by David Garnet
“Another joke?”
“You do have a sense of fun! You’ll find plenty of that on Hideaway, Mr. Hood. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“Er… yeah.”
“In that case, do you need something for the weekend?”
“What?”
“The absolute totally ultimate bugstrap. At a bargain price. Eius twenty-five percent sales tax, naturally.”
“What’s a bugstrap?”
The sim laughed, stopped, stared at Norton. “You don’t know, do you?”
“That’s why I asked.”
“It’s like a bugbelt. But of a more intimate and personal nature. You understand?”
“I don’t. What’s a bugbelt?”
“You’re not wearing one?”
“I don’t think so.”
“A bugbelt is essential to every space traveller. You can’t afford to be without one, Mr. Hood. Because it’s classified as a necessity, there’s only ten percent tax.”
“But… what is it?”
The sim explained that because humans had evolved on one world, they were biologically suited to live only on that world. Anywhere else but Earth, they needed a spacesuit for protection against everything from microbes to raindrops because every type of alien “bug” could be lethal.
The early personal-defence suits were very cumbersome and restrictive, and had been superseded by bugbelts which performed the same function. These could also protect the wearer from extremes of climate and dangerous radiations, as well as compensating for differences in gravity.
And Norton didn’t have one.
“Do I need a bugbelt?” he asked. “You mean it isn’t safe here?”
“Hideaway is the safest place in the universe, Mr. Hood. The whole environment is sanitised for your protection. Hideaway can comfortably accommodate beings from every inhabited world. Different levels have different gravities or temperatures or atmospheres to make every client feel at home. Or almost at home. Whenever I go on vacation, it’s the little differences I appreciate. I’m sure it’s the same with you. But some differences are too extreme.” The sim shrugged a human shrug.
“Do I need a bugbelt?” Norton repeated.
“It’s not a question of need, is it, Mr. Hood? It’s a matter of comfort and convenience. A man of your status shouldn’t have to endure any unnecessary stress and effort. I would also advise a bugcollar.”
“A bugcollar? What’s that for?”
“For the safe ingestion and digestion of non-human food.”
“You mean… alien food?”
“Alien to you, yes.”
“I have to eat alien food?”
“You don’t have to. This is Hideaway. You can do whatever you want. Or whatever you can afford. I assume that a man of your obvious sophistication and refinement would wish to visit one of the many non-human levels to sample some of their cuisine.”
“I don’t think so.” Norton shook his head.
“You can’t imagine what you’re missing.”
“Yeah, I can.” Norton shuddered as he remembered some of the meals he’d seen during his career as a steward—and all of those had been for the human palate.
The sim slowly nodded its simulated head. “For most people in your situation I can offer a really excellent deal. Bugbelt, bugcollar, bugstrap. A package of three. But if you only want the bugstrap, why not have the absolute pinnacle of the range? Combining total safety with ultimate satisfaction. And the price? It’s so low I’m almost ashamed to tell you in case you I think I’m working for a charity.”
“I still don’t know what a bugstrap is.”
“Everyone’s a winner on Hideaway, Mr. Hood, but what if you want to play a different game? When you hit the jackpot, a bugstrap is absolutely vital. You understand?”
Norton said nothing. Because he didn’t.
“Congress,” said the sim.
“Washington DC,” said Norton.
“What do you mean?” asked the sim.
“What do you mean?” asked Norton, then he said, “Oh.” Because suddenly he understood.
“Do you need medical assistance?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Your face has turned an odd colour.”
It had turned red, Norton knew. And not because he was an Indian. He was blushing with embarrassment.
A bugbelt allowed humans to visit alien worlds without harm. A bugcollar let them safely eat alien food. And a bugstrap…
Norton tried not to think about it.
“There must be something you’ve always wanted,” said the sim, “something you can’t find anywhere else in the entire galaxy. If you can imagine it, I promise you can find it on Hideaway. You can get anything your heart desires.”
“Anything?”
“Anything and everything.”
“How about some decent clothes?” said Norton.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Hideaway was fantastic, or so the boss had said, unbelievable and indescribable. Kiru could only take his word for it because she’d seen nothing of the exterior and not much more of the interior.
According to legend, the asteroid was built aeons ago, in another galaxy, by a race of mysterious aliens. Long extinct, all that remained of them was the enigmatic world they had created.
It was a small planet with its own even smaller sun, a star that blazed at its very core, a perpetual source of solar energy and propulsion. Hideaway was a world without limits. Sliding into falspace as if it was a spaceship, it could reappear at the far edge of the galaxy.
Once, it had been the hidden headquarters of the pirate fleet. They had turned it into a pleasure planet, the ultimate hedonistic experience. Now, it was owned by an even more secretive and sinister organisation: the Galactic Tax Authority.
The space pirates had boarded the asteroid via a long-forgotten staff entrance. All Kiru saw were dark, narrow tunnels and the dark, narrow room into which Grawl led her. Having covertly breached Hideaway, the invaders split up, each to his or her or its own appointed task, ready to launch their assault at the same precise time.
Grawl put a finger to his lips, and opened the door.
