Captain’s Log: M1.337.11.004 The Playhouse


Arrow hasn’t spoken to me in about ninety-five hours, since we left Enasa.  It doesn’t help that I’m a little behind on her pay, one-tenth a crate of untainted slimewine behind to be precise.  My total fortunes at this moment couldn’t buy a bottle of Montaigne Melancholy, but my body’s producing a reasonable facsimile.

I have a destination, though, goddamn it.  Remi can be useful when she’s not actively – and so very literally – fucking me over a barrel, and she sent me a message after leaving that recommends we try selling the slimewine at the Playhouse.  This is Remi’s idea of a joke, but it’s also a good tip; I didn’t know the Playhouse was nearby, and they’ll buy anything.

“These coordinates you sent don’t make any sense.  There’s nothing there.”

A year or so after I picked her up, I learned that there’s a level of perceived stupidity Arrow isn’t willing to take from me without comment.  Having calculated it, I trot it out whenever she tries to ignore me. This makes me incredibly smug.

“Usually you would be correct, my sweet Earthling child,” I intone, steepling my fingers.  “But this time, or rather, in two hours, we will be at those coordinates, and I promise you, we will not be alone.”

She stares at me.  I can see her weighing the cost of extracting further information.  A toss of curls informs me of her decision and she storms off toward the bridge.


It takes a little under two hours, in fact.  Arrow’s a damn good navigator, but she’s also familiar with the ship’s little quirks, and Heloise doesn’t fight her like she does me.  Arrow can cross a galaxy in the time it takes me to chivvy the bitch into a hangar. The next person she works for will pay her twice what I do and it still won’t be what she’s worth.  She’ll be mad at me then, I’m sure, but what’s youth for if not getting cheated by your elders?

Arrow brings us to a vague armpit of space near the edge of Enasa’s sister system.  She’s correct, there’s nothing here in the sense of permanent or semi-permanent celestial features.  But there’s a great deal of activity here today, because the Playhouse is passing through.

We encounter their Knights first.  There’s nothing on the screen when Heloise picks them up behind us.  She says they’re not armed, but that’s because she was programmed before the Playhouse improved their cloaking tech, and she cries every time I try to update her.  I mean it, she actually cries. Have you ever heard an AI cry? It’s noisy; they don’t have to pause for breath.

In point of fact, Knights are heavily armed; I would say they’re almost nothing BUT arms.  “The arms of the Playhouse,” I quip to Arrow, who squints at me dubiously.

“So will they be turning us into a fine mist anytime soon?  I’d like to not be anywhere near you when that happens, so your mist doesn’t get all over my mist.”

“The Knights don’t want to fight.  Well, they do, but they won’t if we don’t.  They’re just here to protect and escort the Playhouse.”

“Which is…?”

I grin and sling an arm around her shoulder.  “When I was a kid, they would have called it a freak show, and I would’ve gotten beat blue after I snuck out to see it.  But for you, lucky girl, I will buy a ticket to what is perhaps the largest, most poorly regulated collection of mutants and degenerates in the galaxy!”

“Can’t wait,” she murmurs, distracted by the growing swarm onscreen.

The Playhouse staggers into view in a less-than-appropriately-cinematic fashion, preceded and trailed by an infestation of loosely connected enterprises that shelter in its shadow.  Once upon a time – before I was born, long before, when Earth was freshly abandoned – it was a single station. You can still see the bones of it at the center, encrusted with parasites and adorned with aftermarket improvements of no one culture or origin.  It crawls through space, throwing out pseudopodia and lurching from system to system, bringing its wonders, blandishments, and poorly-organized crime to a new planet each month.

“Way back in the day, it started out as a circus, or an arena.  Sort of both.”

“A very nasty circus,” Arrow interjects, and I nod.

“It was never the kind of place you’d bring your mother, but as it got bigger and more successful, lesser lowlifes started to congregate around it.”

“So why don’t you live here?” she asks, baby blues wide with innocence.

“Because I occasionally do legitimate business, as my sweet and well-behaved assistant should know, and an address in the Playhouse puts you emphatically on some lists and strikes you just as emphatically from a lot of others.”  I squint down at her and give her shoulder a little shake, turning her toward me. “Listen. You’re jokin’, but I’m not. This place is not safe. The main decks aren’t too bad, but I’m gonna ask you to stick by me and not toddle off after the first shiny thing you see, got it?”

I get one of her very best looks for my trouble.  “Don’t give me that, Captain; if you see a tit in there you’ll forget your own name.”

“All the better.  While we’re inside, I want you to refer to me as Captain… uh… Ming.  Let’s just keep my name off their books entirely if we can.”

“Captain Umming, got it.  I should let them know we’re close.”

“Arrow, I’m ser – ”  She’s gone. “Dammit.”

Captain’s Log: Isaac’s Bar, Enasa

Start at the beginning

Whatever Arrow might think, I do have other things to do in port than attend to my own needs. After the ship is secure in the hangar, and never mind the mildly erotic implications of that process, I meet up with a mechanic to have him check her over. It’s only been six weeks since her last tune-up, but little problems become big problems in a hurry when you’re out in the black, and I’d just as soon things went smooth. Surviving in my business is a constant process of shoring up little leaks and trying to make sure money stays ahead of entropy.

Then it’s off to the exchange to offload the little cargo we managed to get before we took our rather precipitous leave from Jordani 2. I discovered a few years back that it’s possible to put your goods out for sale and then have any offers sent to your pad while you, say, sit in a bar with one hand on a drink and the other on a Maenali contortionist, and ever since I have refused to do business any other way.

