Wireless (37 page)

I arrived on Mars somewhat rattled, but physically none the worse for wear. Miss Feng had rustled up a burnoose, djellaba, and antique polyester two-piece for me from somewhere, so that I looked most dashing, absolutely in character as a highly authentic Leisure Suit Larry of Arabia. I tried to inveigle her into costume, but she demurred. “I am your butler, sir, not a partygoer in my own capacity. It wouldn’t be right.” She tucked an emergency vial of aftershave in my breast pocket. It’s hard to argue with such certainty, although I have a feeling that she only said it because she didn’t approve of the filmy harem pants and silver chain-mail brassiere I’d brought along in hope of being able to adorn Laura with them. Edgestar we dressed in a rug and trained to spit on demand: he could be my camel, just as long as nobody expected him to pass champagne through his secondary reactor-coolant circuit. Jeremy emerged from storage pallid and shaking, so Miss Feng and I improvised a leash and decided to introduce him as the White Elephant. Not that a real White Elephant would have menaced the world with such a malign, red-rimmed glare—or have smelled so unpleasantly fusty—but you can’t have everything.

A word about Abdul’s digs. Abdul al-Matsumoto, younger brother of the Emir of Mars, lives in a gothic palace on the upper slopes of Elysium Mons, thirteen kilometers above the dusty plain. Elysium Mons is so big you’d hardly know you were on a mountain, so at some time in the preceding five centuries one of Abdul’s more annoying ancestors vandalized the volcano by carving out an areophysical folly, a half-scale model of Mount Everest protruding from the rim of the caldera. Thus, despite the terraforming that has turned the crumbly old war god into a bit of a retirement farm these days, Abdul’s pleasure dome really
is
capped by a dome, of the old-fashioned
do not break glass, do not let air out (unless you want to die)
variety.

Ground Control talked Miss Feng down into the marina below the sparkly glass facets of the dome, then sent a crawler tunnel to lock onto the door before old Edgy could leap out onto the surface and test his vacuum seals.

The door opened with a clunk. “Let’s go, what?” I asked Jeremy. Jeremy sat down, swiveled one jaundiced eye toward me, and emitted a plaintive honk. “Be like that, then,” I muttered, bending to pick him up. Dwarf mammoths are heavy, even in Martian gravity, but I managed to tuck him under my arm and, thus encumbered, led the way down the tube toward Abdul’s reception.

If you are ever invited to a party by a supreme planetary overlord’s spoiled playboy of a younger brother, you can expect to get tiresomely lost unless you remember to download a map of the premises into your monocle first. Abdul’s humble abode boasts 2428 rooms, of which 796 are bedrooms, 915 are bathrooms, 62 are offices, and 147 are dungeons. (There is even a choice of four different Planetary Overlord Command Bunkers, each with its own color-coordinated suite of Doomsday Weapon Control Consoles, for those occasions on which one is required to entertain multiple planetary overlords.)

If the palace was maintained the old-fashioned way—by squishy servants—it would be completely unmanageable: but it was designed in the immediate aftermath of the Martian hyperscabies outbreak of 2407 that finished off those bits of the solar system that hadn’t already been clobbered by the Great Downsizing. Consequently, it’s full of shiny clicky things that scuttle about when you’re not watching and get underfoot as they polish the marble flags and repair the amazingly intricate lapis lazuli mosaics and refill the oil lamps with extra-virgin olive oil. It still needs a sizable human staff to run it, but not the army you’d expect for a pile several sizes larger than the Vatican Hilton.

I bounced out of the boarding tube into the entrance hall and right into the outstretched arms of Abdul, flanked by two stern, silent types with swords, and a supporting cast of houris, hashishin, and hangers-on. “Ralphie-san!” he cried, kissing me on both cheeks and turning to show me off to the crowd. “I want you all to meet my honored guest, Ralph MacDonald Suzuki of MacDonald, Fifth Earl of That Clan, a genuine Japanese Highland Laird from old Scotland! Ralphie is a fellow skydiver and all-around good egg. Ralph, this is—harrumph!—Vladimir Illich of Ulianov, Chief Commissar of the Soviet Onion.” Ulianov grinned: under the false pate I could see it was our old drinking chum Boris the Tsarevitch. “And this—why, Edgy! I didn’t recognize you in that! Is it a llama? How very realistic!”

“No, is meant to be a monkey,” explained Wolfblack, twirling so that his false camel-skin disguise flapped about. I opened my mouth to tell him that the barrel Miss Feng had strapped to his back to provide support for the hump had slipped, but he turned to Abdul. “You like?”

“Jolly good, that outfit!”

“Pip-pip,” said Toadsworth, whirring alongside with a glass of the old neurotoxins gripped in one telescoping manipulator. I think it might have been a high-bandwidth infoburst rather than a toast, but due to my unfortunate hereditary allergy to implants, I’m very bad at spotting that kind of thing. “Which way to the bar, old fellow?”

“That way,” suggested Ibn Cut-Throat, springing from a hidden trapdoor behind a Ming vase. He pointed through an archway at one side of the hall. “Be seeing you!” His eyeballs gleamed with villainous promise.

A black-robed figure in a full veil was staring at me from behind two implausibly weaponized clankie hashishin at the back of the party. I got an odd feeling about them, but before I could say anything, Toadsworth snagged my free hand in his gripper and began to tug me toward the old tipple station. “Come on! Inebriate!” he buzzed. “All enemies of sobriety must be inebriated! Pip-pip!” Jeremy let out a squealing trumpet blast close to my ear and began to kick. Not having a third hand with which to steady him, I let go and he shot off ahead of us, stubby ears flapping madly in the low Martian gravity.

