Enter the Sandmen

by William Schlichter

  Ki-Ton whispers to Reynard, “I want to locate Maxtin, too; I would leave the princess on the Dragon, if you plan to proceed with this route. The alert is an actual bounty. Others may seek it.”

  Reynard nods, “If this is no place for us, it’s no place for Her Majesty.” He pats Doug on the shoulder. “Landing instructions?”

  “Some automated system keeps repeating to park outside the main structure. It doesn’t seem to care where you land.”

  “For sure.” Amye points at the main view screen. “You might want to change your mind about this extraction.”

  The Dragon approaches an orbit of the planetoid. More and more ships appear outside the central structure of the mining base.

  “That’s a Tibbar shuttle.”

  “They would not be here for the same bounty we seek.”

  “The Tibbar don’t gamble. They have to be here pursuing some bounty.” Ki-Ton adds, “We may not want to run into them, Commander.”

  “We don’t leave without finding out Maxtin’s intent, especially since he won’t answer his comm. We’re just going to have to be on guard for Tibbar.”

  “And everyone else in this place.”

  ••••••

  SCOTT TOUCHES HIS watch. The built-in comm chirps, “Athena, lower the cargo ramp.”

  The grated section of floor in the Dragon’s cargo hold lowers. A hazy azure force field ignites, preventing the atmosphere contained within the ship from escaping.

  “There’s a slight tingle when you step through the magnetic shield, but it’s harmless. The major adjustment will be to the lighter gravity of the asteroid’s surface.” Scott holds out six tubes with mouth pieces in the center. “It’s thin breathing out there.”

  Reynard takes one of the tubes and marches down the ramp followed by Amye, Doug, and JC.

  Scott offers one to Joe.

  “I need no such device.”

  Ki-Ton also refuses the breather.

  “Suit yourselves.” Scott bites down on one.

  The remodeled central structure of the mining base functions as a grand entrance. A blue haze permeates the structure, keeping a much more appealing atmosphere inside.

  “I doubt Osirians are welcome here,” Ki-Ton speaks without any labored breath.

  Scott sucks in air before removing the mouthpiece, “We’re not too popular wherever we go.” He knows Ki-Ton isn’t Osirian. Not many humanoid species get by on such thin oxygen intake. Joe’s mastery of his own physical form allows him to slow his breath. Scott’s sure the master warrior has taken one breath since they left the Dragon.

  A cylindrical entrance chamber large enough for two cargo shuttles to land and be filled spins around after all the group has stepped onto it. Airtight doors seal behind them. Reynard’s hand grips his magnum before he even realizes it is there. Amye slides her hand over his in a tender motion preventing him from drawing the weapon. He releases his grip once he knows she’s the one stopping him. He will defer to her judgment at the moment.

  The airtight doors crack open with a hiss.

  Reynard removes the breathing apparatus from his mouth and clips it to his gun belt. “Let’s just grab this guy and get back to the Dragon before others attempt to collect any bounty.”

  The inner chamber just inside the giant revolving airlock has the sterile feel of a mortuary. Half a dozen aliens in knightly body armor sporting heavy rifles guard the room.

  “Step forward.” An Aurulent waves to them. “Place your energy-based weapons on the table. No blasters allowed inside.”

  Scott draws his weapon from his left side holster with his right hand and places it on the table. The auric-skinned women, scantily clad in robes that match their flaxen tone, dance around him thrashing their arms so the cybernetic electronics molded to their flesh scan him.

  “Living metal detectors?”

  “Aurulents love electronic implants.” Amye asks, “Did you get those done here?”

  One of the girls nods her head.

  Amye lays her blaster on the table handle first, having flipped it from its holster so quick no one could see it turn in her hand. “I better get that back.”

  The Aurulent scans the weapon with a computerized device on her forearm. She hands Amye a claim ticket. “Don’t gamble it away.” She places the blaster on the shelf of a barred window where a golden alien hand snatches it inside.

  “All weapons will be returned upon exit only with proper property tickets.”

