“My room,” the woman told her, standing and taking the washcloth over to the sink where she rinsed it out. “It’s not like I’m working anymore tonight. Dek said to bring you back here. Your other slave, Clarice? She’s out at the bar. Been in tears. Said she didn’t want you to see. Angelina’s keeping an eye on her and that weird Suharto character.” She paused. “They do that to his eyes on purpose?”

“They did.” Falise sat up, swung her feet to the floor.

“Wow. Somebody really didn’t like him, did they?”

“He’s one of the most powerful men in the Suharto family.” She rubbed her face. Sitting up had turned a raging headache loose inside her skull.

“Then why doesn’t he fix his eyes? Makes him all creepy. Like he’s a psycho murderer in a holovid. If he wanted to buy a trick, I’d turn him down flat. Don’t think I could take those eyes, staring down at me. Think I’d freeze up like ice, trying not to shiver while he did me.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Falise said through a pained whisper. She had to be in The Jewel. She was sitting on a whore’s bed. No wonder the woman wore that form-fitting wrap. Quick to put on and take off.

“I saw you earlier. What’s your name?”

“Dalia.”

“Thanks, Dalia.” She stood, winced at the headache, and walked to the door. Hesitated. “Why’d you do this? Take care of me?”

“Dek asked me to.” She smiled wistfully. “I owe him. He’s always treated me right.”

“Client?”

“Who, Dek? No. Not that I’d mind, let me tell you, but he’s never even fucked Allison. And he’s one of the few she’d take these days. Naw, he’s pretty much dedicated to Talina.” Her gaze went wistfully distant. “Gotta admire a man like that.”

Falise grasped the doorknob. “Yeah, well, I’m going to go pull Clarice off her barstool, have a friendly chat with my dear brother, Derek, and wander my way back to that miserable dome so that I can wish I was off this pestilent disaster of a planet.”

“Nope.” Dalia turned, crossing her arms, which pulled the warp tight across her round breasts. Advertising, no doubt. “You’re stuck here. We’re on lockdown.”

“Oh, joyous,” Falise muttered to herself as she stepped out into the hall and made her way on unsteady feet to the main room. God, the whiskey was still running in her blood.

The place was empty of clientele. Cinque Suharto sat at one of the high-top tables by the door, an expensive rifle laid across the chabacho wood beside him. His every attention seemed to be on the door, as if he didn’t want to miss whatever stepped through it.