"I guess you'll have to pay a forfeit," the one in white said. He brought the knife close, and brushed the point against Blake's throat.
It had been a long time since Blake's two years in the service and his two years of militia, when he had been called out to quell food riots and fight in little brushfire wars between ethnic arks. It had been even longer since the bravos in his ark section had challenged him on the way to school. Violence was just not part of Blake's world anymore. He had almost forgotten that special surge of fear and the thrill that such situations brought. There were accidents in his world, such as a fail-safe system failing on someone's aircar, or someone at a party falling a few levels and bloodying a neighbor's dome or being squished on his terrace. But that violence was not personal, it was just part of modern living, like elevator failure or a fouled computer readout.
His adrenaline surged and Blake started thinking fast. He knew these scrubs didn't want money. Indeed, they would have been very surprised to find any. If he were a woman, they might rape – not out of passion but out of boredom, or out of hatred. Since he was a man, they would want to play games: Run and well chase you ... Walk on the edge of this slidewalk, it's only a fifty-meter drop ... Challenge one of us to a duel. Or else...
The zongo gangs roamed every arcolog. If the police came they ran, knowing every chute and elevator – in this condo and out that delivery hatch, down that tube, up that access passage. They had lithe young bodies and good motivation for hiding. The police seldom gave chase for very long: they were older, and hadn't the motivation to run blindly down service halls with knocked-out light panels and deadfall traps.
Blake looked down the curve of the mall, but few citizens were in sight. The Monte Carlo section was popular at this time of night, as the gaudy, rowdy Sinstrip would be later on. Few people in this area now – mainly service technicians, and they were faraway, either unseeing or deliberately unseeing. They had to work nights in this section, and the gangs might return anytime. White Suit laughed. "No loyal members of the constabulary in view, citizen slave."
His knife grazed Blake's cheek. The designer tried to stay calm, to stall until a patrol craft floated by.
"Forget it," White Suit said. "There's a Zeropop riot over in the university or somewhere."
"It's a Living Standards protest, Lennie," the addict said.
"Shut up, Weed." Lennie turned back to Blake, who had not moved. "In any case, no blackshirts, citizen slave, none at all."
He pulled Blake toward the darkness of a support column covered with violent-colored posters, shoving him against a torn placard of George Clay's Law and Order Coalition. Lennie's chuckling laugh degenerated into a giggle, as if he could not help but laugh at the irony.
Suddenly Blake was afraid. Up until then he had been startled, and apprehensive, but had had no real fear. They're kidding. They'll go away. But they weren't going away and they weren't kidding. Now Blake was afraid. Even as Lennie patted his body, looking for weapons, Blake was composing a headline: NOTED ENVIRONMENTALIST KILLED, VICTIM OF VIOLENCE. "The sad death of Blake Mason spurs Ark Director Bloch to sweeping reforms..."
Death.
Nothingness.
Then, just as suddenly, the fear was gone, and anger replaced it. How dare they!
"Duel or chase?"
"Huh?"
"Duel or chase, citizen slave?"
The addict giggled, holding the knifepoint against Blake's throat.
They don't rob for gain, only for thrills, Blake thought. Urban banditos! The anger spoke. "I don't feel like running."
A wicked grin spread across Lennie's face. He stepped back, hands spread, the knife loose in his right.
The addict backed off into the mall, looking in both directions and grinning crookedly. "Uh, looks okay, Lennie."
"Come on, citizen slave," Lennie said, gesturing Blake out.
"Where's mine?" Blake said, indicating the knife. Lennie shook his head, his eyes glittering. "Table stakes, citizen. You should carry."
Blake didn't speak, but he edged forward. He saw Weed move toward him and realized the table stakes were high. Three to one, counting the knife.
It's time to reduce the odds.
He faked a lunge to the right, then broke left toward the mall space, then just as quickly threw himself to the right, toward the wall, hitting and bouncing, letting himself twist and roll along the ferroconcrete until he was almost behind Lennie.
