“Brothel world
turned upside down by land-mark plant purchase by Gregory's.
This cornerstone of Her-Babylon's economy that has always gone above
and beyond its motto of 'duty first' is now boasting a fabulous
hydrangea in its receiving room. Invitations for the great unveiling
party go out today so, gentlemen, keep your eyes on your incoming
messages if you think you are worthy. Next up the story of how one
of the other top brothels is making a comeback thanks to the
intervention of a mysterious patron. We can't even get a clear story
about who he's patronizing. All the details right after the
break. But now a word from our sponsor.” Rachel switched off the
radio before it could launch into the latest offer from Kingdom of
the Mind, whatever new horror they had concocted to accompany their
Sir Clemtal jealousy suppressant and all their other stupid knight
themed emotion control products, as if burying and lying about your
true self was somehow heroic. She twisted uncomfortably on the bed
thinking how she hadn't wanted to hear any of the news stories
either. Gregory's having a plant, well that was just bad and as far
as the “mystery client” story, she was totally convinced it was
about her and Dave. In other circumstances, Rachel might have been
glad she was making headlines again, but now her confused feelings
and their implications were so overwhelming that the less other
people got involved...or even knew about, the better.
Even without the
stories on the radio, the constant mental circling really was all
consuming. For one thing, she could not stop thinking about Dave's
house. Even though almost a week had passed, she still spent a large
portion of each day lying in bed, staring dreamily at the ceiling as
she thought about all the wonderful things she had seen there,
especially wonderful because it was his house. Nothing was
more satisfying than reliving the intricacies and possible
significance of each and every thing they had done or said or
seen...until she realized that she hadn't seen his bed or, for that
matter, anywhere else that it would have been convenient for them to
have sex, aside from maybe the couch...er...man sack in the gaming
room but that didn't really count because was he really notgoing to show her the gaming room? She felt sick in her stomach,
sure he had purposely not shown them to her because he could not
stand to think about her in that way. But, wait, maybe he really
didn't have any, since he didn't need them. He must have a bed but
it might not be very nice and not showing it to her could have been a
simple oversight.
Rachel felt very
relieved until she realized that it would be far better if he did not
want to have sex with her. Painful as it might be to go without now,
it would be much worse if he was willing and she had to refuse him,
which she would somehow have to find a way to do despite all the
economic and social forces trying to prevent her. This made her very
sad for a while and even when she managed to distract herself, it
never lasted long. A trip to the library might cheer her. Too
emotionally down in the dumps to feel capable of dealing with traffic
delays or to rouse any concerns about the future consequences, she
elected to take a higher class transport that could use the upper air
shortcuts but, as soon as she took her seat on the most empty section
of the seating ring around the edge of the saucer she realized she
had made a horrible mistake in leaving the brothel today. Several of
the other passengers were wearing the black and golden orange of
Pittsanto, which could only mean there was a big game on or about to
start, probably involving their prestigious water polo team.
Predictably, the transport was soon uncomfortably crowded with people
hurrying to make it to the game and, worst of all, two obviously
drunk men wearing replica jerseys and with copies of the the mascot's
towel drapped over their shoulders, corralled close to Rachel by the
ever increasing press of people around them, were talking and
laughing boisterously at a gratingly loud volume.
Over to her
right, a man was scrolling frantically through his phone, muttering
curses about the delay. He glared over at the two unpleasantly loud
passengers and muttered something about “filthy Helicals,”
suggesting they must be from Helical Kitchenwares and he from a rival
company. He glanced back at a map on his phone. “Five more
stops,” he cried desperately, gnawing on his knuckles. “The CHRO
is going to kill me. I should have left an hour of buffer time. He
warned me last time I missed half a game day party that, if it
happened again I'd be in danger of not being considered a team
player.” He smacked his hand into his forehead in distress,
roughly jostling Rachel in the process. She was about to make a
snide comment in response but, at that moment, the situation became
exponentially worse as the drunk Helicals broke into loud rhythmic
clapping, leading into a strident and off-key rendition of “Pittsanto
changes everything,” the team's fight song, causing Rachel to also
clutch her head in agony as the song called up horrifying images of
the company's creepy mascot dancing around.
But, when they
started loudly and aggressively demanding the other passengers join
them in the awful song, Rachel lost it. The claws came out, the
demon wings unfurled, as she rose to her feet, the icy disdain in her
glance and posture making her seem to tower over the much taller men.
“Gentlemen,” she declared contemptuously, her voice dripping
with chilly sarcasm. “It seems to have escaped your notice that
you are on a public vehicle. But, since you are, kindly act like
respectable adults and stop subjecting us to your drunken antics.”
Despite the crowds, the entire transport was completely silent as
Rachel resumed her seat. The two men looked at each other
uncomfortably as someone's phone beeped loudly in the stillness. The
man next to her had a vindictive grin on his face, getting some
relief from his own stress by seeing his business rivals humiliated.
Fortunately, Rachel only had two more stops to go, so she was able to
make an exit before the situation had the opportunity to deteriorate
further.
