Free Radicals

by S E Zbasnik

  Brena glanced towards the ceiling hoping something could rescue her. As she was about to pick the human’s fingers off her, and break a few in the process, a familiar voice called across the throngs of shoppers.

  “Oi, what are you doing there with my servant?!” The seeds of her prayers were in a particularly twisted mood today.

  The nack flipped around to spy the dwarf rounding upon him, his bulk shoving the people aside. His reddish-brown skin glistened with sweat as he'd overdressed for the warmth of an NC station, a third sweater thrown overtop his usual pair. He swung a small shopping bag in the direction of Brena and then back at the nack before asking, “Well?”

  “I was just…” the human babbled, uncertain how to talk to dwarves. He seemed to have the communication skills of a shattered toilet.

  “You were impeding my servant from accomplishing her tasks,” the dwarf said as he thrust a shopping bag at Brena. Her eyebrows bunched together, but she accepted the bag and, after a pause, lightly curtsied.

  “I…I didn’t know, I’m so sorry,” the nack babbled, the fingers finally falling free. It scampered back on its hind legs shooting glances at the dwarf putting on pompous airs and the elf trying to shield hers.

  Before the human disappeared around a corner, the dwarf stuck his tongue out at him and made a rude gesture for the dwarven and ogre people. Brena shook her head, the tiny flower woven behind her extensive ears slipping, and said, “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “I’m sure, but I like watchin’ ‘em squirm,” Orn said, a cheeky grin claiming his face. “Humans make the most entertaining sport.”

  “Indeed,” she said.

  “Think they own all the galaxy until one of us imposing species get up in their exhaust port, then it’s all ‘I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean nothing by it.’ Their trousers are wet before they realize I’m nothing more than some commercial pilot taking the piss.”

  Brena internally smiled, forgetting to paste it across her face as she weighed the bag in her hand. “What am I carrying for you, my liege?” she asked. Her fine fingers extracted a silver tool, the end wrapped in protective plastic to prevent discharge.

  Orn rubbed his neck as he watched the elf inspecting his purchase, “It’s a plasma-arctyl doodad. I got it for Ferra. Hers has been crapping out for months and she’s always threatening to stab it into a wall.”

  The elf twisted one half of her smile up as she replaced the tool in the bag and handed it back to the dwarf. “An arc-fractal MGC plasma conductor.”

  “Yeah, that thingamabob. Expensive as hell,” Orn added slipping the shimmering shield bag into a pocket.

  She folded her hands together and laid them across her stomach, uncertain how to carry herself as she walked towards the bustling center of commerce for the strains of non-corporeals. The throngs slackened off as the traditional lunch hour shifted to those hazy golden hours before the official workers shook free of their chains to break bread at one of the franchises calling itself a “neighborhood restaurant.” Two wraiths hovered around an iron table outside the “Minestrike.” Strings of terrible house music burst from the door and a goblin waiter placed a gas container upon their table. The poor goblin’s uniform was coated in enough advertising medals the creature could barely stand upright.

  She expected the dwarven pilot to wander off. He did not exchange many words with her outside the occasional curiosity or the rare sharing of Fist Ironstrong movies. But Orn did not appear to be in any hurry to return to the ship, his own eyes canvasing the balloons hovering around the ceiling as they followed a track. It was a popular ride for non-corporeal children.

  “What was your fancy ass off doing this fine, nebula-less afternoon?”

  “If you must know, I was attending a show.”

  “Oh? Anything good?” She suspected Orn’s idea of a good show involved the use of water, thin fabric, and a voluptuous form. Not that she’d turn her nose up at such an offering.

  “It was a comedy set for trolls.”

  Horror nested upon the dwarf’s ample brow, yanking his eyebrows under his hairline. “Trolls? How was it?”

  “Dreadful.”

  Orn snorted, “No shit.”

  “No, you misunderstand,” Brena shook her head, a few of the bells in her hair clanging. She couldn’t remember why she thought to try the style, “it was supposed to be dreadful. We were deconstructing the elements of the art of the failed joke.”

