But still the old brain buzzed. Many cons and scams worked their course. Outside of the fat wallets to pickpocket, not a lot to move on. I could scavenge the games table in the next room, but there were limits to what I could do solo. My hound ears picked up snatches of conversation, of this merger and that merger, the need for under-the-table investment—gangster money. Wouldn’t be too hard to work up some con here, build some contacts with thin bread down the line. Make some friends, rub shoulders with the moneyed players and leverage them with a kick in the ass later.
Give it a rest, Rusco. Is this your day off or what? I grabbed another drink, a tall tuber at the bar.
I chatted up the young brunette sitting two stools down, who intrigued me—Raquel—with long legs and enigmatic smile that was a compelling lure, classic lines to the face, even though the face was a little too lean for my tastes. Seems she was game, while being coy at the same time. They were always like that. I gave the hint of money, dropped some yols on a fancy dinner and some local champagne, which springboarded the rental of the cheapest room in the hotel. Sir, what is your budget? 100 yols? Hmnn, our feature suites are 500 yol rooms, but that’s clearly unaffordable. But we have them as cheap as 80. I blinked. The 80 yol room, please, for a night. Another 80 yols. Yeah, it was adding up, but I was worth it.
She moved to the rhythm and thrusts of the moment that had a way of turning me on in a unique way. I roused her higher by not giving into her climax. Was the sex good? Better than average, I’d say. I had a lighter spring to my step, a bit of kick in my bones, a spice in my blood, eyes a little dreamier by the end of it, and my voice a little lower. Our slow gallop to the finish line had moved in synch with the sounds of the alley below from the open window, and the sleazier hotels that ranged appallingly close: a blend of low level techno pop, the sound of breaking glass, wide gas holo screens playing loud movies, a woman’s scream, followed by a man’s laughter.
My brain spun. Spent and lathered, I lay back in the damp blankets, blinking, contemplating life at this moment. For all its glamor, it was one of those low moments, Raquel’s sighing breath, the warm air playing across my bare chest, her slender white fingers on my scarred arm, knowing she would soon age and be forgotten, my own sad ass chased across the galaxy by crime scum, whipped at the heels by fatal impulse, still hoping to be some hero at the end of the day. What a pathetic dream. At least I’d rid the universe of one Raez, and if I had my choice, I’d include Pazarol, Baer and Mong on that list. My implausible excuses for rationalizing my own criminality were like an overused mantra. When I was young, I wanted to be a rocket engineer, build ships, the best that could fly. Then came the gangs and the beat downs and the drugs and rock and roll, and my parents wiped out in a single strike by a warlord’s cannon in our humble neighborhood on Jaunus 8. Me scavenging the streets with no family, no friends, driven like all the other poor refugees to some tarped-up camp, starving, hollow-eyed, wondering where to go from here. What a pipe dream. Where did the dream of young Jet Rusco go? The dream about his little rocket engines and do-gooding. Blown away in some ugly tale where the ogre swallows all and stamps out all thoughts of philanthropy.
I dreamed somebody was rapping at the door.
Figuring it was some room service personnel, I staggered half nude to the door. I opened the door, my jaw dropping. Wren? She caught a glimpse of a tangle of naked arms and legs in the white, disheveled sheets, and slapped my face. Cursed like there was no tomorrow.
I awoke to damp sheets.
Just a guilt-ridden dream. I was gone and back on Starrunner before dawn’s light with my packs full of supplies on a world with less daylight than what I was used to. Raquel, I’d left a note for and was managing to forget her, as she, no doubt, me.
Wren was all coos and giggles on the bridge, digging through the yummies I’d brought: the protein packs, the flavored meats. Granted, I would too, living off lizards and grasshoppers for so many years.
I watched the mainscreen holo-vid. This maniac Mong again, conducting a cult ceremony. Seems he was all the rage with his planetary takeovers and promises of liberation. He had a murderous dark hero look, emancipating worlds of their oppressive gang control and abject slummery. Some ambitious journalist had done a human interest story on him. Was this mongrel everywhere at once? Gave me the creeps. A big hulking ape of a man with a fatherly face. A flat-topped, amber hat padded his oversized crown. The brute had some power, sure, to have all those people under his thumb. Look at them—tragic sheep, chanting his name, bowing and praising the works of Mong. He stood tall before the colonnaded temple giving a lecture to thousands, maybe tens of thousands, surrounded by a ring of devotees dressed in blue and gold robes with half shaved heads but for a crop of chicken hair sticking up on top. With a slew of thousands more out
