Tower Of Babylon Pt 04

Games of Passage

The guest suite was actually a mansion in its own right. It was a two story structure located somewhere inside the vast estate, replete with its own set of servants and decorative accessories that could be tailored to the whim of the guests. Human capital was cheap in the Protectorate, so they flaunted it at a level that could make the Palace of Versailles seem pedestrian.

Matt was too tired and mentally fatigued to care, so Okano volunteered to act as his head mistress. She went to work taking care of arrangements for the temporary home away from home.

Matt really wanted this trip to be over. He had just become acclimated to his executive lifestyle before he was thrown into this lion's den. There was no way he could really relax as he expected that every action he took was being studied and judged. He'd thrown himself into the previous orgy in order to prove his bona fides. In the age of hyper-patriarchy, the dissipation of one's vital essence in as many available orifices as possible was an entrenched social custom.

The master bedroom already had a warmer lounging on the vast mattress. Bee joined her, luxuriating in the silken sheets, as Matt wearily slipped into an equally silken robe. The bedroom was bigger than their entire flat back at the Enclave. Even the attached bathroom was not much smaller in size. The bay window and balcony overlooked an enclosed garden, a more modest mirror of the primary estate's vast arboretum.

"I have ideas too, why does Rebecca get all the fun?" Bee complained. The warmer, a brown skinned young woman of south Asian heritage, looked up at her with curiosity. It was apparently safe to talk this way as the warmer didn't speak their language, or at least she gave that impression. If she was acting, it was convincing enough. Bee patted her on the head, as if she was some exotic cat.

The mattress was so wide that when Matt slipped under the covers it barely shifted and he was not even in arm's reach. When Bee grabbed the bed warmer's hand to start a fresh tumble, Matt shook his head.

"Look, let's just get some rest. We have to attend a dinner party with one of the wives and her coterie later," he turned his back to her and promptly went to sleep.

Bee clucked her tongue in disappointment but decided not to argue. Her forehead itched from a bit of sunburn and she needed to pee so she crawled out of bed. The warmer immediately attached her torso to Matt. She seemed quite dedicated to her job.

Yawning, Bee shrugged and walked into the bathroom. Even though she knew the standards of this place, she was still startled when the attendant snapped to attention. Apparently, the young woman, pale and freckled, was acting as a living toilet seat warmer. There was plenty of overt technology in the estate but it was overshadowed by these examples of profligate gilded age service. Bee couldn't help herself but compare herself to the other. There was a clear hierarchy here, and despite a twinge of guilt, she was glad the roles were not switched. It was nice to be served, for once.

Bee sat on the toasty seat and relieved herself muttering, "Well, I guess this place impresses me. I wonder what it takes to marry into this?" The bathroom attendant looked at her blankly, wiped Bee's bottom for her and flushed the toilet. Something monstrous inside of Bee rose up from the depths and she almost felt sick: she realized she could enjoy this lifestyle a little bit too much. She should have recoiled in disgust, yet, it had felt so natural...

Later, reality would rear its head at the dinner party as her true place in the pecking order was solidified. As the afternoon waned, they were called back to one of the larger buildings. Matt wore an outfit picked out for him by Okano that was minimalist in design but quite clearly a hand-tailored bit of exorbitant finery.

Somehow, the entire wardrobe had been sized to his specifications in advance.

Okano herself took his side, accented with a complementary strip of cloth that somehow managed to hang onto her body without actually covering anything at all. It flowed gently, apparently some kind of memory material, switching between accentuating her curves or emphasizing a piece of sensual anatomy by guiding the viewers eye almost hypnotically.

Bee was given nothing, not even a bit of jewelry, and Okano directed her to follow a few paces behind with some handmaidens whose only purpose was to fill out their entourage. A man servant led the way through the maze of the grounds until they arrived at the banquet hall.

Even Bee had to peevishly admit the couple looked splendid together.

Okano, much to Bee's consternation, was seated next to Matt at dinner while she had to kneel at the pet's position practically under the table. For some reason, this fresh humiliation felt different despite her identical role at the Enclave. There had been at least the illusion of choice, so in a way, it had been a game for her to play. It was clear the people here took all of this quite seriously.

