Quentin thought of his own lineage — his ancestors had come over on the first flotilla, some 240 years ago. A great-great-great-great grandfather, supposedly, had come from someplace on Earth called “Dallas.” Quentin only remembered that tidbit because one of the original football teams had played there. He, and his parents, and his parents’ parents before him, thought of themselves as citizens of the Purist Nation, as separate from Earth as the Human citizens of The Deuce were to any Human government. Still, it was hard to think of Humans proudly boasting their citizenship to a nation of radioactivity-proof aliens.
Buildings towered above, some reaching a mile into the air. The green crystalline mass that made up the buildings’ frameworks looked bubbly, almost alive, with the soft ripples and curves of a large icicle. Massive arcs of that same green crystal reached from building to building, across narrow spans, across streets, some across entire blocks. Some arcs reached from a building to another arc, and a few even ran from one arc to another, forming a stringy, organic latticework.
“Bet you never saw anything like this back on the farm, eh Quentin?” Yassoud said as the trio headed to the first building with a holographic football/beer bottle sign.
“You can say that again,” Quentin said. “Virak told me to watch my back in this place. I hear it’s dangerous.”
“Relax, backwater,” Tweedy said with a grin. “We’re football players. Nobody is gonna mess with us. We can beat the tar out of them and no one can send us to jail. GFL immunity is great, I tell ya. Let’s just enjoy the place and tie one on tonight.”
“Oh yep,” Yassoud said. “Let us delve into the seedy underbelly of this strange and alien city.”
As if pulled by some unseen magnetism, Yassoud and Tweedy suddenly turned as one and walked towards a door marked with a familiar glowing sign of a football on top of a Miller logo. Quentin paused before entering. The bar was so packed part of the crowd stood on the street, mag-glasses in hand. Where Ionath City and Port Whitok had “species-specific” areas, this bar seemed to have everything: Humans, Creterakian civilians, female Sklorno, more than a few Ki, Harrah, and, of course, dozens of Quyth Workers, Warriors and Leaders.
The crowd parted for the three men as they walked into the bar, mostly because the ever-scowling Tweedy led the way, head tilted down, eyes peering out from his thick eyebrows. KRAKENS RULE THE UNIVERSE scrolled across his forehead. The bar’s counter was a black, onyx-like surface set at just two feet off the ground, the perfect height for Quyth Workers to sit and relax. Quentin, Tweedy and Yassoud sat at three seats, which seemed to magically open before them as three normal-sized Humans got up and left upon their approach.
“Bartender!” Yassoud screamed as he sat. A wide, white-toothed smile nearly split his face in two. “Bartender! Three Millers!”
A Quyth Worker waddled over. A shriveled stub on his left cheek remained of what had once matched the yellow-and-orange furred pedipalp on his right. He reached under the bar and quickly served up three mag-cans of Miller. Yassoud, still smiling, ceremoniously opened all three cans, passing one to Quentin and one to John Tweedy.
“Tonight we drink to turning things around,” Yassoud said, his can held high. “Here’s to kicking in the Demolition’s face! Oh yep!”
All three men drank as the crowd, obviously Demolition fans, let out low-volume jeers. Quentin noticed how many beings wore Demolition clothing of one type or another; purple hats and jackets and shirts marked with three white stripes.
Quentin took a couple of swallows. When he set his can down, Yassoud and Tweedy were still drinking. Both men drained their mag-cans, hit the decompress button on the top, and set the now de-charged and empty metal ring on the bar top.
“Bartender!” Yassoud screamed. “Another round please.”
John Tweedy poked a finger at Quentin’s can, still three-quarters full. “What’s the matter, rookie. Not thirsty?”
“Um, we have a game in two days.”
“So?” Yassoud and Tweedy said in unison.
“I’m not going to get drunk, we’ve got to be at our best for the game.”
Tweedy waved a hand in front of his face as if Quentin had farted. “Dang, backwater, I thought you were fun, like Yassoud here.”
Yassoud, smiling, just shrugged.
“I’m fun,” Quentin said. “I just don’t wanna mess anything up this week.”
“Yeah, you’re tons of fun,” Yassoud said. “The way you spend all your time in the VR room, man you’re a regular ball of laughs. I wanna party with you, kid.”
Tweedy laughed. Quentin felt his face turn a bit red.
“Hey, I’m out tonight, right?” Quentin said. “Give me at least that much.”
Yassoud nodded vigorously. “Oh yep, you’re right, you’re here so I’ll quit bagging on you.”
The second round hit the bar top. Within seconds, John and Yassoud had knocked that one back as well.
“Bartender!” Yassoud screamed. Quentin slowly shook his head. It was going to be a long night.
RIGHT ABOUT THE TIME John Tweedy, now eight beers heavier, started challenging anyone and everyone in the bar to a fight, Quentin (only two beers heavier) walked outside. He had a good feeling he’d need a grav-cab to get Tweedy and Yassoud back to their rooms. How they could hope to practice the next day was beyond Quentin’s understanding.
The streets remained packed with grav-cars. Pedestrians filled the sidewalks, moved in and out of bars and buildings. The green tinged buildings soared above, their endless network of arms reaching out to each other like tentacled lovers caught in a freeze-frame.
A pair of Human hand-holding women walked by, one with blue skin, the other with white, both wearing matching see-through body suits that left nothing to the imagination. A month ago, he would have sneered at the two shameless women, both for their sinful dress and for the color of their skin. Now however, something did rise as they walked by, but it wasn’t his lip.
You’re changing so fast you can barely keep score, Quentin thought to himself. Maybe it was being immersed in alien cultures that made even blue- and white-skinned women look alluring. They didn’t seem so different anymore, not like they had back on Micovi, where you only saw colored skin in the holos. The white-skinned girl turned and looked at him as she walked by, her blue-painted lips flashing a seductive smile.
He watched her walk down the sidewalk, his eyes following first her shapely booty, then her legs, then her friend’s booty, then her friend’s legs, then Maygon.
Maygon?
Quentin blinked twice, but there was nothing wrong with his vision. Maygon, the Creterakian representative of the To Pirates, was two buildings down the street, dressed in a fuchsia suit with yellow stripes, and waving at him with one wing. No, not waving, beckoning.
Quentin felt his face flush red. He looked around quickly, but saw no one he recognized, and no one staring at him. Well, no unusual stares — a seven-foot-tall being drew plenty of stares in a city where the average citizen stood just over four feet.
Maygon waved again, this time faster, more demanding.
Quentin swallowed, looked in the bar to make sure Yassoud and Tweedy weren’t watching, then walked to Maygon.
“What do you want?’ Quentin said. “We can’t be seen together.”
“A chance you’ll have to take. Kirani-Ah-Kollok has a message for you.”