Blow Job Red

Three women clustered in the washroom in the North corner of the 18^th floor: hogging the counter, putting up clear ‘do not disturb us’ vibes. I waited. No rush. Life wasn’t going anywhere.

One of them leaned over the counter, checking her eyes, her hair. Face smooth, eyes tight. She’d been retro’d once, maybe twice. Worth the money she paid, if it’s more. She pursed her lips, teeth carefully hidden behind dark red flesh, and the skin between her perfect eyes showed the shadow of a crease.

“I hate it” she announced, not into the mirror but over her shoulder, to her companions, without moving her face out of its lurched-over pose.

“I don’t know, I like it,’ the other human said, but her eyes shifted towards the Dreggin.

“Blow job red” the Dreggi says, voice neutral-cool. Oh, damning, damning. No one ever questioned a Dreggi on matters of color. Maybe their eyes, maybe their brains, but they’re rarely, no, never wrong.

The first woman snatched a tissue, wiped her lips bare in a smear of color. Tissue went into the cycler, a new tube of color comes out of her catchall. I stare unabashed, fascinated, as she applies it carefully, outlining in deft strokes.

“Better,” says their arbiter. Praise gives the first woman an unhealthy glow. They leave; sleek in their low-heeled boots, close-cropped hair. Human skin peach, Dreggin, puce: foreheads forever tattooed with their caste. Spacers. Worst kind.

‘Worst’ is such a malleable phrase: a marker you keep pushing further and further out with every thing you experience. Every thing you learn.

I stared in the mirror as I washed my hands, watching my eyes like a stranger. The Dreggin pick up the most amazing phrases. But she’s wrong. Blow job red is no color. They never want a trace left behind.

Enough, enough. I dried my hands with a blast of dehydrated air and got back to my station. Such a nice word for a strip of lino, a corner where two walls intersect, from the silver-and-black entryway to Makoy & Ree, Jewelers to the brick red door of Mme Latour’s. I worked long and hard to get here. Lean, just so. Tilt head, like that. If body language was important, then accent is essential. Pity the caretaker who looked the job.

I slide the flat of my palm down the silky coolness of my trousers. Spacers wear black, Port-workers are green, Admin’s blue. Nobody’s given my profession a coded coverall yet, but there’s irony left in the universe yet, so when they do it will be red. Blow job red.

Prostitute. Caretaker. Solicitor. Whore. Just words.

We’re invisible. They don’t see us, not the chubby little girl who works the arcade one floor below mine, or the soft-eyed boy who haunts the café on the corner just outside the main entrance. Not me. We reflect the viewer’s gaze back onto itself.

It’s something you learn you do, not something you set out for. Like a destination discovered only after you’ve lived there forever.

We have no color at all.

Mme Latour herself came in for the afternoon, trailing prettyboys and prettier girls. Too lovely to be touched; Latour sells the image that sells the merchandise. I watched the parade, toting up my day’s tally in my head for lack of anything better to do. This shift’s been decent, nothing better. In general, I do okay. Not great, but there are regulars, and I know how to walk past someone, pass a key, pick up their money and never indicate I’ve noticed them. The tips are better if they can tell themselves nobody saw, nobody noticed.

It’s not like that outside. Beyond the Port, people hold hands when they walk. I’ve seen it. Even done it a time or two. But it makes me nervous, twitchy. I’ve been too long Portside.

Over the piped-in soothe-sounds, there’s harsh breathing, the sound of light little feet coming towards me. “G’day” Whisker whispers as she moves past. She runs errands, carries packages. Sunflower child, golden hair and stem-green eyes. She told me once she’d never seen outside, never wanted to. Just waiting for the day her mother comes back and takes her offplanet. Until then, she gets by.

I slump a little, the wall rough against my back. My bones are weary inside my clothes, and the arcade’s half-empty the way it gets mid-hour; mostly just us regulars, trying to look like we’re not looking. Asenmere’s Rebellion shut shipping lanes for almost a week, crammed us to the gills with edgy troops and penned-up spacers looking to burn fuel. Now they’re gone, Portside’s still getting used to the silence.

A saniter pushes its mop slowly, the gleam of the floor unchanged when it passes. The entire thing gleams, metal-bright and glass. The eighteenth floor is prime territory, two-story-high beams holding the ceiling away like sky, so far up you could almost swear the light was real. Port’s huge, more so than you imagine when you first come in. It’s only later, when you leave, and you still haven’t seen it all, that you begin to maybe understand.

Lino shivers underfoot. I shift, rest one sole flat on the floor, test the information. Masterclass ship coming into docking, fifteen floors below. That means commercial spacers, money-in-pocket. Masterclass carries a full complement, plus trainees. God, I don’t want a pilot. A cargo-tender, maybe. Someone looking for a quick toss-me-down, a friendly physical rumble they can’t find in the hollow confines of their beast.

Cargo-tenders don’t need me to pretend.

“How much?”

I still remember most of all how brusque she was, leaning forward into the question. A pitch-blue jumpsuit – Port Admin. Rough, coarse; lacking the rubbed-smooth edge space gives. Admins go too long in white-walled cubicles, togging controls, staring into display tanks. Tension rode her shoulders all the way down her spine. There was need in her eyes that frightened, could consume the unwary. Adore me, it demanded. Destroy me. No safe ground in-between.

