LotS/The Story/Puny Human Birthdays
<tabber>
"Zone Intro"= Zone Intro
"Good morning. I'm Adrian Zanfran, and I'm here to-"
"Die, puny human!"
"Excuse me?"
Adrian Zanfran was polite. It was how his mother had raised him. She'd always said that common courtesy wasn't nearly common enough, and that she expected her children to redress the balance. With such words of wisdom, along with the occasional slap whenever he erred in any particularly egregious fashion, Mrs. Zanfran had ensured that Adrian grew up with such values in his heart and mind. Hence the smile remained on his face as he asked the question, even though the receptionist's reply to his greeting and introduction had taken him somewhat by surprise.
His smile grew fainter when the Rylattu receptionist screamed instead of responding. Then fainter still when she reached under her desk, her wide eyes never leaving his. And when the receptionist raised a large, bulbous, garish gun, it died altogether. Adrian decided that he had better cast politeness to the wind if he didn't wish to suffer a similar fate.
He turned and ran. The receptionist screamed again.
A blast of hissing pink energy zapped past his left cheek. It hit the double doors he was sprinting for and burned clean through one of them -- leaving a smoking hole in its wake.
Adrian screamed. The receptionist screamed. Screaming seemed to be the order of the day.
Another pink blast flashed by -- this time on his right. He became aware of a certain lopsided sensation a fraction of a second before a disembodied arm flew into his line of vision.
He screamed again. So did the receptionist.
Adrian dived for one of the sleek white couches. He crashed down behind it as a third pink blast hissed across the lobby and made a fresh hole in the doors. In this temporary sanctuary, he glanced at his right shoulder. A seared and blackened mass of flesh marked where his arm used to be. This discovery did nothing to curtail his screams.
"Wretched stink-beast!"
He flopped over onto his back and stared up into the murderous receptionist's eyes. Then his gaze fell to the barrel of the absurd weapon in her hands.
"No! Please!" he wailed.
"You dare invade the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might? Taste our superior technology!"
"Wait!"
Adrian tried to raise his hands in a pleading gesture. But since one of his arms was lying across the room, he ended up making a ridiculous karate chop motion instead.
The receptionist fired. Her blast cut through Adrian's wrist, sending his chopping hand flying, and pierced the floor by his head.
He screamed. She screamed. Someone else shouted.
"Why are there holes in my door? And who left this inferior stink-beast limb on the floor?"
The receptionist span round towards the doors, one of which stood open -- hiding the speaker. She screamed. This seemed to be her standard response to most stimuli. Then she fired again.
A Rylattu with red skin and a purple jumpsuit stepped past the door. Then he ducked, just in time to avoid having his skull bestowed with a similar smoking hole.
"Kwix!" he exclaimed.
"Oh... Sorry, overlord."
She lowered her weapon. The newcomer stormed over to her.
"Is your head filled with waklak feces? Our lobby isn't for blaster practice!"
"I was destroying a sniveling human invader, overlord!"
"She tried to kill me!" Adrian said. Even as he spoke, it occurred to him that the words were somewhat superfluous.
"Silence, stink-beast!" the receptionist yelled.
She turned and raised her weapon. Adrian screamed.
"No!" the other Rylattu said. He grabbed at her arm.
She pulled the trigger. Terrible pinkness filled the weapon's maw. Then everything went dark for Adrian Zanfran.
"I am a genius! The operation was a complete success!" Then the voice added, in a rather more disinterested tone: "Oh... And the wretched patient survived."
Adrian opened his eyes.
He was alive. That came as something of a surprise, but he couldn't doubt the evidence of his own eyes. He was certain heaven wasn't manned by Rylattu in medical uniforms. Hell, possibly. But people like him didn't go to hell! He was polite. And he went to church every Sunday. Or at least he would have done. The fact that he'd spent the last ten years living on a world without Sundays was hardly his fault...
Adrian sat up. The automated bed followed suit a second later. Its upper half tilted up and bumped him on the back of the head.
"We have rebuilt you using the superior might of superior Rylattu science!" declared a green-skinned medic.
"And spare parts we had lying around," a purple female added.
At that point, Adrian Zanfran became aware of a strange sensation in his arms. They felt sort of... wriggly. He raised his hands. Then he screamed.
"Silence, human!" the green doctor said.
"Tentacles!" Adrian cried. "I have tentacles!"
"Of course you have tentacles, foolish stink-beast! I attached them using my mighty surgical skills!"
"And I assisted," the purple one said, "using my not-quite-as-mighty-but-still-very-mighty assisting skills!"
"Why? Why would you do this?"
"Because your worthless limbs had been blasted from your stinking body!" the green doctor said.
"Why didn't you just stick them back on?"
"Tentacles are far superior to human arms, stupid monkey-spawn! You should be grateful!"
"I want my arms back!"
"Fine! Fine!" came a voice.
Adrian looked to the doorway. The Rylattu from the lobby, with red skin and a purple jumpsuit, stood there.
"How dare you reject the products of my genius!" the doctor yelled. "I should remove your puny brains and replace them with a wombat!"
"Silence! You will obey your overlord!"
"Yes, overlord." He sighed.
The red Rylattu moved into the room, revealing the figure who'd been standing behind him. It was the receptionist.
Adrian screamed. The receptionist screamed. The purple medic slapped him across the face. He stopped screaming. So did the receptionist.
"Ow! Why'd you do that!" Adrian rubbed his cheek. The tentacle was actually soft and soothing. Contrary to his expectations, it wasn't at all slimy.
"In my xeno-medicine classes, I studied archaic holo-vids from the days when your ancestors were forced to exist in black and white. I learned that hysterical stink-beast females could be restored to their puny senses by means of a slap."
