Star Hookers Space Pirates

by David A Sizemore

  Peter passed Envirofoam plates around, heaped with food. The Lavana sniffed cautiously at first, and then tentatively licked at the ribs, but within seconds they were gobbling the proffered lunch down with gusto. They examined the sporks with curiosity, then promptly dropped them into the dirt, ignored.

  Peter winced when they did not eat the meat off the bones, but ate everything, bones and all. Those were very powerful jaws; like pit bulls. He thanked the gods he had had the foresight to bring food, and that the Lavana were not pissed off at them, politely ignoring the fact that they HAD tried to kill them all, not more than ten minutes before.

  “Brilliant, Peter,” John said indicating the ribs.

  “Truly, Peter, this food of Gods. What beast this is?” asked a Lavana, waving the dripping chicken wing in his hand.

  “It’s called chicken where we come from.”

  “Except paste make mouth burn like fire, white sap that cool fire, taste like our Pukatha.”

  “Translator, what’s pukatha?’ Peter enquired.

  “A small flightless reptile here; chicken, in other words,” the translator offered.

  ‘Sir, it’s a mysterious fact that, almost everywhere in the universe, there is a creature analogous to the chicken. The theory is that there was a progenitor race that spread the DNA of bipedal forms across the galaxy. There is almost always a small creature of low intelligence with mostly white, firm meat, that’s found tasty to all races. I guess the creators loved chicken a lot.”

  “Wow! That’s really something to know. Oh! by the way, the stuff with the large long bones is called pork,” Peter informed the Lavana.

  “Yes, taste before-- tastes just like scientist.” Dances- when -insects- stings said with a dripping muzzle, “Oh, other thing, sky offering good, we just warriors. Accept gift, maybe tribe help assholes, Chief decide.”

  They all looked at each other with concern. John started to say something before Peter made the ‘be quiet’ gesture across his neck. Soon they had their fill, with the Lavana contentedly patting their bellies, belching, farting, and picking their sharp teeth with their long, pointed nails. Peter noticed one of them carefully wrapping up leftovers in broad leaves and putting them in his fur-covered carry bag.

  The one they called Dances-When-Insect-Stings noticed Peter watching him and said embarrassed, “Chief have try God food.’

  They packed up their belongings and followed the Lavana without words. Peter was smiling inwardly, thinking he had them friendly now, hooked with the Bar-B-Que. Maybe they would work for food?

  They progressed much faster through the foliage this time, the Lavana's seeming to instinctively know how to avoid the heaviest growth and fallen logs. They had less work with the machetes. The Lavana, using sign language, made a hand covering the mouth and upraised hand gesture. The Incontinence crew got the point, and they stopped. They motioned them to stay where they were by pointing at the ground. It seemed like sign language was almost universal for bipeds.

  The Lavana spread out and silently slipped into the jungle. Peter and crew stood tense for what seemed like an hour but was probably only half of that before they heard a horrendous crashing, squealing, and honking in the distance. The jungle became silent again before the Lavana returned with an ugly four-legged creature that they had gutted. It was dripping green fluid and lashed to a fresh-cut pole with vines. There were three smaller creatures over their shoulders, alive and faintly honking, lashed to vines; its young he supposed. The Lavana had expressions on their faces that could only be grins.

  “Dinner," Dances-When-Insect-Stings announced.

  They continued on to the village.

  Chapter 24: Cannibal’s Feast

  They entered the clearing where the tribe lived, and the whole village erupted in sounds of what could only be joy; whistles, ululations, and clapping. What were presumably the women of the tribe crowded around the hunters, and relived them of their catch, stroked their genitals, rubbed against them, and exposed their rumps to them in explicitly sexual displays. Obviously, the hunters and warriors of the tribe were treated like rock stars here, or at least like real big stud muffins. They were the bringers of food.

  It was not immediately clear which members were the females of the tribe except for the ones that pushed their butts at the hunters-- as none of them had apparent breasts. But upon closer inspection, they could all see that half the tribe was gussied up a little more elaborately, smaller of stature, and deferred toward the males. The group of hunters that brought them in seemed entirely male in attitude, and the thing dangling between their legs was hard to miss but the others exhibited very little curiosity about the aliens among them, sparing them only a few curious glances. As they got closer he saw why.

