A Swift Kick in the Asteroids Read online

  “That’s my jam!” exclaimed Alaya when Gunt’s classic “That Other Song That Has a Great Beat and Gets Sentients Out and About On the Dance Floor” began to play. She scampered off to the dance floor, the others swarming behind her like a school of fish. Only Zag stayed behind, nursing his drink as he watched the others dance. At least, he assumed they were dancing. Meris was either doing the Problematic Dishwasher or having an upright seizure.

  Zagarat looked down at his PCD. Fifteen minutes. He had only been here fifteen minutes. Suns, it felt more like an eternity, which only seemed to confirm Janheff Onnor’s Theory of Relative Time Differential. The theory posited that time was not relative to the speed of light, but rather to one’s state of mind when in the presence of friends and family members.

  For example, if your best friend Jule were to come over with his fetching new assistant Anya and grace the table with his newest adventures to the farthest reaches of the galaxy, then time will seem to fly by because it actually was passing by at a faster rate of speed.

  But if your mother-in-law were to come over with the rest of her inbred clan for a nice family dinner (i.e., a night of recrimination and violence, culminating in Uncle Vrance crying into yet another bottle of Alluvian Ale at his misfortunes in life and love while Aunt Petunia laments the fact that Little Das hadn’t invited her Lars to his wedding, who was much better now on the new medication), then time at the edge of a black hole will seem swift in comparison.

  The theory was still being debated by the universe’s cognoscenti, but it did explain why Onnor had been divorced so many times. It also explained his newest theory: the Theory of Relative Murder in the First Degree.

  Zagarat sipped his Loquacious Ale as he considered the situation. He figured he had to stay at least a half hour or the others would take it as a personal affront, which would result in them kicking him in his personal a-back. But he consulted SPAT just to be sure.

  SPAT stood for Social Protocols for Awkward Techs, a database of socially accepted mores based upon the successes and utter failures of its members. The consensus seemed to be that a half hour was perfectly acceptable, while five minutes most definitely was not. This was according to one premier member who was evidently still picking tufts of underwear from out of his, um… fundament.

  Zagarat shook his head. Even after twenty-eight years, sentient interaction still baffled him. The digital world made so much more sense to Zag. His first word as a child had even been binary. Or in binary. His mother hadn’t been very clear on that point, but Zag wouldn’t have been surprised either way because technology always made so much more sense to him than sentients ever did.

  There were manuals for computers, logic and order to electronics. And if that wasn’t enough, you could always take a console apart and see how it worked without getting the authorities involved. The same couldn’t be said of sentients.

  A lesson Zag’s neighbor, Umber Etz, learned the hard way.

  One day, Umber decided to take his little brother apart to see what the suns was wrong with him. He tried to explain to his mother, and the austere police officer, that it was all just a joke, as were the gloves, scalpel, and operating table, but they didn’t seem to find the humor in it.

  As they say, humor is subjective. Attempted murder is not.

  Meris returned to the table, dabbing at the beads of sweat on his brow. “Well,” he said, pausing to take a drink. “You gonna sit there all day or you gonna go out there and dance?”

  “I’m not really a dancing sort of guy,” said Zagarat. “Thank you though.”

  “Oh, come on,” said Meris. “Live a little. Remember that old adage: play hard today because the mega-corps’ gonna work you to death tomorrow.”

  Zagarat grimaced. Why did he have to say that? For the faintest moment, Zag had forgotten that the Deus Syndicate was going to kill him one day. Hopefully, a day far in the future, but they were definitely going to kill him for stealing the money. He just knew it.

  Just then, Zag felt a hand on his. He looked up and saw Alaya’s glorious aspect smiling down at him. “Come dance with me,” she said, her voice like honey. “Please?”

  All his anxiety melted away at her touch. “Okay,” he said with a sheepish grin.

  Alaya held out her hand and Zagarat happily took it.

  Sucker, said the devil and angel in unison.

  “Shut up,” muttered Zagarat as he stood.

  “What was that?” said Alaya, glancing back over her shoulder.

  “Nothing,” said Zagarat. “Lead the way.”

