Chaos Cipher

by Den Harrington

  -41-

  Omicron was host to some of the galaxy’s most uniquely established clubs, most popular of which was known as Solar Reef. Before hitting the club, Scuttle and Kelly had their hair cells grown back and trimmed at the lower deck bio-salon. Caspian made the largest fuss about having his original dreads re-seamed. Vanity was a costly affair on Omicron and business in the area of proto-genetic modifiers and bio-salons profiteered immensely and would continue to do so until the decontamination law changed. Despite the lack of evidence of deadly tardigrades rumoured to be around this place, there was no sign of changing the law, business was business Kelly suspected. The lie served the station’s economy. When the salons told Caspian it would be easier to simply regenerate the hair cells and dread them again, he emphasised the importance of having the originals put in no matter what the cost.

  ‘Put some sporo intu fixin me dreids an dun’t skip on de eye brows, ghot eet?’

  Kelly was glad to have her long dark hair back. She had it trimmed around the edges, thinned then straightened, giving it an ascendant vigour, and although she’d packed a more elegant dress in preparation for the Solar Reef, she had to fall back on something a little less tantalising due to a problem with their baggage being transported from the axel docking sphere. Instead, it was The Royal Twilight’s wardrobe that provided her evening’s attire. The get up wasn’t bad, either. The collar was a reflective black material which raced under her arms to join a segment of blue fabric that ran to her sleeve. The blue material changed in density as it moved to her wrists, becoming less visible until it was faint and almost transparent. From her bosom ran a slanted strip of white velvet which hid the front zip, and raced around to her side, flapping over her leg and navy velvet skirt. Her leggings were dark and she wore nano-smart white shoes which enclosed around her ankles the moment she stepped into them, and the heels adjusted to her walk, intelligent AI systems working to support her stride.

  It had been years since she’d had to wear something so sumptuous. She analysed her reflection and frowned as she turned to her side. Her belly was still not quite how she would like it, that post-pregnancy fat and middle age weight was starting to show even in the dress. Floating around in micro-gravity, it’s hard for a girl to get in a good work out. She sighed about her hips too and switched off the reflection feedback promptly, realising she wasn’t twenty-five anymore.

  Caspian wore what he liked to call his business rags, an attire that didn’t quite convey the qualities of either a business man nor a Celestial-Shuttle Captain. He claimed to always give an impression of his character to let his associates know he carried things out professionally and didn’t take any slack, but he never had a knack for appearances. The red leather jacket and black shirt should have them fooled, he thought, chillaxed enough but looking alert. Scuttle didn’t bother to change. The available suit in the wardrobe was far too big and he didn’t appreciate the one on offer in The Royal Twilight’s alternative stock. He kept his standard eccentric oil stained clothing and kept the eye goggles around his head, hoping the club’s laser lights would make them worth bringing out.

  From inside the Solar Reef Bar, music pumped through the hollows of their lungs. Sub sonic infra sound speakers sent waves of ecstasy through the dance floor, hypnotising the dancers in their hundreds, like captivated serpents entranced to an Indian snake charmer. The club’s main entrance channelled in crowds of people, isolating those without VIP access and rooting them to lower levels of the club. Caspian and Kelly strolled through the glass turn-gate, allowing them to pass into the red lights and green lasers. Scuttle, however, was isolated behind them. He hammered his fist on the glass.

  ‘Hey! HEY! What the hell, man!’

  Kelly grabbed Caspian by the shoulder and spun him around to see Scuttle. The turn doors continued to wheel and revolved him out of the club again.

  ‘Hey, what’s the deal, ownes?’ Caspian called.

  ‘Subject Lukas Bruce denied access according to article two; appropriate dress code for VIP lounge access and lower dance floor.’ The computer system explained.

  Caspian looked over his shoulders to find where the voice was emanating from. Kelly directed him to a human sized hologram hovering by the door. The man was dressed in a smart looking tuxedo, his face slightly plump, a drawn moustache trimmed under his round buttoned nose. The caricature smiled broadly and bowed his head. ‘Is there anything else I can help you with?’

