by John Benson
"It's a closed club," the Captain said. "One can't exactly counterfeit membership in the Hypersociety. And we haven't even been able to plant people in as servants or secretaries. Their security is too good. Perhaps better than ours."
Detective Cissy Grey nodded. "They're a paranoid bunch, sir," she said. "But what's that got to do with me?"
"We can get you in," the Captain said. "Under the right circumstances. Ever heard of Francis Dowling?"
Who hadn't. "Megatech Industries," she said.
"Among other things." His phone chirped. "Excuse me."
While he was busy Cissy walked to an unused console and called up Francis Dowling. 45, divorced, decent looking. Ten years older than she and a million miles out of her league.
"He wants you as his paramour," the Captain said. Cissy jumped. Her mind must have wandered and that wasn't like her. "You're kidding," she said.
"No, I'm not."
"A mistress? He wants me as a mistress?"
"Apparently."
"But why me?"
"Because his filter pulled you out of our data base."
She got this creepy feeling. This wasn't supposed to be happening. "You let his algorithms go shopping in our confidential personnel files?"
"You have to give something to get something," the Captain said. "As his girl friend you'll be able to mingle. Snoop. Things we haven't had the freedom to do before."
"All I have to do is give my body for the cause," she said.
The Captain's look was somewhere between annoyed and apologetic. "Of course you have every right to refuse," he said.
Of course. If she wanted to stop her career dead in its tracks. Cissy was on the fast track for promotion, and all she'd have to do to derail it was refuse to volunteer. "I know how it works," she said. "I won't disappoint you."
"Good girl," the Captain said.
Cissy looked at the picture of Francis Dowling. She could almost swear that the damn thing winked.
She wore a sleeveless black dress, tight-fitting but slit up the side for ease of motion. She paced nervously, wondering if he would like her. Wondering if she would like him. Wondering whether that would make things easier or harder. More or less moral. More or less defensible. Her door chimed and she jumped.
He was at her door smiling, calm, confident, and carrying a small flat box. "Miss Grey," he said. "So glad to meet you."
"Cissy," she said. "Come in for a minute. I'll just get my purse." She could feel his gaze linger on her curves.
"Frank," he said. "I don't like Francis much. It sounds a bit. Oh dear. Do excuse me."
She cracked up. "You were about to say 'sissy.' My name is a bit odd for a cop. Blame my mother. She thought it was cute. She was a bit of a flake." He was studying her walls. Her paintings. It made her feel nervous, as she had felt when he studied her.
"These are lovely," he said. "What you do with the human form is breathtaking. Do you mind criticism?"
She felt a bit queasy over his interest in the nudes on her walls. "I'm a big girl," she said.
"Your backgrounds need work," he said. "The still-life elements are stilted and awkward. In other cases you've skipped the background entirely."
"Not my strong suit," she said. "It's just a hobby." She had expected him to comment more on subject matter than technique.
"You must study professionally," he said.
"You just like the women in chains," she said. "Well, they're metaphorical."
"If you say so," he said. "Here."
The box. She opened it. A large necklace, sort of clunky, actually. Gold with diamonds. The central stone was huge and square-cut like an emerald. There didn't seem much place for embedded circuitry. "It manages to look old," she said.
"Because it is old," Frank stepped behind her and took it out of the box and fastened it around her neck. "Today we extract gold from seawater and squeeze diamonds out of soot. But back when this was made they were precious. So it is still precious, as an antique. Nineteenth century. Known to have been worn at the Coronation of Victoria the First. It's worth half a million, give or take."
Four years' salary. She felt the weight of it around her neck. "Why?" she said.
"Partly to impress you. Partly, by giving you an expensive gift, I signal that I am serious and the other men should keep their mitts off. Are we ready?"
He was marking territory. Wait a minute. "A gift? The Department would never let me keep it."
"They will. Come now, don't fret. Just enjoy."
She let him lead her out. A big car sat at the curb. The pollution tax must be immense. He helped her in, an archaic courtesy which made her feel odd. There was no driver. "These robotic systems are still more expensive than a human driver," he said. "But less likely to be disloyal or careless."
The car pulled away smoothly. The seats were leather. "True," she said, "so instead you're vulnerable to the technicians who keep it all going, and who could also become disloyal or careless."
"Ah yes," he said. "But they like their jobs better, so the chance is less."
"Why me?" she said.
"Because of your profile, dear. Be patient. It will all unfold. Don't rush it. Enjoy the journey."
"I thought maybe it was just a power trip for you. Getting the Police Department to pimp for you. Something for you to brag about."
"That's mildly amusing," he said. "But at best a side-show. You are the real thing. An athlete. An artist. A person whose job forces her to confront the unpleasant side of human nature and who hasn't succumbed to more cynicism than necessary."
"Your spies must have seen me on my good days," she said. He chuckled. She felt that he wanted to touch her but he did not. Even when he had placed the necklace on her neck, there had been perfect courtesy. This felt almost like dating. Like the early tentative stage of courtship. She had already promised to sleep with this man, but he was taking it slow, either very shy or very thoughtful. And considering his poise, shy seemed unlikely.
