Great North Road (58 page)

A chauffeured buggy took them down to the secluded pavilions, nestling in their individual clearings of blossom trees along the shore of the fountain lake. Angela had to send for the Italian seamstresses to undress her. The erotic masseuse in their pavilion was a giant of a woman, so much so that Angela felt a little thrill of nerves as the white dress was removed in front of her. Housden stood beside the padded bench where she lay down, watching in delight as she was slowly covered in oil that reflected the undulating colors of the offshore fountains. Amid the soft drizzle of pink petals, the powerful masseuse began kneading flesh in a diabolically skillful shiatsu that was soon producing helpless shudders along Angela’s thighs. After a while Housden joined in, fucking her while the masseuse continued her exquisite torment. Angela was sure the whole estate could hear her cries at the end.

For her second dress Angela wore a sleek scarlet silk number, while her stylist arranged her mass of hair into a deceptively plain peasant wave that flowed down her back. Once the entourage put the finishing touches to her appearance, Angela and Housden joined the big gathering on the lawns for the pre-breakfast banquet.

Dawn came, pushing a chill breeze with it. Housden escorted her indoors, and they agreed to separate for a while. She knew what he’d be doing—she’d seen him looking around the female guests several times. Fair enough—her own e-i had been receiving Matiff’s calls for two hours now.

One of the mansion’s footmen was waiting for her, and it was with an amused sense of inevitability she allowed him to escort her to the bedroom where the prince and five of his wives were waiting.

Fatigue was starting to set in, but Matiff was a host prepared for every eventuality, and wasn’t going to let her lassitude spoil his morning. One of the wives bumped a tox for Angela that sent her into a daze, hands fumbling at the furniture to stay upright. Recovery was fast, delivering her directly to a state of fresh and healthy midmorning wakefulness. She stood in front of Matiff while he watched with a cold anticipatory smile as his wives plucked the scarlet dress from her skin. Then they made her kneel before him.

Angela woke in a guest suite bedroom by herself. It wasn’t something she enjoyed—this was a party, she shouldn’t be alone. She was angry with herself for the resentment and self-pity. Though, if she was honest, she was also reacting to the prince’s surprisingly disturbing behavior. He’d taken things a lot farther than she’d been prepared to go, relishing her outrage and dismay.

Her entourage was waiting in the suite’s lounge outside. She vaguely recalled them being summoned to collect her once Matiff and his wives had satiated themselves. Now their presence and attention were an immediate comfort. There was a tox that banished the hangover. A bath was run containing scented ointments that her body therapist and a maid helped gently rub in, reviving her. Her hematologist ran a quick scan on her blood to make sure none of the stimulants Matiff had bumped her with were harmful. Angela’s enhanced liver and kidney functions could handle a large range of pollutants in her bloodstream, which was why she always had to drink twice as much as ordinary people just to get tipsy, but who knew what the prince had used. The hairstylist worked her usual miracles and tamed the disheveled tangle, weaving in some fresh flowers and slender platinum threads, which was when Angela asked: “What time is it?”

She wasn’t entirely surprised when they told her it was one in the afternoon. Matiff had certainly taken his time enjoying her discomfort. Long enough that there could be no mistake; she knew now that he didn’t consider her an equal, which was extraordinarily offensive.

As the entourage helped her into a new dress, she activated her transnet interface, and her e-i told her she’d missed three calls from her father. It wasn’t like him to call when she was at a party. She told the e-i to call him back, but he wasn’t interfaced. “Let me know when he is,” she told it.

Determined not to let Matiff spoil the party, for that would be another victory, she flung herself back into it.

Down in the Orchard Hall a seven-piece band called Pink Isn’t Well was grinding out prog-emo tracks. Angela wasn’t fond of that style anyway, and in her current mood it left her cold. She went out and took a chauffeured buggy down to the amphitheater where the afternoon no-rules cage-fight tournament was playing out, with the last man standing claiming a five-million-dollar purse. Angela watched in wide-eyed illicit thrall as limbs were deliberately broken, faces pulped to bloody meat, and below-the-belt blows commonplace. She imagined it was the prince getting pounded down there in the ring, which made her feel a lot better.

