LotS/The Story/Aphrodisian Anabasis/The Meeting
The Meeting
Wilex's cruiser escorts you to Cythera's system, but as when you visited Drekchester it halts beyond the periphery -- to avoid antagonizing the Consortium. You continue to the planet in your own vessel, while the TALOS ship remains just outside the system to await your return.
Cythera seems innocuous enough as you approach it -- a pleasant blue and green planet, not so very different from Earth. But as you circle to its nighttime side, and see the glow of artificial light that permeates much of the landmasses there, its true nature becomes more apparent. It's a world that never sleeps, where the sun and moon both look on the same lascivious revelry.
You descend into that dark side, towards the city of Hedon where your destination lies, and open a communication channel to Thalatta Spaceport.
The Contella Consortium may not run the rest of the planet, but Thalatta is theirs -- and its personnel are expecting your arrival. They guide you down to your landing point, and inform you that a vehicle will meet you outside your ship.
"Put your goggles on, Tel," you say.
"I still say this is stupid," he replies.
But he fumbles with the goggles, and puts them on. You try to avoid smiling at how ridiculous he looks with their big, bulging, almost insect-like eyes set over his own. Judging from your reflection in the lenses, you aren't succeeding very well. Though it occurs to you that he probably won't be able to tell anyway.
The goggles were your idea, manufactured by Wilex at your behest. They convert everything the viewer sees into wireframe images, undetailed and textureless, and should adequately desexualize anything Telemachus encounters during his brief stay on this vice-world -- concealing indecent costumes and naked flesh.
"You can wait on the ship if you prefer," the Princess says. "But we can't let you see Cythera without those goggles on. This planet really isn't suitable for someone your age."
"So I can go around killing people with you guys, but I can't look at a prostitute?" he asks.
There's a moment of awkward silence. But he breaks it himself with a resigned sigh.
"Fine."
"Just pretend you're in one of those really old videogames you like," Talia says.
Santino Melloni is waiting outside your ship, this time wearing a suit so yellow you assume it must be banana flavored. He's standing in front of an elegant black limo shuttle that looks large enough to carry at least a dozen people in perfect luxury.
"Hedon is a pedestrian city," he tells you, after an exchange of greetings. "Everyone either walks or takes the subway."
You nod, having discovered as much when you researched the settlement prior to your departure from Earth. People in Hedon are often intoxicated or inebriated, so putting them at the controls of vehicles would be a recipe for disaster. And the city's prostitute factions are frequently at dispute with one another -- quarrels which sometimes turn into actual gang wars. Hence they bar their airspace and roads to incoming vehicular traffic, to eliminate the chance of a mechanized assault.
"But my car's been given permission to take you to the meeting," he continues. "We can't have royalty riding the underground with all the horny tourists."
"There's no driver in this vehicle," Lu Bu says.
The robot is standing next to the limo, staring into the front cabin.
"It's pilotless," Melloni explains. "They don't want any Contella people leaving the spaceport until a deal's been struck."
"Then you won't be attending?" the Princess asks.
"No. But that's okay, Highness. We trust you to look after our interests."
You ensconce yourself within the shuttle's plush interior, and as it takes off you try to ignore the natural wariness you feel at being flown in a vehicle without access to its controls.
The ride is brief, the limo zipping through the sky with remarkable speed given how smooth its flight is. But your roaming gaze is still able to take in much of the illuminated city as you shoot over it. Each faction's territory is marked out as clearly as if the colored overlay from Melloni's map were superimposed upon them. Here in Cythera's capital, where the strongest factions have ruled their turf long enough to utterly stamp their marks upon it, every district is as distinctive as the people who inhabit them. The layouts and architecture have all been devised and constructed to match their desired aesthetics. You see bright, fur-covered buildings one moment, and Roman villas the next. From above, Hedon looks like the patchwork product of a million disturbed minds. Which may not be far from the truth, you realize.
The shuttle descends towards a river that shines as a silver ribbon in the moonlight, and lands on the island beyond. Its doors swivel open of their own accord the moment it touches down, and you step out onto green imitation grass that yields with a soft rustle underfoot.
A single huge building looms a short distance away, its more subdued lighting making it seem dark, shadowy, and deserted compared with the bright cityscape you can see across the water. A wheeled robot emerges from its doorway, and trundles towards you. It's a basic contraption, little more than a rod on wheels -- with two thin arms sticking out of the sides, and two big orange lights at the top in the manner of eyes.