"An excellent discovery, nurse," the doctor said.
"Thank you, doctor."
"I'm not a female!" Adrian said, still rubbing his cheek.
"That can be fixed, wretched human!"
The nurse reached for a surgical saw.
"Not now!" the red Rylattu said. "We've already wasted far too much valuable time. Nurse, doctor, you may leave."
"Yes, overlord," they chorused.
The two medics departed, leaving Adrian with his former assailant and his savior.
"I am Barp Sek Bul, Supreme Editing Overlord at the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might. This is our mighty medical chamber, which is itself of considerable might."
"Why would a publishing house need medical facilities?" Adrian asked.
"Foolish stink-beast! What would happen if one of our employees were injured by a flying preposition? Or contracted a severe case of zeugma?"
"Oh..."
"This is Kwix, our receptionist."
The female stepped over to Adrian's bed. Her hands rose, revealing an object. Adrian Zanfran almost screamed out of habit. But this time she wasn't clutching a garish gun. She appeared to be holding some form of...
"I made you this mighty cupcake, a product of superior Rylattu baking, to apologize for blasting your wretched hide."
The cake was a sickly shade of yellow. And the black 'decoration' on top of the shining icing appearing to be writhing.
"Thanks," he murmured, "but I'm not hungry..."
"You will accept this cupcake and you will eat it!"
Adrian's tentacle shot out and grasped hold of the cake, lest the receptionist return to her previous homicidal ways. He crammed it into his mouth, and felt his teeth bite into something juicy, slimy, but not entirely unpleasant. The pieces wriggled and writhed on the way down his throat.
"Filthy humans aren't usually permitted in our mighty building," Barp said.
Kwix nodded.
"When I saw you," she said, "I thought you were another imbecilic stink-beast author who'd come to complain because we rejected the worthless excrement he'd submitted to us."
"She didn't know that I'd summoned you here. It is a great honor!"
Adrian glanced down at his tentacles.
"Yeah... An honor."
Then he brightened up. Having an arm and hand blasted off had been unpleasant, but work was work. And he really needed the credits.
"So," he continued, "you're hiring me?"
"Yes," Barp replied.
"Great! When do I start?"
"You will start immediately! Stop lazing around in that bed at once, or I'll withhold your pay and spend it on doomsday weapons to obliterate you with!"
Adrian threw the covers aside and jumped out of bed.
"First you will cover your disgusting human genitals!" Barp exclaimed.
The receptionist slid a hatch in the wall open, pulled out a short-sleeved jumpsuit, and threw it at Adrian. His tentacles proved rather dexterous, and he had the garment on in a matter of moments.
"Follow me!" Barp said.
He led the way out of the medical chamber, into the corridor beyond. Then he and Adrian went one way, and the receptionist the other -- presumably returning to her desk, where she could blast 'stink-beasts' to her heart's content now that the sole authorized member of the species was already inside.
"So, how long have you been a freelance human?"
"Huh?"
"It is a simple question!" Barp yelled.
Adrian was beginning to get the impression that volume was an important part of the work environment.
"Well, I've always been human..."
"I'm sorry to hear that. It must be a wretched existence."
"...but I've been a freelance editor since I graduated from university. So, that would be around ten-"
"What?" Barp stopped, and rounded on him. "The recruitment overlord said you were a freelance human! Do you think I'd hire a sniveling, insignificant stink-beast editor with radioactive feces for brains?"
"No?" was all Adrian could manage.
"I require the services of a professional human! If you cannot fulfill those duties, I'll have you disintegrated!"
"I... I can be a professional human."
"Good! Then you shall remain integrated!"
The overlord continued walking. Adrian Zanfran tagged along after him, wondering what exactly he'd gotten himself into.
At the end of the passage, a door slid open to reveal a large room dominated by a long oval table. A floor-to-ceiling window consumed an entire wall, and displayed a soft sunset vista of the gleaming city beyond. Holographic projections of book covers were arranged in haphazard rows on the other walls. One of them, larger than the others, caught Adrian's eye. The animated picture showed a Rylattu dancing atop a human's smoldering corpse, beneath the words: Destroying Humans and Other Puny Species. Ah, yes... One of their bestselling titles.
"You will be seated!" Barp said.
The Rylattu dropped into a chair at one end of the table, and gestured for Adrian to take the one on his left. The 'freelance human' did so. Then Barp raised his wrist, which was adorned with a complex looking piece of tech, and pressed a button.
"The puny human has recovered from his unfortunate but amusing injuries," he said into the device. "Send in the other overlords for our meeting of ultimate might!"
"Yes, overlord!" a female voice replied.
Adrian and Barp sat in silence for several moments, until the human decided -- in adherence to his mother's edicts concerning politeness -- that he should try to make conversation.
"So, why is this place called the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might? It's an unusual name."
"Idiotic human scum-thing! Did Kwix scramble your brains like ragebeast eggs? We're called the Mighty Rylattu Publishing House of Ultimate Might because we're a Rylattu publishing house and our mighty might is ultimate! And mighty!"
"Oh. I see..."
The doors opened, and half a dozen Rylattu of various shades and hues entered. They each nodded to Barp before sitting down. One or two glanced at Adrian, before apparently losing interest in him.
Barp Sek Bul stood.
"Fellow overlords," he said, "today we begin our master plan to increase sales in human space! As we all know, few wretched humans have purchased our books..."
"Puny humans!"
"Disgusting stink-beasts!"
"Maybe their brains are infested with devouring worms!"
"We should exterminate them all!"
Adrian grimaced as the overlords expressed their opinion of his species. He hoped he wasn't about to get blasted again...
