine is one of them,” he said, grinning again with full intensity, “I’d be happy to wait until you’ve fulfilled your duty to Gloria. Perhaps we can even induce her to join us.”
A twofer, Jill wondered. Or was she getting ahead of herself? Was she simply reacting to the man’s reputation, the way men reacted to Gloria’s, or was she responding to Opatnu himself, pheromones and all?
“At the moment, however,” Opatnu said, “I need to kiss a few backsides, myself. How about if I look you up later this evening?” He took Jill’s left hand, raised it to his mouth, and kissed it gently.
“I’ll be here,” Jill said noncommittally. Opatnu released his hold on her, smiled again, then turned and strolled off into the glittering throng.
“Steady, girl,” Jill told herself.
PETRA WONDERED WHERE THE HELL PUG WAS. He was supposed to be shepherding his parents around the reception, but she had seen him from a distance, and that wasn’t his mother he’d had his arm around. It was Steffany Fairchild.
Old friends. Entirely innocent.
You bet.
Her feet hurt in the high gravity and high heels, and she’d had more champagne than was consistent with ladylike deportment. Perhaps that accounted for her growing desire to plant one of those spiked heels in the shapely derriere of Ms. Fairchild, the Spirit’s gift to the overbred men of New Cambridge.
But, she reminded herself, she had a pretty shapely derriere of her own, as men had been telling her, one way or another, all evening. And her tits weren’t bad, either—small but enticing and entirely uncovered in the low-slung, gold-leafed black pareu Pug had bought for her on a shopping spree the day before. He liked to see her undressed this way, as if she were Gloria’s alter ego instead of merely her assistant, and Petra was willing to play along. She had no intention of losing Pug to that bouncy blond airhead or any other rich bitch from his old stomping ground.
A passing waiter paused near her, and Petra took the opportunity to trade her empty glass for a full one. Half-drunk and about 97 percent naked, she was feeling combative and defiant tonight. How had Gloria put it that time, when she tried to explain what it meant to be a Dexta Tiger? Tits, tush, and twat fully mobilized for the sake of Dexta? Fine—and if not for Dexta, then for her rich and handsome boyfriend. And also, perhaps, for herself, the glamorous and sexy new Tiger on the block, no longer the mousy and unsure Lap Dog. And maybe, just maybe, it was also a way of saying, “Fuck you, New Cambridge!”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought she might actually hate this goddamn planet. Snobby, disapproving Ellisons by the score; interfering uncles; wayward offspring of the rich and powerful; undead girlfriends; hostile and brain-dead bureaucrats…So far, the only person on the whole planet she had actually liked had been lecherous old Jamie Quincannon. On the fifth floor, with the elevator broken.
And maybe Whitney Bartholemew, Junior, too, who, it had turned out, was not only the grandson of Norman Mingus but also the heir of the man who had run B & Q Shipping fifty-five years ago, and the man who ran it today. She had liked his insolent air and what-the-hell attitude and the hint of contempt for the High Society of New Cambridge. He didn’t seem to be here tonight. She needed to talk to him, so maybe she could get Pug to arrange a meeting later in the week. Assuming Pug could be persuaded to neglect his family and friends for an hour or two.
Petra noticed a distinguished-looking silver-haired man staring at her bare breasts. One more Dexta functionary to charm. One more anonymous cog in the vast wheels of Empire. She maneuvered toward him and plastered yet another grin on her face. “Hi,” she said brightly, “I’m Petra Nash from OSI.”
“How nice for you,” said the distinguished-looking man. “I’m Edwin Ogburn, and I’m the President of the Republic of New Cambridge. How are you enjoying our planet, Ms. Nash?”
Not anonymous, then. Not even Dexta. Still, he was just the man she wanted to see. She reached out with her free hand and clutched his upper arm.
“Mr. President,” she said, “I wanna file a complaint! It’s about your damned gravity…”
GLORIA HID BEHIND SOME OVERSIZED POTTED plants as she spoke into the pin-pad that was part of her jewelry. “Jerome Devers-MacDowell, hyphenated, I think, Level Nine, Assistant Quadrant Coordinator, based on Alhambra Four in Sector 22, has been in Dexta forty-two years, married, wife Ethel, two children, five grandchildren and he has images of them. Nice, unassuming guy, seemed a little starstruck. Send him a signed picture, the usual. Seemed sympathetic to OSI. Myra Chow, Level Eleven, Assistant Sector Supe, Sector 20, Norska Two, divorced, has thirteen-year-old daughter Joanne, who is a big fan, send her the glam package. Myra says she has arguments with her coworkers about me, and about OSI. I seem to be a subject of much watercooler controversy. Myra sees me as an empowering role model, whatever the hell that is. Anyway, she’s on my side and should be cultivated.”
How many did that make? She had lost track. And here came another one…
This one walked right up to her, stuck out his hand, and introduced himself. He was probably in his fifties, medium height, with a sharp nose, slicked-back black hair, and an unidentifiable accent, probably from somewhere off in Sector 3 or 4, where they spoke an increasingly strange brand of Empire English, when they spoke it at all. “I’m Anton Grosz,” he told her. “I’m the Assistant Admin of the ETR.”
