Unable to maneuver, out of shield power and with their point defense lasers burned off by the plasma bubbles, the Rhino ships were meat for the shipkillers.
“One… two… three…” Winter counted as the enemy cruisers met their ends. “…ten. Well done,” he finished as hundreds of meteors littered the Premdor sky—chunks of wreckage and debris from the annihilated Rhino fleet.
Cheers broke out briefly in the CCC as Gray echoed Winter’s words. “Well done, everyone. Initiate Phase Three. I want damage and casualty reports on my desk within the hour. Commander Sinden,” Gray said, turning toward the intelligence cell, “I’ll want an updated Rhino capabilities briefing by…1500 hours.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
“Nice work, Commodore,” Straker said, holding out his hand. “Carla was right about you.”
Gray raised her eyes to meet Straker’s as she shook his hand firmly. “We’ve got good people, good ships. And apparently our allies are no slouches. I’d love to see the specs on that plasma bubble—and those Rhino missiles.”
“Looks like we’ll have to dig up more brainiacs for Murdock’s team and put them to work. Carry on. I’ll grab lunch and see you at Sinden’s briefing.”
Chapter 13
Zaxby on Crossroads
Sitting at the scarred plastic dining table across from Carla Engels, Zaxby hid his amusement at her reaction to his declaration that he intended to ‘get laid.’ Human females often seemed more prudish than the males when it came to sexuality, especially when in company with others—and sober. Perhaps they were more concerned with their reputations than the males, as once alone with their chosen partner, they were, on average, equally as wanton.
His research had demonstrated notable exceptions, of course. Ingesting alcohol and other social drugs, and the presence of other females in a setting where they outnumbered males and thus felt empowered, tended to reduce their inhibitions—as did the introduction of what they called “male strippers.” He also found it interesting that the default “stripper,” a person who disrobed for money in order to stimulate sexual arousal, was always female unless given a nomenclatural modifier.
This seemed to Zaxby an odd juxtaposition with his initial observation about female tendencies. If most females were more sexually conservative, perhaps the “male stripper” represented the breaking of taboo, and so was even more titillating.
The study of humans and their mating habits was endlessly entertaining, much more so than other species—except for Ruxins, of course. His study of his own species was far from over. As Grand Marshal of Ruxin, he’d made quite a dent in the various possibilities, but one could always find more experiments...
All this ran through his mind in a very short time indeed, the time it took for Carla Engels’s jaw to retract into its usual resting position and for her to regain the power of speech. “We’re not here for entertainment, Zaxby, or for you to go boffing some poor Ruxin prostitute paying off her debts with her body. We’re here for business!”
“I am fully capable of mixing business with pleasure, and if I did copulate with a Ruxin female prostitute, I would compensate her well and thus bring her closer to paying off debts, if debts she had, and so would not be taking advantage of her. However, the point is moot. I am not intending to mate with a Ruxin.”
Carla Engels understood his verbal emphasis, and her face reflected astonishment and revulsion. “You’re intending to have sex with… with… what?”
“Not what, but whom, my dear Carla. What you would so quaintly term the ‘red light district’ of Crossroads is famous across the Middle Reach. The offerings for creative mating are boundless, as are the many species represented. Are you morally opposed to consenting sentients providing mutual pleasure?”
“It’s just… it’s just…ew! With aliens?”
“I didn’t realize you were so speciesist. For shame.” Zaxby produced a sigh for Carla Engels’s benefit. He found these nonverbal shortcuts—the rolling of eyes, the smiles and frowns, the shrugs and so on—quite useful when communicating with humans. “You’ve lived a cloistered life, denied the cornucopia of experiences out here in the wider galaxy, Carla Engels, and you’ve never examined your own preconceptions. I, however, have earned a second chance at youth and adventure, and I’m going to carpe the diem. To paraphrase Loco, I intend to screw anything that moves. As long as it consents, and carries no diseases, of course.”
“You’re disgusting, Zaxby.”
