Disclaimer: This is a work of gay themed erotic fiction. If this material offends you, or you are not legally permitted to read such works, please leave. The opinions and actions of characters do not reflect the opinions and actions of the author. The actions of these characters are meant for entertainment, not emulation or education.
Content Warning: Unprotected sexual actions, and very minor dubious consent.
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Our Star Runner, Jack Beaucul, was tasked by the very Pope himself to discover the secrets of the Stardust by going to the agrarian planet Dagda and learn why the device had a map to that planet. But before he can get there, he must make a quick stop at the Mining Station Shepard III, to find someone who can forge him a work permit that will allow him to freely explore Dagda.
Chapter V 10:47 a.m. 7751-5-5 Mining Station Shepard III, Gamma Arietes
"Oh God! Oh Fuck!"
"You like that ass?"
"Oh, Fuck yes! You're so damn tight!"
"Best ass in the galaxy, baby!"
"The quality of how satisfying one person's rectum would feel squeezing on another person's penis would actually be a matter of subjectivity. Even if such a quality could be objectively determined, it would be statistically unlikely that you would have the best one. Meaning no offense, Captain."
"Uh-huh."
"Something wrong?"
"Hm?-No you're doing great. Go faster!"
"Yeah, I want my turn already!"
"Shut up, Wright. Like this?"
"Hm-umph. Yeah that's good. Fucking fantastic actually."
"Checking through their most recent medical history, neither of the officers have contracted a sexually transmitted illness in the past three weeks. You did not ask them before engaging in sex, but I assume you still appreciate having this information, Captain."
"Shut up, Taylor."
"What was that?"
"Nothing, just keep going."
"And finish up already. I've been waiting twenty minutes."
"Neither officer Wright or officer Yun is currently in a romantic relationship. I know it did not seem like something you showed interest in inquiring about, Captain, but in the event you would have felt guilt for participating in a physical betrayal of intimate trust, you should know you have no reason to feel bad about anything."
"Mm-hm!" I grunt out.
Having sex is easy. Honestly, it is. All you're doing is rubbing parts together until your brain hits you with a flood of hormones that make you feel amazing (at least for about ten seconds; then you get the post-nut clarity and think about what you're family would say if they saw you getting railed behind an overflowing dumpster- though come to think it, most of my family has probably been in more embarrassing situations. Pretty sure one of my uncles had sex in a dumpster at some point). Sex is easy, but making a guy feel like he is a sex god is a skill. A skill that becomes increasingly challenging when you have an opinionated AI mouthing off in your ear.
My stomach chafes against the cold metal table in the interrogation room, while behind me, officer Yun is pounding wildly into my hole. The guy has no sense of rhythm and isn't really doing much more than grabbing my hips and thrusting, but I'll give him credit where its due, he's lasted over thirty minutes and seems ready to hold out for a bit longer.
Long story short, the sex is pretty boring. Not terrible, just forgettable (if I didn't need something from this guy, I'd probably take out my phone). But all I need to do is gasp and grip the table every so often and this guy thinks he's the best fuck I've ever had. But it's a bit difficult to remember to moan out the occasional "oh fuck" when Taylor's bitching into my ear.
"Are you sure this is pleasurable for you, Captain?" Taylor asks, "When I view him on the security camera, it appears officer Yun does not have an above average endowment."
"Mm-hm" I growl.
"I only mention it, Captain, because based on the average size of the sexual devices you have purchased in the past, officer Yun's penis would not be satisfactory for your enjoyment."
I'll admit, I have a bias towards guys on the larger size range, but a dick is a dick and I won't turn a guy down just because he's a few inches shorter than I'm used to. The main benefit of taking a big dick is it's easier to get off with it even when the guy has no idea what he's doing (trust me; doesn't matter if you're only sporting four inches, if you fuck good, you're leagues above any idiot with a python dangling between his legs). I'm lying if I deny I wish his cock was a bit bigger, cause right now, I'd be at risk of falling asleep if Taylor wasn't being so fucking annoying. I'm seriously about to snap, because of how damn irritating he is.
Just out of the room, officer Wright says "Fuck this," walks in and gets up on the table placing himself in front of me. He unzips his trousers and jams his cock in my mouth. I cough a few times and he flashes his wet teeth at me.
"Yeah, choke on that fat cock, you sexy bastard."
His dick is really average, I only choked because he caught me off guard. Wright fucks my mouth hard and with intention, like a piston pumping an engine at full speed. For five minutes he slams against my throat with a single minded drive to paint my mouth white.
He'd probably get there faster if he'd let me take over. I can put my tongue to very good use on a cock, but not when he's pounding so fast and recklessly. I can feel the flesh inside my cheek being scraped away. This isn't the worst sex I've had, but it's most definitely aiming for that spot (and I can only keep up my fake ecstasy for so long). To ensure I don't fall asleep or suffocate, I decide to be more proactive. I grab officer Wright's hips and push him away. I take a moment to get my breath back, then pull away from officer Yun, who doesn't stop thrusting until he suddenly feels his dick fully pop out of me. I get on top of the table, grab Wright's head and pull his lips to mine. He digs into my throat with his tongue, while I slide myself closer to him until I'm sitting on his lap. I bring my hands down to his sides, causing him to giggle into my mouth; in revenge he grabs at the flesh of my ass, crushing it like a stress toy (and to be fair, this is probably one of the best ways to relieve stress). I disconnect from him and the saliva he was pouring into my mouth drips down onto his chin. I fall back onto the table, getting a slight chill from the cold sweat I left on there when I was getting reamed face down.
Wright starers at me, his beard caked in his own frothy spit, his tongue pointing out between his teeth like a stinger ready to strike. All I have to do is wrap my legs around his waist and he's set to pound away at my hole. He and Yun are about the same size, and he keeps up the violent jackhammer speed he did in my throat, but unlike Yun, Wright has a decent sense of rhythm and can somewhat respond to my ass squeezing on his dick. He has a much better idea of when to ease up and when to slam into my prostate.
I'm pretty satisfied with how this is going so far, so I turn my head to get a look at Yun. Poor guy's just been standing there with his dick hard as iron; his jaw is hanging open and drooling twice as much as his partner (is there anything cuter than a guy being so horny, he literally starts to lose cognitive function?). I reach above my head and grab Yun's cock. He moans as I pull him closer and take him into my mouth.
Now that I'm sucking someone who'll actually let me lead on the blowjob, I'm able to fully demonstrate my abilities (and teach him that sometimes it's best to just sit back and let the professionals do their thing). Our current position has my tongue holding the overside of his cock. It's a bit difficult to work along the piss slit or massage the sensitive underside this way, but all you have to do is take advantage of the novelty of this orientation and the unique pleasure it provides.
I let Wright fuck hard into my ass, using the force to push my throat further onto Yun. I simply roll my tongue on and around the muscle hunk's dick, tickling his shaft and occasionally digging in the foreskin. As a bit of a test I maneuver his dick so it goes under my tongue, rubbing against the underside of his cock-head. I can't really help my teeth scraping his pole, but he lets out a moan that's something between a dog howl and a whale song, so he's at least enjoying it (with all guys, but especially the shy ones, you have to poke and prod them every so often to see what really turns them on. A bit of experimentation can mean the difference between a guy fucking you and then quickly forgetting you, or him screaming out your name twenty years later on his wedding night. I've gotten quite a few angry texts and phone calls from guys I haven't seen for years, furious that I ruined their marriage. Come on man; if sex with your wife is so vanilla that you have to remember the time we fucked in a piss drenched bathroom stall, then that marriage was doomed from the start).
"Even if you are able to satisfy them sexually, there is no guarantee that they will not confiscate the bag containing the Star dust," Taylor says.
I can't stop myself from grumbling out something snide, but my mouth is currently occupied, so it does little more than prompt another orgasmic moan from the security officer.
Unfortunately, Taylor continues to speak "If they don't thoroughly examine your personal belongings, they are liable for termination. Would they not simply lie about not checking the bag, in order to have sex with you, Captain?"
