One Night at Kedasi (1)

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1. Drinking in Cheap Bars

Zip sat in a corner booth nursing the dregs of a mediocre glass of whisky. It would be the last for a while unless she decided to sell her ship. Docking fees were getting more expensive by the day, and her settlement from the botched government job on Crustacea was running out. Every month, supply and demand made it a little harder to dock a ship. More rich asshats being born with spaceship keys in their mouths meant less room for upstarts. Sooner or later, she’d face the choice of contracting on someone else’s ship. Zip liked being the captain, but that was the trick with nice things, they never lasted forever.

            Tom, a six-foot tall bipedal shrimp, also a remnant of the job on Crustacea, slid into the seat across from her. There was a part of Zip that would never get used to seeing him. “How are you feeling, captain?” Tom’s voice was hollow and mechanical, coming through a primitive translator he held between two of his many appendages. Despite offers for more advanced translators, Tom refused. Even when the homemade device zapped him with rogue electrical currents, he cradled it as his last piece of home.

            “I’ve been better, Tom.” Zip took another tentative sip from her glass, just enough liquid to feel the burn, not enough for it to do anything worthwhile. “I’m almost out of money, we haven’t had a decent job in a month, and The Hog is just sitting there racking up fees.” The Hog was Zip’s custom-made cargo hauler, shaped like a flying swine. It was a beautiful piece of machinery designed for both comfort and violence.

            Tom pondered Zip’s statement for a moment - or, at least what Zip had come to know as pondering. His antenna twitched back and forth, and he cleaned his eyes a little more than usual. “Perhaps if we took an official job with the—”

            “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, Tom, The Union is a sucker’s game.”

            “Union jobs pay out at a rate of—”

            “Five to one compared to freelancing. Yes, Tom, I’ve read the signs.” Every errant alley, bathroom stall, and dive bar was practically coated in them. Bright colors, big promises, and a friendly face on the doom of freelancers. “What those adverts don’t say is that Union gigs are binding contracts, and if you get sent down to some miserable bug planet on the whim of a politician, you’re shit out of luck.”

            “Crustacea?”

            “Where else, Tom? Look, I found you down there, but we almost didn’t make it out alive.” Freelancing carried risks, but at least Zip could blame herself for those. “My plan is to keep on living as long as possible and keep this glass full while I do it.” She shook the whisky and finished it in a quick gulp. There was the real fire. It spread down her throat like an ancient reminder of what it felt like to be financially stable.

            Tom nodded. “I—”

            “What’s that bug doing in our fucking bar?!”

            Zip’s breathing slowed reflexively. No one made violence like angry freelancers between jobs. Marvin’s had cheap drinks and palatable food, but that meant everyone down on their luck knew it existed. She lifted her head. Of course, it’s a Cheri.

            Cheri were an odd species, and that was true even on a melting pot planet like Prota. They were one of the first civilizations to make contact after humanity established a toehold beyond Earth. Cheri might have looked bizarre and almost cute from a distance, but they were far from friendly. Minds big enough to make words, but small enough to have legendary short tempers. Cheri stood around six feet, had four arms, brightly colored fur, and faces where their stomachs should have been. Their wide mouths nearly split them in two, and big, bulging black eyes took up the upper half of their torso. The one standing before Zip had bright blue fur and looked pissed.

            That’s a lot of face to punch. Zip had never fought a Cheri, but the whiskey told her she could.

            “Zip, it’s ok, we can leave,” said Tom, loud, his translator box incapable of a decent whisper.  

            “Let a bug leave?” asked the Cheri. Its voice deep, its fur bristling.

            Zip smiled. “See, Tom, it doesn’t want to let you leave.” All the rage she felt against The Union bubbled to the surface, and she was happy there was a large face to take it out on

            The Cheri flexed its arms. “You with this bug?”

            Zip continued to smile. Some would have called it shit-eating grin, she called it a friendly threat. “No, I’m sitting next to a bipedal shrimp by accident.” She rolled her eyes. “Walk away, and don’t call my friend a bug. It’s rude.”           

            The Cheri snorted. “That’s nice. Boys?”

            Zip realized the depth of her miscalculation.  Four Cheri stood up from a dark corner of the bar – well darker than usual. Despite their multicolored, fuzzy appearance, they were more fight than she could manage. Twenty arms were a lot more than two, and she wasn’t sure how many shots she’d get off before the smashing would set in. Screw it. Zip bent down, putting herself eye level. “I’d hate to mess up my favorite bar.” She let a hand casually drop to her hip holster.

            The implication wasn’t missed. “You’re a dead woman.”

            “You wouldn’t be the first to try.”

            The Cheri let out something between a roar and gurgling burp.

            Zip winced at the smell and volume but pulled her pistol all the same. Her finger was curling around the trigger when a piercing warble cut through the air. Reflexively, she dropped to her knees and clamped both hands around her ears. The pistol clattered to the floor. And that’s it, I’m dead. Zip braced for blunt force trauma. It never came.

            The warble cut off as suddenly as it had started.

            Zip raised her head saw that she wasn’t the only one on the floor. The five Cheri were hunkered low, grimaces exaggerated by the sheer size of their faces. No time like the present. Zip reached for her gun, ready to start the fight all over again, but a polished shoe set down between her and the trigger.

            “Might we postpone the bloodshed for a moment?” The voice was elegant, and false; the kind that only came from money.

            Zip looked up at a set of tailored slacks, a shiny metal-lined blazer, and a face somehow more punchable than the Cheri. Corporate goon, nice pants, bad bar; he’s about to offer us a job.

            “Stay out of it, square,” growled the Cheri.

            The man tutted his tongue. “So rude to a man that’s about to offer you employment.”

            Knew it. “You look like the type used to working with The Union. Maybe you missed the memo, but this is a non-Union bar.” Zip pushed herself to her feet and sized the man up. He was skinny, but with the expensive attire, and confidence, he was likely packing some kind of personal defense.

            “Yes, I had a feeling you might say that. That’s why we’re willing to pay up front, just for your valuable time. A portion of course, but a sizeable one.” He waved a gold-plated card through the air. “This is enough credits to transport you to our corporate facility, and to get you blind drunk in a better bar than this. All you have to do is listen.”

            Zip shook her head and laughed. “You really shouldn’t flash cash like that in a place like this.”

The Cheri was off the ground in a split second, fur bristling, eyes twitching, and charging at the goon. Its furry palms barely touched the jacket before a sizzling pop and an excessive jolt of electricity sent the creature flying backward. The Cheri collided with a corner booth, snapping the table clean in half. The impact rattled every glass in the bar.

            The corporate man brushed singed fur off his jacket. “Please, don’t try that again.” He flicked a card toward the bar, sending it sailing through the air. “Obviously we’ll pay for the damages. Now, is anyone interested in something other than an electric shock?”

            Zip was preparing to make a violent mistake when Tom piped up, loud and proud as ever. “We’re interested!” Tom bobbed his head up and down, noticeably avoiding Zip’s murderous gaze. “We would be happy to listen to your proposal.” Tom reached out a claw and plucked the gold card delicately from the man’s fingers. “And my captain would be happy to get blind drunk on this money.”

            Zip’s mouth hung open. What are you doing, Tom? Something about the shine of the gold card in his claw stopped the words from coming out.

            “Splendid. Tomorrow, noon, don’t be late.”