  ‘Look er,’ said Caspian, pointing at the animated hologram. ‘Choon me in, what’s cutting ere?’

  The hologram elaborated a quizzical expression. ‘May I direct you to the hotel’s query desk?’

  ‘He asked you what’s going on.’ Kelly reported, joining Caspian’s side.

  ‘S’what I sed, yer nut much of a boffin for ah computer.’

  ‘Suitable attire must be required for all sections of the Solar Reef Bar, for sections where casual clothing is acceptable Lukas Bruce can find entertainment within the Grill and Billiards bar, sublevel three.’

  ‘What’s he saying?’ Scuttle’ muted voice moaned through the fogged glass.

  ‘Cut to da Grill and Billiards bar, weil see yew der…’

  ‘Wait Caspian, hang on…what about you two?’

  ‘Scuttle, eez okay, boetie. This place is pomping but yew aint ghot de rigs. So wi jes ghon meet yew leetah,’ Caspian explained with a smug and irritating smirk, adding a playful wink.

  ‘Chillax Scuttle,’ Kelly bawled with a wide and teasing smile. ‘Go play, meet some people. We’ll see you later…’

  ‘What…? What the heck do you mean go play? Wait up, ey! Don’t you tell me to chillax! Look! Look I’m good!’ And Scuttle altered the programming on his opticidyne shirt to turn it into a tuxedo style, which looked incongruous with his oil-stained denim shorts and utility belt. ‘See…I’m good! Wait! Let me in! Ah-Shitterbugs!’

  Caspian propped his arm over Kelly’s shoulder as they vanished into the contrast of dark shadows, red and verditer glows of light. Scuttle pounded his fist against the hard glass and huffed aggressively.

  ‘I need to get me some new friends, you guys suck!’

  *

  A thin mist curled through the Solar Reef Bar, emerald lasers lashing through the swirls as sonic waves stirred the air. Both men and women dancers elevated on their podiums in the murk sultry environment, they gyrated, pressed against their poles, sliding up and down in sinuous motion with the music.

  Debutantes in elegant dress pootled the upper platforms and walkways beside slim and urbane partners, supping from their small glasses of potent alcohol and smiling invitingly at passers-by. They were mostly successful and rich, vacationing by the romantic vistas of Jupiter before visiting the icy seas of Europa. Some of them came to make deals with wealthy traders, others came for opportunity; to meet a deep space traveller or, if lucky enough, a member of the Syridan Alliance Orbital Guard’s Starmada. Caspian turned several heads as he eyed up the women. His stare remained obvious as he openly lusted at them. Kelly picked through the various men, each one fitted to an imagined occupation according to her judgement. She thought the bigger ones with the short hair and T-shirts were more likely manual labourers in space flight, the spanners or engineers and mineral drillers on rotational shifts from Callisto. Then, there were the middle weights, harder to judge. They were the men who occupied several vocations from politics to scholarships or apprentices of star-flights. Mostly, she decided, they were probably Omicron inhabitants working to facilitate the station’s development. Otherwise, the quantum accountants and data-stream managers, high powered jobs, poorly paid with ample pressure, short term positions on the fringes of make or break; they always looked shaky. She knew Caspian wasn’t bothered much by a woman’s occupation; he’d scarcely flinched when she’d told him she was a Celestial Captain herself. Even now that vacant expression told her he was thinking about breast size more than character.

  They soon reached the bar.

  A strong sme
ll of absinthe made their mouths water and gave them the taste for debauchery. A quick selection menu opened up in front of them and they glared soberly at the holographic screen.

  ‘Whuch ye haivinke?’ Caspian shouted.

  ‘I’ll have a bourbon,’ she smiled cordially.

  ‘A bourbon ah? Dope!’

  He ordered two double measures from the screen, which quickly dissipated in the mist once the selection was completed. The fibre-plastic gears and polymer mechanisms whirred into action, as light mass robotic arms started to assemble two glasses onto the table. The robots slid on green glowing rails, shooting along the bar to meet them, fingers rotating to the appropriate digit, pouring golden liquid from the tip, the correct volume scrutinised from pressure valves. The light weight fibre-plastic arms folded neatly and quickly away, shooting back along the rails to the next customer, the only evidence of their existence left sitting in transparent tumblers, as the menu screen restored for the next user.