For fuck's sake, Taylor, they could be fired for having sex on the job; if they're employment was a concern then I wouldn't have two dicks inside me right now. I would think that a supposed artificial intelligence would know that. He knows; of course he does. He's just saying whatever it takes to piss me off (a great big "congratulations/ fuck you" to whatever genius prick made an AI capable of getting on your nerves). I groan, annoyed at Taylor, causing Yun to let out another ecstatic moan.
"That feels so damn amazing," he gasps. His whole body starts shaking and he grabs onto my chest for support. Once he steadies himself, he starts squeezing my pecs and pushing onto my nipples like joy-cons on a controller; the stimulation sends shocks of pleasure through my body.
Wright chuckles "the slut fucking loves that, he's squeezing onto my cock so damn good."
He starts fucking me a bit harder and grasps onto my left leg with both arms. Wright rubs his face on my calf, leaving an invisible trail of scratches from his wiry beard and a few drops of saliva where ever his lips touch. I quietly laugh to myself, because he reminds me of the stray cats my dad and I would pet when we went to the park; it always seemed like the one's with the coarsest, scratchiest fur would always be the most affectionate (I guess it applies to the Brits as well).
Once he moves his face to my heel, he opens his mouth, releasing thick droplets of spit onto my leg and runs his tongue along the entire length of my foot. He repeats this motion a few more times, then takes one toe in his mouth, sucking it almost as hard as I'm sucking his partner's cock.
I've never gotten the foot fetish thing (of all the body parts on most species, it's probably one of the least sexy), but it's not a turn off and if it makes him cum, then I have no reason to deny him his pleasure. And given that I can feel his cock spasm like crazy, it seems like that's what's about to happen.
It feels like rivers of spit are running down my leg as the officer slobbers over my foot like it's his favorite bone. He hugs my leg tightly and continues humping away. The feeling of my ass being pounded at with the enthusiasm of a dog and my tits being kneaded like dough, really gets me going. I let my teeth scrape against officer Yun again, sucking him as hard as I can. I pull the security officer into my mouth as far as he'll go, until my lips kiss his smooth pelvis. I then push him off until it's just his cock-head between my teeth, and pull him all the back inside. I slurp down his meat, jerking and twisting my head around to make sure my tongue rubs on every inch of him.
Yun can barely get an intake of breath between the wailing and moaning he's doing, and in a minute he suddenly jumps back when his cock starts blow. I get the tiniest drip of semen on my tongue before he pulls out and splatters my face with hot spunk. He gulps in as much air as he can and wipes off the sweat covering his brow. He slowly goes to sit down, as if there's a chair beneath him, but there isn't one, so he just collapses on the floor; he continues to wipe away sweat which hasn't stopped accumulating on his flushed face.
The security officer still inside me seems to enjoy this display and his fucking morphs into something almost feral. He humps at my ass like he's gone into a rut, while panting and slobbering over my foot until it shines. He grabs my soaked foot and starts to rub it. I first think he's trying to massage my foot, but I realize he is scooping up his own saliva. When his hand is glistening he grabs my cock and starts tugging away. Despite the lubricant, his hand is rough and he lacks dexterity, so the hand job is little more than an impulsive, mechanical jerking (though, credit where it's due, he remembered to make sure I'm getting off too). I didn't have an orgasm since I left Sayfaam and that weird dream with the goat guys has got me pretty horned up, so I should shoot my load pretty quickly (which is good because it feels like Wright is trying to yank the skin off my penis). I jerk my hips upwards and four heavy spurts of cum thud on my chest and stomach. Watching me cover myself in my own sperm puts a lustful glint in officer Wright's eye and he jams into me a few more times before he growls and releases the contents of his balls into my backside. Over all, it was a pretty decent fuck. A solid seven out of ten performance from them both (could've been an eight but it started out pretty dull).
"That ass is something else" Wright rasps out. He nuzzles his cheek up and down my foot, gathering a hefty layer of his own spit in his beard.
"I hope you got everything you needed from your interrogation officer" I smirk.
He kisses my calf "yes, I believe we have everything to satisfy us."
"So then, my bag" I ask. Hopefully he's satisfied with just a quick fuck, but I wouldn't rule out him asking for a second "interrogation" (not that I mind, but I do want to get this visit over with as quick as possible).
"Hm? Oh right," he glances over at the pack I had placed carefully in the corner "I'll get the scanner and a tag for you. Meanwhile, you can get dressed, pet" he gives my ass a light pat and pulls out of me to get the scanner from the security office.
I can't help but smirk when I whisper "will you look at that, Taylor. A half-hour quickie and no issue."
"What?" I hear a voice drone behind me. I glance over my shoulder and spot officer Yun, cock semi-hard and pants halfway down his legs, sitting on the floor with the dumbfounded look of stunned rodent.
"No-no-no, no," he stutters. "Dispatch gave us explicit instructions to carefully examine all of the- um, his belongings and, and properly. Um, we need to, um, write a report and..." he continues on like this for a minute, clearly unaware his partner has left.
In my ear, I hear "I did try to warn you, Captain. You will not be able to manipulate these officers so easily." He says this without even trying to hide his smugness.
I roll my eyes and hop off the table. I stand over the babbling officer and lift him up by his shirt, pulling him into a kiss. He seems shocked by the intrusion of my tongue, his own lying limp as I push it around his mouth, mixing his spit with the cum he left in my mouth just moments ago.
I push him away and say, "you've left me quite a mess" I motion to the jizz on my face and chest (true, some of it is technically mine, but specifics don't matter when it comes to seduction).
I lead him by the shirt to the table, then say "I think it's only fair if you help me clean up a bit," I lounge back onto the table, cold and damp from sweat, spit and cum, and present Yun my tight pucker, dripping with his partner's generous sperm deposit.
He falls on his knees, mouth agape, and hands trembling as they brush across my thighs. I flick my eyes downwards, giving him permission to have at it, or at me, more accurately. He's hesitant to dive in, though obviously not from reluctance; it's more like he's had a tray of dessert shoved in front of him and he's not sure if he's allowed to indulge.
In the end, temptation wins out (as it always does) and he burrows his tongue into my hole. There's a certain satisfaction I take when a guy eats me out after a fuck. The rimming at this stage isn't about getting lubed up to have a cock shoved in me, it is purely some guy dedicated to pleasuring my ass.
He pushes in his tongue as far as it can go, slowly probing every bit of flesh the tip can reach. He curls his tongue and licks up as much cum as he can, scraping it around my anus as he exits. He kisses and gnaws on my rosebud for a minute, then dives in for another taste. His rimming is definitely more sensual than his fucking, which had all the finesse of teen jacking off for the first time; his orgasm seems to have tempered his libido if not relieved it fully.
He pulls out another mouthful of his partner's cum. I catch his gaze for a moment and I use my finger to scoop off some of his cum plastered onto my cheek and suck it clean. He coughs out an airy laugh and hastily returns to tonguing my ass. He bites my cheeks like they're the sweetest fruit and runs his tongue along the length of my ass crack and taint. I lie back and enjoy the tongue bath, while leisurely scooping ball juice off my face and body, savoring the creamy mouth feel.
After a few minutes, officer Wright comes back with the scanner, and reaches for my bag.
"Easy there," I snap. I said that a bit more forceful than I would've liked (I'm not sure why, but the idea of someone else touching the Stardust makes me uncomfortable. I mean, I don't want anyone nicking it but... I don't know. If anyone other than myself dealt with it, would just feel...wrong).
Wright raises an eyebrow, "relax fella. It's just so we have something on record to prove we did the job" and he lazily waves the pad in front of my bag. He lifts it to show me that everything turned up okay. He reaches into his pocket and tosses me a laminated card with a thin wire attached to it.
He comes next to me and says "you're all cleared to go," then he leans onto my shoulder and chews on my ear, while digging one of his fingers into my ass, next to his partner's tongue "unless, of course, you'd like to stay for a more thorough security check" he purrs.
I chuckle and cup his chin "love to. But, I have urgent business."