  “So, you all sat around in a dark room listening to shit jokes for a few hours, for fun?”

  The elf blinked slowly, afraid she missed something vital, “Essentially.”

  The dwarf tossed his head like a centaur and choked on a laugh, “You artsy fartsy ones are fucking weird.”

  Brena watched the balloons herself, weighing the condemnation of his words with the facts, “I suppose so. But we rarely breed, so you need not concern yourself with a plague.”

  Despite her voice containing no trace of sarcasm Orn laughed. Not because he got her hydrophobic humor, he’d laugh at anything that wasn’t a tax audit. “You should hire me to speak at one of your ‘dreadful joke’ shows.”

  “You would be the opening act,” the elf volleyed.

  Orn shook his false finger as if he were about to scold her, but twisted his head about as his real hand beeped. Tapping against the palm, a screen rose. With her companion engrossed, Brena stepped to the bannister swooping across this level and gazed upon the shopping experience below. Sounds of running water tumbled below her where a very expensive fountain recycled the winnowing supply. A few dwarven children chased each other, splashing the critical droplets when the security guard’s back was turned. The guard, an Orc who took what work she could off world, was dealing with a throng of irate shoppers. It seemed the panoramic seating before the window beside what was currently black space was reserved. No amount of cajoling, whining, or threatening to envelop her in a green fog was going to change the Orc’s stance. She wasn’t paid enough to give a shit why empty seats were kept from wanting asses, but she was paid enough to enforce it.

  “What is that despicable music?” Brena asked as a flurry of high pitched notes tumbled from Orn’s hand.

  The dwarf didn’t look up from his work as he poked a few invisible buttons, “Unlocked a chest, found some gold. Left a trap behind instead.”

  “Dare I inquire as to why?”

  “What?” Orn closed his hand to sever the connection as he tried to slot together her bardic words, “Oh, ah, just pissing off the captain.”

  “She is not within one of the shops?” Despite seeming at near constant odds with each other, the human and dwarf were inseparable off the ship. They may have nothing in common, but they could be opposites together.

  “Nah,” Orn waved his hand, watching the security guard himself. The orc rocked back on her heels as a bag thunked into her chest, the shield shattering across the black and blue uniform. “She dumped us to spend some ‘quality time’ at the Pistil & Stamen.”

  If she weren’t always so cold, some would say a chill swept over Brena as she templed her fingers and said, “I see.”

  “Not that I wanted to be invited along anyway,” Orn added quickly, not glancing back at the young elf. He found the lone human in the throngs of the rising mob interesting. The stranger shifted his face deep into the elaborate collar of his coat. “No reason to be telling my wife about it, none at all.”

  Brena sighed, accepting that for the moment she and the dwarf seemed to be tied together. “I wonder what my brother is attempting,” she idly tossed to the ether.

  Orn coughed loudly and waggled his eyebrows.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  He paced outside the hand carved door, politely not making eye contact with a couple of skittish gargoyles who appeared either lost or curious about what rested inside. Taliesin pinched the excess flesh between his thumb and finger, trying to calm his brain. This is an unwise maneuver. He repeated the mantra in his mind as he weighed the consequences of h
is actions. All choices have consequences. If you do not slit that man’s throat he could accidentally release a poisonous gas into the atmosphere. Your lack of foresight does not alter your placement in the path.

  Right now the path was telling him he should turn his back upon the rising wave of emotion in his gullet and restructure his mind in meditation. Taliesin told the path to go fuck itself as he stepped into the line of vision and the door carved with the ten deadly sins rolled back. Arboreal perfume graced his twitching nose as his boots clicked across the marble floors. He got to the customer desk when logic landed upon his brow. What exactly were you planning on asking for?

  His finger hung above the summoning bell while he tried to slot together how he could ask a total stranger exactly what that butter human from earlier was up to and why he’d be concerned. Perhaps he should have started a fire. Fire solves a lot of problems.

  The banshee appeared out of the false wall as he weighed the best panic inducing options. “Ah, you are the dark skinned elf.”

