“He doesn’t drive, wear clothes, and doesn't drink,” Peter said with exasperation. The clerk looked at him, puzzled.
Floyd spoke up, “Sir, may I make an alternate suggestion? Perhaps an e-book? I believe our mutual employer’s only pleasure in life is acquiring credits, information, and reading,”
“Oh, yes, being! We have all the latest best sellers. Perhaps Steven King’s latest novel?” She gushed happily.
“Steven King? The twenty-first century writer? How is that possible? He was born over three hundred and fifty years ago!” Peter said with raised eyebrows, having read of him in history books and seen some of the classic movies made from them.
Floyd spoke up, “His heirs had him cryogenically frozen. When the technology was invented to scan dead brains, they had his memory and personality transferred to a cybernetic brain. He has been happily writing away ever since. I believe this is his four-hundredth novel. He loves being a disembodied brain, being a writer of the macabre and strange. I read it in an interview, he thinks it's ironic.”
“I admit I don't read much,” said Peter. “OK, wrap it up! Even if he’s read it, it's the thought that counts, right? Let's go get that drink, Floyd.”
The Cannibal’s Lounge and Tiki Bar was a spaceport bar with a faux Polynesian theme, sporting tropical drinks in funny containers, or in hollowed-out fruit from a dozen different worlds. Peter grabbed a booth, and flipped idly through the menu of cocktails. He pushed the intercom button for the bartender.
“How about just a shot and a beer? I hate these foo-foo drinks!” he said speaking into the drink menu.
“Being, this is a traditional Tiki bar, drinks are an art form here. May I suggest a Zombie, Mai Tai, or Samosian swamp gas?” the bar computer retorted.
“No, but I like the decor here. I’ve had just a shot and beer before. Don’t give me any crap,” Peter retorted, smiling at the familiar android parrots, cavorting robot monkeys, banana trees, and android cannibals turning a plastic human on a spit over a fake holographic fire. He had always thought the faux smell of roasting pork was a nice touch. “Whiskey, Earth in a shot glass, beer, whatever’s on tap, and make it snappy.”
“Very well, sir. One whiskey, neat, and a beer coming up. Next time you are thirsty, I should mention, there is pub two doors down, called the Horn and Fox. They serve dreary drinks like those. Your robot will have to order something too, or wait outside the bar,” the robot bartender said with a disapproving sniff.
“I’ll have a shot of Hydrob- 3 please,” Floyd said primly.
Peter saw a group of hookers in the lounge working the business-class guys. One working girl stood out from all the rest. She was a phenomenally stacked, gorgeous, short, redheaded, expensively dressed, and possessed a devastatingly beautiful heart-shaped face. Peter was fascinated. Hookers as attractive as her didn’t often frequent the spaceport bars. She noticed him looking, caught his eye and smiled. She broke away from her current crowd and headed his way. In a few moments, she was standing before Peter, even more stunning up close.
“Hello, I'm Monica, Monica Beavertons, are you a ship's captain?” she asked as she extended her hand to Peter while curiously eyeing his retro-airline pilot uniform. Peter although considered a bit short, was far from ugly, but he knew even if he was hunch-backed, scarred, smelled like a Flox and had weeping sores, he would still be hit on by the station hookers. Most spaceship pilots did not wear a uniform, but Peter loved all things retro and ancient. Having a uniform made that was modeled after an old United Airline pilot’s uniform―cap, epaulets, reproduction pilot’s wings and all―appealed to his sense of humor.
“Ah, yes. Yes, I am. I'm Peter,” he said smiling, “Join me?”
“Why, certainly, handsome man.” Monica purred sexily, sliding into the booth opposite Peter. “What brings you to Sarasota Station, business or pleasure?” With the word pleasure, she brought her arms together, and leaned forward pushing her ample charms out before Peter's eyes.
“Oh, definitely business,” he said, averting his eyes. He was no prude, but he did not want to be a pig and stare down her dress at her breasts.
Monica giggled, putting her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, I don't mind if you look. I like looks. I know I have a fabulous body and great tits,” she demonstrated by cupping both and giving them a jiggle, “They are a free billboard for my profession.”
