Floating hotel, p.1
Floating Hotel, page 1
Also by Grace Curtis:
Frontier
Copyright © 2024 by Grace Curtis
All rights reserved. Copying or digitizing this book for storage, display, or distribution in any other medium is strictly prohibited. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, please contact permissions@astrapublishinghouse.com.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Jacket illustration by Alyssa Winans
Jacket design by Katie Anderson
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Curtis, Grace, author.
Title: Floating hotel / Grace Curtis.
Description: First edition. | New York : DAW Books, 2024.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023043059 (print) | LCCN 2023043060 (ebook) | ISBN 9780756419301 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780756419318 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Science fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PR6103.U793 F56 2024 (print) | LCC PR6103.U793 (ebook) | DDC 823/.92--dc23/eng/20230925
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023043059
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023043060
First edition: March 2024
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
For Esmé
Here’s to spiraling upward
Contents
Also by Grace Curtis
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Carl
Forty Years Later
On Gutting
Uwade
I. Friends from Beyond: First Contact
Riots and Revolts
Dunk
Virtue and the Body
Professor Mara Azad
Aspiration and Ambition
Mr. Corinth
Death and Deathlessness
Daphne
The Supremacy of Man
II. Friends from Beyond: Battle for Planet Man
They
Lucia
Ephraim
III. Friends from Beyond: Beyond the Beyond
Rogan
Ooly Mall
Angoulême
Walking away
Carl, again
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CARL
was twelve years old the first time he laid eyes on the Grand Abeona Hotel. It was ghostly as a daytime moon, hovering low between columns of twisting, griddled rock, above a crevasse darkly spiderwebbed with cables and crawlers and great nodding anvils. He took it at first for an apparition, because it looked so much like those patches of shimmering air that appeared sometimes in his vision after he’d been punched. And he had been punched—twice, in fact, against the side of the face, because the first one hadn’t knocked him down. Once the dealer of the punch had slunk away in search of other victims, Carl crawled out to the back steps and pressed his temple against the cool metal railing, watching the stars spin around. Whenever he moved his pupils, the aberrations would move as well, so that he could never look at them dead on. But the Abeona stayed; she did not shift away from his gaze. That was how Carl knew that what he saw was real.
Once he realized that, he remembered that there’d been stories going around about some ritzy hotel ship coming into orbit, a divine visitation from the inner systems, there to prey upon the scant handful of genuine tycoons who lived in (and owned) the planet’s single city. He had heard these rumors and thought that they were probably true. But part of him still had not believed. Not until he saw the Abeona floating there.
Hoxxes was an imperial mining colony, an unhappy place that looked from orbit like a pumice stone, populated by displaced people whose brief lives were made bearable with substances that shortened them. Many dwelled there but nobody was really at home. In a few decades the whole planet would be unlivable, harvested by its occupants into a poisonous oblivion. Things had been easier in Carl’s grandparents’ time. But as the Emperor grew older his paranoia swelled, and the pace of production swelled with it, and the churn of war swallowed cheap material faster than the soil could provide.
Things, never good, were getting steadily worse.
As grim as life was on Hoxxes, Carl’s decision to leave was mostly about his family—though the less said of them, the better.
Afterward, when people asked why he’d run away to join the hotel, Carl would shrug and say, with the muted smile that became his trademark: “It was love at first sight.”
There was a pull-out drawer in the kitchen where Carl’s guardians kept their loose change. He picked it clean and shrugged into an overlarge padded miner’s coat, turning up the cuffs to retain the use of his hands. With his pockets jingling, he sprinted down the shadowed alleys, between looming high-rises set into cliffsides of rust-colored rock, until he came to the departure station for the city-bound suspended tram. One by one he slotted the coins into the machine, trying hard to keep his hands from shaking. Half a kilo of metal transformed into a single plastic ticket that unlocked a stuttering twin door. The tram swept high above the pits, circular caverns spiraled with walkways, each descending level swarming with machinery and life. And in the sky, still unmoving, still there even after he knuckled his eyes, was the hotel.
Carl found the departing shuttle easily enough. It was in the airbay in the center of the city, guarded by a chauffeur in a crisp tuxedo who rang a brass bell and called in a melodic, undulating voice: “All aboard the Grand Abeona! Customers queue here!”
A length of red carpet rolled down from the entrance hatch and onto the concrete road, held snug to the steps by a set of gold clasps. The luxury was an intrusion into dull reality; a lolling tongue from a red-lipped mouth, a flavor of things to come. The sight sent a shiver through Carl’s heart.
A curious crowd circled the shuttle entrance like a flock of birds. “Move along now,” the chauffeur called, spreading his arms to shoo them back. “Make way for guests, please. Make way.”
Carl ducked beneath the man’s elbow and beelined for the guest queue, where a woman in a fur coat and peacock-swirl hat was struggling to lug her luggage trunk up the steps.
