This is what we literary critics call irony: Davy pleads his heart out, all sincerity, and Tara won’t listen, but Ailann lies through his teeth and Tara goes for it. The fact is that for some weird reason which is obvious to Davy but completely obscure to anyone else, he desperately wants more emanations. Ailann just wants to keep Tara from asking too many questions about Tielo, so this is a tactic to keep her occupied.
Me, I dunno what to feel. Maybe it’s a short-term tactic, but a long-term strategic mistake. Too many new recruits to get underfoot, especially during a crisis. And then to deploy me, Marius, Mickey – I mean, come on! Yeah, we’re probably the right guys for a domination scene, but we’re also the ones who should be front line in a battle. Like I trust Rainier, the freaking astrologer, to know when the compost hits the fan.
So now I’m in Ari’s cave, waiting for the new guy to hatch. Briscoe is still by the cenote, still staring into the water like his life depended on it. If you ask me, it’s creepy, like he’s some kinda creche stalker. And there go Hurley and Malachi with the masks and robes again. They talked me into a mask, but I drew the line at a robe. It must be some weird fetish.
There’s the new kid, fresh out of the water. He’s hot. What a surprise. I’ve yet to see a branch that isn’t hot enough to cook a taco. Medium built, not badly muscled, brown skin with highlights of natural gold in his light brown hair and beard. It reminds me of the shimmer of moonlight.
Okay, the sprout has drunk his mug of RootRiot and cocoa. That’s my cue. As soon as Hurley takes back the mug, I come up from behind and collar him.
He slowly touches the collar, feels the leather with his fingers. He’s calm.
« You’re not the least bit afraid, are you? »
« Why should I be afraid? What could happen? » He pauses for a moment. « Literally, what could happen? It’s all so new. »
I’m wearing my uniform with the mask. I’m supposed to be intimidating. I probably look stupid. « Do you remember Tara? »
Oho, that got a reaction. Elevated heartbeat, pupils dilated, erection. « You wanna serve Tara, don’t you? »
« Yes! » There is no hesitation. He doesn’t even understand exactly what he just agreed to do. He’s one of us, all right. N’aashet n’aaverti. Malachi hands me the mirror, and I hold it up to his face. It’s a good face, – it gives the immediate impression of compassion, integrity, idealism.
« I’m Chand, » he murmurs. « My name is Chand. »
Yeah, the mask is stupid, and I take it off before he sees it. « Admiral Cillian Whelan. You may address me as Sir. »
He nods mutely as I step in front of him.
« The answer is Sir, yes, sir. »
« Sir, yes, sir. »
«You got a problem with that, sprout? »
He shakes his head. « This is an indoctrination, but my instincts tell me to accept it. Societies need structure. As long as what I’m asked to do isn’t unethical, and as long as I’m not treated cruelly, there’s no real problem with acknowledging that you are in a position of authority. »
Holy mother of compost. « Sir, no, sir would’ve done fine. I don’t need a dissertation. Now listen up. You’ve already stated your intent to serve Tara. You have to be worthy of that service. When she sees you, do your best to please her. »
This time, he’s enthusiastic. « Sir, yes, sir! »
« Now follow me. We’re taking the shortcut. » The shortcut is through the hole in the wall and onto Daniel’s mattress. Chand raises an eyebrow, but he doesn’t say anything. I go down first, jumping to the floor. There’s a ton of guys clustered around, wanting to watch the new boys as they emerge. Chand ends up standing naked, in the middle of the bed, surrounded by leering men checking him out.
He stares back for a moment, then breaks into a delighted grin. « I get it. Homoerotic bonding, dedication to a supreme female figure, the title “Sir” – this is a knightly order! »
« Right you are, » says Tarlach. « This is the social engineer, isn’t it? »
« Social engineer, » he murmurs. « Yes, yes. And this is the initiation ritual typical of such organizations. »
Oh man. It’s another one like Tarlach. Do we really need this?
I lead him across the walkway. « Wait, this building is free-standing. But that cave… »
« You ask way too many questions to make a good submissive, » I snap. « Now get on that hilift. Level 63, red light district. » Which to my mind is a little redundant. Isn’t a “red light district” supposed to be a place where you can do things that are otherwise illegal? Like kinky sex, drugs, gambling? Like you can’t throw a rock and find that in the pleroma?
The hilift rises, only to stop at an unassuming apartment door. The moment we step through it, the walls vanish. We’re in the middle of a busy bazaar, where spices, gems and rich fabrics are being sold.
