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The ride to Caelestus was uneventful. Lucia booked a first-class seat on a pogo plane and enjoyed real air conditioning for the first time since landing on Venus. If it had not felt so wonderful, the pure pleasure of it would have embarrassed her. The rest of the team would be sweating it out in The Colander while she spent the day in relative luxury. The pogo would rocket them above Venus’s roiling yellow atmosphere where it would traverse the several hundred miles between The Colander and the Capitol city far above the satanic heat and corrosive acid. After a graceful arc, the narrow vessel would descend like a lawn dart over the shining silver of the Caelestus city dome before depositing itself neatly on a pad by the main intake doors.
Her first-class ticket ensured a minimum of hassle with intake, which was most of the justification she had posited for the expense. The decadent comfort of a seventy-degree cabin with a comfortable acceleration couch was entirely incidental. After a gentle touchdown, the concierge escorted her from the G-Pod and led her to the first-class tunnel. Soft music played as she walked down the clean white corridor, and Lucia settled into the stream of well-to-do business folk and their retinues as they shuffled in a slow-moving river to the main dome of Venus Caelestus.
Having been to and experienced The Quad, and hearing the stories of Caelestus from Manny and Ellie Connelly, Lucia had expected something like Uptown New Boston. She had anticipated bright whites, clean streets, shining towers and antiseptic surfaces. The first thing Lucia noticed was that while Venus Caelestus was entire orders of magnitude cleaner than anywhere in The Colander, it was no Uptown. The dome’s origin as industrial housing and administrative offices for the mining corporations was writ large in the slab-gray architecture and ugly rows of cool white lights. The streets were clean, the people well-dressed. The veneer of class was thin at best, however. Though arranged neatly and kept free of grime, there was no style or artistry to the layout or the edifices themselves. It reminded Lucia of Enterprise Station, with every storefront looking more or less identical. There was no sky above, only a troffered ceiling housing the simple lights. There was no ground below, just metal decking arranged in a manner reminiscent of a city street. To her sides, illuminated signage on the front of gray metal walls indicated the goods and services available beyond the equally unimpressive doors. It felt to Lucia like a large indoor shopping mall constructed to be evocative of a bustling city, but it lacked the requisite charm of either.
All things considered, it was clean and it was comfortable. For this Lucia was eternally grateful. She could forgive the capital city virtually any sin because it was cool and the air did not smell of brimstone. She stepped from the transit station into the first commercial area, and paused a moment to assess her surroundings with a more critical eye before stalking out into the street. She was surrounded by the bustle of a busy commercial sector, mostly people in varying states of obliviousness plodding to and from appointments, deliveries, and the other sundry tasks of a Venusian workday.
She quickly identified the local constabulary, conspicuous in bright red uniforms. The police in Caelestus wore light armor and carried small bullpup-style bead rifles in reasonable calibers. The frangible ceramic beads were an obvious choice for working in a crowded metal bowl filled with innocent bystanders. As dangerous as rebounding projectiles might be, overpenetration was even more frightening. When the air outside was doing its level best to kill you, wise municipalities took care not to use munitions that might punch holes in the skin of the dome. Manny had bet her a week’s pay she would not see a single bead gun over 8mm and no flechettes of any kind in Caelestus. She was far too intelligent to take that bet.
Her route took her directly out of the mass transit zone and in short order brought her to a more sedate business district. The closer she walked to the center of the dome, the higher the building blocks could be stacked. The dull silver and slate gray towers of the central district rose almost to the top of the arc, daring the fiery acid tears of Venus to touch their roofs. The height gave each an oppressive, almost imperial aspect. They were no more ornate nor visually appealing than the smaller blocks, but they dwarfed the surrounding areas with a glowering superiority.
