Have Spacecat, Will Travel: And Other Tails

by John G. Hartness

  “Her chip was the only place the coordinates were stored. Neither of us ever made a trip solo, so we could make sure the other one wasn’t trying to screw us. This time, I just followed the tracker, since I knew you’d have to turn off the jammer to get inside, and I knew which system the locker was in. It was a simple thing to follow you to Gleekum and wait for the tracker to come back online. Now do you want to just sit tight and let my ship relieve you of our cargo, or am I going to have to destroy both you and all my resources?”

  “How does neither sound?” the captain asked. “I’m thinking neither works for me. How about I blow your ship into a million pieces and leave you on that desolate rock to die a lonely death? Timsif, Tenkor, make it so.” Tinbrak pressed a button on the arm of his chair and the comm link blinked out.

  Timsif pressed a few buttons, and the view from the cameras pointing in front of the ship changed. Where the Sniper had been nose-on to the asteroid for the past several hours, now the surface pulled away from the ship as the Pikith backed away, then rotated on its axis and accelerated until the storage bunker came into view below.

  “Tenkor,” Captain Tinbrak said.

  “On it,” the weapons officer replied, grasping the joysticks and pressing the red buttons. Lasers streaked from under the nose-mounted cameras, blowing holes in the storage bunker and turning the Gritloth shuttle to scrap in a matter of seconds.

  “One slaver down, one boatload of slavers to go,” Captain Tinbrak said. “Timsif, turn us around and get us pointed toward the Gritloth ship.”

  Bek’ah watched on the radar as fighters streamed from the bigger ship and turned to the captain. “How are you going to deal with them? They won’t fall for your fake cavalry and EMP twice.”

  “Don’t need them to,” the captain said absently, his attention focused on the displays.

  “Then what are you going to do? You said this thing doesn’t carry missiles.”

  “No, I said we had no missiles to speak of. What we have is one missile I don’t speak of until it’s time. Well, now it’s time. Have you ever wondered why a freighter is called the Sniper?”

  “No, but it didn’t take me more than a few minutes and a look at all the secret compartments all over this place to know this is a smuggler, not a freighter.”

  “To-may-to, to-mah-to,” the captain said, not that she had any idea what he was talking about. Must be something else from his fascination with ancient history. “Sometimes we need to get things to places where some people don’t want those things going. And sometimes when we do, people get upset with us. When they do, we need to deal with that. We deal with that the way our namesakes dealt with it back on Earth.”

  Bek’ah shook her head. “I’ve got nothing, Captain. Earth history wasn’t taught on Tideb, and I didn’t study my own history, much less some backwater planet half a dozen Gates away. So what did a sniper on Earth do when people were mad at them?”

  “One shot, one kill, Stowaway. One shot…”

  The entire bridge crew finished the phrase with him. “One kill!”

  “We have a lock, Captain,” Tenkor said.

  “A lock with what?” Bek’ah asked.

  “I call her Bertha. She’s a blend of high explosives and stealth tech that can dupe any radar into thinking it’s all alone in the universe. Until it’s time to go boom.” He lowered his voice, made it more resonant, and said, “Mr. Tenkor. Engage.”

  Tenkor reached forward and pressed a blue button on his control panel, then all eyes turned to the radar. As everyone else watched the display, Timsif rapidly punched in coordinates and got the Sniper moving away from the asteroid and the Gritloth fighters at top speed. The fighters were nimble, quick little gunships, but they couldn’t match the massive engine of the smuggler, and besides, they soon had something else to catch their attention.

  That something was the Gritloth ship blowing into the promised million pieces, courtesy of a missile no one ever saw coming. Bek’ah watched as the one large radar signature became dozens of tiny signatures, each winking out of existence one by one as the scanners detected no survivors. Within a matter of minutes, the apparently unarmed smuggler had turned a Gritloth warships into scrap, destroyed a slave trader and his entire business enterprise, and left a dozen slaver fighters adrift far from home or any friendly environment. Now they were rushing toward the nearest Gate out of the Gleekum system faster than any ship had the right to travel.

  “Wow,” Bek’ah said, leaning against a bulkhead. “You did it. You actually did it.”

