The Jupiter War Page 20

  Naturally, Myessa called her abogado to demand an explanation. As he was the most expensive legal representative in Buenos Aires, he must be able to pull some strings with those of influence. The locals were starting to get hot, what with the date of the election approaching, and no sign of Myessa’s departure. Her lawyer called one morning and asked her to attend a meeting in his office, which, he promised, would immediately settle the problem one way or the other.

  Miguel Guillermo Boscaverde de Gutierrez was not easily discomfited, but it was dear to Myessa that this was one of those rare occasions when life had caught him with his pants around his ankles. She sailed into his private sanctum past the bowing attorney, touching him familiarly on the cheek with two fingers, and sank gracefully, if theatrically, into one of the rich, leather upholstered chairs Miguel kept in front of his desk for visiting clients. The explanation for his nervousness he articulated solely with a nod of his head toward the other chair.

  Its occupant, a man with ebony-black skin and black, red-shot eyes, nodded a barely courteous greeting to Myessa. He was an officer of the Confederation forces, with his hat still on his head despite the recent entry of a lady into the room. Myessa didn’t keep up to date on the badges and symbols of rank, but the number of medals on his dress tunic spoke of long service. She had nothing against servicemen-some of the finest skirmishing she’d ever known was under a captain of the marines-but if this stuffy-looking individual was the man holding up her applications she wanted to know why.

  Miguel made introductions, his upper lip under the pencil-thin mustache twitching nervously. “Señora Myessa Casales y Fuego, may I introduce to you Colonel Charles Njomo, of Inteligencia Militaridad.”

  Myessa inclined her head courteously.

  The square-jawed colonel regarded her without expression. “I will come directly to the point of my visit, senora. You wish to go to Jupiter Station?”

  “Sí, of course. Jupiter should be a good place for my business.” Myessa set her hand down on the desk, palm first. “Let me come directly to the point, too, my colonel. I wish to establish my business, not merely live there. It isn’t uncommon for houses like mine to open in frontier mining posts like Jupiter. In fact, it would be uncommon if they did not. It is from those women of the past that the term gold-diggers comes. There are certainly other independents already operating in the cylinders and in the space stations. The government knows what I do. Surely they wouldn’t be preventing me from opening my house there. Unless the government is creating its own . . . service corps?” she asked coyly. “I would hate to be in direct competition with the Confederation.”

  “Senora Myessa, are you a patriot?” Colonel Njomo asked.

  “Of course I am a patriot. But that usually means someone wants me to do something for free. I don’t work for free. Now that you know that, tell me. As a businesswoman, how may I serve the land of my birth?”

  Njomo smiled, and the whiteness of his teeth contrasting with his skin surprised her, attracted her. “We would never consider asking for free service. I always question the motives of those who don’t want to be paid. Your proposed move to Jupiter Station coincides brilliantly with a need which we of the Secret Service want fulfilled. Let me outline to you a small idea which we are tossing around. If you refuse, there will be no difficulty, but I must ask that you not discuss it with anyone. There could be loss of lives—Confederation lives—if you let it slip. And naturally, carrying our secret, we couldn’t let you leave Earth.”

  “Señor, that sounds most unfortunately, and I am certain, unwittingly, like a threat. I have kept secrets during my twenty years in business that would still embarrass half the heads of state on Earth.”

  “Excellent. My intention is not to threaten you, but to bring to your attention a matter which we consider to be most serious. The Confederation lags far behind the U.N. in information-gathering services, and it is telling on us in the war effort. The battle is escalating. We are far behind the U.N. in resources. We could lose all our small stake in the mineral rights of the outer planets, not to mention the lives of many citizens of the Confederation. Perhaps you have experienced the openness that exists between consenting adults in an intimate situation?” Myessa, listening politely, nodded. “Men and women who live stressful lives are willing to talk about almost anything if they are comfortable enough. We know about your previous . . . houses. You provide the kind of atmosphere in which tired men and women would reveal to you intimate or classified secrets. On Jupiter Station, we want you to listen to the pillow talk when those tired officers and executives of the U.N. speak to you, and pass your gleanings back to me. Help us. Help the country of your birth and its allies.”

  Myessa threw back her head and laughed. Her pretty voice held the tinkle of amusement when she spoke. “Nicely put! So this is the kind of gold you want my people to dig for! Why not?”

  “Naturally, you and your employees will be given commissions of honorable rank, and shown every courtesy and advantage in . . . ahem! . . . setting up shop.”

  * * *

  Well, she took the offer. Myessa didn’t mind in the least being a major of the Intelligence Service, especially not when she would answer directly to the handsome Colonel Njomo. It was one more thing to add to her memory book, a tome that would have filled many volumes and been a scandalous best seller had it been in print. She went on gathering her handpicked stable, and organizing the sale of such belongings and valuables as she would not take with her to the stars. This was her opportunity to offer employment to such bedroom artistes as she had met and admired in the past, but hadn’t dared to steal away from rival establishments.