« It’s a holographic simulation, » Chand murmurs.
« Nope. Not even close. »
« But it can’t possibly be real. »
« Did I give you permission to speak? Eyes on the ground. »
We stop at the center of the district, at a place called the Roman Market. It’s a pseudo-slave auction for dom-sub scenes. The setup is camp, like Rome via Lost-Vegas[1], so it’s clear that it’s for tourists, not the hardcore crowd. All in good fun. Nothing too shady. Hah. Personally, if I’m gonna walk on the dark side, I’m gonna walk straight in, but orders are not to traumatize the sprouts or push too hard on Tara’s sense of ethics. Not today, at least. We got other Floatfish to fry.
Chand is given a toga – one that’s just a bit too short to cover his assets. I push him to his knees. Even so, he’s still looking around, scanning the competition. This guy tops from below something fierce. When I’m finished here, I’m going to take my frustrations out on Callum. He’ll like that.
Mickey walks by us. He’s supposed to play the pimp in the high-class escort scenario. It isn’t helping that he’s wearing that ridiculous shirt printed with buttercados and mangosteen. Chand sees it too and tries to suppress a smirk. « What’s so funny? » He shakes his head.
« That’s a bad call, boy, » I tell him. « If you were meant for fighting, you’d be able to tell by the way he moves that you wouldn’t win against Mickey. You’d be dead before you knew what happened. »
« I’m not a fighter, » Chand says thoughtfully. « And you know some of these people, maybe all of them. »
« You could at least pretend to take this seriously, sprout. »
« My apologies, sir. »
The kid doesn’t mean to be insubordinate; he just doesn’t have a subby bone in his body. Chand would be writing a sociology paper in his head in the middle of a spanking. And I’m completely failing to intimidate him. Social engineer – that means he’s probably good at reading people and can tell that I wouldn’t hurt him – unless he wanted it.
He draws his breath in sharply, and his whole body starts to shake. It wasn’t me that had that effect on him. It’s Tara. I can feel her without looking. But I’m still under control. Am I so jaded that the focal point of the universe doesn’t shake me anymore? Except that little quiver in my diaphragm, that bead of sweat forming on my lip.
I place my hand on Chand’s shoulder, shaking it gently. « You need to breathe, boy. »
Marius is with her, and they head in our direction. She’s supposed to be playing a woman of power and sophistication looking for a good night’s diversion with some willing toyboys. In what universe does she have to fake that?
Tara bends a bit to stroke Chand’s beard. I can feel his heart crash into his knees. « Mmmm, an authentic touch, » she says. « Suibhne would approve. »
« Authentic? » says Marius, puzzled.
« Male Roman submissives wore beards to be more texturally interesting when they…. »
« Ah, » says Marius.
« Yes, I think a little Roman holiday might be good tonight, » she continues. « What else? »
« The High Street, » says Marius. The High Street is a play on words because it’s where you can get intoxicants, but pretty much everything else is for sale, too. The window displays are full of prostitutes advertising their wares.
Tara snickers and says, « Ash, you have got to be joking. He looks like a Skarsian butler! »
She spotted him from a distance. Stephen said she could do that – had no trouble picking him out of a crowd. Seems like Tara knows us well. The thought makes even a grizzled old warrior like me feel giddy.
The sprout in question is named Simon, and yeah, he kinda does look like a Skarsian butler. I mean, pink lipstick, lots of eyeliner, lots of frills and velvet, what passes for masculine on Skarsia. I’m supposedly hyper-masculine in the Volparnian view, but I think the whole concept is stupid. I mean, isn’t what’s important who you wanna fuck and what equipment you’ve got to do it? Everything else is about clothing, and who cares about that? « The cake is the important thing, to hell with the frosting, » I mutter.
« Spoken like a military man, » says Marius.
« A uniform just makes more sense. »
« How disappointingly Terran, » Tara replies. « The Domha’vei was founded on the principle of freedom to frost as you will. Shall we engage him for the evening? »
« I like him, » Chand murmurs. « Better than anyone we’ve seen here except the three of you. »
« Did somebody ask your opinion? » He looks sheepishly at his feet. But yeah, it’s because everyone else is a droid, one of Davy’s puppets. Chand doesn’t know that, but he’s perceptive enough to realize there’s a difference.
