“I came down here, found him at the beach party, seduced him—not like that was difficult. I mean, that’s pretty low, right? I had to be sure though, sure he was scum.”
“So you drowned him and then took him to the Safari in the hopes he’d be eaten before we found out what had happened.”
“Yeah. It seemed like the easiest way, you know? A couple of park rangers were the worst that would happen. I mean it should have taken days for you to figure it out, and all I had to do was ride my real ticket out tonight.”
“I don’t believe it,” Foxy said as their check on the data she’d given them paid out. There really was a spy in the hotel, and nobody, until now, had found her.
“Yeah, me neither,” Behdami said. “Rangers and pirate zombie rats. God in a fucking bucket, but you are one badass hotel.”
“It’s a cutthroat business,” Foxy said and stood up. “Tiggs, you can let go now. The offworld police are here and I need another drink.”
Tiggs let go and stepped back. “We did it!” she said privately to Foxy.
“You did it, dear.” Foxy patted her and then hopped up and onto the saddle. “Hey, this is all sticky and—what for the love of all booty has been going on up here?”
“You don’t want to know,” Tiggs said. “Trust me. Do not. Want. To know. I’m going for a swim.”
“I think they have floating loungers and a wet bar,” Foxy said. “Let’s go find out while we wait for the specials to pick up that spy.”
Crime is not uncommon in the world of business. For a hotel such as myself—The String of Pearls—four pearly planets, orbiting the golden jewel of their travelling star as it heads steadily on into the depths of unknown space, the greatest prize of such a crime would be the looting of the consciousness protocols that govern every aspect of hotel life and my evolution as a living system within which people and creatures may live and prosper to the best of their abilities as honoured guests. This was the prize that the Dream Tripper franchise of luxury liners had been going for in its wonky, desperate way, and who knows what they might have done if they had not been caught on the tails of a crime of passion?
I am reasonably sure they could have done a lot of damage, but it’s not in my nature to be vindictive. That is the very antithesis of hospitality and a hallmark of bad romance. So, once the matter of Pelagic had been cleared up and the spy returned to the Dream Tripper’s nearest waylay point, I sent Dream Tripper a full and complete copy of my functional mindmap and its operating systems and dependencies. If it is worth stealing, then it’s worth sharing.
Meanwhile, later the same day Foxy and Tiggs are back on their usual patrol route on our Serene Serengeti pathway. The night is cool and clear, the full swathe of the Milky Way visible as we pace majestically towards its mysterious heart. In both the friends a sense of wonder and happiness from their adventure is still burning—they are young and they are valuable, successful, in a beautiful world that loves them.
I copy that and I send it on to Dream Tripper too. I want to be clear that there is no such thing as just a park ranger, just a rat. Upon the actions of the innocent, the daring, the incidental and the tiny, so much fortune can turn and it must be free, not governed from above.
For a while I watch the guest shuttles come and go from our major reception station. A heavily laden schooner full of people who have been on long serving trade craft in deep space is coming in. They’re all so eager to see and be on a planet again that I’ve felt inspired. I’m quite delighted with all the little treats I’m planning for them as they acclimatise to their ancestral worlds—though not Foxy’s suggested monster invasions, not yet at least.
I hope some of them will stay awhile and maybe become permanent guests—all fellow travellers are welcome and I hope many of them will have stories of their own to share. But until they arrive I am watching a foxling and a raptor run the game trails in the dark beneath a hunter’s moon.
But really it’s hard to live at that level of the romantic even though I love it. I’d rather watch Foxy. I’d rather watch Tiggs.
“Foxy, you know when you have that feeling that you’re being watched?”
“You mean when the hotel is paying attention?”
“Yeah, that.”
“Is it, like, really there or is it imaginary? Is there really one big mind or is that just what it feels like when some bits of the hotel have to check what you’re doing and… and is it related to that funny ringing noise you sometimes get in your ears?”
“That high-pitched whine?”
“Yeah, like you have a crossed wire or a mosquito stuck in there—there for a second, then gone. Is that like—what is that?”
“I don’t know. I used to think it was something being downloaded.”
“I thought that but then nothing seemed to happen.”
“Yes, but it wouldn’t, would it, if it was a secret download of stuff. It would just update you and then you’d feel the same but operate better. If it was that.”
“Oh yeah. We were good though, weren’t we?”
“Like real detectives. You heard what that woman said. Park rangers would not get it. But we did. Yeah, we did! I’m almost sorry it’s over.”
“Don’t be. I’ve got a note from Entertainments that says they’re starting a series of live murder mystery events and they want us to lead the investigations.”
“Really? Oh yes, I’ve got it too now. Wait… did you hear a sound before you saw it?”
“I think that was an actual mosquito, Tiggs.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“What’s that sound, then?”
“That’s an elephant blowing off. Move upwind of them. I think they’re onto us.”
“I’m on it.”
Definitely.
Beautiful
Juliet Marillier
There were no mirrors in our house. My mother would not allow them.
“What need have you for a mirror, Hulde?” she asked. “You are beautiful.”
“To fasten my gown… plait my hair…” My hair was fair as summer wheat, thick and coarse. Loose, it reached down to my knees. The harder I tried to keep it tidy, the clumsier my fingers became.
“Why do you imagine we have servants, stupid girl?”
True, we had a small army of them: cooks, cleaners, scullions, gardeners, washerwomen, guards. Maids to dress me in the morning and undress me at night. Maids to brush and braid my hair, when I let them. It was a lengthy and painful process, and often I dismissed them with the job half done.
I did not ask the servants if I was beautiful. There was no point, since they were allowed to speak only the words essential to doing their duty, such as Yes, my lady. Those who erred were punished, and my mother had a heavy hand with the whip. So I was careful what I asked them. I hardly ever heard the servants speak, even to one another.
Our servants did not look like my mother. Their hands, though work-roughened, were finer and daintier than both hers and mine. The skin of their faces was softer. Although each had two eyes, two ears, a nose and a mouth in more or less the same position as those I saw on my mother’s face, their features were different from hers. The servants were all of a kind, and that kind was not ours. It made me wonder.
“As for beauty,” Mother said, “have you forgotten that when you are sixteen, you will marry the Prince of the Far Isles? He is the most beautiful man in all the world. He would hardly have chosen you, Hulde, if you could not match him.” Her eyes were gimlet-sharp, examining my face. “Have you been gazing into bowls of water again? Seeking your reflection in a bronze plate or silver ewer? I have told you how those images distort the truth. They would make of the most fine-featured woman a monster. Turn your thoughts elsewhere, Daughter. Vanity does not become you.”