Shorter buildings competed for attention with these looming titans by adding garish multi-hued holographic displays and animated billboards. Turning a corner, Lucia found herself witness to a pitched battle between armature companies. Erberhaus and AutoCat jumbo displays squared off against each other in a wide quadrangle before her. Each well-lit sixty-foot panel showed competing scripted commercial propaganda at the mostly-uninterested men and women shuffling about. Unperturbed, the marketing battle played out in three startling dimensions with production values that would shame the big Holovid studios. Lucia still knew very little about armatures, but as far as she could tell the Erberhaus brand was promising to turn regular dim-witted laborers into towering steel super men who could outwork entire gangs of the competition. The AutoCat holo was more nuanced, bragging about how efficient and specialized their line of products was, and spending extra time lauding the modular nature of their frames.
While she may not have been an expert on cyborg armatures, Lucia was an expert on branding and marketing. She recognized the waltz both companies were dancing. Erberhaus was playing the low cost and good reliability of their products against the more expensive and more sophisticated products from AutoCat. AutoCat had obviously recognized that the declining economic fortunes of Venusian mining concerns favored the Erberhaus business model. Rather than give up, they either located or created a niche where their models were worth the increase in costs. She tipped an imaginary hat to the ingenuity and determination of AutoCat’s local sales VP. She respected a good executive.
She passed through the wide square, otherwise ignoring the flashing holograms and the chattering people walking beneath them. She passed between the Erberhaus building and its neighbor. She did not bother to read what the animated sign had to say about what services were available within. On the other side, the alley opened up into another quadrangle. Here she found her destination. One whole side of the square was completely taken up by the lavish lobby of a luxury hotel. Where other buildings in Caelestus were formless gray blocks, this one broke the mold. The main frontage had been replaced with an elaborate glass foyer, trimmed in faux brass and gilt. The carpets, easily visible through the clear panels, was a rich wine red and (as far as Lucia could tell) spotless.
A doorman in archaic livery stood by the ornate sliding doors. His purpose all but superfluous in an age of automatic doors, the man stood as a stoic anachronism. A grim-faced callback to the opulence of a distant land and a bygone century. Lucia wrinkled her nose at the affront to her intelligence. It would be a sad person indeed who was impressed by such vulgar excess. It stank of Pops Winter and the Combine to her, and this was offensive on a very primal level.
That man is a message to everybody who sees him. The thought was derisive to the point of anger. He exists to tell everyone walking by that this hotel can afford to arrange people like furniture.
Uncharitable musings notwithstanding, Lucia had a job to do, so she put her irritation aside to do it. She walked past the doorman without looking at him, and clear door panels slid to the side on silent glides. The doorman never moved, and the tangible affirmation of how superfluous he was only added to her irritation.
She stalked across the lobby, making a conscious effort not to move so quickly as to call attention to herself. It could be difficult to manage her speed before, and the constant adjustments she had been undergoing made regulating even harder. This hotel did not have guests check in at the front desk. That would be far too plebeian. A concierge met her as she approached the impressive imitation-oak desk, and inquired politely about her stay and any business she might have had on the premises. Lucia met the blank-faced woman with her own measured stare.
“I have an appointment with a guest. The nature of which is private.”
“Naturally.” The blue-haired concierge’s expression was cold. “If you tell me the suite I will call ahead to tell your party that you have arrived.”
“Eleven forty-one. Tell them Ms. Ribiero is on her way up.” Lucia turned and walked past the concierge, who was momentarily surprised by her speed. The blue-haired woman recovered quickly though, and within a few steps caught up to her fleeing charge and blurted, “Wait! You can’t just...”
Lucia whirled on the woman, who crashed into the athletic brunette and dropped her DataPad. Lucia was a veteran of a thousand clashes with hotel concierges. Her battles also included pushy waiters, arrogant maître d’s, snooty valets, and more than one power-mad hotel manager. Her tone cut through the veneer of authority worn by the concierge like a straight razor through whipped cream.
“I can ‘just,’ and I am going to ‘just.’ I did not ride in a shuttle for thirty hours to land on this shit-smelling hell-hole to discuss with you what I can and cannot do. Make your calls and run along. I have business here and I’d prefer to get it done before the stink of this planet attaches to me permanently and I have to burn my clothes.” Again, she whipped around and stalked away from the sputtering woman.
