Venus Rising Read online

  VENUS RISING

  An Ellora's Cave Publication, January 2004

  Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.

  PO Box 787

  Hudson, OH 44236-0787

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-546-5

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  VENUS RISING © 2004 ANNALISE

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Briana St. James

  Cover art by Scott Carpenter

  Venus Rising

  Annalise

  Chapter 1

  Link examined the small shop wedged between two monolithic office structures. The hand-painted sign read, The Fantasy Shoppe. Not part of a chain, he was sure of that. This aged storefront had never appeared in a glossy vid or holo-ad. He’d bet his last credit the grime coating the windows was the result of genuine age and neglect, not a resin or synth mockup.

  “Have you ever seen this place before?” he asked Brad, his lieutenant.

  Brad glanced up and shook his head. “Nope. Looks like a junk shop. Something you’d see in one of the older city centers.”

  They stood in the capital of New Virginia. Built atop the reclaimed land from the previous century’s chemical wars, most of the buildings followed the new style of architecture, their soaring entrances catering to both land and air craft.

  “I’m curious. Want to come along?” Link asked.

  “Not me. All this walking has made me thirsty.” Brad jerked his head in the direction of the mammoth hotel adjoining SpaceFleet HQ. “I’m gonna see who I can scare up in the Drowning Pool.”

  “How can you drink in a bar that has the word ‘drowning’ in its name?”

  Brad shrugged. “To each their own. And you watch your UV. Don’t go nuts out here.”

  Link tapped the badge on his sleeve and then his sunglasses. They darkened another degree.

  Brad nodded and raised a hand for a cruising roller. When his friend was gone, Link took a moment to gaze up at the megalithic structures that typified the new cities. Called cities within cities and connected by tunnels or shielded walkways, the structures allowed residents to move about without exposure to the harmful rays of the sun. Link had spent too much time breathing the metallic tang of recycled air.

  He took a deep breath. He smelled dirt. Maybe a woman’s perfume, though that must be imagination–or just the side effect of too little sex too long ago. There wasn’t a woman in sight.

  He lifted his hand. His spread palm was slick with sweat.

  Although the sky overhead and the street were crowded with vehicles, he was the only pedestrian in sight. Like their fellow shuttle passengers, who’d been set free after three years at the Mars Station, he and Brad had craved new faces, new places. Brad had gone straight to the hotel, while Link had picked up his personal flier, or PF as he’d discovered they were now called, from the officers’ hangar.

  Once unpacked, even though the headquarters hotel was more than spacious by interplanetary standards, he and Brad found they had the same itch to explore.

  They wanted to stretch their legs. Or Brad had, until his gregarious nature made him bored of walking around on synth pavement radiating temperatures over one hundred degrees.

  For Link, the thick New Virginia air, as steamy and heavy as a tropical jungle, was welcome after the controlled atmosphere of the Mars dome.

  He moved closer to the dusty shop and peered in the window. It was filled with an odd assortment of objects, from dishes to toys. He let his gaze drift from item to item, until he caught sight of a familiar shape and grinned. There, looking poised to leave dock, was a model boat. The long, sleek lines mirrored a few he remembered watching speed over the ocean as a child. Not that he’d ever piloted one of those; by the time he was old enough, the safety bureaucrats had banned open cockpits as being too exposed for day use and the power models too dangerous for night use.

  For a moment, Link was transported to his family’s summer home in Maine. He could almost feel the cool breeze on his cheek as he maneuvered his skiff from the dock. What he wouldn’t give for a few days on the bay.

  The scent of water at low tide filled his head. He glanced around, but saw only the stark edges of city buildings, the flat expanses of reflective glass surfaces.

  “You’ve been off-planet too long,” he said to himself, turning his attention back to the shop. “Or out in the sun too much.” A glance at his badge revealed a current level of UV exposure that gave him a few more hours to explore before he had to seek shelter.

  The shop window before him had a wonderful museum quality to it.

  Link harbored a secret love of museums. He liked their smell and the muted lights that protected ancient paper and fabrics. There was something soothing and peaceful in the knowledge that so much endured from past generations. It counteracted the grim nightly news and gave him hope that Earth—and the humans who teemed over its surface—might still be around to see the third millennium.

  Link pulled the shop door open and jumped when a bell rang over his head. “What the hell,” he muttered.

  The scent of dust and mold permeated the shop. Grime on the windows filtered the midday sunlight and cast the shop shelves in shadow. Link eyed a jumble of objects, sorted by some system he couldn’t divine. The chaos of the window display extended throughout the shop. Toys rubbed shoulders with jewelry and dishes. A T-shaped stand held a dazzling array of necklaces, strands of gold and silver sparkling amid colored beads. Some of the longer chains spilled into what looked like an iron cooking pot, decorated with a woodland scene around the outside. Pine trees and bears. He liked the handle shaped like a pinecone atop the lid. Who had a use for cooking pots these days? Perhaps a restaurateur like his grandmother might be interested in this, but only to serve a specialty dish. Automated cookers did most of the work.