  ‘Chiyes!’ said Caspian picking up his drink.

  She took her glass and they linked their drinking arms, spilling the shots back quickly. The plastic glasses slammed back down on the table top, which tilted away to collect behind the automated bar.

  Now it’s onto business, they needed to find their dealer. Caspian was looking for a man called Jerrus Armelius, a component trader for drilling hardware. The particular kind of drilling equipment on Callisto is state of the art, comparable to nothing that has been manufactured on Earth, a marvel of quality engineering. Acquiring these components was his duty and he wanted to be the first on the market with them and promised himself he would be. Had it not been for his pilot, Pawel, he may never have even considered the Omicron proposal.

  Caspian looked casually among the sea of heads.

  ‘So,’ said Kelly, ‘this…Jerrus Armelius fellow, where’s he from?’

  ‘Ee’s American.’

  ‘A yank?’

  ‘Whut’s da matter, ahh? Yer happy to taist their bourbon butchye bung fir doing business wi’em?’

  ‘I’m not bung about doing business with an American,’ Kelly jeered, ‘I’m concerned about our bargaining agreement. For instance, I know you quite well Caspian, and you are a gambling man. If you can swindle a yank you probably will. I just don’t want you getting ahead of yourself.’

  ‘Whuchye rappin’ on abowt?’

  ‘You’re going to hustle him out of a small fortune, aren’t you?’

  ‘Eef yew mein am gonna dobbel then you’re dead roite!’

  ‘You know, he’s probably going to be offended if you disappoint him with a price. As far as I am aware you draw him out by agreeing on a set price and now you’re going to try and haggle with him. You realise it’s going to really piss him off, don’t you?’

  ‘Look chillax, aah! I know what I’m doing, ek-se?’

  ‘And did you tell him what we’re really after?’ she asked, ‘he may not have agreed to come out here, if it is the case. Black alloy isn’t something people just cart around.’

  During their conversation, Caspian noticed a young woman had glided over to them. Estelle was very aware of the lascivious reputation of prospectus space captains like Caspian in these areas, however, despite her apparent pulchritude she had decidedly dressed modestly for their meeting. Her jet black hair curled and bunched at the back but draped freely at the front and sides, shining with texture that Caspian had only seen in digi-holographic-suites. She was wearing a resplendent black and rouge blouse, embroidered with silver dapples and optical sequins, which bunched around the breasts and dark pants that led down her long legs into her high heel boots. Her ebony arms, long neck and shoulders were the only exposures, and around her shoulders and arms she wore a classy light net material that tied around her elbows and thread to drape behind her back.

  ‘Captain Mowser,’ she asked with a vampish modus operandi.

  ‘I am,’ Caspian smiled, straightening his back.

  Kelly tilted her head from behind the illustrious woman to peer at him over her shoulder, so Caspian could see her mouthing some irate blasphemy and bunch her stretchy fingers into fists. Kelly didn’t appreciate being ignored, especially on terms of business that related to her starnavis.

  ‘This way Captain Mowser, I’ll take you to your business associate. He’s very keen to meet you.’ And she turned to smile at Kelly. ‘Please join us, Miss Kelly Banner.’

  She stepped around him and seemed to float on long elegant steps along one of the walkways. Kelly burned with intensity.

  ‘Who does that prissy little tart think she is?’ she complained in a matter of fact way. ‘I can’t believe she just cut me out like that…Did you see that? Does she realise who the bloody brains of this operation is? She must know I’m the official owner of The Griffin’s Claw, right?’

  ‘Chillax, Kelly. We’re in good company, aah. Do as aie do.’

  ‘Oh good,’ Kelly growled, ‘I see you’ve fallen completely for the bloody femme fatale act she’s got roused up for the occasion.’ After which Kelly bit her lip and tolerated stoically, smiling fallaciously at Estelle as she looked back and awaited them.