“Uh, which I assume is...”
“Yes, I am,” She said somewhat defiantly, “I'm based out of Lucky Chang’s. That's where I work, but...” she leaned further over the table, her breasts threatening to spill from her gown, and whispered conspiratorially, “I need to get out of here, like, yesterday. He's violating my contract by forcing me to have sex with non-humanoids. I mean, like, eeeeww! Can you imagine having to take an insectoid’s proboscis or alien wiener into your…” she said grimacing,
“I mean and suck―”
“Uh, I can imagine―that's horrible!” Peter interrupted. He did not want to know the gory details about sex with aliens. Peter came from a rather conservative and religious upbringing.
“I asked to leave and now he's holding on to all my money. He has men watching the spaceport. I tried complaining to the station master, but he’s done nothing so far. I suspect Chang bribes him to look the other way. I can pay!” she said with a hint of desperation in her voice. “I have a small fortune in glow-metal jewelry.” Indeed, she wore many necklaces, the bangles all made from glow-metal, complimenting her beauty. Glow-metal was a super conductor used in circuit manufacturing, but mainly it was beautiful to look at with its unique properties of glowing and sparkling. It was an expensive and a popular component of jewelry.
“I can also make your time in transit VERY entertaining,” she said running her hands down her sides, and giving him a sexy wink. “I'm a class-four courtesan. I graduated with honors from Poly-Tech U at the top of my class with a minor in cheer-leading. Go, Muskrats!” Complicated arm and hand gestures over her head accompanied her statement.
“Hmm, I'd have to think about it, OK? Where can I find you?”
Monica got up quickly, wrapped her arms around Peter, and kissed him rather wetly on the cheeks. “I told you, silly, Lucky Chang’s on Brothel Row. Please, please, help me, Peter!” She continued, “I'm in a bad spot... I'll make it worth your while,” and with that, she got up and sashayed from the Bar.
His gaze was drawn to the picture window as he watched her pleasantly-shaped rump retreating. Jarring and out of place, five Meloovians had their not so pleasantly bare grey asses pressed against the glass; flipping off the mostly human patrons inside. Most aliens, especially Meloovians, resented, if not outright hated, humans.
Humans had captured a Meloovian saucer in New Mexico some 350 years ago. They had reverse-engineered the drive, eventually built spaceships, and promptly spread across the Universe, selling the drive and technology to any race that wanted it and could pay.
This resulted in releasing untold plagues, causing wars and conflict that raged for over 300 years. Of course, Earth had gotten fabulously wealthy in the process, and still dominated the galactic economy in most places. The Meloovians had thought their own policy of not sharing technology, and minimal contact was sound. Some races thought their anal probing and experimentation on various races over the years had been a little unethical. The Meloovians maintained that, for the most part, their hypnosis held―no long-term damage was done. What was a little inter-species ass-play versus war and death, they reasoned?
Peter and Floyd downed their drinks quickly, “Let’s go visit Boss, Floyd,” Peter said, eagerly looking forward to a payday. They paid and left.
Steve was manning the reception desk as usual. He was wrinkled, bespectacled, and middle-aged. The Boss did not care what its receptionists looked like, as long as they did their job and didn’t ask questions.
“Hey Steve, how’s it hanging? How’s the wife and kids? Boss home?”
Steve gave him a wry look. “Y
eah, like he ever goes anywhere, and I still hate the little pieces of DNA. My bitch of a wife still refuses to die or divorce me. She gets one more rejuve and I’m pushing her down the stairs! You know, same old here, I'll announce you,” Steve said with his usual morose attitude, while pushing the intercom button.
“Boss, Peter’s here.”
“Oh, good! Send him in,” the Boss burbled. Peter and Floyd entered the Boss's austere work space. A simple video screen adorned one wall, where stacks and stacks of audio-video cubes sat on a few shelves, a single chair and small table with a chess board.
“Hey, Boss-man, another successful delivery!” Peter chirped happily, “The quantity you ordered was a tad short. The supplier said there is a supply problem right now.”
In the center of the floor a large blob of protoplasm formed into a vaguely humanoid shape. The only name he had was ‘Boss.’ As a race, which the Boss had never bothered to name, they were basically the same individual over and over again; reproducing asexually. They did not like or require names.