Bee made eye contact with someone else at her level. Under the solid wood legs, there was a trough cut into the floor where attendants could move back and forth without being seen. They provided extra services to the guests. Matt patted the girl assigned to him on the head but demurred when she made motions toward his crotch.

"Sure, that's my job," Bee breathed through gritted teeth, pushing the attendant to the side.

The dining hall itself, described as cozy, was big enough for a sizeable wedding party. There were several groups arranged around the room, apparently members of the extended family as well as their guests, friends, acquaintances, or general hangers on from all stripes. However, unlike Bee or Matt, they all seemed to be quite jaded by the splendor. Okano made sure Matt's plate and cups were filled, choosing and feeding him delicacies.

Bee cursed silently, "I need to be up there, preening, you bitch."

Her daydreams of somehow attaching herself to the wealthy patron of the estate were also dashed once she saw the wife and her clique. They were obviously body-molded to perfection to such an extent that their nudity was their clothing: covering the designer flesh in just about any textile would be a downgrade. Bee became even more acutely aware of her own imperfections, already exacerbated by comparison to Okano.

The wife, Annabelle Francine Weaver, was tall and impossibly willowy. Her satin skin seemed to shimmer with subtle textures that changed at different angles of light. The globes of her eyes were like a doll's and somewhat unsettling and even her movements were precise at the joints. She was simultaneously beautiful and alienating, attractive to the eye yet painful to look at like the uncanny valley of extruded 3D models.

Okano had given him a nasal spray that she told him contained blocker agents that would mitigate the tailored pheromones that could make a eunuch want to dry hump the woman. The male wait staff could barely contain their lust as they exchanged the various courses of the meal. When Mrs. Weaver's hand brushed the leg of one poor fellow as he passed by, he practically soiled his codpiece and nearly dropped his tray.

All of this was highly illegal in the Protectorate, but the laws did not register at this level of power.

She was too far away for any conversation, encircled by her entourage at the other end of the dining hall although a brief introduction had been made earlier. It was just as well, since Matt had no idea what he'd say.

Seated at their table for the dinner was one of the sons of the high household, Jonathan Samuel Weaver. Like many of the myriad offspring of the paterfamilias, the son had served in the military, at great cost, as much of his body had been replaced with cybernetics due to injuries sustained in combat. His face bore a terrible scar that he had apparently kept as a badge of honor. Bee was glad that the table hid her from his baleful gaze. She shuddered at the thought of being offered to him.

He certainly drank like a soldier, smashing down goblet after goblet of whatever ambrosia or liquor was offered during the seemingly endless courses that were spun before them. Much to Bee's chagrin, Okano would feed her bits from the entrees like she was a trained seal. She had no choice but to follow along. She'd have to figure out how to get back at Rebecca when they escaped this decadent place.

"I understand you are here to make a deal with my father," the son almost seemed to spit out that last word. It was clear there was no love lost in the relationship. He added, without prompting from his guest, "I've only met the old bastard twice. The benefit of being the eleventh son of a second tier wife means some momentary freedom. I hope you enjoy the honor of his presence. Pray to God, or whatever you heathens believe in, if he decides to actually pay any attention to you at all."

Matt nodded awkwardly, unsure of how to respond to this information. He was familiar with the stereotype of the dysfunctional wealthy family, but was still puzzled how to engage with a living example of the trope. He just wanted to get this deal over with and go home but he had to be careful not to step on a landmine and blow the whole thing up with some social faux pas. Okano could only help him so far. She nudged him but he wasn't sure if it was sign to speak up or ignore the uncomfortable line of conversation.

Beside the disfigured son, he was joined by his cadre of wolfish friends, a mixture of soldiers and academy mates from what Matt could figure out. They were all elites but clearly of lesser birth, opportunists and friends of convenience. If there was any genuine comradery there, it was opaque to Matt, and perhaps even to Jonathan Weaver.