“’Scuse me, ma’am,” said Carl. “May I give you a hand?”
She looked down at him, this eager and malnourished boy practically swimming in his own jacket, the presence of a bruise already making itself known in the corner of one cheek. A lesser person might have kicked him, or yelled that they were being robbed. Instead she said, “Well, aren’t you just a perfect little gentleman. Go on, then. Grab it underneath. Mind you don’t trap your fingers.”
Inside the shuttle, the drone of the city fell away into a velvet hush. Carl drank everything in: plump cushions on every seat, each crowned with a complimentary mint; a faint rose-petal smell in the pressurized air; the sweet prerecorded warbling of a string quartet. They hadn’t even left the atmosphere yet, and already Carl felt like he was in a different universe. He found an unobtrusive spot on the back wall and stood there, willing himself not to be noticed.
Bodies moved busily up and down the aisle. The chauffeur said, “Gentlefolk, to your seats, please.” And the gentlefolk sat.
Quietly as he could, Carl placed a hand on the back of the nearest chair, his fingers sinking deep into the covering. A low rumble sounded somewhere beneath his boots. Everything was trembling, even the walls, even the plush seat. One of the passengers was sipping coffee from a patterned saucer; Carl watched the liquid ripple, waiting for it to upend into the man’s lap as they soared into the air.
Then the humming stopped.
“Thank you,” said the chauffeur. “We have arrived.”
There was a lengthy hiss and a clunk as the docking tube attached on the other side; a light pinged green, and the hatch swung open.
The guests stood, and Carl fell in with them, lifting extraneous luggage—“Let me get that for you, sir.” “Thank you, lad.”—trotting through the disembarkation hall and into the reception.
And there he stopped.
They all did.
Stopped, simply to marvel.
There is a level of wealth above wealth, a level of luxury that surpasses the common idea of luxury, which is all about holograms and loudspeakers and moving images, gilded statues and subservient bots. There is an idea that rises beyond those ideas. It is called “class.”
Class, the story goes, cannot be purchased. This is not strictly true. Money is an integral piece of the puzzle. The difference is that, in the case of class, money is a means to an end. It is not the end itself.
The Grand Abeona Hotel was an analog paradise, a place where the walls distinguished themselves not only by fine papering, but by the complete absence of screens. The restaurant menu was displayed on a sort of mechanical abacus, and when the options updated, they twirled about of their own volition, click-clacking as the correct letters slid into place. Music was live and performed throughout the day. Important documents were sealed in tubes and sucked through a network of hydraulic glass pipes.
The crowning glory was the feature known as the Galactic Diorama. It was a disc-sha
Not for the Abeona were the sharply curled edges of a gilt pedestal, the bone-bruising hardness of a veined marble floor, sallow gold and lace trim. It was built from warm blocks of color, fan lights up the walls, varnished wood paneling, armchairs waiting to eat you up, bristling potted plants as high as the arches, and all of it arranged carefully, with a painter’s eye. The hotel was not designed by committee. It was the work of singular vision. It looked like something somebody loved.
Carl’s mind was young; the shape of reality was still something loose and malleable to him. Taking in the sight of the entrance hall for the first time, he sincerely believed that he was dreaming. His eyes rose to the ceiling, searching for shoals of shimmering fish that he thought might be circling the chandelier. His ears listened keenly for the rustling of angels’ wingtips.
A polite murmur brought him back to himself. He was standing in the path of the crowd, and moved, apologizing, slipping further in, then further still, past the reception, up the curving steps, a waterfall of color. He padded from hall to hall, following his ears, or his nose. Listened to the wandering notes of a saxophone from the raised stage. Watched people in the pool from the windowed gym, hexagons of quivering light cast through the speckless water, inhaling the scent of chalk and chlorine. A sudden squeak as a foot pivoted on the tiles.
He rode up and down the elevators, enjoying with distinct pleasure the husky woman’s voice that sounded with each parting of the doors: First floor. Third floor. Seventh floor. Mind your step. He walked boldly up to the bar and asked if he could have one of the nuts from the little bowl. The bartender laughed, told him to wait, and whispered something in her colleague’s ear. A minute later he was handed a bowl of oysters, garnished in butter and parsley, with a side of buttered bread. He picked it clean and had to be stopped from trying to eat the shells.
Midnight found Carl sitting cross-legged on the floor of the cocktail bar, staring at the domed glass wall. This was the top floor of the hotel, a miniature planetarium, smelling tartly of lime and gin and warm with sophisticated laughter. The evening was winding down. Behind him, servers drifted between the high tables, slotting salt-crusted glasses between their fingertips, flat wrists balancing stacked plates. Carl was trying valiantly to stay awake. He didn’t know what would become of him once the night was over.
