by Eric Thomson
Nihao shook her head and muttered something in Mandarin before vanishing into the washroom.
*
Zack wrinkled his nose at the stench of exhaust fumes that permeated the spaceport. The whole city of Vortaz seemed to be smothered by a gray blanket turned a ghastly shade of red by the sun. Beneath the ship, the concrete tarmac was grimy, cracked and pitted, with sharp-bladed plants growing wherever they could.
Decker was alone, contrary to the captain’s orders, but there was no one on board with whom he was friendly enough, except Nihao. He had read the condensed infopak on Pradyni culture and memorized the main taboos that could spell trouble. His dagger was strapped to his left forearm, hidden by the sleeve of his old leather jacket.
Zack spotted the terminal building the left and headed for it. Under port rules, all visitors had to pass through the control station. Though utilitarian, the building was the first example of native architecture he saw and he felt mildly disappointed. After meeting the customs official, Zack expected something ornate and alien. But it was a simple concrete block, with few embellishments.
The inside of the building seemed cleaner than the outside, but that wasn’t saying much. By all appearances, the locals didn’t care about off-worlders’ impressions of them. The fact there was a second spaceport, on the other side of Vortaz, exclusively for Pradyni spacecraft spoke volumes.
A bored native, his colors faded by the monotony of his job, sat alone behind a scratched plastic window, and looked at him with expressionless black eyes. His office was no better than the empty waiting area: faded and dented plastic furniture, grimy, beige floor tiles, and walls that had once been white. No posters, plants or other decorations relieved the depressing grittiness of the place. Watery light streamed through cobwebbed windows that hadn’t been washed since the first contact with humanity.
“Your identification.” The Pradyni asked in his tongue, the request translated by a primitive AI that sounded robotic.
Zack slid his blue ID card through the slot under the window and watched as the alien shoved it into a reader. The official pushed it back to Decker.
“Have a pleasant stay.”
Tired doors whisked aside with a nerve-grating screech, and Zack stepped out into an alien city, on a planet where the natives had no love for strangers, but tolerated them to obtain modern technology. The ex-Marine suspected that the day they became self-sufficient, trade would be conducted on their terms, which meant not on their planet.
Stretching out from the terminal towards Vortaz proper, Pradyn’s version of Spacetown stood as an obstacle and a temptation for off-worlders, a means to keep them away from the city. Other exotic but no less unpleasant smells mingled with the exhaust fumes and Zack wondered whether he wouldn’t be better off spending his free time on board. But for a Marine, checking out bars on a new world was tradition.
He walked further into Spacetown, keeping strictly to the main drag and saw many alien visitors but only a few natives. There were strange shapes in the dark alleys between the loud and garishly lit taverns, but Zack knew better than to investigate. Shadowy corners meant druggies, whores and their pimps, bums and other assorted scum who’d cheerfully slit a spacer’s throat for the contents of his pockets.
As with most planets, the Pradyni made only nominal attempts to preserve law and order in Spacetown, preferring to let off-worlders prey on each other rather than on the local citizenry.
Non-natives could visit the planet outside Spacetown, but only with grudging permission. Anyone who broke a law there was guaranteed to suffer the full penalties of native justice. According to the guide, slavery was used for small crimes. Bigger ones started with forced labor in the mines and ended with death in various fashions, depending on the offense. Dismemberment was mentioned, as was becoming supper for a particularly loathsome, tank-sized desert creature kept just for that purpose.
When he judged he had reached the center of Spacetown, Zack looked around for the joint that seemed like the best prospect for a decent beer. A purple, two-story building with large signs in many languages and scripts attracted his attention. It looked clean from the outside, or at least more decent than the rest. It had no broken windows or lights and had a steady stream of customers going in and out beneath the flashing pink lights.
He crossed the wide asphalt street, dodging unrecognizable garbage in the gutters and panhandling off world bums sitting on the edge of the sidewalk. A gust of loud, discordant music assaulted his ears as the swinging door flapped open to let out a pair of drunk, gray-skinned Kardati sailors. They looked like the barbarians they were in their stained, rough leather and mail uniforms, now decorated with flecks of dried food and what might be vomit, though for all Zack knew, it could have been a Kardati delicacy.
