Victoria’s plush spaceport offered an alluring new concession since Warren Springer Stowe’s last visit, and he noticed it immediately as he looked over the head of the porter attending to his luggage. 

“See that my things make it to Raffles Hotel, won’t you, sport?” Warren said, slipping a few guilders into the porter’s waiting hand as he moved past, fixed upon the enticing vision before him. 

The new concession appeared to be a saloon or pub of sorts, clearly inspired by just the flavor of Old Earth culture Warren adored, featuring a long bar that gleamed with the luster of polished cherry wood, the row of objects fronting a broad mirror evidently genuine bottles. An actual bartender stood in attendance, serving drinks to a few patrons seated there. The first negative note arrived as Warren stepped up to place his order.

“Vodka martini, garçon.”

The bartender did not turn to the array of old-timey bottles to create the concoction, subsequently shaking the contents in the quaint metal receptacle Warren had observed in so many ancient film clips. Instead the man murmured into a microphone concealed within his bowtie: “One vodka martini.”

A faint click and buzz reached Warren’s ears, and the bartender reached within the bar to produce a martini glass containing a cloudy liquid, no olive, no onion—no style at all.

“Here you are, sir,” the barkeep said.

Warren accepted the glass, eyeing it distrustfully. He sniffed at the contents, unable to quell a grimace. One of the other patrons, a stocky fellow in a tailored business suit, looked at Warren, then looked again. “You’re Warren Springer Stowe, aren’t you?”

Still fixed upon this disappointing excuse for a classic Old Earth cocktail, Warren murmured, “Er, in the flesh, sir.” He sighed, placing the untasted drink on the bar, noting the plastic-sounding clack of the “cherry wood” substrate. Such a disappointment.

The stocky patron pressed on, eyeing Stowe speculatively. “I saw something about you. You’re some kind of expert in antiquities, right?”

Warren focused upon the man now, giving him an assessing once-over. “Among other things, I specialize in Old Earth cars, but—”

“Cars? Ground vehicles?” the man interrupted, taking a sip from his own cocktail.

“Er, yes,” Warren said. “Ancient internal combustion-powered ground vehicles, you know? But most other delightful articles from that era also fall within my—”

“Internal combustion?” the man interrupted again. “Operated on some kind of exploding hydrocarbons, didn’t they? Who’d be crazy enough to chance that sort of nonsense these days?”

Warren’s forming grin froze in place. “Only those with taste and style, friend.”

The man absorbed Warren’s words, the implicit insult slowly seeming to dawn as Warren patiently waited. Before the stocky fellow could produce a reply, a distraction appeared in the form of a liveried courier bearing the Honami family crest on her cuffs and lapel, neat as a pin.

“Mr. Stowe?” she inquired with cool assurance. “If you have a moment, sir, your presence is requested at the Honami estate.”

As the stocky man sat on his barstool, now beginning to splutter, Warren indicated the elegantly attired Honami attendant with one hand. “Taste and style, friend. Hah!”

Warren straightened, grinning at the young, grave woman. “Always happy to make time for my honored clients. Lead the way!” He followed her out of the Victoria spaceport.

Not many months before, Warren had closed a very pretty piece of business with Lady Honami, and as they traversed the modest distance to the Honami family estate, Warren felt quite willing to delay his scheduled affairs with this prospect of another bite at the Honami apple.

Since Warren’s prior visit, the palatial grounds of the estate did not seem noticeably changed, until he followed his guide through the broad doors that slid silently aside to admit them, revealing the delightful new addition.

Back before the Super Cleanse, before the culture of centuries had been deleted, the vehicle had been known as a 1969 Dodge Super Bee, and now the gleaming red anachronism formed the centerpiece of Lady Honami’s vast entrance hall. And Warren had been commissioned to acquire this rare and costly automotive gem for her.

“This way, please,” his guide said, leading the way to one side, opening a nearly invisible door and standing aside as Warren strolled through into a cozy sitting room. The two solemn-eyed youths gazing fixedly at him represented something of a surprise, their matching expressions of placid curiosity, their notable resemblance to Lady Honami . . . Brother and sister; perhaps twins.

“The heirs apparent!” Warren declared. “And how is your brilliant mother?”

The door closed behind Warren, leaving him alone with the two youths. He had never seen them before and estimated their age at somewhere between 15 and 18 years: Not his target demographic, for clients or . . . donors.

He gave them the full Stowe charm and flopped down in the seat, smiling as he rifled through his jacket and produced his newest Old Earth revival. His stylish smoking case contained a mythic substance he had only witnessed in those Old Earth film snippets that had somehow survived the Super Cleanse. While he had sourced the tobacco seeds, and lovingly grown and cured the curling leaves, something in the process was evidently amiss—had to be. Any attempt to smoke the tobacco provoked a harsh cough and made Warren feel terrible . . . not that this stopped him from yet another stubborn attempt. Those Old Earth film icons made it look just too damned compelling.

“Mr. Stowe,” the girl said in a smooth voice beyond her apparent years, “my brother and I wish to be clear from the start. You are not invited here today at the request of our mother, but to see us. I am Misa, and my brother, Toda.”

“Is that right?” Warren said, glancing at both of them as he neatly rolled the cigarette. “And what can I do for you two this fine afternoon?”

Toda raised a glossy palm slate and actuated something as Warren struck a light from his

smoking case, puffing his cigarette to life just like those Old Earth demigods. The urge to cough he managed to suppress, looking on as an enclosed wall display pivoted to reveal its concealed treasures, Warren recognizing the central device immediately.