I let go of Wright's face and gently push Yun's head away. I can't help but smile when I see his tongue sticking out, desperate to get back in my ass. I stand up, forcing Wright's finger out of my hole. I walk over to the corner and grab my bag then go and pick up my flight suit and boots lying in a heap next to it. As I'm bent over, getting my feet through the pant legs, there's a sharp slap and a painful sting from my left ass cheek.
"You know you're going to have to come through this port on your way out of the station," Wright says.
I look behind me and see him strut out of the room like the top rooster on the farm.
He turns back just as the door opens and adds "We work the morning shift. Six to two. If you want to know the best time to depart."
He winks and the door whooshes shut behind him. I finish pulling up my suit and strapping on my boots before securing my precious cargo onto my back. I look over at officer Yun; his tongue isn't sticking out but he's rolling it along the inside of his mouth, trying to lick up any residual cum. He doesn't react to me approaching and continues to lick at the inside of his mouth, staring dumbly at the sweat-drenched table.
I crouch down and ask, "so where do I go to get the train?"
He blinks like I just shook him from a nap, "uh... just go out back to the main port and follow the right-hand wall until you reach an entry marked... marked terminal five. There will be a queue to get on the train."
I say "thanks," and pat him on the head as I start walking through the door.
Yun still sounds zoned out when he says "You're supposed to-we were told to escort you to the, um, the-the, um, terminal thing and... "I don't bother waiting to hear what he says (and he doesn't stop me from leaving. He's probably still processing his post-nut clarity).
"Sorry Taylor, were you telling me `I told you so' about something?"
"I was merely concerned for your safety, Captain. Next time I will be certain to factor in your ability to sexually manipulate people, when calculating if you are in immediate danger," he says.
I halt in my tracks "was that an attempt at sarcasm, Taylor?"
"No, Captain."
"Good, because it was fucking pathetic if it was."
"I do not believe I could ever use sarcasm against someone as intelligent as you, Captain" he answers.
I legitimately have to consider if blowing up the Etoile is worth not having to listen to Taylor. I'm joking. The AI's annoying but I love my baby too much to harm him (but believe me, gutting the console and ripping out whatever piece of hardware Taylor's latched himself to, has definitely crossed my mind). I continue following the wall, moving past rickety junkers and luxury crafts adorned with golden art deco filigree and every wealth bracket between those two. I hear the terminal before I see it; security officers yelling everyone to get in a line, shrieking children and their equally shrill parents, and screaming matches between the terminal clerks and the angry travelers. I turn into the large entryway but bump into an undulating mass of sweaty, loud bodies shoving and pushing against each other in vain attempts to reach some shape of uniformity. People who try to stay on a line that looks like its a straight shot to the front find themselves being herded to a clerk on the opposite side of the atrium. Security personnel are interspersed throughout the crowd yelling, at no one in particular, to get in a line and stay there (it sounded less like a command directed at the crowd than a helpless plea to the universe to add some sort of order to the pandemonium of the overwhelming throng).
"Fuck," I mutter "where do I even start?"
"I can view the security feed and calculate which line is the shortest and where it begins, if you'd like Captain" Taylor says.
"You can figure all that out, but you can't figure out when to shut your goddamn mouth?"
"I apologize if my talking has ever been disruptive to you, Captain. I only desire to assist you and address your needs as they arise."
"You wanna help Taylor? Next time when I'm being spit-roasted, how about you-" I spot an open pocket around one of the clerks, with only a single person in line "-found it!"
I cut through the crowd, curving around visitors stuck in place by the gross number of people milling about the atrium, and I push past a couple that looks ready to divorce because they can't pick a line to get in. Apart from some retaliatory shove backs, shouts of "wanker", and the occasional groping of my crotch and butt, I make it through the crowd with little trouble. I get up right behind the only other man in line, though I quickly realize why no one in this bloated crowd has even attempted to wait for this window.
"You madame- if one can even apply such a polite and gentle term to such an odious creature, as yourself- are being completely unreasonable and extremely rude! I have done nothing to incur such hostility- no, that's too delicate a word- I shall go so far as to call it cruelty! Tell me one reason, one simple singular reason that would give you purpose to treat me like some foul devilish wretch? Hm?! What is it, madame? I am waiting!"
The plump and bespectacled woman, tucks a strand of thin hair into her bun and asks plainly, "do you have a security tag?"
The guy huffs "no, but-"
"You can't get into the station without a security tag... like I keep saying" she takes a sip from a mug painted with cartoon cats dressed in business suits and carrying briefcases.
The man huffs again and slams his case on the ground. He turns to me, puffing and scoffing with indignation, looking to me for sympathy in his plight and when I don't provide, he puffs even louder. He's one of those posh, stuffy business types that have gray hair and crow's feet even though they've barely reached forty; the guys who if they had their ties any tighter, they'd asphyxiate in seconds. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath then turns up his nose so high, a slight breeze could tip him over.
Keeping his back to the clerk he says, "Madame, I am a distinguished member of your country's nobility, with many friends and acquaintances in the House of Lords. I am seeking investment opportunities with the Millican Mining Corporation, a venture that will bring much prosperity to this station and, more importantly, England. And with my significant influence in parliament, I can help provide many advantageous opportunities to this organization if I am treated in a manner befitting of a gentleman," he turns around and presses the tip of his nose on the glass, "and likewise, I can enact severe limitations and hindrances upon this establishment if I continue to be treated in such a foul and abrasive manner. So, I think it best madame, that you immediately apologize with the utmost sincerity, and let me through this instant!"
She takes a long slurp of her drink while returning the bastard's icy glare, and says "I sincerely apologize sir... that I still can't give you a ticket without a security pass."
The bastard growls and slaps his palm on the glass, shouting all manner of profanities (which, in my opinion, did not sound very gentlemanly). The clerk takes another sip from her cat mug and reaches under her desk, pulling out a small tin, she opens it and nibble on a small cookie (or biscuit as they'd call it here).
"Should I calculate the shortest line for you now, Captain?" Taylor asks.
"Nah, this will be over pretty soon, and besides, why would I want to skip out on a free show?" I whisper.
After finishing her second biscuit, the clerk says "Sir, you're going to need to find the security officer that checked your bags and have them reprint a tag for you."
He growls "I did not receive a tag to begin with, because they did not check my belongings."
"Oh," she says "well they shouldn't have done that. I could've called down an officer and gotten your bags checked ages ago.'
He huffs "let me be clear, they did not check my belongings because I did not allow them. I will not permit any of your brutish personnel to rummage through my property. I am a man of dignity and I deserve to be respected as such;" he straightens his jacket and mutters "and the last thing I should be concerned about is your neanderthal security damaging and likely stealing my possessions."
The woman swirls whatever little bit of drink is left in her mug and asks "So you don't have a clearance tag because you wouldn't let anyone check your bags, and now that you know I can only give you a ticket if you possess a security tag, which requires that we search your bags, you still won't let us search your bags?"
"Yes."
The woman stares into her mug as if the residue of her drink will divine the answer of how to deal with this insane bastard.
She glances up, "I'm sorry flower, but I'm really not sure how I can help you."
"You-y-you-you-" he splutters.
"Look love, while you try working out this paradox, why don't you move aside and let this fella go ahead, okay?" she points to me.
The prick's head whips around and glares at me, like I'm the one holding his ticket hostage. He sizes me up and zeroes in on my bulging crotch, and puts on a face of utter revulsion (a look commonly used by insecure guys to mask their agonizing arousal. It's been almost three-thousand years since Puritans last blighted the galaxy with their existence, but still to this day we have closet cases trying to overcompensate and bash the same people they probably fantasize about when they grind their little pecker in their wife's leathery snatch).
He whips around to the clerk, and shouts "do you not know who I am?! I have shown you my identification card, my business card, my passport, and document containing a comprehensive tree of my family dating all the way back to the Normans-"
"And in all that showing off, I didn't see a security tag, but go on" she mumbles.
He catches a growl in his throat and swallows it down before continuing, "I am an esteemed member of nobility and England's civilized society. You should be honored to even be in the presence of a gentleman such as my self."
He stares at this woman for a minute, willing her to obey him through the force of his glare alone. But the clerk gives him nothing but silence and look of ennui.