As soon as she
arrived at the library, she rushed eagerly to the feminine reading
room, confident in the knowledge that no one could question her going
there. She had hidden Bethany's diary away at the end of the
bookshelf, buried under back issues of Corpro, along with her
books about wolves, so no one else would walk off with it, mistaking
it for a sensuality novel, or a janitor would pick it up and put it
away somewhere where she couldn't find it. Now she opened the book
eagerly, hoping the past could help her temporarily forget her
present predicament.
When I was only seven, my genetic guardians took me to the
Ventilator Rosso, the Red Fan restaurant for my
birthday.
Rachel started. She knew the Red Fan restaurant. Many generations
ago, it had been one of the most successful businesses in all
Her-Babylon. It was still widely known for its fine dining and top
of the line burlesque show, though it was no longer quite so
lucrative, since the actresses and dancers were no longer regulars
nor employees of the restaurant. After the brothel system was
codified, women were required through extreme social and professional
pressure to belong to brothels. But men could not own brothels, nor
could women own restaurants, so the owners of the Red Fan had to make
contracts with performers from individual brothels on a show by show
basis, which seriously cut into their income. Still, only the best
were ever sent. Rachel had performed at the Red Fan a few times.
After a moment, she dismissed these memories and turned back to
reading Bethany’s memoir. I think, at the time, I thought it
was strange that all the women there danced with no clothes on. I
hadn’t yet learned how most women made their living. But they were
pretty and very nice. One of them came up to me and announced to
everyone that I was the birthday girl. Then, she kissed me on the
forehead and gave me a box that had a silver and diamond mechanical
swan inside. When I opened the box and was pleased by the present,
everyone clapped and cheered for me. It made me embarrassed but
glad. I later found out that the woman, named Samantha, was
genetically related to me, having the same guardian as one of my
guardians. Rachel was still
somewhat confused by the concept of normal people raising potential
employees one at a time or in small groups but was able to pick up
enough from context to understand that it must be a less efficient
form of proto-governess system.
But her beautiful gift was a minor thing compared to the real
reason I was there. The Red Fan was the only place left in
the whole world where you could buy authentic meat. I could have
gotten a fine steak or something but I was just a little girl so I
ordered a hamburger. They were my favorite food and I ate the
artistic kind all the time back then.
“But dear,” my female guardian said, “the bun isn’t
authentic and will affect your ability to taste the meat.” But I
was very determined so I said I would eat the bun separately. That
hamburger was the best thing I have ever eaten. That may seem like a
silly exaggeration but I thought so at the time and I still think so
now. I can’t really describe what was so wonderful about it. It
had no identifiable taste or texture that was absent in an artistic
burger. But everything about it seemed richer and more intense.
I'm very glad my genetic guardians took me there when they did
because, by the end of the year the expense got too high and the Red
Fan stopped serving authentic meat. I was very lucky that I got the
unique opportunity. It was my very favorite birthday present ever.
Well, almost. There was another part to the gift. After the meal,
Samantha took me back into the kitchen to see how authentic meats
were made. Well, they called it a kitchen but it was nothing like
the kitchens I had seen or have ever seen really. The one in my
apartment certainly looks nothing like that. Artistic food is mixed
up in a machine and comes out fully formed. But authentic meat had
to be cut up and heated on a flat metal surface. I never would have
guessed that it came in big slabs and was red and runny until the
heat turned it dry and brown. Also, I never knew that meat would rot
so quickly if left alone. They showed me a giant cold box filled
with huge chunks of meat covered in ice to keep them fresh until it
was time for them to be eaten. Even though it makes me sad, I
understand why the Red Fan decided to stop serving authentic food.
It must have been horribly inefficient to do all that preparation
when they could just get food from the machine. The triumph of
business over art.
“No, the reason is that all the animals died,” Rachel thought in
exasperation. Bethany could be really stupid sometimes. Besides
Rachel was also jealous and spent several minutes fantasizing
enviously about what it must have been like to eat authentic food.
Then she brought herself back to reality and realized it was probably
a good thing it no longer existed because, if it did, it would surely
be prohibitively expensive and the brothel would have to find a way
to afford it in order to keep up appearances, which would completely
ruin all her fun. Just like the way, right now, they were being
eclipsed by the girls from Gregory’s
and their fucking plant.
