"So you have not serviced him?” Lady Kadara could not believe it. An air hostess traveling with a sex maniac, and nothing happened. SinBad barely believed it himself.
"I am not even licensed for surface work,” Tiffany added, making their whole criminal odyssey sound scrupulously legal.
Kadara turned back to SinBad. “Is this true?"
"I try to live within the terms of my parole.” Which covered sex offenses, not drug smuggling, or aerial robbery.
"So you are not being paid at all?"
"Apparently."
Both SuperCats gave him toothy grins. They were paid upfront.
Lady Kadara could see she was being conned, but Tiffany was her only witness. Offplanet law relied on truth testing and brain scans, which did not exist on Barsoom. Greenies never lied, and expected humans to do the same. Jeddara's commander reluctantly capitulated. “Since you are not my prisoners, please be my guests."
Kadara dined them royally on roast zitidar, garnished with skeel nuts. Afterward, smiling Amazons propped his hurt foot on pillows, and fed him sweet sompus slices, happy to entertain a man, even a lame, unemployed sex criminal.
It turned out that Tiffany was not the only air hostess aboard. Kadara had picked up a runaway Red girl from Amour, one of the lesser palaces, a quiet dark-haired local, named Jem.
Tiffany fussed over her newfound companion, coaxing the Red girl's story out of her. Jem of Amour had been taken in war from a desert tribe, then sold into sex slavery. That was bad. Being in the same airship with an enslaved sex worker violated SinBad's parole, as Kadara quickly noted. “This girl is qualified for surface work, so you will not want to stay aboard."
"Right.” Because of one black-haired teenager, he had to leave this soft billet, with free food, and unlimited women. Why couldn't Jem be a Greenie? But Jem was a Red girl from Barsoom, Apache most likely. He was Huron, before the tribe expelled him.
Now the Northerners did not want him either. Kadara set him down on the open sward, two hundred haads from where they'd left his sandboat. Tiffany gave him a hug at the gangway, saying, “Sorry I cannot kiss you goodbye."
Even the hug was frowned on. Kissing him was a flat out violation of her license, and his parole. SinBad watched the silver airship lift off and head north, then he turned about and limped southward. He had no more meds, and the Aymads would want what was left of their shipment. Just thinking about the long walk back to the sand sail made his foot hurt horribly.
* * * *
Pleasure Palace
SinBad limped along, knowing the Aymads would now be charging him double time for every xat he delayed. This hobbling forced march was not just life or death, he would be paying for each painful step. Thanks to Tiffany. And the Massingales. He expected trouble from the Massingales. Why did pretty women cost so much? If he had half the money he had spent on blondes, he would not have to smuggle. Which would horrify the Aymads, and their many customers. Cut-rate offworld meds were immensely popular.
He could use some miracle meds right now. His foot hurt, and Tiffany was not here to tend it. He missed her already. Tiffany had been a fresh breeze, blowing through his dull life, upsetting everything. Without her, work became a dead bore that left him poorer than before—forced to do yet another run for the “Number Ones."
He never made it to his sand sail. By mid-afternoon, black wings circled overhead.
Massingales, again. He stopped and waited, having nothing to hide—one beauty of being broke.
Joe made a low pass, asking, “Why you walking?"
"You got a bum leg,” Jeramie reminded him.
"We can give you a lift,” Joe suggested. “For a price."
He shrugged. “Sorry, I don't have a pill."
They both laughed, turning slow circles around him. Joe shook his head. “You could not have used up all the meds you were carrying. You're not hurt that bad."
"We still owe you for that,” Jeramie added. “The bolt in your boot was aimed at us."
Joe agreed. “Sorry you were slow at getting away."
"We'll give you a ride back to your sail."
SinBad ceased limping, and waited. So long as he knew where a fortune in pharmaceuticals lay buried, the Massingales were his best friends. Whether he wanted or not.
Presently, his ride appeared, the Massingale airship, poking over the dunes to the west. Cobbled together from stolen parts, the airship was a semi-rigid gas bag, married to an old silverskinned lander with a lifting body hull. Heat shield, gravity drive, and life-support system had been sold off long ago. The former spaceship was crammed with loot, crawling with cats, and patrolled by pit bulls.
