by Linda Jaivin
He’d come to the conclusion that she wasn’t wearing any underwear while he was bending over his boots. He’d noticed she was sitting pretty casually for someone wearing such a short skirt and he’d, uh, accidentally glanced up and caught a flash of flesh. Actually, it was a bit weird, now that he thought about it. No hair and, in fact, it looked like there was nothing else there either. Barbie Doll city. No, he shivered involuntarily. That was ridiculous. He hadn’t dared to stare or anything. She was probably just one of those kinky chicks who shaved her pubes. Of course. Or wore green underwear.
What’s this born-again business, who’s Barbie Doll and what the hell is underwear? Baby wondered to herself.
Jake dropped the religious problem into the too-hard basket and began again. ‘Anyway,’ he hazarded, ‘I realised I wasn’t God, but I had the feeling that whoever was God was trying to speak to me. And then I saw that God was, God was, uh, an alien.’ He paused for effect. ‘A female alien.’
Bullshit, thought Baby. Wonder what he was going to say before he decided he needed to impress me?
Wilma Flintstone is what he was going to say. He’d had a vision of God as Wilma Flintstone. This had impressed other girls, but he wasn’t sure it would work on Baby. What kind of name was Baby, anyway? ‘Shall we go?’ he said.
When they reached the lounge, they found the twins shuttlecocking a Big Mac carton back and forth between them. ‘Where are Lati and Doll?’ asked Baby.
Tristram winced. Torquil screwed up his face. ‘Doll’s downstairs with the girls,’ he mumbled. ‘Lati, uh, kinda, disappeared.’
Baby shrugged. She knew Lati well enough not to worry. And she was not sorry to have Jake to herself, either.
‘You two coming?’
‘Don’t think so,’ said Torq. ‘Think we’ll just hang around and wait for Lati to come back. Oh, and Doll said she’d catch up with you guys later.’
The phone rang. Before Jake had time to react, Baby picked it up. ‘Wanna suck my cock?’ she said, deepening her voice. On the other end, a woman burst into tears. ‘Jake, you’re a bastard,’ she sobbed, slamming down the receiver.
Baby turned to Jake. ‘Jake, you’re a bastard,’ she informed him.
‘So they say,’ said Jake, flinching. ‘So they say.’
‘They’re all bastards,’ shrugged Saturna. ‘But there are different sorts of bastards. There are lovable bastards, there are tolerable bastards, there are irredeemable bastards. The boys in this house range from lovable to tolerable, with occasional bouts of irredeemability. Love the spider tattoo, by the way. Are you sure you’re not a vampire? Sure you’re just an alien?’ Saturna, Skye and Doll were sitting cross-legged on their king-size four-poster, which was canopied in extravagant loops of black muslin. ‘Don’t you want to make double-sure?’ Black candles placed around the room released a musky scent and glimmered through the muslin, creating an artificial gloaming full of mysterious shadows and unpredictable light. Saturna reached out and placed a soft hand on Skye’s neck. She pulled Skye’s hair back from her face and tugged her lace choker downwards. Skye’s bare neck glowed golden in the candlelight. ‘Don’t you?’ she repeated.
‘I do,’ Doll said huskily. ‘I really do.’ She placed her lips on the proffered flesh. Her devil horns of hair tickled Skye’s cheeks. Wrapping one arm around Skye’s waist, she buried the other in her hair, where it found Saturna’s hand and came to rest upon it. ‘Whaszavampardoagen?’ she queried through skin.
‘A vampire bites the neck and drinks the blood of his victim,’ instructed Saturna. The authority in her voice was undermined by a slight tremble. She shifted one black stocking-clad foot slightly so that the heel pressed against her stiffening clitoris. Reaching out, she stroked Skye’s thigh through the layers of lace and crushed velvet. ‘We’ve fantasised about this for ages. It should be totally transporting.’ Her hand slid upwards to tease Skye’s cunt gently through the soft fabric. Skye let out an uneven breath and closed her eyes.
Doll felt fully happy for the first time since they’d landed on this planet. There’d been altogether too much Earth boy this, Earth boy that for her taste. This was more like it. She bared her teeth and sunk them into Skye’s neck. These were the teeth of a girl for whom taking a mineral supplement meant crunching on a rock. Breaking the skin easily, she sucked on the salty nectar trickling out from the shallow wound. The taste of the blood caused a shiver to run up her spine, and her whole body was suffused with a sudden intense warmth. Skye, panicking, tried at first to twist away. Saturna, however, held her firmly, and Doll kept an iron grip on her as well. Eventually, Skye stopped struggling. Trembling, she rested palely against Saturna’s breast, as Saturna continued her intimate caresses.
