by M. Pax
The ship, as large as an interstellar-class freighter, cast a great shadow which darkened the landscape and his view of the world. Shaped like a dumbbell and colored in rust patches, the hull of the spacecraft clung to a brittle and aged patina, showing little promise of fulfilling his ambitions for prosperity, but there at the tail blazoned a crisp logo. Freshly repainted, a circle half blue and half green dominated the aft panels, rekindling a little hope for something more than the arrival of destitute derelicts. A vessel like that could hold up to a half thousand folks.
Craze’s pulse quickened. That was a lot of chips. Chips he desperately wanted to add to his coffers. “C’mon!” He pumped his fist at the sky, then forced himself to settle down. The incoming ship could easily hold a half thousand cobwebs and crumbs instead.
As the spacecraft approached, the squall of dust sped closer, rising ever higher, somersaulting and churning, turning darker and blacker, reaching up to devour the docks, the bar, and Craze whole. He backed inside the plexiglass vestibule and slammed the door, unable to peel his sight away from the storm roaring at him like a wall.
He gulped, cursing the Pardeepan twit creating the monsoon. “Nobody’ll be able to take more than three steps from the docks, dumbass.”
When his words consciously sank in, Craze’s lips parted with a smack. “Oh!” He didn’t want people wandering about, perhaps tempted into taking one of Pauder’s idiotic tours. Nope, he wanted them in his bar and staying put.
The entryway had the only windows in the tavern. As the swarm of dust raced toward him, he was glad of it. He braced himself for the onslaught and ground his teeth. Pebbles scoured the exterior of his place and sliced fresh scratches into the door. Then came a series of explosions, close and thunderous.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
Shit.
Craze closed his ears and ducked.
*****
CHAPTER 2
On his knees, Craze retreated farther into his tavern, heading past the jumble of beige-coated tables and chairs toward cover behind the counter. “Damn you, you Backworld reject.”
Now he knew who added to the uproar out there. The old fool Pauder, who believed the war hadn’t ended. Craze needed to get Pauder to stop before the tourists veered away, opting for the next stop along the Lepper System.
He chanced leaving his cover, inching his way back over to the door, cracking it open to shout through the slit. “If you scare off business, old man, I’ll come huntin’ you.”
Another volley of gunfire boomed, followed by twangs of ordnance bouncing off the hull of the docking ship. Craze glanced up, because only a well-armored spacecraft could ward off what Pauder threw at it, and they were rare.
Craze could make out the faint illumination of a protective shield and heavy-duty rivets securing armored plates. Weapons bays ran down the ship’s belly. Not a freighter or transport, it was made for war. He’d never seen a battleship before, and rubbed at the back of his neck. The trickle of uneasiness from earlier intensified.
“Get them. Get the Fo’wo’s.” Pauder’s tones rattled with fury, punctuated by four more shots.
Craze rolled his eyes. “The war’s over! You damned coot.” He sure hoped so, hoped those weapons bays didn’t become something to worry about.
In a skull-hugging helmet of thick fabric, goggles, and a gas mask, Pauder jumped down from his all-terrainer jacked up high on treads which churned up more dust than the incoming ship. The old man’s dark skin shone, the moisture produced by a hide comprised of bony shields and rings. His sharp fingers, engineered for hunting, gripped the trigger and leveled the bazooka at Craze. “I see yar piss-ass ship, vermit. Die like a Fo’wo ‘n scream for me.” He cackled in an unforgiving manner, then lowered the barrel as big as Craze’s head. “Oh, it’s ya.”
Craze crossed his arms over his keg-shaped chest. “Yup, me, not a natu-bred Fo’wo. Not that it matters. The war’s been over sixty years now.”
Those old injuries didn’t do Pauder any favors, he’d been blown apart and put back together too many times to have all his sanity. Another problem, his kind lived too long. What passed three generations ago for most, played like yesterday in his recollection. And he’d struggle through another century or more before letting Pardeep put the tired issue to rest.
A taloned finger shook under Craze’s nose. “’N the good guys lost, Son. Look at this hellhole.”
Craze couldn’t argue.
