A Swift Kick in the Asteroids

by Edward Zajac

  “Probably not,” said Fletcher. “But it’s worth a shot. And if nothing else, at least we get a nice meal out of it, courtesy of the Deus Syndicate.”

  Zagarat chuckled to himself. “I never understood why Mr. Aieeoni named his company a syndicate. I mean, a syndicate usually implies something duplicitous.”

  Fletcher threw his hands into the air. “That’s what I told him! Call it a corporation or a company or something legitimate. But oh no, Aiee had his heart set on syndicate. And you know how execs can be. Tell them not to do something and it just makes them want to do it all the more.” He held up his finger just as Wooderick passed their table. “Can I get another one of these?” he said, pointing down at his empty glass. “Thanks.” Fletcher looked up. Zag was staring at him with a blended emulsion of bewilderment and incredulity. “What?”

  “Aiee Aieeoni died thirty three fiscal years ago.”

  “Has it been that long?” said Fletcher. “My, how time flies by in space.”

  Zagarat narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “How old are you?”

  “Hmm?” said Fletcher absently as he scrolled through his menu options.

  “How old are you?”

  “Why do you ask?” said Fletcher, his eyelids fluttering.

  “Because you say and do these weird things all the time and I have no idea if you’re being earnest or just screwing with me. So, I’ll ask again. How old are you?”

  “How old do I look?”

  “Thirty-five,” said Zagarat, after appraising Fletcher. “Maybe thirty.”

  “I always liked twenty-eight. Thirty always sounded old to me.”

  “So you’re twenty-eight?”

  “No.”

  “But you just said…”

  “I said I look twenty-eight,” said Fletcher. “That doesn’t mean I am twenty-eight.”

  “Okay,” said Zagarat, massaging his temples. “Then how old are you?”

  Fletcher shrugged. “Hell if I know. After my twentieth year, I stopped counting.”

  Zagarat pursed his lips. “Planet of origin?”

  Fletcher squinted at the question. “I think it had an e in it.”

  Zag sighed. “Can you tell me anything about yourself?”

  “Oh, one dinner together and suddenly I owe you something?” said Fletcher, gesticulating wildly with his finger. “Let me tell you something. I’m not some cheap harlot. You gotta wine and dine this majestic creature before you get access to this wonderland.”

  Zagarat chuckled despite himself. “You are such an ass.”

  Fletcher shrugged. “What can I say? I’m me. Now, stop laughing. Here comes Bent.”

  Wooderick escorted Augus Bent through the now-crowded restaurant. The executive looked much the same as he did at the office. He wore the same staid grey suit and the same staid grey tie. The only change to his ensemble was a black fedora that he wore at an oblique angle and a long black coat that was draped over his shoulders like a cape.

  With a perfunctory nod, Bent paused before the table. He then threw his arms out to his sides, casting the coat from his shoulders. Wooderick swiped the coat from the air with a fluid grace, wrapping it over his arm. Bent then flicked the fedora off of his head and once again Wooderick caught it with a flourish, securing it with his free hand before pulling a chair out for Bent.

  Fletcher and Zagarat exchanged a furtive, sidelong glance. Although Zag was by no means clairvoyant, he was fairly certain that Fletcher was thinking the same thing that he was.

  What an ass.

  “Gentlemen,” said Bent, trying to sound cheerful but failing miserably. “How wonderful to see you again. Have you ordered your drinks all ready?”

  “Yes,” said Fletcher, with a measured tone and gaze. “Thank you.”

  “Excellent,” said Bent. “Now, I just need mine.”

  Wooderick’s timing was so utterly perfect that he could have moonlighted as a prop master for Marok Esset’s one-man play entitled, ME AND MY 4328 HATS. No sooner had Bent uttered the word “drink” when Wooderick slipped an Armedian Martini onto the table. “Your usual, sir. Made by Zigmoon himself, as per your request.”

  Bent took a sip of the martini, swirling the drink around in his mouth for a few seconds. He then puckered his lips as if flirting with someone off in the distance and made a loud slurping noise as he pulled air in and across the liquid in his mouth.