Tired and exasperated, he pleads with her "as a fellow countryman and loyal subject of her majesty, won't you let me through?"
"Gladly, if my fellow countryman gets a security tag from one of her majesty's loyal subjects who make up our port's security," she says smiling at him.
Naturally, this exemplar of patience and decorum in the English nobility blows up in another tantrum of threats and profanity.
Taylor speaks in my ear, "Whenever you would like me to search for another line Captain, I'm ready."
"Don't bother. I got this," and tap the screaming prick in front of me.
"'Scuse me pal, but I kinda have somewhere to be so if ya don't mind..." I gesture for him to step aside.
His face boils to a deep crimson, and he hisses "how dare you! I was here first, so I have the right to be served until I am satisfied, and I most certainly have not been satisfied. These are the rules all people who exist under a civilized society must adhere to. Do you Americans have no civility?!"
I mutter "Well, I tried the polite way," and I give the guy a quick right hook. He tumbles across the floor a few feet while clutching his cheek, wailing in agony (I didn't even hit him that hard. He's either pathetically fragile or he's hamming it up hoping to gather a sympathetic crowd he can turn against me. I'm not sure which scenario is more pathetic).
I roll my eyes and walk up to the window, she smiles and asks "what can I do for you pet?"
"I'm looking to get into the first ward."
"Alright then love, have you got a security tag somewhere?"
"Shit," I sigh. I'd been enjoying the joie maligne of watching the posh bastard lose his shit, I forgot to make sure I have the thing that he was bitching about.
I try to explain "Look, I don't think I have that. There was this whole stupid thing with a scanner and-"
She cuts me off, "isn't that it in your hand love?"
I look in my left hand and see the laminated card on a metal string Wright gave to me, "you mean this?"
"Yes, yes. Just give it here, love."
I slip the card through a small opening in her window, and she takes out a small scanner gun. It beeps and lights up green. She presses a few keys on her computer and prints out a small slip of paper.
She smiles as she passes the paper and tag back to me, "all set then, love. Just head right towards the big hallway and that'll lead you to the train."
"THIS... IS...AN... OUTRAGE!!!" the posh bastard screams (he probably intended it to sound threatening, but it just reminds me of those bitchy old broads in the grocery store who nag the cashier because the item they want isn't on sale this week).
He bangs both fists on the window yelling, "I was in line first, and I was in the middle of being serviced, as should be expected in any ordered and civilized society. So when this-this... this brute, assaults me, you simply allow him to take my place, as if we exist state of barbarism, where violence is the only respectable form of engagement?"
He glares and shoves me away from the window (I guess its considered polite and civil when he gets physical) and says to the clerk, "I expect you understand, madame, that I am well acquainted with her most royal majesty, the queen, and I am friends with many of her closest confidants. If I were you, I would dread to think what wrath I could incur by deeply offending someone who has her highness' ear. What would you say to our beloved queen if she were here right now?"
"I'd tell her I'd need to see her security tag, if she wants a boarding pass."
The asshole's face gets as hot as a plasma bolt before he screams "Security!"
He marches off towards the nearest officer, the one being crushed between two lines going in opposite directions. The officer doesn't react to the bastard's shrill whining, as he's too distracted by the chaotic crowd (or, more likely, he's pretending not to notice so he doesn't have to deal with that asshole's bitching). Once the self-important douche-bag is far enough away, the void around the booth is quickly filled by travelers taking advantage of his absence.
Someone calls from a few booths down "fifty-four minutes. That's under an hour. You owe me a hundred DICs, Shannon."
The clerk turns to her left, "that was if he gave up. He was punched out of the way by this fella here."
The voice yells back, "that's a cop out. You owe me a hundred."
Shannon answers, "fifty, split the difference. How's that sound."
"Fifty and you buy me a cuppa every morning for the next month."
Shannon sighs "You're impossible, you are Sybil. Alright, it's a deal" she glances back at me, "well don't just stand there, being all daft. Off you go, flower."
She calls the next person in line as I head off toward the boarding platform. Behind me, I catch the posh guy's whinging towards the security officer turn into shrill indignation at the line that formed while he wasn't looking.
"Good to know that rich spoiled bastards will still be rich spoiled bastards even after they get knocked down a few times" I mutter.
"At least the locals seem friendly, Captain" Taylor says.
Friendly works out fine for getting into the city, but once I'm there, I'm going to need to find people who actually know a thing or two about the Art (and if they hang around the Art, then some of them are definitely not going to be nice). The walk through the terminal gate and the passage is quick; with the back up at the windows, only a small trickle of people seem to be getting through to the trains. Farther down the hall, another security officer is directing people on to three different lines, one continuing straight ahead through the hall, the second up a set of stairs and a third onto an elevator. After two business looking types are directed down the hall, I walk up.
He barely looks up from his screen when he asks "traveling alone or with others?"
"Just me."
"Well you are traveling with me, Captain" Taylor says (though I don't think it's smart idea to mention the irritating AI stuck in my ear).
"Any weapons I should know about?"
I left my gun on my ship. I was hesitant to do it, but I'm carrying Stardust so there's no reason to draw attention to myself by bringing a firearm. Shepard III is one of those very old mining facilities where families have lived for hundreds of years. They don't like outsiders coming in to work for cheap and they especially don't like armed outsiders. So with much reluctance, I'm going in unarmed.
"No, no weapons."
He motions for my boarding pass, I hold it out and he scans it, "alright, just head into the lift and wait for the guys upstairs to seat you."
I nod and head into the empty elevator. It's a short ride and it let's out onto a wide walkway. I peer over the railing where I see another walkway directly below me, and below that is a pathway which seems to connect to the main hall. There's a train at the end of the walkway, but it's parked on a vertical track that dives down a dark chasm about a hundred meters across. In the distance I see other tracks and walkways with their own glossy white trains suspended over the abyss. Rather than each car having one large chamber for seating, each car has three cylindrical chambers. One of the cylinders is open to my walkway and has a row of ten seats inside; presumably the other walkways below had the other cylinders on the car open to them. Ahead of me were two more guys in business attire, both carrying plain black suitcases. There's another security officer instructing them on how to properly fasten themselves in (I notice one of the guys does a quick double take at me, and has to awkwardly ask the guard to repeat himself).
They get settled in as I approach and the officer says "you came just in time for the window seat, friend. Just sit down and place your bag in the compartment in front of the seat."
I tighten my fist around the strap and say "Is it okay if I just keep it on?"
He gives me a funny look, "I mean, you can. It might not be the most comfortable, but it looks like it will fit."
Again, I just feel more comfortable with the Stardust on my person; I wouldn't have to worry about it, being in a compartment right in front of me but like when I took it off in the security, it would've felt weird. It wasn't a bad feeling but it was sort of like taking off a watch or a necklace after wearing it for years, and having the memory of it imprinted on your skin. It's just more comfortable to have the Stardust on me.
I step in the cylinder and take my seat, strapping the safety belt across my chest. It's a bit snug with the backpack but it's comfortable enough.
The guard looks in the cylinder, "Alright everyone, strapped in? Good. We just have one more car to fill, then we'll be sending you down to the first ward" he whispers into a wrist communicator telling who ever is driving the train, that they're clear to close the door.
The door slides closed after a second and the train slides down the track. All I can see out of the window is the other track being slowly loaded with passengers from another port. There isn't a window in front or behind us, though the most we'd be able to see would be the other cylinders above and below us. But instead of a window, each passenger gets their own private entertainment screen and small compartment below each of them for headphones provided by the station (a great way to get an infection if leaving your cuts untreated wasn't working out).