  Alaya led him to the edge of the dance floor, the crowd seeming to part as she approached. Even their coworkers stepped aside. Then she began to dance, yet to call it dancing would be to call the sun shiny; a vast understatement. It was as if she was a master musician and Zag was her lyre. Every seductive move seemed to strum something deep inside him. Something that could only be expressed in a grunt. Every toss of her hair, every contortion of her body, every sensual move she made was more mesmeric than the last.

  “Dance with me,” said Alaya, stroking his cheek. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  With that caress, all of Zagarat’s inhibitions died away.

  He bit his lower lip and stepped in closer, mirroring her every move as best he could. When he transitioned into the Overactive Bladder, she clapped her hands, egging him on. Heartened by the praise, Zag then tapped into his vast arsenal of dance moves. After all, Zagarat was the local nexus champion in both UNIVERSAL DANCER and DANCE DANCITY DANCE.

  He started with a little Fleeing Man before transitioning deftly into the Jackhammer. A few Floor Punches gave way to the Cuffed Prisoner, followed by the Hitchhiker, the Hernia Exam, and the Telusian Sumbra, which the natives described as pinching a stylus in between your butt cheeks and drawing circles on the wall behind you.

  Zagarat turned midway through the Sumbra, his tongue lolling out of the corner of his mouth, when he looked up and saw all his coworkers staring at him, vidcorders in hand.

  His body sagged as did his crestfallen mien. Of course, thought Zagarat, chuckling as tears glistened in his eyes. Of course.

  When he turned around, there was Alaya tittering into her cupped hand.

  Of course. “Thank you for the dance,” he said sheepishly before exiting the dance floor.

  “That was awesome,” said Meris when Zag returned to the table. “I particularly liked that part in the middle. What was that, the Floor Punch? That was awesome.”

  “I liked the Sumbra myself,” said Alaya, giggling.

  “I’m glad you liked it,” said Zagarat, his tone marinated in sarcasm.

  “Oh, I did,” said Meris. “In fact, it was so good, I’m going to make a collage of all your moves the sec I get home. This way, everyone will know what an awesome dancer you are.”

  “Terrific,” Zagarat muttered, swigging the last of his Loquacious Ale. “Just terrific.”

  “Excuse me,” said the bouncer, approaching the table. He motioned behind him. “The gentleman over there would like to join you.”

  The entire table turned towards the velvet rope that separated the Very Important People from those who simply thought they were important, appraising this would-be VIP. The man was approximately six feet tall, with golden hair that practically glowed in the dark. His skin was bronze, taut yet supple. His face was a collection of right angles, as if chiseled by some master craftsman. He wore a black leather duster that stretched all the way to the floor, covering a white button-down shirt and ebon slacks.

  It was difficult to determine his exact race or species. He looked a bit Lerandan except he was tall and muscular instead of short and stocky. Some sentients called Lerandans the waddling kegs of the universe. His face had the ageless grace of most Bylarians, but he wasn’t lean, nor did his skin possess that plasticene-like quality that made most Bylarians look like walking mannequins.

  At least, that’s what they always looked like to Zag.

  He wasn’t Somnian with
their opalescent skin and dark eyes, nor was he Tholian or Lassen. The only thing Zagarat knew for certain was that the man was bipedal, with two arms and two legs.

  But what stood out, even at this distance, were his eyes. They were the bluest eyes Zag had ever seen in his life. Dark and penetrating. Deep and refulgent. Almost hypnotic.

  “Let him in,” said Alaya, with a benevolent wave of her hand.

  The bouncer unclipped the cordon and let the man inside.

  The stranger approached. “May I have this dance?” he asked.

  Alaya grinned, reaching out to take his proffered hand. But the stranger reached right past her, holding out his hand to Margrete from Accounting. A rather rotund Lassen who was not classically beautiful, but had a wonderful personality.

  Margrete looked up. “What, me?” she asked, clearly astonished.

  “Yes,” said the stranger.

  “Oh,” she said, blushing. “I’m actually here with someone. But thank you for asking.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, turning. He met Alaya’s smug gaze for the briefest moment before continuing on to Zag. “And how about you?”