"No! No!" Barp said. "Although it would be simple and enjoyable to eradicate the stink-beasts, we should instead take their credits to enhance our mighty wealth! That's why I've brought Adnan Zebra-"
"Adrian Zanfran."
"Silence, or I will destroy you!" The Supreme Editing Overlord glared at him, before turning back to his peers. "That's why I've brought A-drain Zanzibar here to help us understand how the insignificant and worthless humans think."
"Bah!" a blue overlord exclaimed. He banged his three-fingered fist on the table. "What qualifications does he have?"
"He is a freelance human, trained from birth to be a stink-beast!"
"He does look very human," a green female said. "He bears the same ape-like features and look of abject stupidity."
"Precisely!"
"Then tell us, stink-beast... How can we make your puny species buy our superior literature?"
"Um... Well... I... Maybe..."
"The human knows nothing! We should destroy him and feed his remains to a krakak swarm!"
"What about... holidays! People love to buy their friends and family books for special occasions!"
"Humans have holidays? But your species is so inferior and slovenly! Any further laziness would cause your wretched civilizations to collapse beneath their own worthlessness!"
"Tell us about these holidays," Barp commanded.
"Well... There's Christmas."
"I've heard of this 'Christmas'," the blue overlord said. "Humans believe that a grossly fat stink-beast wearing red fur travels across the stars, distributing gifts on the basis of a moronic system of binary morality!"
"I see..." Barp Sek Bul's eyes glimmered. "This fat human could become an important customer... Adriax, do you know him?"
"No, I... He doesn't even..."
"Then what good are you?"
"But... Wait!" Adrian shrieked, as the overlord reached under the table. "What about... about... birthdays?"
"Birthdays?"
"Yes! Christmas only happens once a year, but stink-beasts... I mean, we... all have birthdays at different times! If people bought your books as birthday presents, it'd give you more sales every day!"
"What are these 'birthdays'?" the green female asked.
"Each year we celebrate the date we were born on. We have parties, and people give us presents."
"And how do you earn these gifts?"
"By... Well, by getting older, I suppose."
"Preposterous! You earn presents simply because you haven't been disintegrated yet?"
"Humans must be even punier than we imagined," Barp said, "if surviving for another year is treated as an achievement worthy of reward. No matter! We can turn this stupid stink-beast tradition to our advantage! Adrum, what books would members of your pathetic species buy for these birthdays?"
"Oh... Well... It depends... I mean..."
"The stink-beast is procrastinating!" the green female cried. "He's trying to keep his sniveling species' birthday secrets from us! We should torture the truth from his puny mind with lasers and gwilax beasts!"
"No!" Barp said. "I believe his inferior human intellect is merely incapable of providing the information we desire in a timely fashion! Remember that he lacks the mighty mental powers of a Rylattu!"
"Ah, yes..."
"We are indeed mighty!" another overlord added.
"We shall give Adrunk a chance to avoid disintegration," Barp continued. "He will be given access to a terminal, and produce an information package on the nature of human birthdays. Then we can begin our mighty plan of ultimate publishing doom, by targeting these celebrations."
"That's kind of a broad subject," Adrian said. "I-"
"Shut your stink-hole, human! You will do as you've been commanded or I will have you incinerated!"
"Oh... Yes, sir... I mean... Yes, overlord."
A few moments later, Adrian found himself deposited before a terminal's holographic screen. He worked its keyboard with his tentacles' suckers, researching the rather broad and overwhelming subject of human birthdays whilst wondering why he'd ever applied for this job in the first place.
|-|
"Beyond Gordium"= Beyond Gordium
Princess Illaria scrutinized her enemy. She examined the foe from each angle, and pondered the many avenues of attack she might avail herself of. That fiendish adversary stood between the young girl and her prize. Thus she had every intention of vanquishing it.
But it was a complex knot. The orange ribbon which bound the golden box closed was twisted and tied in so inscrutable a tangle that it made the most elaborate sageo knot upon a warrior's scabbard seem like a clumsy child's shoelace in comparison.
Her diminutive brow creased itself into a frown. Her gaze seemed to sharpen, as though she were a predator scheming how she might bring about her quarry's destruction. But its defenses looked impenetrable...
The forehead became smooth in an instant. Her mouth formed a triumphant smile. Of course!
She walked away from the little round pedestal upon which the box rested -- though she kept her eyes fastened on her enemy, lest it attempt some form of subterfuge the moment she turned her back. Her fingers, elegant and dexterous in spite of her tender years, lifted a sheathed dagger from its display stand.
Illaria drew the blade, revealing the rippling waves of its beautiful damascene steel, and set the scabbard back in the embrace of the stand's dark wooden arms. She'd been raised to respect weapons, to both appreciate their beauty and understand the terrible harm they could do. It was why her father trusted her with such things in her chambers.
She approached the cunning orange foe, dagger in hand, and placed the razor edge against its silken flesh. The Princess braced herself. Then she slid the lethal steel across it in a sharp, deft, precise motion.
The ribbon, in its unfathomable coils and curls, remained intact and undamaged. But the strike hadn't been without its effects. An amethyst mounted on the nearest of the box's gold sides, among a cluster of other precious stones, flashed. Holographic light expanded from the gem, and resolved itself into the image of a blazing star the size of the girl's palm.
"A good attempt, Illaria," said a woman's voice.
It was that of her father's advisor. The lady's duties kept her away from Sian that day, but she hadn't forgotten the Princess' birthday. A maidservant had entered Illaria's chambers to place the ornate box upon the pedestal, and explain that she was doing so at Mistress Sun's behest.
"Perhaps Wu taught you about the Gordian knot?" the recording continued. "But this is a test for a future empress, not a brash conqueror from ancient Macedon. Patience and contemplation are your watchwords, as they should be for any wise ruler."
