The Man Who Never Missed

by Steve Perry

  “What would you get if you served a patron voremholts on Primesat?”

  Khadaji shifted, to allow the stream of hot water under his left buttock to flow up between his legs. His penis bounced in the stream. “Probably a nice tip,” he said. “Voremholts is expensive in the Centauri System.”

  “And the same drink served on Tatsu would get you…”

  “Two-to-five in the local prison.” Khadaji’s voice was dry.

  “And on Gebay?”

  Khadaji shifted back. The water was causing some blood flow down there he couldn’t do anything about now. He looked across the tub at a girl with long white hair. She was young and had a nice smile—not to mention a slim and attractive body he’d noticed when she’d entered the tub. Maybe he could do something about that anatomical swelling…

  Pen slapped the water and a glob of it arced up and splashed against Khadaji’s face. “Hey!”

  “What happens if you serve voremholts on Gebay?”

  Khadaji wiped the water from his face. It left a greasy feeling on his skin. “Gebay. Not much. Except in the Konta Compound, where any but church-approved chemicals are illegal. They cut your hair off for selling proscribed drugs. Which doesn’t sound all that bad, by the way.”

  Pen shook his head. “No. They don’t cut your body hair. They pull it out, one strand at a time. The pain is supposed to be incredible, after a time, not to mention the anticipation. It takes three days for someone not particularly hirsute—they work straight through, day and night.”

  Khadaji felt a chill, despite the heat of the water surrounding him. Gebay. The religious compound—serve no voremholts there.

  “And the makeup of voremholts?”

  “Jahambu bark, majani wormwood and tecal mushrooms, dissolved in a fifty-fifty solution of water and Koji rum.”

  “And where is the best voremholts made?”

  “The Bibi Arusi System—the green moon, Rangi ya majani Mwezi.”

  Pen nodded; the shroud swirled around him in the water. “Very good,” he said. “No more questions for today.”

  Khadaji inhaled through his nose, enjoying the tickle of the mint. “I have a question,” he said. “Will you ever tell me about your order? The Siblings of the Shroud?”

  “It is a complex subject,” Pen said. “We are called many things: existential humanist/pacifists; elitist intellectual pantheist/positivists; meddling sons-of-bezelworts. A few minutes in a tub would hardly suffice to scratch the surface. Besides, it isn’t important for you to know about me, only about yourself. The Shroud isn’t your way.”

  “All right. I have one question you can answer, then. Do you ever take that shroud off?”

  Pen laughed. “Certainly. Normally, not in view of another person, that’s frowned upon, but when alone, it is allowed. I sleep without it, normally bathe without it, and surely make love without it—in the dark, at least.”

  Khadaji was surprised about the last. He had somehow thought the order was celibate, though Pen had never said so.

  Pen caught Khadaji’s look, apparently. He laughed again. “Oh, yes, we have the same stirrings as others. And we indulge them. In fact, I will not be sleeping in our rooms this night.”

  Khadaji grinned. “Got something lined up?”

  Pen said, “I have plans for the evening, yes.”

  Khadaji’s grin widened. Good. He’d have the rooms to himself, and the young woman with hair like snow might also be free. He was thinking of the best way to approach her when Pen stood and waded across the hip-deep tub toward the girl. He extended his arm, dragging the wet folds of the cloth across the scented and thickened water. As Khadaji watched, the girl smiled sweetly and took Pen’s hand in her own. Khadaji watched the muscular roll of her buttocks as she and Pen climbed from the tub and walked to the drying rooms. Khadaji found his mouth was agape. He shut it and blinked at the suddenly irritating mint fumes. Well, I’ll be damned, he thought. Maybe some of the critics of the Siblings were right. Certainly Pen seemed a son-of-a-bezelwort, at the moment, anyway.

  Chapter Nine

  THEY WENT TO the Beta System, to the fifth planet, called Rim. As the boxcar dropped from orbit, Khadaji stared out through the densecris portal. There were patches of smudgy light against the blackness of the planet’s surface, patches which grew sharper as the boxcar swung its passengers and cargo closer to the ground.

  “Nice view,” Khadaji said. “You couldn’t get us a daylight arrival so we could see the place, I suppose.”