  “Yep,” Captain Tinbrak said, that cocky grin stretching from ear to ear this time.

  “Now what, Captain?” Timsif asked. “This detour all but guarantees we’ve lost our pickup, and besides, we don’t have any room in the hold, anyway. What are we going to do with all those beings? I know you’re not going to sell them.”

  “Not a chance,” the captain replied. “I’ve heard stories about a new system out there. A place where a bunch of ragtag misfits from systems all over known space are working together to live better. Some of our passengers will have homes they can go back to, but talking to most of them, they were people that wouldn’t be missed. That’s what made them appealing to Vashindo in the first place. So I figure we’d check it out. And if we’re lucky, the folks that run the place will give us a little backup when Vashindo’s financial backers come looking for whoever blew him up.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Harmbo said. He looked over his shoulder at Bek’ah. “What about you, Stowaway?”

  “Sounds perfect,” she said. “Just as long as we find some way to get this damn chip out of my knee before we get there.”

  “Doc’s got a table in the med bay all prepped up for you,” Tinbrak said. He turned to the Pikith pilot. “Timsif, set us a course for the Salvage System.”

  Sunset Song

  inspired by David Childers’ The Prettiest Thing

  She sat on the hood of her big brother’s truck

  drinking warm Miller Lite and laughing

  while he strummed that beat up Martin guitar

  his daddy left behind.

  She leaned back on the windshield;

  he sang off-key Dylan songs,

  scuffed cowboy boots tapping time on the dents

  as her beer and the daylight blazed out in crimson-purple glory.

  He looked up at her,

  a backlit angel with a sunset halo

  and cutoff shorts

  and knew this

  was the sweetest thing he’d ever see.

  3

  Fair Play

  There she goes, Herman Walker Jones thought as he watched the girl’s ass sway under her plaid miniskirt. He could almost see the curve of her cheeks as she walked, the skirt was so short. She’s the one.

  Maybe not, Herman thought, then shook his head violently.

  No, look at her. She’s the one. She’s a whore. Just look at her.

  She looked like a parody of a good girl, with her uniform skirt cut shorter than decency allowed, all flap-flapping and flouncy-bouncing, giving just enough of a peek to make you want to see what was under there, then turning to smile at you when she caught you looking, looking like you were still a little boy that shouldn’t be seeing these things instead of a man—yes, a big, grown man who knew what to do with whores. She wasn’t a good girl, not with her white dress shirt tied at the belly like that and unbuttoned, flashing all that cleavage, showing the swells of her woman-pillows, and flashing the stone in her belly ring at him, winking like a little fairy. A little fairy to show him the way to her happiness. But Herman knew better than to touch the whores there. He knew what to do with whores.

  He stood up from his spot on the concrete stoop and stepped onto the sidewalk after the girl. He didn’t blend in, no more than the girl in her black patent leather knee-high boots and the skirt so short you could almost see her business. No, Herman cut a wide swath through the men and women on the sidewalk. That’s right, he thought. Get out of t
he way, sheep. Let the lion pass. Baa-Baa, little sheep, but don’t mess with the lion.

  She flounced and bounced and bobbed along, earbuds blaring some Justin GaGa song or some other whore music. Herman heard no music. Herman heard nothing, not the sounds of the city, not the slight gasp of the woman who caught a glimpse of his eyes, not the sniff of distaste of the businessman who caught a whiff of Herman’s scent, a roiling miasma of damp laundry, old sweat, and unwashed skin. Herman saw nothing. Not the disgust in the eyes of the teenage girl waiting at the bus stop, her nose wrinkled at his spotted tie, his muck-splattered raincoat, his unshaven face. Not the pity on the face of the old woman who offered him a dollar, only to pull her hand back quickly when he snarled his lion’s snarl at her. Herman saw only the whore and her little red plaid skirt, flouncing, bouncing, teasing, promising, and leading him along. Well, he would follow. He’d follow the whore, and he knew what to do with her.