Someone placed a mug by his side and vanished before he could turn to thank them. He warmed his face in the steam for a moment, and then sipped it, tasting chocolate richer than molten gold and almost as hot. A bite of cinnamon, a twist of orange. Heaven.
He became aware of a presence at his side. A woman, ageless, severely beautiful, perfectly composed—mother-of-pearl hair over a creaseless suit. She smiled down at him.
“Have you had fun, Carl?” Her voice was husky.
He blinked himself awake. “You know me?”
“I’m the manager. It is my business to know everyone.”
Self-conscious now, he retreated deeper into his jacket. “Yes, Miss Manager, I’ve had fun.”
“Call me Nina.”
“Yes, Miss Nina.”
They admired the stars.
Carl licked the chocolate from his upper lip and asked, “Are you going to send me back?”
He was already resigned to it, perhaps even a little relieved. Like a condemned man who thinks, Let’s get the pain over with.
But the manager shook her head. “Haven’t you noticed?”
“Noticed what, ma’am?”
“These are different stars. That shape there . . .” she pointed a single perfect fingernail at a certain point of light “. . . is the dwarf planet Rahel. We can’t send you back. You’re six billion miles from home.”
Carl said, “Oh.”
He looked at Rahel, squinting into the bluish light, wondering how many dwarves lived down there.
“Miss Nina?”
“Yes?”
“What happens now?”
“Hmm.” A curl of ivory came loose from her hair. She tucked it back under her ear, thoughtful. “That’s up to you, Carl. If you want, we can send you home once we’ve completed our tour of the system. Or . . .”
He looked up at her.
“. . . Or you can stay,” she said. “If that’s what you want. We can always use a few more helping hands.”
Quietly, he said, “I’d like to stay, please.”
Nina nodded. “Very well.”
It was October 2, 2774.
FORTY YEARS LATER
His office was set into a corner on the hotel’s starboard wing, connected to the first floor by a two-passenger elevator. The elevator was not quite private, but tucked cunningly away from sight of the other rooms so that guests seldom thought to use it. This way he could step through the sliding scissor-gate and relish one final moment of peace each morning before the madness began.
On the sunset dial above the door the bronzed pointer moved gradually from right to left. He watched it closely. Seven seconds to go. Three seconds. The pointer settled on the western hills, and the elevator said huskily, First floor. Please mind your step.
He stepped out, and a voice exclaimed, “There you are!” Mataz was upon him at once, speaking in a low, breathless rush: “We’ve got a situation. A problem. A big problem. A disaster, frankly.”
He arranged his face, cheerful, focused: Don’t worry. I’m here. “Tell me about it,” he said.
Omar Mataz, assistant manager and self-proclaimed “Head of Guest Experience,” was a strikingly beautiful man who reveled in the drama of a good crisis. He took out a pocket-kerchief, patted down the glowing skin beneath his jaw and said, “It’s about the Countess of Adeladia.”
“Countess.” He combed the guest list in his mind, pulling her name. “A one-nighter. Fourth floor. She’s checking out at 10:30.”
“That’s the one.”
They ducked through a door marked STAFF ONLY, into the back passageway. It was in these hidden byways that the Abeona started to look like an actual ship—close walls, pockmarked rubber flooring, warning signs on display, a smell of breath and stale food waste clinging like a fine film to every open surface. The atmosphere was that of a military base under attack, a steady and purposeful chaos: a swaying trolley of croissants rushed one way, while in the opposite direction a bellhop ran, bellowing, “Hoverjack! Who took the goddamn hoverjack?”
“She’s left her ship docked on the lobby slipway,” said Mataz. “Private vessel. Flyby, some kind of superyacht. Hideous thing. The group from—”
He stopped Mataz with a raise of the hand, turned to a technician who was passing. “Did you fix the lights in the conference room?” She nodded. “Good. Remember, the set-up is for twenty-four.” He turned back to Mataz. “Go on.”
“The first group from PSC are arriving in ten minutes in the auto-shuttle and you know that thing is not up to code, I don’t know if it’ll stop. I’m sure it won’t. If someone doesn’t move that flyby we are going to have two dozen dead scientists with eyes like burst tomatoes floating past the dining-room window.” A useful thing about Mataz was that he always had the worst case scenario poised at the end of his trimmed fingertips. “And nobody can find the damn countess,” he finished. “She’s not in her room.”
“Early morning swim,” he murmured. Checked his watch. They had been walking for the entirety of this exchange, and were nearing the end of the passage now. A rattle of compounded wheels: he and Mataz both instinctively ducked as a plate of hot breakfast swept past on the auto-service gondola overhead. “She’ll be there when the breakfast bar opens,” he said. “I’ll catch her. Have we got a spot free in the hangar?”
“I believe so.”
“Okay. Make sure. Prep a signal for that shuttle, but don’t send it just yet. Can’t have a panic.”