There was another costume change before attending the evening races. To accommodate it Angela had a proper massage, and a skin cleanse with irrigation, and the hematologist formulated a scrubtox to take down the alcohol high. When she was clean fresh and ready, her dermatologist sprayed platinum fleck scales to every square centimeter of skin, turning her a glossy, buffed silver. With true artistry, the dermatologist shaded the coating to emphasize cleavage and lines of musculature. Then the couturiers brought out a mauve ballgown that was mostly broad straps, complementing the platinum sheen to emphasize her figure’s femininity and strength.

When the entourage had finished performing their ritual, Housden joined her and Shasta for the evening hog-roast picnic.

“Wow,” he said with a greedy smile that wouldn’t stop. “Wow, wow, and wow again. Can I kiss you? I don’t want to muss the platinum, you look too fantastic for that.”

“You may kiss me. It won’t muss.” Angela forced a giggle. She couldn’t decide if she should mention Matiff’s behavior to her friends. After all, what could they do? And it might upset Housden, he was that sweet. So she said nothing as they all got into a buggy for the ride down to the sloping field above the fountain lake. Torches that sent out flames of green and blue scintillations illuminated the pathways snaking through hundreds of tables that lay in grottoes of arched sweet-scented rose and clematis vines. Five roasting pits ringed the kitchen area, each one with a different animal on a spit above the radiant coals, a bull, pig, reindeer, buffalo … “It’s not really a panda, is it?” Housden asked, frowning at the last pit.

“I wouldn’t put it past Matiff,” Angela conceded. “It’s the kind of shock value he enjoys.”

They settled at a cast-iron table under a cluster of hand-painted Japanese parasols suspended from a wisteria loop and told the catering crew what they wanted. Angela didn’t quite have the nerve to ask for panda, but Housden did. “I’ve got to call his bluff,” he claimed.

“Men!” Angela and Shasta clinked their glasses.

The slope gave them a grand view of the two big scarlet hot-air balloons that had risen up, a kilometer or two apart, their tether ropes turning them into a pair of captured moons floating five hundred meters above the ground. Five surprisingly small Cessna rocketplanes thundered over the mansion between the twin spires, then curved around sharply, heading for the first balloon. Angela clapped in admiration as the dark needle-delta shapes twisted around one another, scarring grubby contrails behind them that twined in the balmy evening air like rampant DNA strands. The rocketplanes soared around the balloon in tight acrobatic curves that drew another wave of applause from the picnickers.

Angela gasped when two of the planes came perilously close, wingtip almost touching wingtip as they maneuvered for best position to curve around the balloon. Always the thrill came from anticipating a midair collision, the bright orange flower bloom of flame, of smoking wreckage spinning out of the explosion. Of life in danger of extinction.

Somewhere, so deep down it was almost in her subconscious, she wondered if she was becoming desensitized to life’s experiences. She’d tried so many pleasures at the never-ending procession of New Monaco’s parties that only the increasing extreme excited her now. She almost envied Shasta with her business trips, and slow ascension to the control of an engineering empire spread over ten worlds. Her family legacy was tangible, where the DeVoyal empire was nothing but digits.

They were in the middle of the second rocketplane race—Angela had put a quarter million dollars on the emerald craft piloted by Duke Douglas, because she liked the name—when Housden gave Shasta a little nod.

“I’ve just seen someone I need to say hello to,” Shasta announced, and walked off.

“That was subtle,” Angela chided him.

“I know, sorry, babe.”

Angela’s e-i informed her the market alert over bioil production had changed to level one amber; St. Libra was still increasing its flow through the Newcastle gateway. She dismissed it, her heart suddenly lifting, because she’d guessed what this was. And yes, she was a proper New Monaco woman, and experienced in just about every aspect of an astonishing life, and professionally blasé, but it would seem there were still some things that were just naturally exciting …

Housden cleared his throat. “Angela, I think what we have is pretty good, and I’d like to make it permanent.”

She smiled at the expectant look on his broad face. And it was sincere, she knew him well enough to determine that. “Yes, of course I’ll go permanent with you.”

He leaned forward and gave her a tender kiss. “Thank you.”

