The room was filled, wall to cavernous wall, with the animate dregs of the universe. Grotesque creatures from the lowest star systems, drunk on spiced liquor and their own fetid vapors. Gamorreans, twisted humans, jawas—all reveling in base pleasures, or raucously comparing mean feats.
James Kahn, Return of the Jedi, 1983 by Lucasfilm LTD.
Kyle paid Kamaaljit Sangheera with a microscopic zircon and left him drowning in thanks and vows of loyalty “unto death.”
While Uful’lan and Shirl kept an eye on the luggage—and on Twiglet, who was looking worse by the minute—he headed toward the inn. He was about to push one of the doors open when he remembered Wolfram. In an instant, he went back to grab the bag. Hungry as he was, the cat might slip away; better not to have to search for him in that cesspit.
“Wait for me here,” he said, slinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’ll try to rent a couple of rooms.”
“Ask them where’s a ssupermarketh too!” Uful’lan called after him.
Kyle didn’t answer.
“Let’s hope this works…” he muttered as he stepped inside.
The bar was small and stifling.
The first thing that hit him was the reek of rancid meat and cockroaches. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, shouting, while smoke poured from mouths and other orifices. Rolled mats, jugs, and baskets hung from the beams, tied with bits of rope or knotted rags. A reghuul sat at one table with his snout buried in the coils, his spare head resting at the end of a perfectly aligned row of empty Janxx-Cola bottles. The rest of the table—and all the chairs around it—were free, so Kyle decided to pass that way to reach the counter, threading through a sea of hairy, scaly, flayed, scarred, muscular, or worse creatures.
For a while, he waited for the four-armed bartender to notice him.
Then he flinched at a shout behind him.
“Hey, you! You put Xetor in this Janxx—admit it!”
Kyle turned and saw the voice belonged to a human sitting not far away, waving a Janxx-Cola bottle. The man was burly, with cropped hair and oddly pointed ears. He spoke Basic, though with the slum accent of the Empire’s outskirts.
“What?” said the bartender, scooping mush from a chipped mug.
The man snickered, elbowed his neighbor, then yelled again:
“Tell the truth, pal! There are drugs in this stuff!”
The bartender shrugged and dropped some black-speckled ice into the cracked-handled mug, then shoved it toward a customer already lunging to grab it.
“And what do you want?” he barked at Kyle.
“Well… I’d like to rent two rooms.”
Suddenly, the only thing moving was the swirling smoke. Only the reghuul’s snoring broke the silence.
“Did I hear right…” the bartender prodded, “…two rooms?”
“Why, don’t you have any?” Kyle asked, the hairs on his neck rising.
A quick glance around showed the mocking grin of the man who had shouted earlier, now joined by three or four cutthroats. They watched him with malignant glee, their faces flushed from alcohol and the heat of the bar. They didn’t look very drunk—but they looked very, very dangerous.
“You want them with a bath or a shower?” the bartender asked, with the sweetness of a moshaawk.
The bar erupted in laughter. The bartender smirked in satisfaction.
“House specialty!” he cried, sliding a mug of green, steaming liquid toward a hideous all-eyed creature.
Kyle considered smashing one of those mugs over his head. Or simply leaving. Better to sleep outdoors than get caught in a brawl with an uncertain outcome.
What had triggered the absurd reaction from those idiots? Something he had said. Or done. Who knew. Or maybe just the fact that he was a stranger. Still, he wasn’t the type to back down when there was fighting to be done…
He turned at a sudden noise, and what he saw froze him to the bone.
Shirl had entered the bar and was walking toward him.
She stood out like the only human at a k’rell party.
He watched her follow his same path—past the reghuul’s table—approaching with confidence, as if being there were completely normal. Maybe it was. Two months earlier, he reminded himself, Shirl had worked at the Onkalo, a sewer not much different from the Loup-Garou.
Unfortunately, the bar’s patrons were sending the kind of signals anyone who’d spent time in such places—and wanted to stay alive—quickly learned to read. Everything in those faces, in the restless glances, in the flash of a fang, in the short, angry laughs, spoke of irrationality. Of murder. Of rape.
He had to act now—or it would be the end. For both of them.
“Kyle!” she said quickly, ignoring the other patrons. “Twiglet fainted again and—”
He struck her hard, cutting her off. He hoped he hadn’t hurt her too much. She cried out, mostly in shock, and fell to the floor clutching her face.
“Stupid bitch! I told you to wait outside!”
The tension, explosive just moments before, began to ebb. Bit by bit, the regulars lost interest in the newcomers and turned back to drinking, doping, belching—or whatever they’d been doing. Conversation resumed.
“Hey, friend!” the bartender called, this time deferential. “I was just about to tell you we don’t have rooms, but… I can find you a couple of bunks in the dormitory!”
The bartender, whose name turned out to be Ghast, led them down a dark corridor with a slippery floor. The air stank of urine from a dozen different species.
Uful’lan went first, carrying two enormous bags under one arm and Twiglet—still unconscious—under the other. Kyle and Shirl each had a heavy backpack slung over their shoulders.