ETR—the Office of Exo-Technology Review—was one of those small, specialized ecological niches that proliferated within Dexta, whose purview included bits of bureaucratic flotsam that didn’t fall under the aegis of the Quadrants. The Empire was expanding in every direction, and regularly absorbed alien civilizations—nearly three hundred of them so far. Such acquisitions inevitably brought with them an array of alien technologies. The Empire needed some way of organizing and controlling the influx of exo-technology, and that job belonged to ETR.
The ETR identified, cataloged, and classified the technological achievements (as opposed to purely scientific ones, which were the responsibility of another Office) of the new civilizations that had joined the Empire, willingly or otherwise. The task sounded larger and more interesting than it really was. Fully 94 percent of all alien technologies proved to be nothing but idiosyncratic elaborations of existing Terran processes or devices. Technological evolution followed much the same pattern among different civilizations, just as biological evolution tended to reproduce optimal design features for similar environments on different worlds. Fish, for example, looked pretty much the same on most planets; so did can openers
. So the ETR identified, cataloged, and classified a lot of can openers.
The Big Twelve corporates looked over the ETR’s shoulder as it checked the new technologies to see if they overlapped with existing Terran patents. If they did, they were denied Export Permits, effectively restricting the technology to its homeworld. If something genuinely new or useful turned up, the Big Twelve were free to strike whatever deals they could with the new worlds. Soon, the new technologies would become available throughout the Empire, to the considerable profit of the corporates who landed the contracts. Meanwhile, new markets opened up for the export of Terran technologies.
ETR also tested the new technologies for safety, environmental compliance, and what was known in the trade as “weirdness.” Perhaps once or twice a century, some truly weird and unexpected alien technology would turn up and suddenly revolutionize the way Terrans did things. The mass-repulsion devices that made skimmers and null-rooms possible had arrived that way, the fruit of a victory over a race of intelligent insects in the twenty-fourth century, back in pre-Imperial days.
Gloria had already targeted ETR as a potential ally, so she was pleased to meet Grosz. But she was more than a little surprised when Grosz said, “Ed Smith says hello.”
“Ed Smith? You mean…?”
Grosz nodded solemnly. “I’m your contact inside Dexta,” he said. “Obviously, you can’t go on having public meetings with Mr. Smith, although he hopes to meet with you privately after your return to Earth. When you have a message for him, or he has one for you, I’ll be the go-between.”
“I see,” said Gloria. She stared at Grosz and tried to imagine him as a daring undercover agent, but couldn’t quite manage it. “So, the zamitat has its hooks in ETR, huh?”
“We have an understanding,” Grosz said modestly.
Gloria was well aware that the zamitat had people inside Dexta, but it felt odd to be meeting one of them. This, after all, was precisely the sort of thing the OSI was supposed to be in business to correct.
“The Big Twelve have a formal presence,” Grosz went on, “but the zamitat has its own place at the table. Every so often we find a piece of exo-tech that could be of interest to them.”
“And they pay you to tip them off?”
“They pay me to represent them at ETR. If you disapprove, you should have thought of that before now.”
“No, no,” Gloria said, anxious not to offend Grosz. “It’s not that I disapprove, exactly. It’s just that I’m a little new to this sort of thing.”
“It will grow on you,” Grosz assured her. “Anyway, I have a message from Mr. Smith. He says that there was definite zamitat involvement in the historical matter you inquired about. He hasn’t been able to ascertain any details yet, but he’s pursuing the matter and will keep you apprised.”
“Thank him for me. And thank you, too, Mr. Grosz.”
“You’re very welcome, Ms. VanDeen. And now, I shall slink off into the night, intent upon my dark errands.” Grosz gave her a modest bow, then darted away to the other side of the potted plants.
Well, well. The zamies had something to do with the Savoy shipment. Details to follow. Based on what Petra had told her, it was beginning to seem likely that the zamitat had either diverted or in some manner controlled that final B & Q shipment to Savoy. If that were the case, then perhaps Ed Smith or his minions could track down the shipment and provide some indication of how those weapons had wound up in the hands of PAIN. Petra had yet to go through all the data she had downloaded from the B & Q files, so perhaps additional information would turn up from that source.
Gloria felt a sense of relief at their measured progress. There had been no new reports of terrorist attacks, and no one else had taken a shot at her, but the thought of all those weapons in the hands of enraged anarchists continued to be troubling. The Quadrant Meeting was an obvious target, and despite the heightened security on New Cambridge, a determined PAIN attack might do serious damage—not only to Dexta, but to the reputation of the Empire itself.
But it was the reputation of OSI that was her prime concern tonight. Althea, Elaine, Jill, Petra, and the two guys were busily spreading the word, and Gloria was grateful for their presence. They took some of the pressure off her and reinforced OSI’s image as the sexiest and most appealing branch of Dexta. Just now, she caught sight of a very nearly naked Petra chatting with a group of three men. And over in another corner, Elaine Murakami, in her hardly there black minidress, seemed to have captured the complete attention of three more men. Women generally seemed to be responding favorably, too, if Gloria’s own contacts so far were a reliable indicator; Brent and Darren seemed to be making quite an impression. OSI was something new under the Dexta sun, and despite the opposition of the Quad Admins and other entrenched powers, it was clearly attracting a lot of interest, if not active support.