“This is a—” Toda began.

“I know what it is, tiger," Warren interrupted, “and if it’s original and functional, you’ve got a nice little artifact there. Congratulations.”

Roughly rectangular, easily portable, the artifact in question featured one legible, time-worn word on its face: PlayStation.

Various antique game consoles had survived the passing centuries, remaining more or less operable, though even the plastics decayed away unless carefully stored. As a result, most of the consoles Warren had handled included a fair percentage of reconditioned new parts, but the resulting systems remained quite collectible to certain segments of the market.

“It is original,” Misa stated, “and functional.”

“Mostly,” Toda added, shooting an uncertain look at his sister.

“Which is where we need your assistance,” Misa concluded, her calm gaze locked on Warren. “We wish to actually play this game as it was intended, but we don’t have a needed component.”

“Or two,” Toda added.

Warren puffed out smoke, inhaling as little as possible as Toda wrinkled his nose, staring at him. “That’s the trick, isn’t it?” Warren said. “I can direct you to a few sources who make decent replica components, though they’ll cost you a little coin if you—”

“That will not work,” Misa interrupted, and Warren saw the cool force of Lady Honami reflected from her daughter’s eyes. “We will play this game as intended, with original, authentic components.”

“Oh?” Warren smiled and took a drag from his cigarette, eyeing them through the veil of smoke. “I hope you’ve been saving your lunch money, then. Original components don’t come cheap.”

“We have ten thousand guilders we will pay you when you have secured the two components we require,” Misa said.

Warren chuckled. “It will take considerably more lunch money that that.”

The two Honami younglings did not smile. “If we bought from a collector, yes,” Misa said. “But we will pay you ten thousand to acquire what we need.”

Warren looked from sister to brother and back. “If I could acquire such delightful treats for ten thousand, I would sell them to the highest bidder and make a pretty pfennig or two . . . not hand them to you. That’s just business.”

Misa drew herself up as Toda stirred, his hands twisting in his lap. “Mr. Stowe, you are a thief,” Misa declared.

Warren raised his eyebrows, grinning. “That’s not very polite, cupcake. Is that libel? Or slander? I’ve never been clear on the difference.”

Misa pointed a finger. “The antique vehicle you sold to mother is stolen property.” She paused significantly before going on. “My brother and I will continue to keep the knowledge of your crime to ourselves . . . but in return you will obtain the pieces we need.”

Warren laughed, quickly standing, and Toda flinched where he sat. “Stolen?” Warren said. “Whatever gave you the idea that—”

“Look,” Misa interrupted, nodding to her brother. He fumbled the palm slate and images rose from some holographic projectors tastefully concealed within wall panels. “This insignificant museum on a distant planet reported the loss of a specific antique vehicle just weeks before you provided the very expensive identical vehicle to our mother.”

Warren frowned at the glowing imagery. “Identical? You sure it’s the same vehicle? The vehicle your mother bought looks quite unlike the—”

Misa’s nostrils flared as she interrupted, “We are not infants! A coat of paint does not hide your—your theft!” She looked at Warren above her and lowered her tone. “While the planet you robbed is some distance from Victoria, the, um, law of the Confederated Worlds is the same, here or there. Mother would have no choice but to inform the authorities of your crime.”

Warren pulled the cigarette from his lips and considered the glowing tip for a moment before looking at each of the Honami youths. “Crime? Hah! All just a misunderstanding.” Misa’s eyes hardened and Warren went on. “But we wouldn’t want to create a fuss, now would we?” He smiled at Misa. “What components are you after, and who on Victoria might have them? I’m just guessing you have a donor or two already targeted.”

The look of satisfaction on Misa’s face contrasted with Toda’s expression of pure relief, and she certainly revealed a triumphant note as she said, “We need a standard controller and the musical instrument device. Both are available from private parties we located right here in Kensington, within walking distance of our estate.” She glanced at Toda, some unspoken message seeming to pass between them. Her gaze levelled on Warren again. “How long will it take for you to steal these things?”

“Steal?” Warren shook his head. “Cupcake, you really must surrender these dramatic notions. A man of my genius does not go about robbing people.”

“How long, Mr. Stowe?” Misa repeated, the savvy lineage of her forebears radiating from her eyes.

“Give me the names of your, er, donors, and a day to check things out,” Warren said, “and by tomorrow I can tell you what’s possible.”

Misa nodded toward her brother, prompting him to produce a slip of vellum, characters visible upon its face. She looked back at Warren. “You have three days to secure the items, Mr. Stowe. For a man of your genius it should not be so difficult.”

* * *

The Raffles hotel lobby greeted Warren like a familiar, eccentric friend, embracing him with just the sort of ambience he adored. While Raffles did not precisely mirror any single Old Earth film snippet Warren had ever got hold of, it exuded a potpourri of the correct flavors. The paddlelike arms of a vast ceiling fan needlessly stirred the air above, while liveried footmen and porters dashed about below, providing services that would be fully automated at nearly any other quality lodging.

Such beautifully anachronistic inefficiency came at a price, of course, but Warren did not grudge the heap of guilders he laid out for his usual suite. Not only did Raffles provide the correct atmosphere for Warren’s genius to germinate, it offered a cross-section of clientele that uniquely suited Warren’s needs. Those who frequented Raffles shared a taste for Old Earth charms, they valued discretion, but more importantly they possessed deep pockets. And Warren was not the only one who favored Raffles for these reasons.