Lucia knew she had left the concierge in an unwinnable position. If Lucia was lying about having an appointment, then she had to be stopped. On the other hand, if she did have an appointment then further harassing her might mean alienating a rich customer. The beleaguered employee rapidly dialed suite 1141 and waited for confirmation of the appointment with the kind of fear only middle managers can ever truly experience. The line crackled to life and the bored man at the other end confirmed that Ms. Ribiero did indeed have an appointment and to show her right up. Her sigh of relief was audible at ten paces and she clicked the line closed. She had no idea what business the bitchy woman had up in the penthouse level. Most of the women who went up there were a very different species of professional woman. Naturally, she did not care either. Now that her job was not on the line, she could go back to watching the lobby and intercepting paparazzi, con men, and other undesirables.
Lucia’s indifference to the concierge mirrored the concierge’s indifference to her. She had needed to clear the lobby fast, and that was the genesis of her brusque demeanor. Manny’s camera blackout device had very limited range and duration, and she was certain she had made it across the lobby in time to avoid facial recognition. Choosing her for this part of the op had been a measured risk. This sort of infiltration was very much Manny’s skill set. Caelestus was a modern city however, and the near ubiquity of cameras and facial recognition gear in the commercial zones made using him here very risky. If Lucia got scanned in this hotel, they would get the ID of a New Boston beverage company executive. They would rather not be identified at all, but Lucia’s face was the one least likely to generate undue suspicion.
When the elevator opened to the eleventh-floor lobby, Lucia stepped out onto smooth white tiles. A receptionist sat in bored belligerence at a white desk facing the elevators. Lucia walked up the bald man, who looked at her through the tops of his eyes and never paused in filing his nails.
When it became obvious that the beam of pure disdain he was sending her way was not going to unseat the woman, he sighed and droned, “Do you have an appointment?”
“Do I look like a walk-in?” Lucia beamed her own look back, a look that was both evocative and eloquent. The man, who Lucia could see from his name tag was called ‘Rick,’ seemed to accept this response as an indicator Lucia was a kindred soul.
Green eyes rolled. “Honey, we get all kinds up here. Who are you here to see?”
“Hardesty.”
If possible, the eyes rolled even harder. “You’re here for Link? Girl, your agency is in for some trouble now. Oh my god. You are so not his type.”
In spite of herself, Lucia was starting to like this guy. His honesty was almost refreshing. Hanging out with Docksiders was definitely changing her. “It’s not that kind of appointment.”
“Oh? Good for you! Ol’ Linky is going to try to make it one. Just warning you.”
Lucia laughed. “I’m not worried. You’ve seen one horndog you’ve seen them all.”
“Tell it,” he said with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“Does Hardesty get a lot of female appointments?”
Manny had warned her that chatty employees were great sources of intel. She decided to invest a little time with Rick the receptionist just see what she could pull from him.
“Sure does. And don’t get me wrong, miss, they are usually half your age and ah... twice your size, if you get me?” Rick’s hands hovered over his chest, belaboring his obvious meaning.
Lucia sighed. “Ain’t that always the way with men? Half your age and twice the rack.”
“Trust me, girl, you’re dodging a bullet. None of his other appointments ever leave happy.”
“Well, I suppose I’ll just have to muddle through without that experience.” She gave Rick a warm look. “Want to tell him I’m here?”
“Still a chance to run, girl.”
“I like you, Rick. How’d you get stuck with this gig?”
The man turned in his chair to get a better look at her. “None of the girls could stand working with him, and I don’t get distracted by the endless parade of hot young prostitutes. It’s a self-discipline thing, you know.”
“I’ve known you two minutes and I can already tell you are a rock, Rick.”
“Oh hush. Don’t be catty. Anyway, I’ll just go ahead and buzz you in. Head on over.” He pointed to a door behind his kiosk. “He’s waiting for you...”
Lucia rolled her eyes at the theatricality of his ominous tone. “Thank you, Rick.”
“Don’t thank me until you are out of here, miss.”