Chapter 144: [ Book 2 ] Chapter 4: Impromptu Performance

The negotiation went down in a dimly-lit booth at the back of the crowded lounge.

Two men sat at a corner table, each with their back to a wall, their blind side covered. A pair of untouched drinks rested between them. Carbonation bubbled in one, a layer of foam fizzled in the other. Both begging to be consumed to cap another bustling workday aboard a channel region commerce station.

But neither man reached for his beverage. This was no social call, no cause for celebration. It was a battle of wills. A contest with real-world stakes.

The world around them did its best to distract from the imminent showdown. Colorful beams of light crisscrossed beneath the lofty ceiling overhead. Ambient strips shone along the floor like docking lane buoys outside the station. Patrons mingled, drinks in hand, inhalant lines draped around their necks. High tempo music pulsed, energizing the tired and stressed clientele. On the stage, a redheaded woman belted out a rhythmic melody. A small crowd gathered on the dance floor, swaying with the beat. Among them, a young Slyvarkian in a flashy utility shuffled to the middle, and unleashed a series of robotic movements. The other dancers cheered him on.

The clientele resembled the typical channel station makeup. Sour-faced haulers and overwhelmed station personnel sat at the u-shaped bar in the center of the lounge. Alterants in hand, they drowned their concerns about the sad state of affairs in a bout of altered escape.

Above them, the news feeds scrolled through the source of their angst. More trouble in the galaxy. Endless coverage of Auturia, the planet mysteriously destroyed seven cycles prior. The Commonwealth—the intergovernmental bureaucracy—struggled to maintain the peace along with its legitimacy. Multiple member systems and states threatened secession. Tensions had boiled over in the Atan system at the destruction of a private yacht by the railguns of a Commonwealth-flagged Human Coalition ship. Economic turmoil, yielding a resurgence of piracy, spread like a winter flu. Whispers of insurgent groups and terrorist cells dominated the gossip on trade routes.

At one of the tables, a crew of sloppy Tunisi downed another round, spilling their beverages on their short coarse fur and uniform tops. By the sustenance station, a pair of Ghupto stuffed faux aquatic-meat into their mouths, ignoring the glares of a small group of nearby Crekzels. The quad-tentacled sentients inhaled from vapor lines, their harbored disdain birthed from the infamous accidental-Crekzel-snacking incident evident. Home field advantage went to the Pree. The blue-skinned bipdeal natives of PREEM were engaged in low-voiced but heated discussions over the actions of the Theocracy, their oppressive homeworld regime.

But the lively scene held no sway over the two men in the corner booth. Not even when a mug fell from a table of the inebriated Tunisi, spilling its contents on the floor. The staring match went on, the revelry regulated to a background drone akin to the hum of a starship drive.

A server bot delivered a lone plate to the table and departed. One man finally broke eye contact, swayed by the entree. He lifted his fork, stabbed a chunk of his meal, and stuffed it into his mouth.

Across from him, Captain Dash Anderton’s cheek twitched as anger swirled in his gut. “Ghrato, listen to me very carefully, because I’m not going to repeat myself again. I am not paying for this fucking bill.”

Ghrato chewed on his meal, his lower jaw rotating in a circle-like pattern like some grazing herbivore. “Let me tell you a universal truth. Food always tastes better when someone else is picking up the tab.”

Dash slapped a hand on the table. Ghrato didn’t jump, but his head ticked up a notch to meet Dash’s hard stare. “Did you hear me?”

All hint of amusement left Ghrato. “I heard you, and I don’t give a shit. Fletcher called in his favor to me, asking me to offer you a contract. I did, and you refused to take one. But you still pay the tab. Cost of the meeting. My time is precious.” He stuffed another bite into his mouth.

Dash couldn’t tell whether Ghrato’s pleasurable expression was genuine or ratcheted up a notch to mock him. He found it hard to believe Fletcher—his longtime friend and commercial contract broker—would’ve sent him to a con artist. Dash had made a decent living working out of Praxum Depot for years until Auturia changed everything. An unfortunate turn of events made staying in place untenable. The yacht incident—the very same one playing on the news feeds—made it clear their time in Atan was over.