  Caspian followed and Kelly stayed close, a discomforted expression still etched on her face. They ambled along wide walkways suspended above dance platforms. Caspian looked over the barriers to catch sight of the dancers and clubbers, all seducing each other in a writhe of rhythmic motion to the entrancing waves of sound. Their eyes were wide open pools of glazed blackness as stimulants coursed through their blood, gluing them in a wavering sea of ecstasy and bodily sprawl. They bunched up to the speakers in extol of the vibrations. Caspian grimaced.

  ‘Music’s really takink a towl for de wurst these dais,’ he said.

  ‘That stuff isn’t music,’ said Kelly, ‘it’s a language of digital neuro-sonic mixes.’

  ‘You must mean the Cymorgs.’ Said Estelle over her shoulder. ‘They’re an interesting culture. I understand some lexical cymatics.’

  ‘Well wi dun’t deeg eet,’ said Caspian. ‘Ma place ees in spaice. As yew ken eemagine, eets quiet owt there.’

  The woman smiled insincerely back at them, maintaining her enigmatic ethos as she led the way through several people grouped casually on the walkways, some already now crowing over mature topics with indecipherable cadences, semantics lost in the crescendo of bass. They gazed suspiciously at Caspian as he passed and he could feel their judgements, their eyes swatting him away, regarding him with chary contempt as some drifter from the astro-field colonies, optics shimmering with information. They were into the higher-class levels of the establishment, few reached this place without invite and some more than others wanted Kelly and Caspian to feel unwelcome.

  Light easy steps led them up into a private platform which had an excellent view of the dancers. Three men sat waiting by a low levelled table, three empty seats arranged around it with complementary drinks already set up for them. A fresh bottle of champagne sat in a glass bowl filled with ice, the cork still fixed. The man in the middle stood to greet them, a white strike of through the side of his gelled back blond hair, a wide charming smile affixed on his star burned face. ‘Why don’t you both have a seat?’ he offered.

  Kelly and Caspian both sat back into the curved levitating seats, the third seat was occupied by Estelle.

  ‘Haf-lah!’ the man in the middle said, gesturing towards their courier, ‘may I introduce Estelle Bennett. She has a spectacular intuition about people. She warned me about you both.’

  ‘They do seem like a real motley crew,’ Estelle said directing her comment to Caspian. ‘I’m not usually a chaperone, I’ll have you know.’

  Caspian smiled and shrugged.

  ‘But we decided I’d be a lot less menacing than any of these three mugs,’ she teased placing herself next to the biggest of the three men and taking a stimulant diffusion pipe from him. She crossed her legs, leaned back and poised herself for aplomb indulgence.

  ‘Let’s see then,’ said the man
in the middle, ‘a South African Captain, a Megalo-Britai navigation coordinator and starnavis owner, a Polish pilot, a Canadian engineer and an idiot Swedish computer technician who didn’t even make it into the club. My better judgement would say you’re nationless rogues.’

  ‘If you’re eager to meet Scuttle we can have this arrangement take place down in the Grill and Billiards.’ Kelly offered with a sardonic inflection. ‘What he lacks in attire, he makes up for in his ingenuity so be careful with who you’re calling an idiot! Unless, you’ve got something against the Swedish?’

  ‘No, no,’ the man grinned, ‘that’s quite alright. This can all take place without him.’ And the man started to laugh. ‘I thought his name was Lukas McGill? Why do you call him Scuttle?’

  ‘Not your business, that’s why.’ Said Kelly.

  The man with the strike through his hair leaned forward to touch the low levelled glass table. The transparent material illuminated evenly and warmed the atmosphere with quiescent photonic ambience, a masterful pre-set chosen by the host in preparation for the meeting. Caspian recognised Jerrus Armelius right away, slick blond hair gelled back, a white streak running through the right side of his head like lightning all now much clearer in the even lighting. The man had a bronze face and a firm jaw line, like some Atlas analogue, bearing all the characteristic features of masculine prowess.