by Robert Culp
Prime Minister and his Council of Elders govern the planet, all elected by the public. Starports are at Parrukoo (western hemisphere) and Solorrom (eastern), these two huge cities support populations of approximately 15 billion inhabitants each as of the census four years ago.
Saxon has two orbital stations, one naval and one luxury resort, Lander’s Retreat. Lander’s Retreat is categorized as a seven star resort. For the right price, people can go there for complete separation from hectic lifestyles.
I meet the rest of the team in the Small Craft bay. Freddie checks my bag, Stan checks Needa’s, and then the guys check each other’s. Once they are satisfied, we all board the launch. I sit next to Needa for the ride down. “Did you know Aria is an android?” I ask. “She seems so…human.”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? I heard she’s like three hundred years old.”
“I can only imagine what she’s seen. I hope I look that good at that age.”
“I can’t stretch my imagination that far. You probably will. I bet you’ll keep your good looks for a very long time. But will you be getting as much action as she is?” We both laugh. The ditty aboard ship is: If it’s after eight/And you still need a date,/call Aria.
The ride down is uneventful. Once the launch is down and secure, Freddie wags his finger at me. “C’mon Powderpuff. Let’s go buy your hardware. Gimme your list.”
I hand him the list and look around. Tammuz was a dump compared to this place. I never expected a starport could look so much like a shopping mall; there are people everywhere. And the place is so clean. It lacks the institutional gray of our starship and (thankfully) the third world bazaar atmosphere of Tammuz. If the plants aren’t real, they are very convincing. And the air! It smells deliciously unfiltered.
“That’s everything I need to get,” I tell Freddie, “I also want to hit that old bookstore there. If time allows I’d like to pick up some new clothes from that boutique over there. Hey! A coffee stand! Care for a cup? My treat.”
“Coffee sounds great.” His head whips to my left. “Beat it you!” he roars at one of the young boys trying to sell me a trinket; he aims a half-hearted kick at the kid. The child doesn’t look like he can be a day over seven. “Watch those little weasels,” he tells me, “They’re slick. One will pluck your heartstrings while the other cuts your pocket open. I’ll be in the knife store over there while you’re looking at clothes. But first let’s grab that coffee and head to the industrial area. Most of this stuff we can pick up on the maintenance docks. This way…” True to his word, Freddie lets me buy him a cup of coffee. He even orders an extra shot of espresso on my dime. What a buddy, what a pal.
Two hours later I have an eighty percent solution, all being delivered to the cutter. The rest will have to be custom made. Freddie takes me to a machine shop he knows, where I explain to the proprietor what I need and what I need it to do. “Twelve of them? I need nine hours. Minimum. And I’ll need a fifty percent deposit before I mill the first piece of ducilium. Will you be picking them up or should I have them delivered? There is an additional hundred credit charge for the delivery.”
I know we can rent an anti-grav cart for a lot less than a hundred credits, so I say, “We’ll be picking them up.”
“No, we won’t,” Freddie counters, “we’ll need them delivered to our boat.” Freddie tells him where the cutter is. I look at him but I don’t argue; it’s not that big a deal. We have to hit a few more shops, but in less than three hours everything we need for the ship is either ordered for delivery or will be ready for pickup. One place has absolutely no delivery means. Price isn’t an object for him, capacity is. He simply doesn’t have the means.
Once we’re done and outside, I tell Freddie, “Okay, you’ve been following me around patiently. Let’s go do the stuff you want to first, then we’ll do mine.”
“Well aren’t you sweet. If you want to tag along with me, that’s fine. But I ain’t going shopping with you, fuzzybritches. The only way I would help a woman pick out clothes is if I plan on taking her out of them later. And since females are not on my menu, that’s a big fat ‘never.’” I bow up, preparing to argue but he cuts me off. “Yeah, I know what Aria said. I also know she ain’t here and all you can do is rat me out. So it ain’t happening. The stores we want to see are within eye sight and ear shot of one another.”
“Okay, you’re the bodyguard type. But I thought we were supposed to stay together. We’ll do your stuff first, I won’t cry or whine. Besides, I may need your opinion on what looks good on me. I promise not to take too long.”
He cocks his head to one side, like a dog listening to something, trying to identify the sound. “You aren’t listening to me are you? It’s. Not. Going. To. Happen.”
