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MORNING. ONCE AGAIN I staggered from my chosen bedroom, once again hung over and once again wondering why destiny had dropped me into this shit-storm. As I drank my second glass of water and tried to think of the most appropriate affirmation, I looked up at the board. Three lights blinking. My heart sank. I looked at my watch. Nine-fifteen. Unprofessional! As I wobbled back into the connecting passageway I saw an item of clothing on the floor.
Women’s clothing.
Interesting.
Then I saw another item, and another. Sharp’s clothing! My mind flickered like one of those ancient film-clips into my final functional memories from late last night: Tipper drove me home ... yep, yep, but wait! Ms Sharp was squeezed in too, on my lap! Holy gods be praised – she was in my bed right now! Damn you, Alcohol, for fucking with my brain! How did I manage to forget that? (But actually, asides from a single brief image of three drunks jammed in Tipper's strider, I still had no memory of our wondrous night together. It would come, it would come...)
Okay: FACT: I had a trail of clothing leading back to the bedroom area, very optimistic. I turned about and lurched back to my own room, only to find my bed tragically empty of Sharp or Tipper, or any other woman for that matter. What the fuck?
And right about then I heard a faint murmur from the adjoining bedroom; a faint female murmur. With my heart raced up the scale I cautiously tip-toed to the next doorway and peered in very cautiously. The two single beds had been dragged together, and in the rumpled bedding thereon I spied the black hair of Sharp. Huzzah!
I was about to charge in when I also spotted the ginger-red hair of Tipper!
Un-huzzah.
Very, very, VERY bad un-huzzah. The very worst un-huzzah I'd ever felt.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
I staggered back, leaning against the wall, trying not to make a sound, fighting down the thudding of my heart, fighting down my disappointment. How the hell had I missed that development? My mind screamed, “This was not in the plan!”
There were actual tears in my eyes. Actual. Tears. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t want to believe it. I wanted to wake up again in a different reality – tried three times to do exactly that, and failed every time. This awful new reality kept refusing to go away.
Finally I pushed myself off the wall, staggered blindly to the operating room, fixed my mask carelessly onto my face and hit the ready button. The big door slid open and the first Kirrikibat charged in. Ignoring its cheerful remark about the bloody weather I jabbed my trusty blade deep into my usual starting point.
“KRIKI-KIK!” rattled the Kirrikibat. I’d never heard that one before. My translator stuttered into life moments later: “DON’T TAKE IT OUT ON ME, BUCKWHEAT!”
#
THE SPARE ROOM WAS empty when I went back. The clothes were all gone; the beds were made; there was not a single sign that I’d ever had visitors. Tipper and Sharp ... gone.
Sadly I started the computer and tried to get an idea of when my new food supplies were going to arrive, but the only thing it could tell me was that they had been ordered. Great. Fucking fantastic! It was going to be Instant Cheesy Stuff or nothing. Dragging my miserable arse to the kitchen I took out a packet, set the preferences (I thought fried onion was probably going to be the safest bet) and pulled the rip-cord. The packet hissed and puffed up as the heater field briefly flared. Steam and the smell of cheese and onions wafted out as the top unfurled itself. I found a fork and proceeded to shove it into my face.
#
THE AFTERNOON WENT quiet. Surely I hadn’t dealt with all the urgent cases in the district? No. One more came in at four. His beautiful caprice had weakened and finally cracked in the savage atmosphere and UV light, but the worst issue – the festering decay that drove them crazy – it had barely began. Presumably the previous guy had done this client about two months ago. Tiredly, listlessly, I set to work again, taking off such large sheets of chitin that I couldn’t poke them down the regular chute. These I later threw down the docking port after I found the control that allowed me to manually override it. I watched as the slabs hit the ground below and bounced away down-hill, out into the eternal weather. For once the waste of it didn’t bother me.
It was dusk. Somewhere the sun was setting behind a wall of volcanoes. The floor shivered as a distant quake rumbled through like the 6:30 express.
