by C. Gockel
He eased down into the chair, hard and cold, watching the shifty folks eyeing him. He fingered the tab in his pocket. The aviarmen were out there. He’d have to think how to use them to swing the situation around on this Jix. One thing he could do, he could ping Talos later. Maybe the aviarmen knew something about these purple gender-changing folks.
Dull ceiling lamps highlighted the bar and the mountain of a gal tending it. Craze had never seen such a wide-set woman and wondered what her kind was. The Jix slammed a cup down in front of him. She poured him some ale from a pitcher, then brought the ewer up to her mouth, tipping it straight down her throat, chugging more than half of the contents.
A putrid, chunky burp bellowed from her. She laughed, wiping the drips from her chin with the back of her hand, smearing the droplets of beer on her cheeks. “So, young chap from Siegna, you got a name?”
“Craze.”
He sniffed at the brew. It smelled vinegary and weak. It’d be rude not to drink it though, and he needed her to think she had him where she wanted him. The beer tasted worse than it smelled and had bits of grain floating in it.
He did his best to keep his disgust out of his words. “What’s yours?”
“Gattar.” Her finger traced through a moisture ring on the table, drawing swirls and squiggles.
The shapes became more suggestive, phallic, and Craze mimicked the figures on his cup. No species had the advantage in the seduction game like the Verkinns. Once Gattar touched him, Craze would have her. He’d be in control.
The tabletop sported a sheen of stickiness. He wanted to gag and swallowing hard to keep the contents of his stomach in his stomach. Few races found vomit sexy.
“You just arrive on Elstwhere or you on your way out?” he asked.
She swigged more of the swill. “Just got in from a place out on the Edge. Bossilik. Know it?”
Craze rolled the liquid in the cup, but didn’t dare take another drink. He didn’t think he’d be able to keep it down. “No. Never heard of it. What’s it like?”
She chewed on her lips, reddening them. “Fiery. Volcanoes going off all the time. Only one habitable island in all that chaos. Occupied by the Syliks. Know them?”
The rancid beer had a big bang. Already warmth flushed Craze’s skin and his thoughts fuzzed, wandering. They landed on wondering how long the Jix would remain female. He didn’t want to find himself satisfying the other gender later. Oh jeez. He should have thought of that much earlier.
He threw back half of his cup, getting the foul ale down his throat before he really tasted it. “No. Any around here?”
Gattar toyed with the zipper running straight down the center of her silver romper. “Haven’t seen them anywhere but on Bossilik. They very dark with hard shells.”
Craze let his eyes linger on her cleavage. As long as the Jix kept up those bosoms, he could handle carrying through with his plan to best her while she thought she had already bested him. “Shells?”
The Jix lowered the zipper, creating a deeper valley of flesh. “Yeah, like armor. When the volcanoes get to be too much, they curl up inside their own skin ‘n wait it out.”
He had to give her points for bringing up volcanoes. He stroked his cup, meeting Gattar’s gaze. “Strange.”
She traced the rim of the pitcher, picking up the droplets of ale, then sucked them off her finger. “Strange is often lucrative opportunity. Bossilik is a world very rich in gemstones. It’s the only place fire rock comes from.”
The action of her mouth tantalized him, but, ugh, she’d taste like that rotgut. And what if the Jix wasn’t wholly female? This game grew ugly, but he had to at least see it through until he stepped out of this dump.
“Used in safe lanterns, right?” he said.
Her play halted, her hands slumping into her lap, eyelids narrowing. “Ah, you not as blank as you first come off. Not so fresh out of the Petri dish, huh?”
Craze grimaced. He’d messed up, revealing he might be more than she’d judged. Shit. He could recover. All he had to do was think of how he would know that and quickly. He went with the obvious. “Everyone knows about safe lanterns where I’m from. It’s the only form of lightin’ we use in our village. Good beer there. You’d like it.”
Her frame relaxed, her fingers drew patterns on the table again. Phew.
“You a trader then?” he asked.
Her squint didn’t waiver from him, scrutinizing his twitches and his lips as words formed. “Negotiator. A couple more good stops ‘n I’ll get promoted to captain.”