Both Massingales had beautiful dark-haired girlfriends, Alyssa and Randi Lynn, who ran the ship when their men were away. Despite their high-flying lifestyle, the hard-charging brothers attracted smart, scarily efficient young women.
Another reason neither Massingale was especially tempted by easy-going blonde Tiffany, whose helpless offworld ways made her barely worth kidnapping, unless you were in the business. On Barsoom, Red girls did you right, but blondes got you busted. Like Tiffany did to him.
Neither girl was even into her teens, Barsoom years, but they knew how to handle SinBad, smiling, tending to his foot, and plying him with wine, working on all his weaknesses at once. Which he thoroughly enjoyed, though they were just softening him up for their boyfriends.
Shedding their wings, the brothers sympathized with SinBad's difficulties. “You look like shit. And your offworld girlfriend is in big trouble."
"Real big trouble,” Alyssa agreed.
SinBad already guessed that. “She's not my girlfriend."
"Yer slippin', SinBad.” Joe shook his head sadly.
"Gotta change your name,” Jeramie suggested. Both girlfriends smiled, not the least afraid of tending to a notorious sex criminal. Who'd just struck out with an air hostess.
"What's happening to her?” SinBad asked warily.
"She's being shipped back to her owners.” Jeramie patted his favorite pitbull. “Folks you stole her from."
Terrible news, but probably true. Joe and Jeramie had friends everywhere, mostly ne'er-do-wells and pretty young women, who were half the population aboard a pleasure palace. Getting Tiffany back offworld was going to be SinBad's one good deed, to balance against all the bad ones.
"You didn't tell us she was so valuable,” Joe observed.
Wonder why. “You were set on robbing that wind jammer."
"We still owe you for that,” Joe reminded him. “And we'll make it up."
"How?” Beware of Massingales doing favors.
"We can save your girlfriend."
"For a fee."
"Like the meds I was delivering to the Aymads?” SinBad suggested.
"Exactly."
Damn. He kept forgetting that. Tiffany was going to cost him everything. His cargo, his employers, his criminal reputation. Hopefully not his life, though that too could go, when the Aymads found out how badly he'd cheated them.
Or he could let Tiffany die. That would be the easy way out. He would feel horrible. Both Massingales would be disappointed. So would their pretty, attentive girlfriends. Only the Aymads would be pleased—though not a lot. They expected him to put them first.
"Okay, I'll do it.” Screw the Aymads. They would hate him either way, but he would feel far worse if Tiffany was dead.
Jeramie arched an eyebrow. “That so?"
"Sure. Get me Tiffany, and I'll give you the meds."
"Sounds like a deal,” Joe declared.
It sounded like disaster, yet every other choice was worse.
It took days for the Massingales’ makeshift airship to catch up with Erotopia, drifting with the prevailing easterlies, between Exhume and Kobol, a thousand haads behind Lesser Helium, currently propelled by the same wind system.
Coming up from the southeast, the Massingales timed their arrival for dusk, so they would hang in the gloaming, nearly invisible, with the pleasure palac
e silhouetted in the last of the light. Erotopia was a huge inflated raft of hydrogen, divided into cylindrical cells, capped by a gleaming glass superstructure, with shaggy hanging gardens, and long dangling strings of pavilions that stabilized the floating structure.
SinBad studied their target. “Where is Tiffany?"
"Where is your cargo?” Jeramie replied.
"I will tell you when I have her.” He meant to pay the Massingales at the last possible moment.
Joe nodded. “Fair enough."
First SinBad got his wings, a borrowed pair, that had belonged to Joe. “Before I outgrew them."
Joe's girlfriend adjusted the straps, checking the trim, and making sure SinBad's feet were in the tail stirrups. She was beautiful, but all business, saying without a hint of flirtation, “How firm is it in the crotch? I can tighten it for you."
"Feels just fine,” he deadpanned back.
"Good. Otherwise you can get tail flutter."
Not the good kind, either. In no time he was perched on the airship's fantail, alongside Joe and Jeramie, surveying the pleasure palace. They had their rapiers, while SinBad was unarmed, afraid he would stab himself in a fast landing. Flying and fighting was not his forte. He asked, “How do you even know she is still there?” Or where Tiffany was being kept.