  “Does this place offer body mods?” Amye asks.

  “Anything that your species thresholds tolerate.” The Aurulent whirls around Amye. “Faster reflexes, finger blades, and ocular translucent are popular among Osirians,” she adds, “and safest.”

  A hearty beeping occurs.

  The women freeze, waiting for Amye to respond to the beep. She pulls a small rectangular cube from her jacket pocket. One of the Aurulent snatches it from Amye’s hand, flipping open the device to reveal a tiny blaster.

  “Forgot about that one.” Her smile fails to be innocent.

  The Aurulent finish their examination, caring little for the knife protruding from Amye’s boot.

  “You wear the distracting garments of a telepath.” The Aurulent scoffs at JC, “Telepaths aren’t welcome here.”

  “I’m wearing the gloves,” JC protests.

  “Guests will object to your presence. We exist outside regulated legal systems. Many feel you won’t respect the limitations your order places on your gifts.”

  Reynard steps between JC and the Aurulent. “What do you mean, she can’t be a guest here?”

  “Unauthorized telepathic scans mean death here.”

  JC touches his bicep. The silken glove prevents skin contact. “It’s okay, Commander. I’ll return to the Dragon. When you hired me, you knew not everyone approves of telepaths.”

  “We could offer you an inhibitor.”

  Before Reynard objects, JC speaks, “I accept.”

  The Aurulent places a golden tiara on JC’s forehead with a white opal in the center of her forehead. “This marks you as a telepath so those bothered by you may avoid you. It also informs the gamers you’re not allowed to endeavor at certain entertainment.”

  She snaps a metal band around JC’s right bicep.

  JC jumps at the needle stick followed by a warm flow.

  “This will inject the inhibitor into you on regulated intervals. If you feel ill, report to any medical station, and they’ll remove it from your arm and you from the premises. Some Osirians fail to adjust to the medication.”

  Ki-Ton slides his blaster across the table. After the Aurulent completes her investigation, she says, “He’s not an Osirian. No other weapons, but extraordinary body readings.” The Aurulent remains an inch from Ki-Ton’s face, examining him through his eyes.

  “If my credit chits don’t spend here, I’ll return to the ship with the telepath.”

  The Aurulents all back away, allowing Ki-Ton to step forward.

  Doug places his weapon on the table.

  The Aurulent scoops it up. “Not a plasma blaster. It emits sound pulses.”

  “Check it anyway,” orders the principal Aurulent. “You are Osirian and have a jacking implant. I’ve never encountered an Osirian who could adjust to the procedure. You may wish to seek other augmentations.”

  Doug smiles. They want to study him while under the knife and discover how he was able to accept an implant.

  Joe towers over the three Aurulents. They dance around him scanning. “You may keep your edged weapons. We welcome the Calthos. If you choose, betting will be high if you enter the sports contests.”

  Reynard refuses to unholster his magnum as the Aurulents approach.

  “He has no energy weapons.” They dance around him. “Clearly, he has a weapon.”

  Reynard draws the gun, placing it on the table.

  An Aurulent caresses the weapon. “Primitive projectile thrower. We store anyway.”

  Reynard reaches to u
nclasp his katana. “Swords and edged weapon aren’t an issue. Only energy weapons must be confiscated. Enjoy your stay.” The Aurulents all wave their arms, inviting them to proceed through the archway into a second entrance chamber.

  “Bet this place never gets dull,” Amye smirks.

  “Bet the murder rate for knives reaches a record high here,” Kymberlynn utters to Amye.

  The dais completes its spin inside a cascading shower of frozen crystals. Their sparkling beauty refracts the constantly changing lights. Lavished in gold and precious jewels, the front entrance seems more like a Vegas casino than a former mining colony.

  Humanoids from even more worlds than Australia knows gamble, drink, and fornicate all around gaming machines and tables.

  “Scott won’t chase any of those scantily clad alien attendants. I bet you’ll try some of the liquid nourishment they provide,” Kymberlynn says.

  “Heavily fermented to help a gambler forget to keep track of their credit balance.”

