Another relic of his life on Darconia was that Trag was cold all the time. After twenty years on a hot, desert planet where he wore nothing but two jeweled collars--one around his neck and the other around his genitals--he still hadn't acclimated enough to wear anything less than two layers of clothing and a heavy cloak. His brother performed on stage stripped down to nothing but a pair of low-slung, skin-tight pants, but rock stars like Tychar had hot lights and plenty of physical activity to keep them warm. Off stage, he was usually freezing his nuts off too.
Reaching the end of the corridor, Trag's senses were assaulted by the noise, smoke, flashing lights, and mingled odors of a variety of different life-forms all mixed in together. Despite the immense size of the place, it seemed crowded as beings of all kinds jostled their way through the wide aisle between the vendors. There were hideous Cylopeans selling what appeared to be shrunken heads, Drells demonstrating the virtues of their hair tonic, a black-scaled Nerik hawking tracking devices, fish-lipped Norludians beckoning to customers with their sucker-tipped fingers and urging them to buy a vial of Essence Preservative (which, rumor had it, was simply their own urine), Kitnocks selling clothes that wouldn't fit any other species, and of course, numerous merchants selling weapons, along with spare parts for just about any type of starship made in the known galaxy. The booths selling food had the most disgusting array Trag had ever seen--some of it still alive and wriggling.
"Great Mother of the Desert!" Trag muttered. "Doesn't anyone have any fuckin' fruit?"
Then there were the hookers. Their alcove was draped with rich fabrics beyond which he could see the plush cushions that covered the floor. Painted, jeweled, and, for all intents and purposes, naked, these exotic beauties hailed from almost every planet in the quadrant and shook their tits at him as he approached. Most had the usual two, but some had four, and one bizarre-looking woman with big, dark eyes had eight.
"My darling Trag, at last!" the woman said sidling up to him.
Trag grinned. "Hey, Layha. How are you and the girls doing these days?"
"Oh, same as always," Layha said with a wave that made her breasts jiggle enticingly. "We put up with the rest of the damn johns and dream about you."
"You can't fool me," Trag said as he gave her a hug. "You say that to every man who walks by."
"Do not," Layha insisted. "Only you. You just get your sweet little ass in here and give us some joy. Lerotan already paid your shot."
"He paid you?" Trag echoed incredulously. "Wonder why--unless it's his backhanded way of giving me a raise."
"No clue," Layha replied. "He ought to know we never charge you." Taking his hand, she attempted to pull him into the alcove, but Trag resisted.
"Not right now," he said. "What I really want is something to eat. Know where I can get any fresh fruit?"
Layha's eyes narrowed and she faced him with her fists firmly planted on her lush hips. "I've got the hottest ladies in the sector here in my brothel--I've even got an Edraitian now--and all you want is fruit? What the hell is wrong with you? Are you sick?"
"No," said Trag. "I'm just not in the mood right now--especially for an Edraitian, or anything else that's blue--blue eyes, blue hair, blue anything!"
Layha grimaced. "Forgot about that little peculiarity of yours." She laid a hand on his forehead but didn't seem reassured. "You still ought to come in and let us take care of you."
"I'm not sick," Trag insisted. "Just hungry!"
"Want some of my milk?" Layha suggested, offering one of her large breasts.
Trag shook his head. He'd tried it before and though he knew it was tasty, he also knew that getting anywhere near her nipples would lead to something else entirely. Her scent was already wafting through his nostrils, and the effect was going straight to his groin. Layha had a Terran girl in her stable too, and her scent was guaranteed to keep Trag hard long enough to do the whole lot of them--something Trag knew from past experience.
Hidar came sauntering up, his antennae puffed out like plumes above his head. "I would like--"
"No Scorillians allowed," Layha said firmly, barring the way as the blue-skinned Edraitian and three other exotic beauties ganged up on Trag and pulled him inside, yanking him down on the cushions so hard it nearly knocked the wind out of him.