180 DAYS TO GO. 180 days of pure misery. Without that magical music Edgetown was going to be a pure pit of hell; a prison sentence; a locked room of despair.
Yet believe it or not, faced with the prospect of an evening of miserable solitude or an evening of drowning my sorrows in drink, I ordered a taxi and headed into town.
Had a lot of drowning to do.
Edgetown looked the same as it ever did, a huddle of ugly tanks and domes silhouetted against a distant horizon of dull volcanic fire. The holes in the mainstreet dripped forlornly and the street lights were now down to two. I nearly didn’t get out of the taxi, but I did.
There was the Crush Club, its neon sign flickering and its airlock glowing bluey-green. Two people hurried towards it and disappeared inside, their voices loud and excited. Tourists, judging by their bright clean clothes and lack of facial scars. Why the hell would anyone want to come here? Oh sure – they could walk on the skin of the galaxy’s biggest living organism and buy a T-shirt to prove it, but what else was there? A crummy booze-barn inhabited by surly low-lifes? A hotel that never seemed to be open? And no implant connection! What did these idiots do for entertainment?
I thought about Harriet right then. I missed her, I actually pined for her, but she was gone too. My entire past seemed to be retreating from me like a missed train and I didn't have a future any more, at least not one that I could happily imagine. All my visualisations had receded beyond a horizon now filled with an eternal hell of peeling festering crud off crazy Kirrikibats then sinking piss with surly lowlifes while the only true love of my life turned out to be a lesbian and then left town for ever ...
That's a Country & Western song if ever there was.
I couldn’t go in. I just couldn’t make my feet walk through that door. It was going to be the worse thing ever. The same crowd, the same beer, the same bad cooking, but no music! No Sharp! She was probably back in Crush Central right now with a healthy bank account and a smile on her face after a nice little one-night stand. Alright for some.
[What’s that? My philosophy? Listen, mate, if anyone had tried to talk to me about philosophy right then, I'd have ripped their throat out!]
So anyway there I was, at eight-fifteen on a warm misty night, standing alone outside the Crush Club, tired beyond belief and contemplating going home for another dish of Instant Cheesy Stuff despite the fact that I’d thrown half of it down the chute at lunchtime, when I heard a ruckus starting up inside. It sounded like the thunder of feet mixed with the rattle of applause, plus wolf-whistles and cheering. Then it went silent. And in that silence I head a familiar tune. It was the piano! It was Sharp! She’d stayed after all!
My heart fluttered up like a half-burnt moth, banging painfully into everything possible. Yes! But no! Tipper... But the music! At least I still had the music ... but no; Tipper.
I couldn’t hear Sharp’s voice above the ruckus inside, but I could filled in the words from memory, imagining her perfect voice: ‘I'm a-walkin' in the rain / Tears are fallin' and I feel the pain / Wishin' you were here by me / To end this misery, ...’ (It’s an obscure song by Elvis but you wouldn't know that. Gotta be an classical music expert like me.)
Crash. My burnt-moth-heart hit the floor again. No, this was too much for me. Too painful. I turned away, letting my tears spill over. (It’s not easy touching you own face inside a force-field, even an atmospheric separator type.)
Anyway I was damn-near blind and didn’t give a damn. Sharp wasn't going to be mine. The Crush Club was going to be the best place ever and it wasn't going to be mine either. I could never look Tipper in the eye again. Nor Sharp. Oh the pain, the pain, the pain ...
And that was how I slammed into Tyge. She must have been right behind me. (Thinking back on it I guess she might have deliberately moved into my path, but I also think she expected me to see her, which I completely didn’t.) Anyway there we were, staggering about on the wet ground and grabbing onto each other for support and being clumsy and me commencing an outpouring of apologies, when –
“Oh. It’s you.”
I swiftly let go of her, but she didn’t let go of me. She held me in a frighteningly powerful grip, breather-fields touching, and looked me straight in the eye.
“Look, Doc, I’m sorry about last night.”