I know when I’m beat. So I stick my tongue out at him and head to the bookstore I saw. In the ship’s history I learned about Michael Sinnair and Peter Scholnich, both hailed as masters of their crafts, physics and materials engineering, in that time. But neither went out of their way to publish anything. I’m hoping that people who knew them did. I scan through the stacks and find a lone leather bound copy of The Miraculous Ascension of Dakor Lord Gerard Collins written by his wife, Lady Sarah. Lord Collins was friend and benefactor to both men. I don’t have time to delve into the book now; the thing is well over two thousand pages. I buy it with my personal chip. I doubt anybody would notice if I used the ship chip, but there is the ethical aspect of it. I did however let the ship pay for two texts on theoretical physics and the latest in materials engineering, specifically as it relates to cybernetic defensive and mobile combat systems. The Troopers on Night Searcher wear Class VII Strike Armor. Legend has it Scholnich improved on the Strike Armor of his day. But for reasons unknown, the changes—improvements—didn’t become widely used or patented. Nor did they survive in the industry. I think when he retired—or died—he took his secrets and accomplishments with him. Maybe I can learn something and improve on the contemporary Class VII.
At the clothing store I spend two hundred credits on a yellow blouse, plaid skirt and a pair of pumps. It’s all beautiful, but still functional. I spend enough time in my coveralls, so they and the boots go in the bag and I wear the new stuff. I cut the tags off and hand them to the cashier. She wants to start quoting policy until I show her what’s in my bag. I appeal to her senses of femininity and sisterhood. That, and a dose of my sad puppy eyes, is enough to convince her, and she agrees that I look like week old road kill in my coveralls. In gratitude I also buy a pearl necklace and earring set clearly placed as impulse items. I wear them too, after paying for them. Bags in hand, I head back to the coffee shop to meet Freddie.
He’s leaning against a column, waiting for me. He has a pair of bags in hand as well. He’s bought himself another cup of coffee. I only see the one and half expect him to hand me a receipt for reimbursement when I walk up to him. Instead he compliments me. “Dressed like that you won’t spend many nights alone. Unless you want to, of course.”
“Thanks! Do you really think so?” I do a small pirouette. “I was afraid it was hanging funny. Buy a girl a pretzel?” There’s a vendor pushing a cart by. “I bought you a coffee.”
“And I said ‘thank you.’ Buy your own pretzel. Do I look like a fraternal relief organization to you?” He sounds mean, but his eyes have a twinkle in them. Playing a hunch I give him my sad puppy face and whimper a bit. He rolls his eyes, “Sister, you are so barking up the wrong tree.”
“Fine!” I flounce away and hurry to catch up to the vendor to buy myself a pretzel. I go back and see if I can push my way into Freddie’s ‘inner circle’ a little further. But this time I try a flanking maneuver. “If you could make improvements to your armor, what would they be?”
“You mean our Strike Armor? It works as is, I suppose. If I had to pick something it really should sync with the energy weapons better. And of course if it didn’t weigh so much it wouldn’t drain a battery so soon. I like the old Strike Armor better to be honest. T
he new suits are more like vehicles. They make you do too much. The previous ones you put on, sealed up, and forgot about. I hope the Captain is hiring someone to work on our stuff soon. After our last scrap on Levi, we need some help.”
“I’m going to look into that.” The pretzel is very salty. I reach for his coffee.
“Really? Have you been aboard long enough for a voice in hiring?” He moves his coffee outside my reach.
“No, I’m going to look into improving the Strike Armor.”
“So you’re not just an alleged pretty face, but have brains too? Who’d’a thought?”
“You say the sweetest things. I’m sure you’re going to make some pillow biter very happy some day.” It’s the moment of truth. I hope he can take as good as he gives. Half of my pretzel is between us. If he punches me, I’ll have a minimal shock absorber. But even so, I’m going to wind up with a broken jaw and some loose teeth. His coffee cup stops midway to his mouth. He glares for a second but then continues the sip. For a picosecond his lips twist into a grin. I live! Enough frivolity for now. I sober up the moment and ask, “By ‘sync up’ do you mean the aiming point for the Head’s Up Display on the visor inside the helmet? My specialty is engines and they require a lot of synchronization, but maybe I can take a peek at it. Do you know if there’s a spare suit and weapon I can experiment with?”
