Chapter 11
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All warnings from chapter 1 apply to this one too.
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"How do you feel?" Iason enquires. It sounds analytical rather than compassionate the way he asks.
Katze smiles vaguely. "What do you mean?"
"Can you not answer without trying to play this game with me?"
"I enjoy it."
"You should not."
"What's to lose?"
"Besides what you lost already?"
"I hate you."
"You should never have provoked Raoul."
"You shouldn't have made promises you didn't want to keep."
"You wanted to leave. You would not have survived."
"You gave me no chance."
"I knew the odds. Why can you not accept my support?"
"Because," Katze retorts in exasperation, "you are not my god."
A cold breeze drives yellow dust from the desert across the road. The verges are buried in sand, and a thick layer of it covers the broken surface. Iason walks a few long steps, his hair and coat buffeted by the wind. He gazes across to the dark mass of the old station.
"I should be," he says over his shoulder. "And you should know your place."
"Tell Riki that," Katze snaps.
"I did," comes Iason's laconic reply. "It is a sign of intelligence to not just absorb knowledge, but to apply what you have learned. I believe that his capacity to do so is limited. Yours is not. I like challenges."
"Does he?"
"I doubt it. He is capable, but his mind is simple."
"But you're having fun anyway?"
"It will never be the same."
There is a small pause, before Katze says, "I'm cold."
Iason turns and closes in with a few long steps. He raises his hand to touch Katze's face, tracing its contours, brushing over his lips. "Then let's go. Let me warm you up."
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Katze is playing a shooter game on Iason's computer while smoking the room blue – something he can only do when Iason is out – when an incoming message bleeps at him. A long stalk of ash drops off the cigarette as Katze fires another volley at his enemy, a giant glob of fluorescent blubber. The blubber explodes, splashing runny green slime all over the screen.
Smirking, Katze jabs the stub into the saucer and wipes the ash off with his bare hand. A grey smudge sullies the polished glass. He clicks the message box.
Join me. See link for directions. Iason.
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Katze has no money for a taxi and no intention of asking a cabby to charge the fare to Iason's account because he would have to reveal that – at least on paper – he is someone's property. He would have to download the message to his wristcuff to prove that his owner was waiting for him because inventories and house servants are not allowed to take cabs unless ordered to. Instead he interprets Iason's request as permission to take Iason's second car, a sleek silver sports cabrio, an expensive brand even for the wealthy of Tanagura. Sitting in the garage below Eos tower, the car isn't alarmed. Eos is a safe place.
Katze sits back to take in the layout of the dashboard, finds the board computer and fiddles until he's managed to crack the code and programme the autopilot. The car starts up with a powerful roar and swings gently out of the parking bay. Soon, it's joining the busy main avenue towards Midas, and once out in the open, it snarls into top gear and shoots off.
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Instead of the prescribed white suit, Katze is wearing jeans and a black rollneck jumper that hugs his slim shape and hides the ugly cuff around his left wrist. It's no use when he arrives at the expensive bar where Iason's told him to go. The valet takes the car but the doormen won't let him in unless he can ID himself. He has no choice but to bare the cuff so they can run a handscanner over it. Only then do they step aside to let him pass.
An usher – a redhaired Elite – takes him inside. The room is circular, with a round stage in the centre of the floor of coloured glass, lit from below like a huge wheelshaped cathedral window. Small spotlights dot the dark ceiling that is carried by sleek steel pillars . Opposite the large double doors of the entrance is a gleaming bar, and along the walls are round alcoves with leather seats and small tables. Each swims in its own pool of candlelight, and the air is heavy with perfume and heat. The barstaff and the waiters are Red Elite and the booths are occupied by Elite, all men, most of them golden-haired. Their faces seem strangely alike in their beautiful perfection, a hall of mirrors, endlessly reflecting the same features.
Iason looks splendid in his formal gear, his hair a fall of light down his back, a fancy white cloak draped over his broad shoulders. He interrupts his conversation with Raoul to glance at Katze. The usher retreats, and Katze remembers the rules. He bows deeply, to Iason first, then to Raoul. Instead of disapproving of Katze's appearance, Raoul doesn't even acknowledge him, gazing through him as if he wasn't there, to watch Iason.
Iason touches Katze's arm. "Come," he says, "sit. I thought you might enjoy the performances tonight. It's a showcase for some of Raoul's best creations."
Katze is looking for space on one of the couches in the alcove, but Iason gently tugs at his sleeve. "There," he says, nodding at a small cushion by his feet. He strokes Katze's arm, a soothing gesture as if to forestall any sign of refusal. "What would you like to drink?"
