Scorpion by Christian Cantrell (novel24 .txt) 📕

this time, Kron is quick enough to catch. He dips beneath the blankets and does not reemerge until he is fully dressed.

At which point the room has been further transformed. There are tripods positioned throughout, each topped by buzzing fixtures producing what Kron mistakes for some kind of freaky mood lighting but is in fact ultraviolet germicidal irradiation emanating from low-pressure mercury-vapor tubes. Tariq is now bedside, offering Kron the same disposable wraparound sunglasses everyone else in the room is already wearing, including Mira-Dona, who has finally concluded her workout and is hugging the shopping bag from downstairs, presumably containing the eveningwear she arrived in. Kron’s case is packed and awaiting him in the foyer, ready to faithfully follow its master on its tiny casters like an excited puppy, and a masked housekeeper is standing on a stepladder, vigorously sanitizing the top shelf of the closet.

Kron’s Arabic is for shit, but between the bed and the door, he picks up on a pattern.

“What are they talking about?” he asks Mira-Dona. “What the bloody fuck does ranveer mean?”

“Ranveer is a man,” Mira-Dona says. She has stopped to put on her heels, and Kron inadvertently takes careful note of their effect on her ass beneath her bikini bottom.

“Well then, who the fuck is Ranveer? And what the fuck gives him the right to take my room?”

“He isn’t taking your room,” Mira-Dona says. She seems not the least bit self-conscious about her attire—or lack thereof—as the two of them are herded into the suite’s private elevator. “You took his.”

—

Ranveer is the richest homeless man in the world. He is homeless because the tools of his trade are nicely portable, and his work encourages him to be mobile. He is rich because he gets paid enormous sums to solve the kinds of problems that manifest themselves as people.

He is a tall, slender, sinewy man who has never eaten a piece of meat in his life, and although you would never use the word “muscular” to describe him, you somehow know he could rip a Tokyo telephone book in half given the proper motivation. He wears his receding hairline with grace and elegance, and his heavy chevron mustache curls so naturally and impeccably down over the corners of his upper lip that it is hard to believe he was not born with it. His black eyes somehow portray both congeniality and malice simultaneously, and have a tendency to make the people who endure his stare suddenly wish that they could be elsewhere.

This evening, Ranveer is traveling from L.A. to Sohar, Oman. From the time he leaves his room on one end and starts unpacking on the other, he will not open a door, wait in a line, or lift a single case. The hotel and the airline have arranged everything, and even in an increasingly complex, chaotic, and unpredictable world, he is fully confident that there will be no mistakes.

He only flies Emirates Airlines. If Emirates doesn’t provide regular service to a city where he needs to be—or if it is not possible to charter a private supersonic jet through Emirates Executive—he does not need to be there. He only stays in properties owned and operated by Crystal Collective Worldwide. If CCW doesn’t have a resort, hotel, or timeshare in close proximity to his destination, then it’s road-trip time. Ranveer understands the meaning of brand loyalty, and he expects that loyalty to go both ways.

CCW has a suite in every location designated just for him. If the property is entirely full, and if you are willing to be extorted out of three times the posted rate to stay in Ranveer’s reserved quarters, you do so with the understanding that you may be thrown out onto the street at any moment, whether you happen to be sleeping, showering, or shagging. Doesn’t matter if you’re a politician, executive, or rock star. There won’t even be so much as a knock or the beep of a keycard. The door will simply be thrown open, and then you, your groupies, and your things will all be on your way out by the shortest possible route. This is solemnly explained to you by the manager on duty before you biometrically authenticate. Once you are gone, the room will be reset and, as part of a smoothly executed ultraviolet germicidal irradiation operation, slow-baked under low-pressure mercury-vapor tubes. Finally, Ranveer’s cases will be brought in, and the most beautiful woman currently on staff will either lounge on a divan or sit primly on the end of the four-poster bed, wearing a combination of her very best smile and her most fitted uniform—one or two extra buttons undone.

But it isn’t the service at CCW properties that Ranveer values most, or even their emphasis on charm, elegance, and aesthetics when hiring, all the way up the line from housekeeping to senior management. It is the fact that the staff is trained not to ask questions—and more importantly, when the wrong people come calling, not to respond.

At the airport, Ranveer is personally escorted to his GoldCoach suite situated deep in Sultan Class territory by a nervous airline executive who appears less familiar with the luxuries of the 797 than Ranveer is. The bumbling oaf bumps his head both coming and going, and his hair cream leaves an unsightly smudge on the bulkhead, which a flight attendant must dispatch with a rigorous buff. The eye roll she throws Ranveer’s way, and the genial smile with which it is received, convey their tacit agreement that her boss is not long for the world of the employed.

The suite and its private lavatory contain separate plasma glass displays on which someone from Boeing-Comac is taking the opportunity to personally thank Ranveer for his patronage. While in the air, Ranveer enjoys a spicy egg curry with two bottles of mineral water while he scours three different news networks in an attempt to stay one step ahead of the constant global unrest. A cognac accompanies the checking of cricket scores