“That decoration on the hull ain’t no decoration, Mr. Barkeep. It’s trouble. Plague-inciting, warmongering trouble. The symbol’s covert ops of the Foreworlds. Fo’wo’s is here, come ta erase ya from existence. I’ll be waiting back there.” Pauder pointed at a storage closet against the back wall smack in the center of the shelves of booze. “When they come in ‘n is about ta let yar brain matter loose onta the floor, I’ll jump out right then ta spring ya from their clutches. Bam. Bam. Baaam!”
“You ain’t shootin’ a bazooka in my bar,” Craze said. “I don’t care if the ship is Fo’wo’s. But it isn’t. Maybe a new passenger line from somebody who got a great deal on that ship, or some hotshot mercenaries. Maybe even Fo’wo pirate scum, but not an enemy army. No way.”
Medals hung around Pauder’s neck – three bronze and two silver – casting light on the underside of his prominent chin. He thrust the bronze award he most prized at Craze, shouting his years of heroism without words. “Yar so damned ignorant, it hurts my teeth. Oh, the enemy is wily, Craze. Wilier than ya can ever imagine. There’s no truce. Not in their minds. Not until we all dead.” He crammed himself into the storage closet and slammed the door. Muffled words flitted past Craze’s flat, indistinct ears. “We should have some sort of signal.”
“Like, come out of the closet?”
The door flew open, rattling the bottles shelved on either side in a precise pattern of size, shape, and color. Blue with blue. Short to tall. The coot jumped out waving the bazooka at the tavern’s corners, teetering off balance until he compensated for the head injury he refused to acknowledge, claiming it had never happened. Perhaps the root of his problems. “Where they at, Son? Where they at?”
Craze rubbed his meaty palms over his face, his eyes itching from the kicked-up dust. “Get back in the damned closet, you rejected pile of gene splicin’.”
Just in time. The tavern shook and a siren blared. Pardeep’s docks joined with the incoming ship, snagging it fast to a berth above, announced by loud grates jarring Craze’s hair, then his lips. He stood with his legs wide, and knees loose. The crocks and bottles rattled, but nothing fell or cracked.
When the quaking ended, Craze took his place behind the counter and powered on all the lights. “Time for business.”
Lit up as if for a celebration, the horseshoe of a bar glowed. The top glittered, reflecting the shine. The bottles lined up on the mirrored shelves gleamed, glistening with promises of exotic tastes and altered moods. Above the bar a rack hung, holding rows of crocks and bowls, canisters of ingredients, and blue bulbs reclaimed from scrapped ships. The bulbs dangled from the edges, a cascade of ambient radiance, casting blue dots on the counter. A sign topped the rack, protruding up toward the ceiling in a bold proclamation. Illuminated in yellow and orange, it read, “Craze’s Tavern.”
To draw in the folks disembarking, Craze unlatched an enclosure under the bar and fished around inside for a handful of ricklits. The plump insects screamed, “Rrrrickl’t, rrrickl’t.” Bright yellow with iridescent blue spots, the bugs thrashed their squat bodies around in his wide palms, antennae kicking in the air. Craze threw all but one into a roaster.
The roaster sat in a cubby surrounded by an elaborate air flow system. Craze switched on the cooker and the fans. Within thirty seconds the delicious odor of baking ricklits kicked out all other smells in his place. Irresistible. His mouth watered. When his stomach bucked in a loud plea, he popped the one ricklit he’d left out between his lips, biting down on the tasty head, eating it raw, enjoying the crunch and burst of crea
m. Flavored much like perfectly deep-fried chicken, a customer had once said.
Chewing on the bit of protein, Craze tied on his apron. His rugged hands, which had put many wayward patrons out the door, washed the covers and sip spouts. Soon after, the jar parts got a rudimentary rinse in the basin of disinfecting gel. The yellow wasn’t the right shade of yellow, long past its prime, dingy and faded, glopping like gravel because of all the grit stuck in it. Gently, he set each cleaned crock on a rack on the bar top, lining them up for the incoming customers.
The door scraped open. In walked one person. She stretched like the first rays of a moonrise, not looking anything like a Fo’wo or a covert agent. On her heels followed an entourage of breezy shadows, which closed in on her, dimming her and her silver light.