Gloria took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her face, and stepped out from behind the potted plants. Back to work.
PETRA’S PAREU HAD FINALLY FALLEN OFF AND she had simply draped it over her shoulders like a shawl, leaving the rest of her body uncovered. Just like being back at Elba’s, she thought, or at the Ellisons’ party. The center of attention again—or a center of attention, anyway. Gloria was here, of course, so no other woman really had a chance. Except maybe the lovely Steffany Fairchild.
She spied Pug, along with his parents and Uncle Benedict, his arm around Steffany, off in a corner with Gloria, Althea, Elaine, Jill, and Eli Opatnu. It was late, and the party was emptying out, so Petra was able to chart a fairly direct course to them. She arrived at the corner, swaying slightly on her high heels and aching feet. Pug grasped her arm and pulled her away from his family; his father looked pleased to see her but his mother wore a disapproving frown.
“Are you drunk?” Pug demanded in a harsh whisper.
“What if I am? And what is she doing here?”
“She came with her father.”
“Then where is he?”
Before Pug could answer, Steffany joined them. She cast her eyes over Petra’s body and offered a supercilious smile. “Good evening, Petra,” she said. “Still showing off your dowry, I see.”
“Dowry?” Petra replied blearily. “What? Is that some kind of crack? Oh, wait, I get it. Dowry. Cute. Is that what you call it? Perfect. I bet if I pulled on your arm, hundred-crown coins would drop out of yours.”
“Really,” Steffany sniffed, and turned away.
“Come on, I’m taking you home,” Pug told her.
“No, you’re not,” Petra responded. She slipped away from him and sidled up next to Jill Clymer. “I’m staying here with my friends!”
“Uh…actually, Petra,” Jill said, “Eli was just going to take us all out to a club.”
“Great. I need more champagne.”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?”
“Not yet,” Petra declared, glaring at Pug.
JILL ASSIGNED HERSELF TO TAKE CHARGE OF Petra as they made the rounds of Central’s nightspots. Opatnu was their knowing guide, evidently familiar with all the more intriguing hideaways in the city. He somehow managed to pay equal attention to all five women, and Jill found herself wishing that the other four were somewhere else. When she danced with him, his charm, grace, and outlandishly good looks all but melted her resistance, and she snuggled up close to him while he rhythmically stroked her nearly bare bottom. But all too soon, the dance ended, and Jill was back at their table keeping Petra company while Eli whirled around the dance floor with Elaine Murakami, who had doffed her minidress and was as naked as Petra.
Then it was on to another club, and another, this one darker and more intimate than the others. Opatnu excused himself for a few moments, leaving the women from OSI to themselves. Gloria was smiling happily. “Thanks, ladies,” she said. “You did a great job tonight.”
“It was all due to your inspiring leadership, Gloria, dear,” Althea replied. “And getting the Ellisons to agree to host our reception was nothing less than
a coup.”
Petra looked up at the mention of the Ellisons. “Yeah,” she said, “you’ll love it there, Althea. Did I tell you, Pug has a bed the size of Weehawken? O’ course, if you wanna use it, you’ll probably have to kick Steffany Fairchild out of it.” Petra took another gulp of champagne, then nearly toppled out of her chair. Jill caught her by the arm and propped her back up.
Opatnu returned, took a seat, and grinned like a cat who had swallowed a medium-sized canary. “Got something special,” he said, and held out his hand. Resting in his palm were six purple lozenges.
“Twenty-nine!” Elaine cried.
Opatnu shook his head. “Better,” he said. “It’s Forty-eight.”
Gloria’s eyes widened. “Forty-eight? How did you…?”
He smiled modestly. “I know some people,” he explained. “Works the same way as Twenty-nine. Just make sure that you don’t crunch down on it. And I’ve booked a null-room, for those who are interested.”
Opatnu extended his hand. Gloria, Elaine, and Althea didn’t hesitate. Petra looked at the lozenges briefly, but didn’t show much interest, so Opatnu moved on to Jill. She stared at his offering for a long moment. She’d tried Twenty-nine a few times, and was no stranger to null-rooms. But something about it all did not feel quite right to her. Perhaps she just didn’t want to have to share Opatnu.
“I think I’ll just stay here and keep an eye on Petra,” Jill said at last.
“Are you sure?” Opatnu asked. He looked at her with an expression of profound disappointment on his handsome features.
“You go ahead. We’ll be fine.”
“Some other time, then,” Opatnu said.
“We’ll see,” Jill replied.
Opatnu nodded, then got to his feet. Gloria, Elaine, and Althea followed him across the floor to the null-room. Jill watched them go with decidedly mixed emotions.
Petra looked up, looked around, and asked, “Where’d everybody go?” Before Jill could answer, Petra quietly passed out, slumping forward onto the table.