  Zagarat was familiar with this technique. According to most sommeliers and DoCocommeliers, it was supposed to fill your senses with the drink’s heady bouquet and thus enhance the entire imbibing experience. Zag wasn’t sure that it did anything to enhance the experience, other than enhance his ability to choke on a swig of cocoa.

  When Bent tilted his head back and began to gargle loudly, Zagarat looked around the room, expecting to find all the other sentients staring at them with righteous condemnation.

  But no one thought anything of it. In fact, Fletcher was the only other sentient who looked slightly aghast at Bent’s actions and that offered little consolation to Zag. After all, even though Zagarat didn’t know the privateer too well, Fletcher didn’t exactly seem… normal. The Universal Universal Dictionary would have probably defined him as eccentric, so long as he had enough zeroes in his bank account. Moris Benuate, editor-in chief of the dictionary, claimed that eccentrics were simply mentally unbalanced sentients whose many credits often mitigated their felony peculiarities down to misdemeanor quirks.

  Bent finally swallowed his drink and said, “Tell Zigmoon more Berum next time.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Wooderick. “Are you gentlemen ready to order?”

  Fletcher opened his mouth to speak, but Bent was faster. “Yes,” he said without looking down at the menu. “I will have the Quolian duck. He,” indicating Zagarat, “will have the scallops scoomp a scoomp aloo. And he,” pointing at Fletcher, “will have the Rellay steak.”

  Fletcher’s reaction was so absolutely level that a carpenter could have checked the alignment of a nearby doorjamb simply by standing him next to it. “And how would I like that cooked?” he asked. “Since you know what I like.”

  Bent quickly appraised Fletcher and said, “He looks like a medium rare sort of sent.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Wooderick. “Your appetizers will be out shortly.”

  “We didn’t order any appetizers,” said Bent.

  “I ordered them,” said Fletcher. “I ordered the duck liver and the raw meat.”

  “Cancel those,” said Bent, with a dismissive wave. “Just bring out our entrees.”

  “Of course, sir,” said Wooderick, bowing before shuffling away.

  “Trust me,” said Bent, eyeing Fletcher obliquely. “The appetizers here are subpar. You’ll be much happier with the entrées.”

  “Good to know,” said Fletcher, his left eye twitching.” Another waiter slipped a Bylarian Sunrise in front of Fletcher and he quaffed it all down in a single gulp, slamming the empty plastiglass onto the table. “Bring me another. And make this one a sunset.”

  Zagarat flinched. Two Bylarian Sunrises and now a Bylarian Sunset. And all before the entrées even arrived. Suns, the privateer might not make it to dessert before passing out.

  Bylarian Sunrises were potent drinks on their own, but Bylarian Sunsets were another matter altogether. The drink wasn’t so much called a Bylarian Sunset because of its Technicolor allusion to the sunsets on Bylar Prime, but because Bylarian Sunsets often cast the imbiber over the horizon of consciousness and into the inky darkness of insensate sleep. And sometimes into an inky gutter. At least, most sentients hoped that was only ink in the gutter.

  As they waited for their meals, a strange pall fell over the table. An uncomfortable unease that made the hackles on the back of Zagarat’s neck stand on end. And Zag didn’t even know he had hackles back there. Bent passed the time by gingerly sipping his martini while Fletcher stared at his now empty glass, strumming his fingers rhythmically on the table.

  It was utterly unbearable.
So, Zagarat decided to break the uncomfortable silence by trying on the mantle of amiable host. A mantle that always felt two sizes too large. “So,” said Zagarat, awkwardly. “I take it you come here often.”

  Bent smirked. “You might say I’m a regular.”

  “And do you always treat waiters like that?” said Fletcher, fingering the rim of his glass.

  “Of course,” said Bent. “I make them work for their gratuity. After all, I don’t receive any gratuities for doing my job well.”

  “Don’t you receive a bonus at the end of every fiscal year?” said Fletcher.

  “Only because I deserve it,” Bent replied. “And they will receive a gratuity based upon their performance here today.” He brought his hands together, as if about to intone a prayer. “You see, so many sentients have come to believe that they deserve a gratuity simply for doing their job. But that’s not what I believe. I believe one should receive a gratuity based on one’s performance. Out of courtesy, I normally leave a two percent gratuity although I will rescind that courtesy if the waiters are churlish or lax in their service. I leave five percent for kind and warm service. Six percent for an enjoyable experience. I rarely give anything more than that, but when I do it is because they went above and beyond the call of duty. To them, I give eight percent and the greatest gift of all; pride in themselves. A gift beyond all measure.”

