Something Wicked Anthology of Speculative Fiction, Volume Two

by Unknown

  The catcalls soon became a chant Miranda found difficult to block out. She needed this like she needed-

  “We want Cherry. We want Cherry.”

  She wanted so badly to get off the stage that she rushed into her climax. It wasn’t like her to let anything or anyone throw her off like that.

  “Hey, honey,” bellowed someone over the chants, “you can get more for that body at the biobank than up there.”

  A bouncer eventually stalked over and silenced the rowdies with a few quick words. Miranda didn’t notice. She focused on the music, waiting as the finale drew mercifully near. When it came, she grabbed her costume and what little cash had been thrown on stage, and made a hasty exit.

  Backstage, after she’d scrubbed off her makeup and dressed, she cornered the club manager in his office. Nardo was a pretty fair guy. She’d worked for worse - much worse. But she needed more work. Twice a week wasn’t going to put milk in Titty Kitty’s saucer.

  “Miranda honey, you looked good tonight. I’m glad you stopped by.”

  Nardo shifted his considerable bulk uneasily in his chair.

  “Nardo, I need more work. Two nights, especially these off-nights, aren’t paying the bills. How about you let me have Friday?”

  “I can’t give you Friday.”

  “What about a couple of more weeknights?”

  He shook his head.

  “Come on, Nardo, I’ll take anything. I need more stage time.”

  Nardo cleared his throat and dropped his huge, flabby hands onto his desktop.

  “Miranda honey, I can’t give you any ‘cause we’ve decided to let you go.”

  Poised to continue her pitch, Miranda was struck dumb. A dozen things raced through her mind, none very coherent.

  “We’ve decided to go with some other girls.”

  “You mean younger girls, don’t you, Nardo?”

  He shifted uneasily again, and his chair squealed under the strain.

  “Look, Miranda,” he said, gesturing with his hands, “you know how this business works. Hell, you’ve been in the business longer than-”

  “Don’t say it,” responded Miranda, cutting him off with a tone that threatened bodily harm.

  Nardo slapped his hands together as if praying, and sighed.

  “It sucks sawdust, I know. But that’s the way it is. What are you gonna do?” he said, throwing his hands open again. “Look, I happen to know they’re looking for some dancers down at The Black Hole. Why don’t you try there?”

  “The Black Hole? Well, gee, thanks, Nardo. Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Shit -a great place like that - who wouldn’t want to work there?”

  “Okay, okay, knock off the sarcasm,” he replied angrily. “What do you want from me?”

  Miranda looked at him and slowly shook her head. “Nothing, Nardo. Nothing at all.”

  She slapped her entry-card onto the sensor and waited for the identiscan to recognize her face. Her own image, tiny and distorted, stared back at her from the security lens. The door opened, the autolight switched on, and Miranda stepped inside. Immediately she punched up her mail, scrolling through it quickly. Her mind was elsewhere - somewhere back on stage.

  Nobody cared about the dancing anymore. It was all about bioenhancements and cosmetic surgery. Hell, she could be younger if she wanted, and if she could afford it. But she couldn’t - wouldn’t if she could.

  A loud merouw greeted her.

  “Hi there, Titty Kitty. Come to mama.”

  A skinny little cat, white as milk, materialized on her lap the moment she sat, its purr instantaneous and loud.

  “Did you have a good day, Tits? I’m sure it was better than mine.”

  Maybe I don’t belong on stage anymore, she thought, absentmindedly scratching the cat’s pink belly. Maybe it was time to hang up the G-strings and the flyaway bras. But if she didn’t belong on stage, where did she belong? Maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was time to call it quits. She’d seen and done plenty in her life. No family, no one who’d miss her, no reason to hang around. Nick would take care of Titty Kitty if she asked. It would be easy. A quick trip to the Euthacenter-

  The door buzzer squawked with annoying familiarity. Before Miranda could get the cat off her lap, the door opened and Nick steered himself in. He wore an ultra-bright orange shirt and his usual burgundy beret.

  “I hope you’re decent, because I’m coming in.”