  He picked up an old-fashioned screwdriver, its wooden handle worn smooth and bare of paint. When was the last time that someone had actually used such an antiquated tool? He laid it next to something that looked like a candle, but when he picked it up, it was too hard and had no wick. From browsing in museums, he knew what it was, although his peers wouldn’t have. Sealing wax, of all things. Sure enough, not far away lay the little metal seal used to imprint the hot wax.

  Racks of clothing along one wall seduced him from the jumbled objects. He couldn’t resist skimming his finger over a garment similar to his dress uniform tunic—only this looked as if it was made of leather. To contain animal products, the coat must be old indeed. Gently, Link shifted the lapel open and peered at the label. It was dark with age but legible. Genuine Leather.

  He ran his fingers along the sleeve. It was still soft and supple, despite its antiquity. How much must such an exotic jacket cost?

  “That’s real leather, son,” said a voice behind him.

  Link turned. A small man, or small compared to Link who topped two meters, smiled up at him. The fellow looked further diminished by his large, corrective lenses. Another anachronism, but one fitting the nature of the shop. Link couldn’t think of anyone he knew who wore spectacles; only a few eccentrics refused the quick and painless procedures to correct vision abnormalities.

  Then Link had a cynical thought. Probably just costuming to go with the shop. The funny little guy had an infectious smile, though, and Link found himself grinning back. “Some shop you have here.”

  “Thank you.” The old man beamed a smile. “Would you like
to try it on?” he asked, taking the coat from its hanger.

  “Ahh,” Link began to protest, but found himself slipping his arms into the sleeves. The coat fit well but lay heavily on his shoulders. He shrugged to redistribute the weight and found it didn’t help. “I thought animal products were illegal.”

  “Not antiques. Of course, many these days would disdain wearing it. But you won’t find a warmer coat.”

  Link shrugged out of it. “No, thanks. I work off-planet. I’d have no use for it.” And neither would anyone else in New Virginia. Winters weren’t as cold as they used to be.

  The man took the coat without comment. With a deft motion, he replaced it on the hanger and slid it back into the rack of clothing.

  “I’ll just look around.” Link moved away. He’d always hated hovering servants and didn’t do much shopping for himself. He valued his personal shopper; he supplied just about anything Link needed before he realized he needed it.

  The proprietor beamed another sunny smile and whipped out a stick with fluffy stuff on one end. Could that be a bunch of feathers? The man ran the fluffy end around and over a stack of assorted dishes that no self-respecting cook would ever use, and Link decided it must be some kind of cleaning tool.

  He examined the overloaded shelves on a freestanding rack across from the clothing, handling one thing after another, turning them over in his hands. Many of the objects he recognized only because he liked wandering through museums. Old tools fascinated him and many of the items he picked up belonged behind glass, in controlled conditions. Then a stray sunbeam glinted off an object he knew well.

  He picked up an iridescent plastic card. The surface was featureless, except for two words across the top, in fancy black script. The Palace. These cards, which had fallen out of use for a few years, were back now that hard currency had finally gone the way of the solar engine.

  Link tilted it, frowning. Usually they held the maker’s name or mark somewhere. With the exception of the elaborately drawn letters, the card was blank. When he gripped it more tightly, it gave only a bit. Not new, then. The ones in use now were far thinner and more flexible. Some space stations even used cards for certain security areas, but he’d never seen one quite like this.

  “What’s this for?” he asked.

  The shopkeeper peered over his glasses. “It’s a credit card.”

  “Of course, I know that, but it’s unusual. This one feels old, but it looks new.” He ran a finger lightly across both sides. The surfaces were completely smooth.

  The man took it and flipped it over. A small blush colored his round cheeks a pale pink. “Oh, dear. A bit of both, I’m afraid. Old-style card. Ah, hem. To go with old-style service, you see. I’m sure I have no idea how this found its way into our shop. If my wife saw this she’d be making a coat out of someone’s hide.”

  “So, what’s it for then?” Link asked, plucking the card from the man’s gnarled fingertips.

  The old man cleared his throat, his skin flushing an even deeper shade of scarlet. He hid his face a moment behind the fluffy end of his cleaner thing.

  Link thought of all the unusual credit cards he’d seen or even heard of, and couldn’t account for the old guy’s reaction. “Come on. I’ve used lots of cards but I’ve never seen one like this. What is it?”

  The shopkeeper leaned close, his eyes darting toward the back of the shop. Link found himself glancing that way, too, half-expecting the man’s wife to pop into view.

  “A brothel card,” the little man whispered.

  Link laughed out loud. “A brothel? You mean a pleasure center?”

  The shopkeeper glanced again toward the back of the shop and paused before he answered. “Oh, no. I mean a true brothel, in the old sense. The pleasure centers of today offer little to compare with a true brothel—not that I know from personal experience,” he rushed to add.

  “And this is what? A membership card?”

  “It looks to be. Unlikely to have any credit on it anymore. Perhaps one of my dealers bought it for its unique design.”

  Link angled it to the light again, but could make out nothing more. “Looks pretty dull to me.” He offered it to the old man, losing interest.