“Don’t leave me alone,” said Kiru.
He closed the door, leaving her alone.
It was locked, of course, but she didn’t want to go anywhere. Grawl was protecting her again, keeping her safe while he and the others went about their work. All she could do was wait. She kept listening for the sounds of violence. The pirates were heavily armed, and she guessed it would not be a peaceful take-over.
Time passed.
She heard nothing until the door opened again. Grawl came back in and gestured at her. The gesture was obvious. She was to undress.
Was this it, repayment time?
Kiru watched as Grawl removed the silver pendant from around his neck. This was the first time; he even slept with it on. He gestured at her again, impatiently. There was nothing she could do except obey.
As she took off her clothes, the alien entered the room.
She had seen aliens before. There were alien convicts on Arazon, there were aliens among the pirates, and there were even aliens on Earth. Since the Crash, it had become a cheap place for a holiday, a cheap place to buy land, a cheap place to buy anything. Including humans.
Was that it? Grawl had sold her to the alien?
She thought the thing was wearing body armour, but realised that was its skin. The creature was big and bulky, covered in a hard shell; its four eyes were on stalks; its six limbs were clawed. It was a monstrous, scaly insect.
Kiru stood naked and trembling and terrified.
Grawl’s heart-shaped amulet was passed from fleshy hand to chitinous claw.
“Trust me,” said the alien. “I’m a doctor.”
“What are you going to do?” whispered Kiru.
Then it told her.
She had been wrong. Wrong from the very start.
Because Grawl did want her for her body.
&n
bsp; All of it.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Show us your genitals,” said the topless blue alien, via the simultaneous linguistic and tonal equaliser.
“Er…” said Wayne Norton. “Is that really necessary? I only want a suit.”
The alien stepped toward him.
“Or just a jacket,” said Norton, as he backed away. “Forget about the pants. In fact, forget about all of it. I’ll go. Sorry to have troubled you.”
He retreated toward the doorway, but it didn’t seem to be where it was when he’d come in.
“You can’t leave empty-handed,” said the alien.
“Yeah,” said Norton. “Yeah, of course, I understand, yeah.” He glanced around the room. This was meant to be a clothes shop, but there were no clothes on display. “A necktie. I’ll buy a necktie, okay? Any tie. Just give me a tie, then I’ll go.”
“A necktie is some type of restraining garment?”
“It goes around the neck.” Norton mimed putting on a tie, making the knot, pulling it tight.
“For strangling your enemies, we understand. But we are a couturier. We make clothes to personal order, not weapons. You’ve come to the wrong boutique.”
“I’ll go. Let me out. Please.”
He kept looking for the exit, but couldn’t see it. He couldn’t even make out the size or shape of the room because it was almost completely hung with diaphanous fabrics, all of which seemed to float in the air from invisible washing lines. The multi-hued material was also scattered all over the floor, making it very soft and spongy. The atmosphere was thick with perfume, a mixture of heady fragrances so strong Norton could taste them as well as smell them.
“You’re from Earth, we believe,” said the alien.
“How do you know?”
“Because you look like an Earth person. We like Earth persons.”
“Oh, good.”
“Some Earth persons.”
“Oh.”
“Our name is Xenbashka Bashka Ka. We are from Algol, and our traditional greeting is ‘Show us your genitals,’ but we believe this is yours.” The alien held out its right hand. “How do you do?”
This is an alien, thought Norton.
I’m with an alien.
“Howdy,” he said.
Talking to an alien.
The only other alien he’d met was the Sham, which had tried to kill him.
The Algolan was tall and blue, with cropped white hair, pointed ears, and huge, sloping eyes. And bare breasts. Blue but bare. With hard nipples. Hard but blue.
He tried not to stare.
Breasts. Nipples. He’d never seen any before. Not for real. Not in any colour. Not human breasts. Not female human.
Was the alien female? It didn’t matter, except to another alien of the same species.
Female, male, or whatever other alien sexual variety there was, it was of no interest to Wayne Norton, Earthman. None at all. Absolutely none.
He started to offer his own hand, his right hand, then hesitated, remembering his missing finger.
“Is something wrong?” said Xenbashka Bashka Ka. “You refuse to greet us because we are an alien?”
Norton wondered why the alien kept saying “us” and “we.” The words were a direct translation, so that must have been how Algolans referred to themselves.
“No,” he answered, shaking his head. “It’s this.” He held up his hand, showing his fingers.
The alien did the same, for comparison. Its hand was like Norton’s, with three fingers and one thumb, although each was tipped with sharp claws.
Norton held up his left hand, with its full set of fingers.
Then the alien held up its left hand. Three fingers, one thumb.
“Ah, you’re deformed!” said Xenbashka Bashka Ka.
“I’m not deformed,” said Norton.
“You’re an alien, of course you are.”
Xenbashka Bashka Ka suddenly growled, showing its teeth. They were long and sharp, like fangs, and Norton quickly stepped back.
“We know what it’s like to be hideously ugly,” said the alien. “But it doesn’t matter, not here. If you’re from another planet, even the most beautiful alien can look like an ugly monster. Or vice versa.”
