Outcast (2 page)

He felt the stares of the passers-by crawl over his skin and felt reasonably sure that no one aboard the space port had ever seen an Aldorian before. The buzzing curiosity was giving him a headache. His eyes moved independently, taking in the dull metal surfaces, the holographic screens that advertised everything from the latest laser disembowellers to Neuro-Enhancers to self-ironing clothes. His brown robes scratched at his skin; one of the many things he would have to get used to, the wearing of clothes. For one painful second he missed the sensation of a warm breeze against his skin, and a picture of home rose in his mind. The
blajo
trees would be in full bloom, delicate blue petals turning toward the twin suns and drifting off like confetti on the balmy southern breeze, while the plains stretched out toward the mountains and baked lazily in the haze of endless summer.

The screen flashed to update itself; the
Outcast
had docked.

Lan straightened up and made his way from the social quarter to the dock security where he presented his documentation and was waved through by two imperious Belaari guards. A table of ponytailed Andran customs officials lined the left wall; on the right, there were more of the holographic screens broadcasting warnings in all languages about illegal weapons, imports of rare skins, drugs. The latest substance the Andrans were panicking over was ground
broili
root, which according to the blurb,
could cause mild euphoria
. Piles of papers were stacked on the Andrans' desks. Despite their high level of technological advancement, they were sticklers for the old ways, and the officials looked excited, all ready to pounce and shower the visitors with tickbox forms and endless questions. Lan watched them with one eye, imagining the consequences for Andran society if the euphoria created by the thought of impending paperwork ever made it onto their lengthy list of illegal highs.

There was nowhere to sit, so Lan leaned against the wall, watching the gates for Prez. The picture and bio supplied by the agency were obviously out of date. The captain looked no older than a teenager even though he was listed as thirty-eight years old; brown-faced and grinning with a dimple in his left cheek and a thick mop of ink black hair. He wore jewelry too -- a tiny ring in his ear and another in his eyebrow. A diamond glinted on the side of his nose, and it looked as if some exotic flowering plant was blooming at the base of his throat. Lan had heard that some races liked to decorate their skin with pictures and wondered what it felt like to touch one. Prez's Akilian genes manifested solely in the burnt orange irises that stared out of the photograph, his eyes the only part of his face that the smile didn't touch. Lan had stared at the picture for a long time, forced to admit that the captain's alien appearance was... engaging.

Just above the piped music, there came the sound of bawdy singing and laughter. The automatic doors shifted aside and two figures emerged, arm in arm, almost incapable of walking. He recognized Prez instantly. His first impression of the other was that he was Akilian, but when he threw back his head and laughed Lan noticed that his tongue was smooth and rounded at the end, not forked as it should have been. The two of them clutched their bellies and laughed helplessly, and even the Andran customs officials looked confused for a moment. Then the tallest official stood up, tossed his ponytail over his shoulder and glared at the laughing men.

"Hey there,
ku-tah
! Papers please."

Prez's grin faded for a moment. He hauled a pack off his back and dumped a thick wad of papers onto the table, then got on his knees and kissed the floor at the Andran's feet. "
Blit an Ikarber
!" he cried, then repeated the salutation two more times.

The customs official looked mortified for a second, and he sat back down, blushing white like a moon. "
Ikarber
, Prez," he muttered, while Prez's companion dissolved into silent giggles and had to lean against the wall to catch his breath. Lan's sharp nose detected the scent of alcohol, and he was shocked. They were drunk? And yet... the clever shift from the Common language and manipulation of Andran politeness conventions had ensured that the disgraced official would speed things along nicely.

When the paperwork was finally done, they linked arms again and staggered on, saluting the officials while their shoulders shook with mirth. Lan stepped forward.

"Captain Prez of the
Outcast
?" he said, and then paused as the two sets of dark orange eyes turned to him. Should he offer his hand? Kiss some part of Prez's body? All he'd read about the common greetings of the inhabitants of the Belaar-Andra system went out of his mind, leaving it as blank as Prez's stare. He cleared his throat and kept his arms at his side. "I am Lanfellian Satal, son of Lanfellian of the houses of Filakor." After a brief hesitation, he opened his mouth to continue telling them his name, but then thought better of it. Perhaps they didn't want to wait two hours for him to finish; their eyes were already glazed.