The sailors looked at him unsteadily and then, arm in arm, staggered down the street, bellowing something tuneless. Decker shook his head in amusement. They must have started drinking at noon to be in such a state.
He pushed his way into the bar, wincing at the noise and smell. The air was smoky enough to cut with a knife; lights flashed left and right, hurting his eyes; loud music, played by instruments he couldn’t identify, competed with a crowd intent on holding conversations at the top of their lungs.
It seemed as if every spacefaring race in this arm of the galaxy was represented, most of them unwashed, if the odors were anything to go by, and each was drinking something weirder than the other.
One glass, held high by an incredibly ugly Marzukki female who must have been over two meters tall, contained something with tentacles that writhed at the bottom of the blood-red liquid. She downed her glass, hors d’oeuvre included and Zack turned away when he saw a small tentacle hanging out of the side of her lipless mouth, flapping feebly while she chewed.
He made his way through the press of beings to the bar and waited patiently for the heavily scarred, one-eyed Pradyni bartender to notice him. Attracting his attention verbally over the deafening noise seemed beyond Zack’s abilities.
He was jostled a few times by drunk patrons who were either slapping each other on the shoulder, roaring with laughter, or striking each other to make a point. They and the bartender ignored him. While he waited Zack looked around, trying to find another human face, but in vain. Alien words bellowed into his ear, made him turn around.
“Sorry,” Zack yelled back, “I can’t speak your language.”
“What you drink, human?” The bartender replied, this time in heavily accented and barely understandable Anglic.
“Shrehari ale.”
The bartender vanished for a few moments then plunked a twisted bottle filled with a purplish, carbonated liquid in front of Zack.
“Thirty khlavass.”
Decker mentally converted khlavass into creds and handed the bartender a twenty cred chip, which was about three times what that inferior brand was worth.
“Keep the change,” he yelled. But his sarcasm was lost on the Pradyni, who pocketed the chip expressionlessly and turned to the next customer.
Zack opened the bottle and took a sip, then grimaced. The stuff was even worse than expected based on the brand name. Inspecting the label, he became convinced that the stuff was locally made and passed off as real Shrehari ale. He hoped he wouldn’t go blind from the bootleg hooch. Decker loved his beer, and a good, well-aged vintage was fantastic. It beat the living pants off most human brews and had a good kick to boot. Too bad a lot of human worlds didn’t allow the brew on-planet. Shrehari ale smugglers were the only outlaws Decker was willing to help as much as he could.
If this joint was one of the better places, he grimaced again, looking at the other patrons, and it probably was, then he didn’t think he’d be having much fun on this liberty. It would be a long haul back to civilization, living in close quarters with the delectable Ms. Kiani.
But thinking of Nihao reminded him that Gunner Lokis had died on Pradyn. As he sipped his insipid ersatz ale, he felt the hairs on the back of his n
eck stand up, as if he were being watched. It was a sixth sense he’d developed over the years, something that had kept him from getting killed more than once. Zack had learned to trust the feeling, even if he couldn’t explain it.
Slowly, without seeming alarmed or even interested, he scanned the crowd. Sometimes, just by doing that, his instinct could tell him who was doing the watching. Sometimes. It was easier with humans. Body language was often hard to conceal. But trying to read the body language of a dozen species of sentient aliens was a different story.
The big Marzukki female had a fresh glass with another of those tentacle snacks writhing at the bottom. She roared at something her companion, a scaly Flaxitatt hermaphrodite was saying, and thumping him/her on the back so hard that it would have sent Zack Decker sprawling on the floor. The Flaxitatt barely moved, though he/she laughed, jaws open wide, showing dagger-like fangs, yellowed and worn.
At another table, a group of Hradin spacers, identical in black coveralls and hoods, took nervous sips of a frothy liquid, heads bowed together, bluish lips moving at speeds impossible for humans to follow.