“I’m sorry you think that, Carla Engels.” Zaxby stood, looming over her. “As my presence and intentions distress you, I will take my leave. Until later.”
He ambled away, leaving her no doubt stunned by his departure. Statistically, Crossroads was extremely unlikely to prove fatal, now that she’d been warned about the Arattak. She would be fine.
Yet a small twinge of guilt rippled within his overlarge brain and distributed nervous system as he slipped through his selected enviro-port and into the next environment. This one was moister, with a higher proportion of oxygen, which reduced the demands on his water suit. He performed a quick search of the area, but found no Ruxins.
He did find a currency processing center, however, where he traded 500 grams of rhodium he carried for more than 40,000 credits deposited into his locked and numbered personal account, one he’d set up during his time in the booth with Overnica, unknown to Carla Engels.
Calling for Overnica, Zaxby quickly contracted for an official Conglomerate bodyguard to accompany Engels as extra security. That would fulfill his moral duty and leave him to his own devices.
That concluded, he carefully examined the parameters of each of the sixteen enviro-ports available.
Each port led to an environment that was different enough in at least one aspect to require containment. That location then led to further changed environments. Eventually, by degrees, anyone could pass through the thousands of separated sections available, finding areas that were acceptable or inimical.
If the environment was inimical, protective and supportive equipment was available—for a price, of course—up to even a full mobility capsule in case he wished to enter an area as hostile as, say, a Thorian environment filled with harsh radiation, or the cold-methane atmosphere of the Bneem, either of which would kill an unprotected Ruxin within minutes.
But Zaxby was only moving toward more Ruxin-friendly environments. Four sections later, he found a close approximation, awash in salty water of a pleasant temperature and aroma, with perhaps a touch too much oxygen, but that was hardly something to complain about.
Poor Carla Engels, he thought with regret. She believed the often-silly alien Zaxby would abandon her to chase his own lusts. Not that his lusts didn’t call him to the red-light district—he did intend to indulge himself later.
After all, the best cover stories were true and verifiable.
But not yet. Now, he needed to find a contact of at least moderate trustworthiness and reliability.
He located an establishment providing food, drink, and dim quasi-privacy. Several Ruxin neuters and one romantic trium occupied various areas. And his wasn’t the only species comfortable in this environment. He spotted Eprem lounging in pools, and watched as a crustacean with feathery appendages debouched carefully from a glassy bubble, to submerge itself in a crystalline aquarium.
It appeared tasty, but of course, consuming other sentient beings was frowned upon, even if they died naturally or donated their bodies. So many taboos! Zaxby was glad Ruxins had so few.
A practical species, my own, he thought, and wondered not for the first time why an empire of nearly two thousand systems wasn’t Ruxin instead of human.
But there was time in the universe for the turn of history. For now, his fate was bound to the humans, and more specifically to the Breakers. He must contribute mightily to their success, as he always did.
If fact, he thought contentedly as he slipped into an empty demi-booth and soaked his lower tentacles in the water circulating acros
s the floor, there would be no Breakers without Zaxby. Perhaps Derek Straker would consider a sub-unit more closely tied to his illustrious name. Zaxby’s Zappers. Zippers? Zingers? Zebras? No, those all seemed juvenile. Zebecs, a type of ship? Zymes, short for enzymes? Zombies… not bad, if a bit macabre and unmilitary. Zanders? A type of fish, but not a predator.
Zaxby’s Zealots? Now that had a proper ring to it.
He would think upon it further.
His musing was interrupted by a server, asking for his order. “Two Kree-bark teas,” he said, and as soon as the server danced nimbly through the surf, a neuter joined him without permission.
Zaxby anticipated something like this, though, as he’d laid the subtentacles of his fourth limb in the Pattern-of-Expectation-of-Nonromantic-Conversation—one of the many social signals available to an erudite Ruxin. But would this fellow meet his needs?