  “‘Decent’ - that’s very funny, Nick, but I’m not in the mood for stripper jokes.”

  Nick positioned his wheelchair in front of her, using the joystick to propel himself, first up and then back. Garish, black-and-red zebra-striped material covered the chair’s seat. A sticker slapped haphazardly across its back read: “I brake for parties.”

  “I’m on my way to light up the lives of the artistically-deprived masses. Verily, it is my mission in life to bring joy to the joyless heathens … and it’s not like I have anything else to do. So put on your best bonnet and let’s boogie.”

  “Not tonight, Nick. I don’t feel like it.”

  “Surely you would not deprive the public of your ravishing presence? Come, let us roar off into the night, trumpeting our existence in brazen fashion.”

  “I said I don’t feel like it!” Miranda responded, with uncharacteristic irritation.

  Her vehemence caught Nick by surprise.

  “Okay, you don’t have to tell me thrice,” he said, engaging his wheelchair motor and heading for the door.

  Miranda threw her hands up over her face and shook her head. Nick wasn’t just a friend, he was someone she respected. Jesus, the guy had kept his head up and his mind right even after a hijacked transport had slammed into his shuttlecar, costing him not only an arm and both legs, but his wife and daughter as well. Now here she was, raining on his parade when he was trying to march straight ahead. Hell, she was spitting on it.

  “Wait! Wait, Nick. I’m sorry.”

  Nick maneuvered himself into the doorway and stopped.

  “I got canned at Planet Raw tonight. That’s why I’m such a witch.”

  Nick threw his chair into reverse and turned to face her.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mira.”

  “Well, don’t be. You showed up just in time. Give me three shakes of a tail feather to get changed, and we’ll set this burg ablaze.”

  “You don’t have to strip, Mira,” said Nick, doing his best to bolster her spirits. “There are other things you could do if you wanted.”

  She wasn’t so sure. “Dancing’s the only way I’ve ever earned a living. What am I going to do - scrub floors? Sell vids? I’m a dancer. It’s the one thing I’m good at.”

  They were sitting in a dim little club, an outgrowth of a gaudy Thai restaurant - itself a cultureless tumor on the city’s backside. There were maybe a dozen customers, some in conversation, others nursing drinks, alone. One brave soul was up on the tiny block stage, singing away with the help of a prompter and an antique audio system. Her rendition would have solicited a cascade of howls, had the establishment permitted canines.

  “You know, I was going to be a teacher,” said Miranda. “Can you imagine that? Me, a school teacher?”

  “It’s not so difficult to imagine,” replied Nick. “What happened?”

  Miranda laughed. “I discovered that taking off my clothes was a whole lot easier than studying, not to mention more lucrative. But it wasn’t just the money. I liked the attention, the power it gave me over men.” She made a derisive noise under her breath that was more whimper than laugh. “At least that’s how it felt back then.”

  “There must have been men who were interested. Why didn’t you ever get married?” “There were plenty of men. They came and they went. There were a couple that almost,,, but none worth crying over.” “You know, this glorious reality could have more in store for you than being an exotic dancer.”

  “I’ve told you before, Nick, the others can call themselves ‘exotic dancers’ if they want. I’m a s
tripper, just an old-fashioned stripper - with the emphasis on old.”

  “Bah and blattersnot! The redwoods of Yosemite are old. The cave paintings of Mars are old. You’re a puerile fledgling who’s about to be reborn into a whole new life. ‘I’m too old’ is a mantra for quitters.” He grabbed her right hand with his. “You don’t have to strip naked in front of strangers to be someone.”

  “You don’t understand, Nick. When I’m on stage,,, it’s the one time I don’t feel naked.”

  Nick looked away, pretending to scan the club. “What a sorry-looking dump this place is. But it’ll have to do until I can get my own place. I’m going to see if I can go next.”

  Miranda watched Nick steer himself over to the stage. He talked all the time about how he was going to get his own nightclub. They both knew it was a fantasy, an eccentric dream to help pass the days. But dreams were expensive, and so was buying your own club.

