Koban Universe 1

by Stephen W Bennett

  His Kobani metabolism, needed for life on the high gravity planet of Koban, with ultrafast and powerful animal life, was now so high that he almost literally could not get drunk. His body burned the alcohol as fuel faster than it could infuse into his brain. He’d never needed booze to feel good or to have fun anyway, so he didn’t miss it. Much.

  Later, he’d either try a greasy spoon on the same street for a bite of basic Space Port food, or wait until he went to the casino at Club Roo, and order a rare steak to eat at a poker table. The drinks were free, of course, not that he cared.

  His smooth gait, which non-Kobani humans compared to that of the cat like rippers, from whence the genes for his carbon fiber muscles and nervous system were derived, propelled him past one of the bawdy gang operated whorehouses, always found near any port district. The Ladies of The Night here were permitted to sit on a front portico to try to solicit a contract for an hour, or a night, with a man in need of company, all alone on a new planet.

  The contract was a token of legality for the still female dominated society of humanity. The laws that once protected the depleted ranks of males were of less consequence today, but even Rim worlds obeyed the law of social inertia, which kept things moving in the same direction after three hundred years. The war with the Krall was quickly equalizing the genders again, with men doing most of the fighting, and recovering their former stature and belligerence. Not necessarily a good thing from a woman’s point of view, but needed for the war.

  One of the admittedly attractive commodities on the porch called out to him as he passed. “Hey, sweet young Gentle Man, or should I say Gentle Boy? I can make a better man out of you tonight, if you’d like your blond hair tousled, along with your package.” Two of the other women laughed, and offered similar invitations.

  Explicit propositions, not usually so crudely phrased, had been the norm from women for a least a couple of centuries, and from a growing number of assertive men in recent decades. The species had needed the sperm of the males who survived the Gene War, and the new female government leaders could not allow it to continue to be forcibly taken and often wasted. Men regained some rights, and laws were passed to protect them, at least from total exploitation. The Contract System was devised so that men could profit from the seed of their loins. Their mothers retained some financial rights to their future propagation, and shared the proceeds from contracts made by their sons. This encouraged more children, preferentially males if they were lucky, and doctors cautiously learned how to employ non-genetic gender selection methods to enhance male births.

  Today, on most Rim worlds, farther away from the Hub social rules, the term “contract” used in this context was a ruse. A man contracted with a prostitute for his sperm donation, but the required “safe storage” of his deposit was more expensive than the apparent value of the sperm. He was granted “credit” for his contribution, and he paid in advance for long-term storage. The definition of “long-term” was deliberately vague and apparently extended only until the female’s safety deposit “box” reached an automatic cleansing and sanitation station, placed in every room (there was a charge added for the room too, of course). The donor recipient normally waited for the contributor to close the door behind him before she initiated the wash cycle.

  Flashing the “Ladies” his youthful smile, Haveram recalled the many visits with such women at other ports of call in his younger years. Constant travel made long-term marriage contracts harder to obtain, and frankly harder for him to honor. He would make his first port of call at some place like this establishment, after a long Jump to some remote world. Then hope for a more satisfying meeting with a far less professional Lady in more honorable society later.

  “You all are looking very lovely tonight, and if I wasn’t so desperately dry and hungry, I could pause for a time. However, I have a watering hole in mind, and I’d like to arrive there before dusk fully descends. It may not be safe out after dark. Good evening lovely Ladies.” Now they really wanted this rare Gentle Man to tarry, who it seemed was also a gentleman.

  He grinned as their imploring voices dwindled behind him, as he strode purposely towards the Mechanics Lounge. He had noted that the setting sun was fully below the horizon, which informed him it was dusk, but his enhanced low light predator’s vision made it appear as bright as normal. Despite his words, there was nothing here he feared after dark.

  He politely held open the door for an older man to leave as he entered, and went to the bar, greeting a bartender that he’d seen here previously. “Mr. Gibson, how are you?”

  As always, he placed his cap on a clean dry place at the unwiped bar, and admired his reflection in the mirror behind the bartender. His sharp low light vision was also supplemented by infrared receptors. He caught the faint outline behind the mirrored plastic surface of a tripod supported Tri-Vid camera. This was not surprising for any bar, since there could be fights, theft, or other trouble that the owner would want recorded.

  Haveram had been unable to detect that on his last visit, before he’d received his most recent gene upgrades, but it didn’t bother him, because in modern society it was nearly impossible to go where you were not under observation much of the time. Facial recognition in an AI system could often identify you in seconds if you were a citizen of the planet. He was from off world but doubtless, his prior visits here had left some record of his activities.

  He ordered a tall drink with mostly mixtures of colony world liquors, poured in layers over shaved ice. It was called a Rimmer’s Nightmare on this world. It had other names on other worlds, with variations in some of the liquors used. The liquids always had pretty colors, and the devil’s brew had the lightest density fluids nearer the top of the concoction, and thus higher alcohol content floating on successively higher layers of ice. He paid in cash, with a more than fair tip, and turned to rest his back against the bar, ignoring the backless cushioned stools lined up there. He sucked on the long straw, drawing from the lower alcohol laden booze at bottom of the glass first. The drink was designed to get you smashed by the end, when the strongest liquor arrived to deadened senses.