“I am Yixnam. You’re new to Crossroads,” the neuter said in their common native tongue.
“I am Zaxby, and you are correct. Arrived today, for the first time.”
“Perhaps you need information, or even a guide?”
“I am open to both. How private is this place?”
“It is wholly owned by the Syndicate of Squares, and thus is proof against all external spying.”
“What about internal spying?”
Yixnam placed a device on the table and activated it. “This will disrupt eavesdropping.”
The server set down the two mugs of tea. Zaxby slid one to Yixnam and sipped his own. “And Overnica?” he asked.
“Conglomerate regulations allow us to block all access by anyone and everyone, including Overnica—if we can. It is customary. Business must be conducted. Of course, others are not prohibited from attempting to spy.” Yixnam sipped. “Ah. Kree-bark. Excellent vintage.”
“Yet if all transactions must be conducted in credit and be processed through Crossroads…”
“I am a paid guide, and a personal assistant. What could be more ordinary? My rates do vary, though, based on the nature of the information or services you request. Everything is confidential, of course, if you hire me.”
“How long does this confidentially last?”
Yixnam’s demeanor expressed guarded admiration. “A superb question, not always asked. It lasts as long as I am on retainer. Once you cease paying me, all confidential information is subject to further sale. Alternatively, you may purchase perpetual confidentiality with a larger one-time fee.”
“How much are your fees?”
Yixnam named various figures. Zaxby thought, offered, negotiated, was countered, and eventually reached an agreement. The two stepped outside the establishment for long enough to register their contract at the nearest terminal before resuming their booth.
“Let me speak plainly,” Zaxby said, “now that I’m your duly contracted client. I am in need of specific intelligence regarding certain persons, organizations and species. You will provide it to me, confidentially of course.”
“Of course. You have bought my knowledge and my silence.”
“I will also add a threat to the price. If you betray your contract, in letter or in spirit—note that latter stipulation—I will cause you and everyone in your genetic line I can find to be terminated. I assure you I have the power to do so with high probability of success.”
Yixnam, until now confident and urbane, darkened with mild concern, even fear. “I acknowledge your threat, warrior.”
“War Male, actually, though I find myself temporarily without a squid spear. I’ve been keeping company with humans too long.”
“Humans?”
“Yes. Have you heard of Straker’s Breakers?”
“Straker… Straker… a few years ago there was a moderately large war in human space. One of that name was prominent, I believe.” Yixnam’s eyes grew wide and all four turned to focus on Zaxby. “What is your full name?”
Zaxby repeated his full Ruxin designation, running to more than one hundred syllables.
The neuter turned dark purple. His ink sac quivered with the urge to squirt, and the creature tried to slither off the bench seat and into the water. Zaxby seized one tentacle, and then another when it became obvious Yixnam might shed it to escape.
As if by magic two large Karks, walking sharks with leathery skin and far too many teeth, appeared at booth-side. “Is there trouble?”
“My contracted employee seems to be attempting to violate its agreement,” Zaxby said.
One of the Karks checked a device. “The honorable Zaxby is correct. The honorable Yixnam is contracted. We will witness this violation to the Conglomerate if it continues. Honorable Yixnam, do you wish to voluntarily break your contract, and accept all penalties accruing to this action?” The Kark leaned in as if imparting a secret. “If you do, good fellow, you will be ruined. I see the penalties might go as high as 500,000, plus detention time, publicity—and they’ll suspend your certification. Ruined.”
“No, no…” Yixnam whispered. “Release me. I was overcome for a moment, nothing more. I will honor my contract. I suppose it’s my fault for not doing my due diligence. Oh, woe and despair, I shall be killed along with you. Curse me for a fool. You are that Zaxby who was until recently Grand Marshal of Ruxin. Do you not know there are two prices on your head?”
“Only two?” Zaxby examined the keratin of his subtentacles.
“Yes, the first is one million credits dead or alive by the human dictator John Steel, and the other is two million if dead, five million if alive, by Vuxana, Premier of our homeworld. No doubt assassins and bounty hunters are already on their way.”