I pull out my phone to check out how I look. My eyes and streak are still blue, which is good; I just have to keep it that way for the whole ride. I check out my fellow passengers, to see who I'm stuck with for the next half hour. On the far side of the cylinder are three kids, maybe in college or senior year of high school. All three of their screens have on some kind of sport, maybe soccer. Next to them at the other window, is a man who looks like mature version of one of the boys, so I can guess he's the father/ chaperon to the group. He's wearing earbuds, scrolling through his tablet, occasionally giving a lazy shush to the hooting and hollering lads slapping and shoving each other. Another pair of passengers, two young guys, are violently sucking face and doing their best to imitate the sound of a plunger unclogging a toilet. They both had one arm tightly wrapped around the other and with their free hands, they were playing with their hard-ons poking through their trousers. It's that day in age when there's so much sex in the media, business, and the public consciousness that only a minority of moralistic prudes give a shit about people displaying open affection. Not one cop would give a second thought to two guys groping each other in public; they'd only intervene if your dick was fully out (and if your lucky enough to be me, police intervention usually just means a cop or two joining in on the fun). Squeezed between the whooping brats and the couple about to make whoopie, is a tiny middle aged man in a rumpled business suit who looks like he wants to shrink himself down further. Poor guy. On his left, obnoxious teens are knocking his glasses askew every time their team scores, and on his right are two guys who'd be passionately dry humping if they weren't strapped to their seats. Lucky for him there's just one more car to fill. Then there's the two business types that got in right before me, who are engrossed in a very dry conversations on amoral business opportunities.
"I'm telling you, Lionel," says the suit directly to my left, wearing a goatee which makes me think he told his barber `give me something that will tell everyone one I'm the biggest cunt in the galaxy,' "we're going to make a killing if we get this deal."
The smooth faced guy, mumbles a disinterested "uh-huh."
"With us providing quick and easy transport for the migrant workers, we can make at least a fifty K per a trip, and that's just us shuttling them in. Once they start laying off the temps, they'll want to be moving on to greener pastures, and we'll be there to graciously shepherd them there."
"Mm-hm," Lionel answers.
"We're really saints, we are, Lionel. Helping these poor sods find work, making sure they're not wasting air as miserable vagrants. Can't believe someone said we were exploiting them! Trafficking them as cheap labor! It's not like we set the wages or the hours. Ain't that right, mate?"
"Um... right, mate," Lionel says. After listening to his partner ramble for a minute, I didn't blame Lionel for doing what anyone with sense would do, and tune this bastard out. But after glancing down at the other passengers a few times, I see Lionel is very focused, just not on his partner. I look out the window trying to see if anything is happening out where he's looking.
Meanwhile the douche-y suit continues, "if anyone's really at fault, it's those Geordie yokels running this station. They can't negotiate hours, pay, or time off, so the miners basically do whatever they want and the company can't say jack-shit about it. This is what happens when you kowtow to the ultimatums of unions. You lose money and have no choice but to hire unfortunate blokes looking for work, and then they can't pay them much because the union has them by the balls. And of course they can't fire the miners when they take months off the job. Why fire someone when you can pay them for doing nothing? If the Millican executives had any sense about them, they'd do away with the union. But their loss is our gain. Can it really be said we're exploiting anyone when the union's been exploiting the company for centuries?"
Lionel lets out another sound of bored affirmation. I don't see anything out the window, so I turn back and notice Lionel's attention isn't directed out the window, but at me. My first instinct is to turn away; usually its a sudden change of eye color that causes weird looks to turn my way. But on further inspection, I see his gaze is angled a bit lower than my face. More specifically my crotch. Our eyes meet, and he instantly flicks his eyes towards his partner, blushing as he pretends he's rapt by the man's predatory ramblings on the benefits of unregulated capitalism.
Honestly, it should've been my first guess. If your options for entertainment are listening to your dick of partner talk about how poor people should be grateful for being abused at work or looking at me, it's pretty obvious what choice you're going for (unless you're a militant asexual who can only get an erection by reading Adam Smith).
Well, the car above us is taking forever to fill, so I might as well have a little fun while we wait. I unbuckle the straps across my chest, letting them loudly snap on my shoulders. I lift my chip and lean forward so Lionel can see me clearly behind his partner. I slowly pull down the zipper of my flight suit, so that only an inch of skin is revealed every few seconds. In my periphery I see Lionel straining his neck out while his partner goes on about how lower wages provide incentive for productivity. I bring the zipper down to my navel, getting a bit of a chill as the air hits beads of sweat rolling down my torso. I pull apart the opening to fully expose my chest and abs which accidentally unzips my suit to just above my pelvis. It's a bit risque for a public setting, but two seats down there's a couple desperately trying to swallow each other's tongues, so what I'm doing is conservative by comparison. No one seems to mind, especially not Lionel who is currently trying to push down an erection that wants nothing more than to burst through his pants.
"Do you have a desire to have sexual intercourse with that gentleman, Captain?"
"Fucking hell!" I hiss.
The guy next to me stops his moralizing dickery to shoot me an annoyed glare before turning back to Lionel to continue the one-sided conversation, though no one else seems to notice.
"I apologize, Captain. I'm still trying to determine the most effective way to alert you when I am about to speak without speaking first" Taylor says.
I can't exactly have a private conversation at the moment, so all I can do is grumble my annoyance in the back of my throat.
Taylor either doesn't pick up on my irritation or he's intentionally taking advantage of my inability to speak, and continues "you seem to desire this individual to admire your physical appearance. Do you wish to have sexual relations with this man or do you only seek external validation for your attractiveness, Captain?"
I'd laugh hysterically if I wanted my fellow passengers to think I'd lost my mind. I've looked in a mirror, I don't need anyone to tell me I look hot (and hot is an understatement. Exquisite or godly are much better adjectives). While it's flattering to know I'm going to be some guys wank-fantasy for that evening, I won't end up crying in my bed because some asshole didn't tell me I look handsome. If I had a DIC for every guy who called me ugly or `not that hot' because I rejected them, then I wouldn't need to Run for at least a year (mind you, these bastards still take an opportunity to grope my ass or slip their numbers in my pocket before they leave the club). As for sex, well... he's not that bad looking. He has that cute youthful face you find on the more charming variety of nepo-babies, coasting on daddy's money. The way he can't tear his eyes from my pecs indicates a night with him would include dinner and a five star hotel bed. I can't say that on a normal day, I wouldn't be looking for a good fuck from him.
However, I'm working. As always I don't fuck around while on a job (unless of course it could work to my advantage). But, I don't have to justify any of this to Taylor of all people, if he even counts as a person. If I have to be stuck with him, I'd prefer if I had the option to shut off the commentary on my personal life.
"Captain, your hair appears to be changing its phenotypical expression again."
Shit! I take out my phone to see how far it's progressed. I see a faint ring of red around my pupil and a tinge of pink at the roots of my hair streak. I just have to focus a bit and it'll settle back on blue. Changing the color has never been a challenge but keeping it the same for longer than an hour has always posed problems. I take a few deep breaths and as I exhale, everything fades back to a cool cerulean.
There's an electronic ping on the screen in front of me which lights up with the Millican Mining Company's logo of blue and white overlapping M's. The young guys make their displeasure of having their game interrupted very well known to the rest of the car.
A posh woman's voice starts speaking, "Hello there, this is a message from the Millican Mining Company. Welcome travelers, to Mining Station Shepard III, our largest mining facility and astrological metropolis. Whether you are making a permanent stay or only visiting us for a day, we hope that you will enjoy your time here, and that you will be treated warmly by our one-point-five million residents who have chosen to call this facility home. As you begin your journey into the city proper, you will experience a perpendicular shift in the gravitational direction. Do not worry, we will be sure to notify you when this alteration is about to occur, and your carriage will adjust to align with the force of gravity. This is completely safe, though you may experience slight headaches or nausea but those feelings should go away quickly. If you feel nauseous, there are disposable bags underneath your seats."
"You make me nauseous, stupid bitch" one of the young guys barks. He and his friends boo at the automated voice, demanding she bring back the match.
Lionel's partner stops talking and turns to glare at the boorish teens. The man stuck between the snogging couple and the frat guys decides he's better off getting drooled on by the horny lovers than getting smacked in the face by douche-bags throwing a tantrum. And the couple is starting to dial back the passion they displayed a minute ago (rude, noisy bastards are some the galaxy's most effective and notorious libido killers).The assholes start making unsavory gestures at the screen and one of them spits at the screen; and this is apparently the dad's breaking point and he barks, "SHUT UP!"