  “I’m unsure what species those servers are. You’d think I’d remember their three-foot prehensile tail.”

  “It’s not the tails. It’s the chokers decorating their necks,” Amye notes.

  “No one will gaze past the mounds of mammary cleavage on the females to notice the ornate jewelry are IMC slave collars.” Kymberlynn winks at Amye. “Didn’t you wear one of those once?”

  “Reynard, this place is not where we want to be,” Amye speaks at a level for Reynard to just hear her.

  “You think what happens here stays here?” Reynard glances at Amye. “Vegas has nothing on this place.”

  She holds her quizzical look at her captain, knowing he has made another reference from his Osirian home world only he and maybe Doug can comprehend. She has little understanding of them and wonders whether she should placate him with a laugh or whether it requires a sigh.

  Doug gives a small peck of laughter. Amye smiles, knowing the git-brained communications expert has an affinity for Osirian relics, and if he thinks it’s funny, then it must be. “The City of Sin was a playground for adults. You would have been too young to be allowed within its borders,” Doug points out.

  “It wasn’t a closed city of depraved orgies. There were places you could enjoy with family, but I’m sure those places don’t make for interesting campfire stories about the way Earth was.”

  “We have to find the bounty. He knows what happened to the Admiral.”

  “The place’s a haven—”

  “So it’s fancier than some of the slum pits we’ve had to explore, but the dangers are the same.”

  “There’re more dangers here than you realize,” Amye mumbles to herself.

  They all snap their attention to the commotion in the gaming pits. Two aliens scuffle. Playing cards and credit chits spill from a table.

  A fight breaks out over a card game. One alien knifes the other, and the winner of the skirmish receives the blunt end of a Halcary pain stick wielded by the guards in the knightly armor.

  “Welcome. I am JarBok.” The unnaturally thin but tall humanoid reminds Reynard of a game-show host. “I see from my unfamiliarity with your sigil you’ve never enjoyed our pleasures.” He waves an open palm toward the stylized Silver Dragon emblem on their left jacket sleeves.

  Beside the man are two telephone pole robots with four arms and dozens of scanning eyes. Behind them are a dozen of the slave girls awaiting direction. “My translating droids are at your disposal if you speak a language not covered by standard universal translators.”

  “Ours work just fine.”

  JarBok bows. “I meant no offense. We’re here to please our guests. Whatever you require. Entertain you in any manner.”

  “Anything?”

  “Everything you dream or desire can be enjoyed, as long as you have enough credits.” He waves his hand again, opposite the gaming tables.

  “All those people are jackers?” Amye pushes past Doug to the rail running around the sea of cylindrical tubes stacked next to each other full of humanoids.

  “Yes, they enjoy our café. They plug in and enter a fantasy world of their choosing,” JarBok grins.

  “Like holoemersion units?” Doug realizes. “But without submersion in the fluid.”

  “Why do they need to come here? Couldn’t they jack in anywhere?” Amye asks.

  “Depends on their fantasy. The dreams they live out here stay here, and cost—a lot.”

  “I don’t want to know what kind of sick insane fantasies you jackers have if you have to come to a place like this to have them.” Amye punches Doug in the arm so hard he stumbles off balance.

  “Many times it’s not a sick fantasy. More like culturally taboo issues. Half these people are in their minds right now dating someone from another species. Frowned upon by many aliens.”

  Amye fails to argue, but nor will she admit she too has distain for relationships with non-Osirians. “And the other half?”

  “Better not to ask.” JarBok bows.

  “Told you they’re smerth’n sick.”

  “With so many jackers plugged in, aren’t they worried about security?” Reynard asks.

  “These mersion units are singularly wired. They don’t talk to each other or the security system. You load a storage crystal with your fantasy on it into the machine before you jack in,” JarBok explains.

  “Privately at home seems appropriate.”

  “Mersion technology is highly expensive. Holoemersion units even more so.”

  “Do they work for training?” Reynard glances at his fellow crewmembers. They may not need more training, but he knows he lacks certain skills they grew up learning.