“My, my,” Zaxby said, surprised at the high price but determined to cover it up. Vuxana must be quite angry with him for running off and leaving her gravid with another round of offspring, not to mention his commandeering of a squadron of the latest, most modern skimmers for what amounted to personal use. “I’d expected at least ten million. She must love me still.”
“Perhaps I shall experience love at some time,” the neuter mournfully said.
Zaxby patted the other’s tentacle. “There, there, good fellow. The vagaries of life may yet bring you joy. Until then, though, money and satisfaction of appetites will have to do. You have a good deal of my money; let’s get to work.”
By evening mealtime Zaxby was satisfied with his initial progress. After its initial despondency and fear, Yixnam rallied like any good, dutiful neuter should and provided Zaxby with a wealth of needed information. Zaxby let the fellow go. He had arranged an appointment for the next morning after inviting it to accompany him to the redlight district—an invitation which Yixnam declined.
That was probably for the best. No need to shock it with Zaxby’s wild proclivities.
For the next three hours, he indulged those proclivities with three different non-Ruxin sell-sexes, all of them Conglomerate-bonded and certified disease-free. He stayed away from the less-reputable establishments, where the certificates might be forged and the medical examinations might be less than thorough.
The cost in credits was high, but that was the price for secure, consequence-free pleasuring.
Hmm, Zaxby thought afterward. Perhaps I’m not so wild after all... but no need to be a fool when indulging one’s lusts. My money is my own, and I have plenty of it, so why not?
But all good things must come to an end, as the humans said, so he rubbed body parts regretfully with his last companion, a Croatoan cephalopod female superficially not too different from a Ruxin, but with certain exaggerated physical characteristics he suspected might be the result of surgical alteration. That didn’t materially change his enjoyment of them, though.
He tipped her well and went his way. If he were a stereotypical human he’d be whistling in the most carefree manner, filled with the warm afterglow of pure relaxation combined with the stimulation of new experiences and the illusion of conquest.
This pleasant combination disappeared, as expected, when he appeared at Carla Engels
’ hotel room. After dismissing the bodyguard, he knocked on the door and was let in by the grumpy human female. By her smell, it appeared she might be entering that phase of her pseudo-estrus cycle characterized by emotional volatility.
No matter. Creatures must cope with their own biological peculiarities on their own—especially humans. When had a human ever cared about Zaxby’s physical status? What with the dryness of their atmosphere and the tastelessness of their food and the chafing brought on by extended periods in his water suit, they should be thanking him for every interaction.
“Deal with it,” Loco would say.
Zaxby dealt with it.
“Where the hell have you been?” Carla Engels’ expected harangue began.
Zaxby endured it as cheerfully as a human owner welcomed the yapping of a dog’s daily greeting. “I believe I explained my intended activities already,” he said, patting her on the shoulder.
“Don’t touch me with those tentacles. I don’t want to even think about where they’ve been.”
“You have nothing to fear. All of my encounters were certified, and I washed thoroughly afterward.”
“And you left me after telling me you’d protect me.”
“I did protect you by providing a bodyguard. You are perfectly safe and unharmed, are you not?”
Carla Engels merely crossed her arms below her modestly sized mammaries and sulked.
“Here, let me call room service for a nice beverage and snack tray. Some tea and finger sandwiches, perhaps? Or wine and cheese?”
“Don’t try to mollify me.”
“Why not? Mollification results in a more pleasant social atmosphere for both of us, does it not?”
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Not everything, no. There are many scientific mysteries left to be investigated—”
“You know what I mean!”
Zaxby sat at the dinette table and folded his subtentacles together, fixing her with all four eyes. “Of course I know what you mean, Carla Engels. You’re my friend. I’ve studied you extensively, and I’m a brainiac. But because I’m your friend, and I know your strength, I refuse to coddle you when you become childish and petulant.”
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