  He followed her for blocks, watching her bounce. He never got too close, for the lion could stalk its prey from afar. But he never hung back too much, either, for the lion feared no other predator. There was no other predator. But soon enough the hunt was over, and she stopped in front of a building. She fished a key out of a tiny purse, still bouncing on her toes to the music blaring into her ears. Herman closed on her, never hurrying, never slowing, always moving, like a shark. A lion shark, that’s what he was. King of the seas and the jungle. The most feared predator in the world. She unlocked the door to her building and stepped into the foyer. Herman stepped up and grabbed the door before it closed, following her into the small entryway.

  “Forget your key?” she asked, smiling up at him. It was a smile full of flirtatious promise, a smile that said, Look down my shirt, Herman. Don’t you want to touch me?

  “No. I’m staying with a friend. She works nights, and if I don’t have to wake her, that’s better. I have my apartment key, just not one to the front door. She didn’t have a spare.” Herman didn’t look at her, looked at his feet to keep from spooking the sheep. It wasn’t time yet. Almost. Almost time.

  “Cool. Well, see you around.” She turned and walked to the elevator. Herman stepped between the sliding doors and watched as the girl pushed the “8” button.

  “What a coincidence. I’m on eight as well,” Herman said, still not looking at the girl.

  “Wow. Well, maybe you can come visit sometime while your friend is asleep. We could hang out. I’m at the end of the hall.” She was close to him now, and he could smell her whore perfume. It reminded Herman of the perfume the other whore had worn, the one who taught him how you take care of whores.

  “May-maybe.” Herman hated it when he stammered. Lions don’t stutter, you worthless piece of trash! He stopped himself before slapping his own face, but he didn’t look up at the whore again. He’d see plenty of her soon enough. Soon enough he’d see all her secrets.

  The elevator dinged for the eighth floor, and the doors slid open. The girl looked at him and said, “You sure you don’t want to come hang out while your friend sleeps? I need to grab a quick shower, but then we could watch TV. Or something.”

  Herman pretended to think about it, then nodded shyly. “Th-that would be nice.” That’s good, idiot. Stuttering is g-g-good now. Makes you look harmless. She doesn’t need to know you’re a lion. Yet. They walked together down the dingy hallway with faded wallpaper and threadbare carpet. She stopped in front of the last door on the left and fished out a key. As the door opened, Herman made his lion move—he shoved her into the room, hard, knocking her to the floor and charging in after her. He turned and locked the double deadbolt, then his right calf exploded in a lightning strike of blue-white fire, and pain coursed over his entire body like a waterfall of fire. He collapsed to the floor in a twitching heap and stared at the whore, who wasn’t on the floor anymore. She was standing over him, holding a small black plastic device with two prongs sticking out of it. She pressed a button on the side, and sparks leapt from one metal post to the other.

  “Feel good? This is my little friend. Why don’t you say hello?” Then she leaned over and pressed the stun gun to his neck, and everything vanished.

  Herman woke up to darkness. His eyes were open, but he could see nothing. He opened his mouth to speak, but realized that his mouth was already open, and there was something hard wedged between his teeth. He felt around the obstruction with his tongue and realized that he was wearing a ball gag. The filthy whore put one of her nasty sex toys in my mouth! He swallowed hard, then again, and again before he finally got his revulsion under control. He took a deep breath through his nose and smelled leather. He was blindfolded, gagged, and tied to a chair. He couldn’t move his arms at all, and his legs were bound at the ankles.

  “Are we awake?” came the whore’s voice from the darkness. The memory and humiliation came flooding back to Herman, washing over him like a tide of pain and fear. The whore had tazed him and tied him up; now she could play her nasty sex games with him. Herman felt himself stirring down there, where good boys don’t touch, and his cheeks flushed.

  “I know you’re awake. Don’t bother trying to fake it. If you pretend to be asleep, I’ll have to hurt you.” A ringing slap to the back of his head shot starbursts through the blackness that surrounded him. Then he heard the click-click-click of her whore shoes as she walked around him. She paced slowly, giggling quietly as Herman craned his neck and turned his head trying to get a glimpse of her, trying to see something, anything at all in the darkness that wrapped his head in the blackest night.