Raoul lightly tilts his head. "You can't feed it alcohol," he notes.
"Rules," Iason says irritably, still stroking Katze. "remind me what this one was for."
"No alcohol for inventories," Raoul says coolly, "to protect you and your property from damage. If it becomes intoxicated, your insurance cover for it is void and you ruin your reputation."
"His name is Katze. You know where I got him – don't you think he can cope with a drink?"
"Items sourced from the slums tend to be aggressive." A small break, then Raoul sighs. "It smells of cigarettes. It doesn't know how to dress appropriately. If you let me have it for a week, I will train it properly, free of charge for you."
"A generous offer. I will think about it." Iason clicks his fingers at a passing waiter, a beautiful Elite in a dark, sleek outfit that makes him a shadow among shadows. His hair shimmers like burnished copper in the soft light. Iason's gaze lingers for a moment, before he snaps, "Whisky for Professor Am. Just bring the bottle. The usual for me, and for him," he nods at Katze, "whatever soft drink he wants."
Katze declines, his voice flat, his expression blank though his cheeks are flushed. He is kneeling stiffly on the cushion, his hands clenched on his thighs. Raoul turns his attention to the stage that is equipped with four gleaming poles that reach up to the ceiling.
Music is drifting into the discreet din of voices. From the floor of the stage wells dry ice smoke, swirling and trailing down the edges of the podium, spreading across the glass tiles and filling the room with living colours. And when the stage brightens, lit softly from below, four young men rise from the fog, a fourfold reproduction of the same type – shoulderlong blond locks, slim build, well-muscled yet slender limbs. They don't wear any clothes.
Drinks are served, and Raoul turns to Iason with a smile. "What do you think?"
Iason's gloved hand stills on Katze's shoulder as he raises his glass. "Congratulations. They look perfect."
"Products of my enhanced replication programme," Raoul says. "It took four years to source, select and blend the genetic material to create them. I've eliminated a number of flaws: they're more placid than other lines, easier to train, disease-resistant and undemanding in terms of maintenance. And because they are sterile, there is no way that they can be pirated, unless you have the technical facilities for genetic replication."
"You managed to keep the whole programme quiet."
Raoul drinks from his whisky. "Until the patent was granted. Now it is showtime. I was hoping to exhibit at the next trade fair, with your consent of course. If you are happy for me to go ahead, I would make the appropriate arrangements." He gestures at the audience watching the performance. "Thank you for joining me tonight to greet some of our potential buyers. It helps endorsing the product. Now I would like to invite some more from the outer cities. I expect brisk trade, and we should be able to recoup our investment soon, with decent profits."
The young men on stage are showcasing their physiques by moving languidly against the poles. Katze is staring, looking uncomfortable.
"What do they cost?" Iason asks, swirling his iced vodka.
Raoul leans back. "Twice as much as the best of the conventional lines."
Iason raises his brows.
"I've assessed the market," Raoul continues, contentment in his tone, "and taken pre-orders for more copies than we could rear in the first batch. I could even have sold the experimental issue, but it would depress prices and I prefer to supply prime quality, without discounts. I am working on a fast-maturing strand now; it will go into production shortly."
"What have you done with the experiments?"
"They were terminated, as usual. We have to be careful to protect our standards." Raoul glances at the stage. "This is our greatest success so far. The advertising campaign will start tomorrow. We have deals with all major trade magazines, the glossies for upmarket Elite buyers, and select research publications with an interest in bioengineering. We will also broadcast some web and television clips. We will be promoting pair-sales to the buyers who can afford them, and I think we will be doing well."
Two of the young men are embracing, one sliding down against the other. As they unite, Katze breaks away to look around. The Elite are watching, some smiling vaguely into their drinks, others with unabashed curiosity. Iason is leaning comfortably into his corner of the booth. His hand with the glass rests in his lap. Katze swallows and looks away – only to meet Raoul's gaze. Clear and cold, Raoul's eyes nail Katze, who quickly lowers his head. He shuffles on the cushion to relieve his sore knees.
Iason lightly combs through Katze's hair. It slides through his fingers, and he feels a pang of need, shot through with frustration that he cannot, must not get distracted like this.
"Perhaps you would like to rest your back," he says quietly. Katze yields and leans against Iason's leg. He looks back at the stage where the other pair are swaying closer whilst the first two rise to resume their dancing.
It crosses Iason's mind that something is missing in this performance, but he can't figure out what because he wants to take his gloves off and dig his bare fingers into Katze's hair. He can feel the muscles of Katze's back with every small shift in position, and what he covers in his lap troubles him. The music has melted into a dense, low beat that pulses right through him.
