by James Martin
The wave transporter has been known to cause epileptic seizures to certain species. Station XI has warnings listed on a sign located in middle of the concierge desk and recommends that you close your eyes during transit. For those species effected by this mode of transportation, Station XI provides a courier rail service that takes a few minutes to days depending on starting and ending locations.
Astraos clicked the Informer off as the wave transporter pulsated with a deep magenta hue. The steel cage had him feeling claustrophobic and trapped in a cell like a deranged animal, bound to be tortured by the visible spectrum. He closed his eyes, swallowed some saliva developing and prayed to his ancestors for safe passage.
Astraos stepped out of the cage and into Section D. He walked to the concierge’s desk that was eerily available, which he supposed to be the one that offered actual help. The other concierges serviced the masses that continued their march of monotony, saying a destination and vanishing inside the transporter.
“Hello.”
The female was an ezon, a humanoid species. She had vibrant pink skin and sporadic scales. Female ezons were known to be enticingly seductive. This one had a line of scales snaking around her neck. She was dressed in a metallic looking uniform that was form-fitting and captivating. Her eyes widened at the sight of Astraos, she coughed, hesitated. “Hello. . .”
He strained a smile which only served to heighten the tension. “I need to go to. . . to the Bar District.”
“Please. . . don’t destroy The Station.”
Astraos visibly stepped back. The sentence caught him more off guard than any physical attack. “I’m not looking for trouble.”
“My family stays here with me. We all have jobs here.”
He stood there mouth half-open, baffled.
“Promise me. . . You won’t destroy the station.”
“I don’t—”
“Promise me!”
“I promise.”
“Okay. Um, I know you are a cheshir and can take on hordes of fighters. Promise me, you won’t kill any workers. They are innocent. . . well, most of them.”
“How many promises am I making today?”
“This is the last one.” She smiled nervously and looked down. “Promise me.”
“I promise”—he looked at her name that was displayed over her left breast in a holographic screen—“Pada’ko, I promise not to kill any innocent people and destroy The Station.”
“Good. It’s the third door to the right marked, ‘Bar District.’”
“Simple. Easy. I like that.”
She gestured with her left arm the way to the door and said nothing more. What she didn’t know was that any other cheshir would’ve made it their life’s mission to have the Bar District turned to rubble if any offense occurred after this discussion.
The steady stream of beings that went to-and-fro on The Station turned into a rather meager trickle going to the Bar District. He knew—without a doubt—he was entering a warzone.
Stepping through the door, led to another wave transporter which took him to the Bar District.
Walking inside, he noticed the ground was a gritty desert sand that crunched underfoot—the perfect type of land for the shops and denizens that inhabited the gutter of Station XI.
The first shop to his left was a whore house with the ladies on display in the front windows, a customer could be seen through a side window being ‘pleased’—as if to show how good you could have it. There were a variety of females, gorgeous to their respective species, dancing and seducing, perfectly located to take advantage of a patron who had too many drugs or alcohol in their system. Many paid double the fee for a ride they would forget in a few hours.
The first shop to the right was a place to ‘cure the body:’ from getting over a hangover to a pick-me-up. . . They had it. A banner for Lipeldax and other drug and ‘life enhancers’ were advertised with the prices cut three times in a row on the holographic display—to demonstrate the incredible deal one could get every day, every year, forever.
And right in the middle, with searchlights on the side, big and bold, the name in red holographic lighting roughly translated to: The Place.
Astraos licked his lips. This should be fun.
He strode towards the door which was flanked by two females, both exquisite: one an ezon and the other a kaledio.
Out of nowhere, a big tentacle humanoid creature came out and shocked Astraos, he yelped, “Ahhh—Uhh.” He shuttered from the intrusion. I hate slimy water things.
The ezon snuffed a laugh then gulped when she saw the entirety of his face, recognizing those unique eyes.
The kaledio next to her said, “A cheshir. . .”
“I did not mean—”
Astraos laughed and attempted to wave their trepidation away with his hand. “Don’t worry about it. Don’t tell anyone though.” He jerked his head away to avoid more eye contact with the creature. “I’m just not a fan.”
The two attractive ones looked at each other with mirroring perplexed looks. The tentacle thing said something muffled. Astraos imagined hearing, “Ladies!”
The ezon sashayed over to him and stroked his chest armor with her hand. She had emerald eyes, a cute pouty face and lush brunette hair with intermittent highlights of azure cascading down to her hips. “None of the ladies have ever had a cheshir.”
“I imagine not. None of you are a cheshir’s type.”
She teased him, looking up with her emerald eyes and batting them. “Is that how you feel?”
He did a half-smile, curling the right side of his lip with a sharp exhale. “You fit the bill.”
“Why don’t we get out of here?”
“I’ve never been one to pay.”
“Oh. . .” She said, taking a step back, tabulating the cost-benefit and lost earnings. “I could make an exception.”
The tentacle thing gargled another something Astraos did not catch.
She said in reply, “I will be fine.”
Astraos walked past. “I have some business to attend to. If you’re still around when I’m done, I can show you why the cheshirs are really hated.”
