"Permission granted to dock on level ten, section thirty," the reedy-voiced Kitnock said. "Follow the beacon."
Trag stared at the viewscreen wondering how anything that looked like a
collection of twigs could possibly need a mouth that big in order to feed itself, but he was distracted when a red light began pulsing at one of the points of the crystal. Aiming the ship toward it, he was momentarily startled by a soft jolt on the controls. "Looks like someone installed a damn tractor beam since we were here last," he growled in disgust.
"You can't blame me for scratched paint this time."
"Lucky you," Lerotan said. "Guess I'll have to find something else to blame you for."
"Like what?" Trag demanded.
Lerotan cocked his head to one side and pursed his lips as though trying to
remember. Then his eyes widened in surprise. "Do you know, I've never had the slightest bit of trouble with you? Never had to bust you out of jail, patch you up after a fight, or pay off a woman you got too rough with."
"No shit," Trag grumbled. "If I'm so wonderful, then why the hell don't you pay me more?"
"I suppose I should," Lerotan said amiably. "Doesn't mean I will, but--"
"Just forget it, Leroy. You pay me plenty."
"No, I don't."
"Yeah, but I get to see the galaxy."
Lerotan laughed. "Now that you mention it, I'm probably paying you too much--
and don't call me Leroy."
Trag leaned back in his chair and scowled up at his boss, but his expression
brightened as the ship slid into the airlock with a loud screech. "There goes the paint.
Leroy."
Lerotan shrugged and tried to hide his displeasure, but the twitching of his leonine tail gave him away.
Trag tried to focus his mind on shutting down the engines, but Kyra's memory
was still there to tease him. Smiling at him. Laughing at one of his jokes. Rolling her eyes at what a poor musician he was. He was fairly certain no one suspected--certainly not any of his shipmates, who were as rough a band of mercenaries as you might find anywhere in the galaxy--but he was beginning to tire of the charade. He was tired of going into spaceport bars and feigning interest in the women who frequented such places. Tired of going through the motions when one of them smelled good enough to give him an
erection. Sometimes he fucked them just because he could, but it wasn't what he was looking for, mainly because what he wanted apparently didn't exist--a woman who could make him forget Kyra.
Chapter 2
Micayla met Windura for lunch as promised, but her hopes that Windura might
help her hunt for a man she'd only seen for a moment were dashed in light of the
direction he'd taken.
"You need to steer clear of sections twenty-eight and twenty-nine," Windura warned briskly. "The worst scumbags in the quadrant hang out down there."
Micayla looked over at her new friend with a slightly jaundiced eye. "I've seen scumbags before. This isn't my first post, you know. Besides, you've been down there and you obviously survived."
"Yes, but I'm a bit more streetwise than you, and not nearly as pretty. You might get kidnapped and sold as a slave."
Confident in her fighting skills, Micayla snorted her skepticism. "You've got to be kidding me."
"Oh, no," Windura assured her. "There are slave ships that dock here. It isn't advertised, of course--and Commander Beontal would have a fit if he knew about it--but it happens."
"Well, maybe you should tell the commander that," Micayla suggested. "If he's trying to clean up the corruption here, getting rid of the slavers would be a good place to start."
"Yes, but it might also get me in trouble with the slavers," Windura pointed out.
"And they are not the kind of people you want to piss off."
"You're probably right about that," Micayla agreed, "but at least they don't come to this part of the station." Sighing, she went on, "I'd really like to find that guy, though--
if for no other reason than to get a closer look at him."
Windura cocked her head to one side. "Why--was he that handsome?"
"I couldn't tell," Micayla replied. "Dana said he was, but what's even more interesting is that she thought he and I might be the same species."
"Really?" Windura said, her curiosity clearly piqued. "I know you don't know what you are, but there's something about you that seems so familiar to me." She stopped there, shaking her head. "I just can't seem to remember..."
"Got a cat?" Micayla prompted.
"No," Windura replied. "Why do you ask?"
"The kids back home always said I looked like one."
"And this man did too, huh?"
"Yes, and according to Dana, he could purr like a kitten."
