A King of Infinite Space Page 18

  By early evening, the kitchen once again resembled a Chinese fire drill, with servants rushing to deliver appetizers, bowls of soup, aperitifs, and entrees. A long day of indolence seemed to make these people more insufferable; now they were even less tolerant of lukewarm food or sloppily poured wine. More than once, a Superior fastened his dark-eyed glare upon a servant while touching the hilt of his rapier, while women tittered softly and men urged him to demonstrate his dueling skills…and Mister Chicago, barely noticing the garden salad and ice water laid before him, watched, and smiled, and said nothing.

  When the long day was done—after the guests had left the dining room and returned to their rooms (or, from time to time, when a few guests were escorted by Mister Chicago up to his solarium or, in the case of some of the women, to his private suite), once the dining room and kitchen had been made spotless—only then was there a chance for us to rest. Muscles sore, necks and backs aching, fingers chafed and raw, exhausted beyond rational thought, we shuffled and stumbled back downstairs to our quarters, where a late dinner of beef stew awaited us in our rude little mess hall. No one was in the mood for conversation by then; we stank of sweat, detergent, someone else’s food, and humiliation, and it was all we could do to eat, discard our robes and pick up the fresh ones that had been left outside our doors, then collapse in bed and wait for the lights to turn out. Then the narrow corridor would be empty and silent.

  We hoped it would soon get better.

  It only got worse.

  John appears in the servants’ quarters one morning, interrupting our breakfast of cold cereal and mushy grapefruit with a surprise announcement which he’s certain will thrill us to no end.

  “First,” he says, standing at the end of the table, “you’ll be delighted to know that Mister Chicago is very pleased with your performance in the presence of our honored guests.”

  This is John’s way of speaking to us in code. We’re still technically “guests,” of course, but all those people upstairs are “honored guests,” and there’s miles of difference between them and us. It simply means that none of us will suffer agonizing death from ruptured blood vessels in our brains. Mighty nice of John to tell us this, although he should forgive us if no one stood up and cheered.

  “Second,” he continues, “our guests are most grateful for the attention that you’ve given them. They’ve been very complimentary of your talents as housekeepers, and…” So forth and so on. Sugary words meant to disguise the fact that these people have been grinding us down inch by inch, unapologetically and with no remorse. I tune him out and spoon more grainy slush into my mouth.

  “And finally, some news I’m sure you’ll welcome…”

  Everyone looks up from their cereal bowls. The expressions on their faces are pitifully obvious: Oh, thank God, they’re leaving. Please tell me they’re leaving. Please please please please say that they’re leaving…

  “Exactly three weeks from now,” John says, “the date on the Gregorian calendar will be December 31, 2099…the eve not only of a new year, but also of a new century. The twenty-second century, to be exact…”

  “Oh, no,” Sam whispers softly.

  “To celebrate the event, Mister Chicago is throwing a party for his friends and associates, one which promises to be the social event of the outer system. Our present guests are only the early arrivals. Many more are already en route to the colony, and they’ll be arriving over the course of the next few weeks. We anticipate over one hundred and twenty visitors, and possibly many more…”

  All down the table, servants groan and shake their heads; others are ashen and speechless. The worst isn’t over; in fact, it hasn’t even started. We picture dozens more of Mister Chicago’s rude, self-centered friends stamping down the gangways of their ships, throwing luggage and insults in our faces before demanding to be taken to their quarters.

  “Therefore, in addition to your usual chores,” John continues, “each of you will be expected to assist in preparing for the celebration. I can’t tell you the details now because they’re still being developed, but assignments will be given by the end of the week. I know that this will require more labor on your part, but I’m certain that you shall rise to the occasion, and that your efforts shall be rewarded in the end.”

  “Like with a ticket off this rock?” Russell asks.

  Laughter from around the table. John smiles benignly at him. “Why, Russell,” he asks, “is there a reason why you’d like to leave us?”