If someone like Sonia Shan had appeared in any of those Old Earth dramas, her almond eyes would be veiled behind a haze of cigarette smoke that rose from a classy, long-filtered number, but of course no one in the galaxy but Warren seemed to smoke anymore. Sonia Shan managed to maintain her enigmatic mystery without such props, looking across the table at Warren from her commanding seat that gave the perfect view of the entire room.

“You are precisely on schedule, Stowe,” Sonia purred. “Which I appreciate. You will conclude our little arrangement soon, I take it?”

“Soon enough, I think.” He slid the small square of vellum across the table to her. “It depends on how long it’ll take me to wrap up a little situation with these two.”

Sonia glanced at the two names, then back up at Warren.

“Meredith Vaughn I know very well, unfortunately, but Venice Payton I am acquainted with mostly by reputation. He’s a playboy and gambler.” She assessed Warren for a moment. “He’s said to be dangerous. What do you want with these two?”

Warren shrugged. “Just a little business, perhaps.”

“As buyers?” Sonia asked. “Or for . . . acquisitions?”

“Hmm,” Warren mused. “Not as buyers, certainly, but perhaps they may be open to a trade of some kind. Tell me—” he thought for a moment “—would you say there’s a connection between these two and Lady Honamí?”

She shook her head, “Honami? Not that I am aware of.”

“Huh. You say you’re acquainted with Meredith Vaughn?”

Sonia’s porcelain demeanor revealed a flash of disdain. “She is an unprincipled tart who believes her voluptuous charms are the equivalent of class.”

Warren grinned. “But it’s actually her great wealth that’s the equivalent of class, right?”

Sonia, in the midst of sipping from her glass of greenish liqueur, slammed the glass down. “Yes, damn it!” Sonia took a breath, her face returning to its smooth mask of exotic, ageless beauty. “It is very unseemly to find a small-minded adventuress welcomed into the most elevated social circles of Kensington. She attended the Grand Kensington Masquerade in the guise of a tangerine. Her costume consisted of fruity cologne and tangerine eyeshadow.”

Warren smirked. “I’m sure it was very modest eyeshadow.” At Sonia’s wrathful look, he added, “She sounds more interesting by the moment. Where might I encounter these, er, voluptuous charms, dear Sonia?”

Sonia snorted indelicately. “As I said, Meredith is far too visible. She’ll undoubtedly be at the Royal Rainier Casino for the gala event tonight.”

“Casino?” Warren said, rubbing his hands together. “You said this Venice Payton fellow is a gambler? Might he be at this gala also?”

Sonia mused for a moment. “He might, at that. I understand cards are his fancy, and the card rooms for gala events always provide fresh pigeons for the plucking.”

“Perfect!” Warren stood. “Umm, you wouldn’t happen to know this Meredith creature’s favorite color, would you?”

She stared at him with narrowed eyes. “I would, actually—although not by choice. Everyone knows the trollop adores aquamarine.”

“Aquamarine? Well, well.” He chuckled, smiling at Sonia. “Sonia, my dear friend, you are likely to witness a new level to my genius this week. It will be a thing of beauty. You may wish to make a note of it for future reflection. It will surely be quite inspirational.”

Sonia’s lips quirked in a faint smile. “If you take Meredith Vaughn down a notch, I’ll declare it Warren Springer Stowe Week for eternity!”

“Yes? Well you can be sure I will, er, take her down. Begin planning the festivities!” Warren stepped from the table, but paused, turning back. “Oh yes, Sonia . . . Do you still have those Kawasaki Westinghouse monstrosities I advised against?”

Sonia’s smile disappeared. “Yes, Stowe. You know I do. No need to rub it in.”

When she had obtained the four Old Earth battery-powered motorcycles for a steal, Warren had cautioned that the old things would never sell. While the two-wheeled vehicles looked so similar to internal combustion powered motorcycles, and were old enough to lack all the computerized babysitters of modern vehicles, no Old Earth collectors valued battery-powered vehicles, and the regular market shunned such quaint antiques.

“Oh?” Warren smirked. “Perhaps I can take one off your hands.” He held up two fingers. “Two miracles in one week, Sonia.” He looked away into the mists of a glorious vision. “Sometimes I mourn that there can be only one Warren Springer Stowe!”

* * *

Before the gala event that evening, Warren handled a few small tasks. He cashed in on a long-standing favor in exchange for the use of one of the finest Old Earth motorcycles he had ever obtained for a client. Like all the other Old Earth treasures, information on them remained scarce due to the Super Cleanse.

A few centuries back, a group of geniuses had unleashed a super-powerful AI in pursuit of the perfect government. That same Al immediately determined that nearly all human cultural content represented sedition of one kind or another against this perfect government. The mass deletion of nearly all networked content happened in the blink of an eye, and since the vast majority of film, literature, history, and most everything else exclusively resided on network-connected storage, entire centuries of human affairs simply disappeared: The Super Cleanse.

Enthusiasts like Warren tried to piece together as much as they could, with existing fragments painstakingly sifted and collected.

Among the bits and pieces it became clear that there had once been a sort of artist or designer who likely possessed a self-destructive streak of notable dimensions. This artist’s name appeared to have been Harley-Davidson, and he had proudly stamped his name on some of the most daring and exhilarating vehicles Warren had ever handled.

The motorcycle Warren now borrowed remained in pristine condition; its owner, Colonel Baskin Long, admitting to Warren that he had only ridden it a couple of times, quaking in mortal dread. “With luck, Colonel,” Warren said, throwing one lanky leg over the motorcycle, “I’ll survive long enough to return this little beauty to you tomorrow.”