  The armed forces made a frustrated attempt to put the regiment of prostitutes through basic training while they were staying in the Rio de Janeiro isolation camp awaiting the date of departure. Myessa just laughed at the drill sergeants, who came to her furious with the ladies and gentlemen of the evening who just turned over and went back to sleep when roused at dawn. The shouts of the DI’s had been audible through the window of her bedroom, but she pretended that the noncoms had awakened her when they entered to present their complaints. She refused to discipline her employees, citing instead, with a small grin, their privilege as a special services unit. The sergeants were invited to join them somewhat later in the morning, when over half of her “regiment” participated in warming-up Tai Chi exercises and dance classes to keep the muscles limber. Myessa’s “regiment” also eschewed the standard army fare and ate instead in the spaceport hotel restaurant, at the military’s expense. Soon, they would be setting up shop on Jupiter Station. Rio would be glad to see them ship out.

  She was happy for the extra help in doing what she’d always wanted anyway. “Never count the teeth of a gift horse,” she said. “Replacement prosthetics are cheap.” The colonel didn’t understand why there had been a smile on her lips from the time he’d made his proposal. Myessa understood that they needed her, and she could make some currency or, more useful by far, “convenience” out of that fact. Currency they’d have no problem raising once they got going.

  * * *

  The estate agent had come through like an angel. The nascent Club Mardi Gras was to occupy a cube shaped space forty-five feet on a side inside Jupiter Station, enormous for a private company. Myessa’s office was to be at the heart of the cube, with a devious escape route built in beyond the chamber for those who needed to enter and leave the club discreetly. The director of the space station, a neutral in the dominance battle between the U.N. and the Federation, was only too happy to give Major Casales y Fuego anything she needed. Water recycling and air systems hookup were scheduled for the moment the construction work was completed. The grumbling plumbers and architects, who had been pulled off of other jobs to work on the club, assumed it was because Myessa was running a whorehouse, and she let them think so. To assuage the disgruntled foremen, the proprietor promised them each a one-time freebie
in the club, once it commenced operations. “But only if you bathe, my sweethearts. My artistes must not have their senses impaired.”

  “If we can use your water systems, it’s a deal,” the electrician grinned. “I’ve got a daily allowance of thirty CCs.”

  Myessa had allowed herself a generous stipend for water. She liked to provide many amenities that the clients could not get at home, and was well aware of the tight rein that had to be kept on such precious commodities in space as clean water and oxygen. So long as her expensive recirculators held out, she could afford to be generous. The workmen came out of their encounters raving about the airbeds and the shimmering silver walls of some of the rooms, which helped the small cubicles seem bigger while at the same time providing a pleasant sense of slight disorientation to cap the effects of the liquor and euphorics. Words of praise sufficient for the talent of her staff, naturally, were beyond mere technicians.

  So far, the director was the only outsider who knew the actual status of the employees of Club Mardi Gras. As for the employees themselves, Myessa trusted them implicitly or she wouldn’t have hired them.

  When they weren’t working, her ladies and gentlemen generally congregated in the common room, joined by a nearly invisible double door to the communal dining room and kitchen on the main floor, and the stairs to the storerooms below. Flor and Feliciana came from Brazil, tall women with marvelous skin and perfect asses, which were on display under the string bikinis the ladies wore nearly all the time in the common room, accepting the stares they attracted as their legitimate due. Both were dancers who spent hours every day limbering up and riding the stationary bike to keep their leg muscles strong. They gave skillful demonstrations of native dances for special occasions. To complement them Myessa had three supple young men, one also from Brazil and two from Borneo, who were sword- and fire-dancers. Among the rest were handsome men, both young and not so young, who were just the debonair kind of date that lonely spacewomen were looking for. She also had hired girls from southeast Asian countries who had learned pleasing arts as well as bedroom skills.

  Myessa preferred her prostitutes also to be musicians, performers, and dancers, rather than be—she excused the expression to herself—one-trick ponies. Without other accomplishments one could become very dull. Addicts she would not employ; they tended to be dishonest, both in behavior and in giving fair measure to the client. Each artiste was assigned his or her own room, which could be decorated to taste so long as taste was employed. Myessa hated red and black velvet drapes, and forbade any displays that included real weapons. Her own apartment had diaphanous draperies and artfully placed mirrors that diffused the light, making it seem larger. Though she wouldn’t admit it she suffered slightly from claustrophobia, and hated anything that made a room feel small.

  The rest of the staff—housekeepers, technicians, and a pair of decorators—lived in rooms on the top floor of the club. With the exception of the kitchen staff and her communications technician, Myessa had no objections if these took free-lance work outside in the station itself. Myessa didn’t want meals interrupted and she didn’t want Sparks, the communications tech, off somewhere else if something went wrong with the Panic Button emergency system. It was intended to provide silent security for the artistes if a client became uncontrollable and help was needed. In Myessa’s experience, the alarms sometimes went off by themselves.