"And you can do that?"
"Sometimes," Micayla replied. "But I have to be in a certain mood." There was only one thing that could put her in that mood, but this was a subject she preferred to avoid. She focused on Windura instead, noting her slanted ears and forehead ridges. "Can Vessonians purr?"
"No," Windura replied with a giggle. "And we don't have any magical powers,
either--although some people think I have a positive effect on their computers. What about you? Can you do anything besides purr?"
"If I tell you, you'll think I'm crazy," Micayla said, shaking her head.
"Try me," Windura said, taking a bite of her sandwich. "I've met lots of crazy people."
Micayla ran a finger down the side of her frosty glass. "Well, as long as you don't mind one more," she began tentatively, lowering her voice.
Windura leaned forward, clearly intrigued, and Micayla glanced around at the
crowded cafeteria, hoping the general din of a hundred other conversations was enough to drown out the one in which she was currently engaged. "I sometimes know things and I don't know how I know them. Does that make sense?"
"I dunno," said Windura. "What sort of things?"
"Like this station, for example. I'd never been here before--never even seen a hologram of it--but I knew what it looked like before I got here. Even knew where things were without looking at a diagram."
"That's pretty weird," Windura admitted, "but convenient. At least you'll never get lost--and you'll always know where sections twenty-eight and twenty-nine are."
"I suppose so."
"Ever see the man of your dreams?"
"Only in my dreams," Micayla said with a rueful smile.
"Or the park," Windura suggested.
"I don't know that he was the man of my dreams," Micayla said. "I just noticed him, that's all." She couldn't help but think there was more to it than that, though. That arrow to her heart had to mean something...
"Ever been in love?"
Micayla ran a hand through her curls, feeling the sting of tears just as she always did when she thought about Adam. He was cute and funny and she'd liked him a lot--
perhaps even loved him a little--which made it that much harder to bear when he told her he was going to look elsewhere for love. She couldn't blame him for wanting to find a girlfriend who actually appreciated his lovemaking efforts rather than merely tolerating them, but it still hurt. "Not really," she replied. "But I keep looking."
"Might help if you could find a male of your own species," Windura said, "which might also explain why you'd feel so compelled to find that man you saw this morning."
Tapping her chin thoughtfully, she added, "Too bad you don't know what to look for.
Ever done any research?"
Micayla laughed shortly. "Are you kidding? Of course I have! And my
stepmother did too. She tried to discover what I was when she first brought me to Earth, but she never found a thing. I was practically a baby at the time, so I couldn't tell her much."
"And how did she wind up with you?"
"My real mother handed me off to Rulie just before she and the rest of my family were gunned down in a spaceport. Rulie never told me where it was. I think she was afraid I'd go looking for the killers or something."
"How awful!" Windura exclaimed. "I--I can't imagine what that would feel like."
Windura sat quietly, as though playing the scenario through her mind. Then her
expression darkened and she shuddered slightly. "I know one thing; I'd want to hunt
down whoever did that to my family." She took a bite of her sandwich and chewed it thoughtfully before she spoke again. "Still, if you were a baby at the time, that had to have been at least twenty years ago. Have you checked into it lately?"
"No," Micayla replied. "I'd love to be able to write something other than
'unknown' in the slot for Planet of Origin on an application, but to tell you the truth, as I've gotten older, I've begun to wonder if it's such a good idea. I mean, what if it turns out that I'm descended from an ancient species of killer cats--the kind that have been hunted down and shot on sight for centuries?"
"Well, that might explain why there are so few of you left," Windura agreed, "and I can see why it would make you a bit leery, but nobody is going to be hunting someone like you, Micayla. You're no killer."
Micayla shrugged. "True, but Rulie wasn't crazy about me taking a post so far from Earth, which makes me wonder if she knows something I don't."
Windura laughed. "My mother didn't want me to work here either, so it's not like you're alone in that." Downing the last of her Rubean punch, she went on, "I still think it's worth looking into. Computers are my thing; I might be more successful--and who
knows? I might even be able to find your mystery man."