  Among the necklaces and headdresses of feathers and bone, colored stones-- there were bits of metal, wire, and plastic woven in, obviously of alien origin from within the Nine Worlds. There were skulls everywhere; lots and lots of skulls. Many were probably native as they were of unfamiliar shapes, but a few were obviously of human origin or one of the other nine main races, sending a little chill through them, reminding them that these were killers. Cute and friendly as they might appear, they were no strangers to outside races-- nor afraid of them or their modern weapons.

  There appeared to be cultivated fields growing some kind of crops in orderly rows, and domesticated animals in pens. Peter thought, Interesting, they were hunters and gatherers; what most cultures called civilized; not just savages. Had the scientists they had come in contact with shown them agriculture already, or had they had it for a while? Not that it mattered to Peter and his plans.

  Their structures looked a bit like wasp nests slightly above the ground, constructed around one or two of the sturdy asparagus looking trees with short rope ladders dropping from them. Peter and the crew were escorted to one and told to wait. Their escorts did not appear to actively guard them, but a couple of natives with weapons seemed to be lounging nonchalantly against a nearby tree. They poked the walls of the huts and found them to be like a heavy-duty, crinkly paper cardboard with a slightly oily feel. They found out later it was produced by the females of the tribe by chewing the dried leaves of a certain plant. Their saliva produced a sticky adhesive and the paper-like and naturally oily substance made the dried product waterproof.

  There wasn't much in the way of furnishings except for the logs cut for sitting and some sacks stuffed with plant mater. There were no wall decorations or implements lying about.

  Peter couldn't help himself, he fell asleep waiting to be escorted to the chief. He was not used to walking so much A few hours must have gone by before he was shaken awake by Marcus.

  “Captain, wake up! They want us to come with them now.”

  Wordlessly, Peter got up, rubbed the sleep from his eyes, grimacing at the unfamiliar aches, and followed the crew outside to a waiting escort of ten Lavana. He wasn’t sure if it was an honor guard or prisoner escort, but what did it mater, as long as they took him to the guy in charge?

  Now the Lavana males and females were again almost impossible to tell apart as everyone was decked out in what looked like every feather, fur, shiny stone, bone, and every bit of bling they could muster, as well as pigment on their fur.

  They were escorted to a central plaza where it was now clear some sort of celebration was planned. Mats had been laid down heaped with various fruits, accompanied by platters and leaves full of unrecognizable foodstuffs. Gaudy flowers of every description were heaped everywhere. A florist could make a fortune importing this stuff Peter thought-- amazed.

  Lavana were filing in from every direction. The air was soon filled with the sound of drums, the tweeting of some sort of flutes ominously looking like the thigh bone of some long-legged creature, and a curious-looking stringed instrument made of a gourd-like plant that was struck by a padded stick.

  “Hey, you know that’s actually kind of catchy, isn’t it?” said Marcus bopping his head to the music.

&nbs
p; “It almost makes you want to dance,” John agreed.

  It was as though they had made a request when several natives got up and started gyrating and jumping about. Peter had a hard time suppressing a laugh. Their dance didn't look like the dancing he expected, not that he had expected anything, but it resembled Texas line dancing with a lot more butt wiggling and jumping.

  “What’s so funny?’ asked Marcus.

  Peter tried to explain, but John and Marcus had never seen line dancing. They didn't get what was so funny.

  Dances-When-Insect-Stings squatted behind them.

  “Hey, how’s it going, dudes? the translator said, its diction getting better with every translation, “How about some hooch to lighten you up?"

  The little native produced a wooden flask, untied a cord threaded with gourd-like cups, and started to pour for them.

  ‘Sure, thanks.” Peter said, and then called Shirley on his com. “Hey, Shirley, it looks like we are going to have a party in our honor, but I'm worried that the food or drink might kill us or make us sick. Besides that-- what’s up with the translators, Shirley? How can the natives be using words like 'Hey,' 'dude,’ ‘hooch,' and phases like, 'How’s it going?'”