It made her feel
a little bit better to know that her situation wasn't quite as bad as
it could have been, but her relief at not having to worry about
buying animal products lasted no more than a few seconds. The
competition was still fierce and this put her in mind of the promise
she had made to Alice at the Gardens. With the brothel throwing all
its resources at neutralizing Gregory's
plant advantage, how could she possibly protect Alice, who was less
than no help on that front? It was really infuriating because Alice
was so talented. But it wasn't like they could hold concerts and
charge people to come hear her. Of course not. If Alice were to
appear publicly while not being available for sex, Luther’s
could be expected to provide compensation for false
advertising, especially if they charged for entry. They couldn't
even audition her to do a harp number at the Red
Fan's special virgin show, where she would get top billing
easily, unless the competition had improved since Rachel's day. But
she could not be available for sex because her poor performance would
make Luther's look bad so
there was no way of exploiting her other talents. Between
worrying about Alice and fretting over the situation with Dave, it
was small wonder that Rachel's mood was less than stellar and she was
in desperate need of a way to distract herself. But she couldn't
stay at the library forever, though she would sure as hell stay long
enough to avoid any danger of getting caught in the rush of traffic
exiting the Pittsanto game, and when she returned to Luther's
reluctantly, to avoid the risk of being evicted at closing time,
there was, as usual, precious little going on at the brothel.
That is, until a
few days later when Rachel was in a ever more foul mood than normal.
She had abruptly been struck by extreme hunger cravings, probably
because she had forgotten to eat breakfast in her brooding over the
latest offensive she had found on the official astrology website,
“May all Astro-Calc be Correct” that did all the various chart
calculations and provided the raw data for interpretations, for a fee
of course. With an upgraded subscription—and a corresponding
larger fee—one could also get periodic interpretations on the raw
data, the exact level of detail depended on the size of the fee.
Rachel had forgotten her account information was stored in the
brothel data bank so, when she had gone to check the time and weather
on the rooms info display her weekly update from “May all
Astro-Calc be Correct” had appeared on the display as well,
helpfully informing her that, according to her chart, her
“self-appointed status as the high priestess of right and wrong,”
made people dislike her and she needed to “lighten up” by
“releasing the heaviness in her soul,” followed by a list of
curated suggestions to facilitate this including what foods to eat,
what colors and perfume to wear, what music to listen to, what stores
to shop at, and, of course, what pills to take, all of the
suggestions exactly the opposite of Rachel's preference, especially
the last one.
She must have
lost track of time in her morose fuming only to find herself suddenly
ravenous and now was angrily trying to tell the
wall slot to give her
a burger without pickles but, despite its seemingly endless array of
needlessly complex settings, there seems to be no option for this,
doubtless because this was was a cheap wall burger where as many of
the ingredients as possible, including the pickles were integrated
together. Then, things got much worse as Alice came dashing into the
room, squealing exuberantly and trying to get Rachel's attention.
Rachel ignored her, then swore and kicked the wall as a promising
selection chain dead-ended in the choice between chips, spears, or
cubes of pickles. “And what do you want?” she snapped, as Alice
continued to jump up and down and make excited noises.
“Stacy gave me a message for
you,” declared Alice importantly. “The foremost women of the
brothel are having a top secret meeting in the fitness room in ten
minutes and you need to be there.”
“It
may have escaped your notice,” said Rachel in a superior tone as
she continued to wrestle with the recalcitrant wall slot without
looking up, “that any information they would trust to an unproven
trainee could hardly be top secret...and any degree of secrecy it may
have had was utterly lost as you raced through the brothel, skipping
and squealing over being entrusted with it...which is exactly why
they would not have told you if it were
a secret.” A long moment of silence followed, during which Rachel
swore and punched the wall slot, somehow hitting the “complete”
button, setting the machine to prepare whatever foul concoction had
happened to be on screen at that moment.
“Well, it's still very
exciting,” said Alice after a moment, in a much subdued tone but
still clearly making an effort to be enthusiastic.
“No it's not. Those meetings
are boring as shit.” More silence. The wall slot spat out a salad
in a crumbly bread bowl, completely slathered in rubbery mayonnaise.
Rachel clutched her aching head, trying to fathom how this could be
considered a legitimate food option when a burger with no pickles was
not. She pondered what she would do with the foul thing, as eating
it was clearly out of the question. Where could she leave it to
offer the best chance that someone would step on or sit in it?
“Hadn't you better get going?”
suggested Alice helpfully. “You're already going to be late, even
if you go right now.”
“I'm not going.” Rachel
resented the interruption. The horror salad was too disgusting to be
left at large so she had to figure out what to do with it right away,
a task made far harder by the unpleasant proximity of said horror
salad. While she was still racking her brains over this conundrum,
the door opened and Beth came in, looking very put out.
“What's
taking you so long?” she said nastily. “You're holding up the
whole meeting and, of course,
I was the one chosen to walk all the way over here and make sure you
show up. They knew you would object and told me to not bother coming
back without you.”
How
very clever of them, Rachel thought bitterly, as having Beth
loitering about in her room would be as bad or worse than actually
going to the meeting. She was about to appeal to Beth's self
interest and point out that this gave both
of them the perfect excuse to skip the meeting but, suddenly, she got
an even better idea. “Sorry, to keep you waiting,” she said with
obviously fake pleasantness. “I was just trying to prepare my
lunch first and the stupid wall slot was taking too long as usual.
Fortunately, I'm good to go now.” She picked up the salad bowl and
the look of terror on Beth's face told her she had plainly made the
correct choice.
©Amanda RR Hamlin 2025