“Hmm… I see. I was as afraid this might happen someday. Demand is so high. This has been getting worse for three months,” the Boss sighed theatrically. “I may have to send you directly to Baloovia for your next pick up. Was there any problem with Customs?”
“Well, I'm out ten thousand credits for bribes. You'll have to reimburse me for that along with my cut, but fortunately the Vookins are still greedy little bastards. The Tarcackians, and Heaven’s Battalion are still cheap. What’s Baloovia?
“Baloovia is where the drug originates. Did I never mention that? No matter, you may have to pick up the raw product for me now.”
“Sure, what is it; some sort of plant?” Peter asked yawning.
“Mm...no-o-o. Did I never tell you this? The drug is made from Baloovians, silica-based creatures.”
“WHAT?” Peter shouted.
“What indeed! Why? Do you have a problem with that, Peter?
“Damn right, I do! Grinding up living beings or whatever it is they do for the drug; that's just sick!”
“Peter, I―” suddenly Boss started to vibrate and flash colors like a soap bubble. “Uh, Peter, one moment. I had hoped this would happen either before or after our little meeting...” With a slurping sound, Boss split into two, slightly smaller, identical piles of goo. Each then reformed into a slightly smaller humanoid blob. One pile started babbling immediately.
“Uh, hey... look... I know what you have planned. You could send me to the outer moons—uh, I could be your assistant! Come on! Let’s work this out! Wait! Wait! WAIT!” the new blob pleaded. Boss calmly extruded a disintegrator from his protoplasm, and started playing the beam over his twin, “No! No! I’m too young to die… ARRRG! I’m melting! I'm melting. Oh, what a world. What a world—ahh—eee—noooo…” Boss quickly reduced his unwelcome twin to ash.
“Um, sorry you had to see that. No room for competition, even with myself,” Boss sighed. “I hate dividing day, much as you humans hate birthdays. I wish I wasn’t such a big baby about killing myself!”
Peter, with an incredulous and shocked look on his face said, “So, what’s this about picking up Baloovians and killing them? I'm not a killer; I'm a smuggler! How am I going to round up these living beings? I don't have a goon squad or a crew to do that, anyway,” he said through crossed arms and a scowl.
“You do not need hired hands to coerce them. They religiously and blindly believe that being ingested by other creatures is a holy thing—that they live on and purify others. Of course, that's what the discoverers suggested to the Baloovians when it was found by accident that they had intoxicating properties. They may be sentient, but they are very stupid and gullible, they produce no monuments, they have no industry…a completely useless creature. Simply open your holds and invite them to board. They will fight to be first in line. Convenient for us, eh?”
“That's sick! Even if they are deluded, I’m not going to do it! It’s just wrong. They are living creatures. I quit, if that's what you want me to do!” Peter said vehemently. Boss raised the disintegrator that had been by its side and pointed it at Peter.
“Peter, please,” it said, spreading its protoplasm arms in entreaty, “We have worked together for ten years. Let’s not throw that away over a stupid attack of what you humans call conscience. You have been unknowingly delivering their remains for years… I simply don't have the time to find another smuggler. I have orders to fill. If I find another suitable employee, I might let you quit, if that's your wish, but that's not possible right now. This is not a request, but an order,” it said raising its gun at Peter as he started to back toward the door. “If you refuse, I simply will not pay you for this shipment; and who knows? You may just become the next pile of dust to sweep up in the next few seconds if you irritate me, even being friends and all. So, what do you say?”
“Wait a minute, you just said you don't have time to―errkk.” Without warning, Floyd grabbed Peter and threw him over his shoulder. Running for the door, but still six feet from it, Floyd leaped and with a half-turn in midair, blasted the door off its hinges as he hit it backwards, and rolled into the hall with Peter. They both got up ran for all they were worth.
“Uh, nice knowing you, STEVE!” Peter yelled over his shoulder still clutching Boss’s gift as they ran, “Tell snot-face it’s not getting its gift now. It was the latest Stephen Kiiiing!”