  There was a sudden pressure on his right eye, and suddenly light streamed in. He jerked his head back from the sudden brightness, but a hand held him fast. Something pressed against his other eye, then he could see. He blinked furiously, trying to adjust to normal light after being in such complete darkness, and a tear escaped the corner of his left eye.

  “Don’t cry, sweetie. I’m here now,” the whore crooned. He could see her now, still dressed in her too-short whore skirt and her dress shirt tied up to show off more of her whore chest than any decent woman ever would. She had pulled her hair up into pigtails, and put on even thicker makeup, painting her face almost like a clown with fire engine-red lips and perfect circles of Betty Boop blush on her cheeks. She looked like a demented sex toy, only real.

  She slid into Herman’s lap, wrapping her arms around his neck in a parody of a little girl, and nuzzled his neck. “Is this what you wanted, Herman? Did you want to love me? Is that why you followed me for six blocks? Is that why you made up that stupid story about your friend in this building? Is this what you wanted?” She wiggled her bottom on his lap, and Herman struggled to control it. He fought with himself but couldn’t help it. He started to get hard.

  “Ooooh, Herman. You do want this! I can feel how much you want this. But what’s wrong, Herman? Why are you struggling?” Herman was thrashing against his bonds, pulling with his arms, pushing with his legs, and flailing about like a fish on a pier trying to break free of whatever was holding him, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t break free so much as a finger.

  “Don’t bother, Herman. You’re not going anywhere until I finish playing with you. And I think I’m going to play with you for a long time. After all, weren’t you planning on playing with me for a long time? You watched me walk for sooo many blocks, I know you wanted a little happy fun time with Cindy. So now you’re going to get it. So why don’t we get started?” She got off his lap and walked away from Herman, tossing a leather wallet onto a small kitchen table. Herman realized with a start that it was his wallet. So that’s how she knew his name.

  Herman watched her walk through the almost barren apartment into a back bedroom and close the door. He took in his surroundings, at least as far as he could crane his neck to see. He was in the cramped living room of a dingy apartment. Off to one side there was a small dinette table with two chairs, the pale green with gold flakes kind of crap Formica tabletop with aluminum tubes for legs, matching chairs wit
h split cushions taped together with yellowed tape, and a couple of circular cigarette holes. He could see a sofa, a heavy, wood-framed thing that looked like something off the set of Archie Bunker or some other TV show about poor people. Herman couldn’t see a television, but he was sure there was one somewhere. Whores and drones always had a television. Herman never watched television. Lions didn’t watch television.

  Sitting in front of him, the focal point of the room, was a large free-standing floor-length mirror. It was oval, with dark wood, and the mirror itself was a good five feet tall. All around the wooden frame were roughly carved notches, starting at the center of the top of the mirror and proceeding clockwise. There must have been fifteen or twenty notches carved into the wood, but Herman saw with a shiver that there was room for several more. Looking into the mirror, Herman saw himself for the first time, and what he saw made him thrash against his bonds all the harder. His shoes were gone, as were his socks, but his pants and shirt were untouched. On his head was a leather bondage mask, the kind you found in the pervert stores where Herman sometimes did his hunting. It had zippers for the mouth, eyes, and nose, all open for now, but they could be closed at a moment’s notice, sealing him in darkness. The ball gag in his mouth was bright red, and the whore had painted a yellow smiley face on it so that as Herman looked at himself in the mirror, the perversion grinned back at him.

  He was bound hand and foot to a heavy wooden chair with stout arms. The chair was sitting in the middle of a bright blue tarp, taped to the floor at the edges, and there was a pile of towels sitting on one corner. He could see the plastic ties fastening his arms down, three of them at each wrist and more running up each arm. His legs were similarly bound, and thick leather belts wound around his waist and chest, holding him firm to the back of the chair. He pulled, and twisted, and yanked and strained, but nothing he did budged the heavy-duty zip ties. The apartment was bare other than that, no decorations, no clothes on the floor, nothing to make you think that anyone lived here. Maybe the whore didn’t live here, maybe she just worked here. Herman didn’t know. He didn’t care. But she would. Oh yes, as soon as he freed himself, she would care.