by James Chalk
They don’t have places like that where I come from. Our fuck-bars are about fun and community, not money and degradation. We have brothels too, but they are filled with artisans who have a passion for their art and they provide more of an intimate performance than a sordid service.
I felt that deep down, Carla just wanted to find a nice man, marry, and have kids. I knew that she had been taught to trade her body for love; that sex was love. I couldn’t fuck Carla unless I actually fell in love and wanted to marry her. Anything else would be unfair and selfish. Angel, well she was another story. I decided that woman really liked sex and had neither qualms about sinning, nor illusions about settling down. And oh that mouth!
There were two inquisitors waiting when I got out to the front reception area. I wondered how they fought crime in their long, black robes and silly-looking hoodies. That must really fuck with their mobility and peripheral vision. I wondered if the robes were hot and if they had anything on underneath? I tried not to chuckle or smirk. I didn’t need trouble with the local authorities.
The giant had already been carted off to the hospital and business was back to normal in the bar. The inquisitors seemed more interested in the girls than in hearing what I had to say.
The younger one was tall and thin. His face was gaunt with prominent cheekbones and the same sunken eyes that so many of the religiopricks had. He looked like the mythological figure known as “Death” or “The Grim Reaper.”
The older one was clearly in charge. He was short and slight but carried himself as if he were a much larger, more muscular man. His black robe was festooned with expensive religious finery. The imperious look in his eyes was more than enough to put me on guard. I dubbed him Napoleon, after the 19th century French emperor.
At Napoleon’s direction, Grim pulled out a small, portable sensostream projector and proceeded to review my work visa and confirm my identity by visual comparison. I calmed my pulse and hoped my smuggler’s alias as a seasonal bouncer would hold up against their old-fashioned methods. After a cursory examination of the stream, Grim glanced at Napoleon and nodded.
Napoleon pointed a small sensoarray at me and asked if I was willing to wave my rights to dispute security’s sensorecord of the events. I said that I was. They put their antiquated toys away and headed into the bar for a quick drink and grope before leaving.
I’ll say one thing for Sanctity - they don’t make you jump through all kinds of legal hoops when someone gets hurt or dies in a fight. Basically, the way it works is that the winner gets the benefit of the doubt and the loser gets the bill. A nice system when you’re the winner.
Chapter 3
Crazy Blue Eyes
“Love is like a friendship caught on fire. In the beginning a flame, very pretty, often hot and fierce, but still only light and flickering. As love grows older, our hearts mature and our love becomes as coals, deep-burning and unquenchable.” -Bruce Lee
“Whenever death may surprise us, let it be welcome if our battle cry has reached even one receptive ear and another hand reaches out to take up our arms.” - Che Guevara
*******
The bars on Sanctity are required by law to close by 02:00, but restaurants and private clubs may remain open. So when the bar shut down for the night, Carla, Brenda, and I went down the block to the local all-night diner. Angel had promised to eat with us, but ultimately stood us up to spend the night with a ‘client.’ I was disappointed. My thoughts had been stuck in a loop involving her mouth and what we might do with it. But, given her profession and mercenary outlook, I was also secretly relieved.
I didn’t need to get involved with the sort of girl who manipulates men for money. How would I ever know if she was being genuine or just playing me? What if she found out the truth about my background? Not to mention how laughable the thought of bringing a girl like Angel home to meet Mom and the rest of the family was. Thinking about Mom and the family was sobering. Would I ever get home? Would there be any family left to come home to? Not for the first time, I cursed the fucking ignorant Democs and their discredited ideology. I reassured myself that Mom was fine holed up in her private quarters and promised myself that I would one day return home. I resolved that, despite the luscious company, for now, I would remain alone and not further complicate the situation.
Carla noticed my sudden change in mood and demanded, “Stop fogging away and snap to.”