Another transportation opportunity. Whether she bought his naive act or not, he could still seduce her, distract her. Gattar need only touch him once. He wondered if he could maintain feigned lust indefinitely to travel on her ship in search of fortunes. No, that would take more booze than he’d swiped from Bast or had the chips to purchase. He’d be better off with the aviarmen. With Gattar, it would be wisest to find out what he could and to get what he could before the next sunrise.
Craze moved his hand closer to hers, tapping the tabletop in invitation. “Wow. You must be very skilled ‘n know a lot about the Backworlds.” Flattery never hurt. “This is my first time off Siegna. Not sure I like it.” Sincerity wouldn’t be misplaced here either. “What kind of vessel will you captain?”
Her focus fell to his hands and stayed there. “We Jix have our own ships. Transports mostly,” Gattar said. “Certain sectors of the Edge fall under our jurisdiction.”
“So, you part of the Backworld united government, the Assembled Authorities? That’s impressive.” Her choice of taverns was not.
“So to speak.” Her mouth twitched and her legs stretched, brushing against his. Her delicate ankle rested against his thick one. “It’s pretty wild out on the Edge.”
“I think that’s where I’m goin’. To seek riches.” He extended his fingers to linger in the space between them, a proposition.
Gattar scooted closer. “Yeah? What kind of fortunes?”
Their point of mutual interest was broached and so started the real contest between them. Gattar didn’t seem like the sharing type. Craze wasn’t so much in the mood either.
“Business. Money,” he said. “I want to own a tavern. A nice one. A destination.”
She toyed with her zipper again; up and down, up and down, peek-a-boo with her bulging cleavage. “That’s quite a dream. You ain’t going back to Siegna then?”
Craze followed the motions of her zipper. The Jix was definitely open to seduction. Now he needed to find out whether she was capable of any sympathy. “Can’t. The elders want to branch out. They chased me off.”
The smile faded from her eyes and she quit playing with her zipper. “You their emissary? Your kind has aims on the Backworlds?”
The words snapped out like an attack of sting beasts in the swamp. So, no. Empathy wasn’t in the Jix’s vernacular. Back to the art of conquest it was then. Whatever it took to hook into her avenues of commerce in the Backworlds, he would do.
Craze flexed his fingers, reaching toward hers, falling short in a beckoning dance. “Yup.”
Gattar lurched forward in her seat, grabbing his wrist, squeezing and twisting until Craze winced. “Give up them thoughts, Crazy boy. The Jix be out here ‘n we don’t like sharing. You tell your hick friends that. OK?”
No, she definitely wasn’t the sharing type. The threat worked in his favor, though. She’d finally touched him. Craze had her now, turning his hand and raking his fingertips gently against the inside of her forearm. “I’ll tell them. Tell them my good friend Gattar is out here already negotiatin’. Negotiatin’ for what?”
Her grip lessened and she pressed her flesh against his hand. “Opportunities.” The Jix caressed his soft skin, delving her fingers into the plumper regions of his arm. “Ooo. Very lovely. Enhancement or yours?”
He flashed his dimples, tendering more of his charms. “Bequeathed to the Verkinns by the Fo’wo’s.”
“The Foreworlders came up with some im
aginative improvements from time to time.” She ran her hand up his arm, gripping around his bicep. “You strong, too. Huh?”
“No one on Siegna messes with the Verkinns.” He flexed the muscle for her delight.
The Jix giggled, petting his flesh. “Very nice. The kind of nice that makes a gal a nice partner. You interested in such opportunity?” She lifted the pitcher to make a toast, swinging it toward his cup, the smile suddenly dripping off her lips. “You not drinking your ale.”
The stuff tasted as vile as Croakman piss, but Gattar seemed to like it, so he couldn’t say that without offending her. He couldn’t mess this up again, not when the Jix stood on the verge of falling for Craze’s wiles. It didn’t take him long to come up with another excuse. “Not craving beer at the moment.” His lips pursed and he leaned in, stroking her wrist. “I’m interested. You find leads to fortune here?”