He hated having to run but had no choice. Fletcher had delivered a parting gift to ease the pain—a meeting with a broker in the PREEM system who was supposed to help give Dash and crew a fresh start.

“How do you think Fletcher is going to react when I tell him about your terrible contract and lousy manners? After all that he did for you?”

“His contribution to my success was minimal. I grew my network—“

“On his name!”

Ghrato shrugged. “Think whatever you wish. Your refusal to take my generous offer is not my problem.”

“I can make it your problem,” Dash said, leaning over the table. The threat erupted from the anger brewing within. He didn’t know if he could actually follow through on it. Ghrato was about the same size as Dash and a bit younger. His sinewy forearms flexed as he lifted the fork to his mouth. Definitely not a pushover.

A sliver of heat appeared on Ghrato’s face. He pointed his loaded fork at Dash. “Don’t kid yourself. I’m pretty sure I could take you. Besides, I know the lounge owner and the chief of security. They don’t take kindly to bullying haulers.”

Dash had one play left. “I’m leaving,” he said and stood.

Ghrato grinned. “Fine by me. I already gave your name and docking berth to the bot server. You’re on the hook for the tab whether you like it or not.”

Dash sat, his hands gripping the table. Ghrato smirked back at him. Dash snatched the man’s plate and pinched a clump of food with his fingers. “If I’m paying for it, then I’m eating it.”

Ghrato stood. “Your unpleasantness has spoiled my appetite.” He reached for his mug.

Dash swiped it away, spilling a bit over the lip. He sipped it and smacked his lips.

“Not even your ugly face can spoil mine.”

Gharto walked away in disgust. “Tell Fletcher to stop sending me trash captains and then I’ll offer up better contracts.”

“Sure, right after I tell him to stop sending me to asshole brokers,” Dash said. He sighed, stuffed another bite into his mouth, and chased it down with a sip from his mug.

The unexpected dead end hit hard. He chided himself for not anticipating this scenario. Instead of taking charge, he’d outsourced his fate and suffered through a string of bad luck.

It all began when Boran—Dash's former captain—dumped the kid medtech and a shady job on him. Slimy guild executives and corrupt corporate security almost sold him into slavery as a result. Cultists and SecForce still hunted him for smuggling an illegal Earth artifact. And he barely survived a mutiny from his promising first mate for her hellbent-on-revenge crusade against her old captain. At least his mutineer operations crew went on their way, the issues between them left in the past.

Now, he dreaded telling his remaining crew the lead was a bust.

Looking to the main bar, he spotted his Slyvarkian pilot and Human medtech. Gaius and Wesley had left the dance floor and now chatted with a pair of women. One had tan skin and dark hair, reminding him of Milia, his mutinous former first mate. The sight stirred the guilt and shame he carried. There was only one way forward—he had to accept his responsibility and lay claim to his own fate.

He stabbed another bite of his liberated meal and sipped from the ridiculous drink. He would man up and admit his failure to the crew. But first, he was going to enjoy the hell out of the meal that he paid for.

---

Dash left the refresher and made for the main bar. He needed a grown-man drink to cleanse his palate after suffering the embarrassing abomination he forced down.

The u-shaped bar wrapped around a stretch of stage that jutted out five meters from the main body. He spotted an open stool at the far end and made his way to it. To his delight, no one had taken it by the time he got there. Even better, the occupants of the seats on either side were distracted with other conversations. He could sit in solitude among the bustle of the lounge.

Settling into the stool, he glanced over the specials projected on the thin displays lining the lip of the center stage. They were more of the same fancy drinks that didn’t appeal to him. He’d stick with the basics then.

“You’re sitting in my seat,” a wavering voice said from behind.

Dash pivoted around to face a pair of distinguished-looking Pree with sour expressions on their faces. Their clothing was a little too nice, their demeanor a little too uppity. People used to getting their way, or who thought they were more important than they actually were. Or both. Either way, he was in no mood to be talked down to.