Chapter 3: Enter and Exit the Hookers
“Stop. Stop! Please!” Peter said heaving for breath and leaning against a wall some distance away from Boss’s offices. Floyd stood by impatiently with its metal hands on hips.
“Sir, we need to keep moving. Boss is probably calling in all favors and hiring someone to capture or kill you about now. I can carry you if need be.”
“Wait! Give me a minute to think about what’s next. Crap! Why didn’t I see that coming? Sheesh! I should have kept my big mouth shut and played along-- me and my temper!” Peter panted.
Floyd grabbed Peter by the collar and pants; and started marching him along the corridor briskly. “May I suggest we jog to the ship while thinking, sir? I’m obeying my programming and protecting you.” They happened to pass by the space station gift shop again, “Sir, may I have a few credits to stop briefly and make a small purchase?” Floyd asked.
“Sure, but it seems like a strange time to go shopping. Besides, we are going to have to stop at a credit machine soon. I only have forty flimsies left, and maybe a couple thousand on my credit strip. Ah, shit! What are we going to do for money now? I spent all my credits on fuel and bribes. I was counting on the Boss paying me. Shit! Here, Floyd,” Peter said as he shoved the last of his cash into Floyd's hands.
He leaned on the wall of the space station still trying to catch his breath. Exercise was not in Peter’s wheelhouse. He pounded himself on the forehead, and muttered, “Stupid, stupid, stupid.... What the hell am I going to do now-- me and my big mouth? Oh, wait! I forgot about the hooker! She had a lot of jewelry! She said she could pay! … FLOYD! HEY, FLOYD!” Peter shouted. He ran into the gift shop just in time to see Floyd dumping a handful of key-chains into a new fanny pack.
“Hey Floyd, I almost forgot about that working girl. She needs a ride, and she was covered with jewelry that could easily be converted into cash. That could solve our problem!”
“Excellent idea, sir! Let us find Lucky Chang’s.”
After looking at a prominently displayed station map, they grabbed a shuttle car, and were soon standing in front of Lucky Chang`s, the name strobing in lights. The exterior was very garish with neon everywhere; holographic displays of nude aliens and women, flashing lights with a sign saying, ‘Fifty beautiful girls, boys, aliens and one ugly one.’ It couldn't be mistaken for anything but a bordello. On the door was a smaller sign with big red button that said ring bell for service.
“Ennnnnnt,” the buzzer sounded as Peter pushed it.
“Yes? Can I help you?” a deep voice resounded around them, and a camera swi
veled to peer at them.
“Yeah, we’re looking for some fun...uh, at least I am,” Peter informed the unseen speaker
“Just a minute.” They heard squeals, giggling, and thumping, and after a long minute the door opened revealing the interior of the bordello. Pictures of naked and scantily clad women hung on the walls, as well as naked aliens. There were weird devices that may have been sex toys hanging on the walls. Heavy metal–bebop–swing pumped through the speakers. Red and purple colors predominated, trimmed with velvet and lace, looking very feminine. Ten females, including aliens were all lined up in the main room wearing scanty clothing. An older, elegantly dressed human Madam stood off to one side.
“Why don't you say your names girls, and beings?”
“Susan,” a human female exclaimed.
“Mistress Dominic,” from a leather bondage-dressed human female.
“Oscar,” a large, rather pretty Hispanic woman said.
“Lucy,” uttered a Teddy bear.
“Squeak, snort... bruuuhet,” Peter wasn't quite sure what it was.
“Plain Jane,” Peter assumed that must be the one ugly one the sign had mentioned; she was.
“Justipitheth!” a Vookin female exclaimed.
“Ixixxixi hiiik,” from a Hezzina.
“Bark, woof,” said a dog-like creature.
“Hisssss aagggtthp,” a Glaxonian lizard girl uttered.
“Uh, can I have a drink first; before I decide?” Peter said to the Madam not seeing Monica.
“Certainly, sir. Make yourself comfortable. There is no rush,” said the Madam.
Peter sat down at the bar with Floyd, and the Hispanic-looking female sidled up to him smiling seductively. The other girls scattered to other chairs and couches. Some sat at the bar a few stools away.
Star Hookers Space Pirates Page 2