"Since you've paid, we're obligated to do something," Layha said as she entered, pulling a heavy curtain down behind her, "unless you want a refund."
Trag shook his head, knowing that Layha needed the credits far more than he did. "Keep it."
"Can't do that," Layha said firmly. "Not even as a tip since we haven't done anything. Station regulations and all. How about a massage?"
"That I'll take," said Trag. "But I really don't want anything else."
Layha surveyed him with concern. "Maybe you should have Hidar take a look at you--or one of the doctors here on the station. That's just not normal!"
Trag knew she was right but wasn't about to say so. "No, really, I'm fine," he said as a tall brunette pulled off his cloak and the Edraitian went for his shirt. His exposed skin reacted to the chilly air with a shiver and he sucked in a ragged breath as Layha's warm hands settled on his shoulders, only then realizing how tense and sore he was. Stretching his arms behind him, he felt the joints popping all up and down his spine.
"Don't worry," Layha said. "We'll fix that."
"Okay, but no sex," Trag reiterated. "We're clear on that, right?"
Blowing out an exasperated breath, she agreed, though reluctantly. "Some days it's just no fun being a hooker."
***
Trag caught up with Lerotan, Rodan, and Hidar outside a booth selling engine parts. "I hope you paid them really well," he said.
"Enough," Lerotan replied. "Why? How many of them did you do?"
"All of them," Trag said with a grin. "You know how it is. Once one gets a taste, they all join in."
Lerotan's brow rose slightly, displaying his skepticism. "Liar. You haven't been gone long enough for that. You didn't do any of them, did you?"
"Hey, if you don't believe me, then maybe you should quit wasting your money on them and pay me directly."
Hidar made a loud clicking noise with his mandibles.
"Don't start with me, Hidar," Trag warned. "It's not my fault nobody will fuck you. Besides, I could have gotten past them if they hadn't been looking for me. Remind me never to let you guys get ahead of me again." He paused as he realized it might have been worth it if he'd gotten something to eat. "I'm starving! I've got to find something decent to fill my stomach instead of that crap you try to pass off as food."
"It doesn't pay to piss off the chef," Hidar cautioned, his antennae beating the air with fury.
"You call yourself a chef?" Trag shot back. "I think you're a--"
"Now, boys," Lerotan said, doing his best to suppress a grin. "You stop that fighting right now!"
Rodan let out a loud guffaw, slapping his leather-clad thigh and setting his chains to rattling.
"Shut up, Rodan," Trag growled. "And yes, Mother, we will stop fighting if that asshole would just--"
"Just what?" Hidar said menacingly.
"Let me do the cooking once in a while!" Trag spat out. "Why is that so hard for you?"
"What makes you think you could do any better?" Hidar demanded.
"Great Mother of the Desert!" Trag exclaimed, yanking his hair in frustration. "There's no way I could possibly do any worse!"
"Okay, okay," Lerotan said, raising a hand. "Trag can fix one meal a day. That way he'll always have something he likes."
"Thank you!" Trag said fervently, then added under his breath, "Only taken me three fuckin' years..."
Hidar clenched his mandibles so tightly that they should have cracked under the strain, but the Scorillian just walked away, his wings fluttering out behind him the way they always did when he was angry.
"Why, why would you ever let some insect be the cook on your ship?" Trag said in an aside to Lerotan. "I mean, really, what were you thinking
?"
Lerotan shrugged. "What can I say? He likes to cook, and no one else wanted the job. Now that he's got it, it hurts his feelings when you don't like what he fixes--you know how touchy he is!--and besides, he makes a good stew."
"If you've got a stomach made out of stone it might be good, but--"
"Calm down, Trag," Lerotan said evenly. "I know we've been stuck on the ship for a long time, so let's just try to make this visit to the station as pleasant as possible."
"Okay, I'll try," said Trag, "but at some point can we please go to a nice, green planet that has fruit?"
"Want to go back to Darconia for a visit?"