  Pen’s eyes were closed and he appeared to be sleeping, but Khadaji knew better. The man never seemed to sleep. He spoke without opening his eyes. “You didn’t bother to read the history, did you? Didn’t even wonder why they call it ‘Darkworld.’ ”

  “I was busy. Studying the tender’s exam. Besides, I figured it was probably rock formations or black sands or something like that.”

  Pen opened his eyes and glanced out through the densecris plate. “Actually, it’s axial tilt and habitable land masses. Most of the people on this world live on a subcontinent which gets daylight only a small portion of each year. It stays somewhere between deep twilight and true night all day in the High Bzer’s Glorious State of Khadzharia, for at least twelve of the planet’s thirteen months.”

  Khadaji watched the lights of one city begin to turn into bright, hard diamonds and rubies and sapphires as the boxcar continued its dead-bird descent. “Wonderful place if you’re a vampire.”

  “Or an albino,” Pen added.

  The old man’s name was Kamus and he was the owner of the pub, a long and narrow warren called D. W. Dick’s. Khadaji looked around the place carefully, taking it all in. The floor was wood and well-worn, but clean; the tables were small squares with rounded comers, bolted to the floor; the bar itself was antique stressed red plastic, probably almost as shiny as the day it was cast. Behind the bar was a speedex retrieval cabinet for the chem stock, a credit tag reader and comp terminal; on the wall hung a long sword, under a full-size acrylic picture of a nude couple intertwined in apparent passion. Aside from the old man, Pen and Khadaji, the place was empty. It smelled clean.

  “We close on Si’days,” Kamus said. “Bzer’s Decree.” He looked carefully at Khadaji. “Your tags say you’re qualified, but the patrons in this pub have eclectic tastes. How do you mix a Sinclo Suicide?”

  Khadaji wanted to smile, but he kept his face impassive. “Twenty-five cc’s each gin, scotch, amberglow and Spandle yeast, in a tall glass of Bern’s champagne.”

  The old man nodded. A lock of white hair fell across his forehead. “A Scarlet Dream?”

  “Grind five grams of red coke into a fine powder and mix with one half gram of verisol—any inhaler will do, but it’s best in a number six Marietta.”

  Kamus nodded again. “One more. Bloody Mary?”

  Khadaji allowed himself the grin, this time. That was an old one, Pen had made him learn it early on. It was perfect for curing the aftereffects of alcohol intoxication. “Forty-five cc’s vodka, ninety cc’s tomato juice, one cc Worcestershire sauce, two cc’s Tabasco, trace pepper, lemon slice, one dissolved tab AA-complex. Mix cold with cracked ice and strain into a frosted glass.”

  The owner of the pub returned Khadaji’s smile, then looked at Pen. “Seems to know his stuff. Your rec?”

  Pen nodded. “Vouch and backup.”

  Kamus sucked at his teeth. “All right. You’re hired. Corpse-stealer’s shift, basic-and-half-divvy with the floor. When can you start?”

  Khadaji was startled. He understood about half of what the old man had just said. Before he could speak, Pen said, “Fine. He can start tonight. Where can we get rooms?”

  “Wait, hold it a—” Khadaji began.

  “Quiet,” Pen ordered. “The rooms?”

  The old man grinned and wheezed a little and told Pen where they could find rooms.

  As they walked out into the warm darkness, Khadaji started asking his questions. “Corpse-stealer’s shift?”

  “Midn
ight until dawn, twelve hundred to oh-six hundred. In the early days on this world, people used to bury the dead.”

  Khadaji shook his head. “Like on old Earth. I never understood why—such a waste of raw material. And basic-and-half, divvy with the floor? What are we talking about?”

  “Minimum stads to start, but you get a percentage of gratuities left by patrons, usually divided equally among the workers on any shift.”

  “Vouch and backup?”

  “A long time ago, I worked for the previous owner of the place. I—ah—developed a good reputation. If I’m willing to vouch for you, it’s a point in your favor. Backup means I’ll cover for you if you have to miss a shift for some reason.”

  “That might be rough on you,” Khadaji said. “Having to work my shift and yours.”