That’s the way she talked - all idioms. Half the time you needed to access an urban dictionary just to figure her out. She shook her head, curly brown hair flying all around and gave me a quirky grin. The slightly too large gap between her front teeth made her look more like an adorable tomboy than the seductress I had dealt with earlier.
I couldn’t help but reflect about how even on Sanctity, where they reject so much modern technology, they surely had the medical techniques to fix her teeth! I knew that she was shy about her smile and embarrassed about the very tooth gap I found so endearing. So why not fix them? I’ll tell you why not: credits. She didn’t have the credits.
So, you’re probably saying to yourself, “What the fuck does she need credits for? Why can’t she just mosey on down to the nearest medicenter and get her teeth modified.” I’ll tell you why, the one thing those religiopricks worship more than their God is free market capitalism. On Sanctity, you have to pay for everything - even health care! Can you believe that fucking shit? Their whole religion is based around the Jesus Christ myth, which is all about this super powered guy that goes around giving away free health care and free food. So what do they do? They make everyone pay credits for health care and food. Fucking ignorant and selfish those faith-frozen religiopricks, that’s what I say.
I smiled at Carla and forced my thoughts back to the here-and-now. Carla was always great to hang out with and this was my first real opportunity to get to know Brenda. I wanted to make the most of it. I learned that Brenda, like me, was visiting Sanctity on a work visa. But hers was a long term visa allowing her to dance at the bar indefinitely. She was from one of the colonies in close orbit around the Sun, but I’m not sure which one. She seemed a little reluctant to discuss her past. I could certainly understand and respect that. My Grandma always said, “People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.”
I asked her how long she planned to stay on Sanctity. Cryptically, she answered, “I think I’m almost done, or maybe forever.” I wondered if that meant that she was considering marrying one of the customers. That actually happened quite frequently, especially with the younger dancers. She didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so I turned and asked Carla about her parents.
I knew Carla’s father had been having some serious health problems. I think that was the reason she was working at the bar. She wasn’t really like the other girls. She never danced or ‘entertained’ customers. She rarely even left the weapons check booth to enter the rest of the bar. But boy, was she good at getting the men to give up their toys.
She told us that her father’s breathing was deteriorating again but that she almost had enough credits saved up for another lung treatment. Well that was a downer and a good cue to call it a night. I picked up the check and we walked back to the bar. Brenda was living in the dancer’s dorm and Carla’s floater was locked in the weapons booth.
When we got to the employee’s entrance we saw two hooded figures exiting the doorway to the VIP Lounge. The security guys flanking the door gave us a pointed look and we all discreetly glanced away, preserving the bigwig religiopricks’ privacy.
We entered the darkened bar, its allure drastically diminished without the lights and music. Brenda gave us each a quick peck on the cheek and disappeared into the dorm. Carla eased over to me until her hips and pelvis touched mine. Her head cocked and tilted up in a classic “kiss me” pose.
Damn, my heart was pounding. Blood was quickly leaving my head. My penis would soon be in charge. I felt panic and confusion. Unsure which feelings to trust and wondering why Carla effected me so s
trongly and on so many levels, I awkwardly wrapped my arms around her luscious body, patted her three times on the shoulder, gave her a peck on the cheek, and got the hell out of the bar.
I had a lot to think about on my long walk home. I live on my personal shuttle, the HMS Mary Rose. She is a Class III Space Ship fully rated for both atmospheric operation and intra-solar system travel. She is my pride and joy, one of the fastest shuttles ever built. Not that I’m bragging or anything, but she can get from the Sedna-Oort colonies to Earth in under six months. She was a gift from my Mother for, as she put it, “attaining the age of maturity.” At the time, even I knew the ship was an extravagant overindulgence. Little did we know that she would become my last refuge and only means of survival.
She was berthed in Sanctity’s one-and-only one-gee space port, which was fortunately only three miles from the bikini bar. Security at the space port was pretty good, but the walk to and from the bar was a little rough. I’m six feet tall, which is about average for that colony. These days there is a lot of variance in height, both inter and intra-colony; even on Sanctity, where the genetic engineers are executed.
