She snaps a metal band around JC’s right bicep.
JC jumps at the needle stick followed by a warm flow.
“This will inject the inhibitor into you on regulated intervals. If you feel ill, report to any medical station, and they’ll remove it from your arm and you from the premises. Some Osirians fail to adjust to the medication.”
Ki-Ton slides his blaster across the table. After the Aurulent completes her investigation, she says, “He’s not an Osirian. No other weapons, but extraordinary body readings.” The Aurulent remains an inch from Ki-Ton’s face, examining him through his eyes.
“If my credit chits don’t spend here, I’ll return to the ship with the telepath.”
The Aurulents all back away, allowing Ki-Ton to step forward.
Doug places his weapon on the table.
The Aurulent scoops it up. “Not a plasma blaster. It emits sound pulses.”
“Check it anyway,” orders the principal Aurulent. “You are Osirian and have a jacking implant. I’ve never encountered an Osirian who could adjust to the procedure. You may wish to seek other augmentations.”
Doug smiles. They want to study him while under the knife and discover how he was able to accept an implant.
Joe towers over the three Aurulents. They dance around him scanning. “You may keep your edged weapons. We welcome the Calthos. If you choose, betting will be high if you enter the sports contests.”
Reynard refuses to unholster his magnum as the Aurulents approach.
“He has no energy weapons.” They dance around him. “Clearly, he has a weapon.”
Reynard draws the gun, placing it on the table.
An Aurulent caresses the weapon. “Primitive projectile thrower. We store anyway.”
Reynard reaches to unclasp his katana. “Swords and edged weapon aren’t an issue. Only energy weapons must be confiscated. Enjoy your stay.” The Aurulents all wave their arms, inviting them to proceed through the archway into a second entrance chamber.
“Bet this place never gets dull,” Amye smirks.
“Bet the murder rate for knives reaches a record high here,” Kymberlynn utters to Amye.
The dais completes its spin inside a cascading shower of frozen crystals. Their sparkling beauty refracts the constantly changing lights. Lavished in gold and precious jewels, the front entrance seems more like a Vegas casino than a former mining colony.
Humanoids from even more worlds than Australia knows gamble, drink, and fornicate all around gaming machines and tables.
“Scott won’t chase any of those scantily clad alien attendants. I bet you’ll try some of the liquid nourishment they provide,” Kymberlynn says.
“Heavily fermented to help a gambler forget to keep track of their credit balance.”
“I’m unsure what species those servers are. You’d think I’d remember their three-foot prehensile tail.”
“It’s not the tails. It’s the chokers decorating their necks,” Amye notes.
“No one will gaze past the mounds of mammary cleavage on the females to notice the ornate jewelry are IMC slave collars.” Kymberlynn winks at Amye. “Didn’t you wear one of those once?”
“Reynard, this place is not where we want to be,” Amye speaks at a level for Reynard to just hear her.
“You think what happens here stays here?” Reynard glances at Amye. “Vegas has nothing on this place.”
She holds her quizzical look at her captain, knowing he has made another reference from his Osirian home world only he and maybe Doug can comprehend. She has little understanding of them and wonders whether she should placate him with a laugh or whether it requires a sigh.
Doug gives a small peck of laughter. Amye smiles, knowing the git-brained communications expert has an affinity for Osirian relics, and if he thinks it’s funny, then it must be. “The City of Sin was a playground for adults. You would have been too young to be allowed within its borders,” Doug points out.
“It wasn’t a closed city of depraved orgies. There were places you could enjoy with family, but I’m sure those places don’t make for interesting campfire stories about the way Earth was.”
“We have to find the bounty. He knows what happened to the Admiral.”
“The place’s a haven—”
“So it’s fancier than some of the slum pits we’ve had to explore, but the dangers are the same.”
“There’re more dangers here than you realize,” Amye mumbles to herself.
They all snap their attention to the commotion in the gaming pits. Two aliens scuffle. Playing cards and credit chits spill from a table.
A fight breaks out over a card game. One alien knifes the other, and the winner of the skirmish receives the blunt end of a Halcary pain stick wielded by the guards in the knightly armor.
“Welcome. I am JarBok.” The unnaturally thin but tall humanoid reminds Reynard of a game-show host. “I see from my unfamiliarity with your sigil you’ve never enjoyed our pleasures.” He waves an open palm toward the stylized Silver Dragon emblem on their left jacket sleeves.
Beside the man are two telephone pole robots with four arms and dozens of scanning eyes. Behind them are a dozen of the slave girls awaiting direction. “My translating droids are at your disposal if you speak a language not covered by standard universal translators.”
“Ours work just fine.”
JarBok bows. “I meant no offense. We’re here to please our guests. Whatever you require. Entertain you in any manner.”
“Anything?”
“Everything you dream or desire can be enjoyed, as long as you have enough credits.” He waves his hand again, opposite the gaming tables.
“All those people are jackers?” Amye pushes past Doug to the rail running around the sea of cylindrical tubes stacked next to each other full of humanoids.
“Yes, they enjoy our café. They plug in and enter a fantasy world of their choosing,” JarBok grins.
“Like holoemersion units?” Doug realizes. “But without submersion in the fluid.”
“Why do they need to come here? Couldn’t they jack in anywhere?” Amye asks.
“Depends on their fantasy. The dreams they live out here stay here, and cost—a lot.”
“I don’t want to know what kind of sick insane fantasies you jackers have if you have to come to a place like this to have them.” Amye punches Doug in the arm so hard he stumbles off balance.
“Many times it’s