The hologram vanished. Illaria sighed. But there was a smile on her lips as she exhaled. She returned the dagger to its resting place, and focused her gaze on the ribbon once more.
Its loops and twists were labyrinthine, a befuddling arrangement which even the most dexterous of serpents would have envied. The Princess' young bright eyes roamed across it, trying to fathom the unfathomable and understand the orange ribbon's nature. There were traps for the unwary. She discerned several mischievous places where a tempting pull would only have served to bind the knot tighter -- perhaps too tight for mere fingers, however agile, to unravel. These she noted in turn, cataloging them in her mind before passing them by.
The intensity of her concentration rendered time a fluttering, imperceptible thing. She didn't notice the hour slip from future to present to past, minute by minute. Nor did she detect the soft footsteps which approached the doorway, or become aware of the figure who then watched her from the open portal -- silent and unmoving as the remainder of that hour elapsed. Orange silk was her universe, and nothing beyond it could command her attention.
At last she made her move. Slender little fingers found their places and began their work. It wasn't a swift battle, a duel settled with a single flash of a sword or muzzle. Rather she was a wrestler grappling with an opponent who stood firm and all but unyielding, giving ground only by the tiniest fractions of inches -- and being ever ready to capitalize on the slightest mistake. The Princess knew that a single misstep, an error wrought by overeagerness or careless miscalculation, would tighten the silken coils and force her to use tweezers in lieu of her fingers. So she allowed her mind to lead, not her hands. Contemplation before action. But when action came, it was neat and decisive.
The orange ribbon succumbed to her ministrations. Bit by bit, it unraveled. The once impregnable fortress drifted away on a silken stream. And at last she pulled it free. The box was hers, its mouth unsealed. Illaria opened it.
A jade dragon lay within, staring up at her from the exquisite detail of its smiling face.
"Happy birthday, Illaria," Mistress Sun's voice said. There was a moment's pause, before it continued. "You must be so proud, Your Majesty."
The Princess frowned, puzzled by the recording. Then another voice spoke, this one from behind her.
"I am."
She turned to doorway, where her father stood. And though she hadn't been aware of his presence until then, Illaria somehow sensed that he'd been watching for a long time -- that a man whose day was claimed by a myriad duties of state, who often sacrificed almost every waking minute to the empire he ruled, had spent perhaps a full hour simply looking on as his daughter strove and triumphed. Pride welled in her breast. Pride and warmth.
He stepped towards her and took her in his arms. His beard tickled her face as he hugged her.
"How did she know you'd be there?" Illaria asked. She glanced over at the box, as though expecting its recorded voice to answer.
"Mistress Sun knows many things," the Emperor replied.
He carried her to an armchair. There they sat, the young Princess in her father's lap. Whatever grave matters had claimed his attention before his arrival, and would again once he departed, they were set aside. The galaxy and its million troubles faded away, leaving a father to speak with his daughter of ancient heroes and glories, of magnificent deeds which had been wrought long ago by those of their illustrious lineage. And of the empire she'd been born to one day rule.
|-|
"The Centurian Lieutenant's Woman"= The Centurian Lieutenant's Woman
"You've requested a day's leave?" Colonel Rahn asked. He glanced up from the screen.
"Yes, colonel." Lieutenant Rautha replied.
"For..." He looked back at the display. "Extracurricular combat training?"
"I believe my close-quarter fighting skills could be improved, sir."
"According to these records, your instructors have consistently rated your proficiencies as 'superior'."
"I intend to be evaluated as 'exceptional' next time, sir."
"An admirable goal."
The colonel's face betrayed nothing, yet there was something in his eyes and tone that Rautha found perturbing.
"Thank you, sir."
Rahn turned his attention to the screen once more, releasing the lieutenant from his scrutiny. Rautha exhaled.
"What an interesting coincidence..."
"Colonel?"
"Your date of birth..."
Rautha gulped.
"Lieutenant, are you aware of the recent directive which cautions active military personnel against the celebration of birthdays? It used the terms 'excessive hedonism', 'appalling inebriation', 'frivolous merriment' and 'unbecoming behavior'."
"Y... Yes, sir."
"Then you wouldn't request leave under false pretenses, so you could engage in activities that your superiors would frown on."
"Of course not, colonel!"
"Good. Your request for leave is granted."
"Thank you, sir."
Rautha swiveled before his grin could betray him, and made for the door with a rapid stride.
"Oh... Lieutenant Rautha?"
He froze in front of the doorway, suppressed a groan, composed his features, and turned back.
"Sir?"
"Happy... morning." Rahn's lips twitched.
"Thank you, colonel!"
Rautha waited till he was in the corridor and the thick, soundproof door had closed behind him. Then he thrust both fists up into the air.
"Rautha's on leave, bitches!"
There was a small cough from his left. The lieutenant lowered his arms and looked round. A woman with a captain's markings on her uniform stood there, an eyebrow raised.
"Captain..."
Rautha saluted.
"Lieutenant."
She returned the salute.
Rautha strode off down the corridor.
The building ahead throbbed with the beat of trashy music and the promise of intoxication. Rautha grinned.
Some of his friends at the base had recommended this club. It was supposed to be a place where the staff knew how to keep their mouths shut. And no high-ranking officer was likely to be out in this rundown part of the city. Not unless rumors about a certain colonel's sexual habits were true...
He crossed the narrow street and walked up to the doorman -- a big lump of muscle with a bald head and a black top. The latter had the words "I'll Break Your Spine" written across it in big glowing letters, above an animation of a red stickman repeatedly snapping a blue stickman over his knee.
Rautha pressed a hard credit chip into the bouncer's hand. The big man glanced at it, before nodding and waving him through the door.