Six feet isn’t really enough to scare away the thugs and crazies, but at least most of the homeless folk leave me alone. I had a bunch of trouble on that walk for the first couple of weeks but then word got around that I wasn’t worth it. So I didn’t expect any trouble, but after fucking up so badly earlier with my over confidence, I made sure to remain alert and vigilant all the way to the port.
Once I passed through the security doors at the port, all that extra tension drained out of me along with the last of my energy. I couldn’t wait to hit the sack and was immensely grateful for the people-movers that floated me all the way to D Dock.
My merry little rose was a welcoming site, with her yellow nose cone and brown boarding ramp. She was clamped into the sixth slip just short of the center of the dock. I had just started to drag my worn-out ass towards her when I heard someone say, “Jonathan Harkon!”
“OH SHIT!” I thought while turning to face my doom.
He was dressed in a dockhand’s uniform with a big Sanctity Space Port insignia on his chest. His long, sandy-blond hair - almost a perfect match to my own - was pulled back in a neat ponytail. His eyes were the more popular blue, while my parents had preferred brown. We were definitely from the same place. Besides, he knew my name. My real name! Those blue eyes had a crazed look in them, a mix of abhorrence and elation. His deep hatred was evident, yet he seemed blissfully content standing motionless just a couple of feet away from the object of his pathos.
He smiled at me and said, “Give me liberty, or give me death!” Then the man with the crazy blue eyes exploded.
Chapter 4
Peripheral Damage
“Life moves very fast. It rushes from Heaven to Hell in a matter of seconds.” - Paulo Coelho
“What do you see when you turn out the light, I can’t tell you, but I know it’s mine. Oh I get by with a little help from my friends.” - John Lennon & Paul McCartney
“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been.’” - John Greenleaf Whittier
*******
I didn’t know if I was dreaming or remembering; perhaps my life was flashing before my eyes. It came in snatches, like little sensopackets from a stream, or fragmented dreams.
I’m fifteen. My collar is chafing. The confining weight of my formal suit surrounds me. My cousin’s wedding gown sparkles, alive with jewels and ivory swirls. My father, in his finest uniform, officiates. The smell of my aunt’s perfume fills my nostrils. I’m staring at the beautiful bridesmaid, admiring the size and shape of her chest, the way her long, braided hair lies across it.
I’m on the aisle. A royal guard marches past me, his boots tapping a staccato beat. I’m hearing shouts through the open windows. “Give us liberty… Power to the people… Give us votes…” They fade away as the guard closes the windows, sealing out the Democ protest.
The Democs were agitating for massive change to our political system: an end to the monarchy. Despite the House of Harkon’s ten generation legacy of benevolent rule, consistent lowest poverty rate, longest average life expectancy, and greatest Gross Colony Happiness, the protesters demanded the King’s arrest for crimes of privilege and for exercise of power.
The Democs wanted all laws, policies, and judgments put to popular vote. Imagine trying to run a colony like that! Your average citizen is completely unaware of the massive infrastructure required to maintain the lives of millions of people, all living inside what are really just giant, metal canisters floating in space. Not to mention the political complexities involved in trading with literally thousands of other colonies. Then, there are the multicolonial corporations, each far more powerful than any single colony. If you don’t handle them properly, the entire colony can be lost to a hostile takeover.
The guard returns. His gloved hand brushes my shoulder as he taps on past me. I’m watching my cousin kiss her groom, the purples and blues of his royal uniform contrast against her ivory dress as she presses her body against his. I’m waiting my turn to leave the wedding hall. I can see the bridesmaid with the prodigious chest near the front door. She catches me staring and smiles. My heart leaps and I quickly look elsewhere.