The Jix dumped his cup into the pitcher and finished the ale off, belching as she put the empty ewer down. Then she moved closer, her smelly breath inches from Craze’s wide nose. “The perfect one should be arriving shortly. When I spied you, I had you in mind for this deal.”
He tried not to inhale much, the reek of the house beer making him queasy. Despite that, he inched closer to her. Whatever racket she exploited on Elstwhere, he had interest, as long as she didn’t prove to be a psychopath or worse. Craze didn’t want to wind up in jail.
Gattar didn’t seem as dubious as Bast though. No bloodlust sparked in her enormous eyes. So far. He hoped it would stay that way. If it didn’t, well, he’d deal with the insanity then. This much he knew, the Jix wanted a rube for something and probably something quite risky. Risk meant great fortune. Fine. He’d play the part, and while doing so would figure out how to veer circumstances to his advantage. Seducing her was merely exploiting a weakness, not a plan.
He breathed his words against her neck, watching goose bumps rise on her skin. “What’d you have in mind?”
Chapter 8
The sweep of the Jix’s neck curved gracefully. She didn’t push Craze away. In fact, Gattar moved her chair so she practically sat on top of him, encouraging his attention. He obliged, sliding an arm around her, flattening his palm against her stomach, splaying his fingers wide.
“So you need me in your negotiatin’?” he asked, using his experiences in scamming for Bast to keep the keen interest out of his tone and expression.
The rhythm of her breathing changed and she nestled in against his side. Craze suppressed an urge to gloat. She was putty in his hands, which meant more chips would be coming his way soon, and perhaps a heftier sum if he kept the Jix happy and purring.
“I need a big, strong man,” Gattar said.
Ah, now she played him back. His potential fortune shrank again. For now he’d let her think she had him, to lure her in deeper.
“That takes no effort on my part,” he said.
“Good.” Her fingers curled over his, tracing the valleys and joints. Then she suddenly broke away, pushing his hands off and her chair back to its side of the table. “Go ‘n get us more drink. Huh?” Gattar slid the empty pitcher at Craze.
From the corner of his eye he glanced behind him, noting three figures draped in black making their way toward the table he shared with the Jix. They swaggered, pushing around the rough bar patrons as they passed by them, flashing peeks of weaponry concealed in their clothing. The air became more fouled with trouble.
Shit. Craze could use a good nip to steel his nerves for the contest about to start, but he couldn’t drink any more of that crappy beer. “Do you mind if I upgrade?” he asked the Jix.
“I still want ale ‘n that’s my favorite one.” Her fingers drummed and her shoulders stiffened, ramping up her game to deal with the shadowy trio. Hardness stole over her features, a side Craze hadn’t seen yet. Oily she was, oilier than a leaky valve. As quickly as her mettle showed, she tucked it away. With a big exhale, Gattar donned the smile of a coquette and blew Craze a kiss, giggling like a twit.
The change in her moods could disorient a whirligig. Craze knew he didn’t want to be involved with her past one good transaction, which would put more chips in his fund. Nope. Beyond that would be utter foolishness.
The dark-clad people reinforced his decision. The kind of profit they might proffer, well, it had to be as shadowy as their clothes. Black market, illicit channels, secret trade, dripped off their hems like dew in the evenings on the ganya trees. They might as well have worn lit-up signs saying so on their heads.
Craze would have to be careful not to jump like a Croakman after freshly hatched ricklits. Eagerness would cost him in this venture. A mere percentage playing the Jix’s patsy was hardly worth the risk. No, he wanted a bigger payoff and he knew if he could figure it out, the opportunity had just walked in.
For now, he followed Gattar’s lead, playfully catching her kiss, holding it against his heart. “Ale it is for you, Sweets.”
He only had to stand and take a half step to the left to lean over the bar and summon the barkeep. Placing Gattar’s empty pitcher on the counter, he said, “Refill, please.” He pulled out his tab, punching in the saloon’s pay code that was painted several times in neon on the wall behind the bartender. “How much?”
“Two chips.” The tank of a woman grabbed hold of the handle and settled the ewer under the nozzle, drawing the tap.