Near the door, the five members of a pod of shaggy, broad-shouldered Gardal were uproariously pouring thin Pradyni ale over the head of an Anrytzoli crewmate, singing a drinking song in their rumbling, deep-throated voices.
Here and there, pairs or trios of Pradyni hustlers moved between the tables or sat at strategic spots to snare unsuspecting spacers, though why anyone would want a lizard hooker was beyond Zack’s imagination.
His eyes almost bugged out when he saw one of them, her hide carefully made-up, sit on a Darsivian’s lap and immediately become the object of his most slobbering attention. Moments later, the ursine alien spacer and the Pradyni headed up to the second floor. Zack chuckled as he tried to imagine the offspring such a coupling would produce were it genetically feasible, which it wasn’t. An ugly but funny thought.
The canned music suddenly stopped and everyone’s attention, at least those still awake and sober enough not to drool, turned to the small stage at the far end of the bar.
A faint shimmering caught Zack’s eye, and he nodded with approval: a force field to protect the players. A group of six aliens, from six different species, each carrying an intricately designed instrument, walked on stage to the yells, hoots and drunken heckling of the patrons.
An ale bottle flew against the force field and bounced back, catching one of the nearby customers on the head. Zack barely had time to notice the brief scuffle as huge bouncers swiftly threw the culprit out onto the street.
Then, the band played a raucous song that pleased the roaring crowd. If coherent thought had been difficult before, it became impossible now under the fresh assault of noise. Zack still felt watched and it made him edgy.
New movement near the door caught his attention, and he was surprised to see Raisa Darhad’s pale face and shockingly red hair above the furry skulls of the Gardals. She caught sight of him and smiled, sending shivers down Zack’s spine. He briefly wondered what effect her predator’s looks and manners had on humans who didn’t have his experience with danger and death. Perhaps they died of fright. As she approached, Decker began to suspect that Darhad was doing it to him deliberately. That thought made him smile in return.
“Are you having a good time, Gunner?” She asked above the din, her mouth almost touching his ear. He felt the warmth of her breath on his cheek while a hint of pheromones sent his heart racing.
“Yes sir, though the beer’s fucking lousy. And the music worse.”
She nodded, amused.
“Incidentally, Gunner,” she purred, lips brushing his earlobe again, “on liberty, you may call me Raisa.”
“Yes sir, Raisa, sir,” Zack replied grinning, feeling inordinately pleased and not knowing why.
Darhad turned towards the bar and ordered something unintelligible in a tongue Zack had never heard. Meanwhile, he resumed his slow scan of the bar, trying to figure out who, or what was watching him. Having her at his side made him feel better. If it came to a fight, the Arkanna was the one crewmate he’d most want at his back.
Zack finished his scrutiny with a close-up view of First Officer Darhad in civvies, and it made him appreciate her more visible qualities. Definitely mammalian: all the right curves in the right places.
Raisa Darhad wore a skin-tight black outfit, and while it accentuated her remarkable female shape, the former Marine quickly realized that the one-piece garment wasn’t to attract males. Her pheromones did quite well, thank you. No, the outfit would give her maximum freedom of movement and a good deal of protection in a fight. Of course, it would also distract any humanoid male while she went in for the kill. An interesting choice.
Zack averted his eyes from her shapely behind when she turned around with a glass of something thick, opaque and pungent in her hand. Darhad leaned against the scarred metal bar beside Decker and sipped her drink, eyes resting on Zack’s craggy profile.
He’s looking for someone, she decided after watching his eyes flick back and forth beneath a slight but unmistakable frown of concentration.
Decker wasn’t only letting his gaze rove across the bar in what Raisa Darhad thought of as the ‘protective scan mode,’ that unconscious and automatic state that all good warriors fell into the moment they left their familiar, safe surroundings. The warrant officer was in ‘active mode,’ looking for someone or something specific. Someone he knew? He had admitted he had never been outside the Commonwealth before so it was unlikely it would be a native. But why would he meet with a human on Pradyn?
She watched him for a while and then leaned over, brushing her lips against his ear again, her breath warm on his cheek.
“Are you waiting for someone, Gunner?”