"Prez." The captain smiled, but his gaze was focusing on a spot that hovered somewhere over Lan's shoulder, and he didn't offer his hand. "And this is my good friend, Doctor Al-Mah."

"Just call me Doc, everyone does." A gust of alcoholic giggles made Lan's nose wrinkle. "Must say, it's a pleasure to meet someone from Aldor at last. Fascinating place, by all accounts. Which continent?"

Lan was surprised. "Southern." He felt the doctor's arm linking in his and forced himself not to recoil at the contact.

"Fascinating," Doc said again. He spoke as if his tongue was too thick for his mouth. As they walked back toward security, he paused and drained the last drops from his flask. "Never pupped an Aldorian," he said. "Have you, Prez?"

"Pupped?"

Prez laughed. "Doc's obsessed with sex, Lan. Don't worry, you'll get used to it."

His eyes boggling, Lan tried to snake his arm back out of Doc's grasp. "
Sex
?" he whispered, shocked to the core. So casually mentioned, a topic that no one on Aldor would dare talk about to even their closest relative, let alone a stranger.

"Talking of sex," Prez rubbed his hands together, "let's hit Vix's! We've got..." He looked at his watch. "Three hours before we have to be back to drop off those -- er --tourists." He nodded in the general direction of the docks where the
Outcast
was being refueled.

"But..." Lan said, following them through security as if in a daze. "Was there not to be some sort of induction procedure?"

Prez slung an arm around Lan's shoulders, seemingly oblivious to the distress the gesture caused. "Play now, work later."

Bewildered, Lan followed Prez and Doc through the main thoroughfare of the leisure area to a service door in a corner behind a large piece of ceramic Belaari art. The sculpture stretched its crooked branches to the ceiling and artificial bird noises piped out from some audio nodes on the blue and yellow buds. He watched Prez stumble against the door and then rap a knuckle against the metal in something that seemed like a code. A crack opened up and Doc whispered something into the darkness behind. Then the door -- which had a yellow
Keep Out!
sign on the front -- swung open and they pulled Lan inside. He took a breath and followed them, trailing his fingertips against the wall because his vision was poor in such darkness.

The walkway downstairs was narrow and smelled of stale smoke and fresh urine. At the bottom of the steps they turned a corner into a cavernous area, lit only by the floor lights and neon signs. Afghat's Gambling Emporium, Belaar's Last Bar, various stalls selling all sorts of gadgets, and shifty characters hanging around in the darkness. In the corner flashed a pink sign announcing Vix's Pleasure Center. The front was boarded up, and a purple curtain hung over the door. It was open.

Lan hesitated. "I shall wait here."

"Nonsense," Prez said. "It's not safe to hang around out here. Come inside. If you don't want to pup, then you can sit at the bar."

It looked as if the area had once been a large warehouse. Ancient crates were stacked in one corner under a tatty tarpaulin. In front of them, a short hairy creature, with a scar running from the top of its forehead right across one eye and down to its jaw, stood in front of a makeshift stand where cutting implements of all shapes and sizes lay glinting under the flashing neon. A hooded figure in black robes was perusing the goods, lifting one now and then and slashing viciously at the air.

Lan shivered with fear and, against all his better judgment, went into a brothel for the first time in his life.

It was bright inside, lit with hanging lamps of every color. Plump red candles flickered on small tables, emitting a soft light and the scent of berries. Faint music piped from the speakers in the corner, and beings of various races and genders sat around on the oddly luxurious cushions and expensive rugs, sipping exotic-looking purple drinks from fluted glasses. Lan's head began to throb. There was another telepath somewhere around; the headache was always a sign. A heavily tattooed Belaari bartender stood polishing glasses and glaring around the room as if daring someone to make her work.