Craze rubbed at his eyes, wondering what had gone wrong with his vision. Did her shadow just move? Where was everybody else? He had enough tables to seat three hundred, stools at the counter to accommodate another two dozen, and could cram in more for those willing to stand, especially if Pauder didn’t hang around to police things.
“That big, old ship just for you?” he asked.
The shadows cleared, finding walls and corners to cling to. Silver shimmered over the visitor’s hair and skin, flowing like her kaleidoscope dress. The tinkling pitter-patter of falling glass beads followed her onto the bar stool in front of Craze. She perched delicately on the round cushion upholstered in a weary red. Donning a forlorn smile, she spread her empty hands. “Drink for a thirsty traveler? It’s been a long journey from Bofeld. You know it?”
“No. Got any of them pretty, legal tender like chips?” He searched her top to toe, looking for something of value. Her empty hands and oily hair didn’t appear very promising. Craze sighed, hoping her ship would take off soon, not wanting to deal with her begging for hours on end.
He feigned being very busy, washing crocks and placing them back on the rack he’d just taken them from, wiping off kegs under the bar and bottles shelved on the back wall, stirring the cooking ricklits. He shook some spice into his palm and added it to the roaster, dusting off the sticking granules of red powder on his hand onto the apron. His stomach rumbled as the fragrant aroma filled his nostrils, and he thought it a pity ricklits didn’t reproduce faster.
Out the corner of his eye, he caught a dark shape flickering. It swooped over the counter, pooled around his feet and leapt, reaching for his face. Craze jumped, dropping the stirrer in his hand.
His customer cackled.
What crap was this? Shit. He’d be more pissed if she’d caused him to drop a bottle. “Tricks’ll get you nowhere, Dearheart. Currency here’s chips.”
“I’m tapped out, I’m afraid. But have I got a story for you. It’s worth ten drinks, but I’ll tell it to you for one.”
If Craze had a water ration for every time he’d heard that, Pardeep Station would feel like a first-class world. “It won’t be nothin’ I haven’t heard before.”
“You haven’t heard dis,” she said.
*****
CHAPTER 3
Craze examined her more carefully. Slits in her neck expanded then disappeared. Gills. A Water-breather? Supposed to be extinct, shit, they were the worst kind of Backworlder, if the rumors were true. They’d turn on anything if the advantage shifted right, cracking through their own children’s chests to steal their hearts if that would keep them alive longer. So the stories went. And what were those creepy shadowy things with her? A chill crept over Craze’s shoulders, souring his stomach, especially at the way she preened as if she had a right to take up space at his bar. Not if she didn’t have chips.
Her movements swayed like kelp in a tide and her eyes glinted a polluted yellow like the gel he’d washed the crocks in, shining with a sickly quality as if she was in dire need of some sun. He should throw her out on her scrawny ass. Only he didn’t want the likes of a Water-breather gunning for him. What if the rumors weren’t exaggerated?
“Just one drink … what’s your name?” She gawked at the lighted sign over the bar, her lips twitching in amusement. “Is dat your name? Craze? What kind of name’s dat?” She laughed and snorted, slapping the counter until she remembered why she sat there. Begging. “C’mon, Craze, show some compassion.”
Her pleading didn’t change his mind. In no mood for games and definitely not having the patience to hear any stories, Craze had to figure out how to play this right. If he lent her an ear and a drink, he might come out no worse. Yet he feared a trap, sensing he had already stepped into it just by letting her into his bar, and no matter what he did, he’d sink farther into it.
While he thought the potentially dangerous situation over, his hard-used hands bunched and loosened, washing and wiping. Pipe-like fingers smeared the excess gel off on the well-used apron which was a deep red, a color that hid a lot of history. His rigid suspenders holding up the tan coveralls sported the same shade of crimson. The garment kept his blood warmed and properly aerated with organics, a must for him to manage in Pardeep’s thin air.
He tugged on the suspenders, mulling over whether she posed the threat rumored about her kind, concluding that above all else he was a businessman and he wanted off this hellhole, to go somewhere he didn’t need to wear special coveralls. He couldn’t start making exceptions about payment. Every supposed extinct Water-breather would be here on the next transport. Not the kind of business he wanted to conduct. Certainly not a path to success and prosperity. Wouldn’t get him any closer to the revenge he wanted either. “Nothin’ of worth to trade, no drink, Dearheart.”