The inside of the club reminded the lieutenant of a battlefield. Multicolored lights flashed across the dance floor like blaster fire, and the music resembled a series of cataclysmic explosions more than any kind of melody. That might have been why most of the dancers looked as though they were convulsing in a series of painful upright seizures.
It wasn't a place to be enjoyed sober. So he walked over to the bar, which lurked in shadows at one end of the room -- like a vampire glaring from the darkness at the gaudy dance floor and its inhabitants' gyrating flesh. A ghostly face hovered there, illuminated by the soft glow of a datapad's screen.
The barmaid rolled her eyes as he approached. She set the device aside, banishing its phantasmal light from her pretty face.
"What?" she asked.
"Vodka and coke."
She sighed, as though she'd hoped he might have said "nothing" and simply wandered off again. But she mustered up the energy to pull down a bottle of vodka and splash some into a tumbler. Then she grabbed a small plastic packet from under the bar, unzipped it, and poured white powder into the liquor. She stirred the mixture with air of one performing a Heraclean labor. Rautha decided to seize the moment.
"It's my birthday."
"So?"
He decided not to tip. Instead he picked the drink up with one hand and slid its price across the bar in hard credits with the other. The barmaid snatched the creds without looking. She was already lit up by her datapad again.
Rautha took a long gulp. The back of his mouth burned. His eyes widened. Screw her! It was his birthday, damn it -- and he felt good! Thus fortified by potato-based liquor and chemistry, he let out a comfortable sigh, leaned back against the bar, and swept the club with his gaze. Drinking was great, but it'd be more fun with a little company...
And that was when he saw her.
A group of women came into the place in the same giggling gaggle. His eyes fastened on them, scenting fresh meat and studying it in the manner of lecherous club-goers across the galaxy. Most of them were garbed as flamboyantly as the club's lightshow, their low-cut, high-hemmed dresses riots of blaring color that looked as if they'd cornered fashion and good taste in an alleyway and stabbed the pair of them to death. Some were attractive in a trashy sort of way, their faces plastered with the counterfeit beauty of heavy makeup and cheap cosmetic surgeries. At another time they might have held his attention. But not when the garish host parted and he glimpsed the woman in their midst.
She was as out of place as a Cytheran hooker in a nunnery. Instead of the skimpy dresses the others sported, she wore a blue jumpsuit -- not unlike Rautha's own. It hid her flesh, made her into a beacon of modesty in a sea of pale and tanned skin, but couldn't quite conceal her curves. Veiled as it was, her figure put the others' to shame. And she must have avoided whatever cosmetics factory explosion had splattered her companions. Her face held a soft, alluring beauty made even sweeter by its hint of trepidation.
The others surged towards the dance floor like a pack of hyenas in search of carrion. A couple of the pack leaders had already latched onto men, ignoring the murderous glares of the women they'd previously been dancing or chatting with. One of those at the back grasped the girl in the blue jumpsuit by her arm, and tried to pull her along. But she gestured at the bar, and the harridan released her -- perhaps believing alcohol would help loosen the girl up.
Rautha took another burning gulp as she approached. Heady exhilaration flashed through his brain. He didn't know if it was the drink.
The girl leaned over the bar.
"Excuse me..."
The barmaid sighed and set aside her datapad. Whatever thrilling piece of literature she was reading, it was destined to go unresolved for at least a few minutes longer.
"What?"
"Orange juice, please."
That brought a laugh and a smile from the dour woman. Rautha wondered if it was the choice of drink or the unaccustomed politeness with which it had been requested. Perhaps both.
The barmaid turned around, and started sifting through the veritable arsenal of hard liquor in search of the desired soft drink. The girl in the jumpsuit leaned against the bar as she awaited its arrival. Rautha made his move.
He slid towards her. She turned to him.
"Hey, how-"
The lieutenant didn't quite know how he managed to stumble. After all, he'd been trained to keep his footing on rocking spaceships and in all manner of other battlefield environments. But it happened. And when he tried to recover his balance, a stream of spiked vodka splashed across her face.
"Sorry! I-"
His cheek stung with the force of her slap.
At that moment the barmaid placed a glass of orange juice before her. So the girl snatched it up and dashed its contents in Rautha's face. Then she turned to storm away.
"Hey!" the barmaid said. "You still have to pay for that!"
The girl turned back.
"I'll get it!" the lieutenant said. He reached for his credits.
"Get lost, creep!" She glared at him out of the corner of her eye, before looking to the barmaid. "I'll get a refill as well please."
The girl pulled out a card and swiped. Rautha glanced over the bar in time to see the name flash upside-down on the display: Melissa Williams. With the transaction completed and her glass replenished, she carried out the forestalled storming off.
"Real smooth," the barmaid said.
Rautha drained the remains of his drink.
"Shut up and get me another."
The lieutenant stood there, propping up the bar, and watched Melissa. She was in the opposite corner, sipping her orange juice and looking as if she wanted to be anywhere else but in the club. After some minutes, a couple of her friends came over, grabbed her arms, and ushered her onto the dance floor by main force. There they shouted boisterous encouragement, until Melissa surrendered and started dancing.
She put the rest of them to shame. Perhaps it was the laced vodka he'd drunk, but to Rautha her every movement was perfect and sensual -- wonderful in spite of the crashing, inharmonious music she danced to.
The lieutenant wondered what would happen if he went up and danced next to her. Would she slap him again? That would be embarrassing... He ordered another vodka and coke. Perhaps he'd think more clearly with more of the stuff inside him...
He carried on watching Melissa dance while the grumbling barmaid mixed his drink. And then his eyes narrowed.
A group of men in grey jumpsuits were moving across the dance floor like sharks, pushing aside the trashy women who populated it without so much as a second glance. Their eyes were fastened on Melissa.