"But you might also find trouble."
Windura eyed her speculatively. "Willing to take that risk?"
A hazy memory of that tragic day when she lost her family in the spaceport
surfaced briefly, only to be replaced by the compelling image of the man in the park.
Micayla felt a pang near her heart and, suddenly, her concerns vanished without a trace.
If nothing else, he was worth the risk. "Yes," she said firmly. "I believe I am."
***
before had been that the place was trying too hard not to stink. A potent perfume wafted from the ventilators as he and his shipmates stepped through the double hatch on the airlock, and Trag's sensitive nose was the first to rebel. Sneezing violently, he motioned for the others to go on without him.
"What the hell's the matter with you?" Rodan had asked. "Don't like what you smell?"
"No!" Trag exclaimed. "And you wouldn't either if you had any sense of smell at all."
Rodan just grinned, revealing several large gaps in his stained teeth. As the ship's first officer, Rodan was as coarse as Lerotan was charming. Big, bald, tattooed, and fond of wearing leather and chains, Rodan hailed from a planet that must have smelled even worse than the station because the natives never seemed to notice just how bad they smelled themselves. At least, Rodan didn't. Trag had a hard time being in the same room with him. Most women didn't like him and even though he was rumored to be extremely well-endowed, they usually steered clear of him after one encounter. Apparently there was such a thing as being too big.
His other companion, aside from Lerotan, was Hidar, The Equalizer's medical
officer and cook. Hidar was Scorillian--a hideous species of tall bipedal insects with translucent green wings and a triangular head--and, as such, had women the galaxy over avoiding him like the plague for which his planet was famous.
Having recovered from his sneezing fit, Trag followed the flashing lights on the
walls of the corridor advertising the various shops on the main deck. He had no use for most of their wares; all he really wanted was some fresh fruit, though he doubted he would find it so deep in space. Darconians were vegetarian and ate their food fresh and uncooked, and, as their slave, he had been fed the same way. As a result, Trag had a hard time adjusting to the uncertain diet on board The Equalizer; he had to be almost starving before he ate anything Hidar cooked. It was always spicy, greasy, and sat in his stomach like a grenade just waiting to explode. Trag had always considered it ironic, but convenient, that Hidar was both the ship's cook and medic; after his cooking made you sick, he could treat your bellyache.
Another relic of his life on Darconia was that Trag was cold all the time. After
twenty years on a hot, desert planet where he wore nothing but two jeweled collars--one around his neck and the other around his genitals--he still hadn't acclimated enough to wear anything less than two layers of clothing and a heavy cloak. His brother performed on stage stripped down to nothing but a pair of low-slung, skin-tight pants, but rock stars like Tychar had hot lights and plenty of physical activity to keep them warm. Off stage, he was usually freezing his nuts off too.
Reaching the end of the corridor, Trag's senses were assaulted by the noise,
smoke, flashing lights, and mingled odors of a variety of different life-forms all mixed in together. Despite the immense size of the place, it seemed crowded as beings of all kinds jostled their way through the wide aisle between the vendors. There were hideous
Cylopeans selling what appeared to be shrunken heads, Drells demonstrating the virtues of their hair tonic, a black-scaled Nerik hawking tracking devices, fish-lipped Norludians beckoning to customers with their sucker-tipped fingers and urging them to buy a vial of Essence Preservative (which, rumor had it, was simply their own urine), Kitnocks selling clothes that wouldn't fit any other species, and of course, numerous merchants selling weapons, along with spare parts for just about any type of starship made in the known galaxy. The booths selling food had the most disgusting array Trag had ever seen--some of it still alive and wriggling.
"Great Mother of the Desert!" Trag muttered. "Doesn't anyone have any fuckin'
fruit?"
Then there were the hookers. Their alcove was draped with rich fabrics beyond
which he could see the plush cushions that covered the floor. Painted, jeweled, and, for all intents and purposes, naked, these exotic beauties hailed from almost every planet in the quadrant and shook their tits at him as he approached. Most had the usual two, but some had four, and one bizarre-looking woman with big, dark eyes had eight.