If he was startled by her sudden closeness, he showed an admirable control over his reflexes. Darhad had no choice but to approve. With deliberation, he turned his head to look at her. Raisa raised her right eyebrow in question, letting a faint air of amusement relax her features.
“No, Raisa. How the hell could I? Don’t know a living soul out in the Shield. And all the Shield citizens I’ve ever met didn’t survive the introduction.” He paused and glanced at the crowd again, visibly uncomfortable. “Okay, First Officer. I’ve had the feeling, since before you walked in, that I’m being watched. It’s a feeling I’ve learned to listen to and trust. Saved my life a couple of times.”
She nodded. He was telling the truth as he believed it to be. Why should he not be able to sense a hidden watcher? It was the attribute of a natural warrior and Mister Decker was as close to an Arkanna male as she had seen among humans.
They drank in companionable silence for several minutes, tuning out the awful band, the loud conversations and concentrating on small anomalies, such as anyone paying Zack Decker too much attention, especially when he stood beside a superbly sculpted she-wolf.
Darhad drained her glass and laid her surprisingly warm hand on Zack’s, talons fully sheathed. Her fingers were dry but smooth, and Decker felt another shiver run down his spine.
“I know a place that serves better drinks and where hidden watchers are much easier to spot.”
“Didn’t know Pradyn had a Guildhall.”
She laughed. “No, it does not. But the place of which I speak is known to few and keeps its customer list short. For that, it offers a quiet surrounding without the assorted riff-raff of the galaxy drinking unmentionable things, and it has a fine beverage list.”
Zack briefly wondered about the reasons behind her invitation, especially in light of his discovery of the contraband. He had no illusions that he could take on the first officer in hand to hand combat and win. Had Captain Strachan decided to make sure he would never talk?
More to the point, did Lokis receive an invitation that led into an ambush after finding something he wasn’t supposed to find?
Decker shrugged and placed his half-empty bottle on the bar. The day he stopped living dangerously was the day they could bury
him, and that wasn’t happening anytime soon. Plus, he really wanted to know what this lady had on her mind. Was it only getting wasted with a shipmate, or was she looking for something else? He could see only one way to find out.
“I’m right behind you, Raisa.”
“Come, then.” She flashed him a smile, baring her pointy teeth and turned to head for the door, pushing through the dense, unwashed crowd. Zack had no choice but to follow in her wake.
Six
The streets of Vortaz’s Spacetown were remarkably silent after the deafening noise in the bar. The air was cleaner too though it still attacked human throats with harmful intent.
Decker stopped at the edge of the cracked sidewalk, ignoring the drunk Kardati in the gutter, and breathed in deeply, relishing the simple exhaust and solvent fumes after the dense, choking atmosphere inside.
Pradyn’s sky was dark, yet only a few stars twinkled. Most had been washed out by the haze of pollution and the riotous sea of lights. An unpleasant, sharp odor suddenly stabbed Decker’s nose, along with a sound of rushing water. He turned towards the sound, then looked away in disgust. A Darsivian was urinating in the shadows of a narrow alley beside the bar, humming a tuneless song.
Zack and Raisa Darhad looked at each other and grimaced, then the Arkanna walked off toward Vortaz proper, leaving Decker to follow her. She led him through a warren of ill-lit narrow streets, past bawdy houses and run-down taverns, into garbage-strewn alleys infested with all sorts of scurrying creatures, sentient or otherwise.
An average human being would have lost his sense of direction fast and grown worried at the characters lurking in the shadows. But Zack could find his way back from Hell necessary. He instinctively memorized every turn and was always calculating the shortest route back to the main strip and the safety of the spaceport.
His mind instead worried about his companion’s motives and whether she was leading him into an ambush and a quick death. Smugglers couldn’t afford informants, and Decker, the former Marine noncom, had already learned enough to make even the most sanguine captain nervous. Making an embarrassing crewmember disappear was no feat of trans light physics. It could be days, weeks even, before anyone found a dead body around here, if ever. Not all aliens in this part of the galaxy shied at eating another sentient species, and humans were considered one of the tenderest races.