  “Peter," Shirley said reprovingly, "Of course they are not saying that in their language. The translator approximates the...ah- tone of what they are saying and makes an educated guess as to what is being said, and puts it in terms you will understand. From what has been written about the Lavana, their metabolisms are similar to yours, what would poison you would poison them pretty much, so relax. If you are worried, there is a slot that pulls out of your com that you can put any substances into, and I can give you an instant analysis of what it is made of.”

  “Really? I didn't know that.”

  “Peter, your com has about forty other apps you never use. If you would just read the manual, but of course, you never do,” Shirley sighed. “It’s in the drop-down menu on your com under manuals, duh!”

  “Here, test this stuff.” He popped open the tray from his com, put a small drop of the hooch into the device, and closed it.

  In a few seconds Shirley announced her analysis. “Well, the good news is its alcohol. Maybe the bad news is it’s hundred proof, so be careful with that stuff. Where they got the technology to make distilled spirits that strong is a mystery, though”"

  ‘Uh, thanks, Shirley. Talk to you later.”

  Peter announced to Marcus and John, “Go easy on that stuff, it’s a hundred proof.”

  “Ya think!” said Marcus coughing and sputtering from his first sip, his eyes watering. ‘Whoa!’”

  “Yes! Good stuff, huh? Other hunters, one time, steal sky people firewater some time ago. Had big red cross on it. Some reason they put metal objects in it too. We save it for special occasion. Lavana booze not bad—my mom makes a killer hikal fruit wine, but taste like Milgar piss compared to this--not that Dances ever taste Milgar piss. This knock dingle-- dangle in dirt.” he confided, looking around quickly, “I bring females over to sit with us. It feasts. Not party without getting some ass, eh?”

  “Uh, sure,” John said not wishing to be impolite.

  Dances-When-Insect-Stings disappeared into the crowd.

  “They really don't expect us to be interested in or want to mate with their females, do they?”

  “Beats me. I'm just glad they haven't eaten us, but if they order you to have sex with their women, I suggest you comply,” Peter said smiling to show he was kidding.

  “I couldn't help but hear that,” Shirley interjected. “Scientists have been studying this place for almost a century. Some must have been lonely or horny or well—just pervs, and enjoyed the favors of the female natives, and reported that the parts fit. A good time was had by all. Their genitals work similarly to human females. Their mammaries are located under their armpits. Reportedly their breath smells awful, and are oily, but they possess a ten-inch tongue. Their oral skills are―”

  Peter cut her off. “Thanks, Shirl, that will be enough.”

  “Wow! A ten-inch tongue! No wonder the boys all seem happy here!” John couldn't help adding with a grin.

  “And the males all have twelve-inch slongs or longer. They can―” Shirley interjected again.

  “Thank you, Shirley! That will be all!” Peter cut in again, exasperated.

  “Heyyyy! A foot long! Wha-da-ya-know! If someone had a plushy fetish, they would be in heaven. I guess the ladies must be happy little campers, also,” Marcus said with a grin.

  Their musings about the sex lives of the Lavana was interrupted by the entrance of what could only be the leader of the tribe. He was carried into the clearing on a throne by four natives at each end of wooden poles. If the clearing and feasting area was gaudy and covered in flowers, someone must have picked a large meadows worth of flowers for the Chiefs chair bower. Obviously, he was held in high regard. He was gently lowered to the ground from which he rose with difficulty but grace.

  His fur looked a bit bedraggled, and he wore a headdress of bone, and feathers, cleverly interlaced… but what really drew the eye, was the enormous blue phallus strapped to his groin. Really big; of cartoon proportions. Apparently, having the largest penis signified stature.

  Marcus chortled. Peter gave him a shot in his side with an elbow, and hissed furiously, “Show some respect. Don't get us killed, idiot.”

  Marcus looked contrite, but slyly hooked a thumb at the chief. He shrugged his shoulders as if to say, ‘OK, but come on, look at that!’

  Peter had to admit it was kind of amusing to an outsider’s eye, the symbolism not lost on him.