  “Explore any environment you have a crystal for,” JarBok says.

  “Buy us one.”

  “Smerth’n hell! No smerth’n way,” Doug squeals as if getting to be the first to open a Christmas present.

  “There’s plenty of room on the second deck, and those long hours in hyperspace allow for training time.”

  “You’re the captain.” Doug rushes off before Reynard changes his mind.

  “Not a wise way to spend the princess’s fortune.” Amye whispers a question, “Where’s Ki-Ton gone?”

  They should blend in. They should be enjoying some of the entertainment this place has to offer as they search for this bounty to quell any suspicion about them being here. None of the patrons have even taken notice since most are too enthralled with their own vices.

  “Let him go have fun, as we all should.” He whispers, “I’m spending the Admiral’s money.” He pushes her back a step. “Even if you haven’t been to many planets you were at least educated in what they are like. I have no such training.”

  “So you want to hike the deserts of Gelheit before you hike the deserts of Gelheit. I get it, Commander.”

  “If you’re worried about such an expense, spend some time at the gaming tables. Offset the cost with any winnings you acquire.”

  Too young to gamble when he still resided on his home planet, Reynard still understood casinos were a money-making operation. For every dollar an individual won how many actually lost five or ten, or even twenty? This place was created outside the confines of any planetary system laws. The games are rigged in favor of the house.

  This gives Reynard the opening he needs to give an order to his crew: “JarBok, enough of the tour. We should separate and enjoy the many splendors of your establishment.”

  “Anyone wish to experience a specific desire? I’ll show you the way,” JarBok offers.

  The crew departs at Reynard’s nod.

  “You’re worried about the holoemersion device?” Reynard asks Amye.

  JC remains close to Reynard. Scott leads JarBok down a corridor.

  “How many women do you think he’ll buy?” Amye mumbles to herself.

  “He loves Australia.”

  “He may love her, but it doesn’t stop his enjoyment of other females.”

  “I asked about the holoemersion unit. On my
home world we created one-dimensional fantasies called movies. You could watch any type of adventure you wanted, but only watch and the story never changed no matter how many times you viewed it.”

  “Holoemersion technology overwhelms emotions so strongly some people forget they are in a game. Stick around and watch one of those jackers unplug because they ran out of credits and you’ll see. They will fight with everything they have to get back inside,” Amye explains.

  JC adds, “The smart thing to do is only buy games. They have a quest goal. When you achieve it—game over. Your brain adjusts better to a trophy award better than to those who engross themselves in a romance they don’t want to end.”

  “I’ll stop Doug.”

  “They’re effective, if used for training. At least the pain of slamming into the mat goes away when the program ends. I still have bruises from my last sparing session with Joe.” Amye rubs her, shoulder her body instantly bringing back a pain she thought she had forgotten.

  “Try training under an Old Maestro. He would work me until I collapsed and then left me there until I built up enough stamina to match them. I spend many a night sleeping under the stars unable to move.”

  “Calthos warriors are hard taskmasters and fierce combatants. Why do you think everyone wants to employ one? I don’t know how you survived a year of your life training under them.”

  “I wanted it. I wanted to learn. They won’t teach anyone not ready, or worthy.”

  “I’m not sure I’m either.” Amye lowers her eyes from his.

  “You’re in the exercise room with Joe. He must consider you both.”

  “My sister wouldn’t agree with you.”

  “You can’t let what you think Kymberlynn would tell you rule your life, Amye. Every part of life you had on Tartarus is gone. Completely reinvent yourself in my crew. No more test scores to hold you back.”

  “What do you know about my test scores?”

  “Should you two have this discussion here? We’ve got to find entertainment.” JC grits her teeth.

  Reynard fails to admit he has read her IMC file. “I know the IMC tests its employees for everything.”

  “You smerth’n bastard. You read it.”

  “I’m not sure what I have to defend here, Amye. I’m your captain; I needed to know your skills. I’ve read Australia’s and Scott’s military dossiers.”