"Prez! Doc!" An Andran woman in a pink silk robe drifted over to where they stood, a huge grin on her face. Her head was bald and shone with scented oil. "
Ikarber
. What is your pleasure today, gentlemen?" She looked at Lan and frowned. "Where is Flack?"

This time Prez did not get down on his hands and knees. "Vix, this is my new co-pilot, Lan. Flack's... well, incapable at the moment. But he'll be back, as soon as we can track down a Malaihan."

Vix chuckled. "Rat, was it?"

"Spider."

"Vitzi's Tears! That fellow is
such
trouble! Actually, there was a Malaihan in here yesterday, left without paying, too. It may still be around the port, if you'd like me to ask around." She reached inside her robe and pulled out a Tablet. "Some new items on the menu, for your pleasure."

Prez took the device and scanned the information. He blinked a few times and held the tablet at varying distances from his eyes.

"
Mukkesh
!" cried Doc, and strode over to the bar.

Vix turned to Lan. "
Ikarber
, Lan. What is your pleasure?"

Lan couldn't speak. Images flashed in his head, a female's face contorted with concentration, sweat dripping from her brow, her hair a halo of silver around her blue skin. The squeeze of pleasure in his loins, something he had never felt before. But they weren't his own images or feelings. He tried to push them from his mind. "I have no pleasure," he managed to say. "I shall wait at the bar."

Prez handed the Tablet back to Vix. "I'll have the Tibur."

"The usual, then." Doc appeared at his side, balancing three glasses of red liquid on a small tray. "Always with the tentacles, Prez. I don't get it."

Vix was staring at Lan. Then a smile of understanding spread across her face. "Aha!" she said. "We have a first timer here, I believe. Prez has brought you to the right place, my young beauty. We have many specialists here who are well-trained in the art of pleasure."

Lan stared at the ground as all eyes focused on him, his skin almost vibrating with embarrassment. When Doc offered the tray to him, he took the
mukkesh
without protest even though he'd never had a drink in his life. Nothing could be worse than feeling this excruciating mix of mortification and the other telepath -- wherever it was -- reaching a shattering orgasm somewhere nearby.

Mercifully, Vix seemed to sense his humiliation and looked away. Her expression became businesslike as she addressed Prez. "Red room," she said. "That's thirty gees up front for the first twenty and another thirty for every ten minutes after that. Doc, blue room. Your favorite Andran will join you there presently." Her left eyelid flicked down in a lecherous wink, and Doc giggled and gulped at his drink, his eyes bright.

Vix put a comforting arm around Lan's shoulders, and he almost retched at the contact. "Vitzi's Tears, you're so cold! I know just the female to warm you up. Come."

***

The Tibur was a male. Prez sat down on the cushioned floor, his head spinning from the
mukkesh
and the tiredness that was starting to seep into his bones. He knew it was a male from its dark coloring, but its soft, shapeless body bore the same line of breasts as the female. The room was dark, and he liked it that way. The Tibur would not speak, and he liked that even more. And even though he knew that most races in the system considered
ku-tah
to be -- at best -- aberrations against the natural order of the universe, the Tibur's black eyes held no judgment and he liked that best of all.

It crept over to him, and he closed his eyes as he felt the buttons of his shirt popping slowly open. Two tentacles crept under the belt of his trousers and eased them down. Its breasts were resting on his eyes and he lost himself in the pressing darkness. When he was naked, the Tibur pressed its soft body on top of him and slid slowly up and down until he was rock hard, then its arms wrapped around him and lifted him slightly. His cock became wrapped in a slick, hard grip and he let out a groan as the tentacle started to move, the bumps from its retractable suckers rubbing all over the head of his cock, creating a friction that made his head swim. It gripped his lower back while its long tongue lapped at the erogenous zone at the bottom of the throat, just where the flower of his tattoo bloomed over the
kel-mah
gland, which remained dark, even as his head fell back onto the pillow, light with the delicious sensation spreading from his throat all over his skin. Then he felt one tentacle wrap around his shoulders, another stroking the insides of his thighs then pressing into his ass, slipping inside, stretching and probing until it found the pleasure center of his whole body.