“Oh dear,” said Miss Feng.

“Why don’t you just run along and see to my chambers?” I asked, irritated by the thought that the bloody elephant might poop in the punch bowl (or worse, dip his whistle in it) before I got there. “Leave the beast to me, I’ll sort him out later.”

“Inebriate! Inebriate!” cried Toadsworth, hurtling forward, the lights on his cortical turret flashing frantically. “To the par-ty!”

Now, in the normal course of affairs it behooves a young fellow to remain discreet and close-lipped about matters of an embarrass ingly personal nature. But it’s also true to say that this story won’t make a lot of sense without certain intimate understandings—a nod’s as good as a wink to a deaf hedgehog and all that—and in any event, ever since the minutiae of my personal affairs became part of the public gossip circuit following the unfortunate affair involving the clankie dominatrix, the cat burglar, and the alien hive mind, it would be somewhat hypocritical of me to stand upon my privacy. So where a more modest cove might hesitate, please allow me to step in it and, at risk of offending your sensibilities, explain something about my complex relationship with Laura.

I rather fancy that life must have been much simpler back in the days of classical Anglo-American civilization, when there were only two openly acknowledged genders and people didn’t worry about whether their intimate affairs were commutative, transitive, or reflexive. No clankie/squishie, no U or non-U, nothing but the antique butch/femme juxtaposition, and that was pretty much determined by the shape of the external genitalia you were born with. Perverts dashed well knew what they were, and life was simple. Modern life is enough to drive a cove to drugs, in my opinion: but as a Butch U Squishie of impeccable ancestry, I have the social option of maintaining a mistress (not to mention the money), and that’s where Laura comes in.

Laura is very clankie and very frilly-femme with it, but with a squishy core and just sufficiently non-U to make a casual relationship marginally acceptable to polite society on the usual sub-rosa morganatic basis. We met on a shooting weekend at one of the Pahl avi girls’ ranches on Luna, doing our bit for evolution by helping thin the herd of rampaging feral bots during their annual migration across the Sea of Tranquility. She was working her way around the solar system on a cut-price non-U grand tour: laboring as a courtesy masseuse in Japan and a topiarist on Ceres while saving up the price of her next interplanetary jaunt. Her parental unit was sending her a small allowance to help pay her way, I think, but she was having to work as well to make ends meet, a frightfully non-U thing for a cute little clankie princess to have to do. Our eyes met over the open breech of her silver-chased Purdey over-and-under EMP cannon, and as soon as I saw her delicately wired eyelashes and the refractive sheen on her breasts, simultaneously naked and deliciously inaccessible in the vacuum, I knew I had to have her. “Why, I do declare I’m out of capacitors!” She fluttered at me, and I bent over backward to offer her my heart, and the keys to the guest room.

There is something more than a little bit perverse about a squish who chases clankie skirt: even, one might suppose, something of the invert about them; but I can cope with sly looks in public, and our butch/femme U/non-U-tuple is sufficiently orthodox to merely Outrage the Aunts, rather than crossing the line and causing Offense. If she showed more squish while being less non-U, I suppose it would be too risqué to carry on in public—but I digress. I trust you can sympathize with my confusion? What else is a healthy boy to do when his lusts turn in a not-quite-respectable direction?

Of course, I was younger and rather more foolish when I first clapped eyes on the dame, and we’ve had our ups and downs since then. To be fair, she was unaware of my unfortunate neurohormonal problems: and I wasn’t entirely clear on the costs, both mechanical and emotional, of maintaining a clankie doxie in the style to which she would expect to become accustomed. Nor did I expect her to be so enthusiastic a proponent of personality patches, or so prone to histrionic fits and thermionic outrages. But we mostly seemed to bump along alright—until that last predrop walkout and her failure to turn up at the drop zone.

Among the various manners of recovering from the neurasthenic tension that accompanies a drop, I must admit that the one old Abdul had laid on for us took first prize for decadent (that means good) taste. It’s hard to remain stressed-out while reclining on a bed of silks in a pleasure palace on Mars, with nubile young squishies to drop prefermented grapes into your open mouth, your very own mouth-boy to keep the hookah smoldering, and a clankie band plan-gently plucking its various organs in the far corner of the room.

Dancers whirled and wiggled and undulated across the stage at the front of the hall, while a rather fetching young squishie lad in a gold-lamé loincloth and peacock-feather turban waited at my left shoulder to keep my cocktail glass from underflowing. Candied fruits and jellied Europan cryoplankton of a most delightful consistency were of course provided. “What-ho, this is the life, isn’t it?” I observed in the general direction of Toadsworth. My bot buddy was parked adjacent to my bower, his knobbly mobility unit sucking luxuriously conditioned juice from a discreet outlet while the still-squishy bits of his internal anatomy slurped a remarkably subtle smoked Korean soy ale from a Klein stein by way of a curly straw.

“Beep beep,” he responded. Then, expansively and slowly, “You seem a little melancholy about something, old chap. In fact, if you had hyperspectral imagers like me, you might notice you were a little drawn. Like this: pip.” He said it so emphatically that even my buggy-but-priceless family heirloom amanuensis recognized it for an infoburst and misfiled it somewhere. “Indiscretions aside, if there’s anything a cove can do to help you—enemies you want inebriating, planets you want conquering—feel free to ask the Toadster, what?”

“You’re a jolly fine fellow, and I may just do that,” I said. “But I’m afraid it’s probably nothing you can help with. I’m in a bit of a blue funk—did you know Laura left me? She’s done it before several times, of course, but she always comes back after the drop. Not this time, though, I haven’t seen gear nor sprocket of her since the day before yesterday, and I’m getting a bit worried.”