Common Decency
Just a little follow-up to my story ‘high society.’
As always, any comments/suggestions would be appreciated :)
Common Decency belongs to the following groups:
Sci Fi and Short stories - Spherical Scriptings“I had to kill for it,” he said, affecting a look of understated malevolence. The middle-man’s heavy head swung around like an old piece of machinery. The jewel had already disappeared down one of the metal chutes in his wall. “You’ve been paid. Why are you still here?”
“I’m just making sure you appreciate the difficulty. Making sure your employer appreciates.”
Middle-man leaned back and sniggered. “Have you ever actually used that thing?”
“Made quite a mess of him,” the other man sighed, his finger lingering on the walnut stock of his pistol. “I left it charging for sixteen hours. It only took one pulse to reduce him to something decidedly primordial in appearance. Almost total disintegration. Wouldn’t worry though,” he said, now smiling plainly, “there isn’t enough charge left in her to give you more than a tan.”
He rested his back against a mammoth fluted column, bouncing the money chip in his palm. Lords and ladies pretended to ignore him as they trotted vaguely in one direction or another across the plaza. This was the floodlight district, a haven for the elite upper class, a stone arcology drenched thirty-two hours a day in billion-candle-power globe light. Darkness was never allowed to seep into the stonework, up here. Bad things happened to people with pretensions of being good, up here.
When it became dark.
He looked at her picture again; an unsatisfying beauty. Uninterested, and therefore uninteresting. Nothing like Jessica. He hadn’t really shot anyone, but the fantasy was an intriguing one. Maybe tonight he’d be afforded a chance to use Mathilde, the ebony terror slung below his right hip. It hadn’t been fired since the day his father gave it to him. It would either explode, or deconstruct the recipient of his wrath to such a degree that no forensic scientist of the watch could ever identify the corpse.
Peeling himself from the column, he gave a scurrilous wink to a young lady in green.
There was no total darkness, no embracing black in this district, but grey would do. He removed the tab from the crumpled man, and waited for his spectre to infiltrate its vital circuitry. And then he stepped out of the grey, into silver. He passed through the massive oak doors and beneath the coat of arms without being challenged.
The dance floor was a tantalizingly thin sheet of crystal, raised several hundred metres above the highest of the waves. The salt air had begun to etch a fine web into the sheet from beneath. The sound of the ocean was ducted and amplified through clamshell horns in the corners, providing a dramatic percussive undertone to the waltz. He dissolved into the crowd, absorbed in the moment. A smudge of venom on a discarded wineglass, a cloud of banal conversation, the glitter of vacant eyes.
She was in the center of the floor, as of course she would be, in the arms of a suitor. A dozen others ogled from the sidelines, sipping jealously at their drinks. He smiled and started to needle his way through the crowd. A strand of your hair, my dear, and then good night.
Within that strand would be a chemical code, which, when passed on to precisely the wrong people, would be used to engineer a sickness tailored to her and her family.
He found a lady who had had too much wine, and cajoled her onto the dance floor. They pivoted and swayed towards the lady of the moment. He stumbled, pretending to be drunk, and reached out to steady himself, his hand lurching towards the dark brown locks spilling over her shoulder. “Quite far enough,” a voice launched at him, causing him to stall. A tuxedoed barricade was suddenly between him and the girl. “Theft, assault, impersonating nobility. You have an impressive repertoire.”
“Father, who is this?” The target said in a bored voice, dropping her dance partner like so much dirty linen. Smiles melted from faces. The music had trailed off.
“I’ve seen you watching my daughter,” said Father, making himself wide and impenetrable. “Which one of the senators put you up to this? Who wants to destroy my family?”
Mathilde pounced into his hand.
There were whispered cries of shock and indignation.
His spectres poured out in every direction, locking doors, dimming lights, tampering with the firing mechanism on Father’s concealed pistol.
“This is no place for duelling,” Father said reproachfully. “There are women present. At least have some decency, and follow me outside.”
“So sorry. Decency is not part of my repertoire.”
His dance partner began to sob. He coiled his arm tighter around her waist and gently hushed her.
“Turn the music back on,” he commanded, now pointing Mathilde at the brittle floor. “There’s time for one last dance.”
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