“I fervently hope so,” Colonel Long replied with a wave, gazing in open admiration as Warren started the thundering machine, roaring away in a haze of blue smoke.

Warren’s moment of arrival at the Royal Rainier Casino was not left to chance. When the message from his young accomplice pinged his palm slate, Warren gunned the engine where he waited in ambush, shortly rolling up to the casino’s porte cochere in a blaze of Twentieth Century glory, arresting the attention of every person moving toward the casino’s palatial doors. Among that number, Warren spotted his initial prey.

The statuesque figure, the auburn hair, the unmistakable expression of fickle appetites all revealed the identity of Meredith Vaughn as clearly as an illuminated marquee, and she stopped still, her eyes roving over Warren and the vehicle growling between his thighs.

Putting his feet down, Warren drew the smoldering cigarette from his mouth, mightily striving to suppress a cough as he killed the engine. He allowed his gaze to sweep over Meredith without a pause, before flipping a princely tip to the waiting attendant. “Don’t take your eyes off this machine, scooter. It’s centuries old and worth your weight in guilders.” From the corner of his eye, Warren observed Meredith hesitate, taking in his performance for a moment before continuing inside.

With a grin and a much lower voice Warren added, “Timing was perfect, friend.” He gave the smiling attendant a chuck on the shoulder and moved on, carefully adjusting the gleaming pin on his lapel as he strode through the waiting doors.

Like most of the exclusive real estate in Kensington, the Royal Rainier Casino featured tastefully archaic elements redolent of tradition, style and ancestral wealth. The crowd of people stirring about the vast gallery added seasoning to the broth, but Warren had no time for mere socializing.

He passed through the main gallery, noting Meredith Vaughn’ estimating gaze upon him from her place surrounded by a small crowd of transfixed worshippers, and to one side he caught sight of Lady Honami, her lithe, exotic beauty enhanced by a stunning gown of black and silver. She glanced at him, looking away, and he turned to flag a servitor, scooping a glass of bubbly as he asked, “Where might I find a friendly card game, friend?”

The servitor jerked his head toward a sizeable hallway flanked by bronze statues, “For the gala, they’ve set card rooms along the promenade, sir.”

Warren gave the servitor a smile and set off without a glance at Meredith Vaughn, feeling her gaze upon him.

In just the second card room Warren discovered his final target of the evening. Venice Payton wore a bored expression that revealed hints of disdain whenever the woman at his side giggled, but his hands fluidly moved the cards, as if a second mind independently operated.

Warren’s instincts shrilled a faint alarm, and he grinned to himself: This would be a worthy challenge, requiring all of his skill and finesse. He scanned around the cozy room, counting only a dozen people, looking for any acquaintance, no matter how remote, and settling upon one oversized lummox with a red face and protuberant eyes.

“Lloyd?” Warren called out to the lummox with evident delight, “Lloyd Minker?”

“Uh,” The watery eyes opened wide, looking at Warren hesitantly. “Yes. Uh . . . I’m sorry . . .”

“Warren Springer Stowe, sir. Perhaps you don’t recall meeting.”

Warren counted upon his own modest notoriety and was not mistaken in the hope. Several of those around the room looked sharply at Warren, and even Venice Payton glanced up with a measuring expression.

Lloyd Minker hesitantly extended a limp hand. “Oh yes. Stowe. Believe we met, uh, some—”

“Hah! Yes,” Warren interrupted, “Wasn’t it you that taught me that splendid old card game? What was it called?”

“Card game?” Lloyd said, his brow wrinkling in confusion. “I don’t exactly—”

“Poker? That was the game,” Warren pressed on.

“Oh?” Lloyd said, scratching his chin. “I fancy a game now and then, it’s true.”

“Of course.” Warren smiled affably. “Splendid sort of game. I’ve been practicing, and I think I’ve finally got it all sorted. Make a much better game of it for you now, if you’re willing.”

Within the dim depths of Minker’s eyes Warren detected a nascent gleam of greed, but Lloyd Minker was not his intended target.

Venice Payton did seem to follow their movements as Minker called for a fresh deck, claiming an unoccupied table as bystanders drifted nearer. Minker’s enthusiasm faltered for an instant when Warren suggested stakes somewhat more elevated than friendly games might normally entail, but when Warren lost the first two hands, Minker’s slack mouth formed a self-satisfied grin.

“Oh, well played!” Warren congratulated, snagging a champagne glass from a passing servitor as Lloyd dealt another hand, a tidy bundle of Warren’s guilders at his elbow. Warren’s smile was entirely genuine, spying Venice Payton joining the circle of observers, his gaze fixed on the cards like a famished bird of prey.

Excellent!

If Warren hoped to conclude matters with Meredith Vaughn that night he couldn’t afford much time wasted at the card table.

With the next hand dealt, Warren saw he could scarcely avoid winning, so he bet over-aggressively, driving Minker to fold early and limit his losses. He needed the dim fool to keep gambling a bit longer.

“Would you welcome a third?” a voice inquired, and Warren looked up with feigned surprise at Venice Payton.

“A third?” Warren replied, seeing that Minker resented Payton’s intrusion. “Why certainly! The more the, uh, merrier, right?”

Only with effort could Warren restrain the smile of fiendish satisfaction. The fish had taken the bait!

Card wizards of lesser genius unfailingly tried to lull potential pigeons through a show of overplayed incompetence. All but the dimmest prey quickly grew suspicious with such petty performances, even resentful.

Warren’s own genius subtly modified these transparent ploys.

