Arlenia Tavira
Jun 14th, 2002, 06:51:07 AM
She pulled up a stool at the bar, then motioned for Naakh to do the same. The meter-tall noghri complied, hissing discouragingly as he pulled himself up to the tall stool. The bartender shook an insectile head at the sight, and she caught his eye.
"What is it, buddy, you don't like noghri?" she asked, keeping a harsh tone.
The bartender began a high-pitched squeal, and a dirty-looking vocoder mounted at the top of the bar processed the sound into Basic.
"No weapons in here."
She nodded, handing Naakh a concealed vibro-blade and telling him to wait outside.
"What do you want to drink? I'll bring it out to you," she called after the small alien.
"Talijgh fruuuijt bleeel," he hissed, and scampered outside.
"Make it two," she said to the bartender and plopped some credit chits on the table. The bartender was already mixing the drinks, seven arms going every which way from glasses to ingredients to a blender and a tap, while the last remaining arm counted the chits.
In a short while, the drinks were done. She took one out to Naakh, fingering the engravings on the glasses on the way.
"Thaaankss," he hissed, and she walked back inside.
To find a man sitting in her seat.
An old, ugly, dirty man, at that.
Missing an eye.
And half a leg.
"Get up," she snapped, "or I'll kick what's left of your ass outta here."
The man grinned. "You got someone to keep you warm tonight, doll?" he leered at her.
"With a line like that, I'm guessing you don't," she retorted, nudging his stool and moving it away at a snail's pace. The cripple was heavy.
"That's true," he replied, indifferent, as he nursed a synthohol. He lowered his voice, kneeling in closer to her. "But I know an Invid when I see one."
She stopped nudging his stool, shrugged, and put a vacant one into her spot at the bar. "How would you know who is and isn't an Invid?"
He gazed through the wall of the bar, sipping his synthohol, then licking his lips clean. Reminiscing. "Your mother was a helluva woman."
"Was," she emphasized, and a part of her grinned at that retort. She sipped her bleel, forcing that thought back down.
"I owed your mother a thing or two before she had her...accident. You need something, you can ask old Harrv for a favor. This spacer may have a few tricks left unturned. For Leonia's sake, at least."
The old man reached into his pocket, pulling out a small cigarra. He paused, then cursed silently.
"You gotta light, doll?" he asked, and his features softened.
She pulled a very small blaster-like device from her pocket, and the insectoid bartender started wailing, the vocoder struggling to keep up. Without a word, she leaned over to the old spacer, who by now had his hands up, and activated the device. His cigarra glowed, and a small plume of smoke emerged from the tip. The old spacer put his hands down, and the bartender shut up.
"Heh, nice gag," he said, puffing on his cigarra.
"I've got a last name," she said, and he stared at her.
"Most humans do. You'll get used to it."
"Prent."
His reaction was less than subtle.
"I take it from that jawdropitude that you know him," she said.
"I don't know him, but I know people who know people who know him. I also know that I know people who know people who don't want to know people who know him."
"You're a poet, Harrv. Pass it on to the right people?"
"I'll try. Why do you wanna see him, anyhow?"
"I wish I knew."
She took a card from a pocket of her boot, and handed it to the old spacer.
"Artis Seven gal-plaza. I'll be there for the next three rotations," she said to the old man, and without a further word, walked out of the bar.
"Next cycle, then," Harrv whistled.
"What is it, buddy, you don't like noghri?" she asked, keeping a harsh tone.
The bartender began a high-pitched squeal, and a dirty-looking vocoder mounted at the top of the bar processed the sound into Basic.
"No weapons in here."
She nodded, handing Naakh a concealed vibro-blade and telling him to wait outside.
"What do you want to drink? I'll bring it out to you," she called after the small alien.
"Talijgh fruuuijt bleeel," he hissed, and scampered outside.
"Make it two," she said to the bartender and plopped some credit chits on the table. The bartender was already mixing the drinks, seven arms going every which way from glasses to ingredients to a blender and a tap, while the last remaining arm counted the chits.
In a short while, the drinks were done. She took one out to Naakh, fingering the engravings on the glasses on the way.
"Thaaankss," he hissed, and she walked back inside.
To find a man sitting in her seat.
An old, ugly, dirty man, at that.
Missing an eye.
And half a leg.
"Get up," she snapped, "or I'll kick what's left of your ass outta here."
The man grinned. "You got someone to keep you warm tonight, doll?" he leered at her.
"With a line like that, I'm guessing you don't," she retorted, nudging his stool and moving it away at a snail's pace. The cripple was heavy.
"That's true," he replied, indifferent, as he nursed a synthohol. He lowered his voice, kneeling in closer to her. "But I know an Invid when I see one."
She stopped nudging his stool, shrugged, and put a vacant one into her spot at the bar. "How would you know who is and isn't an Invid?"
He gazed through the wall of the bar, sipping his synthohol, then licking his lips clean. Reminiscing. "Your mother was a helluva woman."
"Was," she emphasized, and a part of her grinned at that retort. She sipped her bleel, forcing that thought back down.
"I owed your mother a thing or two before she had her...accident. You need something, you can ask old Harrv for a favor. This spacer may have a few tricks left unturned. For Leonia's sake, at least."
The old man reached into his pocket, pulling out a small cigarra. He paused, then cursed silently.
"You gotta light, doll?" he asked, and his features softened.
She pulled a very small blaster-like device from her pocket, and the insectoid bartender started wailing, the vocoder struggling to keep up. Without a word, she leaned over to the old spacer, who by now had his hands up, and activated the device. His cigarra glowed, and a small plume of smoke emerged from the tip. The old spacer put his hands down, and the bartender shut up.
"Heh, nice gag," he said, puffing on his cigarra.
"I've got a last name," she said, and he stared at her.
"Most humans do. You'll get used to it."
"Prent."
His reaction was less than subtle.
"I take it from that jawdropitude that you know him," she said.
"I don't know him, but I know people who know people who know him. I also know that I know people who know people who don't want to know people who know him."
"You're a poet, Harrv. Pass it on to the right people?"
"I'll try. Why do you wanna see him, anyhow?"
"I wish I knew."
She took a card from a pocket of her boot, and handed it to the old spacer.
"Artis Seven gal-plaza. I'll be there for the next three rotations," she said to the old man, and without a further word, walked out of the bar.
"Next cycle, then," Harrv whistled.