"Welcome to Hedon..." the robot says, in androgynous computerized tones. There's a pause, and its next words are spoken in a slightly different pitch. "...Your Highness."
Lu Bu makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a disdainful sniff. As an intelligent robot, with a brain capable of creative and cognitive thought like that of a human, it appears that he finds such mindless machines displeasing.
"Please follow me," the robot continues.
It pivots on the spot, its tires screeching against the ground, and trundles back towards the building. You follow it inside.
The interior is surprisingly tasteful, far more so than you'd expect from the Consortium -- let alone an official building in a Cytheran city. The décor is subdued, the walls daubed in inoffensive shades of white and soft violets. Perhaps it was a deliberate attempt to make the place seem like neutral ground, bearing none of the hallmarks of any particular faction.
"Your friends / servants / assistants / prostitutes -- select as applicable -- can wait in here," the robot says, stopping next to a closed door.
"Were you programmed by monkeys?" Talia asks.
"I am sorry, but I do not understand your query." There's a whirring noise from somewhere inside it. "Your friends / servants-"
"We got it." Talia sighs, and pushes the door open. "Give us a shout if you need us."
"Hey, videogames!"
Telemachus runs over to a rather impressive electronic entertainment center at the far end of the room.
"Can I take my goggles off in here?" he asks over his shoulder.
The Princess steps into the room, and sweeps it with her gaze -- as if suspecting that indecent artwork or a scantily clad whore might be lurking in one of the corners. But when she completes her assessment she appears satisfied.
"Okay."
Telemachus pulls the goggles off his eyes, pushes them further up his head, and begins to fiddle with the videogame system.
The Princess steps out into the corridor. Talia, Lu Bu, and Ragnar file into the room. The Niflung stops in the doorway and looks back.
"Sure you don't want me to go with you? Might need me to keep them in line."
"We'll be fine," you reply, trying to dispel the mental image of Ragnar scattering prostitutes around the meeting room with swings of his brawny arms.
"Your guns / blades / explosives / pleasure devices -- select as applicable -- must be left with your friends / servants / assistants / prostitutes -- select as applicable."
You hand your weapons to Ragnar without protest. You'd expected as much.
The robot closes the door behind the Niflung, and proceeds down the corridor -- leading you deeper into the building.
"This artwork is from Earth," it says, stopping as you enter a small corner chamber that serves as an intersection between two corridors.
A large painting adorns the opposite wall. Its central figure is a naked woman, standing atop a clamshell and making a half-hearted attempt to conceal her nudity -- leaving one breast bare.
"That's The Birth of Venus!" the Princess exclaims.
"It is entitled The Birth of Venus," the robot continues, "and is made out of Botticelli."
"No it's not! It was-"
"It was placed here by Salvatore Flamido, the first governor of Cythera." A loud whirring comes from the robot once more. "Art routine completed. Continue with original protocol. Syntax error."
The robot swivels, and heads down the passage to your left. You follow on, and arrive at a set of double doors.
"Your meeting / conference / reception / orgy -- select as applicable -- is inside this room. I hope you enjoy your stay here on Cythera."
The robot swivels ninety degrees, slams into the wall, rotates a further ninety degrees, and trundles back down the corridor.
You push the doors open.
Congress of Courtesans
The room is saturated with pinks and purples, as though Heracles diverted a torrent of paint though the chamber as a cack-handed means of cleaning and decorating it. The walls are pink, as is the U-shaped table that dominates the floor space. Purple drapery is arranged on the walls like icing upon the side of a cake. Little spotlights in the same shades cast narrow cones of light in the corners of the room, and ribbons of electric pink skirt the walls. It seems as if the interior designers couldn't quite decide whether the place was to be a meeting room or a strip club -- and opted to hedge their bets.
But the room itself seems subdued and tasteful compared with the people who inhabit it. Sat along the prongs of the U-shaped table and leaning against the walls are delegates from most of the major prostitute factions on Cythera -- attired in the manner of their various groups.