  “Oh, maybe…”

  More weary laughter. John lets it drop. “Thank you for your attention,” he says. “That will be all for now. You’re dismissed.”

  Which means it’s time for us to go upstairs. Everyone rises from the table and starts heading for the elevators, triple-blinking to receive their daily assignments. I already know I’m on breakfast detail, but then John catches my eye and beckons to me. Surprised, I walk over to him.

  “Mister Chicago would like to have a word with you,” he says softly.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles. “Really? When?”

  “At once. I’m to escort you there, after we make a quick stop at the kitchen. He’s having a private breakfast this morning, and you’ve been asked to attend.”

  “Okay. Any particular reason?”

  “You requested a meeting with him, regarding a private matter.” John says this as if he’s repeating verbatim something that his associate has just said to him. “He’s ready to discuss this with you now.”

  We drop by the kitchen, where the cooks are already in culinary overdrive. They’re expecting us; one of them motions to a serving counter where two large pewter platters loaded with fruits, cheese, and fresh-baked muffins have been set aside. John picks up one, I pick up the other, then he leads me down a long service corridor to a small door that opens onto a side terrace outside the castle’s west wing.

  Balancing the trays on our shoulders, we march down a short flight of steps and onto a long flagstone path that leads away from the castle. It meanders through a small grove until it ends at a place I’ve seldom visited before.

  A large swimming pool, kidney-shaped and Olympic-sized, encircled by tall ivy hedges. Cool blue water, warmed by the artificial sun, reflects the blank eyes of Greco-Roman busts placed on pedestals surrounding a cement terrace. Men and women, all of them naked, cavort in the pool or bask in the morning heat. A Superior woman, her lithe body covered with tattoos, launches herself from a wooden tower at the far end of the pool; she enters the deep end with barely a splash, a living mural disappearing into a sapphire mirror. One of the nameless, cougar-sized housecats that haunt the castle grounds is sprawled nearby; it glances up as the woman slices into the water, its tail flicking a couple of times before it lays its head back between its paws. Bioengineered birds sing sweet songs from the branches of mutant trees.

  Beauty and comfort, peace and wonder. If I ever conceived of heavenly afterlife, then this is it. Yet this place isn’t meant for me. I’m a servant in Nirvana, a bellhop at the gates of Paradise.

  John leads me around the terrace to a long wooden cabana. Its trellis walls and open-slat ceiling are overgrown with honeysuckle; the floor is cool ceramic tile the color of baked sand, its cement benches shaded by the trees. And sitting within its sun-dappled shadows, encircled by gods and goddesses, is an alabaster demon.

  When we find him, Mister Chicago is receiving the undivided attention of a woman kneeling before him, her red-haired head tucked between his open thighs. His own head lolls back on his shoulders, his arms cast apart on the bench, his mouth agape, his eyes shut; he sighs as her head bobs in rhythm with his tiny gasps. The men and women surrounding them watch with sublime interest, some stroking each other as they derive second-hand pleasure from his ecstasy.

  John quietly places his platter on a nearby table and turns his back. I put down my own tray and start to do the same, but then Mister Chicago’s eyes open for just a moment. He sees me, raises a finger—just a moment,
busy right now, excuse me—then his head falls back again. Not that I particularly want to see this, but apparently fellatio is a spectator sport in the twenty-first century, and Mister Chicago wants me to watch.

  When she’s done, Mister Chicago pats her fondly on the head. “Thank you, my dear,” he murmurs. “That was quite wonderful.”

  The woman smiles up at him, delicately wipes her lips with the back of her hand, then stands up and saunters over to a nearby bench. Now I recognize her; she’s the one who sleeps late every afternoon. No wonder. A good whore needs all the rest she can get.

  Mister Chicago opens his eyes and finds me staring at him. “Ah! Young Alec has come to deliver breakfast.” He sits up straight, pulls a towel over his crotch, and motions toward the platter. “Bring it over here, young Alec, and let’s chat. I believe you want to speak to me about a friend of yours.”

