“Do you mean illegal drugs, sir?” shrieked G464.
“I do.”
“Excellent. I shall instruct you to see Varo in the main house. He’ll meet you at the end of this path. I shall warn you, though… he is a dangerous sociopath who has threatened to disable me piece by piece should I ever displease the master. He handles the items you’re offering.”
“Good,” said Bowie and headed up the walkway through the strange and wonderful gardens.
A moment later, the HUD inside his sunglasses announced he had an incoming message.
It was a text message.
The voice was stentorian and matter-of-fact.
“Congratulations, Mr. Bowie. You of all the applicants have managed to make it into the target area. Mr. Nilo sends his regards. Proceed into the party’s restricted area known as the Pleasure Palace and await further orders.”
That was all. Nothing more.
Varo found him at the top of the path, before the rising walls of the impressive estate. Other guests were arriving, some wearing Diablo masks, others donning them as they entered. Servants and security were everywhere.
And yeah… Varo was a psychopath. The kind of guy who got kicked out of the Legion for being a little bit too murderous. He was small, trim, compact, and scrolling sleeve tattoos peeked out from the starched white cuffs of the dress shirt he wore. His suit also was well cut and well made. Most likely tailored on Utopion.
He saw Bowie coming from a long way off and didn’t move to approach him. But the two men knew they were aimed straight at each other. A security team intercepted Bowie within five meters of Varo and deftly removed the last blaster and both dangerous knives. They let him keep the corkscrew.
“Butler-bot says you got some drugs to sell.”
Bowie nodded.
“So…” Varo inhaled and looked around. The look of a bully who was scanning to see if anyone was going to catch him for the beatdown he was about to hand out. “I’ll play a little game. If you’ve got the usual… H8, Coke, Lotus Weed… I’m gonna have to kill you for even thinking about getting in here. Not because I don’t like you, I’m incapable of that ’cause I’m a sociopath, see—Legion docs finally figured it out. I’m incapable of liking or disliking anyone because I don’t see other people as people. You’re all just things to me. Which is why I don’t mind hurting you. So… back to what I was saying… If it’s just same old, same old, I gotta kill you. Nothing personal. Just we can’t have everyone doing what you just did, and so if I kill you, in the long run it saves a lot of lives so that other idiots, like yourself, don’t try the same stunt. We got all that stuff and the best of it. But… on the off chance you got something else, something specific, then I don’t kill you. I take you and you get paid with the hope you got more because the boss and his friends they always want more. The boss, not really. But it’s how he keeps his friends and enemies close, know what I mean?”
Bowie nodded.
“So whatcha got?”
“Ice.”
Varo raised both eyebrows.
“If you’re lyin’ and I take you in and turns out you just got Lotus, I’m gonna feed you to the baby tyrannasquid he keeps in the grotto. He’s got one. It’s sick. We feed it sheep. The guests love it at the end of the night when they’re all drugged out and crazy. Zhee especially.”
Varo paused.
“Yeah… the zhee imams come here too and they’re into some pretty sick stuff. Which is sayin’ something when that comes from me because even I know I’m not right in the head, know what I mean? Sociopath and all.”
“Ten kilos.”
Varo’s mouth dropped wide open.
His whispered some vulgarity.
“All right… let’s go see the right-hand man.”
Varo led Bowie into the party. Within the main entrance, there was a grand room that towered up into the heights. At least three stories high. The walls were hung with rich tapestries and famous paintings dating back hundreds of years. Bowie had no doubt many of these were the real deal. And that many had gone missing years before during art museum heists, or wars the House of Reason had fought on foreign worlds. Delicate vases from Sinasia stood in prominent positions. Fabulously elaborate, expensive beyond mentioning, these were ogled at and awed over by clutches of guests stuffing dainties into their mouths while murmuring over the rims of delicately sculpted cocktail glasses. The women were models, and the men were heads of banks, politicians, and movers and shakers despite the Republic’s recent problems. Maybe even more so because.
There was no sign of the courtesans. This area, for all intents and purposes, was a mere A-list gathering of the wealthy and powerful inside a private enclave of a man who controlled a planet.
It wasn’t Jack Bowie’s first A-list rodeo.
Upstairs and into private rooms guarded by security, they moved deeper and deeper into the forest. Passing small gardens where entertainers entertained, or orgiastic bacchanals were already underway. Everywhere was the murmuring tinkle of party chatter and always the elusive zither of Psycalrian hypno-string music.
Bowie knew things were heading for a conclusion when they deviated out of the festivities and into a suite of private offices that were conspicuously absent of personnel. Antique desks and state-of-the-art computer terminals indicated that much of Sustus Caul’s empire was run from here. Finally, they came to a double door that screamed boss’s office and entered with little fanfare. The room was a high cupola that looked out over the inner walls of the estate. Beyond the windows, four red-bricked minarets rose up into the orange-colored garden party afternoon sky. The songs of exotic birds could be heard along the walls and eaves.
Behind a large desk sat a diminutive man with the face of an accountant. And the expression of an undertaker.
“Boss…” began Varo.