  Zagarat’s eyes widened. “I’m sorry. What now?”

  “Would you like to dance?”

  “I, ah, uh, um… I, ah, uh, um…” Zagarat repeated as if offering a prayer to Leiozi, the Quilar Spirit God of Awkward Situations. “I, um… I’m… I’m not really into that sort of… sort of thing. Thank you for asking though. It was very nice of you to, um… ask. Thank you.”

  The man shrugged. “It was worth a try,” he said with a warm grin.

  The stranger turned to leave when Alaya chuckled. “You don’t have to go through all that pretense,” she said. “You can just ask me to dance.”

  “I’m sorry?” said the stranger.

  “I know the routine. You ask all the ugly ones first so I don’t think you’re shallow. But we both know I’m the one you’re after, so you can just ask me to dance.”

  “Why would I want to dance with you?” said the stranger. “Yes, you may be attractive, but only on the outside. Inside, you are a hollow husk of a sentient being. A creature with no substance, no vital essence to her. And the saddest thing is you could have been so much more. But no, you decided to rely on your looks.” He waved his hand dismissively. “Eh, but what do I know? I’m sure one day you’ll find a rich, successful husband who will lavish you with gifts.” He grimaced. “That is until you notice a wrinkle and so does he. And since there’s nothing of substance behind,” he gestured up and down her body, “you’ll have this tucked and that plucked until you look once again like a Bylarian princess. Because if he ever learned what you really are on the inside, he would leave you in a second.” He looked over at Zag. “What was the question again?”

  “Dancing,” Zagarat offered meekly.

  “Oh, yeah. Thanks.” The stranger turned back towards Alaya. “The answer is no. I have no desire to dance with the likes of you.”

  With each word, Alaya’s self-assured smugness slowly morphed into a rictus of utter dismay. Although Zag was loath to admit it, he found a strange schadenfreude in her emotional denuding. And given the smiles about the table, he wasn’t the only one.

  Finally, Alaya burst into tears and scampered off to the bathroom.

  Strangely, the music suddenly came to an abrupt halt, the silence nearly as deafening as the raucous new hit from Ohan Metzler Gunt entitled, “That Song That Has a Nifty Beat and Gets Sentients Dancing.” Inexplicably, a wave of dancers slowly ebbed from the dance floor, only to be supplanted moments later by a gaggle of burly men who evidently loved to crack their knuckles and stretch their necks. Even Zag’s coworkers edged away from the table, leaving behind only Zagarat and the stranger. It was as if everyone was privy to some widely accepted social mores that entirely eluded Zag. He decided to consult SPAT on the issue.

  Just then, a Telusian male with yellow skin, emerald hair, and tattoos all over his body stepped forward, appointing himself chief of this throng. “You made Alaya cry.”

  “Eh, crap,” sighed the stranger. “This always happens. You try and do something nice and it blows up in your face.” He glanced over at Zag. “I guess it’s just you and me now.”

  A moment passed before Zag realized that the man was talking to him. “I’m sorry. What now?”

  “It’s just you and me,” he repeated. “I’ll take the guys on the right while you take the guys on the… Hey! Where are you going?”

  But Zagarat knew exactly where he was going. He was getting the stars out of there. He darted for the door, running as fast as he could. The last thing he heard before the door closed behind him was the sound of glass shattering.

  y the time Zagarat stopped running, he was in the middle of Metero City’s financial district, nearly eight blocks away from the Seventh Sense. He leaned hard against the brick façade of the Leranda Savings and Loan, clutching his chest as he gasped for air.

  Suns, that was close. He hadn’t been in a fight since childhood. Even then, he hadn’t been so much a fighter as an unwilling participant.

  His heart continued to thump against his chest. Evidently, his physical education teacher, Quortz Menkin, had been right–spending most of your life sitting on your rump, jacked into a computer console wasn’t exactly salubrious or conducive to your cardiovascular health.

  But then again, when the suns would he need to climb a fifty foot length of rope?