Instinct, already honed, said to pass her by. Instinct didn’t pay the rent.

I’d sidestepped the question, took her hand in mine. Smiled at her desperation.

I was younger then.

I’m fading, in and out. In my room, my office. There’s a hand on my head, fingers threading into my hair. They like it long. Theirs is so short, long reminds them of…what? Home? Things left behind. Things best forgotten. A tug, gentle at first. I sink to my knees, slide fingers down their too-white thighs. I try to get into the sun every now and then. It helps the tips. They won’t brown themselves, but maybe skin-to-skin it wears off, sinks in. Something to take home that nobody can see, tucked away inside them.

“Talk to me” they request. They shouldn’t have had to ask, I should have been able to tell. Stupid, stupid and careless. I’m better than that.

“Yeah, there, like that.” A moan, maybe. No, a gasp, something breathy and instinctive. “I like this. I like doing this.”

Pilot. It’s a pilot. You don’t say no to a pilot, not when they’re in front of you. Not that anything bad would happen, but…

You just don’t say no.

This one’s an old-timer, maybe thirty-five, forty standards. By the time they’re fifty they’re too tired to go on. Their eyes were blank until they saw me walking, one hand light on the silver rail, one hand casual, upturned, offering. Then there was hope, a quiet desperation that makes me ill.

The words are formula, probably the same in every Port, every planet. But they said them awkwardly, though it’s doubtless done this hundreds of times before. Pilots hate to lower themselves. I knew I should have waited for a cargo-tender. They don’t have the money a Pilot does, though.

We go to my hole; it’s small, tidy, and conveniently located just off the arcade. It was a dressmaker’s shop once, long ago. Port could never talk anyone into taking the space so they split it with a quickwall, charge me reasonable rent. Two chairs that are just shy of comfortable, a bed that’s large enough for three, if it’s needed.

You never ask them if they like it. They can’t say the words even here, even now. But they can tell when you’re mouthing the lines as well as their flesh, so you learn to put something into it, some flavor or scent that makes them feel they’ve gotten their guilty money’s worth. So, soft strokes of tongue and fingers, soft strokes of words and sounds. Give them what they won’t admit they need.

They finished, a languorous flush rising from groin to neck, petal-soft skin sliding up my arms, down my back. Shoes on, pants fastened. Money in my hand.

They always want me to know their names. They never ask for mine.

I sat in the hole, weighed my account balance, decided on a shower and a warm meal. The advantage of working Portside is you don’t answer to anyone except yourself. Security sees to that; only essential personnel gets work permits. Nobody tells you boo, nobody takes a cut of what you earn. Downside is, you’re on your own.

I took my shoes off as a rode the shaft down to quarters, rubbing the heel of one foot. The floor underneath was warm and slick, the lighting dimmed to simulate night. It must be moonfall already; I’d been working straight since the Masterclass landed. Ended with a kid-crew, first jump, barely’d earned its flight suit. Big blue eyes that didn’t want to focus.

God, I’m tired, I think as I slap my key to the door, fall rather than walk in when it opens. My space is as nice as I can make it; two rooms only, but one has a view that lets in sunlight so the plants thrive. Four of them, all with different leaves. The green-purple-brown textures are soothing.

I shed my clothes, pour a mug of caff, curl my legs underneath me on the sofa. Except for the leaves, everything here is cream-colored. The carpet, soft to bare toes, the nubby cloth sofa, the walls bare save for the silver-and-gold weaving I made when I was sixteen. My family was known for their work. I wasn’t good enough to compete, and I didn’t want to be left behind.

“They say we’re less than human.” A voice from too long ago. I remember him, too, although I’m not sure why. I was too young, maybe, or he was just so tired. Black eyes, white hair. Tattoo pulsing as he spoke, the play of veins under his skin. “Because of what we do. What we are.”

A little ego, a little truth. Grounders admire, desperately, the glory-that-are-spacers. Even a cargo-tender, rough and battered, is somehow better than the highest grounder, for having the infinite of space in their soul. Spacers despise grounders, and Pilots despise everyone who isn’t them. They’re entitled. Pilots go into the deep darkness, taking ships with them along the line. They pride themselves on being the toughest thing around.

“We’re cold as the space around us. We have to be. But that doesn’t make us not human.”

My hands warmed his skin, my breath cooled his sweat. He came, sobbing, the words pouring from his mouth, and I soothed and cooed and was discarded.

The boy-child today called out a name when he came. His eyes closed, his hands clenched, and for a moment his heart was beating.

I paint my toenails soothing translucent pink. Stop to admire, put on another coat. Pull up my hair in a ribbon, paint crimson on my mouth. Stains on every cup, every bite of food, my fingers when I raise it to my mouth.

We don’t sell sex. We don’t need to. Spacers fuck anything that moves. Needing, though. Affection. Love. Those’re dirty words when you have to be a god unto yourself. When space is in your soul, there’s no room left for anything else. Grounders are the weak ones. Grounders are the ones who yearn.

So they fuck each other in the darkness of the hollow hours of space, and come down to earth for what they won’t admit they need.

The stars aren’t enough, I guess. We carry the abyss no matter where we go.