Chapter 7: Ecstasy - 3735 C.E.

There wasn't much that Beatrice ever actually needed. She didn't need to eat. She didn't need to sleep. She didn't really need anything apart from a regular and constant supply of sexual partners and there was no likelihood that she'd ever run short of that. But she did need a cover. Humans weren't supposed to be able to survive for long without food or shelter, so Beatrice had to provide evidence that she had the fiscal means to survive even though she'd long since completely exhausted her savings.

Fortunately, Ecstasy was a colony that provided many opportunities for a girl like Beatrice to make a living and unlike most colonies, moons or planets within the Solar System these credits could be earned without the requirement to declare its source. The black economy thrived on Ecstasy and the space colony's administrators saw no reason to throttle a profitable revenue stream despite the inevitable protests from other more ethical members of the Interplanetary Union.

Within days of arriving on Ecstasy, Beatrice had found both an apartment and a steady stream of lovers. Some paid for the privilege while others had it for free. None of them made love in Beatrice's apartment. In fact she hardly used it at all. And when she did, it wasn't because she needed to sleep.

Beatrice soon determined where she was welcome and where she wasn't. She was always welcome where she could spend money and there were many such places when she'd established a regular revenue stream. It wasn't that she needed to buy expensive clothes, jewellery or electrical goods, but it was expected of her and she got gratification from investigating these and other human foibles. The boutiques and stores where such things were sold were also excellent places for meeting people with whom she could have sex. This was especially so with regards to other women.

At first Beatrice wondered whether there was a more efficient way to service her revenue stream than by selling sexual services. She considered trading in illegal drugs, but although she could accurately analyse their chemical signature they had no appreciable effect on her. As a result, this wasn't a trade she could actively pursue with the utmost confidence. She also considered theft as a plausible alternative revenue stream, but this conflicted with the imperative that she shouldn't attract unnecessary attention from either the legitimate police force or those who exercised territorial law enforcement rights by unlawful means. There were many criminal gangs operating on Ecstasy but Beatrice had no wish to be involved with them. Nevertheless, it was a simple matter for Beatrice to snatch wallets, jewellery and even offensive weapons from criminals without them being aware and it was a generally more prudent policy to practise theft on people who were unlikely to contact Ecstasy's police force. If Beatrice happened to be noticed by the person she was robbing, she was both efficient and effective in ensuring that they were physically incapable of imparting this information. Although murder was easier than theft, it had to be done with due care and attention. However, few people would ever imagine that a girl with expensive shopping habits who made a living by selling her body could also detach a head from its shoulders or smash the brains out against a brick wall.

"You don't understand, doll," said the tall well-dressed man with a menacing glint in his eyes. "I may not be the proprietor of this joint but I own it and everyone who operates from its premises."

This exchange was in the Tartan Retreat: a Scottish theme pub on the twentieth floor of the seventh level. All around were artefacts and memorabilia that marked three millennia of Scottish history but which mostly exhibited a landscape of rugged golf courses populated by highland warriors. Unlike the staff and waiters, the man who addressed Beatrice was wearing no tartan at all. The suit he wore was an exquisite import from the Trojan Asteroids that Beatrice recognised from her frequent visits to the most exclusive boutiques.

"Is that so?" asked Beatrice as she tried to decide on an appropriate response. She couldn't tell him to go fuck himself. If he were to react as Beatrice expected she would then become a fugitive from the law after defending herself by punching a hole through his chest. "What do you propose?"

"A modest amount, doll. I'm a considerate man. Twenty percent. That's all."

"Twenty percent of what?"

"Twenty percent of what I expect you to bring in each night."

"And how much is that?"

The man spread his fingers. "That's in hundreds in case you didn't know."

Beatrice nodded. This wasn't an arrangement she wanted to be party to. It wasn't that she couldn't afford it. What troubled her was the consequence of entering into any agreement of this kind with a human. There really was only one solution.

"You could have demanded so much more," she said teasingly.

"Really, doll?" said Beatrice's prospective pimp. "It is a percentage. I expect complete honesty from you."

"And what should I call you?"

"Al. That's my name. Al."

"Nice name, Al. Is there any way I can negotiate with you? Can I cut a better deal? For myself, of course."

"What do you propose, doll?"

"Oh I don't know," said Beatrice as she placed a tentative hand on his crotch. "I'm sure there's somewhere else we can discuss it in more privacy."

"And when would that be, doll?"

"No time like the present, Al."

"I know a place, sweetheart."

The two of them left the pub, with Beatrice threading an arm through Al's and gazing up at him in a way that she knew would be interpreted as a seductive smile. They made an unexceptional couple for this district of Ecstasy. Al was wearing an expensive suit and Beatrice was resplendent in a wealth of silk and satin that was worn only by woman with means or those trying to attract the attention of men of such wealth.

Beatrice would never return to the Tartan Retreat again. It had now become one of several haunts she would now avoid. This wasn't because she was frightened of meeting Al again, though if she did so it would indeed be a shock. She had smashed his head so hard against the wall that the force had splattered fragments of brain and bone all over the bank of the dimly-lit ornamental canal. She pushed his body to the bottom of the water which also served to wash the blood off her bare arms. She was careful to ensure that there were no stains on her expensive dress. She could easily explain away dirt or dust when she next took it to the drycleaners, but blood was another matter.

She had no intention of being obligated to individuals like Al and there was no better way of eliminating the problem. She was sure that there were many others who were also quite pleased that he would never again haunt the Tartan Retreat, judging from the apprehensive, even fearful, expressions on the faces of the other women in the pub, but Beatrice was no vigilante. It wasn't in her interest to reduce the incidence of organised crime on Ecstasy, although it was most definitely in her interest not to be beholden to it. If she'd chosen to inoculate the colony of organised crime she would be constantly busy and her cover would soon be blown.