Trag let out a sigh. Darconia wasn't exactly verdant, but it was better than a lot of places they'd been, and Earth was out of the question. "Maybe. You know, I never thought I'd want to go back to a planet where I was a slave, but those are starting to seem like the good old days." The good old days when Kyra was-- "No, not necessary," Trag said abruptly. "Any planet with fruit will do."
Lerotan grinned. "I'll ask around."
Trag had ventured on, wandering through the station still looking for fruit, mainly because there wasn't anything else in the whole damn place he wanted to buy. Never one to fritter away his pay, he had money, but despite drinking the occasional bottle of ale, he didn't particularly enjoy getting drunk, gambling appealed to him even less, and the hookers never charged him. The truth was, he was restless and dissatisfied, and, though he hated to admit it, he was also bored out of his mind; he just didn't know what to do about it.
He walked on through the station, taking several turns at random until the next corridor opened up ahead of him and he heard the joyful shouts of children at play. It was cleaner there, more colorfully decorated, and brightly lit. The ceiling had been painted to resemble a blue sky with puffy clouds, and the "sun" hovered off to one side as though just beginning to rise to its zenith. Potted plants, tall trees, and benches were scattered about while jugglers, acrobats, and musicians moved through the throng providing festive entertainment. Food vendors, candy stores, and toy shops were spread out along the circular outer wall. Women sat on the benches chatting while their children played nearby on swings, slides, trampolines, and monkey bars, and a teenage girl was making glowing balloon animals for the little ones to their collective delight. Boys were tossing balls and then tackling whoever caught them as a toddler licked a messy, creamy confection from a cone. The air was filled with sounds of laughter, music, and squeals of glee.
Trag sat down on an empty bench to watch. It was a sight he'd rarely seen before--not as a slave and certainly not since taking the job with Lerotan. Though he didn't know it, the setting was patterned after Earth--many of those present were Terran--but, even so, it reminded him of Zetith. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel the green grass between his toes, smell the sweet scent of flowers in bloom, and feel the warm breeze on his skin. His mind drifted back to a time when he played with Ty in the shade of the trees near his home, each of them wielding a blunt wooden sword and laughing when they scored a hit. His sister was playing with her friends nearby--girls who stole glances at the two boys from time to time but seldom got caught at it.
Trag ventured on to his favorite fantasy, imagining that he and Kyra were in an orchard picking fruit, then making love beneath the trees when their work was done. He didn't indulge in it very often because it always filled him with regret, but just this once he didn't think it was possible to feel any worse.
Lost in thought, Trag didn't notice the child approaching until she tugged at his hand. Upon opening his eyes, he found himself being regarded by a pair of emerald green orbs set in a cherubic face framed with dark, riotous curls.
"Are you okay?" the little girl asked.
"Cara, don't bother the man while he's resting," her mother called, hurrying over to take her daughter's hand.
"She's not bothering me," Trag said, looking up at the mother, a Terran woman with the same eyes and softly curling hair as her child.
Cara twisted away from her mother and proceeded to climb up in Trag's lap. Her tiny fingers reached out and touched his face. "You're crying," she said as she wiped away tears that had fallen unnoticed. "Why are you so sad?"
"I'm not sad," Trag said, giving her his best grin.
Cara smiled back at him. "That's better," she said approvingly. "You're very pretty when you smile. You shouldn't be sad."
"No, I shouldn't be sad, but sometimes I feel that way. Everyone does."
"I know," Cara said. "I was sad when my kitty died. She had eyes like yours, 'cept they didn't shine like that."
"I don't suppose they did," said Trag.
"I miss my kitty," Cara mourned. "She used to sit beside me and purr all the time."
"I can purr too," Trag said. "Would you like to hear it?"
"Oh, yes," Cara replied.
As Trag began, Cara pressed her ear to his chest and then giggled with delight. "You sound just like her!"
"And you look just like my sister," Trag said wistfully. "She died too."