Doll’s antennae were now quivering and her breath was coming in shivers. A rainbow of colours cascaded over her skin like a fluttering Mardi Gras flag. ‘Mmmm. Mmmmm.’ Earthling body fluids didn’t require that much getting used to, really. Typical cautious Nufonian claptrap.
Doll lifted her head and licked the blood off her teeth. ‘Let me,’ said Saturna, twisting her neck round to tongue the blood from Doll’s mouth without removing her hand from Skye’s cunt.
‘Maybe I am a whatchamacallit after all,’ Doll meditated, probing her eye teeth with a finger. What was this on the roof of her mouth? Oh, yes. ‘Have a look at this, girls,’ she said, opening wide.
‘I enjoyed the Vampire Chronicles. But Cry to Heaven bored me to tears, and I thought Exit to Eden highly overrated.’
‘Have you read the witches series?’
‘Not yet. How is it?’
‘I didn’t mind it. Skye and Saturna are reasonably big readers, so I spend a lot of time checking out their bookshelves. The boys, on the other hand, are hopeless. The only time Jake’s ever had decent books around the house was when he was chatting up this librarian chick. Jake will happily walk into a pub and spend upwards of $50 on booze in a night, and yet he won’t fork out fifteen bucks for something decent to read. I don’t get it. If I weren’t so genetically programmed to afford unquestioning loyalty, I’d have bolted ages ago. How ‘bout you, little fella?’
Iggy lay on his side. Revor was snuggled up against his pale chest, clamped between the bull terrier’s front paws. He sighed. ‘The girls aren’t what you’d call big readers either. Classic rock chicks. Not that I’ve got anything against rock. You into music at all?’
‘Of course, though I’m a bit old-fashioned in my taste. I’ve always had a soft spot for the Animals and Three Dog Night, for obvious reasons, not to mention Beasts of Bourbon. I do like some of the new music, though. Portishead, for instance. Again, at the risk of total obviousness, the track “Biscuit” is my personal favourite. What’s your taste run to, Revie-pie?’
‘We are so compatible it’s ridiculous. Though I’d have to add the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds album.’
‘For sure. Oh shite! Here come Jake and Baby. Act animal.’ Iggy jumped to his feet, trotted over to the doorway and licked Jake’s hand with thoroughly calculated subservience, indicating uncomplicated joy by wagging his tail at the same time. ‘Ruff!’ he said. ‘Ruff! Ruff!’
‘Yorp!’ cried Revor. ‘Yorp! Yorp!’ He rolled onto his back and paddled his feet in the air as Baby arpeggioed his fluffy tummy with her fingers. ‘Nnf nf! Eheheheh! Ticklewicklewickle!’
Jake filled Iggy’s water bowl, patted him goodbye and left with Baby. ‘There goes the master race,’ commented Revor as the door shut behind them.
Iggy collapsed on the floor next to Revor and yawned his crocodile yawn. Gnaaaaaaa-snap. ‘Doesn’t all this ootchikootchi-koo crap ever get on your nerves? Don’t you wish sometimes that we could just can the pretence when they’re around and act like the intelligent life forms we are?’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ shrugged Revor, taking Iggy’s paw in his own and licking the pads. ‘They’d probably want us to start feeding and walking them. Quite frankly, I couldn’t be stuffed. Why let on you can drive when you’ve already got a firs
t-class ticket on the gravy train?’
Iggy laughed. ‘You little bludger.’
‘Hi ho, hi ho, it’s off to Earth we go.’ The Sirians, disembarking from the interplanetary shuttle to Nufon, were doing a conga line down the steps. Having four feet meant they could do this rather sensationally. They were also singing, an activity for which they had infinite enthusiasm and infinitesimal talent. Due to the space limitations and weight requirements of the intergalactic craft on which they were to travel to Earth, they were allowed one backpack and one handbag each. Together, these were not to exceed 86.3 nufograms. Being Sirians, they had trouble complying with even these relatively simple regulations.
