Eros Descending: Book 3 of Tales of the Velvet Comet

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Copyright ©1985 by Mike Resnick

The
Velvet Comet
spun slowly in space, resembling nothing more than a giant barbell.

Its metal skin glistened a brilliant silver, and its array of flashing lights could be seen from literally tens of thousands of miles away.

Seventeen different engineering firms had worked on its design, thousands of men and machines had spent millions of hours on its construction, and it housed a permanent staff of more than six hundred men and women. Owned and financed by the Vainmill Syndicate, the largest of the Republic's conglomerates, it had been built in orbit around the distant planet of Charlemagne, but now it circled Deluros VIII, the huge world that would someday become the capital planet of the race of Man.

During its eighty-seven years of existence it had become a byword for opulence and elegance, a synonym for hedonism and dissipation. Its fame had spread to the most remote worlds of the Republic, and while its sybaritic luxuries and even its air of exclusivity were often imitated, they were never equaled.

The
Velvet Comet
, after more than three decades of gestation, had been born in space, and less than a century after its birth it would die in space, mourned by few and forgotten by most. But in the meantime, it did its living with a grace and style that would not be seen again for many millennia.

It was the crown jewel in the Syndicate's Entertainment and Leisure Division, a showplace where the rich and the famous—and occasionally the notorious—gathered to see and be seen, to conspicuously consume, and to revel in pleasures which were designed to satisfy even the most jaded of tastes. For while the
Velvet Comet
housed a compendium of the finest shops and boutiques, of gourmet restaurants and elegant lounges, while it boasted a fabulous casino and a score of other entertainments, it was first and foremost a brothel.

And it was the brothel, and the promises of secret delights that it proffered, that enticed its select clientele out to the
Comet
. They came from Deluros VIII and a thousand nearby and distant worlds. Money was no object to these men and women; they came to play, and to relax, and to indulge.

All except one of them, who came with one purpose in mind, and left with another.

The tall, elegantly clad, blonde woman reached out a jeweled hand and rubbed Secretariat's foreface, as the muscular chestnut colt pawed nervously at the bedding of his makeshift stall. His groom, leaning against one of the storage area's walls, kept a watchful eye on the sleek red colt.

“He's lovely,” said the Steel Butterfly.

“He's about as pretty a horse as I've ever had in my charge,” agreed the groom.

“Very well behaved, too,” she continued. “Especially considering how strange his surroundings must seem to him.” The Steel Butterfly stroked Secretariat's long, arching neck. “You know, I've never seen a horse before.”

“Not too many people in the Deluros system have,” said the groom. “They're mostly confined to Earth and some of the other worlds out toward the Rim.”

“When did he run?”

“You mean the first time he lived? Oh, maybe a couple of thousand years ago.”

She stared at the colt in awe. “And people still remember him? Amazing!”

“He was one of the ones,” said the groom. “I've had the Australian Eclipse from the twenty-second century, and Hawkmaster from the twenty-sixth, but I'd have to say that he's the best I've ever rubbed down.”

The Steel Butterfly smiled. “I wish I'd had the same quality in the animals
I've
rubbed down.”

“You've rubbed animals?” asked the groom, mildly surprised.

“Thousands of them,” she replied, then added with a wry grimace: “Mostly men.”

The groom merely stared at her, then looked past her to a corridor. “We've got company,” he said.

“I knew it was too good to last,” she muttered, turning in the direction he had indicated.

Two men, one speaking with great animation, the other listening with an expression of distaste and boredom, were approaching the storage area. The shorter one was a bit overweight, but carefully and expensively dressed to hide the fact, or at least diminish its effect. His artificial hair glowed all the colors of the rainbow, and his fingers were so laden with rings that they seemed more jewel than flesh. Nonetheless, the Steel Butterfly's eyes were drawn to the conservatively dressed taller man, whose carriage and manner seemed to reflect an easy confidence and an aura of authority. His lean face was austere and craggy, the features sharp and finely chiseled. His straight black hair was edged with gray, and his hands were starting to spot with age, but there was a spring to his step that made him appear younger than his fifty-plus years.

“Ah, there you are!” said Gustave Plaga, extending a ring-covered hand in the Steel Butterfly's direction, but stopping some ten feet short of her. “I had a feeling we'd find you here.” He gestured ingratiatingly toward the taller man. “May I present the Reverend Thomas Gold?”

“I've seen you so often on the video I feel as if I know you personally, Reverend Gold,” said the Steel Butterfly.

Gold smiled tightly. “A simple
Doctor
Gold will do,” he replied. “Mr. Plaga tells me that you're the manager of this establishment.”

“The madam,” the Steel Butterfly corrected him.

“Yes,” said Gold. He turned his attention to Secretariat.

“This one's nice and calm, I see. Not like that black one I just visited in the cargo area. He's practically tearing the ship apart.”

“He'll be all right,” interjected the groom. “It's just his manner.”

“Are you quite certain?” asked Gold dubiously. “He's doing everything short of snorting smoke and belching fire.”

The groom nodded. “I've seen him before. He's always like that—high-spirited.”

“I would have called it psychotic.” Gold shrugged. “Well, I suppose I'll have to take your word for it. These are the first two racehorses I've seen.”

There was a momentary silence.

Plaga cleared his throat. “I'm afraid I have to see to some of our other VIPs.” He turned to the Steel Butterfly. “So if you will continue Doctor Gold's tour...” He fidgeted uncomfortably.

“Certainly,” said the Steel Butterfly. “But first I'd like to go over a few details of this afternoon's schedule with you.”

Gold, who had been watching them both, seemed amused. “Don't mind me,” he said. “This is the first time all day that I haven't been surrounded by Vainmill executives. I'll be happy to spend a few minutes petting the horse.” He looked at the groom. “If it is permitted, that is?”