When they were close, one of them leaned towards her and said something. The lieutenant couldn't hear his words. They were drowned by the terrible music. But the girl shook her head, making her hair ripple in silken waves. Then the man grabbed her arm.
"Here's your..." the barmaid began, as she set his drink down. "Hey!"
Rautha grabbed it, downed it, tossed the empty vessel aside to smash on the floor, and stormed over to the garish battlefield.
"Get off me!" Melissa cried.
She tried to tug her arm from the man's grasp. His fingers tightened, pressing deeper into the blue fabric.
"Just one dance!" he said.
The other men in grey glared at Rautha when he drew near. But glares weren't going to scare him away.
"Get off her," he said.
Melissa and the man holding her arm both turned. Her eyes were wide, his narrow.
"Piss off!" the man said.
"Wrong answer."
The lieutenant punched, and the man went spinning. He twirled around for several paces, in rotations which through some quirk of fate happened to match the current strain of hideous music, before falling hard. His head bounced against the glowing dance floor.
Rautha grinned. Maybe he really was 'exceptional' after all...
The rest of the grey jumpsuit wearing men hurled themselves at him.
His other fist dropped the first of them. Then two more were on him. They grabbed his dangerous arms, wrapping their limbs around his, leaving him struggling and grappling as the one who'd gone spinning got to his feet -- his mouth bloody, his eyes gleaming with murder.
"We've got him!" the man holding his right arm yelled. "We've-"
The top of Rautha's forehead smashed into his face, breaking his nose and his hold. The lieutenant span round to the enemy on his left. But that one's grip was already loosening, as Melissa's hands were clawing and gouging at his eyes. She looked even more beautiful when she was angry...
Rautha kneed him in the groin and tossed him aside. Then he whirled round in time to launch a snapping front kick with his other leg. The man who'd gone spinning before made a more orthodox flight this time. He careened straight backwards, his boots kicking at the floor as he tried to recover, until he crashed into a table and went down along with it.
"Look!" Melissa said.
She pointed towards the doorway, where the hulking bouncer and a couple of other men in black t-shirts bearing similarly brutal slogans were gathering. The barmaid was yelling to one of them, and pointing in Rautha's direction.
"Come on!" Rautha said.
He held his hand out to Melissa. She took it. The lieutenant's gaze darted around the room until he saw the fire exit sign. Then he ran for it, and pulled her along with him.
The lieutenant glanced over his shoulder as he knocked the door open, letting in a gust of cold night air. The bouncers and the men in grey were all charging towards them.
"How fast can you run?" he asked.
"Fast enough!" Melissa replied.
They both laughed as they sprinted down the alleyway, leaving the angry shouts far behind.
|-|
"Sexual Harassment Suits You"= Sexual Harassment Suits You
"Oh, Flashheart!"
"Hmm... Flashheart!"
"Flashy!"
"Go, Flash! Go!"
Captain 'Ace' Flashheart woke up to those familiar sounds -- soft female voices murmuring in their sleep, either reliving the previous night's passion or dreaming about further amorous adventures to come.
He lifted the covers and took a quick count. Five beautiful women shared his galaxy-size mattress... Yes, that sounded about right. Or had there been a sixth? Ah, no... That had been the night before.
Arithmetic satisfied, he glanced at the clock. Time appeared to have carried on while he was sleeping, which was bloody annoying. It meant he was late for his performance evaluation. He'd have to speak to his superior officer about that.
So he rolled over and nudged her.
"Hmm?" she mumbled. Weary eyes half-opened amid a splash of chestnut hair.
"About that evaluation..." he said.
"Oh... Forget that. If you handle your ships like you handle your women..."
"What? Fly them to heaven and make them see stars? Of course I do!"
"...then you pass."
She closed her eyes and fell back asleep. Flashheart prepared to do the same. Then something buzzed. He sighed. The doorbell...
He pressed a button on the headboard. A holographic screen appeared above him. It showed his front door, and the person standing in front of it. He grinned.
"Is that Caligula?" a voice to his left asked. "From Cythera?"
"It's hard to tell. Last time I saw old Liggy, she was upside-down and covered in honey. But I think this saucy mare's just dressed up as her. Probably a birthday strip-o-gram."
"Today's your birthday?"
"Happy birthday, Flashy!" said one of the others.
"Are you going to have a party?" asked another.
"Girls! You know every day's a party when you're with Flashheart!"
The woman on the screen reached out. The doorbell buzzed again.
Flashheart stood up, slipping out of the sheets.
"I'd better go see to the girl!"
He trotted to the edge of the mammoth bed, dropped to the floor, and went down the corridor.
Flashheart pulled the front door open, revealing the woman in the flesh. She was wearing an outfit that looked like a cross between a bikini and ancient Roman battle gear. He stared at her breasts, with which the armored bodice was fighting something of a losing battle. No... Definitely not Caligula. Still good breasts though. Maybe after she gave him his present, he'd invite her in.
He glanced up, and found that for her part the woman was staring down. Her cheeks were red, and her mouth formed a pretty little circle of shock.
"The real Caligula would be ravishing me by now," he said. "And if that sounds like a bloody good idea, don't let me stop you!"
She met his gaze, held it for a second, snatched another glance at his naked crotch, then forced her eyes upwards once more. This time she managed to keep them there.
"You're Captain Flashheart?"
"Of course I am! One of a kind, unless there's some lucky bugger out there in the galaxy who happens to look like me. And if there is, more power to him! My reputation's big enough to keep us both in totty for the rest of our natural lives!"
"Good. I have something for you..."
"And I've got something for you as well, you saucy mare! But you go first..."
She reached behind her back. Flashheart grinned. Her hand returned holding a datapad. He laughed.