  Fletcher sneezed in his hand. Although, to Zag it sounded a great deal like, “I hate you.”

  Bent looked up over the rim of his martini glass. “What was that?”

  “Oh, sorry,” said Fletcher, sniffling slightly. “I think I might be allergic to the flowers on the table or something.” He sneezed again into his hand. “Hate you. Hate you.”

  Zagarat bit his lip, trying to stifle his laughter. But he just couldn’t do it. His body convulsed as if in the midst of an asthmatic attack. He even snorted a few times which drew Bent’s attention. “Sorry,” said Zag. “I think I might have the same allergy.”

  “Well, then Casbania to you, my friend,” said Fletcher.

  Casbania was a traditional Lerandan saying which roughly translated into Universal as, “May your sneeze not be an omen of your imminent death.”

  “Casbania,” said Zagarat, wiping a tear from his eye.

  Bent’s eyes darted back and forth between Fletcher and Zagarat, but before he could say anything, three waiters appeared, entrées in hands.

  “Your meals, gentlemen,” said Wooderick. “Enjoy.”

  “Thank you,” said Fletcher and Zagarat, almost simultaneously.

  Bent gestured towards the floral centerpiece. “Could you take those away, Wooderick? The smell is aggravating my guests.”

  “Of course, sir.” Wooderick quickly removed the floral piece. “My apologies.”

  “Thank you,” said Bent, with a dismissive wave of his hand. And the tone of his voice was just as dismissive.

  Fletcher and Zag immediately dove into their meals. Bent however merely stared at his plate with a critical eye. Two in fact.

  “Is something wrong?” said Fletcher, as he cut his steak into chewable pieces.

  Bent sighed. “First, the issue with the flowers. Then, they spilled a drop of the sauce as they ham-handedly placed my entrée onto the table.”

  Fletcher looked up at Zagarat. “They had ham for hands?” he asked. Zag smirked.

  Bent continued. “And worst of all, they’ve changed the recipe without notifying me.”

  “How do you know they changed it?” said Fletcher, as he masticated a piece of steak. “You haven’t even tried it yet.”

  Bent forked the duck awkwardly. Well, not f… Never mind. “Because the Quolian Duck does not usually come with a billowy white foam atop it.”

  Fletcher smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about it. The cook probably just wanted to do something special for you. You know what they say. A little bit of the chef in every dish.”

  Zagarat bit into a scallop, stifling another smile, all the while reconsidering his honorary membership in the Association of Sentients Who Hate Tipping. All rights reserved.

  Only then did Zag realize that he was absolutely famished. One scallop quickly led to another, then another until his plate was wiped clean. It might have been licked clean if Fletcher hadn’t eyed him obliquely mid-lick. Luckily, Fletcher took pity on Zagarat and offered him the rest of his steak, which Zag snarfed down with alacrity. And a bit of Hessup sauce on the side.

  Zag had to admit that the meals were good. Really good. The scallops were firm yet moist. The accompanying sauce was tart and tangy, with the slightest hint of sweetness. And the fries were some of the best Zag had ever eaten. Granted, Zag mostly ate at LSRs, light speed service restaurants, but they were amazing nonetheless.

  And Fletcher’s steak wasn’t bad either. The Rellay steak was so tender that it practically melted on his tongue. The sauce was thick and unctuous, a crimson lake of gastronomic goodness. Even the Toppoli sprouts were tolerable, and Zag normally hated those vile weeds.

  But that might have been because of his mother’s cooking. Margarat Cole tended to cook vegetables down until they were nothing more than a mushy mass, devoid of any nutrients whatsoever while her meatloaf had the gravitational mass of some moons.

  Of course, Zagarat never said any of that aloud. If he had, he was fairly certain that his mother would have punished him by making him eat two more platefuls of her gruel… her food.