Xenbashka Bashka Ka growled again, and Norton realised it wasn’t a threatening noise. To him it sounded like a growl, but to the Algolan its meaning was different. A laugh…?
“Do you want a pair of gloves to hide your deformity?” asked the alien.
“This really is a clothes shop?” said Norton, as he peered around. The silky drapes which engulfed them both must have been fabric samples.
“No.”
“Oh.”
“There’s nothing you can see which you can buy.”
“Oh. Yeah. Then I’ll go.” He kept looking around. “If I can.”
“But we can make whatever garment you want. What would you like?”
“Er…”
“Something like you’re wearing?”
“No.” Norton was still in his steward’s uniform. He could have changed before leaving the ship, but it was the only outfit which was half suitable.
“Something like we’re wearing?” asked the alien.
“No!”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“Nothing. On you, it’s fine.”
Norton didn’t know the word for what the alien was wearing, although presumably there was one in the Algolan language. The garment was a pair of pants that began halfway up the chest and ended below the knees, and it appeared to be made from hundreds of small green bricks cemented together with mortar, each layer of which was a different colour. The alien’s elbows were similarly covered. It also wore a pair of transparent clogs, and Norton could see that each foot had four clawed toes.
“Show me what you want,” said Xenbashka Bashka Ka, and blue fingers touched what looked like a watch strapped to a blue wrist.
The air between them shimmered for a moment, then a figure materialised in the room.
Norton moved away as the shape suddenly appeared. It was a naked biped, still and lifeless. A tailor’s dummy. A full-sized duplicate of himself, in fact. Even its right index finger was missing. As were the genitals. Norton looked down. So did Xenbashka Bashka Ka. The alien’s head rocked from side to side. An Algolan shrug…?
“Pants,” said Norton. “Long, loose pants.”
Alien fingers danced across what wasn’t a wristwatch, and a pair of trousers appeared on the mannequin.
“Down to the ankles,” said Norton, and the pants grew longer. “Waist lower. Around the waist.”
He’d thought he was coming to choose some clothes, not design a complete costume for himself. His favourite outfit, the one he felt most comfortable in, had been his Las Vegas Police Department uniform. Because he was an undercover cop, it probably wasn’t a good idea to wear something like that, even though no one would recognise it, not here, not now.
Norton had another idea. The more he thought about it, the more he liked it. Why not the kind of snazzy suit James Cagney or Humphrey Bogart wore when they were gang bosses?
Yeah, why not?
The Algolan was an expert at interpreting Norton’s hesitant approximations, and very quickly the image became clothed.
Double-breasted jacket, wide lapels, razor-sharp creases on the pants. Belt—no, make that suspenders. Starched shirt. Vest with fancy buttons. Polished spats. Necktie.
“We don’t do weapons,” said Xenbashka Bashka Ka.
“A necktie isn’t a weapon. It’s a piece of material that goes under the shirt collar, then hangs down over the buttons.”
The alien soon designed a necktie which met Norton’s specifications.
“That looks great,” said Norton, studying what had been created.
“What colours do you want?”
“None.” Gangster films had all been in black and white, and so Norton’s suit had to be in monochrome. “White shirt, everything else black.”
“The customer is always right,” said the Algolan, “but that isn’t.”
Norton nodded his agreement. The outfit looked far too formal. The jacket seemed like a tuxedo. More than anything, the dummy resembled a head waiter.
“What do you suggest?” he asked.
“How about stripes?”
“Stripes?” Norton immediately thought of sergeant’s stripes, but chevrons on the sleeves would spoil the effect.
“Like this.”
The Algolan added pinstripes to the jacket and pants, and wider diagonal stripes to the tie, which diluted the severity of the black. That was how black and white movies looked, Norton realised. They were different shades of grey.
“Yeah,” he agreed, “like that. Now I need a hat. What were they called? A fedora? Like a stetson, but not as big.”
Under his direction, Xenbashka Bashka Ka created a hat that looked almost perfect. But there was something wrong, something missing.
“A band,” said Norton. “It needs a band.”
“You want music coming out of your hat?”
“No, a band of fabric, above the brim, going around the crown. Yeah. Like that. Not so wide. Yeah. Yeah. That’s it. That’s it!”
The perfect gangster suit, straight out of the late thirties, early forties— nineteen thirties, forties, naturally. It was a classic, there had been nothing like it for centuries. Norton gazed at the design in admiration.
“How many would you like?” asked the alien. “Two sets of everything?”
“Two, yeah, why not?” Then he realised why not. “Er, what about payment?”
“If you couldn’t pay, you wouldn’t be on Hideaway.”
“Exactly.” Norton nodded. “Exactly.”
“And if you can’t pay, you’ll wish you weren’t on Hideaway.”
“Oh.”
The alien growled, but Norton stood his ground. A growl meant laughter. Maybe.
A clawed finger tapped the circular gadget, and the no-longer-naked mannequin vanished.
“How long before it’s all made?” Norton asked.
“A few minutes. If you want, we can dispose of what you’re wearing and you can put on your new ensemble.”