  “Yes, sir, I do.” I pick up the platter and carry it over to him. “I found out that a friend of mine from my past life is a neuropatient in Clarke County. Her name is Erin Westphall, and she—”

  “Oh, please…not so fast.” He carefully inspects the platter, finally selects a peeled orange. “You were doing so well, even enduring a little public sex when it was obvious that you were revolted.” He smiles at his entourage. “Alec’s one of my deadheads, you know…Comes from a time when sex was considered abominable. I imagine he was ready to vomit.”

  The sycophants laugh on cue. “Let’s take this a little at a time,” he goes on. “Your friend in Clarke County is a woman, so I imagine you were…well, emotionally attached, shall we say?”

  “Yes, sir, we were.”

  “Lovers?” He raises an eyebrow. “Did you ever have sex with her in the open, with others watching?”

  More laughter. I’m surrounded by patronizing eyes. My face burns. “No, sir. We, uh…”

  “Always in private. I see.” He peels off an orange slice and tucks it in his mouth. “Pity. I imagine you two were probably quite beautiful, writhing in each other’s arms.” He shrugs. “So you’ve discovered your long-lost love is a sleeper, but not one of those I brought here to revive, and now you wish for me to locate her dewar and bring it here so that you may be reunited. Is this correct, or am I missing something?”

  The speech I’ve rehearsed in my mind over the last week evaporates like so much smoke. In one offhand statement, he’s summarized everything I meant to say. “No, sir, you haven’t missed anything. That’s what I’d like you to do.”

  “Hmm. So I see. Interesting.” A long silence follows as he eats his orange and lazily contemplates the honeysuckle in the cabana rafters. Behind me, I hear people frolicking in the pool. The overgrown cat saunters past, whisking briefly against the back of my legs, before being coaxed by the redhead to come by for an ear scratch. I hold the platter in my hands and wait for Mister Chicago to say something.

  “Are you familiar with aresian sand painting?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Aresian sand painting. Are you familiar with it?”

  I start to triple-blink, but he quickly shakes his head. “Oh, no, don’t ask your associate for an explanation…it would be too long-winded for the purpose of our conversation. Allow me. Many years ago, the first Mars colonists devised a form of art that uses the native regolith as its medium. When the sand is carefully mixed with dyed oil, it produces a rather grainy sort of paint which allows artists to create works outside their pressurized habitats. Sort of a cross between Navajo religious art and kindergarten finger painting. Understand?”

  I nod, and he warms to the subject. “The challenge of this form is that the artists have to create their works very quickly, because if the pigment and oil isn’t mixed precisely, the paint either evaporates or freezes. It took an entire generation before the technique was finally perfected, and only a handful of masters know the secret, but that’s beside the point. Each painting, once completed, must be sealed within airtight frames of infrared-filter glass while it’s still outside, because if the painting is brought inside an oxygen-nitrogen environment unprotected, changes of atmospheric pressure and light spectrum will ruin the composition. As a result, the masterworks of McCrutheon and Tse-Sung are considered priceless…not only because of their rarity, but also because they cannot be easily copied. Do you understand?”

  “A little.” I shake my head. “No, I don’t. What does this have to do with me?”

  Mister Chicago smiles. “I didn’t think you would, but it illustrates my point. Alec, you’re like an aresian sand painting. You were created over a hundred years ago, then sealed inside a container of a different sort, until by chance and circumstance I decided to acquire and revive you. This makes you unique. I have little appreciation for aresian art…to tell the truth, I find most of it rather boring…but you and your friends I can cultivate and observe over time. In this sense, each and every one of you is a priceless work of art.”

  “Then why not acquire another one? Then you’d have a matched pair.”

  He frowns and rocks his head back and forth. “Hmm. Interesting proposition, I must admit. But for each McCrutheon or Tse-Sung, there’s dozens of Porters and Riddells diluting the market. For all I know, your Erin could be snaggle-toothed and stringy-haired, with a personality to match.”