She laughed. “See you. . . hopefully.”
Astraos passed through the saloon-type doors. The Place was similar to the setting of a classic Western but with aliens.
After walking through the doors, a chiman waitress with long, coarse brown hair coming from her sleeves and a mad, sadistic grin on her apish face presented a large tray of drugs—every drug ever conceived of on the galaxy. They even had Earth psychedelics on the tray, psilocybin mushrooms and mescaline—unbeknownst to Astraos. In fact, he had zero idea about any of the drugs on that tray. He was certain of one thing. Not the time. Definitely not the place.
A band of aliens played jazz-type music that layered the bar with chords of mischief and illicit behavior. Astraos would’ve loved to watch and let his Informer rattle off information about them; especially the one who looked to be slabs of pustule wounds playing a saxophone-type instrument between folds; but unfortunately, he didn’t have the time. He was beginning to think he would never.
Astraos brushed past the waitress and saw beings gambling, arguments ensuing and someone holding a sharp object while a few thugs surrounded the soon-to-be-victim. It was a tough, cheeky establishment. There was a long bar counter made of glass with projections inside where patrons were able to surf the galactic web and entertainment channels of every planet in the galaxy. There were a line of bartenders, and behind them, were rows and rows of bottles—they appeared to be endless. The repetitive nature of The Place became clear to Astraos as he tilted his head to look back and discovered that there were more waitresses with more trays and more gambling and thugs and general criminal activity, stretching far beyond his line of vision. The lights were dimmed, but that was an advantage for him: he could see just as clear in the night. He sat down at the bar.
“What can I get for you?” The bartender was cleaning a glass, odd to Astraos given t
he state of affairs.
“What would you recommend?”
“Depends on what you’re trying to do.”
“Blend in.”
The bartender laughed and added, “But stay alert?”
Astraos nodded. “You got it.”
He came back with a glass and poured a grain-type liquor. “Sip.”
“Thanks.” Astraos looked up at the bartender and a peculiarity struck him. There was a distinct parallel between Nate and the bartender: Nate being the closest anyone came to resembling a human. Of course, there was still the possibility that this male was hiding four legs behind the bar or glided on goo. He was about to click his Informer on to find out, but he decided not to. He liked not knowing at times. Made life more interesting.
The bartender leaned over the counter. “Business?”
“Yeah.”
“Who you looking for?”
“A kaledio named Yezkal.”
The bartender leaned on his right elbow. “You sure?”
Astraos tilted his head to the side and gave the bartender a curious look. “Yeah. Why?”
“He’s a nasty one. You won’t be getting what you think.”
“Hmm, he lets you talk about him?”
The bartender shrugged. “I’m a Station worker. Untouchable. He values his life very highly. Lots of guards around him for protection and enforcement.”
Astraos sipped his drink. It had a strong aroma much like mint. “Not bad. . .” He set it back down. “I can handle myself.”
“He operates here in the Bar District behind the whore house right next to the entrance. He thinks it helps with his cover and, you know, people making bad decisions.”
“You made this easy, thanks.”
The bartender sighed. “It’s about to get a whole lot harder.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Behind you.”
The bartender made a swift exit as a group of thugs surrounded Astraos. “Haven’t seen you around before.”
“Don’t get a lot of strangers?”
The pig-face humanoid snorted. “Comedian, huh? Everyone knows you have to pay us to drink here.”
“Oh?” Astraos peered to the side and saw another gang of fools. “What about them?”
The pig smacked one of his brethren on the shoulder. “This one’s funny. You have to pay them too.”
“So I have to pay you then I have to pay them?”
The pig nodded.
“And what if I don’t do any of that?”
The bartender came back and chimed in, “I wouldn’t suggest that. You should pay them, you seem a nice enough guy.”
Astraos turned back around toward the bartender. “I need a recording of that.”
“Of what?”
“Of you saying that. . . It might make the news.”
The bartender responded by giving him a strange look. Astraos turned back around. “How much?”
“Twenty credits.”
“Wow. There’s five of you. So each of your lives are worth only four credits?”
“Excuse us, bartender. We will need you to move aside.”
The bartender sighed again. “I don’t think. . . I’ll be doing that.”
“Oh?”
“I like him.”
Astraos turned back to the bar and downed his drink then he smirked. “What’s your name?”
“Johnny.”
“Johnny?”
“Yeah, my mom was into Earth TV.”
“Me too! Ha!” Astraos slapped his hand on the counter. “Give me a—”
“Watch—!”
The pig humanoids and various thugs were done being disrespected by this unknown.
One wailed and jumped in the air, his lance high in the air with his body arching, a beautiful still and a terrible idea in a fight. Astraos shook his head. Theatrics get people killed every day.
He stood up, tapped Shirley on his back and sliced the pig’s hands off. Then using that momentum to spin on his heel, he stopped his blade’s point right at the leader of the group’s forehead. Blood trickled down his forehead, no one moved, not a sound resonated inside that section of The Place. The hoodlum’s lance fell and stabbed through the foot of another thug. The group of thugs standing behind them retreated out of sight.
