by Eric Brown
“You want a cut like Minkie?” Sukara said, reaching for a bottle.
The girl had backed away, hissing. “No more Ee-tees for you! I hope you die on the streets!”
Now Sukara imagined their eyes on her, mocking her isolation. She could not bring herself to look around, see if they really were staring at her, or if she was being crazy.
What would happen if her Ee-tees stopped coming for good? Few men would go with her—not enough to pay her a wage—and she knew how to do nothing else. She could always change bars, work in one of the dives not far from where she lived, whose customers were labourers and the poor who couldn’t afford the expensive, beautiful girls. But she’d talked to the girls who worked in those clubs, and she knew the customers there were often drunk and violent.
She hadn’t had any beer for half an hour, and yet her vision was still blurred. When the Ee-tee came through the door, she thought she was hallucinating. The indistinct shape might have been two drunks, clinging to each other. Then, as the alien approached, she saw that it was Dervan... or rather someone of the same race, as Dervan had visited her five days ago and had told her that he was leaving Earth the same day.
Her heart gave a skip of joy. She hoped the girls were watching, now, could see that her customers had returned.
The Ee-tee approached slowly, garbed in the loose-fitting robes of its people, and paused before Sukara. Seen at close quarters, she made out subtle differences that distinguished it from Dervan: its skin was paler, even more wrinkled, and it was larger than her regular customer.
“Su-kara?”
She smiled her best smile. “Hi. You like drink?”
“No drink, please.”
“Hokay. We go back room, yes? Come on.”
Biting her bottom lip with concentration, she slid off the high stool and landed on her feet with a jolt. She hiccuped, swayed dangerously, grabbed hold of the Ee-tee’s hand and led it from the bar.
A girl hissed at her as she passed, but Sukara put on a brave smile.
In her room, the Ee-tee lowered itself slowly onto the bed, arranging the folds of its robes around its bulk. Sukara pulled down her skirt, sat on the edge of the bed and laid a hand on the Ee-tee’s arm.
“You been with me before, yes? What your name?”
“Never before. You were...” he seemed to be searching for the word, “recommended.”
Sukara felt a swelling of pride in her chest. “Dervan?”
“Dervan, yes.”
The alien lay on its side, and Sukara stretched out with her back against its soft, warm body. “Like this, okay?”
She felt its pseudopods rustle from the concealing robe and squirm around her thighs; others encircled her waist, slipped beneath her T-shirt. She felt the warm tentacles attach themselves to her torso, another clamp itself on to the base of her skull. She moaned with pleasure as she drifted on the edge of consciousness, controlled totally by this strange, gentle being from among the stars, feeling secure and at peace. Her last conscious thought was, why couldn’t life always be like this?
Then she experienced a dream familiar in form but unique in content. She was in a great desert riding a tall, two-legged creature like some kind of dinosaur, as nimble as the wind. They raced for kilometres, a perfumed zephyr in her face, drawn towards a shimmering oasis from which heavenly music played. Sukara felt a heady sense of exhilaration, both from the excitement of the ride and at the prospect of the feast that awaited them at the oasis.
They arrived at the silver oval of water surrounded by tall, branchless trees. Other bipedal dinosaur creatures stood about, tethered to the trees, while their riders lay around the water: Ee-tees like Dervan and her customer.
She jumped from her mount and knelt by the water, splashing her face. At a sound from behind her, she turned. An Ee-tee reached out a hand in greeting. It was Dervan.
“Su. So pleased.”
“Dervan, is it really you?”
He led her to a silver blanket spread with food and drink, and they feasted on alien delicacies, exotic fruits and strong, syrupy wines.
“Su. I come like this, in your dreams, to leave a final message.”
“A message?” she heard herself say.
“My ship will no longer be landing at Bengal Station, on its great voyage through the void. We will land elsewhere, and no longer will I be able to enjoy your company. I am truly sorry. I hope you have gained from our unions the degree of pleasure I have enjoyed, Su. Farewell.”
“But wait!”
In her dream she reached out for Dervan, but even as she did so he began to fade. Sukara found herself drifting on a wave of gorgeous lassitude, any disappointment she might have felt nullified by the drug-like feeling of contentment that coursed through her.
And then she was returned to the real world. She came to her senses by degrees, found herself lying on the bed. She blinked herself fully awake, sat up groggily. Something of the languor of the dream, the feeling of blissful relaxation, remained with her.
Then she recalled Dervan’s farewell.
There was no of sign of the Ee-tee in the room. She looked at the wall-clock. She had been unconscious for over two hours.
She dressed quickly, trying not to cry. As she left the room and headed for the showers, she felt a pain beyond sadness that she would never again meet the Ee-tee who called himself Dervan.
* * * *
The six empty beer bottles were still lined up along the bar, inviting her to increase the total. But she was sober now and decided to stay that way. Beer would only make her more unhappy. She ordered a Vitamilk from the barman and looked out across the dance floor. She thought that one or two of the girls were pointedly ignoring her, rather than meet her gaze and acknowledge that she’d had a customer.