Continue reading “Captain’s Log: Isaac’s Bar, Enasa”

Captain’s Log: M1.337.12.9021 Enasa

                “Captain’s Diary:

                An hour out from Enasa System and within shouting distance of civilization.  The ship is dirty and so am I; the dry shower doesn’t wash off everything, especially when a prudish AI won’t let you get naked in it.

                We’re riding pretty light, lighter than I’d hoped.  But Enasa is an export kinda place, so I hope to pick up some cargo there, even the wiggling kind.  Got to meet with Gerund before I do anything else, but I’m expecting a few hours’ layover for refueling and a couple minor tune-ups.  The back loading bay is –“

“A few hours?  Captain!”

I spin slowly in my chair and almost miss my navigator’s pratfall onto the bridge.  Don’t get up.  If I jumped up every time she fell down, it’d qualify as cardio.  She scrambles to her feet, red curls in her red face.

“Captain, c’mon, only a few hours after three weeks in space?  We can’t even get drunk in a few hours!”

“Then you’re not doing it right, Arrow.”  I turn back to the console, though barring any unforeseen low-atmo collisions or newly-birthed black holes, the ship will bring itself in just fine without my help.  “And if we’re going to hang out on any planet, I’d just as soon not do it on Enasa Five, thanks very much.  Too many folks there think I owe ‘em something.”

Arrow takes her seat next to me – she actually has something to do there, checking our arrival time and making sure we have the right instructions and clearances from the port authority.  I bring up my mail on my side of the screen.  She’s not using it, right?

A few items of local and semi-local news – boring.  Threats and offers from people I don’t really want to see – also boring.  Message from an old friend tagged “personal” – promising!  Pop THAT one up…

Ah, Celestine.  A lady from a little red planet overheated by the smaller of the binary pair 1 Areitis.  She helped me out of a nasty spot on her homeworld a few years back, and we’ve kept in touch ever since.  Her mails are mostly chatty nothings about her family; she has about eighteen siblings – ‘scuse me, “broodmates.”  But this time, there’s an attachment.

My navigator grumbles as another binary system fills the screen, a pair of teal tits unrivaled on three neighboring planets.  Arrow is not impressed; she’s seen these tits before, but I have a rather more refined appreciation for –

Dangerous obstruction of workspace detected!  Elevated levels of hormone production detected!  Ship is beginning final approach to port on Enasa 5 and I must recommend complete focus on safe docking procedures and protocols!”

I snarl and thump the console as those precious orbs disappear from view.  “HELOISE!”  But there’s no point in arguing with a computer.

“Shoulda known better, Boss,” Arrow says.  “Celestine always sends ya stuff Heloise doesn’t like.”

“You get yourself back to work, or it’ll be your tits obstructing the visual field.”  I storm out of the bridge and take my elevated hormone levels to the shower.

No idea where this “cold shower” myth got started; the few times I’ve tried it, I’ve only managed to shock my erection into further aggression, but I can tell you that there is absolutely nothing about bathing in space that dims the libido, or does anything else, for that matter.  There’s nothing like a good shower, and this is nothing like a good shower.  I stand there squinting in my boxers as various supposedly cleansing powders puff into my face, feeling like nothing so much as a chicken wing being breaded.  As I try to ignore it, my mind is drawn irresistibly back to those tits.

Now, I don’t want you to think I’m a soft touch or anything.  I’m parsecs out of my teens, and ordinarily it would take more than a picture of a rack – even one of the Local Group’s great racks – to put me in such a frustrating state.  But this I blame on Heloise.

She’s old gear, real old.  Came with the ship, and when I tried to replace her after I discovered her irritating proclivities, I found out that this old boat can’t even run without her anymore.  Might be her fault.  I wouldn’t put it past her to have worked her way into the other systems and made them all do her bidding.  At any rate, if I ever get my hands on the man who programmed her – or woman, more likely – I’ll let him stew on the ship with her for six months and then strangle him with his inhumanly distended member.

Heloise has a long list of things she won’t allow on board, but it’s the sexual prohibitions that get in my way.  That and the “no nudity in showers” thing, that’s just ridiculous.  She can detect elevated hormone levels anywhere inside the ship, and boy does it make her holler.  You try to maintain an erection while a computer-generated old lady scolds you.  Maybe there are guys who like that, I don’t know.

At any rate, by the time we’ve been a few weeks in space and I’ve gotten shouted at every time I even put my hands in my pockets, I get to a point where frankly, Celestine’s tits are overkill.  I can set Heloise off by looking at virtually any rounded surface in the engine room.  And while we’re on the subject, I think shipboard mechanics must be about as hard-up as I am – why must every stationary surface in there look like a shiny, upturned bottom?

I reenter the bridge, nicely floured but not especially less filthy in either mind or body, to hear Arrow giving our credentials to the port authority.

“This is navigator Arkina Arrow for transport ship Needlessly Large under the command of Captain Roderick Zarkov.  You should have our cargo report now.  Requesting permission to dock.”

“Transport Needlessly Large, your cargo has been approved and you have permission to dock in hangar 24.  Be careful coming in, it’s a busy day down here.”

“Thank you, Enasa.”  She clicks off and turns on me as the ship eases itself down through the atmosphere.  “I wish you’d change that name again.  Or change it back.  I feel like an ass every time I have to say it.”

“It’s not wrong, though, is it?” I answer, taking my seat.  I like to be in the captain chair when we come in to port.  “You’re lucky Heloise does all the work of squeezing us into those little hangars.”

Arrow sees my eyes glaze over.  “Oh my god,” she laughs.  “You’re fantasizing about a ship going into a hangar.  That’s what’s happening right now.  Do me a favor, Captain.”  She gets up and goes to do whatever it is she does when we’re landing.  Maybe the shower works better for her.  “Try to get laid while we’re in port.  I’m sure you of all people can manage that in a few hours.”