“I give fair warning, friends!” Warren declared with gusto, inexpertly shuffling the cards. “I’ve been practicing, and once I’m warmed up I’ll be a terror! You’ll be amazed!”

Lloyd Minker stuck in for several hands as Warren rolled out his very calculated strategy, strictly following the odds, and only exerting his acting skills in two small ways: When Warren drew hot cards he would allow a flash of delight to illuminate his expression briefly, visible only to the attentive; and when he drew poor cards he would immediately assume an air of nonchalance. Even with these self-imposed handicaps, Warren managed to win a couple of chunky pots, while Lloyd Minker steadily lost, Payton picking up the lion’s share.

“You’ve got a weakness for Old Earth treasures too, don’t you Lloyd?” Warren asked as he received his cards from Lloyd Minker’s deal. “I’m a collector myself, you know?”

Venice Payton shot Warren a measuring glance before fanning through his own cards, while Minker picked up his hand, biting his lip, absently answering: “N-not really. Just in a small, uh, way.” His eyes scanned the fresh draw shielded within his thick fingers, and Warren saw the hint of deflation before Minker masked it.

“Not a collector?” Warren said. “That’s a shame, old fellow.” He glanced at his own cards. “Recently came upon some spectacular treasures.”

“Yes, yes, good," Minker said, fretting with indecision over his draw.

“Treasures?” Payton inquired in a bored tone, tossing his stake into the kitty with a negligent flip and looking at Warren with barely concealed interest.

Sliding his stake across the table, Warren called without hesitation, grinning between the sweating Minker and the supercilious Payton. “Well, treasures to collectors at least . . . Aside from some great classic vehicles, I recently laid hold of an ancient musical instrument, mostly constructed of wood, made for or by some gent named Les Paul.” Minker made the ante, but his lack of confidence seemed to resound from every part of his anatomy. “And,” Warren concluded, eyeing his own hand through his eyelashes, “I have a funny sort of entertainment device the ancients called an arcade game. Some reconditioned parts, but pristine otherwise; operated on coins originally. Can you imagine?”

Venice Payton glanced up at these final words, and Warren saw in his eyes exactly what he had hoped, though Payton looked back at his cards again with every appearance of indifference. “Arcade game?” Payton said, very casually. “I’ve heard of these, I believe. What . . . uh . . . what sort of game is it?”

“Pac-Man, is the name,” Warren said, “for no reason I can see.”

Venice Payton did not look up as Warren said this, but from that moment the whole nature of the game changed. Lloyd Minker only lasted two more hands before his bankroll fell prey to the silent battle in which he served only as collateral damage. He withdrew, red faced, pushing through the small crowd that had gathered to watch.

The game continued on with Warren and Payton facing across the table.

Warren lost a small pot, then won big through the use of a feint, telegraphing a bluff while he held a strong hand. It was then Warren noticed a tantalizing hint of a subtle perfume, turning to see Meredith Vaughn looking on, a pair of gentlemen hovering beside her in eager attendance.

It was also then that Warren spotted the telltale flick of Venice Payton’s fingers on the deal, and he smiled to himself as he gathered up his cards, checking the positioning of his lapel pin again. He had just witnessed a bottom-deal, executed with fair skill.

Rather than outrage, Warren experienced a high degree of satisfaction, his estimation of Venice Payton rising several notches. Clearly this was a man who had studied the ancient art of poker in all of its intricacies and permutations, practicing this skill of only limited use for private card parties and the like. Beyond his appreciation for Payton’s artistry and commitment to the archaic, it also allowed Warren to ply his own creative card skills without any qualms of conscience.

Gathering his willpower, Warren turned to look up into the eyes of Meredith Vaughn, his gaze reluctantly bypassing the bits of her ripe physiology so tantalizingly accentuated by her clinging attire. “Play the game, princess?” Warren inquired of her, glancing back to push his ante into the pot.

Meredith’s two attendant worshippers glared at Warren, but she seemed unaware of them as she considered Warren for a moment before replying, “Indifferently. Cards are not exciting.”

Warren discarded, taking two, as he observed Venice Payton’s card handling through his eyelashes, noting that Meredith’s voice sounded as voluptuous as her body looked. “Cards?” Warren said, barely glancing toward Meredith. “No, it’s not cards that thrill. Danger is what excites us. But have you ever risked real danger, princess?”

Venice laid out his hand, taking the pot with three queens, and Warren managed to palm a card as Venice scooped up his winnings.

“You’re not from Victoria,” Meredith said, and Warren saw a little flush on her cheeks as he grinned up at her.

“True. I come to Victoria for rest. Peaceful, quiet place. The sedate atmosphere is very relaxing.” The flash in Meredith’s eyes acknowledged the hit, and Warren turned back to the game, pleased with his progress on both fronts.

He lost the next hand but managed to scoop another card before it was his turn to deal.

Venice called for a cocktail, lazily considering Warren across the table for a moment as Warren fumbled with the shuffle. “Your—what did you call it?” Venice said. “Arcade game? It reminds me of some old trifle I came upon. Ancient and rare.” Venice accepted the tall glass of amber fluid from a servitor and looked back at Warren. “It has some value to collectors I understand, and it was for use with something like your arcade games, I believe.”

“Really?” Warren said, jamming the cards together, managing a couple of slick structure moves on the deck amid the jumble. “Sounds like my sort of thing indeed, old fellow.”

The first deal Warren played straight, losing again, but tightening up his structure on the deck. On the cut, Warren got his cards placed perfectly and executed a bottom deal that Venice Payton could have learned from, had he the wit to notice.