  Watching Nick maneuver through the maze of tables, she recalled the night she’d first seen him. He’d come in while she was on stage. When the lights spilled into the crowd she’d seen the guy in the wheelchair, the guy with the missing limbs and the horrible scars on his face. He’d gotten drunk, rowdy, and then, later, started crying like a baby. She’d helped him get home because she felt sorry for him.

  Now she admired him. She admired his independence, the way he always held his head high, the way he kept his sense of humor. He could always find something to make her laugh. Nick was beautiful.

  “I’m ready.”

  The sound of Nick’s voice coming from the house speakers prompted her to look up. He was on stage, microphone in hand. The music started, and so did Nick, wailing some old ditty that asked if the audience would walk out on him if he sang out of tune.

  Unfortunately, Nick’s singing voice was awful. But he didn’t let that stop him. Nick didn’t let anything stop him.

  The Black Hole was a wretched pit, a dilapidated, scum-infested hovel that reeked of sweat and semen. The stories were enough to scare away most girls - anyone who could get work anywhere else. It was a den of outlaws, addicts, and alien riff-raff. Not strictly a place for ETs, but few locals patronized the joint. Why would they, when there were better places to spend their money? But there she was, on stage, bumping and grinding, stripped of her pride as well as her clothes.

  She’d had to beg just for the opportunity to dance on off-nights. On top of that, she had to wait tables. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so humiliated. Now though, after a couple of weeks, the humiliation had worn off. Only a bitter taste remained.

  “Wiggles fat like Deneath worm,” called out a hairy, mud-groomed brute sporting a pair of stubby horns. His accent was so thick, Miranda barely understood him. The tone, however, was familiar. He jostled his friend, a red-scaled Nylean, and pointed at her. “Much-used loose bags.” They snorted and guffawed but Miranda ignored them, even when the Nylean stuck his long, prehensile tongue out at her, moving it obscenely up and down.

  Nick had tried to dissuade her, but he didn’t understand. He didn’t know what it meant to her to be back on stage - even that stage, even with all the insults and lurid proposals, often in languages she couldn’t understand.

  When she finished dancing, she changed into the skimpy pseudo-spacegirl outfit they’d given her. She was supposed to wait tables for the rest of the night. She didn’t want to, but she was having trouble with her credit flow as it was. So she took a deep breath and traipsed out, determined to coax some big tips. Before she even reached the bar, a short, thin, blue fellow held out a hand to get her attention.

  “That was a beautiful dance, Miranda,” he said, with only a slight accent.

  She noticed he was completely hairless, not an eyebrow or an eyelash on him, and his tiny hands had no fingernails. His clothes were obviously expensive, but the motif of his jacket was odd, even for an ET.

  “You are a woman of elegant charms.”

  “Uh, thanks. Would you like to order a drink?”

  “Actually, I would like to make you a proposition.”

  Here it comes, she thought, even as she caught herself staring at the ET’s ears. They looked like a pile of rolled-up tubing.

  “First, let me introduce myself. I am the Honorable Sesmon Jer Rhap Queesnat. I am a businessman - what you would call an ‘entrepreneur’ - from the planet Epheme.”

  Miranda had never heard of the place, but that wasn’t unusual. Since the creation of the transportals, they’d discovered more ETs and alien worlds than you could count. This guy was just another strange one. He was too small, too slight of build to be a threat, so she looked him over good. His sky-colored skin was baby-smooth, not a wrinkle anywhere. Even his lips, so dark blue they were almost black, were silky smooth.

  “I would like to offer you a job,” he said, his daffodil eyes gauging her surprise. “I want you to dance in my cabaret on Epheme.”

  “Get out of here. Don’t fuck with me, buddy. I’m not in the mood.”

  “I assure you, Ms. Miranda, I would never fuck with you. Ephemerals never mate outside our species. In addition, I have passed the age of procreation.” Miranda looked him over again. He sure didn’t look old.

  “I think you are a fabulously talented dancer - one that would be fully appreciated by my clientele. You have a beauty which is rare on Epheme.”