“How come I always end up getting the shaft?” the synth asked sulkily.
“Shh!” Kyle hissed. He glanced anxiously toward Ghast. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I had no choice. They would’ve torn us to pieces.”
They passed a closed door, from beyond which came the roar of a crowd. People were croaking, shouting, and screeching incomprehensible phrases.
“What’s going on in there, pal?” Kyle asked, pretending to be just another curious customer of the Loup-Garou.
Ghast grinned. He stopped abruptly and flung the door open with a theatrical flourish. A flood of light caught his small, sharp teeth.
“Cyber-fighting!” he exclaimed. “Maybe you’d like to bet a few credits…”
Kyle could hardly believe it.
Cyber-fighting… on Tr’lang. No robotaxis, no radio beacons, no supermarkets—but cyber-fighting.
On the platform stood a ten-foot demon, locked in combat with an immense boa constrictor. Kyle had seen plenty of virtual monsters before, but this shape belonged in a category of its own. Its face blended human and alien features with others that only hell could have vomited up. Its body was deformed and grotesque, yet somehow coherent: black, powerful, hairy in some places, bare in others. And above all, the demon was obscene—monstrously sexualized with a precision clearly designed to disturb the mind of anyone who looked at it.
“That’s Urdu,” Ghast explained. “Our champion. Nobody’s ever beaten him!”
As if to confirm his words, the black demon peeled the snake from around its neck and pulled until it tore apart. A rain of blackish blood drenched the first rows of spectators. It was holographic blood, of course, but as long as the simulation lasted, the effect was all too realistic. Curses erupted across the room, while those who had bet on Urdu applauded thunderously.
“Hmm… yes, why not? Maybe tomorrow,” Kyle said, edging away.
He noticed Shirl staring at the horror beyond the door. She almost looked fascinated.
“Pleasse, Kyle!” Uful’lan said. “Thwigleth needss tho ressth in a real bed!”
“Move it, Ghast,” Kyle snapped. “Show us this damned dormitory.”
They reached a small door leading outside. After the stale heat of the bar, R’lieh’s cold bit even harder. In the full moonlight, they crossed a courtyard cluttered with the usual rag-covered shapes.
“Here we are!” Ghast announced, kicking open the door of a filthy shack. “Firssst-classs dormitory…”
Inside, it was almost dark except for a pair of yellowish bulbs. The place smelled like a stable. The walls were peeling and moldy. The bunks—so small and narrow they resembled shelves—were overcrowded, sometimes with two or three individuals crammed into the same space. Snoring, gurgling, whispering. Somewhere, someone coughed.
“There should still be two places…” Ghast said, leading them through a maze of dirty bodies, gutted mattresses, and broken shoes.
He stopped before a bunk bed whose second and third levels were still free. On the bottom lay something Kyle couldn’t identify. Even wrapped in a rough blanket, it clearly had too much of everything: arms, legs, heads, eyes… and who knew what else.
“Not bad, eh?” said the bartender. “Two bunks for only four people!”
He looked uncertainly at Uful’lan, whose bulk would have required at least four of those microscopic berths.
“Well, I did what I could…”
He extended one hand toward Kyle in an unmistakable gesture.
“Payment in advance, huh?” Kyle grumbled.
He pulled another zircon from his pocket, only slightly larger than the one he had given the guide. He expected Ghast to laugh in his face, but it was better if those cutthroats didn’t think they were carrying too much money.
Instead, Ghast snatched the little stone and held it up to admire it.
“Hey, friend!” he crowed. “Thank you! Very generous! For this price, you deserve a little extra…”
He used one of his four hands to pocket the zircon while the other three rummaged through his filthy tunic.
“Here you go!” he exclaimed, handing Kyle a dream crystal.
Its surface was so grimy and sticky that it had gone opaque. Kyle took it reluctantly.
“It’s full of girls! Naked, doing… things! You know what I mean…”
He laughed, showing the teeth of a newborn moshaawk.
“Uh…”
“No, no need to thank me! It’ll help you sleep better. But now I must go… business, you know. Good night!”
“… Night,” Kyle muttered, slipping off his backpack. He sighed with relief as Ghast disappeared into the dark. “Hey, Uful’lan,” he whispered. “Let’s put Twiglet on the middle bunk. The rest of us will manage somehow.”
The k’rell didn’t need to be told twice. He dropped the bags and gently laid Twiglet on the stained mattress. Then he touched her forehead and cheeks.
“She hass a high fever,” he murmured. “And thiss mattresss iss sso filthy…”
“There’s nothing we can do tonight,” Kyle said. “At least we’ve got a roof over our heads.”
Even if it was almost as cold inside as outside.
“Shirl, check that backpack. There should be a blanket…”
He removed the shoulder bag from which insistent meowing had been coming for some time.
“Come on, Wolfram. Dinnertime…”
“Meowrrrr!”
He held the cat with one arm and used his free hand to open the outer pocket of one backpack, where he had stowed a couple of cans. As he did, he glanced around and saw that their arrival had attracted interest.