“Yeah, the targeting reticle. You’ll have to ask The Powers That Be to screw with that stuff. The last dude that tried it died in a fire from a power pack overload. Could’ve buried him in a sock. So, do you have all your chick stuff done? I gotta do a deal off script. You can either go lock yourself up in the launch, or go with me. If you go with me though, you can’t tell anybody about it. Ever. What’s it going to be?”
“What’s the deal?”
“What’s your answer?”
It’s a stalemate. He won’t tell me anything until I tell him I won’t say anything. So it’s at least against ship’s regulations and probably against local if not interplanetary laws. I weigh the odds, the pros and cons. In a bizarre way, it sounds like fun. “I’m in. What’s the prize?”
“The negotiated swag was two dozen plasma grenades and five launchers to mount on an accelerator rifle. We’ll use a cover I’ve been working for months; I’ll be a Sonic Cycle Pariah biker and you’re my bitch. I can get anything from these jerks. It may involve kissing and a few slaps on the ass. Can you handle that?”
“Kissing who?”
“Me.”
I make my “horror” face.
He looks away, contempt, disgust and humor all fighting for dominance on his face. “Have no fear, you won’t hate it nearly as much as I will,” he says.
“I can handle it. I wish you had mentioned it earlier. I don’t think I can pull off the Pariah biker’s bitch look in this get up. I guess I need to get back into my coveralls? Can we stow our stuff in the launch first? Or should I rent a public locker?”
“We’ll run by the launch and stow it. Here, you can change into this at the launch. I bought it while you were fawning over the frilly crap.” He pulls a black leather suit out of his bag. “You may have to adjust here and there, but show what you have and it will distract them enough.” It’s a black plastic and leather suit: pants and jacket. Judging by the tags it’s at least a size too small for me. So it should be a distraction to just about everybody. The boots are the right size with four and a half if not five-inch heels. My legs and butt will look good. Real good. I hope I don’t have to do any running. The material of the garment is thin though. And as tight as it will be…looks like I’ll be completely “commando”. Despite his rough demeanor I’m beginning to think Freddie may be a she queer. He’s a snappy dresser in his own right. He’s definitely in that I’m Ready To Kill You genre, but the colors look good on him and the tailoring, like his grooming, is exquisite.
At the launch he chases the pilot out for a case of beer while I step into the ’fresher. He pulls out his perCom. I hear: “Wart? Mad Dog. The meeting at Wailers still good for seven this evening? Good. See you there.” He continues, but I can’t hear what he says. He must have walked away. He stows the unit as I step out of the ’fresher, his back to me. He has also dressed for the occasion, trading his coveralls for jeans, a tee shirt and jacket with a Pariah emblem between the shoulders. “All set?” He turns “Wow, considering your lack of decent plumbing, you look pretty good. Okay, ready? Let’s do this. If all goes well, we can get done with Wart, get back here, get changed back, go get the pickups, get back here, load up the deliveries, and be off in good time. Let me help you with that.” He tugs the jacket’s zipper down another inch and tugs on the lapels a bit. The girls almost explode out.
I glance down and see just a hint of areola on both sides.
“Yuck.” He says, “I wish I’d put my gloves on. Alright, follow me.”
“And here I thought you didn’t dig girls. Wait, before we go I just have to ask: We’re shipmates, right? I mean if anything goes bad, I have your back and you have mine, right? Just because you don’t…I mean…” I look away, ashamed of the question. I check my pistol. Hammer down, round in the chamber.
He rolls his eyes. He fixes me with an icy stare. “Look here, sugar. My preferences don’t have jack to do with any of this. I am a professional soldier. I will die for you if need be. You’re not a soldier so I don’t expect you to die for me. But I may need you to pull a trigger a time or two. Yes, I have your back. Come on now, let’s go already.”
“What would you have done if I’d said ‘No’?”
“What the…Fine! My first recourse would have been to take Needa. If she turned me down it was going to be Stan. Honestly though, the deal will work better if I show up with a skank in tow. Now get your butt moving!”
“Okay, ‘Mad Dog.’ Woof!”
“Muzzle it.”
