Shop Talk Chapter 4

 

4

Rhode Island Bar

 

 

            The residents of Mark's Station work hard and play hard. As rowdy as they get, there is surprisingly little serious crime. At the least, you get kicked off by the Pohls, put on the next transport and goodbye. The worst? "Pushed out an airlock" is not just an insult. A particularly obnoxious liar, thief or murderer simply disappears. Most disagreements are settled among themselves.

            There are five sub cities on Galwen, clustered around a convention sized Central Hall, where all interspecies business was conducted. Each city is about the size of a large shopping mall with apartments, shops and dozens of bars.

            Me, Temple and George headed off to the Rhode Island Bar a short walk away. I glance up to see a sign near the front door:

            IT HAS BEEN 9 DAYS SINCE A BAR FIGHT. Well that's encouraging.

            The place is filled with pulsing lights, noisy dance music, and on the edge of uncontrollable. I'm not concerned with trouble with Temple and a towering Chiron by my side.  George plows us a path through the mayhem to the bar on the opposite side of the cavernous club. We get our drinks and head to the mezzanine level to watch the crowd thrash about on the dance floor. George and I enjoy the crowd while Temple sips a coke in stoic silence. George nudges me and points toward the door where we spot Elvis still in his drab brown work coveralls.

            Oh no not him, I despair. Elvis is tall enough to see over the crowd, peering around curiously, bobbing his head of black, brown and grey curls. The young man-- I guess he's young, it's hard to tell with Rogues-- is an unwanted stray puppy. He's all gangly limbs clumsily tripping or knocking things over in an attempt to please, only to annoy everyone with his forced joviality. George waves to him before I can stop him and I catch Temple looking equally pained. Elvis perks up and heads our way.

            I decide to head for the restroom, always an adventure in a multi-species environment, then rejoin Temple, now at a table, to rest my tired feet. The music stops to give everyone a breather and the atmosphere settles down by several degrees.

            A beefy fellow comes by and sits in a nearby chair. He's good looking in a generic way and tries to make conversation as he nurses his beer.

            "You work for Mussel Mechanics?" he asks, glancing at my sweatshirt with the shop logo on it.

            "Yeah," I reply, dripping with facetiousness. He takes the hint and tries again.

            " I hear those McKinleys are a bitch to work on," he says causally but I know where this is going.

            There are always spies from competitors looking for inside information, or he might be working for McKinley rooting out any tipsters. I consider him carefully, risking a glance at Temple who watches the encounter closely as I step into the mine field.

            " I don't know, and if I did, I couldn't tell you because then you would die," I reply in a cheerful but deadly tone. Temple raises one eyebrow in sly approval of my retort.

            George and Elvis return from dancing and at the sight of the blue hulk the man flees. I forget the Chirons have a fierce reputation. The two sit and opine about the "weird types" at the bar, which is an amusing observation coming from George. His massive head and thick brow suggesting brutality are belied by his bright emerald eyes and sweet nature. He is also wearing rainbow colored overalls and in bare feet--a Chiron preference. He is fascinated with human culture and I puzzle over his superb diction. He will occasionally let fly a stream of incomprehensible expletives in his native tongue that sounds like someone clearing their throat.

            “Where did he learn to speak such good English?” I ask Temple in an aside.

            “He watches the Nostalgia Channel,” she replies straight faced. That's a TV channel geared to humans with reruns of old TV shows from the late 20th century. I burst out laughing.

            "Whoa, look at that beauty," George says in an awed tone, his face lit with excitement. We follow his gaze to a Chiron standing at the end of the massive u shaped bar dominating the club.

            She is a pastel blue with long fur that has a soft look to it compared to George's short cobalt fuzz. She's wearing a full length crimson red dress with a matching bow on top of her head. She appears girlish despite her bulging arm muscles and squat head as she towers over the hefty bartender. George mutters something that needs no translation of his admiration of her. A confused Elvis rises to his full height to scrutinize her.

            "She's a real looker alright," he gushes to George as Temple and I exchange looks, trying to suppress our laughter at Elvis' painfully amateur attempt to befriend George. George ignores our patter as he gazes intently at the object of his desire. I nudge him on the shoulder.

            "Why don't you go and introduce yourself ?" I urge him. He shakes his head in terror.

            "Go on George, it's now or never," Temple points with her chin at the Chiron daintily sipping her drink through a straw. She moves away while an insistent customer tries to get the bartender's attention. George holds for an instant, sets his drink down and heads straight for her.