Hostile eyes. Sly eyes. Hungry eyes.
“Please, Shirl, open a can for Wolfram,” he whispered. “If this rascal gets loose, I’m afraid he’ll end up in someone’s stomach.”
Uful’lan still couldn’t accept Twiglet resting on that disgusting mattress. Maybe if he turned it over…
He lifted one corner and pulled it from the bed frame.
At once, there came a scratching sound like nails on wood, followed by an acrid reek of a chicken coop caked in droppings. Cockroaches the size of mice flooded the bunk frame. Then they tumbled to the floor, scuttled upright, and fled in every direction.
Twiglet had a moment of clarity. Or perhaps it was the unmistakable rustle of living insects that woke her. She opened one eye.
“Uf… Uful’lan… what was that?”
The k’rell showed extraordinary reflexes. He grabbed an abandoned bucket and slammed it down over the swarm as it scattered. The ones caught under the rim were crushed, but he had trapped a good number inside.
“A ssurprisse for you, Thwigleth…”
“Good work, Big Boy!” Kyle congratulated him, handing Wolfram to Shirl. “Wait, I’ll help you gather them.”
Together, they filled the bucket with large brownish insects. Uful’lan helped the mahjit sit up.
“Here, Thwigleth. They aren’th Bageechaa glykz, but…”
She clawed the rim of the bucket and plunged her face inside. For several minutes, they heard her gulping so fast that many of the insects were no doubt reaching her stomach still alive.
“Slow down, or you’ll choke,” Kyle warned.
A few minutes later, Twiglet swallowed an entire thermos of water. Then she went back to sleep, somewhat revived, though the fever was still high. Uful’lan spread the only blanket over her.
“Well, I think I’ll sleep too,” Kyle said, yawning. “As Kamaaljit would say, I’m dead tired. What about you, Big Boy?”
“I’ll ssit here, nexth tho the luggage.”
Kyle shut Wolfram back into the bag and hung it from a rusty nail. Then he climbed to the third level of the bunk bed.
“Hey! Where am I supposed to sleep?” Shirl asked from one level below.
Kyle turned to look at her.
“Well, not many options. Either you stretch out on the floor, or… You can share the bunk with me.”
Shirl didn’t answer. She simply held out her hand so he could help her up.
There was almost no space. To avoid falling in their sleep, they had to lie nearly pressed together. After a series of adjustments that made the frame sway and drew a groan from Twiglet, they finally settled with their backs to each other.
The mattress made the sound of an old, filthy handkerchief. Beneath Kyle’s cheek, the fabric crackled. Suspicious, he pulled the flashlight from his pocket and switched it on.
Someone, a long time ago, had been very, very sick.
Kyle swore.
“Oh, no… someone vomited here.”
He shifted away, invading Shirl’s side.
“Hey!” the synth protested, jabbing him with an elbow.
“Ow! Easy, I didn’t do it on purpose. Listen, how about we turn the other way?”
“You mean feet where our heads are, and heads where our feet are?”
“Exactly.”
“Fine…”
They changed position. The other end of the mattress was almost as disgusting.
Kyle tried to sleep, but couldn’t. He was freezing despite his heavy jacket. He thought longingly of the comfortable sleeping bags now floating somewhere in the Orion Arm.
And he was hungry. Ravenously hungry.
His last meal had been…
“Kyle… are you asleep?” Shirl whispered.
“What is it?”
“I was thinking about that demon.”
“Ah, yes. I noticed you staring.”
“Do you remember what the bartender said?” she continued. “He’s their champion. So, if we bet on his opponent, we could win a lot of money…”
“If anyone could beat him, yes. But who would? You saw what happened to that snake.”
“I think I could do it. Actually, I’m sure.”
“What?”
Astonished, Kyle jerked around, making the bunk sway. Twiglet moaned in her sleep; the creature on the lower level grumbled in a strange language that sounded like sloshing jelly.
“Listen,” Shirl said, turning toward him as well, “when I fought for Nagatomo, I faced dozens of opponents, and—”
“No, you listen,” Kyle hissed. “I used to go to the Onkalo too, and I never saw an abomination like that. You wouldn’t last ten seconds.”
“I know it would be dangerous,” Shirl insisted. “What do you think? But we have to take some risks. And I know that type of virtual fighter. They have a weak spot—a programming bug in versions earlier than 9000.02, the latest release. Hit them just below the belt, and they’re finished.”
Kyle snorted.
“And what if he’s a newer model? What if he crushes you before you can hit him below the belt? No. Absolutely not. Forget it.”
“But… all that money. Are you saying we don’t need it?”
“Hey, since when are you the captain? I decide what we need.”
“Ugh…” Shirl sighed and turned away again.
“It’s not that I underestimate you,” Kyle said after a few seconds. “Quite the opposite. You were amazing when you got us out of hyperspace. It’s just… I don’t like it. It’s too dangerous.”
Shirl remained silent.
“I’m so cold,” she said after a while. “Would you mind… holding me?”
He didn’t need to be asked twice.
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