The groom shrugged. “Suit yourself. I don't mind if he doesn't.”

“Fine,” said the Steel Butterfly, following Plaga around a bend in the corridor. “I'll be back in just a moment.”

“No hurry,” said Gold, rubbing the chestnut colt's neck.

“All right, Gustave,” she said coldly when they had walked some fifty feet up the corridor. “What the hell is the big idea?”

“I've had him all morning,” complained Plaga.

“That's your job.”

“My job is running the Entertainment and Leisure Division,” said Plaga. “And that son of a bitch”—he jerked his thumb in Gold's direction—“has been taking potshots at me on video every Friday night for five years. Three hours of him is about all I can take.”

“This whole thing was your idea, Gustave,” said the Steel Butterfly. “The least you can do is follow through on it.”

“Look,” he said nervously. “I've got to get away for about forty minutes. Important things are happening.”

“Such as?”

“It's nothing you need concern yourself with,” said Plaga.

“Everything that happens aboard the
Comet
concerns me, Gustave,” said the Steel Butterfly. “What's going on?”

“Just see that he enjoys himself, and I'll tell you all about it later,” said Plaga, checking his timepiece anxiously.

“Just see that he enjoys himself?” she repeated sarcastically. “Damn it, Gustave, who do you think he is? The Jesus Pures think
music
is immoral, for Christ's sake! They don't eat meat, they don't drink coffee, they probably screw by proxy—and he's not just
any
Jesus Pure. He's their goddamned leader! Now, exactly what kind of good time do you think I ought to show him?”

Plaga checked his timepiece again.

“I can't waste any more time arguing with you,” he said. “I'll be forty minutes—an hour, tops. That's not asking too damned much, is it?”

She stared at him. “I just hope whatever you're doing is half as important as you think it is.”

“It is,” he said, relieved. “Keep him in a good mood.”

She uttered a sardonic laugh, turned on her heel, and returned to the storage area.

“I'm sorry to have kept you waiting,” she said to Gold when she arrived.

“It's quite all right,” replied Gold. “Given a choice between Vainmill executives and a horse, I'll take the horse every time.” He stopped stroking Secretariat's muzzle. “Did Plaga make a graceful escape?”

“Not very,” admitted the Steel Butterfly.

“Well, he wasn't the most graceful man I've ever met,” said Gold contemptuously. He looked directly at her. “What now?”

She smiled. “Now I keep you amused until he gets back from wherever he's gone.”

“That may be a little harder than you think,” said Gold.

“So I've been given to understand,” replied the Steel Butterfly. “I gather we've got about an hour to kill. Would you care to have lunch?”

“I just finished a so-called prayer breakfast with eighteen Vainmill officers,” said Gold. “They served me bacon and eggs, which I can't eat, and I served them up some truth that I suspect
they
couldn't swallow. I think one such experience per day is more than sufficient.”

“We have a number of very fine restaurants on the
Comet
,” she said. “I won't order for you and you needn't pray for me.” She smiled. “That might make things more palatable.”

“No, thank you. I'm not hungry, and I make it a habit not to patronize restaurants that serve slaughtered animals.”

“We could simply stay down here,” suggested the Steel Butterfly.

“I think not,” said Gold. “I am not an immodest man, but it would be unrealistic to assume that my presence here is not the subject of considerable attention. I don't think it would look very good for you and me to be absent together for any period of time.”

“Even if we just pet the horse?”

“For a man in my position there is very little difference between the appearance of impropriety and impropriety itself. I think that spending an hour out of the public's sight in the company of the
Velvet Comet
's madam would be a bad idea.”

She shrugged. “Whatever you say—but I'm going to need some help from you.”

He frowned. “What kind of help?”

“I assume that you have no interest in seeing our suites, or our fantasy rooms, or our casino, our bars, or our nightclubs ... so you'll have tell me what you
are
willing to look at.”

“Is there anything left?” he asked.

“Not too much,” she admitted. “The hydroponics garden, the hospital, the public rooms, and the Mall.”

“The Mall? Isn't that the shopping area?”

She nodded. “It's also where we'll be holding the race.”

“Let's start with the public rooms,” he said. “I wouldn't want anyone to think I was shopping here.”

“We have many fine shops and boutiques in the Mall,” she replied. “Including a brokerage house, an antiquarian bookstore, a number of jewelers and art dealers...”

“You also sell liquor, drugs, tobacco, and clothing designed for sexual enticement,” said Gold. “I would prefer to go to the public rooms until the race is about to start.”

“As you wish,” said the Steel Butterfly. She walked over to Secretariat and gave his neck a fond pat. “Good luck, horse. Give him hell.”

“He'll do that,” the groom assured her.

“Come on,” said the Steel Butterfly, leading Gold down the corridor to an elevator. “If I stay down here any longer, I'm going to adopt him.”

They emerged into the crowded reception foyer, an elegant room that held some three hundred people comfortably and was now coping with almost five hundred—patrons, prostitutes of both sexes, VIPs, and security personnel. A number of crystal chandeliers had been imported from Earth itself, though they were strictly ornamental, as the room was illuminated very efficiently by a hidden lighting system. The carpet was a handwoven alien fabric, plush and resilient, with delicate and intricate patterns repeating endlessly in various pastels. The chairs and couches were both ornate and comfortable, and a number of exquisite holographs, some originals, some reproductions, lined the walls. One corner housed a bank of computer screens that continuously updated the latest political, business, and sports news, and an extra half-dozen computer terminals had been temporarily moved in to handle bets on the upcoming race. Waiters and waitresses circulated among the clusters of people, offering free drinks and exotic edibles.