Lennie turned and Blake brought up his leg, kicking straight out from the knee, aiming for the crotch. Lennie twisted, avoiding it. But he stumbled, and Blake shoved at him, breaking past and striking at Weed. The addict lurched, blood on his cheek, but did not fall. Blake kicked at his feet and the twitching Weed crashed to the mall deck.
With a strangled cry Lennie threw himself at Blake. His knife cut through Blake's jacket, caught on the tough creaseless fabric, and as Blake leaned backward the knife twisted from Lennie's grasp. He stumbled and fell to one knee. Blake grabbed at the knife, but it fell to the hard deck with a clatter.
Lennie lurched up and started running, not looking back. Blake took a few steps after him and stopped. Then he turned toward Weed, who was unconscious. He looked at him, then stooped to pick up the knife. Putting the point of the blade into a crack between the support column and the sidewall of a balancing salon, he snapped the knife in two and threw the pieces down the dark mall.
Goddamn stupid fight! Blake told himself with great annoyance. How stupid to get in that position. I know better. 1 grew up in these arks, I ran with gangs out of self-protection. He knew that criminals and addicts roamed every ark in the world: mindless mini-rioters, vandals in permaplast, the true sons of Attila – each of them bored and frustrated.
The brontosaurus was still munching placidly. The tyrannosaurus lurched into the background once again, continuing the cycle that would go on as along as the sensatron had power or until something in its electronic guts burned out.
Blake headed for the nearest elevator cluster and went home.
The world had barely escaped strangling in its own waste, the planet was gutted, and only the fusion torches and mass accelerators had saved it. They mined the waste heaps, recycled the garbage in a way never before possible, shredding the very molecules with the tiny suns of the fusion torches, stripping the waste down to the atoms themselves, before separating them with the mass accelerators. This technique gave man back most of his precious elements in a form more purified than ever before. Recycling with fusion torches and mass accelerators had given man a second chance, and just in time. Given hope, the birthing masses of the world tried harder, so that although everything was still not perfect at least there was now no fear of using up the Earth's resources completely. Fusion torches didn't plant or harvest food, and mass accelerators didn't distribute it, but at least now there was material, chemicals, power – and hope.
Man had colonized Mars and had turned the. Moon into something not much more than an exotic, if somewhat distant, port. Satellites now sailed in silent swarms around the planet, gathering solar power, monitoring the weather, feeding down information about the sun and stars. Man was spreading outward at last, but in a painfully slow manner. Probes had gone to the other planets and there had been a few manned missions; and now there was even talk of mining operations starting on the moons of Jupiter as soon as an efficient shielding against the big planet's deadly radiation could be developed.
Nevertheless, still the population grew. Babies came relentlessly, even though the Pope had at last reversed himself and amended the Church's historical stand on contraception. But he was too late. The more practical-minded of his flock had long since deserted him for theologies that had more relevance. Belatedly, congresses and parliaments made laws, dictators and regents issued edicts, foundations said I-told-you-so, and economists held their heads. There were too many people for the available food and available space. Ecological structures only utilized existing space more efficiently, they did not solve the
problem.
Angered and frustrated, youth had little to do. Most young people took the highroad: drugs and sex, "challenges" and quick thrills. The old cliche of "Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse" was still operational for a large percentage of the young.
Blake shook his head sadly and punched out his secret code on the, door lock, thumbed the sonic identifier, stood on the hidden sensor mat.
Home, sweet home, he thought.
Chapter 4
It was a black-and-gray mountain, made of uncounted megatons of granite and immense continental-plate pressures. It had a thin mantle of decomposed granite and a skirt of pine trees in the lower regions, but raw rock above. A three-dimensional image of the entire mountain was constructed from seismic recordings, holograms, test holes, sonics, corings, and precise engineering measurements.
Voss kept everyone under constant pressure, from Blake and the engineers to the security men charged with keeping the site private. Voss even used his charm, and sometimes the pressure of his power, to obtain or hurry artists whom Blake had found difficult to handle. Blake found he admired the drive and decisiveness of the man, though he couldn't stop wondering why anyone as young as Voss was thinking about a tomb. But he shrugged it off. It was an exciting venture, so why should he care?