  Taliesin blinked at her. She was accurate. “Yes?”

  She smiled, a hospitality one papered over her face, “She said you’d return soon.”

  “She? You refer to Madame Pollen?”

  “Here,” the banshee removed a small key out of the desk and placed it upon the desk. It glittered in the passing light. “Place it into the elevator and it will guide you to your destination.”

  He curled a finger around the key, watching the outer casing shimmer as it warmed to his body heat. With enough of a charge a small arrow lit up, the head in the shape of a heart. “I…” Taliesin began to ask, a thousand thoughts crashing together.

  But the Banshee was already turning to a man who must have entered behind him, a security uniform and the facial obscuring helmet drawing her full attention. “Have a pleasurable day,” she called out and waved the elf on. “May I assist you today, Sir?”

  Taliesin weighed the key in his hand. Finding no one else to answer a question, he shuffled towards the elevators nestled beside the pair of statues. The erect phalluses of the gnome gods of fertility were utilized as a coatrack. It would probably be considered a sacrilege if anyone cared what gnomes thought. He inserted the key into the elevator slot and was grateful it didn’t make a soft sigh. Instead the door opened greedily and he stepped inside.

  No buttons existed inside, those who entered could only achieve the destination of their key, nowhere else. As the lift began to rise, he cupped his hand around the metal guide and dug it into his flesh. Leaning against the back wall, he instinctively dipped his head down in thought. The boiling waves of jealousy and anger were tamped down by confusion and a twinge of curiosity.

  It was not as if he and Variel had an exclusive relationship. No words had ever been exchanged to claim as such, nor would it be fair of him to insist. Yet…

  The thought drained from him as the doors opened to a floor. He stepped onto the plush carpeting and his foot hovered a microsecond more than usual. Must be a high floor for the artificial gravity to slacken, the elf thought as the doors closed behind him and the elevator returned to its dutiful life. Despite his dark life, he never spent much time inside the seedier aspects of the galaxy. Not many on the fringe could afford the services of a guild assassin, they had mercenaries and bounty hunters for that. Though there was the occasional dip into an elven service house for appearances and a bit of information, he was uncertain what to find in a non-corporeal house of sin. It was a lot more humdrum than he’d anticipated.

  After the rich textures, the gilded trappings, and the innuendo in ten foot tall neon letters of the foyer, to step onto a hallway that could easily be confused for a hotel threw him. Even a faded painting of an abstract landscape hung off peeling wallpaper, the pinks and browns of the mass produced canvas an assault to all eyes that gazed upon it. He opened his hand to find the key’s arrow flashing. He was supposed to walk down the hall, apparently.

  A few noises from the other rooms floated to his elven ears as he walked down the well trod carpet. The rooms were well soundproofed. Despite his natural eavesdropping talents he could only make out the occasional loud exclamation, most of it a noise above the background. He walked past one of the numerous nondescript doors and the key beeped, the arrow shifting to a red and pointing him back a room.

  Sliding in place, his fingers searched for a door handle but found only another slot for the key. The only way in. He glanced up and down the hall, a part of him expecting an ambush. He twisted the key for the slot, when a familiar voice cut through the door.

  “Oh come on, give me a little credit,” Variel said, annoyance tinting her voice. It was a timbre he knew well. “I can handle that. I’ve taken on far larger.”

  Taliesin leaned into the door, his ear almost touching the cool metal, but he couldn’t make out the words of whomever she was arguing with. Only a mumble of something possibly male filtered back. His fingers curled up around the key as he dropped more eaves.

  “No, no, no, that’s not an option,” her voice drifted around the room as if she paced.

  The elf smiled, he could picture her in his mind waving her arms theatrically as a smirk lifted up the scar decorating her cheek. She’d put on the scary merc act, but never fully committed.

  “I don’t care if the coin is good, those are my terms and changing them is not a wise choice,” the ice in that statement to an unseen companion sunk into the elf’s veins. Taliesin weighed the key, regretting his decision to chase after her. If she’d wanted him she’d have said something. He was about to turn away from the door when the male mumbling was answered.