There's a woman dressed in a lavish red and purple silk imitation of classical Roman garb -- finery perhaps suited to that ancient city's patrician class, but cut in the manner of its brothels. Another wears a furry white costume that makes her look like an oversized cat. A tail sways in the air behind her, though you're fairly sure it's part of the outfit rather than her body. The suit's head stares at you from under her arm, its mouth shaping a seductive smirk that seems rather out of place beneath wide cartoonish eyes.
The fur-clad woman meets your gaze with an amused smile, and meows at you. You look away, allowing your vision to sweep the rest of the room instead. The creativity and depravity represented by these people is both impressive and disturbing.
The Princess freezes for a moment, taken aback by what she sees. But a second later she's all smiles, bows, and pleasantries -- falling into the insincerity of diplomatic niceties with practiced ease.
Introductions are made, and you note the delegates' varied reactions. Some gush at meeting the Princess, like teenage girls in the presence of a superstar celebrity. Others seem amused at her presence on Cythera. A few are openly hostile, and you assume that these are the ringleaders in the effort to muscle out the Consortium.
After some minutes of this, it's time to begin. You and she take your places at the bottom of the table, facing the podium at the opposite end, and prepare to open the discussion.
The Smoking Gun
Princess Illaria's oratory is flawless, the woman used to dealing with the upper echelons of galactic society matching her words and arguments to her unusual audience as though she were accustomed to keeping such company.
You contribute where you can, helping to frame the discussions which will follow. And you see many faces around the table looking thoughtful, as though they're giving genuine consideration to the words the two of you put forth.
Then it's the next speaker's turn. A woman dressed as a schoolgirl takes the podium, one of those who seemed resentful of the Princess' presence here.
You recall someone -- either a philosopher, a statesman, a writer, or possibly even a comedian -- speaking of how a civilization's doom is imminent when its schoolgirls start to dress like prostitutes, and its prostitutes like schoolgirls. His words come to mind as the inappropriately dressed harridan launches into a tirade against the Contella Consortium.
The woman's a firebrand, her words filled with such passion that it overshadows her lack of oratorical skill. Several heads around the table nod along to everything she says, and her expression of rage is mirrored on their faces. It's clear that some of those present share her resentful fury in full measure, and will be difficult to persuade.
Once she has her core audience whipped up, the 'schoolgirl' turns her irate glare on the Princess.
"And they think they can fob us off by sending this pampered bitch-"
Darkness engulfs the room. For a few seconds cries of surprise and murmurs of confusion fill the black air. Then another sound cuts through them. It's the hiss of a laser weapon being fired. Cries become screams. The weapon hisses again.
Your combat-experienced mind registers the fact that there's no flash of light. It's a weapon with an invisible beam. An assassin's weapon. But this occurs to you only in passing, a thought grasped from the air and hurled into the inner recesses of your brain. As always, it's her that you think of.
You feel the soft material of the Princess' dress, like a caress in the dark. But before you can take hold of her, move her under the table, shield her body with your own, and check her for injuries, the lights come back on.
Your gaze scours the room in an instant, absorbing everything while the others are still blinking at the sudden return of brightness.
The woman in the schoolgirl uniform is slumped across the podium. There's a mark on her brow, the telltale trace of the laser which punctured it -- as distinctive as the lingering lipstick of a lover's kiss.
Another woman, the representative of Cyberia -- the cyberpunk territory -- is down as well. Her torso sprawls over the table, her face turned towards you. There's a hole seared into her visor, where the invisible laser beam pierced her eye.
The next thing you notice is the one which takes you most by surprise. The others see it a second after you do.
"She's got a gun!" a man shouts.
Princess Illaria gives a bewildered gasp, as she stares at the laser pistol lying on the table in front of her.
"The Princess did it! The Princess did it! She shot Syra!"
"No!" Illaria cries. "I-"
Chairs are knocked aside as men and women jump to their feet, their faces masks of murderous outrage.
"I didn't-"
The Princess' words are drowned amidst the shouting as they attack.
Plush in Tooth and Claw
The Princess fires the gun, and a vengeful prostitute falls in mid-leap -- crashing to the floor. You had to force the weapon into her hand. But once it was clear that it was kill or be killed, her instincts took over.
The moment the pistol fired in her hand, you knew it wasn't the murder weapon. Its beam is visible, a shade of bright yellow. But you have no opportunity to explain that to the enraged harlotry that's converging on you. All you can do is stand back to back with Princess Illaria, and lash out with fists and feet at each adversary who tries to assail you.