One such person was an almost equally savaged young man in his mid-twenties of burly physique and a false eye where a ballistic round had taken out much of his upper face. The disfigurement could be repaired with modern techniques, so the piratical look of the crew was clearly some kind of affectation. Matt didn't like how he kept staring at Okano. The fiendish looking fellow had his own toy in his lap during the meal, absently probing the hapless woman's anus with a thumb as she lay across his lap.

The furnishings truly were nothing more than objects to this bunch, Matt thought. Laid out face down on their table, and practically a piece of it, was another woman who served as a centerpiece. She was so still that Matt had thought the ebony creature was actually carved from the wood of the table itself. It was only when one of the devilish posse slapped her on the ass that it was clear that she was made of live, quivering, flesh.

The savage man, called Edward Hitch, whispered something in the ear of the young Weaver. Okano did the same to Matt, whispering, "You should offer me to them. It is proper etiquette."

Matt froze for a moment, conflicted.

As if sensing the moment, Weaver laughed, "Your skin-doll doesn't interest me, outsider. My balls got blown off, stray shot from a rogue gun drone at Grand Junction putting down some heathen strikers. Fucking decidedly unfriendly fire. Daddy made sure to divest from the manufacturer and some poor management schmucks got punished worse than death: they and their families had their S-tier credentials revoked, so they are now living in the Buffer and selling themselves to eat. Isn't that the real shit? Haha! Anyways, I decided to not regrow the bits, life's simpler that way. Yes, it's all solenoids and circuits below my waist. Mommy dearest prays for my salvation every day, but what's the point when the world's gone to hell? She lives in this bubble year round, while the rest of us cannon fodder keep's the lights lit."

Hitch's face soured a bit, disappointed, as he'd expected sloppy seconds. He thumbed the girl on his lap harder. She squealed and writhed.

Bored, Bee's mind wandered to Okano's previous lecture about the tier system. The Protectorate made a pretense of being a meritocracy and fiercely defended the Tier hierarchy as not being the same as a caste system but for all intents and purposes that's exactly what it was. The first families and the highest levels of the Protectorate lived in the S class which was a special place of its own, while the rest of the population were divided into roughly A through D rankings. People in the A-tier were equivalent to the upper class in most other places, B-tier made up the working professionals and bureaucrats, C-tier were general laborers and the bulk of the servant classes, and, finally, D-tier was made up of essentially outcasts, criminals, and slaves. Anyone outside of this hierarchy did not register as people at all.

Matt's visa gave him a temporary ranking that was equivalent to an A-tier personage. Although, as unmarried females, both of the women would normally be thrown into D-tier for all intents and purposes, there was some type of social mobility in function. By marriage or association, a woman such as Okano, and even Bee, could rise all the way to S-tier at the behest of a patron. This led to a lot of social jockeying and intense rivalry, a competition that benefited the masters of this hierarchy.

While they might both be elevated to A-tier due to being attached to Matt and his visa, it was clear that Bee was lower down on the social ladder. Okano nudged her. Bee sighed and did her duty, planting her face into Rebecca's exposed muff.

If it was for show, Okano made a good performance of enjoying the attention.

Jonathan Weaver leaned forward, "You got some good bitches there, I am impressed. We usually play some games after dinner to wind down. You should join us in some friendly wagering."

Matt could guess what he meant and shook his head at first, "It's been an exhaust-" He nearly yelped when Okano pinched him in the side.

"I might stay to watch a few rounds first. Not much time for gaming where I am from. Are these physical sports, if I may ask? Or VR competitive matches?"

Weaver's eyes sparkled, "Of a sort. A bit of that...and the other."

Although Matt suspected that these games would be something outlandish, he was still a bit curious after all. Once dinner wound down, the various parties split up. The wife and her entourage bowed out to retire to some parlor for their own entertainments while the gang of Weaver's thugs and a smattering of others took a short livery ride to a destination that was too far to walk.

They were whisked by electric carriages to a building complex that could contain the entire central Enclave and its towers. Matt glimpsed through the tinted side-door glass what appeared to be massive sporting venues suitable for all forms of activities, from equestrian, watersports, and indoor ski slopes. Every time he thought he'd been jaded by the opulence, he was surprised once more.