The three boys instantly fall silent. One of the boys glances at the man to say something and the dad gives a look that says `say something else, I'd fucking love it if you did,' and all three snap to their arms to their sides and go rigid.
All is quiet but for the automated voice which continues relaying inane pleasantries. The father stares down the boys for another minute, testing if any of them would challenge his command. They say nothing, so he returns to his tablet.
There's a soft collective exhale from the other passengers. The lovers return to the violent kissing, and Lionel's partner starts back up on his slimy dealings in a hushed tone. As for me, well I'm a bit hard. Can't help it. There's something about authoritative dad types that turns me on. I think I like the idea of a challenge, someone trying to make me submit to their power. A struggle between freedom and order is actually very sexy (and watching order become more frustrated with time is especially delicious).
"Captain," I jump a bit at Taylor's voice, "I am informing you that I am about to begin speaking... I do believe this is a satisfactory way to alert you to when I am about to commence communication."
"Mm-hm" I growl out, clamping my teeth down with enough force to puncture steel.
"Do you wish to have sexual relations with that man as well? His voice seems to have elicited significant arousal within you. Are you normally stimulated by a man displaying aggression?"
Taylor's voice has all the cheery intonation of the train's automated welcome, at least superficially, but I can detect the touch of mocking that's there. Why I care if software thinks I'm a bit slutty, I don't know. But I know it's annoying.
I ignore him and focus on he welcoming recording just as she's finishing up "-and again, the Millican Mining Company welcomes you to command station Shepard III, we do hope you enjoy your stay."
The company logo fades from the from the screen and a red image of a seat buckle flashes on screen.
A male voice comes on speaker, "we will be departing in sixty seconds, please fasten your restraints and secure all your belongings. Thank you."
The couple whimpers as they're forced to separate for a short time (much to the relief of the guy next to them who no longer has spit splashing on him). I clip my belt and hear a sharp choke. I glance over just quick enough to see Lionel roll his tongue back into his mouth and slam back against his seat.
"Oi, mate" his friend asks "you alright."
Lionel squeaks out "yeah."
I look down at myself and see what evoked the guy's response. The belt in conjunction with my open flight suit, had the effect of squeezing my pecs, making them appear bigger than they already are. On top of that, my sudden half-wood pushed my zipper open enough that only the base of my cock is covered leaving my entire pelvis exposed. Poor guy. It's probably taking all his effort not to cream his pants.
"Departing now," the male voice says.
There's a sudden lurch and my heart lifts a few inches as the train accelerates downwards. It's like a drop ride but, the speed maxes out at a much lower point to stop passengers with severe motion sickness from repainting the car interiors with vomit. The screens return to their normal function, and the sports match continues on the young guys' screens, who remain quiet though delighted. For almost fifteen minutes we descend with nothing to see but the infinite dark of the station's interior and few light from the other railways. Suddenly the darkness is cut off and the train enters a small tunnel colored a dull metal gray, illuminated by a continuous bar of light on either side.
The male voice comes on the speaker again, "attention! Shift in gravitational force imminent. Please prepare for some minor discomfort for the next thirty seconds."
I get a queasy feeling in my stomach and the pressure pushing down the length my my spine abruptly shift onto my entire back. I haven't moved, but I'm lying on back when a few seconds ago I was sitting up. The miserable guy between the lads and the lovers lets out a dozen different whimpers and groans, and I thank my luck that we have four people between us. Another good thing about Running or really space travel in general is that you can quickly adjust to shifts in gravity, so my body relaxes in just a moment (from the sound of the middle age guy, he won't be adjusted until a few hours after we've stopped and he's emptied the entire contents of his stomach).
The voice comes on again, "please remain still as we move the cars into an upright position."
I feel the entire cylinder rotate forward until we're sitting aligned with the orientation of a normal train. There's a flash in the corner of my eye. I look out the window and see we've exited the tunnel and entered the city proper. The train speeds past giant columns of dull gray concrete and mirror glass, all of which have bands of magnetized metal across them for the city's sky-ways. I lean closer to and see a second sky-way about fifty feet above the first. Hundreds of cars zoom on and above the street in every direction while sparse crowds gather in front of stores and shuffle past innumerable restaurants and bars. There are flashes of green from the occasional tree or park, but most of the city's color comes from neon signs shimmering onto the glass and metal of the buildings.
We keep going for another ten minutes without seeing anything of note; the same buildings, same busy streets and sky-ways. I focus down the streets that break up the dozens of blocks. I see multiple train lines down several streets all double and sometimes tripled up with elevated lines. I don't think I've seen this many rail lines in New York, and there's over a hundred million people walking through there at any one time. But the whole station appears to be infested with trains and railways spidering across the grid (and that's not counting the subway which a city of this size must have beneath it).
The cityscape and tangle of rails disappears when the train enters another tunnel. The voice comes on again, "attention passengers, we will be arriving at the station momentarily. Please ensure that you have all your belongings with you before exiting the car. Have a good day."
The train comes to a stop in front of an empty platform with several stairways and elevators leading up. Looking left where the father is sitting, I can see several lines of people held up behind barriers waiting for the cars to empty so they can board and get back to their ships at the docks. My door swivels open and the screens ask us to depart.
One of the young guys groans "come on, there's two minutes left and Liverpool's just about to beat the shit out of Manchester-"
A stern side eye from the father is all it takes for the boy to shut his mouth and gather his things. I unhook my belt and stand up, and there's a brief pause in the car's movement as I turn to leave (like I keep saying, everyone can't help but look). I step out of the train and lean against a nearby pillar to watch my fellow passengers leave. Lionel follows his friend, eyes to the ground, though he gives me a quick look almost every two seconds; all the while, his partner talks incessantly about how the poor should be grateful the rich give them a crust of bread per day or some shit like that. The couple skips out of the car, then one of them turns around and pushes his boyfriend into the side of the train, slamming their lips and bodies together (if they were naked, it'd probably qualify as soft-core porn). It becomes intense enough that a security guard has to come over and break them apart, though he really only succeeds in pushing them into a corner where they won't be in anyone's way (I feel like as a society we need smoking areas, but for couples who are in that honeymoon phase of their relationship. I'm all for free love, but these people need to get a room, or therapy for their codependency). The man sat next to the couple scurries out of the car and dives for the nearest trash can. The college kids are out of the train when the man's first glob of vomit splats against the bin. The three boys march out in unison, but the leader stops short when he sees me and the other two bump into him. They all stare at me slack-jawed until the dad come up behind them and barks "get a move on!" at which they all scramble to the stairs giggling and shoving each other. The father notices me, and his disapproving scowl turns to a quizzical frown. I give a suggestive smile prompting a smoldering blush from him.
He speed walks after his son and his friends, and I chuckle cause it's hilarious that I can make a supposedly straight and ultra masculine man question his entire identity. There's a tap at my shoulder. I look over and see Lionel eyes wide and jaw locked shut.
I wait a minute, to see if he'll get the courage to speak and also to watch him sweat a little. I say, "Anything I can help you with?"
It takes a moment for his brain to reboot, but he eventually stutters out "um, I- well we- my partner and I- that's the we I'm referring to. Sorry, um, see we're in the business of shipping. Foodstuffs, luxury items, people- no! Sorry. For people it's transit, though if you think about it, transit is basically shipping people, uh, sorry. But, um..."
I grin, "You offering me a ride or something?"
He stammers (probably thinking of me riding something other than one of his ships) "I- I- I, well in a manner of speaking. What I mean is, we're always looking for pilots to fly for us and since you are one, well I assume you're one because of the um..." he trails off and stares at my chest.
"The...?" I ask, trying to get him back on topic.
He swallows, "the flight suit."
He shakes himself out before continuing, "if you're ever looking for work. I mean assuming you are a pilot. I'm sorry! I'm sure you are one. Even if you're not you can still apply, you can never know unless you call. Call me, that is call us to, um..." he shakily holds out a business card for some office in London.
"Lionel! Where the hell are you mate?" his partner yells from some unseen section of the stairwell. Lionel swallows again and offers a quick "sorry" before reluctantly chasing up the stairs after his partner.