Quickly I tried to wipe away my tears, which as I mentioned is not that easy, and she saw what I was trying to do. “I.. I don’t know why you’re apologizing,” I mumbled.
“I’m not,” she said in annoyance, “I’m just saying that ... well ... I could see it coming and I could've warned you, but I didn’t. And I had my reasons. And by ‘sorry’ I mean that I’m sorry for ya that it had to work out like that.”
Okay, I was lost about then.
She went on, “See: I know Tipper, I’ve known her for years. She’s a good mate and all, but...” Tyge shrugged, “... when she wants something she just goes for it.”
“Yeah. I noticed.”
I was listening to the music in the club, faint but familiar; ‘... And I wonder / Where she will stay-a-ya / My little Run-away ...’ Classic! Epic! God that woman was awesome!
“Let’s go in,” she suddenly said, turning me towards the Club, “I’m starved!”
I panicked, “But...!”
“But nothing, Doc!” She was furious all of a sudden, “Now listen up! You’re part of this town now. You’ve proved your merit, and you’ve brought us the most wonderful thing; her! So because I care about ya ... Yes: I can care about people! ...I’m NOT going to let you stand out here feeling miserable about your crappy love life! Life’s too short to be mooning around! There’s other fish in the sea! Now move it!” And with that she propelled me all the way into the club.
#
DAZED AND CONFUSED I went through the air-lock and hung my breather ring and cape on one of the few remaining recharger hooks. OMG, the place was packed! We went in. The place was packed! No one noticed my arrival. When I saw Sharp my heart broke all over again. A crowd of about twenty was gathered around the piano, all singing lustily although none of them seemed to know the words. Tipper was leaning over the piano closest to Sharp. She didn’t even have a beer in her hand.
Tipper, without beer?
Most of the tables were full, and more people were eating than drinking; a very unusual sign. There were extra staff on and Komodo was behind the bar serving drinks as fast as he could. Tyge steered me towards the last remaining free table, sat me down, then plunged through the crowds for food. The tourists parted, terrified of her face and manner. I just sat, stunned by the changes in the place. Overnight it had almost become the kind of place I wouldn't completely avoid.
As the song ended Tipper suddenly boomed out, “Hey everyone, HE’S HERE!” She strode straight over and hauled me to my feet. People poured around me, slapping my back and shouting their thanks and sloshing their beer. They started hauling me out of my chair and, despite my feeble protests, I was lifted onto Tipper’s shoulder and paraded around the place, my head occasionally smacking into a light fitting. There was an earthquake right in the middle of it but no-one gave a damn. The cheering drowned it out.
At last she put me down, the cheering subsided and Sharp got into her next song. Instantly the crowd hushed to listen and pick up the new words. I saw grown men built like tanks dabbing at their eyes and smiling as if it were a whole new experience. Maybe it was!
Tyge arrived back with two steaming plates and half a slab of beer. “Cheers, Doc. You’ve single-handedly saved the town!”
“What do you mean?”
She sort of spluttered on her beer and looked at me in mock amazement. “I mean I’ve never seen so many people in this room before, at least not without killing each another!” Her eyes danced with genuine delight, “That piano thing is fantastic! When did they invent it?”
I had my mouth full of steak. “Mum-mo.”
She tucked in too, none too daintily, and polished off her meaty slab faster than I was getting through mine. Then she finished by drinking the juices straight off the plate. I passed her a tissue I’d nicked from the clinic.
She looked at it, confused. “What’s this for?”
“You’ve got gravy on your chin.”
She burst out laughing. Then I did too. I was beginning to realise that this lady had not been raised in the genteel environment of a plumber’s household and that actually it didn’t bloody matter! She accepted me for what I was. It was time I tried to do the same for her.
“So,” I shouted above the hubbub, “What exactly do you do for a living?”
“I drive a truck.”
“Yes, I sort of figured, but who for?”
She looked at me as if I’d insulted her, “For me!”
“Sorry. I meant like: who are your clients?”