  The chief raised a hand, and the music and conversation stopped. Another native, standing behind, stooped down to the aging chief and listened briefly.

  He nodded, stood erect, and proclaimed, “Our great chief Pongnosa- Milgar-killer, greets the sky people, and welcomes you to Lavana village. We have been informed by our hunters that you ask for Lavana’s help and bring food of Gods. We are most impressed. We have had asshole food before; taken in conquest or shared by them, but none such as this.” The Translator/flunky leaned down again to listen to the chief.

  When he addressed the village again, he said, “Hunters inform Chief of why here. Is most curious why sky people needing Lavana’s help. Never have assholes asked us for anything. You have weapons and magic of great power but we are not scared of you. We are mighty warriors and many. Many times, have overcome sky people’s magic. Chief and peoples observe ones that come here mostly puny. Only thinkers, not warriors. Your peoples many as stars in heaven somewhere we have heard, sky people have great magic and learning thing you call science but understand why you ask Lavana’s peoples help. You suck big wienie at fighting. How you survive is miracle. You fight like women and children. Have brains size of Puthaka. You biggest bunch vaginas we ever fight!”

  “I think we’ve just been insulted, Pete,” Marcus commented softly with amusement in his voice.

  Once again, the speaker leaned down to listen to the chief.

  “Chief most suspicious! What you offer for help?"

  The chief leaned back on his throne while another gave him a drink. When he settled back with a relaxed air, he looked at them expectantly.

  "Well, they certainly don't beat around the bush, do they?" John said. “They may be primitive, but I don't think they are stupid, Peter. Better make it good.”

  Floyd leaned in toward Peter and said in a low voice, "Sir, it has been recorded that most of the contact or conversation with these beings and the scientists were basically just days long torture sessions on their part. Be advised that they probably know as much about us as we do them. They are just as smart as humans and many other races, only low tech.

  “Oh, Tarcacks!” Peter punched the switch off that activated the translator. “I'm only an ignorant space captain! Why is it on my shoulders to make a speech that might change the course of Lavana history, beside keeping us off the dinner table?” He squeezed his head between
his hands.

  “May I remind you, Sir, that supplying the Lavana’s outlawed tech as well as our very presence carries a sentence of death,” Floyd reminded him.

  In a voice dripping with sarcasm, Peter scowled at Floyd. “Oh, that’s good! I almost forgot,” he hissed, “Seeing as we already have a death sentence, and everybody wants us dead, that’s not much of a downer, is it? I mean, how many times can they kill us?"

  ‘Uh, eternal mental torture might seem like being killed over and over,’ John offered.

  “Yeah, being killed twice might actually be a blessing,’ Marcus mused.

  “Once again, thank you, crew. You really know how to take the pressure off!’

  Peter shot them all a dirty look, grabbed the flask with the stolen hundred proof alcohol, and took a massive gulp.

  “Whee! Shirley, jump in if you think I'm blowing it. You have any suggestions?” Peter gasped.

  “Certainly, Captain. Go get ‘em, tiger!” she said into Peter’s ear bead.

  “Thanks Shirley, load of help you are!” Peter walked forward, closer to the chief’s chair. He was not sure the tiny speaker in the translator would carry very far, and he didn't want to be misunderstood.

  ‘Greetings, great Chief! My name is Captain Peter Farlon, and I come from far away to enlist your help. I have been here before, and the fighting prowess of the Lavana is legendary. It is true that we are a mighty people and possess great magic. Our numbers are like grains of sand, but sometimes even mighty people need beings that are not known to others-- uh, uh, secret warriors-- surprise troops—err...”

  The chief held up a hand and spoke briefly to his aid, who stood up, and proclaimed to Peter and the rest, “Lavana sometimes use other assholes for short while going up against larger tribe, not known by enemy. Lavana weapons no match. Many sky warriors have weapons spit lightning, rocks. You have real warriors somewhere. Not all you fight like pussies?”

  “This is true, great chief and that’s why,” Peter took a deep breath; here it came, the pitch, “I will be giving you BBQ Gods food for a year.