Page one, of the book that was. My story now starts 80 ms pages later, and is no longer first person. Meet Dr. Ben Alexander–who back then was Dr. Mark Gawlownskey. (don’t ask)
I’m no fool. I didn’t belong down here. But if necessity is the mother of invention, desperation fathers recklessness. Since I needed the berth so badly, I’d thought I should meet this captain on his own ground.
Good thinking, back on the Shaman. Now I was having second thoughts. Most of the structures on this spaceport were dilapidated. But here the people were falling apart as well. I tried to stay in the light, squinting at dingy signs as I passed. Hardly any of the holos were in working order. That might be a good thing, considering some of the depictions…Something flew past my head, landed in the dust three meters away.
“And stay out!” a human voice shouted, as the launcher stepped through the door beside me, raised tentacles into the air and whistled triumph–or threat–from a half-meter beak. It clacked twice, then darted inside. I ran to the man.
“Are you all right, Private?” No blood on his Corps fatigues, the creature hadn’t used its natural weapons. Thank God. The Marine sat up, shaking off my arm.
“I’m no’ drunk!”
“Of course not, friend. You’ve simply forgotten how to walk.”
He snorted. “Hain’t. Watch.” He wobbled slowly to his feet. “See?” he demanded, and skimmed his hair in an attempted salute. I returned it.
“As you were. I’ll bet two beers you can’t make it all the way to your ship.”
“Hmmph. Ye’re on.” He staggered off, singing. “Oh, girlie-girl, where ha’ you gone, wi’ your eyes so big ‘n’ your legs so long? Wi’ your–”
His voice lingered long after his body disappeared into the dimness of station-night. I fought a sneeze as I dusted myself off. He’d get home all right. If I’d learned one thing in years of caring for Marines, it was that they could out-stubborn an Alorian growing rock. And if we ever met again, he’d remember to claim the beer.
It took a few moments before I noticed the sign I stood under. A brightly glowing comet, with a beer mug in one rocky hand and a redhead in the other, careened about a tiny sun. The Wayward Comet.
Jimmy, usually reliable, had heard of a freighter captain using this bar to seek a crew. I knew him to be misguided, mischievous, even mysterious when up to something, but he was also my friend, and seldom mistaken.
The only remaining question was if I wanted a berth enough to risk the beaked stump with the tentacles.