He tapped on the counter in front of him. “There's no order queued for this seat and the stool was empty. I’m not sure why you think it’s yours.”

One of the Pree said, “I went to retrieve my associate, and now I’ve returned.”

“I obeyed proper bar seating etiquette. I don’t care what you say but I’m not moving.” Dash spun back to the bar and placed his drink order.

Behind him, the complaining Pree uttered, “Typical crass Human,” then stormed off with his associate.

“Guess I’m attracting all the assholes tonight,” Dash muttered to himself as his drink arrived. He sipped it and breathed out over the cold burn in his throat.

Gaius and Wesley were still socializing halfway down the other side of the bar. Dash considered giving them a few more minutes but decided against it. He’d stalled enough. It was time to get the uncomfortable conversation over with.

The faces of his crew twitched as he pinged them. Wesley seemed conflicted; both wanting to stay with the women while also hearing the expected good news about Fletcher’s lead. Gaius flashed the not-so-favorable expression of a child summoned from their circle of friends by a parent. His green skin and thickly-gelled dark hair held a warm sheen under the bar lighting. He glanced in Dash’s direction, and offered a subtle expression of this is a bad time.

Dash waved them over. Their flirtations could wait.

The crew approached Dash like their bodies were tethered to their staked-out spot at the bar, ready to retract the second their business was concluded. He pivoted around on his stool to face them.

“Next time message us the good news,” Gaius said.

Dash exhaled. “Here’s the thing; I didn’t take a contract. It was terrible.

Wesley frowned. “I don’t understand. Mr. Fletcher directed us to this broker.”

“I know. Didn’t matter. He tried to con me, they left me with the tab."

“Damn, I already ordered them a round,” Gaius said, glancing over his shoulder as the women accepted drinks from the bartender.

“If it’s any consolidation, I was paid for services rendered at the clinic today,” Wesley said. “I’ve already directed the full amount to the ship’s account.”

Dash nodded in appreciation. When the kid first came aboard he claimed to be serving a missionary tour on behalf of the Holy Church. It turned out recovery agents—or bounty hunters as the common folk liked to call them—were after him, and life aboard freighters was a good way to stay out of sight. Or so he thought.

“Do we have any other leads?” Gaius asked.

Dash shook his head. “Not a single one. I’ll have to research the contract postings.”

“I can assist with that,” Wesley said. “And take another shift at the clinic in the meantime.”

Dash nodded in gratitude. The fact that he needed this kid to bring in creds for him gnawed at his core. He repeated his promise to himself, that he would find work. He only needed time.

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“You can go back to your lady friends. Might as well enjoy yourselves tonight.”

Wesley shot him a look of concern. “What about you, captain?”

“Think I’ll call it an early night,” Dash answered as the lounge went dark save for emergency light strips along the floor. He instinctively gripped the bar top, some part of him fearing gravity would be next to go.

But the floating sensation never came. Instead, a glow appeared on the stage, slowly intensifying to reveal three figures covered neck to toe in long garments. Masks skewed their faces beneath monkish hoods.

One stood unmoving in the front, the other two a step behind. Dash couldn’t even tell what race beyond they definitely weren’t thick-bodied Ghupto.

The crowd’s collective voice dipped as they registered the new act. Colored beams of light shot downward in the spaces between the figures. The crowd quieted as two gloved hands rose from the lead figure’s side. Each four-fingered hand spread wide, then music kicked on. The slender forearms wove back and forth to the increasing beat as if the hands were fish swimming through the ocean.

Then, came the feminine voice. A soothing hum that rose into a soulful melody. The lounge’s superior directional acoustics were evident, the singing clear and crisp. His skin tingled at the powerful voice.

“It can’t be,” Wesley said, gaping in awe. The crowd yelped in glee as they too realized who stood before them.

The garments of the performers began to rotate in on themselves as if they were pleasure yachts retracting ion sails. Waves of green, blue, and purple undulated through the material, a bodily light show. The performers began to dance, weaving their hips and arms in rhythm with the music.