“I’m going to have a drink with Johnny, then you’ll be making an introduction to Yezkal for me.”
The pig snorted in distress and backed up from the blade.
“Johnny!”
“Yes?” was said behind Astraos’s back.
“My name is Astraos. How much for the drink and another?”
“Twenty credits.”
“Well, look at that, you’ll be paying him twenty credits when I’m done. Do you like gratitude?”
“I like twenty percent.”
“Oh, that just won’t due, so I’ll be needing thirty credits.” Astraos held out his hand. “You see how generous I am. I’ve increased your collective value to six a piece.”
The pigs did not get the joke but handed Astraos thirty credits. “Sit in the back and wait, or I’ll take all of your hands.”
Astraos spun back around, deactivated Shirley and sat back down at the counter as cries of pain echoed through The Place.
“Why do I have this inclination that I didn’t need to warn you?”
“Because you’re smart. Ah. . . already filled, you are a great bartender.”
“This doesn’t change anything. Yezkal will still rip you off.”
“I like to repay my debts.”
“I can’t put my finger on your species. I’m usually pretty good.”
“Cheshir.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Why?”
“Everyone would be dead. I would be dead. The Station would follow. At the very least, that group would be dead. Cheshirs don’t have that sort of control.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Well, if you’re not going to tell me who you are, tell me what those blades are. I’ve seen nothing of the like and I’ve been on Station XI since its inception.”
“Laverne and Shirley? They are my partners in crime.”
The bartender laughed. This time slapping the counter. “You can’t be serious?”
“I am.”
“Laverne and Shirley?”
Astraos nodded.
“One of my mom’s favorite shows.”
“To your mother!” He lifted the shot, drank and slammed it on the counter. “Until next time, Johnny.”
“I look forward to it.”
Astraos turned around and saw the crew of thugs had been smart enough to stay put—or stupid, rather, because he was never going to chase them down. “Let’s go, boys.” Unbeknownst to Astraos, a sly grin entered Johnny’s face as he exited the scene.
Astraos looked around as he went toward the exit and noticed the wandering eyes of malice from earlier had turned into shy turns of heads and attempts to not look him in the eyes. It’s good to be king, er, prince rather.
As Astraos exited behind the thugs, he saw the delightful ezon engaged in a conversation with a potential customer; he gave her a wink and raised his eyebrows as he passed.
She called out, “Not done with your business?”
He turned his head to the side, straining his eyes to glimpse her figure as well. “Looks like you have business to attend to.” Can’t deny, that’s a fine sculpture.
“I can make another exception.”
“Don’t let me hold you up.” He continued following behind the thugs, grinning to himself.
One of them in front said, “I can’t even afford her.”
Astraos laughed to himself. “I like this place.”
They walked behind the whore house and the pig knocked three times, paused, then twice, paused, then three times again.
The door opened. “Yes?”
“We have someone to see Yezkal.”
He walked in and the rest followed suit. Astraos stood behind
.
Yezkal looked up from his desk, papers and contracts strewn about. A notebook containing debts to be paid with names dangled in front: the obituary of the galaxy’s gamblers. He wore a puffy, white shirt analogous to a pirate’s that dramatically enhanced his bald head and no eyebrows, features that are akin to the kaledios. “You have payment?”
“No sir.” He snorted, and Astraos thought it to be. . . nervous? “He wanted to meet you.”
“Wanted to meet me?” His eyes turned red hot as coals. As a kaledio, they changed with his mood. A kaledio’s skin was a separate enigma however, and oscillated based on environmental conditions, Yezkal’s skin contained off-brown hues because of the drab brown and dinginess of the office. There was a single lantern that flickered above: everything was calculated and meant to intimidate.
Yezkal looked to the side and saw the one with no hands. “What happened?”
“He chopped them off with some sort of energy-blade-weapon.”
“Balbao”—he pointed to the one with newly acquired stumps—“take that one outside and dispose of him. We have no need for useless henchman. The rest of you out of here before you meet the same fate.”
Astraos stepped up to the desk. “Guess that leaves me, huh?”
Yezkal’s eyes squinted, his attempt at a piercing eye that would intimidate most. It only made Astraos smirk. “It does leave the business of you. I’ll need compensation for the one you made me kill.”
“Huh?”
Yezkal sat back in his chair, used to getting everything and anything he wanted the way he wanted. He sneered. “Must I dispose of you, too?”
The remark and Yezkal’s countenance infuriated Astraos: the smug look, the perceived dominance, the absolute arrogance. He tapped Laverne and Shirley and placed both blades precariously close to Yezkal’s neck before his security could react. “Watch your tongue. I’ve had enough. I was looking to trade with you, but now I will be taking an SR-Fighter. . . And I will allow you to live.”
“You’ll never make it out of this room alive.”
Astraos laughed almost manically as the blades grazed Yezkal’s neck and seared his skin. A miserable look crossed Yezkal’s face, and Astraos heard the drawing of blasters around him. “Yezkal, I do not risk my own life for scum like you. I would not have drawn my blades if I didn’t have the means to kill all of you and take what I want.”