            Elvis gives him an encouraging whoop, setting off another fit of laughter from me and Temple. We quickly tire of the bar scene as the Chirons disappears into the crowd.  

            "Let's go next door," Temple huffs and gestures me to follow. Her invitation throws me off guard momentarily as she normally doesn't give me much notice but I quickly recover and we depart, leaving the distracted Rogue behind.

            Temple leads the way down a long hallway and through a set of heavy doors to a quiet, genteel cafe next door. The lighting is low key with several floor lamps scattered about, giving the place an intimate feel as people sit working on tablets and drinking coffee. An espresso machine hisses away behind a long counter that's an extension of the previous bar and continues at a right angle through a wall to a brown zone -off limits to humans.

            I spot Stan and Gaga, the office matron, sitting at a corner table and she waves us over. I freeze at the prospect of making conversation with them but move ahead at the warm smile from Gaga.

            She is a large black woman with flamboyant taste in clothes and a personality to match. They greet us pleasantly as we settle into sturdy metal chairs. Stan is still in work pants and sporting a company logo jersey like mine. A rail thin waiter in an iridescent green jumpsuit who is familiar with Gaga, takes our orders.

            To my surprise Temple orders coffee. I always pictured her as a hard drinking, bad ass pilot after spotting the star shaped insignia of the Terran Defense League tattooed on her upper arm. I didn't inquire about it as she is an notoriously private person.

            "Those days are gone," she says simply enough when I made note of her order.

            "Amen, it's not like when we used to knock 'em back with old Sam," Gaga says with a significant look to Stan, who offers a small nod. I'm about ask who Sam is when a loud bang from the direction of the brown zone catches our attention. We can't see it, but something hits a large mirrored window from the other side causing it to quiver for a moment.

            Shit, I hope that glass doesn't break, I react in alarm. A breech from one zone to the next usually involves an emergency evacuation. The staff behind the bar skitter away but the others are unfazed by the commotion.  

            "Looks like the Pohls are rumbling again," Temple ventures calmly as her coffee arrives.

            "Enough to get a gassy lecture from Shem, no doubt," Stan adds.

            Shem is the Pohl ambassador whose job is to keep the relationship between the residents and his people civil.

            "What are they so riled up about these days?" I ask with apprehension.

            "Probably spooked by rumors of the Bree starting shit again," Stan says and the ladies snort at some private information. Personally, I find nothing funny about them, a truly obnoxious race no one likes.

            "What's the deal between the Pohls and the Bree anyway? " I ask, my curiosity piqued.

            "Who knows, apparently they have a grudge that goes back centuries," Stan offers with a dismissive shrug. He pulls up his sleeve to scratch his arm and I notice a star shaped tattoo. In a sudden burst of insight I make the connection.

            "Oh my God, you're related to Sam Mussel?" I blurt.

            Sam Mussel is a legend among astronauts. He was the commander of the first mission after "The Awakening". Stan wears a faint honored smile, while Temple seems annoyed at my lack of manners. I explain my outburst from the story everyone knows.

            It was intended to be a grand adventure. Humans would at last leave the solar system to travel among the stars. Instead, the ship never got off the moon thanks to poor engineering, a rushed mission and the politics of proving we were ready for interstellar flight.

            Mussel was renowned for making an emergency landing and saving the lives of the seven crew members. There was a lot of finger pointing between NASA, the Department of Defense and the UN and Mussel lost his hero's shine after the powers that be tried to pin the mission's failure on him. In return he gave the directors of the pansy ass, late great NASA the finger. He went on to start the Interstellar Cooperative, a real space program designed to understand newly discovered alien technology that would eventually launch us into deep space. The group seems amused with my exposition.

            "They're still spinning that story about dad, huh? How do you think we acquired etee technology?" he asks, Temple and Gaga watch intensely for my response.

            " We stole--er we reversed engineered it-- but nobody would admit it?" I timidly guess at what everyone suspected. Stan considers my answer as half right.

            "The Pohls gave it to us but claimed we stole it," he corrects.

            "Why would they make a claim like--oh, I get it," I stop as comprehension sinks in.

            " That's a good cover story 'look how those clever Terrans figured out interstellar space mechanics all by themselves,' thus allowing us to join the Alliance."

            The three have a hearty laugh at my ignorance but there's no malice in their humor.

            "She doesn't know about the Rogue," Temple informs him how naive I am.

            " Ah yeah, good old Teotao," Stan nods sagely.

            I spend a lively evening listening as Stan spins a curious yarn.