The beer gurgled out, glunking and sputtering in an uneven flow. Craze’s stomach bucked, but he sent her the payment.
Head bent, he glanced sideways. The shady figures surrounded Gattar. She maneuvered her chair so her back faced none of them. She had some smarts. Craze couldn’t deny that. He wasn’t so sure about his own, standing deep in a den of cons slicker than Bast. He hoped his skills were up to this challenge.
“What you got in single malt?” he asked the barkeep.
She set two bottles on the bar. One would leech all the color off of the composites making up the furniture and fixtures in here. He pointed at the other in a round bottle that would still kick his belly, but it was at least drinkable.
“How much?” He hated paying for booze when better bottles lay in his bag, but it was rude to bring liquor to a bar. And in a place like this, it could get him stomped until he became part of the sticky crap on the floor.
The bartender set the full pitcher down before him, then patted the top of the malt. “Ten.”
He nodded and considered the folks chatting with Gattar. Their clothes didn’t have tears or patches. They weren’t worn at all either. Along with the scent of trouble, Craze detected money. A lot of it. He hoped they were of a mind to share, and he would get the idea going by offering them some malt. It was a manipulation that had often worked for him on Siegna—give to get.
“Five cups with the bottle, please.” He pinged tank woman the cost and a tip. Not tipping here would be as poor of a decision as drinking from the bottles in his pack, especially with opportunity so close.
He set the pitcher in front of Gattar and the bottle and cups in the center of the table, greeting the three folks in black with a thrust of his chin. Craze poured himself a hefty serving. It was a far cry from Bast’s magic carpet, but steps above the rubbish the Jix drank. Then he gestured between the three strangers and the bottle. “Thirsty? There’s a cup for you, too,” he said to Gattar.
She shook her head, opening her throat, gulping down more of the house horror ale. That she could drink so much of it, like it, and not get sick baffled Craze. Perhaps it was one of the modifications her race’s DNA had been given when it was spliced and diced up by the Foreworlders back on the fabled Earth.
He pulled at the smoky warmth in his cup, wincing at the sharp, bitter notes, notes that had no business in malt. The Jix and her shady friends had better make this up to him and his taste buds. Otherwise, this was the second worst hour of his life after the most recent one spent with Bast.
One of the gloom-clad things fidgeted, the drape of fabric rustling. “Yo still up for this,
Gattar?” The words grated as if sifted through rocks.
So they knew each other and the Jix already knew what opportunity these mystery people offered. Craze wondered when he’d be let in on it.
The gravelly voice had to belong to a male. No telling what race of Backworlder he was though. Gravel Voice set a small bar, about the size of Craze’s thumb, down on the table. It was wrapped in gold foil and a fancy red-gelatin casing that sealed in whatever it was. Such protection hinted at great value.
Gravel voice’s thumb flicked in Craze’s direction. “This yo new partner?”
Gattar arched her brows at Craze, indicating he should answer. Craze understood she had set him up, but he didn’t know for what. Bending over, he sniffed at the wrapped bar on the table. The preservative casing held in any identifying scent, but he recognized the mark on the foil. He had seen it only once before in one of Bast’s blown deals.
“Yes,” he said without hesitation, because if that bar was part of a shipment of chocolate, he was about to become the richest Verkinn that ever lived.
Chapter 9
Whispers from the underworld claimed chocolate only came from the Foreworlds, its origins still tied to the fairy-taled Earth. Craze didn’t believe that, but he knew chocolate was rare and held dear, dearer than air and water on many worlds. Channeled through clandestine sources, the one bar on the table cost more than his entire startup fund. No matter what Gattar’s intentions, Craze wanted to be involved in this trade.
“We partners,” he said, moving to rub at the Jix’s back, a show of solidarity.
“Then the deal is on,” Gravel Voice said. “Yo know where we want to meet. Three hours before sunup.”
Gattar nodded. “Agreed. See you then, friend.”
Gravel Voice held out a small rod. The bar of chocolate floated up off of the sticky tabletop, attracted to the rod, clinging to it. The mystery man slid both objects into his pocket and glided toward the exit with his entourage.