In fact, one Sirian was at this very moment sitting on the tarmac bawling his six eyes out and sniffling out of all three nostrils because he’d forgotten his handbag, which held, among other things, his favourite hair clip, the cybernovel he was reading, an access-all-areas backstage pass to Kyuss, a packet of psychedelic snacks and his gold Amex card. A somewhat impatient Nufonian official stood beside him, tapping his hoof, and trying to console him by saying that once they got to Earth he could abduct replacements for all those things. ‘No, you can’t,’ snuffled the Sirian. ‘Kyuss split up. They’re not playing anymore.’
The Nufonian, ever-logical, shrugged. ‘So what good’s a backstage pass then?’
‘You don’t understand,’ blubbered the Sirian.
It was true. Nufonians were incapable of understanding such things. Nor could they comprehend how anyone could pack the way the Sirians did. You’d think that aliens preparing to go on an interstellar voyage would have an interest in travelling light, taking only what they needed, and placing everything in their luggage so that it could be readily retrieved in good condition. Nufonians themselves were naturally efficient and neat packers, but as for the rest of the aliens…From the knapsacks of the Sirians protruded or extruded any number of strange and outsized objects, including whole wardrobes of Elvis jump suits (Sirians led the yoon in Elvis impersonations), golf clubs (they adored golf because of the shoes), bowling balls (ditto for bowling), and easel-and-paint kits carried on the off-chance they might want to take up art along the way. One had even packed an ET mask. As if all that weren’t enough to send your average Nufonian round the twist, one Sirian was simply shlepping a laundry basket full of rumpled outfits and smelly socks. Three to the pair. Natch.
Quietly, in the background, Nufonian underlings (who were never resentful of their status but worked diligently and with the understanding that Somebody Had To Do It) unloaded the bags of chemicals and minerals that were the Sirians’ ticket to Earth.
With a sudden whirr and mighty splash, a Cherub landing capsule bellyflopped into the pond by the airstrip. A door slid open and an inflatable slide popped out. Within seconds, the slide was bouncing and squeaking under a tumbling squelch of fubsy bodies.
As they scrambled on shore the Cherubim shook their wings dry and exchanged greetings with the Sirians and Alphas, who were just leaping out of a shuttle on which someone had graffitied the words ‘Love you. Mean it. Swear,’ a greeting some Alpha had overheard on her last trip to LA. Paddling down the steps of the shuttle with their ridiculous feet, the Alphas had just begun the process of slapping hands and licking the nostrils of the others in greeting when the black hovercraft of the Zeta Reticulans buzzed the field. No sooner had they swarmed onto the ground than the horrid Zetas were hoisting Cherubim in the air and swinging them around by their wings, playfully stomping on Alpha Centaurian twenty-toed feet and telling jokes to the Sirians just to see how faint they could make them from laughing.
Captain Qwerk approached one of the underlings and, after glancing around shiftily to ensure no one else was watching, handed her a bulky parcel. He whispered instructions in her ear. She nodded. Entering the spacecraft, she found the Secret Hiding Place, which was clearly marked for identification, placed the Hidden Agenda inside, shut the latch and removed the sign.
Jake and Baby walked down King Street towards the Sandringham, the rolling glide of his leggy gait perfectly complemented by her bouncing ebullient step. Jake noticed how everyone they met smiled at her. When she smiled back, some sank blissfully down onto the pavement, as though their bones had turned to water. This made him simultaneously happy—she was with him—and nervous. Clearly, she could be with anyone she wanted. On the board outside the pub was chalked the words ‘Smokey Stover’; underneath it announced a two-dollar cover charge.
‘A cover charge? What is this about covers?’
Jake looked at her blankly. ‘Pardon?’
‘You know, that thing you were telling me about relationships and cover stealing?’
What the hell was she talking about?
‘You know, at night?’ She suddenly remembered that Jake wouldn’t be able to recall any of their conversation. She was really beginning to regret the Memocide thing. ‘Never mind,’ she said.
She was a strange girl all right, thought Jake as he trawled his pockets and came up with four dollars. ‘I’ll get this,’ he offered. He’d always thought that tactically it was best to shout a girl on the first date, preferably to something fairly cheap like a gig at the Sando, and then, once she’d come to understand his precarious financial situation, graciously to allow her to pay for everything after that. Not that he was in a particularly calculating mood on this night; it was more just a matter of habit.