"Iason," Raoul says, leaning forward a little.
Iason's hand slips away, reaches for the bottle of whisky to refill Raoul's glass. A sign of honour, or familiarity. He leaves this to Raoul to decide as he replies, "My friend?"
"Those four are the first perfect specimen from the new series. Light phenotype, limited edition. They are a gift. A sign of my appreciation. I have coded your owner's code into their genome."
Iason thinks they all look a bit like Raoul although much smaller, and from there his mind reels into dirty images of Katze and himself, mirrored in endless reflections... He takes a deep breath. "A very special gift. I am not sure I can accept this."
There is a tiny, uncomfortable pause before Raoul settles back. He doesn't look surprised. "The business is yours, too."
"I am only a silent partner."
Raoul shakes his head. "You are too modest."
Suddenly, Iason reaches out and squeezes Raoul's hand. "Modesty," he murmurs, a fine smile in the corners of his mouth, "would this not be a good thing?"
Raoul pulls back abruptly. For a moment, they look at each other, until Raoul casts his gaze down. "Forgive me," he says tersely.
Raising his glass, Iason gives a smoky laugh. "You have always been my conscience."
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When the evenig draws to a close long after midnight and they are about to leave, Katze steps through the door first while Raoul and Iason wait for the usher to help them into their coats. Outside, Iason calls for him, and Katze turns, looking at him.
Raoul's backhand makes Katze's head snap back and sends him reeling. "Rules," Raoul says frostily, "exist to maintain order."
It is the first time he talks at Katze directly, but Iason understands. It is subtle, Iason thinks, because protocol forbids Raoul from arguing with Iason, but there is no rule stopping an Elite from disciplining someone like Katze.
Iason lays his hand on Raoul's arm. "It was a mistake, a little thoughtless perhaps. He will apologise."
This time, Raoul accepts his touch, turning to Iason to meet his gaze. "Small transgressions always grow. Temptation, insolence and disorder... an unfortunate and expensive chain."
"Yes," Iason agrees quietly, "it is. Tell me, do you believe that I am too soft?"
Raoul recognises the catch in Iason's question. "No," he says calmly, "I did not mean to criticise you." His reply is as layered as Iason's query.
A tiny smile plays over Iason's lips. "I appreciate your intentions." He intends to be duplistic and watches Raoul's reaction with interest.
Raoul's cheeks colour a pale pink. "Iason..."
"It was a pleasant evening. Thank you." Iason lets go of Raoul and turns to Katze. "Now I want to go home."
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Back at the Tower, Katze goes to his room without a word. Iason fills a glass with wine from the bottle on his glassdesk and goes to the panorama window. Far below spread the streets of Eos, coloured by dawn, a shimmering star of tiny dots of light, radiating from Eos tower to the outer wall of the city. The main gate, with its searchlights that are mounted on a bridge above and finger the sky and the outer districts, the bloodred pleasure quarters of Midas, and the boiling, floodlit fog of the industrial complex at Mistral. Beyond lie the warrens of the slums, fading into the desert of the old mining area. He is trying to make out Dana Bahn, but mist blankets the desert.
Iason believes that he can read Katze now – disconcerted, fidgety, out of his depth. Katze's weapons – looks, posturing, aggression, expressions designed to intimidate and cow according to the code acted out in Ceres' streets – don't work here. Iason wonders why Katze didn't seem too upset about the blow, or the loss of autonomy he's experienced that night. It doesn't make sense to Iason; he misses logic and clarity, and it unsettles him in a way he can't place.
He distracts himself by recalling the business proposals Raoul has negotiated, contracts that will make him and Iason millions and justify the expense and research that has gone into their company's new line of live goods. Raoul offers prestige and luxury to his clientele, with a complementary line of unbranded goods that have small flaws and still sell at considerable prices. The traders they've met that evening, at one of the most expensive, discreet establishments Apathia has to offer, had been seasoned, tough and polite, all belonging to the class of redhaired Elite that dominate much of the trade and services on Amoi. It helps, Iason thinks irritably, to deal with people familiar with the rules. People content with who they were – redhaired traders, bluehaired soldiers, all there to serve Jupiter's best creation...
A reflection moves into his field of vision, a pale silhouette layered over the light-filled dawn of Eos, and Iason nearly drops his glass when he realises Katze is standing in the door to the room, without a stich of clothing on.
And Iason readily, eagerly slips from the height of his position into whatever it is that Katze has created for him.
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On to chapter 12.