  While Fletcher and Zag marveled at their meals, Bent spent his repast criticizing every aspect of his dish. The duck was too dry. The sauce was too watery. The skin wasn’t crispy enough. And worst of all, the foam did nothing to elevate the entrée to strata yet unknown.

  His words.

  Fletcher and Zag said nothing and continued eating.

  Fifteen minutes later, Bent finally finished his meal. Finished in this case meaning he pushed his half eaten entrée off to the side. He then placed his napkin onto the table and said, “So, Mr. Cole, how is the security at my branch?”

  “Um,” said Zagarat, feeling himself tense under the pressure. “It’s… it’s not bad. It needed a little work, but I think we were able to shore-up the firewalls, so to speak.”

  “That’s wonderful to hear,” said Bent, swirling his martini glass on the table. “And you’ll be happy to know that Leevee had nothing but kind words to say about you.”

  “Really?” said Zagarat.

  “Absolutely,” said Bent. “He said you are an exceptional talent.” Augus picked up his glass by the stem, admiring the pearlescent liquid in the lights above. “According to him, there were even times when he had trouble keeping up with you, as if you were doing three things at once. And that’s saying something because Leevee is an exceptional talent himself.”

  Only one reaction came to mind. “What can I say? I’m me.”

  Fletcher smirked over his glass.

  “And how happy are you at Leranda?” asked Augus Bent.

  Zagarat shrugged. “I’m pretty happy, I guess. You know, no job is perfect, but it’s home. Why do you ask?”

  “Because he’s offering you a job,” said Fletcher, absently. “Aren’t you?”

  Zag’s head jerked up in surprise. “I’m sorry. What now? You’re offering me a job?”

  “Of course not,” said Bent, with exaggerated innocence. “It would be against corporate policy and therefore wrong of me to poach an employee from a competing branch.” He paused, taking another sip of his martini. “However, if you were to, theoretically, resign your position with Leranda in search of broader trade routes, you might be able to find an executive position at the Mayoo branch. After the requisite four week waiting period, of course.”

  Zagarat’s eyes grew wide. “Wow. That’s… wow. I wasn’t expecting that. Hmm. An executive position? That’s, that’s something to consider all right.”

  “I would if I were you,” said Bent. “Mayoo is a star about to go supernova while Leranda is nothing more than a black hole, sucking the credit
s out of Deus.”

  “That is true,” said Fletcher, nodding. “Mayoo is now…” He looked up at Bent. “What is it? The third most profitable branch in all of Deus?”

  “Fourth,” Bent corrected. “But we hope to rectify that by the end of this fiscal year.”

  “Still, that’s pretty impressive. Especially since Mayoo was on the brink of closure only three fiscal years ago.” Fletcher scratched his chin. “I wonder what changed in that time.” He paused then held up his index finger. “Oh, I know. That’s about the time you took over, isn’t it?”

  Bent took a slow sip of his martini. “You know a great deal about Mayoo for a mere bodyguard.”

  “I like to do my research.”

  The two sents stared gravely at each other. It looked like a classic Kappan standoff. Two warriors facing each other in the field of battle. Or in this case, in the field of a restaurant. The first to blink was the first to die. Of course in a classic Kappan standoff, the winner had to marry the loser’s ugliest sister so there was never really a true winner. Just two losers and one dead man.

  Augus was the first to metaphorically blink in this standoff. He placed his martini glass onto the table and said, “That was about the time I joined Mayoo, yes. Is there a reason for your inquiry?”

  “Just making conversation,” said Fletcher in that overly saccharine tone of his. He fell silent for a moment. But only a moment. “So, how did you turn things around so quickly?” He smiled perfunctorily. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Bent’s smile was just as insincere. “Not at all. I’m very proud of my achievements. In essence, I fostered a culture of creativity and ingenuity.”

  Fletcher placed his elbows on the table, resting his chin in the palms of his hands. “And how did you do that?”

  “First, by eliminating any redundancies within Mayoo.”

  “You mean, firing anyone older than fifty.”

  “Some of the sentients were older, yes,” Bent admitted. “But that wasn’t why I fired them. I simply invigorated Mayoo with the élan of youth, so to speak.”

  Zagarat expected Fletcher to make a joke like, “Who is Elan?” But he didn’t.