“Oh the odd science team. Drilling crews. And I do a tourist run.”
“Ah. So there is some sort of tour then?”
“More than a bloody tour, mate! It’s the greatest thrill in the galaxy!”
I sat back, deciding not to go there again. “So, you get tourists out here?”
“Yup. There’s always some rich little thrill-seeker who wants to go home with a T-shirt that says, ‘I Walked the Living Edge and Survived’ or some such crap.” She drained her beer and paused thoughtfully, then waved it emphatically, showering me with droplets, “I mean that’s all very well but actually staying out here, year after year, and staying alive as well; that’s the real adventure!”
She had a point. And it made me more determined than ever to finish my gig and get as far away as I could from all this danger and death. But my next question revealed none of that. “So how long you been here?”
“Six years.”
“And what were you doing before that?”
“Ain’t telling.”
I mulled on that a while, then arrived at a question I just had to ask, “So, ‘Tyge’. Did you ... or was it ... them?” I let my eyes flick around the room. Once again I Spotted Tipper. She and Sharp seemed to fill the room.
Tyge dropped her eyes and smiled into the hole in the top of her beer can, almost as if she were shy. Or perhaps she was wondering how much to tell me. “That was Tipper, but ... heh; this town; they rename everyone.”
“Ah. So: 'Tipper' ...?”
“You can’t guess?”
“Uh, no.”
“She drove a tip-truck.”
<Facepalm> So who else was there? ‘Notch’; kind of obvious. ‘Stevedore’? Wasn’t that a really old-fashioned word? I knew sod-all, actually. Wasn’t going to admit it though.
What to say? What to say? All I could do was come up with small-talk. Lame, lame, lame, lame, lame. Up against this extraordinary-looking woman I felt like nobody.
Then to my amazement she leaned close and said, “My real name is Angelique Secondi.” Two words that resonated like music in my ears after days of listening to the talk of ruffians and yobbos. Holy amazeballs – she’d confided in me! I felt my heartbeat kick up a gear.
I gazed at her, staying softly on her weird eyes that were sending me some sort of signal I couldn't decode. Was this a test? Okay, I didn’t specialise in psychology, but the question was kind of obvious: who was really hiding in there? What was her back-story?
Hmmm... I could look up that name, if I wanted to...
At which point she leaned slightly closer and said in a tone that no-one could deny either hearing or understanding, “You will share that with no-one, understand? You will not look it up, and I will know if you do, and it will be blocked, and you will live to deeply regret ever breaching my trust. Savvy?”
“Savvy.” I was suddenly getting the cold clammies. Was she a murderer?
“You see, sometimes even tigers need friends.” Her eyes flicked at Tipper. I glanced that way too. Apes do it, apparently. Mimic. It’s a way of signally empathy. Brought my eyes back, nodded in empathy, and tried to slow down my panicking blood pump.
“Six years,” she repeated mysteriously.
Do tigers show sadness? I wasn’t sure. I certainly wasn’t going to say ‘You wanna talk about it?’ She'd shut up for sure, and I needed her right then as much as she needed me.
Plus I needed my heart to remain right where it was. Ditto my limbs.
“So... can I call you that?” I asked equally quietly (not that I had to in that place).
“Never!” she hissed, her eyes flicking quickly around the room to check where her mates were, “Not unless you’re good with a needle and thread!” (There it was again, that expression. Twice in two days. Bizarre.)
Then she seemed to soften a bit, “You can think of me as ‘Angel’, but only in private. Strictly in private.” She fixed me firmly with those tiger eyes, “Okay.” It was not a question.
I nodded, very sincere, “Sure, understood.”
Angelique Secondi. I rolled the name around in my mind, still gazing at her. Then I suddenly realised that her face was not covered in tiger stripes as I had first assumed. They were actually long graceful angels dancing in a complex three-dimensional ballet. Subtle, remarkable! Her face was an absolute living work of art. Extraordinary!