You're breaking an opponent's jaw with a lunging straight left when you see a flash of white in the corner of your vision.
You turn, and see the woman in the furry suit running across the table. There are claws sticking out from her paws, and as the light gleams across them you know they're not just for show.
The Princess is turned away from her, shooting at another enemy.
The woman leaps through the air, lethal blades shining with the promise of bloodshed.
Whore War
"Thanks!" Illaria gasps, as she scrambles to her feet.
You had to knock the Princess aside to intercept the attacker who now lies at your feet, her throat crushed by a strike both vicious and clinical.
But it isn't over yet. The others are still converging on you. They're wary now, having seen what the two of you are capable of. That makes them more dangerous.
A couple are smashing chairs, and arming themselves with the broken legs.
"It's not working!"
You risk a glance at the Princess, and see that she's pulling at the weapon's trigger with frantic twitches of her finger. Only a fizzing sizzle rewards her efforts, telling of overheated parts within.
It looks like you've just lost your advantage...
The Scarlet Harlot
The battle was fierce, your opponents far more capable than you would have expected. But the prostitute factions of Cythera are used to fighting for control of their territory, or to punish those who transgress its rules. They're no strangers to violence.
Only one foe remains, the woman standing between you and the door.
"You're good," she says. There's a smile on her face, one both seductive and sinister.
The woman is like a beautiful demon, her skin dyed bright red. Her sleek, shining gloves and boots are the most substantial parts of her attire -- supplemented only by the pieces of material struggling against her pelvis and breasts in a nonchalant attempt at preserving the vaguest hints of modesty.
"We didn't shoot them!" the Princess says.
"Really?" The woman laughs.
Illaria glances at the bodies strewn about the room, sprawling on the floor or splayed across the pink table.
"Well, okay... I shot some of them. But it wasn't me who fired in the dark!"
"Sure it wasn't."
"There's no need for you to get hurt," you say.
The scarlet woman laughs once more.
"Not if I'm faster than you there isn't."
She can't say you didn't warn her...
You grab one of the fallen chairs, hefting the heavy wood, and hurl it at her.
The woman's smile remains unbroken.
Her right leg flashes upwards in a blur, and catches the hurtling chair -- knocking it straight up, breaking its trajectory. She pivots on the ball of her other foot, and her raised leg chambers and launches a second kick. It crashes against the chair, breaking it in half. Then she leaps in the air, and her left leg sweeps round to knock the ruined pieces of furniture across the room.
She lands with the same smile still on her face.
Her movements were too swift to be the product of nature and training alone. It's not just her breasts that have been augmented by a surgeon's skill... But that's not what surprises you.
"That kung fu..."
"Hong Wangzi," the red woman replies.
"It's not possible..."
Only a handful of people in all the galaxy know the Hong Wangzi style. Even you, with the training of one of the empire's elite warriors, have seen but a few of its techniques. The Princess, though she was taught by the finest masters the Emperor's wealth and reputation could procure, likely knows no more than you. Yet this skin-dyed slut, this crimson prostitute...
But you haven't got time to marvel at such things.
"Stay back," you warn the Princess.
You drop into a fighting stance, and advance upon the woman.
"You can't match my style," she says, adopting a stance of her own.
"I don't have to. I only need to match you."
"You're only as strong as your weakest martial skill," you say.
The woman doesn't reply. It's hard to talk while you're being strangled.
Your upper arm and forearm are crushing either side of her neck, cutting off the flow of blood to the brain which holds such remarkable knowledge. She continues to struggle, but her thrashing is weak now. Your legs are wrapped around her as you lie together on the ground, preventing her escape.
Her punches and kicks were exceptional. Better than yours. But her close-quarter strikes were lacking, and her grappling weaker still. Knees, elbows, and headbutts were sufficient to stagger her -- and render her vulnerable to the technique that's now finishing her.
In a few moments she's still. You release your hold, and get to your feet.
"We need to find the others," the Princess says.
You nod. Now that the adrenaline is slipping away, and the universe once again consists of more than you and your opponent, the same concern which you see on the Princess' face fills you also.
Was it one of the people in this chamber who killed the two women and planted the gun in front of the Princess? If not, the killer is out there somewhere. And even if it was, would they have moved against you without arranging for others to move against your friends?