All the pieces came together perfectly, Warren telegraphing a bluff, running up a fat pot that Venice matched with a contemptuous smile.

The four aces Warren laid down obliterated Venice Payton’s smile, and set the spike of crippling doubt that is death to any serious gambler.

Venice could only continue to lose then, and after a few more disastrous plays, Warren detected the correct shade of sickly green in his opponent’s skin. “I hate to take all your money and run, old boy,” Warren said, smiling, “but I’ve got an engagement awaiting me that I really can’t miss.”

“But . . .” Venice Payton’s voice came out strained, and he took a gulp from his glass before beginning again. “My Old Earth treasure . . . How about one more hand? All of your winnings against the . . . the treasure in my possession.”

Raising his eyebrows, Warren smiled broadly at Venice. “And what sort of treasure are we talking about, exactly?”

* * *

Venice Payton’s malignant gaze only heightened the immense satisfaction Warren felt as he emerged from the card room, victory secured on his first objective. Meredith Vaughn had been present for its triumphant conclusion: the humbling crunch of Venice Payton’s emotional kneecaps, but Warren strolled out onto the promenade without a backward glance. He had another small task to quickly handle, and Meredith would be all the better primed for a little stewing.

Warren moved through the casino’s main gallery, catching the eye of his valet attendant accomplice. He detached the small data-stick secreted within his jacket’s inner pocket where it received all the imagery captured by his lapel-pin camera, and passed it to the attendant with a few words in the man’s ear, before turning back.

Back in the main gallery he spotted Lady Honami again, emerging from the promenade, her eyes pausing on Warren for a moment. Had she been present in the card room? He had not seen her, but the expression on her face seemed to communicate something vaguely congratulatory. Between them, the flocking elite went through the normal motions of social one-upmanship that Warren found so tedious, but in the next instant he detected the familiar scent of a particular perfume and turned to consider Meredith Vaughn, momentarily free of her clinging admirers.

“He has a nasty reputation, you know?” Meredith said in place of a greeting, her expression conveying a haughty challenge, belied by just a hint of uncertainty.

Looking at her, Warren wondered if such people ever realized how transparently the gears moved within their eyes.

“Who?” Warren said with a smile.

Meredith’s color heightened. “Venice Payton, of course. He’s known to be dangerous.”

Continuing to smile, Warren drew out his smoking case as Meredith’s hauteur faltered, and he began to construct a cigarette. “Dangerous?” Warren said, placing the cigarette between his lips and striking a light from his smoking case. “I think we discussed danger, didn’t we, princess? That’s where you find the real thrills.” He puffed the cigarette to life, and Meredith’s flawless face wrinkled in distaste.

“That smells terrible. How do you stand it?"

Warren shrugged. “It’s an acquired taste.” He’d heard that line somewhere or other, and if it was true he had yet to acquire the taste, but he managed not to cough, blowing the smoke aside and giving Meredith his most cheeky grin.

“Speaking of danger . . . Come wrap your thighs around something explosive?” he said. “I think you’ll find there’s no thrill quite like it.”

To her credit, despite the designer clothing and expensive shoes, Meredith did in fact wrap her thighs around Mr. Harley-Davidson’s archaic machine—so much immaculate thigh!—and perched behind Warren.

Warren slapped the fuel tank. “Runs on explosive hydrocarbons, you know? Conveniently placed here next to my vitals.” Before Meredith could say anything in reply, Warren looked over at his collaborating valet attendant who stood in open admiration of the image he beheld. “Heya, sport. Give it, mmm, about an hour and send it, okay?”

The young man saluted with a grin. “You got it, Mr. Stowe.”

Meredith leaned forward, her body pressing delightfully against Warren’s back, her mouth near his ear. “What’s all that about?”

In answer Warren kicked the Harley’s starter, the engine roaring to life, and Warren felt Meredith’s arms clutch around him as a haze of exhaust fumes swirled up. The gears meshed smoothly and Warren poured on a little throttle, pulling away from the amazed spectators decorating the Royal Rainier Casino’s porte cochere. Meredith gasped, her body tightening as they leaned over through the first corner, going out onto the main thoroughfare amongst a couple of silent-running scuttles.

Warren rolled the throttle back, wind rushing their faces as he popped into second gear and wove through those few bland vehicles in their way, taking another smooth sweeper to the right. They sped along the fringe of Victoria’s spaceport then, a launch lifting brightly into the mist at their side as Warren steadily increased the speed, the flashes of light starkly illuminating the road ahead. He felt Meredith’s arms relaxing where they gripped him, and he increased the throttle gradually, holding second gear as any thoughtful gentleman should. It was a moment.

* * *

By the time Warren swept into the wide-open doors of the compact warehouse, he felt Meredith should have attained the correct state of mind. The tableau he had prearranged with Sonia Shan’s help awaited. A gleaming red 1960 Corvette stood in the center of the well-lighted space, boxes and crates around the periphery . . . with one two-wheeled vehicle enticingly positioned, partially covered with a cloth, its new aquamarine finish gleaming.

Warren killed the rumbling engine of the Harley-Davidson machine and took Meredith’s hand as she dismounted, the flush in her cheeks due to more than the effects of wind alone. She looked in wonder around the space, stopping at the Corvette. “What’s this?”

“That’s the business that brought me to Victoria,” Warren said, “It concludes tomorrow, and then I’ll be on my way, off-world.” He strode slowly around the car until Meredith could not help but see the partially covered, aquamarine Westinghouse-Kawasaki electrobike.