Both brothers grinned. “We GPS tagged the two of you, on that bluff above the wagon track. Just in case."
Leave skulking to the pros. They had no trouble finding him, alone and afoot.
"So, let's go.” Joe gave him a shove, and he was airborne.
Instinctively, he spread his borrowed wings, flapping furiously. Automatic trim tabs and power flaps kept him from stalling. Primaries bit into the dark air, pulling him forward with each power stroke.
"Stop flailing,” Jeramie advised.
"Soar.” Joe showed how, diving to gain speed, then climbing with sure steady strokes.
SinBad did his best, sculling with his wrists to keep up airspeed, riding the air instead of batting at it. Luckily, Joe's old wings practically flew themselves.
Thuria was down, so Erotopia had just a small airship on watch, which the Massingales easily avoided, winging their way toward one of the trailing pavilions—which had a flier on guard, perched on a swing above it.
He too was no match for the Massingales. Joe spilled air, perfectly imitating the drunken swoop of a hard partying flier. A part he knew by heart. Brushing the pavilion eves, Joe went into a tumbling spin. That brought the flier off his perch, spiraling after the fallen “patron."
This clueless watch bird had no hope of catching Joe, letting SinBad concentrate on landing. Not easy for a beginner.
But he did it, flaps wide, feathers spread, spoilers out, feet down. With a sudden thud, Sinbad stood teetering on the broad pavilion balcony.
"Come on,” Jeramie called from inside the pleasure pavilion. “This is not a social call."
Too true. SinBad entered, and there was Tiffany, asleep again, in a gilded cage, wearing a crisp new low-cut uniform. At least her owners did not mean to toss her overboard. Yet.
Jeramie's bolt cutters made quick work of the lock. “So, what are your cargo's coordinates?"
"When we get her outside.” As soon as he gave up those coordinates, the Massingales would be off at near light speed, leaving him with Joe's old wings. And a stolen air hostess.
Or so he hoped. Folding his wings, SinBad eased into the cage, picking Tiffany up off the floor. Her eyes shot open. “SinBad?"
"Good guess.” Nice she remembered him.
"What are you doing?"
"Rescuing you."
"Just me?” Tiffany seemed underwhelmed.
"Afraid so.” He already had his arms full. “Ready for a night flight?"
"I suppose."
Taking that as a yes, he slid her bare legs into his harness straps and looped his flight belt around her waist, bringing their centers of gravity snugly together. Delightful sensation. Then he dived off the pavilion balcony, disappearing into the warm dark Barsoomian night.
As SinBad gained airspeed, Jeramie appeared alongside, flying wing-tip to wing-tip with him. “What are the coordinates?"
He rattled off the numbers, and Jeramie dived after Joe, saying, “You owe us a pair of wings."
So much for the Massingales. SinBad pulled up, borrowed wings beating on battery power, now that the sun had set. That too would slow his escape.
Tiffany asked, “What about Jem?"
Jem? “Jem who?"
"Jem from Amour."
Right. Jem who'd got him thrown off the Jeddara.
"She needs saving too."
Who did not? “They will not kill her."
"How do you know?” Tiffany shot back.
He did not. Rather than continue the aerial argument, he asked, “Do you even know where she is?"
"I'll show you.” Tiffany directed him to another hanging pavilion, below the one she had been in. Live music from a Greenie band drifted out of an open veranda.
"There's a party going on in there.” From the sounds of it a big one.
"So?” Tiffany did not see the problem.
Setting her down on a corner of the veranda, he asked, “How am I supposed to get Jem out?"
"Use this.” Tiffany handed him a mini sleep grenade.
"Where did this come from?” Raised offworld letters ran around the pin. PEACE CORPS.
"Kept it hidden behind my hostess badge."
No wonder he'd missed it. “Hi! I'm Tiffany,” and I have a bomb. Triggering the grenade, he tossed it through an open window. Music ceased, as SinBad waited for the anesthetic cloud to dissipate. Then he hyperventilated, held his breath, and stepped inside.