"An autograph? If you like. But I can give you something a bit bloody better than that to remember me by!"
"Not exactly..." She shoved it into his hands. "Official court documents. Consider yourself served."
"Just a minute..."
"You're being charged with sexual harassment."
"Again?"
"Nine counts."
"Nine more fines? That'll be bloody expensive."
"Actually, this morning parliament passed Flashheart's Law. Now the penalty for sexual harassment by people called Flashheart is imprisonment."
"Oh... Then I'd better call my lawyer!"
"You mean Julia Nebler?"
"That's right. You know Julia?"
"She's one of the plaintiffs. Apparently you sexually harassed her as well."
"Did I? It's so bloody hard to keep track... Well, I'll need to hire someone else. When's the trial?"
"Today."
"What? That's a bit bloody fast, isn't it?"
"Flashheart's Law. You have thirty minutes to get to court. Oh, and if you don't show up in time, a guilty plea will automatically be entered on your behalf."
"As Captain Flashheart hasn't seen fit to appear before this court, Your Worship, I move that his guilty plea be entered in accordance with Flashheart's Law, and that officers immediately be dispatched to arrest him and if possible subject him to severe physical battery."
"By my watch the captain has a few minutes left, Ms. Nebler."
"Very well, Your Worship."
Julia Nebler sat back down.
"Don't worry," she whispered to her clients and fellow plaintiffs. "He won't get here on time. I-"
At that moment, the doors at the end of the courtroom flew open -- revealing a man in a red pilot's outfit.
"Sorry I'm late!" Flashheart said. "A bit of ship trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" the judge asked. She glanced from the captain to Ms. Nebler, who was engaged in frantic whispering with the other eight women at the plaintiffs' table.
"The landing systems weren't working."
"Then how did you land?"
"I didn't. I just jumped out and let it fly off without me."
"I see... Take your seat, Mr. Flashheart."
Nine pairs of female eyes glared at him as he walked down the aisle, between the empty rows of seats. Julia had insisted on the public gallery being closed, lest the man's legions of idiotic admirers attend the trial and cause a ruckus. The jury box was similarly vacant, as per the terms of Flashheart's Law -- which left the matter entirely in the judge's hands.
He sat at the defense table.
The judge glanced down at her terminal screen.
"Your full name is Captain Harry Flashheart?"
"That's right. But everyone calls me Ace. It's easier to scream when I'm blowing your ship up or blowing your mind!"
The judge banged her gavel down.
"Mr. Flashheart! Your innuendos aren't welcome in my courtroom!"
"Hold on, you saucy mare! I wasn't going to in-you-endo! I-"
Her gavel bludgeoned the sound block.
"Mr. Flashheart! How dare you! One more outrageous comment directed at this bench and I'll have you held in contempt of court!"
A hundred retorts sprang into the ace pilot's mind. But as each and every one of them would have resulted in his incarceration, he simply said:
"Yes, Your Worship."
"Ms. Nebler," the judge said, "your witnesses may read their statements."
"Thank you, Your Worship. We'll begin with-"
"Wait a bloody minute!" Flashheart exclaimed. "Reading statements? Last time I was charged with sexual harassment, the witness had to go on the stand so my lawyer could ask her questions!"
"Things have changed at lot since then," the judge said.
"It was only last week!"
"Flashheart's Law clearly states that when a plaintiff is bringing an accusation against a defendant named Flashheart, she need only deliver a statement before the court. Questioning isn't permitted."
"Well that's about as fair as a Rylattu's ass!"
"Mr. Flashheart!" She smashed her gavel down.
"Sorry, Your Worship..."
The pilot looked on as the first plaintiff stood up. She was a frumpy girl. Pretty face, if a bit chubby. Pretty but unfamiliar. He looked at her breasts. Ah, yes... One of his copilots -- before she'd demanded a transfer, complaining about his reckless flying.
"When Captain Flashheart taught me how to dock a fighter ship, he made inappropriate remarks in which he likened part of his anatomy to a vessel and part of mine to the space station with which it would dock."
The girl turned to Flashheart, stared daggers, then sat back down. The next one -- a mousy blonde in an engineer's uniform -- stood up.
"Captain Flashheart told me that he'd like to 'give my engine a bloody good seeing to'."
She sat down. A petite redhead rose.
"He said I should stop flying transports, and grab hold of something with a 'proper joystick'."
This process continued, until eight of the women had told similar tales. Then Julia Nebler got to her feet.
"Captain Flashheart, at the time my client, suggested that I 'take the bar'. His subsequent comments revealed this to be an inappropriate metaphor."
The judge glared at the defendant.
"Mr. Flashheart... You now have the opportunity to respond to these accusations."
He stood, and looked over at the plaintiffs -- all nine of which were staring like gorgons.
"Your Worship," he said, "I'd like to ask them one thing..."
"Questioning of the witnesses is not-"
"...are you lot ticked off because I said all that tosh, or because none of you got to grab hold of me and have the night of your lives?"
"Mr. Flashheart!" The gavel thudded down in such a flurry that it missed the sound block and made a series of deep indentations on the oak around it.
But the plaintiffs were already on their feet, shouting their replies:
"Wasn't I pretty enough for you?"
"You can't say things like that and just walk off!"
"I saved you from a hundred sexual harassment suits, and all I got out of it were a few innuendos!"
"Well, why didn't you all just bloody well say so?" Flashheart asked. "Ladies, if I take you back to my place right now, will you drop all this sexual harassment tosh?"
"Yes!" they chorused.
"Then come on!"
The nine of them surged from the defense table. Hugs and kisses rained down on the ace pilot.