I was poised to ask who did it when someone plopped down at our table and seized my hand and started shaking it. This beefy grey-haired stranger didn’t let up until he departed several minutes later.
“So you’re the famous Doc, eh?” he blared, “How’re you going, mate?”
“Not too bad,” I answered, having mastered the subtleties of the greeting, “and y'self?”
“Yeah not so bad. Dob’s the name, Dob Bol. I’m the Mayor.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t know ...”
“Nar, nar, nar,” he said, “ya don’t have to get down on your knees or anything, mate, purely an honorary title. See about forty years ago The Authority decided that each town needed a mayor, right? So we all had to have these phony elections and now every town has a mayor. Just a formality really. I’ve been Mayor for thirty-odd years. Supposed to look after the interests of the town and all that crap but strewth it’s hard, mate! It’s like pushing shit up a hill. I mean let’s face it: The Authority doesn’t give a rat’s arse about this side. They’re pouring everything into the Eastern Fringe now. Hotels, a flaming golf course can you believe!? I mean who wants to come all the way out to Crush just to play golf?”
There was a golf course!? I played golf. “Ahhh.., golfers?” I suggested.
“Yeah! Doesn’t it just make you wanna puke?”
I could think of a number of things that would make him puke a lot faster than golf but I wisely kept my mouth shut.
“Anyway, it’s great to meet you, Doc. You’ve brought a real little ray of sunshine into the town. You really have!” He pumped my hand once more then hailed someone else across the room and suddenly surged away. I glanced slyly at my companion, expecting her to catch my meaning, but she was gazing after the Mayor, nodding and smiling.
“Great guy, that,” she was saying, “really great guy. Tipper pulled him out of a skin pore once. Him and about eight tourists.” Then she added two more words as if they constituted a remarkably unusual fact, “All survived.”
A skin pore? This was a conversational opening I’d been waiting some time for. “So, ah, when you get out towards the real Edge, I guess it gets a bit more dangerous?”
“Oh yeah, bloody oath, mate! You can run into all sorts of stuff: Pore Farts, Humpage, Weather Breaks, Quickie Volcanoes, and there’s always the chance of some Pubic Upthrust.”
My mouth must have been hanging open for some time. Careful not to spill any saliva I carefully closed it and continued to consider the meaning of her bizarre list, especially that last item. Sitting across the table from a woman who looked like she could suck my lips off, the mere thought of ‘Pubic Upthrust’ was giving me a bad case of something very similar.
Or was she having me on? Finally I thought I’d better try and say something intelligent.
“Think I’ll just stick to my day job.”
She laughed, a different laugh to Tipper’s. And speaking of Tipper, right then she came out of the crowd and slapped me on the back, “No hard feelings, mate? About last night?”
“Last night?” I echoed, my mind trying to race onto a whole new track as the pain in my shoulder subsided.
“Y'know – using your spare room. Seemed empty.”
I tried to put on a carefree face, “Oh, yeah, no worries.”
“Good on ya, sport!” she slapped me again, nearly dislocating the other shoulder. I grinned up at her, nodding, smiling, holding back the tears.
She looked down at my plate and boomed, “The food’s better tonight, eh?”
I nodded.
“Komodo’s finally hired a decent chef. Got him from that swanky joint across the road.”
Tyge lifted an eyebrow. “The fancy cook? Old Soiree?”
“Yep! Things are really looking up thanks to the Doc!” I waited for the third slap, but it didn’t come. Instead Tipper leaned so close I could smell her beery breath, “By the way, no charge for the tank, mate. Just don’t ask where it came from, okay?”
“What tank?” I said as po-faced as I could. She went off howling with laughter. Tyge leaned across the table, smiling sweetly. But her eyes were serious, “We mean it. Okay?”
I nodded, serious-like, and made a ‘my lips are zipped’ gesture, then got on with my dinner. Now that Tipper had mentioned it, the food was noticeably better.
Things were looking up for Edgetown, or at least the Crush Club. But all the same, I had an uneasy feeling that things had only just begun to happen.