  “Oh, it’s not dull. They never are.” The old man pushed it back toward him. “Rub it briskly, then tip it to the light.”

  Link rubbed the card between his thumb and fingers before tilting it toward the sunny window. He laughed. With each tilt, the colors on the card shifted and changed. A penis appeared, rising to rigidity.

  Oh, yeah, he could imagine the old guy’s wife wouldn’t like this. He moved closer to the front window and shifted the card about again, rubbing it harder. This time, the penis not only rose, it spouted a gush of semen. “Clever.”

  He turned to the shelf where he’d found the card, but when he set it between a dusty book—Black Beauty—and a small purse stitched with a beaded floral design, he found he couldn’t bring himself to let the card go.

  The plastic remained warm under his fingertips. He stood there a moment, the card flat on the shelf, his fingers held as if glued to the glossy surface. An urge swept through him to know the difference between a pleasure center and a “true” brothel. It was less physical than mental, but he had an uncanny feeling that if he let go of the card, the urge would die.

  Impulsively, he slid the card off the shelf again and flipped it over. The back was plain white. There was no modern gold square indicating a chip was embedded in the plastic.

  “How much?” he asked before he could stop himself.

  “Oh. I imagine it’s worthless but for the holo.”

  “Yeah, but what a holo. I’d like to show it to some of my men,” he lied. “How much?” Link could not say why he felt a compulsion to keep the card. It still retained the warmth of his fingers.

  “Oh, seven credits should do it.”

  Link lifted an eyebrow. “Seven? That’s a bit pricey for a card that’s practically worthless.”

  The man sighed and shot another glance toward the back of the shop. “Six? Five?”

  “Five.” Link tapped his personal commerce code into the shop’s communication console, the only thing in the place that was neither dusty nor anachronistic, and debited his liquid account five credits.

  Moments later, he was on the street and heading back to his hotel. The card remained in his hand, safely tucked deep in his pocket. He stroked the smooth edges while questions ran through his mind.

  Could he coax any information out of the card? Just how old was it? Was it encrypted, and if it was, could he break the code? If he did, could he find the brothel?

  If he did manage to read any of the data, likely the brothel that issued the card had gone out of business or had relocated off-world somewhere. It wasn’t on Mars or Luna. There were sizable stations at each LaGrangian Point, but they all belonged to private corporations. When those stationary points between the earth and the moon first opened up for development, one of the megacorps had seen a bonanza of credits in creating a secure and restricted environment for “special” business interests. The Palace sounded like it could be a “special” business. No way could he talk himself into one of those.

  Link’s hotel, attached to HQ, offered all the conveniences of a civilian lodging, but was run with military efficiency. The decor emphasized comfort over pizzazz. It was decorated in muted beige and gray, which unfortunately reminded him of the camouflage gear worn by lunar pilot wannabes.

  As befit his rank as a colonel in the Planetary Air Force, SpaceFleet Command, he had a suite to himself at government expense. It featured the best of technology, so he could work even when off duty, and the latest in ergonomic beds and chairs, designed for the comfort of those accustomed to artificial environments.

  At least his room was not beige. Its cool blues and whites reminded him of sails skimming across the cool Maine ocean.

  He slid his fingers over the panel of controls by the bed and saw he had ten minutes of shower water avai
lable and four minutes until that water was heated to his specs.

  After he’d taken his shower he wandered around the chamber, toweling off. The urge to try to access the data on the card was almost overwhelming. The need just to pick up the card was strong, and inexplicable. Uncomfortably so. That troubled him. He was not a man to give in to pressure.

  To resist the impulse, Link forced his attention to other tasks. He tucked the towel more firmly around his hips and sat at the communication console. He requested the cleaning of his dress uniform and completed a report on a young woman in his unit who was up for promotion. He’d put off the file work long enough; she’d make a fine second lieutenant.

  His attention didn’t wander until he began recording his expenses. His gaze returned again and again to the card. Without realizing he’d done it, he found himself staring out the window, rubbing the card between his fingertips. He looked down at it and frowned.

  No cleverly embedded image of a penis appeared. Nothing happened. He enclosed the card between his palms, chafed it quickly, and looked at it in the light. Still nothing.

  “Damn. I’ve been cheated,” he muttered and went to the communication console. It held not only the necessary equipment for work, but also anything a person could want for entertainment. Or almost anything—brothel services excepted. He held the card as he would his security pass.

  Nothing happened. He tilted it back and forth, but nothing appeared on the screen.

  “Fuck that.” Five credits down the drain. Not a fortune, but a useless card was not what he’d planned to blow it on. He tossed the card to the floor. He stretched out on the bed and said, “News.”

  The large screen blinked to life on an infocast, just starting a fluff piece on the increasing lifespan of the average human. A proposal had been introduced to the Americas Council to raise the age of majority to 25. He snorted at the discussion of what those twenty-somethings who were not yet of age should be called. An improved-to-perfection brunette interviewed two experts, a common culturist and a linguist. Neither of them brought up the military term he’d always used, AOA, an acronym for Almost Of Age. Leave it to the corps to invent a TLA that worked in any legislative environment. Remarkably efficient.