Now I’m at the reception. There is a classical, acoustic band playing rocking-roll, their massive Electronic Damping Projector proving to all that the sound is live and unaltered. I’m dancing with that bridesmaid, staring at her cleavage jiggling so delightfully to the music. My mother is frowning at me from a table populated by aunts and cousins. My father and a pack of other high nobles are clustered around the bar, cigars and cocktails in hand.
The music ends; the best man is toasting from the bar. I stop dancing, the bridesmaid smiles, and we turn to watch and listen. He extols the virtues of the bride and lampoons the groom mercilessly. Before the next toast can begin, the bartender steps out from behind the bar. He has a bottle of Champagne.
I hear him shout, “Give me liberty, or give me death!” I watch as the bartender, standing next to my father, smiles and explodes.
*******
I awakened on my shuttle lying in the medstation. “What the fuck?” I wondered, “How did I get here? How am I alive?” I tried to get up but, that wasn’t happening. I was completely paralyzed. I couldn’t even turn my head. In fact, I was realizing that I couldn’t feel my body at all. That’s when I lost it and started screaming.
*******
I must have passed out again. When I next came to, I was calm. Feeling had returned to my body and I could tell that I was under a medical restraining field. I recognized the room, having awakened in this same bed way too many times before. I attempted to activate my neurocom in order to access the ship’s network, but failed. The neurocom was off-line and would not restart.
I was relieved when I heard what sounded like an annoyed young woman saying, “nah ah ah, Jonny, stop that! No touching your hardware until I’m done fixing you up. You’re no good to me when you’re inoperative.”
“Okay Mary,” I replied “but why am I restrained? How bad is it?”
“How bad is it? My ramp is ruined. It’s all twisted and will never retract again. I won’t be able to fix it. You will need to get me a new one immediately. It took me days to get all the blood and gore cleaned up. I’m still finding little chunks of flesh and bone in my exterior nooks and crannies. Repairing you has depleted 40% of my medical stores and we are not even finished. You will need to replace that right away,” she said with rapid-fire petulance.
I sighed. Mary is my ship’s command and control system. She is bright, sentient, and continually learning, but she can be rather self-absorbed.
The restraining field was making me feel very anxious. I really wanted to get up or at least move my arms around. Controlling my growing claustrophobia, I took a deep breath and asked, “Mary, how badly damaged am I, and will you please deactivate the restraining field?
”
“No, I will not. You are in no condition for movement. You…”
“Mary,” I interrupted, “please turn off the field! I promise I won’t get out of bed.”
My palms were sweating, my anxiety now a palpable force on the surface of my skin. Like an itch, but more. Impossible to scratch, impossible to endure. I waited for Mary’s response.
“You are still badly damaged and require further repair. My system performance parameters will be degraded until I can return you to active peripheral status. Please do not attempt movement. I really need a new ramp…”
My heart was pounding. I felt like I was going to crawl out of my own skin. I wanted to thrash around, break free of the field, but I couldn’t even twitch. I needed out. Out of the bed, out of the ship, out, out, out!
“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT, MARY, LET ME OUT! DO IT NOW!” There was no reply.
“MARY! MARY! DAMN IT MARY, YOU ANSWER ME! ANSWER ME!” Still no answer.
Okay, go ahead and call me a fucking wimp if you like. I lost it again and went back to the screaming. I couldn’t stop. I was losing control. I was about to do something I would regret when Mary’s medical processor sedated me. I drifted into oblivion.
*******
Two more days passed before Mary released me from the damn restraining field. I had spent most of that time fucked up on heavy sedation. During some of my more lucid moments, I had learned that the repairs had indeed been extensive.
The suicidal Democ had been standing very close to me when he exploded. Most of my flesh had been shredded and burned beyond any hope of healing. The concussive force of the explosion would have pulverized a citizen of Sanctity’s unenhanced bones. Fortunately, my bones were tweaked genetically when I was just an itty, bitty zygote. Also, I had extensive bio-mods in-utero and throughout my youth.