  More chuckles from the peanut gallery. I wonder if he keeps these people around because they laugh at his jokes. “She wasn’t, I can promise you that,” I say, and this elicits more laughter. My voice rises. “She was special. She…”

  “Ah, yes. She was special, you were special, everyone you knew was special.” He reaches forward to pluck another orange off my platter. “That’s one of the things I find interesting about deadheads. Most of you went into neurosuspension believing that the future would have a use for you, that your individual memories, skills, and talents would be invaluable in a hundred years or so. A rather conceited opinion of your worth, don’t you think? You seemed to believe that future society would welcome inhabitants of a world that was committed to its self-destruction, and damned near succeeded. You overpopulated your home planet, indulged in pointless arms races while willfully allowing millions to die of slow starvation, fouled the global ecosystem with toxic wastes while squandering precious resources, numbed your minds with the most banal entertainment while electing officials who ignored—”

  “Yeah, I know. I was there. You got a point?”

  Mister Chicago stops. He glares at me as he bites into the orange and chews thoughtfully. No one in the cabana says anything; they don’t dare breathe, let alone laugh. No free blow jobs for anyone who pisses off Mister Chicago.

  “Yes, Alec,” he says at last, “I do have a point. It entertains me greatly to have people from your time—scientists, authors, politicians, magnates, even a few spoiled brats like yourself—mopping my floors and scrubbing my toilets. You entered neurosuspension believing that you would be worshipped, that we’d place you on a pedestal and beg you to tell us about your world.”

  He pauses to spit an orange seed at my feet. It leaves a moist trail as it slides down my ankle. “But there’s nothing you know that hasn’t been revealed to us already. True narcissists, you videotaped and recorded and wrote countless books about everything you observed. All your knowledge and wisdom, such as it is, was assimilated long ago. Your inventions are obsolete, your theories rejected, your philosophies either forgotten or held in scorn. So far as I know, the only things the twentieth century produced which were of lasting value were nuclear energy, space travel, and Bugs Bunny cartoons.”

  Mister Chicago tosses the rest of the orange back on my platter. He takes a deep breath and folds his hands together on his stomach; it’s as if he’s tired of his own pontification and wants to be witty and urbane again, if only to entertain his guests. “I’ve enjoyed your servitude for the past several months, Alec, but you presume too much by requesting that I indulge your adolescent whims. So tell me…why would I want to go to the trouble and expense of acquiring another de
adhead when I’ve already got you and your friends?”

  “Because the Zodiac is building a kingdom, and you need more slaves.”

  I really don’t mean to blurt this out. It’s a pet theory, one which I’ve developed over the last few days. It’s the only one that fits all the facts as I understand them. It’s a trump card. And, let’s face it…I’m sick of this creep, and if he won’t give me what I want, then I’ll make him pay for this humiliation.

  It works. My retort strikes home. Everyone in the cabana stares at me aghast, and Mister Chicago tilts his head back sharply as he stares at me through slitted eyes.

  “And what,” he asks, “do you think you know about the Zodiac?”

  I shift my feet. “Not much, except that you’re its leader and that this asteroid is its headquarters. Or at least it will be, once you finish building the other three habitats.”

  “Uh-huh.” No expression on his face. “Go on.”

  Shit. He’s too calm about this. But I’ve got both feet in it now. “When that’s done, I figure you’re going to populate the place with as many deadheads as you can buy from the Pax. You like owning slaves, and we’re the best money can buy.”

  Pasquale Chicago stares at me for a long time, his half-lidded eyes burning into me like dry ice. Everything around me has gone still; I can’t even hear the pool sounds behind me. I’ve stepped over the line; things that should have been left unspoken, I’ve said aloud, not the least of which is the existence of the Zodiac itself.

  What the hell am I doing?

  Ever so slowly, a crafty smile steals across his face. He crosses his legs and laces his delicate fingers together, then he nods like a chessmaster whose protégé has just attempted a checkmate. The king is in his castle, and an unwary pawn has stumbled into a cleverly laid trap.