  Pen stopped and smiled; the movement was invisible through the folds of his costume, but Khadaji knew. “Did you hear me say anything about me working? You support us for awhile, Emile; I’ve got meditation to catch up on.”

  Khadaji thought about that for a moment. Well. It was only fair; after all, Penn had been carrying the cargo since they’d met.

  Pen came with him the first night and stood in the background as Kamus introduced Khadaji to the others on the shift. Even with the dampers on, it was noisy, there were a couple of hundred people packed into the place. He yelled at Banrose, the headserver, managed a smile across the bar at Shandu and Gretyl, two more servers, and got a frosty nod from Mang, the “crowd control officer.”

  Kamus said, “That’s pretty much the crew, except for Juete—she’s late, as usual. Hop on back there and work with Lu Shan for a few minutes, get the hang of the layout.”

  Khadaji glanced at Pen, who stood nearby, watching the crowd, then nodded at Kamus. “Sir,” he said.

  “None of that,” Kamus said, smiling. “Last time somebody called me ‘sir’ I had to duck to keep him from shooting me. Call me Kamus.”

  Khadaji nodded and headed for the bar. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The battle on Maro, with its sense of cosmic consciousness, was still firmly embedded in his mind, but he had to believe Pen’s advice—he had to start somewhere. Pubtender Khadaji. Well. It had an interesting ring, at least.

  Khadaji was busy. He supposed it would get easier as he learned the systems, the locations of various chems, the ways to mix common ones faster, but for the moment, he was running at full throttle, jets flaming, trying to keep up with the demand. The standard single-ingredient chems were easy, just a quick tab touch and the computer would dispense those automatically. But some of the patrons were as odd as Pen had first told him. He was bent over a concoction called Hen’s Teeth when a soft and deep female voice said, “I need four splashes, a Wizard’s Ring and a double fire brandy.”

  Khadaji looked up, mildly irritated with the server.

  Later, he would swear his heart had stopped and his vocal cords had been suddenly paralyzed. The most beautiful creature he had ever seen stood there. She had encountered his reaction before, it seemed, for she smiled slightly and said, “I’m Juete. You must be the new tender.”

  Khadaji managed a blink, but no words. Shoe-et-tay, she called herself. Wonderful. Amazing. She stood a hair over a hundred and sixty centimeters high, weighed maybe fifty-five kilos, and had smooth white skin, white hair to her buttocks, and pink eyes. He wasn’t sure about the last, the lights were dim, but she was as clear an albino as he’d ever seen. She wore a jet body stocking which was nearly as revealing as full nudity, though it covered her from neck to toes. Against the black of the sheer cloth, her face and hands seemed to shine with pure whiteness.

  “My drinks?”

  Khadaji fumbled the drink he was building, managed to set the glass down without spilling more than half of it, and hurried to fill her order. Somehow, he managed it. Then she was gone. He stared after her, feeling stupid, feeling as he had just before the first time he had ever made love to a girl.

  Kamus cackled behind him. Khadaji turned. “Never saw an exotic before, that’s plain enough.” Khadaji snapped himself out of his daze and hurried to rework the Hen’s Teeth. The old man hovered next to him. “Genetic restructuring,” he said. “Somebody figured since it was dark all the time, albinos would feel right at home. It was before the Chromosome Charter and the genetic laws, but they tend to breed true.”

  Khadaji tried to say something. “She’s—I—it—uh…” The old man cackled again, trailing off into a wheeze and cough. When he could breathe again, he said, “Yeah, I understand, son. That’s why I don’t term her for coming in late, she is good for business.” He laughed again, then wandered off. As he passed the sword hanging under the acrylic picture, he paused to stroke the handle.

  By the time Juete had returned for her twentieth order, Khadaji was able to relax enough to speak and pretend to a kind of normalcy. He hoped.

  But the conversations were limited to drinks and powders; both the server and tender were too busy to stop and chat. Khadaji found it was hard for him to judge her age. At first, he had thought she was very young, she seemed barely past puberty for a standard human female, on looks alone. But she moved too well, her timing and pacing were obviously well-practiced, a thing which only came with age. Such a joy to watch move, she was, ah—

  He shook his head. He was a young man, but hardly a virginal wheatseed fresh off an agropod; he had spent six years in the military, had been many sexual places with more than a few people. Why was this woman so—so—so… whatever it was she was? He felt smitten—and foolish for feeling that way.

