Gypsy Moth

Chapter 2

Jameson shook his head. "Kind of you to offer, but I'll have to pass. My current relationship status is complicated."

Just a bit. Married to a woman who'd disappeared several EC years ago. For some reason, the captain wouldn't apply to have their union dissolved. Said he couldn't. Which was weird. And none of Damon's business.

But he had to wonder what the daughter looked like. He'd met the ugly Kanishqui leader - whose name sounded like "tinkle-tinkle-splash" and translated to "Flows-In-Spurts-From-Spout," nicknamed Fizz - before when he and the captain had done business. This was the first time a more permanent alliance was offered.

Fizz floated along the wide corridor, his tentacles suctioning to bits of walls. He pulled himself along, letting the lack of gravity float his bulky body. On their home world, where they had to deal with gravity, they'd constructed cities of flowing water. Their roads wide canals. Their highways raging rivers. A beautiful place, actually. If you weren't afraid of drowning.

They arrived at a grand set of doors, ornate and meant to impress. They slid open and displayed Fizz's lush personal quarters. Despite his rank as first mate, Damon and the guards weren't invited in; however, his captain did turn to say, "I'll buzz you when the fine commander and I are done."

In other words, piss off.

Damon waited until the doors shut before saying, "What do you say we go find ourselves some geer?" The galactic version of beer. Sometimes made with fuel.

One of the guards replied, a toilet swirling.

Damon made a face. "Wow, that was totally uncalled for. I mean, if you can't handle the fact a human can outdrink you, then just say so. No need to insult my man parts." He knew better than to compare his manhood with that of the Kanishqui. Damned thing was long and agile enough to do things even human women craved. The babies were butt ugly, though. "Just thought since the captain won't need me for a bit, we'd go hang and toss a few back."

Spit tossed and caught. Gurgle.

"Still on duty, eh? I totally get it. Of course, you need to work because your commander is obviously too big of a sushi to take care of himself against my wee captain. Because look at us, we're so scary." Damon lifted his hands and rolled his eyes.

If there was one thing that was common from one species to another, it was pride. Prick it and you could manipulate it to get anything.

In this case, his new pal, Phlegmy-Water-Hitting-Mud, brought him down a few levels, via stairs of all things, to a massive cafeteria.

There were numerous liquid tanks embedded in the floor, the surface of each a different hue depending on the plankton it was seeded with. Within a few vats floated other things, lively aquatic things that required chewing. Massive canisters lined the walls, full of replenishing fluids. The Kanishqui didn't believe in replicated food. It meant they shopped for ingredients often. Unfortunately for the worlds they shopped from, they didn't always pay market value. And they sometimes took the inhabitants for a snack.

The cafeteria wasn't their final destination. Good thing, because Damon didn't see anything he wanted to put in his mouth. Not even the pink tentacle of the female who blew wet bubbles at him, lounging in the orange vat.

His buddy, whom he nicknamed Flem, skedaddled past, never glancing back to see if his human companion followed. Why bother when his trailing tentacles, equipped with auditory receptors, peeked for him.

Within the cafeteria, the floor didn't have as much tackiness, all the slopping liquid from the vats ruining its sticky trait. However, a good leap could cover a lot of ground so long as he was careful not to land in a vat.

Damon wasn't the only one hopping on two legs, which was probably why most of the dining Kanishqui didn't pay him any mind. Damon noted the humans in gray overalls keeping the deck clean, squeegeeing the extra moisture into grates for recycling. Others guided large buckets on wheels to stock the vats. A few of the humans had ditched their coveralls and were being diddled in corners. Willingly, he might add.

Exiting the cafeteria, they immediately entered a kitchen-type prep area packed with even more humans. Not slaves, he noted. They were too happy and talkative for that. Instead of the staff uniform, a good many wore bright layers of fabric as they sat perched peeling and prepping. Food for the servants. A sign of a good ship. The starships that offered a place to live, protection, and regular meals tended to have no issues finding people to staff their vessels. The galaxy wasn't an easy place for those without work or credits to their names.

Damon counted himself lucky Jameson had snared him as a boy before he got into too much trouble. The captain set him on an entirely new life course. Mind you, he still got in trouble, but he considered that part of his charm. Damon figured he couldn't be all bad, considering he enjoyed a large circle of friends.

Pity he couldn't have brought a friend or two with him. The deeper he went into the ship, the more he was conscious of how far he had to travel to return to the Moth. The good news was, in this place, he no longer felt alone and cut off from his kind. Did Flem even realize just how screwed he was if the humans on board decided to revolt? Because they sure as hell outnumbered those who owned the ship.

Another level down, and they finally reached the bowels of the ship, the hidden heart where the things the crew didn't want the commander of the ship to see happened.

They had a hidden heart on the Gypsy Moth, too. Captain Jameson knew about it, of course, but allowed it so long as the crew didn't cross any hard lines.

In the hideaway zone, fraternizing occurred, usually helped along by some drinking. The alcoholic kind.

In space, both drinking and kissing of coworkers was frowned upon. Everyone worked closely together on a ship, which meant extra care was needed to ensure harmony amongst everyone. No one wanted to be the one left behind at a galactic way station because there was friction on board.