“Is that another machine like this?” Meredith asked, pointing at the battery-powered abomination.

“No,” Warren said, stepping over to drag the cover over the machine. “I’m not selling that.” He dusted off his hands, “The Westinghouse-Kawasaki machines aren’t collector items anyway. Just sentimental value.” Meredith’s gaze lingered on the shrouded shape, a petulant pout on her lips, and Warren checked the time. “I should probably get you back before I turn into a pumpkin.”

“What?” Meredith said in a cool tone, slowly trailing Warren back to the Harley, slipping back onto the saddle behind Warren, but Warren felt the lightness of her touch as her arms gripped him, and grinned to himself.

It took only fifteen minutes to reach the long, immaculate lane running up to Meredith’s tidy little estate, but before they reached the house they found the path before them blocked by a stationary scuttle, three figures standing in waiting.

Warren felt Meredith’s sudden grip and heard her gasp of recognition as Venice Payton stepped ahead of the two grim-faced mounds of muscle, his sneer more evident than ever. Warren stopped, killing the engine and drawing his smoking case from his jacket pocket to build a smoke, the shiver in Meredith’s limbs palpable behind him. “My friend from the card table,” Warren greeted, making his cigarette. “How unexpected! Whatever can I do for you tonight, old fellow?” He struck a light, drawing on his cigarette.

Venice stopped a short distance away, his thin mouth set in a menacing grin. “You cheated me, Stowe,” Venice said, his two leg-breakers moving up to flank the Harley. “And I will now show you what a vast mistake you made.”

Warren exhaled a cloud of smoke, silently congratulating himself on another suppressed cough. “Cheated? Really?” He chuckled, considering his cigarette. “Sounds like you’re just trying to welsh on a bet, old man. Just say you don’t want to pay up.”

Venice Payton’s flash of rage disappeared in an instant, transformed into a growing leer.
“Pay, you say? I will make you pay tonight . . . now.” His two leg-breakers activated the entirely redundant power-grapples glowing in their fists, and closed in.

“People always say things like that.” Warren sighed as he popped open the fuel tank on the Harley, Venice’s two thugs reaching out.

“Ah-ah, fellows! Or I blow us all to hell.” Warren poised his glowing cigarette over the fuel tank, grinning as Meredith gasped behind him. “Smell all those lovely explosive hydrocarbons? Mmmm!”

Venice grabbed the nearer thug. “Wait.”

“Now, Venice, dear fellow,” Warren said, “you may want to check the messages on your slate, because it is you who was cheating tonight, and while I appreciate a skillful bottom-deal better than anyone in the galaxy, other people may frown on it.”

Venice stared at Warren for a moment, then pulled his palm slate. His face visibly paled as he scrolled.

“Nice footage, isn’t it?” Warren said, though he had not reviewed the footage himself as yet. “Kind of a little tutorial on sleight-of-hand for the uninformed. Might make people think twice about playing cards with you, though . . .”

Venice looked up at Warren with pure hatred in his eyes.

“Easy there, buckaroo,” Warren grinned. “I’m not trying to wreck your livelihood. Just pay up like a trooper, and we will let this whole misunderstanding fade away.”

Venice expressed his anger in a few uncomplimentary, physiological terms, but Warren merely smiled, waiting until the three barbarians backed away, climbed into their scuttle and whirred off in a swirl of dust and falling leaves.

Meredith surged off the Harley’s saddle, standing white-faced back from Warren, staring at him. “You would have killed us all!”

Tilting his head, Warren looked at the smoldering cigarette between his fingers, still poised above the open fuel tank. “Nah,” he said, dropping the butt inside and closing the tank with a wink at Meredith.

No explosion. Just he had heard somewhere or other.

She seemed to deflate for an instant before stepping close to Warren, her glittering eyes fixed upon his face, the color returning to her cheeks. It felt particularly gratifying as she melted against him, her perfect lips pressing against his.

She pulled back after a moment and looked deeply into his eyes. “Your smoke sticks make you taste awful,”

“Hmm, you happen to have any brandy in that fancy house of yours? Probably fix that right up.”

It turned out that she did have a very good brandy, and Meredith expressed no further complaints as the night progressed. At one intimate moment Meredith whispered, “You love all that Old Earth stuff, don’t you, Stowe?”

“Mmm. I’m a bit preoccupied with all the treasures I’m discovering right here tonight.”

Meredith giggled in an unappealing manner, and pulled away from him, standing in all her revealed glory. “Look,” she said.

“Trust me, peach, I’m looking.”

She giggled again. “Not at me, silly.” She activated some control, a panel opening on one wall. “See?”

“Very impressive little collection,” Warren scanned over the unstructured mishmash of Old Earth relics, locking onto his target. “Is that an original PlayStation controller?” He sat up. “You won’t believe how long I’ve been looking for one of those.”

Less than one day, actually.

“Oh?” Meredith said, arching her brows. “Too bad it’s, as you say, not for sale; just sentimental value.”

Touché.

Warren left it alone for the time, but in a quiet moment, an hour or so later, he asked, “Would you ride?”

Her head turned, her eyes gleaming in the low light. “What?”

“If you had an antique two-wheeler, would you actually ride it? They are rather dangerous.”

She lay silent for several seconds before she said, “Danger? Yes, I think I would.”

Warren stood in the semi-light and stepped to his jacket, rooting through a pocket. He returned to sprawl beside Meredith, placing a small key in her hand.