It's not the most pathetic attempt a guy has made asking me out, but it's still sad enough to make me physically cringe. Giving me a business card is not exactly the most sexy thing you can do (I guess I ring up the secretary and schedule a blowjob for 3:45 next Tuesday). But when I flip over the card, what should I see. A hastily scrawled note reading `BARKER-handle: Subbtopp1212'.
Ah, Barker. The gay man's one-stop-shop for every kink, fetish, and shameful fantasy in the galaxy. When it first came out, it was purely for guys into pup-play. But given that a lot of guys into pup-play have about a hundred other different kinks, the app quickly expanded to include to include the entire range of gay BDSM. Not surprised he's on here (usually, the closer a guy is to the `model of respectability' the darker their sexual interests become). I'd be lying if I said this dark shameful side didn't at least pique my interest in Lionel.
"Um, excuse me sir," I turn and see a security guard staring at me very intently, like he's struggling to keep his eyes straight ahead.
"Yes?" I ask.
He clears his throat and says, "I'm sorry to bother you sir, but..."
"You need me to clear the platform?" I look back to the train which now has the right side doors closed, while passengers fill in from the left; the platform itself is pretty empty save for a few stragglers like a woman from a few cars ahead struggling to wrangle her four kids and a baby carriage while her husband ignores them to take photos of me (now don't go thinking I'm the bad guy in this situation. A few pics of me to jerk off to will postpone their divorce at least until the baby goes to college; those kids should thank me).
I turn to the officer, "didn't think I was in the way."
"uh... it's not that sir, it's well... aren't you a bit cold sir?"
"What?"
His eyes wander down and he blushes hard. I follow his gaze and I'm quickly reminded how far I let that zipper slide. I laugh and close up my flight suit which doesn't really hide my body, just my skin. The guard nods and turns away, trying to nonchalantly adjust his boner.
I practically jump three feet in the air as a loud buzzer rings in my ear, followed by Taylor asking "Is that an effective notification, Captain?"
"No it fucking isn't, Taylor!" I hiss while rushing to the stairs before anyone can ask if I'm having a psychotic episode, "what the hell do you want?"
"I merely wanted to inquire if pursuing a relationship with that man will aid in your mission?" he asks with that irritating cheeriness, "I would think that it would act as an unnecessary distraction, though I suppose I could be mistaken in my hypothesis. Perhaps there is some logic in your actions, Captain."
I stomp up the stairs and explain in a hushed voice, "it's not part of the job, it is not a distraction, and it is not your business who I choose to fuck. Got it?"
There's a hesitation before he answers "I understand, Captain. I only wish to help you in your objective."
"Well so far, you've done very little to prove that that's the case."
"Please believe me, Captain. I am trying... I have already made several attempts to locate the individual Mr. Rodriguez referred to as Ric Mabi, but I could not find him on any public database. I have examined home owner records and all current rent lease agreements, but I could not find anyone by that name."
I roll my eyes as the old adage "Artificial Intelligence is not that intelligent' once again proves true, "Taylor, this is a professional forger. He's not going to have a public website and storefront. If I'm going to find him, I'll have to find the Art first."
"The Art, Captain?"
I don't answer him because I'm busy surveying the station. Despite the pathetic trickle of people entering the station by train, it doesn't stop the station from humming with activity. I listen to the confusing melody of a thousand conversations accompanied by the snare roll of suitcases being wheeled in every direction, only being broken every so often by clanging pots, sizzling meats, and cooks shouting at each other to get the chips out of the fryer sometime this century. It's mostly humans running around the station, but there's a good variety of xenoforms to break up the monotony. Horns, tentacles, and mandibles adorn the faces of at least a dozen travelers who walk by me.
Above the throng of people is a sign pointing to the platforms in one directions and another pointing to the main city entrance and atrium. The atrium is exactly where I want to be. I walk quickly down the hall, weaving through old people shuffling along, buskers, vendor stands, families of twenty, and anyone else who doesn't feel obligated to move out of the way just because they aren't in a rush.
I finally get to the atrium and the first thing I notice is the smell; it's not the smell of the station alone though, it's the smell of a city, the kind that rushes in from the street and floods every small crack in the room. Smog, sweat, bad breath, trash, ice cream, dirty street water, heat, and a million other scents waft through the station. It's a bit like New York, but the smell of pizza and hot dogs is replaced with fried fish. Next I notice the glass ceiling providing an unobstructed view to the rest of the space station. If the system's star wasn't glaring through the gap between the wards, I'd see the glowing bands of street lights, buildings, and cars crisscrossing the other two arms.
Like in the dock's terminal, a platoon of guards is trying to herd people onto ticket lines and get them to their trains or into the city as quick as possible. But unlike the terminal, there seems to be enough clerks to effectively expedite the boarding process, at least enough so the wait times are under an hour. Around the edges of the atrium are a glut of convenience stores, boutiques, and fast food stops for anyone who has a minute to kill or is at least hungry enough to risk missing their train.
I spot the exit hall where two masses of people are gathered; one dispersing as it enters the atrium and the other collecting more people as it slithers up towards the city. I approach, carefully watching each person for any sign that they may not be part of the crowd. Mostly everyone blends in, shuffling along in their dull mundane journeys. Sometimes I spot a security officer lazily waving people along with all the passion of a factory conveyor belt.
Wait! I see them. Slipping through the crowd like water coursing around rocks. They're quick, dipping around large families and weaving through the throng that to most others would act more like a solid mass of flesh than a group of individuals. But when they get near a security officer, they slow down to match the pace of the crowd and as soon as they're far enough away, they return to gracefully darting around people. They're clever. They're wearing a plain gray hoodie, gray trousers, and a white tee-shirt poking just beneath the sweater, but they're shoes are something high quality. Designer brand sneakers dyed an almost sparkling white with silver laces and stitching, ones named after some athlete famous for basketball or soccer or something else. If they were just a vain trend-following douche bag, then all of their clothes would've been some overpriced bullshit that cost five DICs to make, but they're wearing simple clothes and neutral colors; they're trying to go unnoticed.
I join the outgoing half of the crowd, while trying to follow the guy with the gray hoodie without making it too obvious I'm watching them. The gray was a very smart choice. I have to keep focused to stop my eyes from instinctively wandering to a bolder color, and every time they pass another person wearing a gray top, I lose them for a second and have to seek them out again. Along the wall are a few benches where some people have stopped to rest their feet or check their phones without getting shoved twenty times. It's perfect.
I find a bench next to a steel trash can and sit down. I shrug off the bag holding the Stardust and place it just a foot away from me and angle my back towards it (it's a lot harder than it looks. It's not only a risk to leave the Stardust like this, but it gives me the sensation of tugging a strong knot out my hair with a comb).
An annoying beeping starts up in my ear, "Captain, I hope this notification is to your satisfaction."
I suck my teeth, "It isn't, but at least it doesn't scare the shit out of me like the last one. What do you want Taylor?"
He says, "Well Captain, I notice that you have removed the satchel containing the Stardust and that you are not making an effort to supervise it. You are likely risking the item being stolen and/or lost, while it is out of our view."
"That's the idea, Taylor."
"I'm sorry Captain, but your logic is confusing to me. Do you mean you intend for the artifact to be stolen?"
"Just shut up for a minute Taylor, and you'll see," and for once the AI does seem to comply with this command.
I lean back and relax while I watch the crowd muddle through the hall, while watching the trashcan from the corner of my eye. I wait only five minutes before spotting a blurred figure of gray, with white shoes in the bin. It's about thirty feet behind me, then it quickly ducks back into the crowd, but just as quickly comes back into view. The figure does this a few more times, inching closer each time it comes back in view until it's right next to my bag. The figure turns on their heel, reaches an arm out toward my pack and-
I snatch the arm holding onto my bag without even looking, and I pull it close to me.
"If you needed to borrow some cash, all you had to was ask,"I say quietly to the thief.
I look over to a young woman, probably only a teen. She's a Rapafin, given her deep red skin and the coronet of small horns protruding from her short black hair. Her eyes are wide as she pulls against my grip, through she's trying her best to be subtle about escaping me.