Angela was suddenly looking at a small box he was holding out to her. She grinned and opened it. Inside was a ring of clear crystal. In fact, very clear, and sparkling. Her hands went to her cheeks in genuine surprise, and delight. “Oh, Housden, is that …?”

“Yeah. I got you a diamond engagement ring. Just call me Mr. Classic.”

She giggled as she took it out and held it up to admire it. And
lo!
it fit her finger perfectly. “How in all the trans-space worlds do they do that? It’s spectacular. I love it.” And a small wicked part of her mind couldn’t wait to show it off to Shasta—who would be so jealous.

“One of our family mines on Mosselbaai turned up a huge uncut. I took it to a company in Amsterdam that’s developed this new cutting technique. Something to do with precision neutron beams. Anyhoo … they cut a circle out of it. That’s the very first—and only, as far as I know.”

“Thank you.” Another kiss, more urgent this time. “Thank you very much.” Angela fed him shrimp dipped in garlic, he proffered a flute of Champagne dosed with JK raspberry vodka. They kissed again.

“And thank you for asking, as well,” she told him. “You’re quite a catch, you know.”

“I might say the same.”

“So are we having children?”

“I’d like them. I’m sure the lawyers can agree on a formula.”

“That’s what we pay them for,” she agreed. There would be no announcement, of course, not until both teams of lawyers had hammered out the basic deal—that was the New Monaco way. It would doubtless take a couple of months negotiating and finalizing the contract, detailing everything, including the number of children they could afford, and the percentage of wealth they’d receive from both sides. After all, who wanted children that fell below New Monaco’s citizenship requirement of fifty billion in assets? Not her, that was for sure.

“You know, if we do have a child, I’d like them to have a mixed company, not just straight money like us, and your raw refineries.”

“A diversification?” he mused. “That’s nice, but you still need a core strategy.”

“I know. I was just thinking aloud.” Dealing with money in isolation was a topic that had begun to trouble her as she slowly started to work with her father in the market. For the DeVoyals it wasn’t even money anymore, not really, not as billions of ordinary trans-stellar citizens who had bank accounts and secondaries understood—not coins and credit accounts. With her father guiding strategy, their AI manipulated pure binary digits, breeding numbers with other people’s numbers. The markets they dealt in were utterly beautiful in their complexity, but at the end of the day they were only left with more numbers. Cause and effect was becoming harder to locate, and with it relevance.

“That’s very sweet,” Housden said. “You’ll make a wonderfully protective mother.”

“Ha! That’s just me being practical—I’m not quite at that stage yet. On which topic, I’ll tell you now we’re having a surrogate for the gestation. Ranietha might think it’s romantic and retro-chic carrying a baby around inside her for nine months. But I spend too much money, time, and effort keeping this body on top form to throw all that away.”

“And that top form is very much appreciated, I promise you. Whenever you’re around, peptox sales fall dramatically.”

Angela snuggled up closer and gave him another sip from the crystal flute. “Housden, you don’t have to answer this, but are you a one-in-ten?”

He shook his head. “No, babe, I’m not. I was born before that became available. Missed by five years, so my father said. Why, does that bother you?”

“Not really, no. Besides, you should be able to rejuvenate soon. They say Bartram is close to proving the procedure.”

He raised a glass. “Here’s hoping.”

They ate the rest of the barbecue as the rocketplanes zoomed around and around overhead. By the time the last race, the champions finale, was over, Angela was back in pocket by three-quarters of a million. “Damnit!” Housden was down one and a half.

“Don’t be so grumpy,” she teased. “Together we’re still in front.”

“Yeah, but we’re not married yet.”

The fountains began to lower their dancing veil of spray, allowing the guests to see the opposite shore of the lake for the first time. The applause that burst out when they saw the grand finale to the party was long and enthusiastic.

“He’s got to be kidding,” Angela said. Above the shore, an incredibly old-fashioned silver rocket crucified by a dozen potent spotlights sat on a big concrete pad. White mist oozed sensually down its frost-webbed sides. An implausibly small blue-gray capsule squatted on top, while the scarlet escape rocket at the apex appeared to be some kind of primitive afterthought. Next to it the crude gantry tower, which was half cables and pipes, had a thick arm extending out against the capsule.