A girl came out of Fat Cheng’s office, beyond the bar. She stopped by Sukara’s stool. “Monkey, Fat Cheng wants to see you.” She gave Sukara a sweet smile, dipped in malice.
Sucking on her bottle, she jumped from the stool and walked around to the office door marked: Private. She knocked. Fat Cheng always demanded that you knocked before entering—as if he ever did anything more important in there than eat and sleep.
He was sitting sideways in his hammock, gently swinging, when she pushed her way in. Even when contained in his chrome-sided bar-stool, he appeared enormously fat: in his hammock, without constraints, his fat spread in every direction so that he looked more like some kind of alien than a human being. His tiny head sat on the bulging cone of his body, staring at her with buried eyes.
“Sit, little Monkey,” he said, indicating a stool before the hammock.
Sukara sat down, winding her legs around the legs of the stool. She worked her tongue into the bottle of Vitamilk, watching Fat Cheng through her eyelashes.
“Little Monkey, no work these days.”
Sukara shrugged, working her tongue further into the bottle and not meeting his gaze.
“Things bad. Men no want you, aliens stop coming.”
She glanced quickly at him. “Aliens start coming again. One tonight. They come again in day or two.”
Fat Cheng shook his head. “Think no, little Monkey. Bad news from spaceport.”
He reached up, found the cord and tugged. A computer screen bobbed down from the ceiling on its extendable boom. He positioned the screen before Sukara and switched it on.
“This recorded from news. Watch.”
The screen showed shots of Bengal Station spaceport, voidships landing. An interview with some alien. The voiceover was in English, but the reporter was using big words that Sukara did not understand: Franchise. Berthing capacity. Termination. Alternative venues.
She shook her head. “So? What happening?”
Fat Cheng killed the screen and pushed it back to the ceiling. “Bengal Station ‘port lost many landing contracts, mainly Ee-tee ships. Some alien ships still land, but many go to the Chandrasakar orbital station.”
Sukara shrugged. “So—some still land, so
me Ee-tees still come see me.”
He licked his fat lips, shaking his head. “One ship every two week, little Monkey. Not all crews come Bangkok. Those do come here, many go to other bar. If you lucky, you get one, two customer every week.” He stared at her. “How you live on that, little Monkey?”
Sukara just stared at her toes, not knowing what to say. She understood what Fat Cheng was saying, but not what it might mean for her. What would happen now?
Fat Cheng began rocking himself again. He swung back and forth, back and forth, saying nothing, watching her.
She tried to find something to say, to make a suggestion, but her mind was a big blank. She knew that he must think her stupid.
“So, what you do, little Monkey?”
She shrugged, wished she hadn’t. It gave the impression that she didn’t care. She looked up, aware that tears were filling her eyes. “Don’t know,” she said in a small voice.
“Fat Cheng know kind bar owner. He says he will take you in. Give you room, work.”
She could not control the tears; they spilled from her eyes, tumbled down her cheeks. Everything that was familiar was coming to an end, and so quickly. She could hardly believe what Fat Cheng was saying.
“I no want leave here.”
“Little Monkey, what else you do? You need money, yes? You need buy food, clothes, yes? How you do that with no money?”
“Where new bar?” she said.
“Not far. One kilometre away. Near train station.”
But that was a poor, rough area. The bars around the station were mean and cheap. The police were always breaking up fights. The girls were old or ugly, their customers drunken locals. No Westerners or aliens went to the bars near the station.
She was shaking her head. “I no go there. Not nice place. Men beat working girls. I stay here.”
“You no stay here. No trade, no work. You work here till end week, then you go. Paradise Bar. Ask tor Mr. Lomtow. He good man, kind man. He look after you.”
She tried to stop crying, realising how ugly she must look. “I here five year,” she sobbed. “Now you throw me out, like rubbish!”
“You no stay here. I no afford keep girls too old, too damage. Now go.”
She hung her head, shoulders shaking. She looked up at him, trying to find the magical words that might make him change his mind, but he had closed his eyes and tipped back his head.
Sending the stool flying, she stood up and ran from the office. She locked herself in the toilet, covering her face with her hands and trying to muffle the sound of her crying. She thought of working at the new bar, the Paradise Bar, thought of the human men she would have to go with. She could not believe what was happening to her.
She decided to go home now. Tomorrow, she would come back and talk to Fat Cheng, plead with him. Perhaps she could do other jobs here, work behind the bar, clean up. Anything other than work in the Paradise Bar.
She dried her eyes on the sleeve of her T-shirt, stood, and tried to compose herself. She took deep breaths, counted to ten, then opened the toilet door and hurried out. As she walked through the bar, she felt a hundred eyes on her, heard laughter and comments. She forgot her mask in the cloakroom in her haste to be away, and the smog out on the street stung her nose and throat.
It seemed to take a long time to get home, tonight.