The door man waved them through the lobby and into an elevator without buttons. "It knows where you're supposed to go," Frank said. "Party crashers wind up in the cellar, awaiting the authorities."
Her stomach let her know they were on the rise. She was nervous. Not so much about this party as about what came after. What if she liked it? Her web of excuses revolved around the good of the department and having been bullied into this. If she liked it, the excuses were worth nothing.
The elevator opened. They were in a large room with a wonderful view of the city at night. People milled about or spoke in small groups. Their dress was all the way from conservative to garish. At least in such a mishmash, Cissy could not look out of place. She felt the weight of the necklace. Felt eyes watching her. These people were a predatory species, and she was prey. Little self-propelled carts circulated, distributing drinks and snacks. So much for putting people in as waiters. They'd get no further than stocking the carts.
"Our hostess is the top-heavy young woman in the tiger body paint," Frank said. "Tori Amberdon. We should pay our respects."
Cissy would have pegged her for a joy-toy, considering how much of herself she was flaunting. "Frank," the cat-woman purred. "Who have you brought us?"
"My friend Cissy Grey," Frank said. "Our hostess, Tori Amberdon."
"Fresh meat?" Tori said.
"Meow," said Cissy.
"Excuse us," Frank said. He guided her away.
"How many?" Cissy said.
"Tori was being crude. I've never come to one of her get-togethers with a date before."
"Never?"
"Never. Oh oh."
A man was coming toward them. He wore tight clothing and short sleeves to emphasize upper body mass. A muscle-builder. "Frank," he said, "don't hold out on us."
"Dylan Leach," Frank said, "Cissy Grey."
"You move like a dancer," Dylan said. "You're built like one, too. Which school?" He put his hand on her ass.
"Judo," Cissy said. "You can take your hand off my butt or you can find out whether I can plant my heel in your groin faster than you can throw a punch. Your call."
Dylan backed off. "All right already," he said. "I didn't know you went in for ball-breakers, Frank. Wouldn't have thought it was your style."
"Little do you know," Frank said. Dylan moved off, chasing a little robot cart full of pickled herring and rye crisp. There was a smattering of applause.
"A football player could kill me," Cissy said. "Or a boxer. But a guy who lifts weights for the purpose of changing his appearance doesn't develop a lot of quickness or reflexes. I could have put him on the ground."
"No need to explain," Frank said. "But I have to admit I'm enjoying this."
"You don't want me to simper and hang on you?"
"Goodness no. A gutsy competent woman who's promised to be nice to me is a much bigger turn-on than some bubble-headed babe. Now. Champagne or a Martini? Those seem to be our only choice."
Cissy was a beer girl mostly. "Champagne," she said. "No Martinis unless I want to practice falling down. Somehow I don't see you as one of the guys who thinks it's his lucky day when his date passes out."
He gave her a pleased grin and snatched two fluted glasses of bubbly off a passing cart. "Let's sit," he said. "Watching is part of the fun."
There were chairs up against a wall. Cissy sat. Off in a corner Dylan and Tori were engaged in an animated conversation. Frank handed her a glass. She sipped. The bubbles went up her nose and she giggled.
"When was the last time you were spanked?" Frank asked.
It was like an electric shock running through her body. "Never," she said.
"Then why did your pupils dilate when I said that?"
Old secrets. Something about him made her willing to tell. "When I was a kid," she said. "I was ashamed of being a sexual creature. I used to lie in my bed at night and touch myself and fantasize that my parents were going to burst in and discover what I was doing and scold me and turn me over and give me this huge spanking. But they never did."
"Any your lovers?"
"No. I never told."
"And here I thought you were fearless," he said. He sipped his wine.
Cissy squirmed. "Are you going to spank me?" she said. "Did my profile say I'd like it, and that's why I'm here?"
"That and because you're so real," he said. "So multi-dimensional. Oh. Cissy. This is Felix Delgato. What's up, Felix?"
Cissy looked up. She knew this small pudgy sad-faced man who had penetrated their conversational space. At least she'd seen his picture often enough. "Felix the Cat," she said. "Panderer of underage Asian chyx for the white-slavery trade. Buying or selling today, Felix. Or is it your day off?"
"Hey my girls might be well-fucked, but they're well-fed. They got medical care. They're alive and if I left them where I found them they'd be dead. What else you want?"
"How about wages," Cissy said. "The right to come and go. A retirement plan."
"Sounds like you favor legalization," Frank said. "If the whole thing were legal, the NLRB could step in and let them form a union and get benefits."
"Wash your mouth out," Felix said. Frank sipped his wine and smiled.
"Felix specializes in babies," Cissy said. "Fifteen, sixteen."
"So?" Delgato said. "Average age of menarche these days is eleven point five. Other chyx the age of mine are getting married. I help the orphans. And with all the unrest there's plenty to choose from."
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