However, denial bred a need to flout the rules. To feel free. Humans needed a chance to unwind. Flirt. Have fun and forget they were hurtling through space and putting a lot of faith in mechanics and engineering.

Music pulsed from speakers strung on the ceiling. It alternated from a water orchestra to a hard-pulsing beat. In the hidden heart, humans and Kanishqui mingled. A quick glance showed probably about two dozen bodies milling around. Some dressed in dull gray uniforms, others in civilian clothes. Everyone present looking for a good time.

It wasn't hard to find the bar serving drinks and to snare a glass. The bartender, a flinty-eyed guy with a shaven head and a goodly number of piercings, held out his hand for payment. Good thing Damon had brought a hunk of chocolate. Never leave the ship without it.

Damon used the sweet treat to buy Flem a drink as well. "A toast," Damon declared, holding up his glass. "To space." He tossed back the drink then signaled for another round.

Once the glasses hit the bar - and stuck to the tacky surface - he dug into his pocket and withdrew a stoppered tube. He shook it. "Interest you in a sprinkle of cocoa?" he asked.

The drool coming from Flem was a strong yes. Damon shook a bit of the chocolate powder into the glass. Flem downed it and slapped the glass back down, and not a moment too soon. A jiggle went through him and all his tentacles wiggled.

"Good s**t, eh?" Damon remarked. Chocolate was valuable because many species reacted to it like a drug. Humans, the universe's biggest drug dealers. "More?"

The frantic flail said yes.

They drew some attention. The Kanishqui crowded around.

"Don't worry, boys and girl," he said with a wink at a mauve female. "I've got plenty." He tilted the cocoa over numerous glasses at once and pulled out more vials as more glasses hit the bar. Much drinking occurred. Damon kept up with his hosts and showed off by tossing back two shots, one after another. f*****g rocket fuel burning down his throat.

He slammed down the glasses and declared, "Double fisted."

Waterfall crashing. *challenge accepted. Nine tentacles slapped down on the table. An empty glass rolled from each, not a hint of chocolate left behind.

"Refill." He tipped in more powder.

Not that Flem needed more. His many-armed new friend was singing, and not very well. Rapids crashing on rocks then babbling softly. Not that Flem cared how it sounded. He and his other tentacled friends were swaying along in time, weeds in a current. Which was Damon's cue.

"I gotta take a leak," Damon announced, getting to his feet.

"I wondered when you'd break the seal." A buxom woman, gray hair scraped back into a bun, winked. "Come with me. I'll take ye to the lavatory." The matron with the wide hips led the way out of the party atmosphere of the hidden heart into a service corridor.

Damon wasted no time. He located the handle to a chute, dragged it open, and whipped out his d**k for a piss. While the medical injection he'd taken ensured he couldn't get drunk, it did nothing to empty his bladder. The relief made him groan.

His contact kindly looked away while he did his business, but she did laugh. "Was it as good for you as for me?"

"Better," he said with a grin. "I'm Damon." He tucked everything away and placed his hands under the bacterial cleanser before turning to offer it for a shake.

"Matilda."

"Ever notice, Matilda, how moths come at night?"

"Only if there's light."

He smiled. He'd found his contact. "Where to?"

"First..." Matilda held out her hand.

He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a small amulet. Favors always came with a cost. He wasn't sure what made the amulet valuable. The captain had given it to him along with the code phrase and mission. Whatever it was, it satisfied his contact.

Pocketing it, she said, "Follow me."

Good thing she was there to guide him because no way could Damon have found his way, even with a map. The route they took proved circuitous, and yet they met no one but humans on their way. The utility areas were considered below a Kanishqui. No interference or awkward questions meant Damon might actually accomplish his mission without getting into trouble.

Might being highly unlikely.

"How much farther?" he asked.

Matilda glanced at him over her shoulder. "We are close now. It's taking longer because the route we took is surveillance free."

"Speaking of surveillance, did you need extraction for doing this?" Damon asked as they climbed yet another ladder.

"I'll be fine. The blame for what happens next will be placed on your drinking companion. He was assigned to keep watch on you."

Poor Flem. Another chocoholic... Damon wondered what rehab was like.

Matilda placed a finger by her lips before turning the next corner. She crept, and when she paused, she dropped to her haunches.

With another gesture for quiet, the matron peered out through a grill.

"It's clear. Let's go. She's in the last cell at the end."

She, as in his target. The whole reason for being on this ship, for "accidentally" running into the Kanishqui in the first place.

The grill popped out, and Matilda gestured him forth.

"Aren't you coming?" he asked when he noticed Matilda still behind the grill.

"This is as far as I go."

"How the hell do I get back out?" Because the place was a maze.

"The deal was to show you the way."

"I can't go back the same way with the cargo."

"It will cost you." Matilda held out her hand. He dropped the last of his pure chocolate in it. She quickly told him how to exit, no guiding him this time. Now he just had to remember it.

The door at the end of the hall bore an actual metal hasp. No electronic locks. No wasting of ship power on that.

"Stand back from the door," he ordered.

No reply. He'd have to assume she heard him. He placed his weapon on low and aimed it at the lock, melting it. Yanking the door open, he stepped in and was clobbered.