THE AMAZING, INCREDIBLE, MIND-BOGGLING ADVENTURES OF TABLE-HEADED SERVICE DRONE BOB!
Part Eight: Alternative sources of income
Irken blood is not pleasant. For that matter neither is human blood, but as much as there is transparently something wrong if you can see pools of it, it at least has a modicum of aesthetic appeal. Not Irken blood, however. A sickly shade of yellowish-green that very effectively gives over the impression that if you can see it, there's something wrong with your immediate surroundings.
Bob had managed to get that impression long before he woke up in a pool of his own blood.
Bob tried to stand up, failed, and almost passed out from exhaustion as he collapsed into a heap back in his own blood-puddle, not helped by his abruptly coughing up more of it. Every part of him hurt, and as he inspected himself he found a multitude of cuts, bruises, broken bones, and a conspicious lack of a control collar. Well, thank goodness for small mercies. He took a few steps away and collapsed again. Some mercies.
Bob was fading in and out of concsiousness, thoughts flashing of his life, of his situation, of the meeting with Chak at the bar, of the attack of the muggers, of Lenn. As soon as the throbbing headache from the last thought subsided, he tried to figure out a way to help himself. Without the collar he was as good as a free man, though freedom accounted for nowt if you're not alive to enjoy it. Immediately he thought of Chak. She was the only person who had a chance of helping him.
He staggered through the deserted streets, gradually gaining more consciousness as time went on. It was night time, and the settlement had practically shut down for business, though the spaceport still seemed very much in operation. That made sense, day and night are meaningless in space. He managed to find his way to Chak's bar, where he saw a flight of stairs leading up to an apartment above it. Must be her sleeping quarters. He stumbled up the stairs, still throbbing in pain, though over the past half-hour of searching he had managed to live with it.
He knocked on the door, apparently interrupting something going on inside as Chak emerged at the door 20 seconds later, out of breath, in a dressing gown, and looking very irritated.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed, "You've got to come back la...wh...what HAPPENED to you?"
"Some of your patrons decided to invent a sports game revolving my head," Bob explained, "Can I come in?"
"Not at the moment," Chak said, "I have to sort out something first and then I can..."
"Chaaakiii! Slig here needs some more luuuvin'!" exclaimed a voice inside. Bob started to develop another one of those psychologically-induced throbbing migraines again, as this situation was starting to develop a sort of familiarity, something that he couldn't quite grasp, but his thoughts turned to Lenn.
"Uhhh...what's he doing here?" Bob asked, rubbing his temple.
"It's...sort of my line of work," Chak explained. This didn't do Bob's headache any favours.
"You've got to be kidding me. YOU!? A...A..." Bob couldn't bring himself to state the obvious.
"Aw c'mon! People our height ALWAYS need some alternate sources of income! You were a service drone, you should know that better than anybody!" Chak argued. Bob's migraine was starting to get intolerable, so he hit his head on the nearby door-frame. Strangely, it got better, but then Slig appeared nearby.
"Who's fucking well calling at this fucking hour..." Slig mentioned in his own curse-laden dialect before noticing Bob, "YOU!? Oh, you piece of shit, I don't know HOW you fucking escaped from the collar but you're not getting away from me THIS fucking time you little shi-"
Slig's rant came to a sudden, though not especially unfortunate, end when a lone laser bolt sliced his head in half. As his life ended in a brief display of blood-letting, Bob and Chak turned to see a group of black-clad Irkens pointing many varied instruments of death at them...
TO BE CONTINUED...
Part Eight: Alternative sources of income
Irken blood is not pleasant. For that matter neither is human blood, but as much as there is transparently something wrong if you can see pools of it, it at least has a modicum of aesthetic appeal. Not Irken blood, however. A sickly shade of yellowish-green that very effectively gives over the impression that if you can see it, there's something wrong with your immediate surroundings.
Bob had managed to get that impression long before he woke up in a pool of his own blood.
Bob tried to stand up, failed, and almost passed out from exhaustion as he collapsed into a heap back in his own blood-puddle, not helped by his abruptly coughing up more of it. Every part of him hurt, and as he inspected himself he found a multitude of cuts, bruises, broken bones, and a conspicious lack of a control collar. Well, thank goodness for small mercies. He took a few steps away and collapsed again. Some mercies.
Bob was fading in and out of concsiousness, thoughts flashing of his life, of his situation, of the meeting with Chak at the bar, of the attack of the muggers, of Lenn. As soon as the throbbing headache from the last thought subsided, he tried to figure out a way to help himself. Without the collar he was as good as a free man, though freedom accounted for nowt if you're not alive to enjoy it. Immediately he thought of Chak. She was the only person who had a chance of helping him.
He staggered through the deserted streets, gradually gaining more consciousness as time went on. It was night time, and the settlement had practically shut down for business, though the spaceport still seemed very much in operation. That made sense, day and night are meaningless in space. He managed to find his way to Chak's bar, where he saw a flight of stairs leading up to an apartment above it. Must be her sleeping quarters. He stumbled up the stairs, still throbbing in pain, though over the past half-hour of searching he had managed to live with it.
He knocked on the door, apparently interrupting something going on inside as Chak emerged at the door 20 seconds later, out of breath, in a dressing gown, and looking very irritated.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed, "You've got to come back la...wh...what HAPPENED to you?"
"Some of your patrons decided to invent a sports game revolving my head," Bob explained, "Can I come in?"
"Not at the moment," Chak said, "I have to sort out something first and then I can..."
"Chaaakiii! Slig here needs some more luuuvin'!" exclaimed a voice inside. Bob started to develop another one of those psychologically-induced throbbing migraines again, as this situation was starting to develop a sort of familiarity, something that he couldn't quite grasp, but his thoughts turned to Lenn.
"Uhhh...what's he doing here?" Bob asked, rubbing his temple.
"It's...sort of my line of work," Chak explained. This didn't do Bob's headache any favours.
"You've got to be kidding me. YOU!? A...A..." Bob couldn't bring himself to state the obvious.
"Aw c'mon! People our height ALWAYS need some alternate sources of income! You were a service drone, you should know that better than anybody!" Chak argued. Bob's migraine was starting to get intolerable, so he hit his head on the nearby door-frame. Strangely, it got better, but then Slig appeared nearby.
"Who's fucking well calling at this fucking hour..." Slig mentioned in his own curse-laden dialect before noticing Bob, "YOU!? Oh, you piece of shit, I don't know HOW you fucking escaped from the collar but you're not getting away from me THIS fucking time you little shi-"
Slig's rant came to a sudden, though not especially unfortunate, end when a lone laser bolt sliced his head in half. As his life ended in a brief display of blood-letting, Bob and Chak turned to see a group of black-clad Irkens pointing many varied instruments of death at them...
TO BE CONTINUED...