At one of their frequent meetings in the designer's office, Blake mentioned Voss's ability to get people to respond and to act.
The industrialist laughed. "That is one of the reasons I like you, my dear Mason. We are much alike. You, too, get people to do things your way ... and at a profit."
Blake started to protest, but Voss was already off on another subject. "Come down to Puerto Vallarta this Sunday. Rio should be there by then. I'd like her to look over the plans so far."
"Who's Rio?"
"A lady of many beauties: You'll like her."
"What's this?" Blake laughed. "A blind date?"
Voss's laugh was short. "No. Rio is mine. But there will be other entertainment. One of my planes will be wailing for you at the Voss hangar Sunday morning."
After Voss had left, Blake sank into his chair, disturbed by Voss's comment that they were much alike. But now that he thought about it, he had to admit there was some legitimacy to the man's words. For years he bad smoothed over union disputes, wheedled manufacturers into doing research on materials and processes that he could not afford to conduct himself, and persuaded cities and arcologs and cranky individualists to accept his views. He challenged artists to exceed their usual degree of excellence; he created environments that stimulated creativity; and he used the weapons of status, ego, jealousy, money, or whatever he needed to pull together the current dream he was creating.
But he also realized there was at least one major difference between him and Voss. The financier used people. Though Blake also used people, he believed that his use of them left them enriched in spirit or in money – or both. Voss did not care for people at all. They were pawns and phantoms to him, as a hundred casual comments had proved. Voss just used people – including Blake Mason.
Chapter 5
The helmsman of the launch, a stolid bronzed Mexican who seemed to ignore the crazy naked Norteamericanos, swung the boat into the dock with expert skill, killing the motor and letting the craft touch gently against the stones. Two girls who had been sunning themselves on the cabin roof jumped off athletically, leaving the crew to take off their luggage. They ran across the dock and up the ramp to the first level.
Blake stepped off onto the warm stone dock and peered up through the thick trees at the red and white glimpses of Casa Emperador on top of the promontory. He could see someone waving but could not tell who it was.
He thanked the helmsman, who only nodded, and followed a crew member loaded with luggage up the slanting seawall that formed the ramp to the wide terrace closest to the water.
Two more girls came running down the ramp from the terrace above, laughing and bouncing. Only one wore any clothing, and that was a wide sunhat. They ignored the Mexican crew, who seemed to ignore them; except for the helmsman, who spoke softly to Blake.
"A convenience for the guests, senor."
"Hello, hello, hello," the brunette said, grabbing Blake's arm. She looked up at him brightly. "I'm Caren. With a C."
The blonde shoved back her hat as she clung to Blake's other arm. "I'm Debra!" She snuggled against his arm like a long-lost lover. "Welcome to Misrnaloya!"
"How was the flight down?" Caren asked. "Isn't Puerta Vallarta quaint? Jean-Michel practically rebuilt it, you know; and it's becoming popular all over again."
As they walked up the ramp, Caren regaled Blake with the history of the old port's social downfall decades before, starting with the murder of a beach boy by a jealous heiress. A series of small but messy situations had been capped by the discovery of a homosexual satanic coven. The jet set said, "No, not this season," and the town started to die. The resort had gone on some years, feasting off the middle-class tourists who didn't know it was déclassé; but in time they, too, caught on.
Blake knew how the Beautiful People moved from watering hole to watering hole, and how others followed, hoping that the glamour would rub off on them. The southern Peruvian villages were easily reached by aircars from big city jetports. And the tourists found their way to Lake Sahara; the pampas ranchos; the Gold Coast of Africa, with its legal slavery; the undersea pleasure palaces like Triton; and the plankton skimmers with their lush accommodations. So Puerto Vallarta had grown weedy and the beach boys developed paunches.
"Then Jean-Michel bought up practically everything here, tore down those dated old hotels, and redesigned the whole city from the ground up. Spanish Colonial is the motif, not bastard Grand Motel," Caren said proudly. "But this is the capitol," she laughed, gesturing overhead at the big house above. "This is where things happen!"
Debra pressed against his arm. "You're Blake Mason, aren't you? You and Jean-Michel are up to something big, right?"