  Jupiter Station was officially neutral in the battle between Confederation and U.N. having been built in the spirit of cooperation that existed between the governments of the world when the mining project had begun. It was old. Maintenance was the first priority of operation.

  It was also the biggest of the cylinders in space. It held a Trojan orbit around Jupiter itself, balanced in the ellipse of Ganymede’s revolution. The troubles endemic because of its very size put builders off attempting another such; all the following capsules and cylinders were markedly smaller, and functioned more efficiently. Jupiter Station was always having oxygen leaks and breakdowns in the clean-air delivery systems. Every business and residence on board had to have emergency equipment handy, and each person was required to have some training in its use. Water and waste main failure was the next most common problem. Sensible residents made sure to donate heavily to the Watermen’s Fund, either officially or unofficially, and to stay current on station charges.

  Myessa got the rundown on the station workings from the owner of the equipment repair shop next to her club. While other residents of the station had shown few signs of welcome for her and her employees, Jack Conroy was glad to see them.

  “So far, you’ve increased my walk-in custom about three hundred percent,” he grinned, sitting over a cup of coffee with her the morning before the club opened. “I serve mostly the independent miners. They come in one day, drop off their troubles, go and have a bath and a few drinks, pick up their goods, and you don’t see them again for seven years. You can see where we’re fixed, far down G Corridor like this. No one walked by much when your space was empty. Everyone wants to know what’s going on, and give me their opinions on same. Not everyone’s happy, but I’m sure that doesn’t bother you. Well, it all helps to pay the oxygen bill.”

  Myessa also made friends with the portmaster, who gave her schedules of arriving ships with projected lengths of stay. That day, a U.N. ship was arriving, joining one already docked. A freighter was expected in the middle of the late shift.

  About 2000 hours, the first clients entered the club between the bouncers’ posts, and were shown into the foyer, where they were met by Myessa herself. The financial arrangements were handled quite frankly up front. Too well she knew that if she waited until the customer was ready to leave he or she might not be inclined to talk about money, or even in any shape to do so.

  A few of the men and women who entered were merely curious. Myessa served them drinks and chatted with them. Yes, it was a brothel; she had nothing to hide. No, she did not hire interested amateurs. Would you trust someone’s nephew to fill your tooth? The scantily dressed Brazilians performed a wild, graceful dance, earning them the immediate interest of two of the men newly arrived from the U.N. military ship. They retired to their separate cubicles with panting clients in tow, leaving Niko, a Javanese girl, to perform delicate koto music for those still in the common room.

  “Anyone can have taped symphonies,” Myessa said, grandly. “Here, all you see is real. May I offer anyone another brandy?”

  She was pleased with the way the first evening was going. One of her older gentlemen, a real hidalgo from Guadalajara, Jose Maria Veracruz de Rojas, was in the corner with a female officer, chatting over a rose and a glass of her priceless cognac. Few women, including herself, Myessa reflected, could resist the soulful black eyes and silvering temples of such an attentive gentleman. He made them feel beautiful, unique. Jose Maria was the escort of choice for respectable young ladies, especially officers. He was very presentable, even at formal functions. Myessa had questioned taking him on, wondering why a former high-placed executive would seek employment in a spacebound house of prostitution. Jose Maria had swept her a sardonic bow, and replied with a twinkle in those deep eyes. How better for an aging gentleman to see the outer planets than by having women pay him to have sex with them? The proprietor liked him. They were not far apart in age; she wondered if she could be so honest about her own motives.

  There was a loud cry and a crash from the stairs on the upper floor. One of the U.N. marines threw himself out of the door of the cubicle, followed by Flor, clutching her abbreviated costume to her breast. He shoved her backward and stormed down the staircase, yanking his tunic on over his head.

  “I’m paying you to screw, not babble,” he yelled. “ ‘Specially not in that foreign lingo! I thought you were Northern—your skin’s pink enough. You trying to pass for respectable?”

  “What is going on here?” Myessa demanded.

  “Aren’t there any Northern women
here?” the marine demanded, casting a furious glance around the room. “No. Not even you.” He pointed at Myessa’s ivory complexion, dismissed it with a scornful gesture. “You’re all Fed trash, with your ‘yatata-yatata’ lingo. This looked like a classy place, but it’s full of scum!”

  Myessa looked around at her other guests, who were becoming agitated. “Please calm down, sir,” she began.

  “Calm down?” the young man almost squeaked. “I’m sure it’s a violation of some law you’re here; I’ll see to it you’re shut down! You lure us in here . . . “

  A large, brown hand reached over Myessa’s shoulder and took hold of the marine’s arm, twisting it slowly. It was Arsène, one of the French Guianan bouncers. “The lady asks you to calm down, m’sieur. If you wish to talk quietly, we can go outside.”