  “Now I know you’re screwing with me,” said Miranda, turning to walk away. But she didn’t. “Why would you want an old hoofer like me, when there are hundreds of younger girls you could hire?”

  “I do not want a younger girl,” he said. “On our world, a woman of your experience and maturity is highly regarded. We are a short-lived race. We rarely survive much more than three decades, Earth time. We have a saying which roughly translates as ‘Age is beauty, and beauty age.’ A woman such as you would be appreciated beyond my ability to place a value on it. But since I must - if you would agree to dance in my establishment, I would pay you ten times your current wage.”

  “Ten times?” Her disbelief was obvious.

  “Please, take some time and consider my offer. I do not make it out of generosity. I make it because I believe I will profit enormously, should you choose to dance in my establishment. Here is my comcard. Please think about it and advise me of your decision. I will remain in your city for another two days.”

  “Sure,” said Miranda, taking the card, “I’ll think about it.”

  The rain cascaded in sheets as they hurried inside the karaoke club that night. Miranda didn’t know rain had been scheduled, but then, she had more important things on her mind. Two sips into their watered-down drinks, she told Nick about the job offer. He didn’t respond.

  “Well, what do you think?” she finally asked, breaking the silence. “Should I take it?”

  “You mean traverse the galaxy with this ET? Relocate to another world, so you can continue to dance?”

  “It’s not just the dancing, Nick, it’s the chance to be appreciated again.”

  “I appreciate you right here.”

  “You know what I mean. I can get out of The Black Hole and go somewhere I’m respected. Somewhere it doesn’t matter how old I am. Do you know they have a saying there that age is beauty, and beauty age?”

  “I could have told you that,” responded Nick, staring at her. “You know, you don’t always have to live your life according to someone else’s standards.”

  Miranda ignored the comment, and the look he was giving her. It was the same look of disappointment her mother used to give her when she was little - just before she told her how fat and ugly she was.

  “And there’s the money. I’ve never made that kind of money before, even when I was twenty. It’s a fabulous opportunity.”

  “Maybe it is, but you’re not hearing what I’m saying, Mira.”

  “What are you saying, Nick?” She didn’t understand why he wasn’t telling her to go for it. That’s what she had expected him to do. He looked so serious, and now he’d shut up ag
ain. “Well?”

  “You don’t have to go,” he said finally, putting his hand on hers. His skin felt coarse, almost clammy. He flashed a timid smile. “You could always stay here with me. We could settle down together, raise kittens, and live happily ever after.”

  Kittens? What was he talking about?

  “Do you really think there’s a happily ever after for people like us?”

  “Sure there is,” responded Nick. “All you have to do is open your eyes and look for it.”

  They’d been good friends for so long, she’d never considered that Nick might have … other feelings for her. He deserved better.

  “That’s very sweet, Nick, but this could be the chance of a lifetime for me. Shit - it could be the last chance of my lifetime.”

  “You’ve already decided, haven’t you?” he asked, staring at his drink and twirling the straw counterclockwise.

  “I guess I have.”

  Nick suddenly slapped the table. “It’ll be a fantastic adventure!” he exclaimed, his mood shifting radically. “Stepping through a dazzling cosmic gate into a strange world, filled with wondrous new mysteries.”

  Miranda laughed. “I don’t know if it’ll be that exciting.”

  “Exciting? You want exciting? That’s my cue.” He engaged his wheelchair motor and backed away from their table. “You won’t leave without saying goodbye, will you?”

  “Of course not.”

  Nick flashed a grin, spun his chair, and accelerated towards the stage.

  Miranda wondered if he meant what he’d said. He always joked around, but tonight he seemed different.

  It wasn’t as if leaving him would be easy. He was the one person she could always count on. She watched him pluck the microphone from its stand and use it to push up his beret. His first few notes were way off, but that was Nick.

  He started singing something about rain and rhythm, but she wasn’t paying attention.

  Miranda pulled out the comcard the ET had given her. It read simply, “The Honorable Sesmon Jer Rhap Queesnat”. She slid the card into her phone and waited.

  Nick continued to croon away about a girl that went and left him and took his heart.