Looming overhead was a colosseum style arena that was their destination. The carriages made their way up the wide ramparts, spiraling to the highest deck on the upper ring of the arena structure. Each carriage split off to individual private boxes arranged around the perimeter of the deck. Matt's carriage let them out adjacent to the one taken by Weaver and his mates.

Attendants ushered Matt's party inside the luxury box, once again lavish enough to be a penthouse suite of the finest hotel. Bee threw herself onto a couch, enjoying its auto massager. Now that they weren't in direct line of sight of a local she could relax for a little while. The attendants didn't count, as they were trained in total discretion, or so Okano had assured them. Still, Okano kept to her duty as Matt's escort, much to Bee's annoyance. Her knees hurt too much at the moment for her to care too much, so she let the couch do its thing.

"While I'm here, I'm going to fucking enjoy it. Drink please!" She snapped her fingers. "And I don't care who's gazing or what not." One of the servants, a woman as slim as a gazelle, whisked her something from the private bar.

Okano frowned but decided not to intervene, focusing on the scene before them. The front of the luxury box was a glass enclosed viewing area that extended out over the rim of the upper deck. From the side, they could see their neighboring box. Weaver nodded his head and some type of intercom amplified his voice, "We're setting up the field. Kick back and watch. Just hit the join button on the console if you feel like it. Don't worry about covering any betting. We're not barbarians, so we won't trick you into selling us your life or some crude bullshit like that, promise. Totally friendly games here, with just a bit of spice. To be really honest, your net worth ain't even fly shit to me. That's just reality."

Down below, the field was a bit larger than a competitive soccer pitch and Matt guessed it was remodeled at will to fit whatever sporting event was being held on it. Currently, the artificial turf was marked with grids, circles, and lines that didn't make any sense to him at first. Then he saw the mechs and it became clear that the field had been divided into zones for one on one sparring matches.

These were not official military machines, but some weird hybrid made up of modular pieces that could be swapped in and out, connecting to hard points on a center unit that acted as the torso. He didn't understand how any of it balanced out.

The augmented window glass of the booth magnified the field of view with gesture control. Matt zoomed to peer more closely at the mechs as they squared off into pairs. Some were bipedal while others had up to six legs plus grappling appendages. The limbs ranged from arms ending with human-like hands to ones that looked like the stingers on a scorpion and all clearly designed for blunt force.

The mechs almost seemed to be toys but clearly had insane speed, dexterity, and power.

Matt had seen VR games with similar constructs except these all had nude female operators inside the clear bubble shaped torso compartment. They appeared to be suspended in some kind of viscous fluid while "riding" an odd saddle arrangement connected to the base of the sphere. There must be some sort of gimbal arrangement that allowed the rider to maintain their seating despite the sudden g-forces of the machines movements. He could make out some almost invisible connecting lines that were attached at various points on the women's bodies. Matt tried to fathom what purpose they served. Also, he saw that the women had no need for breath inside of the fluid.

"Some kind of intravenous oxygen exchange through their anuses?" He asked no one in particular.

Weaver must have heard over the intercom, as he grinned, "Cool, isn't it? We're just doing one vs. one to warm up. Sometimes we do tournament or last man standing."

Matt could see Weaver manipulating some kind of haptic controls.

He'd seen similar gaming consoles although the rig in each booth accommodated up to 4 players side by side. It could be configured for either standing or sitting positions, but currently the seats were retracted and the console was at waist height.

The control stalks were one size fit all and detachable and not much different than consumer ones found in any gaming center. Matt looked down, wondering why the women inside the machines appeared to be making motions as if they were the ones controlling their movements and not the people in the booths.

Then it dawned on him that Weaver wasn't directing the machine on the field with his console, but the riders themselves. One of them was clearly reacting to each twitch of his fingers. It was a blonde riding a semi-bipedal mech that bounded around like a gorilla on its front arms. She was warming up, doing some side to side hops and lashing out punches. If Weaver made a sudden finger movement, after a slight timing lag, his rider would react in the direction he'd indicate. Sometimes, he could give what appeared to be an additional jolt, spurring a more intense reaction from the rider. Matt could even see her grimace when that happened.