As stunned as Chand was by Tara, Simon turns on like a lightbulb, like prostitute was a role he was born to play. But it’s a little arch – there’s a wink to it, like he knows he’s playing, and you’re in on the joke. And he’s charming, affable in that way, kinda reminds me of Driscoll in chatty mode, which is maybe not surprising since he’s Driscoll’s brother.
Tara links arms with the new boys. She’s laughing and flirting as we head towards the luxury condo complex. Don’t ask how we fit a whole luxury condo complex inside of a luxury condo tower – it’s like Suibhne’s Russian dolls. Tara’s laughing and flirting, but I can smell that she’s as suspicious as all hell and also a little worn out. As much as she was worried about being cruel to the sparks, she’s also worried about slighting the latest emanations – and fourteen new branches in a matter of weeks is ridiculous. I understand why Malachi is concerned about collecting all the sparks for the mandala, but I don’t get why Davy is so obsessed about pushing for more emanations. The military strategist in me says we’re losing control.
Tara dawdles, pretending to shop, looking at the pretty boy droids. She stops in front of one with shocking pink hair and closely inspects the merchandise. Closely. Chand and Simon bristle; I’m trying hard to keep a straight face. Davy based this droid on some popstar that opened for Whirljack once. As we walk away, she turns to me and whispers, « Did Jack actually get a chance to see Yuki Shem Mohris in the buff, or did Davy just improvise? »
Marius pretends to be looking at something in the distance as he replies, « Blackjack says that they never saw his cock, but they smelled all of its molecules – which isn’t nearly as kinky as it sounds. »
« You can tell its size by smell? » Tara asks.
Marius shrugs. « I can smell a woman’s bra size, but it isn’t a good thing to brag about. »
Mickey’s waiting in the lobby. He shows us to the penthouse, a suite a million million times better than the seedy love hotel on level 69. The escort is waiting there, a youth whose demeanor screams “high priced rentboi with a mysterious past.” Dark, thin, intense, his wild, black hair is unkempt, hangs into his face. He introduces himself as Yves.
He’s perfect for the part. He has a detached, professional surface and an inner desperation. He has a piercing glance that instantly takes the measure of his companions.
Simon positions himself expertly on the edge of the bed, leaning an arm against the backboard. Yves drapes himself across the silken sheets. Chand finally catches on and plops himself on the side across from Simon, causing Mickey to roll his eyes. Chand sucks at this – we must’ve really needed a social engineer.
We did, chatburls Tarlach. You noted the reason yourself.
Hell-o. It’s Mr. Nosy.
I have a vested interest in the outcome as well. I need to evaluate the new emanations psychologically. Look, it’s no joke. You realize that we’re pushing 20% of our emanations being under three weeks old? They’re green as hell, they’re destabilizing our society, and we don’t know if any of them come with issues. And you’re asking why I need a social engineer?
Holy mother of compost, we’ve got a crisis situation outside and crazy Tielo to handle it. What is Davy thinking?
I honestly don’t know. Look, just between you and me and whomever is eavesdropping on our conversation, Davy is not acting normally. I mean, less normally than he usually acts. He’s usually laid back, supremely confident in his abilities. Now he’s acting…panicked.
This is…not good. Davy is powerful, can create life ex nihilo, and we rely on the fact that he never makes a mistake.
Tara shoots me an arch glance which says you can leave now. Yeah, there’s no real reason for me and Mickey and Marius to stay, and we’d better get back to the real business. Too bad, because we do kinda have a vested interest in the recruits, and I’d like to see how they perform.
The bell rings. The final sprout, Sundar, has arrived. For some reason, it was determined that he didn’t need a handler.
When he enters, I can see why. Holy crap, he’s a T’Rasinn. A real T’Rasinn, one of the legendary order of consorts founded by the 4th Matriarch, not a pretend prostitute like the rest of these guys. Under the 5th Matriarch, they faded out of popularity although a few traditional houses still exist on Skarsia. Everything about them is shrouded in mystique.
Tara lets out a little squeal.
Sundar bows, like a flower bending on wind, then glides across the room surfing on a spring breeze. I’ve never seen anything like it, and under the grizzled warrior, the part of me that reads ancient literature knows sublime beauty when he sees it. This time, Driscoll has knocked it out of the park.
Also, it’s hella good strategy because Tara is waaaay too distracted to think about anything going on outside.
[1] Ruined city on Earth synonymous with decadence; only a handful of people, led by a man named Lot, evacuated before it was salt-bombed by the Russians – trans.