  Physical Education indeed. The only thing Zag ever learned was that those small, red athletic balls were made of a futuristic material that was soft and malleable in your hand, but became deusteel when it struck you upside the head, embossing the Magi Corporation’s logo–an infinity sign–onto the side of your head.

  Or so Zagarat learned when he finally awoke, hours later, and looked in a mirror.

  Ah, the joys of youth.

  Zag was still breathing hard when his PCD began to vibrate. He retrieved his earpiece and slipped it on. “Hello,” he aspirated. “Hi, mom. Heh. Heh. No, I’m fine. I just, I went to the bar with some, with some guys from work. No, you’re right. I should have, I should have called. No, I know. I know the stress isn’t good for you heart.” He rubbed his chest, attempting to quell the fire in his lungs. “You’re right. You’re right. I won’t do it again. Okay. Okay. I’ll get some milk before I come home. I’ll see you in a little bit. Okay. Bye.”

  Zag pocketed his earpiece, his breathing slowly returning to normal, then searched his PCD for the nearest convenience store. Inconveniently, the closest store was three blocks away.

  Since he was unfamiliar with the area, Zag set the destination on his digital map and followed the PCD’s directions to the store. In hindsight, it was a good thing he did because just as he reached the intersection of Treyton and Davon, his PCD honked, warning him of danger.

  A millisecond later, a magcar blew past, followed by another five magcars.

  That was one of the features Zag just loved about this PCD. It tapped into the local security cameras, giving him up-to-date traffic and pedestrian information. Although it seemed counterintuitive, Zagarat often swore that he saw more of the world via the two-inch wide display on his PCD than he did with his actual eyes.

  As Zagarat continued towards the store, he noticed a few pedestrians staring at him, which he found slightly unnerving. Zag didn’t like it when people stared at him. Or noticed him in general. He liked being just another face in the throng.

  A Lerandan male was rubbing his arm, eyeing Zagarat with silent disapproval bordering on contempt. A little farther down, a woman with the smooth, wrinkleless skin of a Bylarian was picking up her groceries from off of the ground. When Zag stopped to help her, a magcabbie stopped in the middle of the street, rolled down his window, and yelled, “Asshole!” before speeding off into the distance.

  Although Zagarat couldn’t remember what he had done to piss off so many locals, the trip from the club to the bank was a vague blur in his mind, he offered his profuse a
pologies and quickly left before their wrathful stares became wrathful punches.

  His PCD dinged when Zag reached his destination, Anoo Anoo’s Quick Stop Space Spot, now with locations on terra firma, terra softa, and terra somewhere down below. Bringing up a schematic of the store, he searched the dairy section for Orrie’s Own Organic Cow Milk—his mother’s favorite. Luckily, they had four cartons in stock amongst a myriad other milks including Oo’s Mylk, Sorian Milke, and Who Would Have Thought I Could Label This as Milk.

  He tossed a carton in a plastisheet basket then made his way to the register.

  Fortunately, this convenience store had upgraded to the newest egress stations, which made checking out fast and convenient. All Zagarat had to do first was sign up for their Gelion Care account, sign their terms of agreement, then decline their newsletter. It was actually fairly reasonable compared to the two hours it had taken to register his PCD with the Magi Corporation. Back then, he had to digitally sign so many sunning forms that by the end he would have signed away his immortal soul just to be done with it all.

  And a part of him feared he might have done just that.

  Zag placed his items onto a conveyor belt. They disappeared inside a small metal dome then reappeared a moment later, wrapped in a thin plastisheet bag. When the word PAID appeared on his PCD, Zag lithely grabbed the bag and headed out the door.

  But he didn’t make it two steps outside before running headlong into a great big wall of muscle. Zagarat began to apologize when he glanced up and saw a slightly familiar Telusian male staring down at him. The only reason the Telusian was only slightly familiar was because the last time Zagarat saw the man, the thug didn’t have a black eye. Or a bloody nose.

  “You,” said the thug, sneering. Behind him were two other Telusian males, both bloodied and battered. And angry.

  Zagarat didn’t even remember telling his legs to move. Yet there he was, running down the street as fast as he could. The thud of massive boots striking pavement resounded behind him, which only quickened his step.