Blake smiled noncommittally and looked down at her bare flesh. She smiled back and the two girls led him across the terrace to the cool shade under the big thatched roof of the seaside bar. He was brought a cold drink, introduced to a count, to the director of a large corporation, and to two vice-presidents of Voss Investments. There were three other beautiful women in the terrace lounge: Wendy, Pei Ling, and Doreen, a redhead. The girls wore jewelry and sandals but little else, and they were uniformly – almost monotonously – beautiful. The men, all middle-aged, wore brief swim suits, and some had on robes that covered their aging bodies. Blake noticed how casually the male bands caressed the unresisting women. The helmsman's comment came back to him. A convenience for the guests...
Debra tugged at his arm. "Come on, Blake, Jean-Michel wants to see you!"
Blake shrugged and got -up. They went out into the sun again and up a wide, stone-stepped path under the green trees. A few Olmec stone heads were lying in the undergrowth. The retaining walls seemed to be a thousand years old, but the greenery was as fresh as morning. He could hear music, something rather exotic but unknown to him.
The climb was tiring, for the hill sloped steeply. But they at last cleared the level of the final terrace, and Blake saw the high white walls of the big house rising over him. At least fifty rooms ... he thought; and knew that this was only one of Voss's homes. And I thought Shawna Hilton was rich!
Blake took in the terrace quickly, for he saw Voss emerge from a large and ancient double door and come toward him smiling. On Blake's right, a tanned beauty lay supine on a lounge. She raised the brim of her crushed straw hat when she heard Voss say Blake's name, and looked at him without expression. On Blake's left was the terrace wall, stone blocks capped by deep rust-red the squares. Potted plants and an excellent Mendoza bronze lined the wall. The sea was seen beyond, through the trees. Several birds hopped about on the tiles, pecking at crumbs.
"Blake, they just told me you had arrived! Welcome. Mi casa es su casa. Did you bring sketches?" He not
iced Blake staring at the woman on the lounge. "That's Theta, my sister." When he saw the expression on Blake's face, he laughed. "Yes, sometimes it's hard to tell her from the others. Except she doesn't make a fuss over me."
"Oh!" Blake said. He couldn't think of anything else to say.
A beautiful blonde, deeply tanned and wearing nothing but an ornate silver necklace, came out of the house bearing a tray with one drink. She saw Voss, paused to smile briefly and make a small bow, then knelt on a cushion next to Voss's sister and proffered the drink.
Blake thought she had one of the finest and most beautifully proportioned bodies he had ever seen.
Voss nodded his head toward the blonde, who was now oiling Theta's nude body, and took Blake's elbow. "Theta's taste is getting better. She's a nice one. I wonder what she paid for her."
"Paid?" Blake spoke before he thought, and Voss smiled.
"A labor contract, all very legal. Expensive, but legal. Lump sum upon signing, a weekly or monthly amount deposited in a Swiss account – and lo! a slave girl to do with as you wish. A year, three years, seven years, with options. I'd take very few for seven. They age too much. But that one, that one might be worth it. You'd have to pay through the nasal passages for her now that she's seen how it's done."
Voss gestured Blake through the big oak door, heavily carved in an intricate design with big bosses of cast silver set with jade.
"You look shocked, Blake. Don't you really know about the world of the rich? The rich rich? We have everything, anything. All we have to do is want something enough to spend the money." He gestured back toward the terrace as they went through the entry hall. "Everything but time. Oh, you get a little more time with the doctors, and the shots, and the little extras. Knapp is putting millions into immortality research; so am I, for that matter." He smiled. "The Methuselah Institute is funded by me. Warfield and Kemp have foundations researching democratic processes." Voss now came close to Blake and whispered to him with mock seriousness. "Want a slave girl, Blake? One that is your property? Want to whip her or have her do something ... dark? All you need is money, my friend. All they need is money, or so they think; then they are willing to do whatever they must. Beautiful boys, luscious women, any type you want. Just hunt around." Then he laughed and stepped away. "Or if you are a Voss, they send you pictures and details. Ah, Amelia!"
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