She bristled at the tone, then licked her lips, her fingers shaking and a stench radiating off of her of stale hooch, brine, and blood. Her puckering frown slowly changed into a simper, dry and sticking, proving her great need for the drink. Proven again as her lips spread wider into a grin, setting aside Craze’s unwelcome answer in less time than it took her to slide her fingers along the bar as if it were somebody who meant something.
Her lithe fingers left the smooth composite counter, walking onto her chest, stroking along her deep neckline, then lowering the zipper on her simple multi-color shift. The pigments swirled hypnotically. “Give me the drink. If you don’t like the story …”
Her offer hung between them, the dress pooling at her waist, exposing cool silver skin. Standing up, she let the kaleidoscope outfit drift to the floor, her long legs stepping out of it, her cheeks free of the flames of embarrassment. She retook her place on the barstool. Perched like a Siren upon a water-sodden boulder, something regal sparked in her eye, but only for a moment.
The solicitation didn’t surprise Craze. If the Water-breather hated him, she’d still present herself as tender. He could tell, it sat on her like the decades’ old fetor of recycled air in the docking facility. Didn’t keep him from checking her out though. Yup, she was definitely a Water-breather. Her damp iridescent skin, revealed from chest to toe, did little for him.
He crossed his hulking arms over his broad chest and unfurled a few curls to purposely fall over one eye to hide his distaste. His brown thumb gestured at the door. “I don’t deal in that type of currency, Dearheart.”
He enjoyed watching the certainty of her proposition fall from her face. Anger flared in the set of her mouth until her longing for a drink forgave all faster than the last transport had taken off for the central-most Backworlds. The hint of temper relaxed into a flirtatious pout. “Name your price.” She bent to pick up the dress.
Craze flashed a tight smile, his thick lips parting into a toothy expression. “What else you got to offer?”
The garment balled up in her fist, she leaned over with her breasts propped up pert on the counter. “What the crew of dat ship’s looking for ‘n how to keep dat vessel full of thugs from killing you.” She placed a tab on the counter showing the same ship that had just come out of the Lepper with a white circle and red stripes on the aft panels where the freshly painted green and blue sphere now was. “They Fo’wo’s, barkeep.”
Some of Craze’s hairs pulled free to stand up. He petted them over a minute to get them to settle down. He had a run-in with Fo’wo mercenaries once before that hadn’t turned out well, the smugglers he and the aviarmen had chased out to the Edge. They couldn’t still be drifting around out here, could they? The Backworlds Assembled Authorities had to have caught them by now. “They not allowed here. The truce.”
The Water-breather cackled. “The truce means nothing to ‘em. Haven’t you heard?”
Craze had heard and was surprised Pauder didn’t leap out of the closet to gloat over being right. “You full of it, Dearheart.”
“You just hoping. ‘N here’s something you don’t know, someone here’s been feeding information to the Fo’wo’s. I read the reports on all of you, young Verkinn from Siegna whose father booted you out ‘n married your gal. You live to get your vengeance on him. You’d trade your soul for it. ‘N you’ll get the chance today.”
She shifted her weight, dragging her bossoms along the bar top, smearing its perfect gloss. “Your Verkinn kin want to sprawl over the Backworlds once more. They branded you a leecher at your father’s bidding, the worst thing a Verkinn can be, to force you into going after their dreams. You not doing so great at it. Been nine days since you last opened dis tavern ‘n poured a drink, barkeep. Yup, I know. It’s true. A real live snitcher right under your nose.”
Snitcher ranked the highest among all the crimes. The lowest thing a Backworlder could do was betray other Backworlders to the Fo’wo’s. The only crime considered as bad was using a horrific Fo’wo weapon called a frizzer. None of Craze’s friends struck him as capable of such dastardly deeds. They all hated the enemy, most vowing to shoot them on sight.
He wiped the smudges she’d left off the counter. “Snitcher?” He waved an arm in her face.
A simple search could have turned up the moon of Elstwhere’s he’d grown up on and his family connections. But how’d she know when he last poured a drink and all the details of his shameful history before Pardeep? The idea that someone on this heap reported back to the Foreworlds disturbed him. Not many lived here and he considered them all good friends, family even.