“‘Muzzle it’? Freddie! You made a funny! Do you need a nap now or anything?”
The MagTrain takes us to the outer district of Solorrom. All the seats are taken so Freddie and I stand for the train ride. He’s behind me and has his hands all over me. He acts borderline pornographic, and definitely possessive. I feel myself blush. The last time anybody touched me like this I was worrying about making the copay. We draw stares from several passengers. I tell Freddie people are watching. “Let’em,” he says, “none of them are going to do anything about it.” I have to admit, I like the way his hands feel on me. For someone who says he doesn’t like girls, he sure knows how to touch one. We leave the train at the third stop. This part of the city has definitely seen more prosperous times. Freddie motions for me to follow him as he finds an alley that leads down to an old theater that has definitely seen better days. He knocks on the door.
A very rough looking woman answers. “Hey ’Dog, Wart’s been expecting you. Who’s the new bitch?” Freddie replies that I am his squeeze from Nineveh. “Oh, okay.” She opens the door and we enter. There are at least thirty shady looking characters sitting around in old recliners in what used to be the main theater.
I feel like a rabbit in a room full of wolves. I stick close to Freddie, first hanging to his right, but he moves me to his non-firing arm. His left arm loops around my waist, his hand casually but firmly on my left butt cheek. I guess all the contact in the train was a rehearsal. The semi-intimate contact feels natural now, even welcome. I presume my best course of action is to not speak unless spoken to. So that’s the plan I stick to. I try to be casual about maintaining good situational awareness but still ooze sexuality. The squalor is almost a physical assault. The place reeks of sweat, tobacco smoke, stale beer, the gods only know which bodily fluids, leather, and—if I’m not mistaken—gunpowder. A haze of smoke diffuses what little light there is in this contemporary cave. It stings my eyes. There’s the heavy primal beat of a death metal band. It’s loud, but not quite overpowering. I bump into Freddie then realize I’m doing it, my hips are gyrating to the beat, matching the tempo. And not just side to side. Freddie’s ha
nd doesn’t move aside from his fingers tapping time on my hip.
One of the gangers detaches himself from a pair of skanks and approaches us. He’s wearing a black watch cap, pulled down to his sunglasses. Who in the world would want sunglasses in here? His vest sports a smaller version of the emblem on Freddie’s jacket. He has a very thick, bushy, black mustache. The rest of his face hasn’t felt a razor in several days if not weeks. Tattoos adorn both arms and continue to his chest and neck under the shoulder straps of his wife beater undershirt. “Long time, dude. This bitch cool?” He and Freddie—‘Mad Dog’—shake hands and do that stupid ‘bro hug’ thing.
“This is Reba, a piece I picked up in Nineveh. And not the reason I’m here. You have the goods or are you wasting my time?”
Wart looks me over, and takes a long hard look at my chest. His gaze continues to slither down my body. I have to admit I was feeling excitedly sleazy in the leather when I saw myself in the mirror back on the launch. Now I just want a shower. I feel defiled by his gaze. He looks back at Freddie. “Okay, I got your hardware. Since I like you, I’ll drop the price to fifty K and I get to nail your whore. Come here and bend over, bitch.” His hands fall to his belt buckle.
Freddie pulls me tight to his front, drawing me in close. “We agreed on fifty five K. That’s what I’m paying and that’s with a solid ‘no damn way’ to you bangin’ my bitch.” The bikers all look at us. Some stand up, their hands move to the butts of their guns. “Let’s all just take it easy boys. Wart, you’re getting your money. I just said you can’t have her. She’s mine. You know I don’t share. She fits and she’s clean. Nobody pisses in my well. Let’s just do the deal and everyone walks away happy.” With his right hand Freddie snaps my chin towards his face and shoves his tongue between my teeth. Didn’t see that coming.
“You won’t begrudge a brother a cheap feel though.” From the corner of my eye I see Wart’s left hand move towards my chest. This is not exactly what I signed on for, but a little groping never hurt. Well, not for long anyway. And Freddie did imply I might get groped. I try to keep my face neutral, not showing my disgust. Freddie’s hand is faster. He’s reaching across my chest, his left hand cups my right breast, and his forearm flattens the left one against my chest. The jacket shifts, I feel the zipper grind against my nipple.