But a darker side to Bourdain’s Rock quickly became evident. She followed Moss through the door, and then along a corridor opening into an enfilade of cavernous spaces that managed to make her feel claustrophobic after the sheer epic scale of the Great Hall behind them.
There were even more guests gathered here, but their activities were rather less salubrious. In a pit a pair of mogs-half-human, half-dog hybrids-fought with steel-tipped claws, while a crowd cheered and jeered encouragement from above. The beasts were vicious, lupine things, their human element barely recognizable in the dull vacancy of their eyes.
Even by the relatively lawless standards of the outer solar system, for all its lawlessness, breeding mogs was stunningly illegal. By such a display, Bourdain was openly flaunting his power and influence in the face of the Consortium.
Moss led her along past the edge of the pit and she glanced down on hearing an agonized howl. Just then one of the mogs collapsed, bright red blood gushing from its eviscerated torso.
The next cavern they entered was given over to the darkest sexual desires. There were mogs here too, hairless muzzled bitches with perfumed bodies, caged and set on plinths and awaiting the attentions of those whose tastes were so inclined.
Moss led her blithely through this cavern and on into the next, where human whores cavorted or copulated or danced with their clients, many glassy-eyed from the skin euphorics Bourdain’s employees had painted on their flesh. None of this would have bothered Dakota, except that some of these whores, male and female alike, were bead-zombies.
Moss escorted her through a final door, and into a large office space so relatively mundane that it took Dakota a moment to adjust. Subdued lighting cast gloomy shadows across expensively upholstered couches and chairs arranged casually around coffee tables. Bourdain had clearly been waiting for her. He stood up from behind a vast desk made of dark wood and stepped forward to greet her, instantly recognizable from a thousand newscasts and any number of scandals reported in the media.
‘Dakota, I’m delighted you made it to my little party.’ He smiled, revealing a row of expensive teeth. ‘Go on, admit you’re impressed,’ he continued, his smile broadening as if he meant to take a bite out of her.
She glanced around and noticed that Moss had taken up a position by the door, as if to block her exit, his hands folded casually in front of him.
‘If I have to be honest, I’m a little surprised you wanted to see me in person,’ Dakota replied, not able to keep a quaver out of her voice. ‘If there’s anything wrong with the consignment, it’s nothing to do with me, I assure you.’
Bourdain perched on the edge of his desk, with his arms folded in front of him, and gestured with a nod towards one of the visitor’s chairs near by.
‘Sit down, Dakota. I promise this won’t take long. I just want to clear up one or two small things, and then you can be on your way.’
Dakota stared at him, not moving. She heard Moss step up behind her.
Piri? Are you there?
Only silence. She felt the first swellings of real panic.
‘I can’t contact my ship.’
Bourdain shrugged. ‘Sorry about that, but I’d like anything we say here to remain private. Now, the sooner this is over the better, so please do sit down.’
Dakota obeyed with a show of reluctance. ‘All right, tell me what’s wrong, Mr Bourdain.’
‘Nothing,’ interrupted Moss from behind her. Dakota twisted her head to study him, and then realized Moss had been addressing Bourdain. ‘No scanning devices, recorders, weapons, nothing inside or outside of her body apart from her black-market machine-head implants. And we’re blocking them, of course.’
‘Nothing’s necessarily wrong’ Bourdain finally said in reply to her question. He hadn’t even glanced at his subordinate when he spoke. ‘But I’d like to know for sure if, at any point, you carried out a remote scan of the contents of your ship’s cargo hold.’
‘Never.’ Dakota shook her head. ‘I’ve got no idea what you’ve got in there.’
‘You were involved in the Port Gabriel massacre, am I correct?’ A fresh grin spread across Bourdain’s face. ‘Don’t look so startled, your secret’s safe with me, Dakota. You see, I don’t like too many surprises.’
She stared at him, for a moment more surprised than afraid. ‘That’s none of your business,’ she snapped. ‘I…’
Bourdain laughed as Dakota faltered, then he flashed a look at Moss. Dakota glanced to the side and saw the corner of Moss’s mouth twitch upward again in an attempt at a smile. Watching it made her think of a corpse exhibiting the first symptoms of rigor mortis.
‘You were subsequently tried for war crimes,’ Bourdain added. ‘That’s one hell of a thing to have in your resume.’
‘Wait a minute.’ Surprise gave way to renewed anger. ‘What does any of this have to do with me being here?’
Bourdain leaned forward. ‘I want you to realize there’s nothing you can tell me that I don’t already know. All I’m asking now is that you tell the truth. Did you ever try to find out what was in the cargo hold of your ship?’
‘No, of course I didn’t. I-’
Moss grabbed her head in two vice-like hands. She struggled desperately, but he was deceptively strong.
Then her sense of survival kicked in, and she let herself suddenly relax. As she felt Moss’s hold on her ease marginally, she thrust herself away from him and towards Bourdain.
Two strong arms yanked her back down into her seat, and held her there. Moss’s fingers dug hard into her flesh, Dakota screaming as overwhelming pain ran through her entire body.
She glanced down at Moss’s hands where they held her, and she saw he was now wearing insulated gloves coated in fine metal mesh.
Lightning gloves.
Dakota tasted blood and realized she’d bitten her tongue. Bourdain continued looking at her as if nothing had happened. Somewhere behind him a concealed door slid quietly open and two ambulatory nightmares stepped into the room: bead-zombies.
The door closed silently behind them, and they stood behind Bourdain, awaiting orders.
Bourdain was speaking again. ‘Port Gabriel was, what, almost a decade ago? Now look at you. Scraping a living in a stripped-down cargo ship that can barely haul itself from one lump of space-borne slag to another. And then this unfortunate business with the Bandati on Corkscrew?’ Bourdain shook his head, and looked almost sympathetic. ‘I heard a little rumour you took something from them, and didn’t tell me. Now, what kind of way to do business is that?’
Quill.
How else could Bourdain have found out so much about her?
The first thing she was going to do, if she ever got out of this, was find Quill-and kill him.