  “I already told you, I never come alone.”

  The key slipped into the slot and his fingers pushed on the door as a foreign rage filled the sides of his vision. Pushing headlong into the room, he shouldered around the door already slowly shutting itself, and watched the captain’s back. She was still in her preferred drab brown, the shirt puffed up where she tucked it into even more utilitarian pants. Her foot tapped with an invisible metronome as she shifted her shoulders back and forth, the bones dancing.

  “It will be fine, I give you my word,” she spoke to no one in the room. The door closed with a final bang and she twisted back to find her onboard assassin looking as guilty as Orn with his head crammed inside the sweetbin. But a smile curled up her lip, dragging the scar with it. Then the voice on her hand started up and she rolled her eyes.

  “Like I already said, it was a minor malfunction. We lost sensors for a moment and the onboard computer thought it saw a mouse. Yes, yes, we bought a mechanical cat to handle the problem.” She turned her head up as if someone in the distance was talking to her, “What’s that? Sorry, have to go. But I’ll be certain to contact you when we’re within your system. Variel out.”

  She closed her hand and sighed, “Wheezer.” Variel turned to fully face him, “I was about to call you when he connects and starts in with the ‘are you surely sure sure you can handle this simplistic job?’”

  “He has been overtly cautious since the problem with Ma—“

  “Don’t say the name,” she said, throwing her hand up. Her ex-husband’s name died in his throat. “Let me just shut this off,” Variel poked at her PALM, silencing the embedded comm. She stepped closer to him, an obvious question burning in her eyes, “What were you doing waiting in the lobby?”

  “I, um, I thought that you would have spare time after finishing your task that could be usurped,” Taliesin said, trying to shove all his guilt and jealousy under a bed. He shrugged at her bemused eyes, “I did not expect the dwarf.”

  Variel laughed, drifting into his personal space as her fingers traveled up his arm, “No one expects the dwarf.” Taliesin’s hands curled around her waist. It was second nature for him as her fingers traversed the curves of his ear.

  His eyes closed and his forehead dropped to hers, a low moan merging into his words, “You are a cruel woman.”

  She leaned her head back but didn’t
stop the finger movements, “Yes, I am. And you had at least a dozen terrible vids churning through your head to send you racing here.”

  He could lie. There could be the claim that he lost the dwarf and, in wandering the station, found his way back. Or perhaps he was chasing a small gnome that stole his watch, leading him to the Pistil & Stamen. But none of it would fly, “Half dozen. I’m not as creative as my sister.”

  Her laugh was heartening as her hand mercifully dropped from his ear. It was impossible to think when she plied him apart at the seams. “If Orn hadn’t been standing there…I never was the best at subterfuge.”

  Taliesin remembered the last time she’d tried to infiltrate a group of weapons smugglers, before they’d grown closer than decorum dictated. As he hovered in the shadows, curiosity getting the better of him, she waltzed in and proceeded to fail to remember her contact’s name, the password, and even why she was supposed to be there. It ended as most things did with Variel Tuffman, a barrage of bullets and cursing.

  “How’d you lose him?” she asked. His claws lightly circled her back and she arched closer to him.

  “He offered me relationship advice and I ran away.”

  She blinked twice, then laughed with a question mark on the end. “It is true,” Taliesin admitted, “Oh, and he still inquires about the djinn sandwich.”

  “That fat head can’t let any brains get through. It’s an actual sandwich. He was reading off the lunch menu.”

  “A sandwich for or made of djinn?” Taliesin wondered.

  “I suspect it’s a fancy way of saying ‘hot sauce.’” Variel’s smile settled as she glanced upwards, her arms winding around his back, then she turned her sniper stare into his. “Truth into light, at first I thought I’d take the Madame’s offer up by asking for a fresh salad from the kitchen with real meat. Maybe chat with her banshee, kill some time so I don’t kill the dwarf. But then I thought,” the smile returned as she lifted one shoulder, “why the shit not and asked if I could rent one of the rooms.”