  The morning worked its way by without any major disasters on his part. Oh, he did flub a few orders, managed to put bitter tair in a drink supposed to be sweet, but all in all, it went well. He was tired, but pleased. And smitten, of course. At six hundred, the relief crew began to filter into the pub. When the dayshift tender arrived, Khadaji tried to find the girl, but Juete was gone.

  Pen seemed to materialize from the smoke-filled room, to stand next to Khadaji. Before he could speak, his teacher said one word: “Pheromones.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “The female exotic. She produces concentrated and enhanced sexual-chemical signals, specific for human males. Part of the original genetic programming built into her ancestors’ systems. They were designed as sexual toys, you know.”

  Khadaji swallowed and shook his head. “No. I didn’t know.”

  “You found her attractive. Unusually so.”

  “Yeah.” He recalled the feeling. Knowing why the woman drew him seemed to make no difference. It was that gut-level versus intellectual-level thing again. The brain might know, but the gut felt. And, in this case, it was a portion of his anatomy somewhat lower than his gut which seemed to control his interest in the exotic girl he’d just met.

  Pen said nothing, only stood there amid the flick-smoke and stale odors of human bodies and chem, waiting.

  Finally, Khadaji said, “Let’s go to the rooms. I’m a little tired.”

  The routine was established. Days, Pen schooled Khadaji in martial techniques. Nights, they slept—at least Khadaji did. Early mornings, there was the pub. After a few weeks, Khadaji had the hang of it. He got to know Banrose and Shandu and Gretyl, the servers; managed a passing relationship with Mang, the bouncer, and listened to the old man Kamus spin adventure stories in the early hours at the pub. But Juete, the exotic, seemed to be avoiding him, save for orders at the bar. Aside from that, Khadaji was comfortable with the new routine. Too comfortable, he thought. Something was bound to happen to screw things up. At four hundred on a slow W’nday, something did.

  Kamus was near the starboard end of the bar, leaning on the thick plastic, telling one of his fantasies to a group of old men like himself. The Dick—as it was called by almost everybody—was nearly empty, only a dozen or so of the night people quietly smoking or drinking. The vampire crowd, Khadaji thought of them, they came out after midnight.

  “—giant spider,” Kamus said, “damned
near the size of a big dog. Well, I have to admit I was a touch worried—”

  Khadaji stirred a cocktail and blasted the finished drink with a spray of liquid nitrogen, freezing the fluid into a slush. He dropped a cherry onto it and turned toward his next drink. At a table near the port side of the bar, three men seemed to be raising their voices a bit louder than the usual background din, but not enough to blank Kamus.

  “—skewered that fucker on my blade, but he kept wiggling and reaching for me—”

  Add carbon dioxide for the bubbles, now—what was the last? Ah, yes, the still wine—

  The voices of the three men increased in volume. They were arguing about something. Juete was their server and she seemed somehow involved in the discussion. Khadaji saw Mang begin to edge in the direction of the table.

  “—green blood, it had! Copper-based, I think, but it was damned well bleeding all over me and my sword—”

  Khadaji was reaching for a mixer when he heard the whump! of a compressed gas gun. It was a sound he’d heard enough during the Kontrau’lega Break. He ducked reflexively and swept his gaze around the room.

  One of the three arguing men stood by the table, pointing a long-barreled air pistol at the downed form of a second man. As Khadaji watched, the man with the pistol took deliberate aim at the fallen man’s head and fired again. Khadaji heard both the whump! of the gun and the wet thump of the steel projectile as it smacked into the man’s skull.

  Mang jumped toward the killer, his hand digging for his own weapon. Before he could clear his stunner, the third man kicked his chair away and pointed a hand wand at the charging bouncer. He fired, and the pulse flared out, flashing Mang and the two customers who had jumped up at the first shot. Two more patrons reeled away with peripheral shock.

  The whole sequence had taken maybe five seconds.

  Khadaji took it all in. There was no point in becoming a dead hero, he decided. If they pointed their weapons in his direction, he would duck behind the bar, otherwise, he wasn’t planning on moving and drawing their attention.