‘Hey, Jake.’ The girl doing the door, into whose short pink hair was carved a yin-yang symbol, and who wore a short Chinese embroidered satin top over tight black trousers, greeted Jake with a flirtatious wiggle of slim shoulders.
‘Hey, Kya,’ he said, trying not to look as worried as he felt. Ever since he’d had that little affair with Kya, she’d displayed an unnerving tendency to say the raunchiest and most embarrassing things to him in public, without any regard for circumstances. And tonight’s circumstances, he felt, were in special need of regard. ‘Two, please,’ he said in his most businesslike voice.
‘Oh, you’ve got a date. I see.’ She had a good look at Baby. She hadn’t intended to let her gaze linger, but gazes had a way of getting trapped by alien babes.
‘Kya, you taking the money or can I assume you’re letting us in free?’
Kya shook off Baby’s spell with difficulty. ‘Taking your money, Jake. It’s not often a girl has that privilege and I think I’ll make the most of it, if you don’t mind.’
Jake glanced over at Baby, but she appeared oblivious to the conversation. She was peering over his shoulder and into the pub with undisguised excitement.
Jake gave Kya his wrist. While stamping it, she tickled his palm. He snatched his hand away. ‘Do you mind?’he said. Baby’s eyes met hers for the first time. Kya was so dazzled that she found a wide smile had come to her lips and tears had sprung to her eyes. Her heart was pounding in her chest and her hands were shaking.
Baby held out her hand. Kya stamped it. ‘Do you mind?’ said Baby amiably, snatching her hand away.
Kya’s jaw gaped. Baby let hers drop as well, smiled again and followed Jake into the pub.
She looked around. The art deco tiling that covered the bottom two-thirds of the walls and the burnt orange paint with occasional black-stencilled drawings above it exuded a yoonal charm. The punters boasted hair and clothing in a range of colours that Baby hadn’t seen since she last met an Alpha Centaurian with freckles. They wore more metal on their faces than your average cyborg. Her antennae picked up a scent of febrile sexuality and a gentle hum, inaudible to normal human ears, generated by a roomful of altered consciousnesses. The clink of glasses, the electronic gurgling of the video games, the drawn out thringgg of the pinball levers and plingpling of the pinballs themselves reminded her of half-forgotten alien tongues. Smoke hung in the air like white clouds over Titan. In’ short, Baby felt right at home. And to make what was perfect even more so, here was another rock n roll band, live and playing within a few metres of where they stood.
The
band, Smokey Stover, was a regular institution at the Sandringham Hotel. Baby got right into them, and jumped around enthusiastically to the music. Jake swayed coolly next to her, wondering what it was about Baby that had such an electrifying effect on people. While she danced, Baby looked at everyone around her with a gaze so direct and curious that their eyes went to ground with embarrassment. But the crowd, in its own low-key, tribal, unhyped, rock n roll sort of way, was checking her out too. Big time. The Sando, haunt of the great semi-washed and demi-employed, Newtown’s answer to whatever particular question was being raised at the time, the ultimate hang for the high-rock, low-techno crowd, commonly played host to any number of uncommon characters, but they’d be damned if, mirror mirror on the toilet wall, Baby wasn’t the fucken uncommonest of them all.
Now that the effects of the dope had nearly worn off, Baby’s aphrodisiacal effect on Jake was growing all the stronger. He didn’t think he could handle it without the aid of some kind of chemical palliative. He glanced over at the bar. A drink would be good. ‘What do you want?’ he asked Baby.
‘To be a rock star. To take lots of drugs. To have heaps of sex. You know, with you again too. Everything. Anything. Just as long as I can get it now.’
Jake couldn’t believe she’d just said that. Particularly the bit about having sex with him again. No, he decided. She hadn’t said that. She couldn’t have said that. He was imagining things. He’d better try again. ‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘What did you want? Like, to drink?’ he clarified.
To drink? Why hadn’t he specified that in the first place? It really was going to take some time to get the hang of Earthling communications. Baby had never had a drink of any sort. The liquid element of the Nufonian ichorstream consisted of mercury. She racked her brain for an appropriate answer. One bourbon, uh, one scotch, uh, one Cooper’s Ale? No that didn’t sound right. ‘One bourbon, one scotch, one…’ Now what was that song title? That’s right. ‘One fizzy drink.’