As she raised her head, Cara's guileless gaze seemed to peer into his soul. "Is that why you were crying?"
"Maybe," he replied. "I'm not sure. She died a long time ago." Trag started to put his arms around the child but paused, glancing up at her mother for permission. There were tears swimming in her eyes as she nodded her reply.
As Trag enfolded the little girl in his arms, he felt a tear run down his cheek.
"You miss your sister, don't you?" Cara's mother said.
"Yes," Trag replied. "But there's so much more, I can't even comprehend it sometimes." He stood up, still holding Cara for a moment before giving her back to her mother.
Trag waved good-bye and turned to go back the way he'd come--back where he figured he was supposed to be, whether he truly belonged there or not.
He hadn't gone far when he heard Cara call out as she ran to him.
Trag stopped and knelt down beside her as she held out her hand. "Here," she said. "Maybe this will make you feel better."
"What is it?"
"It's a strawberry," she giggled. "Don't you know?"
Trag shook his head. "They don't have these where I come from."
"They're from Earth. You eat them!"
Trag took a bite and a sweet, delicious juice ran down his chin. "You know something, Cara?" he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "This is exactly what I needed."
"Feel better now?"
"Yes," he replied. "I believe I do."
But as he walked away he realized that strawberries were just one more reason to want to visit Earth--a planet where he was not welcome.
Chapter 3
Rutger Grekkor sat opposite the new Orleon Station commander, studying him closely. The best he could tell, Beontal's personality, like the decor of his sparsely furnished office, had come straight out of a book of regulations. With an expression that was perfectly correct for the situation, he was stiff even when attempting to be friendly; the typical Edraitian snobbishness multiplied in him by a factor of ten. This would not be easy.
"You will not find me tolerant of bribes or any other forms of persuasion," Beontal was saying with a smile that showed every one of his even, white teeth. His shaved head revealed no trace of the red hair of his kind, and he regarded Grekkor with a gaze that seemed capable of seeing past any form of concealment. "Anyone not following the regulations set down by the Council will be expelled from the station. That is my final word on the subject."
"But Commander," Grekkor said smoothly. "Many of the more successful merchants on this station rely on the, shall we say, byproducts of the less desirable."
"I don't believe I know what you mean," Beontal said.
"Oh, surely you realize that those who are here to trade in unapproved commodities--"
"By that you mean illegal weapons, drugs, and slaves?" Beontal interjected.
"There are no slaves being bought and sold here!" Grekkor asserted. He took a
deep breath and composed his chiseled face into the disarming smile he'd so carefully cultivated, rather than the murderous glare he would have preferred to direct at the station commander.
"So you say," Beontal said with obvious skepticism. "But I have heard otherwise."
"Your sources have been misinformed," Grekkor said. "What I was about to say was that all tradesmen benefit from traffic through the station--whether it be within the regulations or not."
"Let me make this perfectly clear," said Beontal, sitting up straighter--if that was possible. He already looked like he had a rod stitched into the back of his uniform. "I will not tolerate illegality--of any kind--on my station."
"And the brothels?" Grekkor said, tilting his head back to look down his nose at Beontal. He had control of himself now. "Will they be allowed to continue?"
"They are legal, approved, and follow their specific regulations as set down by the Council. I see no reason to remove them from the station."
"Hmm," said Grekkor. "There are those who would disagree."
Beontal smiled again. "But they are not on the Council, are they?"
"Go by the book, then, do you?"
"Always."
"Well, then," Grekkor said lightly, "it's fortunate that I am not personally involved in any illegal trade--far from it, in fact. I merely wished to point out to you that there are those who will object to being banned from the station."
"I'm sure there will be," Beontal said. "And as the head of the regional Commerce Consortium, I would expect you to sympathize with their situation but not cater to their whims--particularly when those 'whims' are contrary to the law."
Grekkor smiled, but without any pleasure whatsoever. "I do my best to see to it that all commerce is conducted in the proper manner."
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