The crowd erupted, waving their hands and singing along. Wesley grabbed ahold of Dash’s shoulder, jostling him from his infatuated state. “That’s Sisters Celescia! My Lords! I can’t believe they’re here!”

“Who?” Dash asked. The music, the performance, wasn’t his taste, but the voice might’ve been the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

Gaius gave Dash an incredulous look. “Do you live inside a maintenance shaft? They’re the hot new flavor of the cycle. And I'm not even a fan.”

“They’re more than that!” Wesley said, so elated he bounced in his seat. “Celescia, the leaders singer, is an incredible talent! Perhaps the next Lady Starlight!”

“You’re out of your mind,” Gaius said. “Sure, she’s talented. But she’s no Lady Starlight.”

Dash lost track of the argument as the song's tempo increased. The singers' forms slid between the shifting beams of light with hypnotic frequency. Celescia upped the range of her voice. The combination of power and beauty in her vocals was astonishing. As the song reached a crescendo, the crowd cheered.

Chills crept up Dash’s back.

The first song transitioned into another. It took Dash a moment to catch on, the changeover was so smooth.

The stage lighting shifted. A hazy fog fell from the ceiling—contained in a localized cloud—as the beams went vertical like photon monoliths. The arms and legs of the signers sliced in and out of the colorful clouds like diving birds, the clothing now skintight. The haze density of the mist lightened, revealing the blue skin of svelte forms with enough coverage not to warrant a content restriction for the performance.

The crowd whistled and squawked in approval. The moves grew more suggestive, more sensual, even across racial inclinations. Dash recognized many gestures taken from Human and Slyvarkian performers. Gyrating nether regions appeared to hold universal appeal.

“This is amazing!” Wesley said.

“Having fun, cap?” Gaius said, pointing at Dash’s leg.

Dash peered down at his leg and noticed his foot bouncing with the beat. He forced it still, overriding the pleasant harmonic buzz that had melded into his body. He gave his crew a curt nod and went back to watching the show. They knew enough to leave him alone.

The song slowed, the tempo morphing from high energy digitally-generated music to some form of concerto of string instruments. Celescia raised her arms, a hymn sounding from her thin form.

Can’t you see?

You and me.

Among the stars.

Boundless love meant to be.

The haze thickened, enveloping the troupe once more. The crowd roared before the song had faded. Dash clamped his ears. Not even fanciful acoustics or his PD dampers could manage that racket. When the cloud dissipated, the singers stood unmoving with their hands behind their backs. The hoods were drawn once more, the garments loosened and drained of their colors until they appeared almost white.

The music dimmed, the background vocals trailing off into a whisper. The lead singer stepped forward, a sole beam of white light shining down on her.

“My friends, you know who we are.”

“Sisters Celescia!” the crowd roared.

“We are servants of the Spirits, as are you all. We stand before you today as witnesses to a great injustice. Our Theocracy seeks to abolish the Commonwealth charter solely to keep its control over its people. Over us,” she pointed to her troupe, then to the crowd. “Over you.”

Most of the Pree in the audience shouted in support. Even several non-Pree joined in. As the volume of the supporters lessoned, a few dissenters let their voices be heard. They were emphatically shouted down by the others, to the point where Dash thought someone might throw a punch.

Sister Celescia raised her hands to appeal to the crowd. They quieted as if hypnotized by her presence. She walked forward onto the stage island as she spoke. “The Theocracy's historical power, prestige, and influence are barbaric vestiges of the past. They claim to know what is best for our race. But how could they know the truth without exploring the possibilities afforded us by the galactic community? Are they that arrogant to think they know better?”

Music hummed in the background, growing louder. A hearty murmur played from the crowd, their enthusiasm ready to burst forth.

“The Commonwealth saved us, enlightened us, allowed us to survive pirates and raiders, and yet the Theocracy seeks to throw all that away because they are too rooted in the past?”

The crowd couldn’t contain themselves anymore, and let loose with a roar.