I grin, "you're a bit young to be out here all on your own. Do your parents know where you are?"
She mutters, "I don't think you should act so smug. How's it going to look to everyone if I start screaming, and you're grabbing onto a little girl."
I nod in agreement, "that would look very bad. I suppose the only excuse I could use it to claim you were trying to rob me, but then of course they'd want to check you for stolen items," I point to her bulky sweater pouches, "assuming those are DIC sticks in there, it wouldn't be a good look for you now would it? Unless you can pass all that off as lunch money."
She frowns, "I'd rather go to juvie than blow you, if that's what you want."
"Ha! Yeah, no kid. I don't bat for that team. And if I did want to get sucked off, I'd want it to be by someone with more experience than an over the pants hand-job with their biology partner."
Her eyes narrow, "then what do you want?"
"To start with, I want you to let go of my bag."
She very reluctantly complies and to extend some trust towards her, I loosen my grip, but keep it firm so she doesn't try to book it. I reach over and slide the bag onto my back and motion for her to sit. She does, but she sits as far away as I'll physically allow her to.
"Good, and next I was wondering if you could tell me where the Art is?"
She cocks a brow, "art? You mean like museums and shit? I don't know, go online and look it up. I'm not your tour guide."
I shake my head, "no. I mean the Art."
She rolls her eyes like I asked the dumbest question she ever heard and opens her mouth to say something snarky, but pauses. She thinks for a moment and her eyes widen.
She straightens up, pulling a bit against me, "what makes you think I know where it is?"
"The fact you know what I'm talking about."
She nervously shrugs, "just because I know what it is, doesn't mean I know everything about it. Lots of people know about Runner stuff without having met one."
"Well, there's also those," I point to her shoes "Lesspei sneakers. A used pair cost five thousand DICs. Yours look brand new. The only way you could afford those is if you're working for someone who pays a lot and probably works in the Art, or you've picked enough pockets to buy them yourself, and if you're that good, there's no doubt you've been to the less than savory parts of city, including the Art. Am I right?"
She thinks for a minute, then says "buy me lunch and then I'll tell you."
"You can afford Lesspei sneakers, but you can't buy a sandwich?"
"If I spent money on sandwiches, then I couldn't afford the Lesspei's" she stands up and waves for me to follow.
I stand up and let go of her to not draw attention to ourselves, but I grab onto the back of her sweater so I don't lose her. She's quick and I have a little trouble navigating the crowd the way she does, but she walks slow enough so I can keep up.
I hear a beeping in my ear again, "Sorry, to bother you Captain, but what is the Art and how will it help us locate Ric Mabi?"
"Later, Taylor" I whisper.
"But what is an Art, Captain."
"It's where Runners hang out."
"Why is it referred to as an Art?"
"Later, Taylor!" I hiss.
Hopefully he'll forget about it by the time I can talk freely (hopefully he forgets to talk to me ever again). I don't even know where the term Art' came from. The stories about it are varied and often dubious in their veracity. One I've heard is that one time, during a magazine interview, some Runner called Running an artform and we started calling our hangout spots our artworks or Arts;' or there's a myth that when asked what they do for a living, early Runners said artists, because it's also a job requiring specialized skills, with long grueling work and infrequent pay (the only real difference is that art is technically legal and a bit more mentally taxing). The rumor that's popular in England and it's colonies is that it's rhyming slang. Rather than call an area a Runner Hub' they'd call it an "Art club' and later shortened it to Art. The one I grew up with was that Runners would attend a lot of Salons for artists and intellectuals, because they were troves of fantastic stories for artists to use as inspiration, and providers of less than legal materials (not drugs. Just weird artifacts, extremely toxic paints, or epic poems written by secret cults and the like. Creatives are crazy enough without the need for mind altering substances). So Runners were the friends of artsy types and scholars who would also act as their clients. My dad says, Runners used to tell people they were going to the Art because they'd technically be telling the truth, they'd just be omitting the highly illegal activities that would happen there. Regardless of the origin, Art' stuck as the moniker for where Runners, Fixers, and their clients congregate. That blurry shifting border between the respectable law and foul criminality.
When I finally sit down with the girl, I start to think she might not have been lying when she said she used all of her food money on the Lesspei's. We're sitting on a tiny cafe table with her food hanging off the edge. She made me get her a pork pie, chicken curry, spicy tofu curry, fish with two kinds of chips (one aioli and the other spicy cajun), ofada rice, akara, fried plantains, an extra large Lassi, and five Mars Bars (I guess to wash it all down with).
"You know, given you have what must be two dozen DIC sticks in your pockets, you could've bought all this yourself."
She shovels one scoop of chicken curry and one scoop of tofu into her mouth while saying "Don't shit where you eat and all that. It's risky to spend money in the place I got it from."
I gag a bit as she scoops some pie filling onto her cod fillet, but manage to say "I just spent over a hundred DICs on all this shit. You'd have better been starving at death's door to make me waste money on all this junk."
"My mom got home late and couldn't do the shopping. There was nothing to eat by the time I had to go out, "she pushes a handful of the cajun chips into her maw; her eyes water in surprise at the amount of heat and she hastily sips some of the lassi down her throat, causing a few of the fries to slip onto the ofada. "Besides, you want to know where the Art it, don't you? Well this is the price."
I'm tempted to remind her that I could easily call over security and have her arrested, but it isn't worth the headache of arguing with a teenager. She splits an akara down the middle and piles on rice curry and plantains between the halves and shoves the whole thing into her mouth. I have to turn away as she consumes this offense to all culinary sensibility (fuck, it's like watching those freaks in the middle school cafeteria who'd mix ketchup and ranch and slather the abomination on a perfectly good slice of pizza).
While straining not to vomit, I ask her "where's the Art?"
"Oh, right" she says through her muffled orifice "So, when you leave the station, you're going to head left and keep going down until you hit South Street." She smacks her lips as she continues to chew. "That's where the Art officially begins, but there's a few stores and a motel that are Runner friendly a little bit before that," she scoops some tofu onto another fillet and bites into it, "everything past South Street is the Art, until you get to Shields Park. It's kind of like a rundown garden-y sort of place. Lots of weeds and dead, overgrown plants and trees. During the day, people go there to get high and at night it's a cruising spot for gay guys. Is that what you're looking for?" she smiles, her teeth stained red and full of gunk.
"What I want is none of your concern," I sneer.
"Come on" she says through a mouthful of chips, "it's not like I'm gonna tell anyone."
I consider it for a moment, "you wouldn't know anyone who can make a good forgery, would you?"
She was dunking a mars bar into her lassi, but then drops it and stutters out, "forgery? Yeah, mate. You go- um... um, shit! Wait was it by the theater... no, by the old comic shop- or the new one. Wait- I know this. I know this. Um... let me think. If we're at the train station on the north side-"
I roll my eyes, "should've known."
I get up and leave the kid with the four course meal I bought her, as she tries to flag me back to her. Kid doesn't know anything. Or anything she does know is probably half remembered gossip. If she thinks she's getting dinner out of me, she's delusional.
The beeping goes off in my ear again (I'm getting closer and closer to the point where I'm gonna rip Taylor straight out of my console) "The area between South Street and Shields Park is approximately three-point-six-two-seven square kilometers, Captain. It is unlikely we will find Ric Mabi by the end of the day."
"Don't worry," I say as I head towards the city streets, "we'll probably find him before lunch."
Authors Note: So this again took longer than I had hoped, though my proofreader did take a while to get through this. The next chapter will be out within a month, because my friend suggested I this chapter into two parts so it's not too much too read, so there will be another chapter out by the end of the year. Again if you want to email me for criticism, that's fine just make sure it's polite and constructive, if there's something you didn't like that's fine, just don't be mean. I have a Kofi if you want to support me, but if you'd rather support the authors on this site in general, just donate to the Nifty Archive directly. I have a Bluesky account if you want to be more up to date on when I post a new story, rather than just check the archive every single day. I am trying to write more, and become better and more consistent with it. Overall, if I can just make one random person feel happier because they read something I wrote, then that honestly will make my day. Much Love to you all.
David T Patrick