  He spotted two men he’d shared drinks with previously, though they were not sitting together tonight. The callused hands of many of the men, and some women, was proof that these were mostly people that worked hard for a living, probably right here at the port. There was bump-and-grind music playing in the background, a style that had returned while Haveram had been stranded and out of touch on Koban for over twenty years. He felt at home with what others considered new.

  It was funny how the patterns of music followed cycles that passed through repeated phases over a lifetime. They were never repeated exactly, but were similar, as if boredom, or rebellious youth rejected what the last two generations had liked, and were foolish enough to think they were “inventing” the newest style or rhythms themselves. The small dance floor was empty, and Haveram had seldom seen it used. It was basically wasted floor space.

  He’d noticed the oily haired man that had followed him in while he was waiting for his drink, seeing him by reflection. His near perfect memory had seen him earlier, sitting in a wooden rocker outside of a souvenir shop, on the opposite side of the street from the whorehouse he’d passed. He’d thought his interest in him then was due to the interaction with the attractive women of the night.

  There he was again in a brief mental image, walking behind him on the opposite side of the street. The grungy looking man had looked quickly away when he had glanced back at the large bank he intended to visit in the morning, to convert gold into credits, and deposit those credits at the same bank. Now the man was here, and had looked directly at his back when he came in, and had now moved into the darkest most remote corner of the bar, alone in a booth for four, facing towards the bar. He was talking softly, and it was probably to someone by use of an ear bud phone, or a similar communication device. He probably thought the deeper darkness provided privacy and cover for his sideways glances, at a man he
clearly was following. Interesting.

  Wolfbat hearing was sharpest in the ultrasonic range, a benefit for listening to Krall high speech, which used that upper range, but not as sharp for normal human conversations. A wolfbat didn’t need to hear as well in the human frequency speech range, but he was sure their large ears would have been able to pick out his murmuring, had they been part of that particular gene mod. Haveram smirked. He could have heard what was said, but large hairy blue ears, pivoting in that direction might have drawn unfavorable attention to a person equipped with them.

  He saw the man suddenly look nervously at the front door, nod, and slide out of the booth, keeping his eyes studiously away from Haveram, who had made no pretense of not staring back at him. He hurried towards the main door, looking worried. He could have left by a closer side door, on the wall by his booth, but he went all the way across the bar as far from Haveram as possible.

  The reason for that route became clear when he reached the door, which had a small high mounted diamond shaped window to see out. Someone was apparently standing back a bit and out of view on the outside, tall enough to see inside the bar. The door was pulled open from outside just as Oily Man reached for the brass push plate. Startled, he pulled up abruptly, and while his hand was still outstretched, another hand reached through the doorway, shoved a bill into the extended hand as payment, and then pulled on Oily Man’s wrist, to “assist” him in a clumsy exit.

  Well, Haveram thought, somebody paid him to watch for my arrival, and he told that someone where I went. Even more interesting was that they got here while the information was still being delivered.

  He sipped his drink through that silly assed little straw they always stuck in large drinks. He’d already plucked and eaten the thumb sized, orange colored local fruit with a short stem, decorating the top of the Rimmer’s Nightmare. He’d eaten it, except for the annoying large pit the local fruit packers always left inside them. The bartender had told him leaving in the pits helped kept the fruit juicy longer, and the locals expected to find the pits. He held the hard pit in his cheek, savoring the last of the sweet and tangy flavor, before placing it in a breast pocket of his light jacket.

  Haveram pivoted back to the bartender, who he now noticed had watched the little informer leave, and was watching the door tensely. In the reflection angle of the mirror, the door was visible. A tall neatly dressed man stepped through. He was a well-built athletic looking man, and although casually dressed, it looked like expensive clothing. Out of place in this dive.

  He stepped inside and walked to an empty booth near the center of the wall facing the bar, not quite directly behind Haveram. The man never once looked towards the bar. However, when the bartender instantly relaxed on seeing who came in, Haveram assumed they were well acquainted. The door had hardly swung shut, when two bulkier men came in together, and they too avoided looking at the bar, going to a table on the opposite side of the room, and flagged down a tired looking waitress. The bartender had tensed up again slightly, and then relaxed after looking at Tall Man, as Haveram mentally named him.

  Over the next ten minutes, four more large men, dressed in cheaper clothes than Tall Man came in, and distributed themselves around the room in pairs. The bartender made a sweep of the bar to clean up glasses, bottles, glass snack bowls and such, leaving it clear of objects to throw or use. He removed his apron but continued to take drink orders from his one server, and anyone that came up to the bar.

  Haveram nodded to himself. I guess the gang’s all here. Wonder what’s next?

  One of the men Haveram had shared drinks with a few months ago, had finally noticed him at the bar. He broke off a conversation with his tablemates, got up and came over to renew the acquaintance with the generous drink buyer.