"Mr. Flashheart!" the judge shrieked. "How dare you, sir? How dare you-"
"Oh, you're invited too, judgey!"
"Why didn't you say so?"
She tossed her gavel over her shoulder and scurried down from the bench.
Flashheart sauntered down the aisle, surrounded by his newfound admirers, and went off to celebrate his birthday in his own imitable style.
|-|
"Wu's Choice"= Wu's Choice
Battle raged around him. Phantom soldiers clashed with swords and halberds, filling the air with ghostly weapons and shouts of war.
The boy passed through their midst, unfazed by the spectral onslaught and its unreal slaughter. That tumult, the simulated chaos of martial strife from ancient China, was merely there to serve as the backdrop to his thoughts.
These holographic projections, this immersion in a strange and violent realm, drew and distracted those senses which might have nibbled at the depths of his cogitations. They ensured that the greater, more potent elements of his mind would be undisturbed.
That was important. He had a great deal to consider.
Wu Tenchu stood on the cusp of a monumental decision which would forever alter his destiny. The choice he made that day would shape his existence -- both his boyhood and the adulthood which lay beyond.
It was his tenth birthday, and he had been chosen.
Phantasmal swords flashed by his head. Shimmering blue warriors crashed and struggled around him. The kinship between their combat and his turbulent thoughts wasn't lost on him.
Beyond that room, with its synthetic vastness, his parents and the man in ornate robes awaited his answer. They'd acceded to his request for time to think in this special place of his, but he knew he couldn't keep them waiting for long.
He glanced up, and saw that he'd reached the periphery of the battle. Only the bleak emptiness of the plain and the clear sky upon the horizon met his gaze. He turned back to the fighting.
His eyes scanned it all out of instinct, as they always did. He understood the ebb and flow of battle, the order among the chaos. Weakness and strength, victory and defeat, life and death... All these things were laid out before him. Attack and counterattack played out in his mind before they did so in his vision.
Wu Tenchu strode back across the battlefield, and let it all engulf him.
He spoke a word, and that world vanished. The warriors were gone, along with the land and sky themselves. His bedroom appeared in their wake. He looked around it for the last time, letting his gaze roam over all the treasures he'd amassed during the course of his short life. The neat rows of books on the shelf, the figurines of ancient Chinese warriors so like those he'd banished a moment prior.
Then he walked into the corridor and closed the door behind him.
His parents and the grave man looked up at him as he entered. There was anxiety in his mother's eyes, mirrored but tempered with pride in his father's. The other man's gaze was inscrutable.
"I've decided," Wu Tenchu said. "I'll go."
"You understand what this means?" asked the man in ornate robes.
He nodded. It meant he'd leave his home and his parents, and be taken to a distant academy on another planet. A secret, secluded place where people with his talents were trained -- away from the galaxy's sight, beyond the knowledge of even their dearest loved ones.
"It means my skills will be used to serve the empire," he replied. "I accept that duty."
|-|
"Niflung Boar"= Niflung Boar
The boy slipped through the undergrowth. Leaves tickled against his skin. Branches scratched at it. But he ignored them. He was a Niflung, and there was no softness about him.
His keen eyes scoured the ground for signs of his quarry. His ears clasped at any sound which might betray its movements among the trees and bushes. There was a spear in his hands, its barbed steel head ready to taste blood.
The animal he sought was dangerous. He knew he could become the hunted instead of the hunter in an instant, be gored and torn by the boar's savage tusks. But such thoughts didn't trouble him any more than the scratching of the branches. He had no fear of death. And besides, the greatest hunter in the universe was close at hand to aid him.
"Look, Ragnar," his mother whispered.
He followed her pointing finger. The tracks of hooves, partly hidden by fallen leaves and the tangled roots of nearby trees. The boy would never have spotted them on his own. His mother was a remarkable woman.
They crept onwards, following the trail. The woman took the lead now. Her body was swift and agile in spite of the powerful warrior muscle it bore. Her long, silent strides ate the ground. He hurried to keep up with her.
A sharp orange edge gleamed in the light that fell between the branches. Her axe was ready in her hands, hungry for the taste of blood.
She came to a sudden stop. The boy halted as well.
"The tracks..." she said. "They..."
A terrible growl tore through the forest and echoed down Ragnar's spine. Something large and terrible burst from the bushes and hurtled at his mother.
Ragnar cried out. It wasn't the cry of a frightened child that left his lips. Not a terrified scream, as any boy might have been expected to issue when he saw a huge, vicious boar's tusks thrusting forth to tear his mother's flesh.
It was a war cry. And the boy himself wasn't far behind it.
His barbed spearhead flashed once, before it found its berth in the boar's hide -- driven into its thick muscles by Ragnar's impossible, desperate strength.
The animal screeched. Rage and pain blended together in a half-squeal, half-roar. Its mighty body snapped round, tearing the spear from the boy's hands. Its wild, angry eyes fastened on him with promises of brutal vengeance and gruesome destruction.
A second war cry echoed through the forest. This one too was the harbinger of a weapon. The orange-edged axe descended.
The boar turned, its hooves digging furrows in the ground. It wasn't fast enough.
Another squeal. But only for a moment. Then it flopped onto its side with a heavy thud. Four hooves scrabbled at the air as though they could find purchase there.
The axe rose and fell once more. Blood splashed across the axe, across the woman, and across the boy. Then the creature lay still.
His mother smiled.
"Your kill, Ragnar."
"I only wounded it."
"Before it could take me. That makes the kill yours."
His eyes gleamed.
He moved to the carcass, that mass of dark flesh which seemed terrible and dangerous even in death, and reached out for his spear.
"No," his mother said. "You deserve a better weapon in your hands."
She held out her axe.
"Happy birthday, Ragnar."
</tabber>