Strewn around him were the remains of a bacchanal, halted in mid-orgy, the blindfolded band, a trio of naked clients, a rainbow of sleeping air hostesses, red, white, black, and green, in various states of undress—all completely comatose. As if the frenzy of enjoyment was just too exhausting.
He retrieved the grenade, tossing that tiny evidence bomb out the window. Escapades like this—drugging everyone in a flying cathouse to make off with an enslaved teenage air hostess—were what got him called SinBad.
Next he scooped up Jem, who had lost the top of her air hostess uniform, along with the hip boots, making the young Red girl weigh even less. All this activity hurt his leg horribly.
SinBad felt the pavilion tilt, followed by an exchange of greetings outside. Tiffany was saying “Kaor” to someone.
Shit. Some flier had landed on the veranda, and Tiffany was chatting him up. Still holding his breath, SinBad edged over to the window to see.
Out on the starlit veranda, the flier who went after Joe had returned, and somehow tracked them here. He was standing with wings folded, talking to Tiffany, and cradling a repeating crossbow.
Which beat the sleeping air hostess SinBad was cradling. He ducked his head back inside. What to do?
First breathe. Setting Jem down beside the window, SinBad slid over to the back of the pavilion, where he stuck his head out a rear window.
Dark, terraformed air never tasted so sweet. Now think. He could wiggle out the window onto the veranda, then come around behind the flier. Assuming Tiffany could keep him talking.
Arming himself with a champagne bottle, SinBad climbed out the window and crept along the veranda. At the corner, he hefted the bottle, then stepped around, hoping the flier was still facing the other way.
He found the flier stretched out at Tiffany's feet, as peaceful as the party in the pavilion. He lowered his bottle. “What did you hit him with?"
Tiffany replied coyly, “A kiss."
Sedative lipstick. Usually associated with more sleazy pleasure palaces, where customers ended up robbed, then rolled over the side.
"Where's Jem?” she asked. “What's the champagne for?"
"Premature celebration.” He set down the bottle, held his breath again, and limped back into the pavilion, returning with Jem slung over his sho
ulder. “That better?"
Tiffany smiled. “I'd kiss you, but I want you awake."
Relieved he'd never taken liberties with Tiffany, SinBad strapped the two women to him as best he could. Feeling like far too small a flight to rate two air hostesses, SinBad spread his wings and stepped off the veranda. Bye-bye Erotopia.
Tiffany asked, “Where are we headed?"
"The ground.” This overloaded, every direction was down.
"Is that wise?” Tiffany wondered.
"Probably not.” He tilted his primaries, turning into a long slow spin, spiraling down through the hot Barsoomian night. Band music and the bright lights of Erotopia dwindled overhead.
Blackness lay below. “What's down there?” Tiffany asked.
"You're the air hostess."
Tiffany hugged him tighter. “So you don't know?"
"Don't count on sand dunes.” Like the ones that broke her last fall from Erotopia. “Not at this latitude."
No open bodies of water either. Which meant no trees. No major canal lines, no cities. Another of the big blank spots that abounded on Barsoom. Luckily, it was probably flat.
His wings gave a terrain warning—"LOW ALTITUDE. PREPARE TO LAND.” SinBad spread his flaps, dropped his feet, then Barsoom slammed into him.
Hitting with his good leg, he rolled across mossy sward, folding his wings to shield the women. Much of the planet still had its original terraforming vegetation, springy reddish moss that scavenged water and broke up rocks. Perfect for soft landings. Unless a sleeping air hostess lands on your lame leg. SinBad howled aloud.
"Shush,” Tiffany whispered, lifting Jem off his leg. “They could hear..."
"Not unless they turn down the music.” Aerial bands played as Erotopia drifted off downwind. Pre-atomic blues, mixed with centuries-old 3V jingles. Culture crawled to Barsoom at light speed.
Unscrewing a ring setting, Tiffany exposed a hypo-needle and gave Jem an injection.
"What's that?” Drugging pretty teenagers always aroused his professional interest.
"Antidote.” Tiffany resealed the ring.
"You're a cop?"
"Peace Corps.” Just like on the grenade.
"I had no notion.” No wonder they threw her over the side. In the pleasure business, the Peace Corps was as popular as a drug resistant STD.
Asimov's SF, July 2009 Page 8