Dash peered around. The lounge had gone mad in short order. Most patrons cheered wildly. Several stood from their tables and booths, waving their arms. A few scuffles broke out. He’d known a little of the background on the PREEM system strife. But he hadn’t expected it to flare up all the way out at a channel station.

Wesley turned his way, the medtech’s face tight with concern. “Captain?” He mouthed over the noise.

Dash twirled a finger in a short circle, signaling it was time to leave. Gaius responded with a look of mild annoyance which was to be expected from the socially-inclined pilot.

More colored beams of light shot down from the ceiling as the next song revered up. Dash raised his glass to his lips to finish off his drink when movement at the end of the bar caught his eye. A form rose above the crowd, its body cutting through one of the wide beams of strafing light. A distinguished-looking Pree climbed onto the bar top. The complainer who wanted Dash’s seat. Face twisted in rage, he bent his knees to leap over the gap to the island stage.

Something within Dash propelled him into action. Without a second thought, he found himself mirroring the Pree’s steps—climbing atop his stool, stepping onto the bar top, then leaping to the island.

Dash twisted once he found his balance and launched himself at the singer. In the drifting beams of light, he saw Celescia tense at his appearance. She raised her hands in imminent fear. He couldn’t even yell a warning with the noise and spectacle. All he could do was throw himself forward with reckless abandon and hope to beat the assailant to his intended victim.

Behind her, the approaching Pree cut through the darkness and pulsing lights like a crazed monster in a horror vid. But Dash knew the truth of the beast. As the crowd’s roar blended with the music, he slid past the singer, aimed at the charging shadow, and lowered his shoulder.

His teeth rattled as he struck the Pree’s smaller and less dense torso. The assailant tumbled sideways off the stage into the darkness.

Waves of motion flashed in his periphery. Hands grasping for a hold. Dash ceased all conscious thought of the assailant and reached out on instinct. He pivoted to the motion and found the singer, having lost her balance when he charged by her, teetered over the edge of the stage, her svelte wrist now clasped in his grip.

A beam of light strafed over her form, revealing her desperation-filled eyes. She peered directly at him, the depths of her fear fully exposed.

His mind opened old neural pathways, muscle memories forged long ago but buried beneath mounds of grief and slabs of shame. Nerve impulses fired, accessing the bounty within. Her pulled her toward him with a firm tug. Her body flew past his, now falling toward the stage. He held tight to her hand, bracing himself as her arm went taut. Pulling their clasped hands to his chest, he swooped his free hand to the small of her back. She came to a stop, hovering a few centimeters above the stage, caught in the gentle embrace of a low dip.

Their flurry of movements came to a sudden standstill. A thin light shown down from above, draping the underside of their bodies in shadow. Her face was close to his, her hurried breaths blowing through the mask. The surroundings fell away as they peered into each, past flesh and muscle, to something deep and primal. The moment lasted an eternity and less than a second all at once.

Muscle memory fired again, propelling him to a standing position. Their bodies synced in unconscious unison. He spun her—or she spun herself around him—into his opposite side. Their arms remained wrapped around one another.

Something tickled his ears. Her other hand, caressing the side of his head. The flowing collars of her garment had stiffened and now wrapped behind his head to the over side of his body, covering most of his face.

His sense of time and self returned; the crowd roaring, the other two singers rushing toward them. Chaos washed over them like a burst water tank.

Without thinking, he scooped her up, one hand behind the knees, the other behind her back, and hustled toward the safety of backstage. Her arms gripped him firmly as her fellow singers came to his side. No words were needed to convey his intent as they slipped into the darkness of backstage.

He sensed himself pass through an open doorway. Hands on either arm guided him to a stop.

The lights grew brighter like a rising sun. He squinted, blinked, his body tensing as it detected hostility.

He wasn’t sure why until he focused on the details of the room. A table, comfortable chairs, mirrors, and a small service counter. A dressing room for the talent.

And standing in the middle of the room, one angry-looking Pree aiming a pistol at his face.

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