She held it up in a sliver of light to see the Westinghouse-Kawasaki logo and fleck of aquamarine color, her lips parting as she looked quickly at Warren. “You said . . .”

“Not for sale . . . but as a gift. A little romance makes me all sentimental.”

* * *

The brunch menu at Raffles suited Warren’s tastes splendidly, and Sonia Shan looked on with wry amusement as he cleared a loaded plate. “Quite an appetite, Stowe,” she said.

“It was a busy night.”

Sonia grimaced. “Spare me the sordid details. I’ve already heard you swept that oversexed tart off her feet.”

Warren poured from the small pot into his cup, scenting the fragrant steam of English breakfast tea. He added a healthy dollop of cream and looked up at Sonia. “The cream is almost essential, you know?” He took a sip. “I not only entertained said tart last night, dear Sonia, but also fleeced Venice Payton and faced down his leg-breakers.”

Sonia’s eyes shot upward. “You did—” she broke off. “I heard about a friendly card game at the gala event, but nothing more.”

Warren smiled. “Payton resented the outcome of the friendly game. Had a chat together away from a bunch of witnesses.” He sipped tea again. “We worked it out, but I owe Colonel Long a little coin to clean the fuel tank on his machine.” He shrugged. “Turns out you can extinguish a lit cigarette in a tank full of explosive hydrocarbons. Someone had said that to me once. Who’d have thought it?”

Sonia Shan just stared at him, shaking her head. “One day your impudence will cost you dearly, Stowe.”

“Hah! At the moment, my impudence will probably get those dreadful electrobikes off your hands, friend.” At Sonia’s perplexed frown he went on. “The, er, oversexed tart is likely to create a new fad soon, buzzing about on an aquamarine model . . . looking very stylish, I imagine, before she breaks her pretty neck,”

Stowe stood from the table, wagging one finger as Sonia tried to find words. “Ah-ah, friend,” he said. “It’s a pleasure to share the triumph. You are a witness, dear Sonia. Who else has seen the genius of Warren Springer Stowe revealed, even in this small way? Too few, sadly . . . too few.”

* * *

After identifying himself at the gate, Stowe swept up to the doors of the Honami home in the scuttle-cabbie, finding the same solemn young attendant waiting for him, her expression equally impassive.

“Hey there, sport,” Stowe greeted. “Box of goodies here, if you can lend a hand.”

They stepped into the vast entrance chamber again, the attendant’s arms bearing his one compact box, the ancient muscle car still crouching as a gorgeous archaic centerpiece as they returned to that same nondescript door.

Misa and Toda both awaited him, standing expectantly, their eyes going immediately to the box in the attendant’s hands. “You may leave that,” Misa said imperiously, and the attendant placed the box on a low table, exiting.

Toda stepped toward the box and Warren held up a hand. “Hold up, tiger. Ten thousand was the price, I believe.”

Toda froze and looked back at his sister, and Misa frowned at Warren. “You should be content that we don’t reveal your theft to the authorities, Stowe.”

Warren just smiled at her, waiting.

She sighed. “Very well . . . though you don’t deserve it.”

“Probably good none of us get what we deserve, cupcake,” Warren said, opening the box to reveal both of the treasured controllers. Warren had taken a chance, but read Meredith Vaughn’s motivations correctly. In the morning light a gift might have felt too much like payment, and her self-image wouldn’t allow that uncomfortable sensation. Her own gift to him cleared the slate.

Toda and Misa looked at the devices hungrily and Misa used her slate to make the transfer.

“I’ll leave you two to your toys now,” Warren said, turning on his heel, but the two siblings were already absorbed.

Outside the small chamber, the young attendant waited, but Warren breezed past her. “Be right with you, slugger.”

“Mr. Stowe,” she said, trying to keep pace, but he turned and ran lightly up the steps, two at a time. “Mr. Stowe!” She called from behind him, stopping halfway up.

Lady Honami sat waiting at her vast desk, her regal expression untouched by any suggestion of surprise as he stepped through the door. “Stowe,” she said.

Warren closed the door to the study and leaned against it, folding his arms. “Hey there, duchess,” he said, smiling.

“What may I do for you, Stowe?” Her dark liquid gaze measured him.

He considered her for a long moment before unfolding his arms and striding nearer to her. “Just curious. Was this whole production so you could settle the score with Meredith and Venice . . . or with me? Or just teaching your cubs to hunt their own meat?”

Lady Honami placed her delicate hands together atop the expansive desk, her face revealing nothing, her almond eyes expressionless. “What would you prefer that I say, Stowe?” She stood and stepped around the desk, her gaze never leaving their lock on Warren’s face. “Should I say that I wanted to whet the appetites of my offspring on richly deserving prey? Or . . .” she stepped very near and reached out to lightly touch Warren’s chest, “. . . that I merely like to watch you work?”

“Ah!” Warren smiled down at her. “Most natural thing in the galaxy, duchess. You are a woman of taste and style. You know excellence when you see it, and I congratulate you. The brilliance of Warren Springer Stowe is not to be missed!”

Copyright © 2026 by Michael Mersault

Although born in the northwestern United States, Michael Mersault spent his formative years in a series of magical locales, including expat communities in the Middle East, a secretive air base in the Arizona desert, and an Alaskan fishing village. These endless hours of travel prompted an enduring love for books that continues unabated.

At times in his adult years, he has dabbled in kickboxing, competitive marksmanship, and international business ventures. He now lives as a semi-recluse back in the northwest, where he fluctuates between the paths of a confirmed technophile and a neo-Luddite.