She climbed the stairs, weary. Even her little room, her scant possessions, were of no comfort now. She could not bring herself to switch on the vid-screen, much less cook herself a meal.
Often in the past she had thought of killing herself, but the thought of Pakara had always stopped her. Dead, she would never again see her sister.
She reached under the pillow and pulled out the silk scarf from Pakara. She read the message again, smoothed her fingers along the embroidered words, and then cried herself to sleep.
* * * *
FIFTEEN
VERKERK’S WORLD
Vaughan leaned back in the couch before the bulging viewscreen as the Spirit of Vega made its transition into the airspace above Sapphire Falls, Verkerk’s World. The inky, starless blackness was replaced by the quick, almost subliminal, flash of blue sky and a range of jagged mountains. Then the black of the void returned, before disappearing again. The viewscreen flickered for ten seconds with alternating scenes like images on a defective hologram. Vaughan had only ever witnessed transitions from the ground, watching voidships come and go above Bengal Station. To behold a world come into being, the birth of a reality he was soon about to join, was an altogether more startling experience.
The ship made its final jump and the magnificence of the view was revealed. The crystal screen curved beneath the couch, and Vaughan sat forward and stared down between his feet at the silent, drifting landscape far below. They were passing above the foothills of the mountain range, the hills buckling in a series of rucks and folds, flattening out gradually as they gave way to a vast, cultivated floodplain. Ahead, he could see the outskirts of the city of Sapphire Falls, big timber houses laid out on a grid pattern of streets. It was dawn, the sun rising above the mountains, and Vaughan was amazed to see that the streets of the city were almost deserted. His sensibilities, geared to conditions on Bengal Station, could not help but compare: he supposed that this was the first of many imminent culture shocks.
He was still trying to gauge his reaction to Chandra’s invitation to join him on the investigation. Chandra had met Vaughan at the ‘port, and introduced him to Commander Sinton. “Jeff Vaughan, sir, the telepath. He’s the best man for the job.”
They had chatted for a while, Sinton obviously trying to assess his worth. Sinton had been shielded, common for a man in his position. Chandra had told his commanding officer that he had worked with Vaughan before, and that he was sure he would prove invaluable on the case.
But Vaughan suspected that Chandra had other reasons for wanting him along. He recalled Chandra’s expressions of concern over the past few days. He wondered if Chandra thought a sojourn to another world might bring about a transformation of Vaughan’s personal situation. Christ knew, Chandra was naive enough to assume that different scenery might prove a palliative for depression. Vaughan found himself resenting Chandra for his patronising presumption. He feared that Chandra would probe him about his past, as he had done once or twice recently, in an attempt to play the amateur psychologist.
However, during the forty-eight hour journey to Verkerk’s World, Chandra’s manner had struck him as rather odd. He seemed wary of Vaughan, not the usual friendly, forthcoming Chandra of old. Also, he’d been fastidious with his mind-shield, ensuring that he had it on him at all times, as if he had secrets which he did not want Vaughan to share.
Not that Vaughan had worried. He’d spent time alone at the bar, avoiding the other twenty passengers, and muting their mind-noise with copious doses of chora.
The Spirit of Vega banked over the city. Vaughan spotted a few tiny roadsters, like trilobites, moving slowly along the streets. To the left, parallel with the mountain range fifty kilometres inland, was the geological feature that gave Sapphire Falls its name. Over millennia, the escarpment that was the termination of the floodplain had been eroded by the work of a thousand streams. From a series of fissures, waterfalls tipped in spectacular arcs to the rocks a kilometre below, sending up great billowing drifts of rainbow-spangled spray.
Vaughan had spent a couple of hours at the start of the journey scrolling through a screader advertising Verkerk’s World. The planet was vast, with almost four times the continental surface area of Earth, and the new government was eager to promote travel and tourism. The screader flashed graphics of spectacular geography, boasted unexplored terrain in tracts the size of Asia.
Vaughan found it hard to believe that only a million people made their home on Verkerk’s World. The screader had explained that for decades the Verkerk-Scherring Company had limited immigration, preferring to keep the planet as the exclusive, and expensive, preserve of the rich. Also, lack of majo
r industry had curbed work opportunities. Even now, Verkerk’s World was reliant on neighbouring industrial planets for the supply of certain manufactured commodities.
The spaceport was a tiny affair three kilometres outside Sapphire Falls. The ship banked towards a docking berth, one of only four scattered across the weed-laced tarmac. One other voidship stood on the ‘port, a bulky freighter from one of the nearby worlds. The place had the run-down air of a colonial backwater.
The other passengers were filing through the lounge behind Vaughan, making their way to the foyer for disembarkation. He heard the thunking percussion of a dozen connecting-leads snap into the skin of the ship, the gurgling of siphoned fuel, and an arpeggio of musical notes indicating function shutdowns. He had lost count of how many ships he had boarded at this stage, scanning new arrivals. Too busy with the job at hand, he had never paid much attention to the sounds of a resting ship at journey’s end.