  “Hey. I see you did make it back here. Fred wasn’t it? I’m Stravco, but I go by…,”

  Haveram cut in, to prove he remembered. “Strav, I remember you. Of course I do. It got really drunk out that night.” They both laughed and shook hands.

  “I most often go by my old nickname of Chief, you know, to those that know me best. You somehow managed to remember my first name. Hell, I didn’t think you’d remember your own name after I left here.” These people thought he was a Fred. He wished he’d worked harder at getting them to remember him as “Chief,” something he responded to at any of the ports he visited.

  Strav asked him, “Are you still running your own boat, or did you decide to go back to your true love, the Engine room?”

  “Oh, I put some time in down there when I can, to keep my skills sharp, but I still captain my… bird.” Distracted by the eight men he possibly faced (he included the bartender) he was preoccupied. He’d almost said Falcon, but caught himself. It was registered as the Sparrow at this port of call, the Eagle at Rhama, and other birds on faked registration at other ports.

  The seven men besides the bartender made their focus on him all the more apparent, by not looking at him at all, even though a few other heads looked up from time to time at the two loud talking jovial men. It appeared the toughs were waiting for something.

  Recalling his previous trips to this port, particularly the last one, he figured they might be waiting for him to get rip roaring drunk. Most average thugs would consider seven or eight men to one more than double what they needed against a medium sized, unintimidating appearing man like Haveram. He knew he also looked young and inexperienced to them.

  Perhaps they wanted him debilitated, so they could take him without hurting him. That was as good as theory as any, so he decided to do what he’d started out to do. Make new friends, and get them plastered.

  He pointed at the other fellow he had met before, who was being shy, not wanting to seem like he was out for more free drinks. “Jason wasn’t it? Bring your friends over. I’d like to buy you all rounds of drinks. You two there, you obviously know Strav, since you were talking with him, come on up here and join us. I’m sure these two will tell you about my last visit, and that I hate to drink alone. I ain’t got no family to support, my home is my ship, and she supports me. What else can I spend pocket money on but booze, poker, and fun?”

  As the drinks flowed and a few other port workers joined them, making the better-dressed men, drinking in isolated pairs, stand out even more. The thugs ordered drinks, but either nursed them, or asked for non-intoxicating concoctions. Haveram knew this, because he watched them too, via casual glances, and observed what the bartender mixed for them. Most of the locals were at the bar, swapping lies and funny stories, and downing free drinks.

  Haveram was having fun, he liked the taste of the fancy drinks and those little orange fruit garnishes with the large hard pits. However, despite what the others would have considered a sincere appearing effort, he wasn’t even getting a buzz. His bladder wasn’t genetically enhanced however, just his metabolism. He was off walking the dog, draining the lizard, or fixing a leak every half hour, as he felt the urge.

  He half expected some of the men to follow him back to the men’s room but they never did. Now his new “best” friends were really getting loaded. Some had had a head start before he arrived. He pretended to be slightly impaired, and jumbled his words a few times, but was hoping now that he could get these decent folks out of the bar. It could be bad for their health now, or in the future, if these locals saw or heard too much. The patience of the thugs seemed to be wearing thin the longer Haveram stayed sober enough to remain vertical. He came up with an idea to protect his drunken comrades about a half hour before midnight.

  “How many of you are hungry?” He called out. They’d been here when he’d arrived as the sun set, almost four hours ago, and had been slurping down drinks ever since. Of course, they were all hungry.

  “Mr. Gibson, the Flea Bag up the street serves food all night, right?”

  “Yea. So?” As Haveram watched the bartender’s face, in the reflection he noticed Tall Man looked around at the other six thugs. Apparently, leaving this cozy nest didn’t suit th
em. Food might perk up their target or let him vanish in the dark outside.

  “Well I’m not hungry, but these people are. How about if I send them up there to eat the best meals the Flea Bag has to offer, and I’ll stay here and drink until they get back. I’ll pay for everything. The same company owns that grill and this bar, right? I can give you the money and you can phone the order in to them.”

  Gibson looked flustered and confused. “How do…, I mean what makes you think the same guy…, I mean the same company owns both places?”

  “Because the business license and the sanitation rating forms are right behind you at the base of the mirror. I heard someone call the other place one of Carmody’s dumps when I was there on my last trip.” He pointed at the forms displayed on the mirror.

  “It says Carmody Enterprises right there. How about you call them, I pay you for their food, and they head up there to eat. And give them an open bar tab, on me.” They didn’t have an actual bar, but the Flea Bag served booze and beer with their food.

  He fished out some larger credit notes, and invited every one present to go eat and drink on his tab. He caught Gibson, in a reflection of the back of his head, look directly at Tall Man, who nodded fractionally. As he suspected, they both worked for the same organization. Possibly Tall Man was Carmody, or one of his high-ranking flunkies.

  The bartender used his personal com unit to call the Flea Bag. It was obvious from the conversation that the person at the other end knew Gibson well, and he knew them. It was a done deal. Price wasn’t even discussed.