BOOK TWO - BAAWL!
CHAPTER SEVEN - ANDROMEDA
The
cabbie jerks a thumb towards the Mag station with a thumb… several blocks down
the road. Broonzy
looks round for a blunt object, finds none... he and Turpin begin to walk… as
they begin walking under three hot suns, waiting hovercabs
draw up their windows, the drivers ignoring their pleas. The Mag station is filthy - the transport
rattles, as if about to explode or, simply, fall apart. Shar-ast-Baawl
Station's even more rancid with graffitti and furtive
stains… Broonzy and Turpin quickly depart the
platform. Shar-ast-Baawl's a narrow block, passagewalk crowded with abandoned, junked hovercars, rotting produce and discarded furniture. Three
heathers on the corner wink at the sailors. Boys, more jackalicious
than humanoid, slither through shadows cast by the tall, decrepit buildings.
Most storefronts are abandoned, save for a liquor store, a pawnshop (its
flashing, sputtering green and blue neon sign, alternating "guns" and "money")
and an apparantly untenanted church. Turpin points to
a doorway beside a basement saloon without even a smidgen of neon, just a
cheaply painted sign "Andromeda".
"So…
the jim's down on his luck too!" Turpin
sighs. "We gonna
remind him of it?"
Broonzy shrugs. There's no front
door, only shards of wood and plastic, intermittently spaced. They drag
themselves up an indescribably filthy stairwell, turn
a corner to find an iron gate and a buzzer, which Turp
presses. The gate creaks open and they continue to the office at the top of the
stairs and the manager... presumably Rateyes'
aforementioned Gargareeva... a grotesquely obese
creature with oozing sores and amphibian DBA.
He wheezes an indifferent greeting. Turpin shows him Rateyes'
card like a gambler laying down his ace.
"Friend of ours…" he insinuates.
"He
no good, go you too," wheezes the hotel manager. Turp slaps at his unilator, but the creature's voice doesn't improve. "You look ba-roor,
you two?"
"Rawth
no!" Broonze protests. "We ain't junkies…"
An uplift and resettling of amphibian mucous
that, Turp reckons, is Gargareeva's
frown as the manager inquires... "Po leeis?"
"Jam
the shurts!' Broonzy
enthuses, pounding a fist on the hotelier's desk.
Gargareeva apparently finds this
hilarious… or something… for he commences shaking like the proverbial bowl of
jelly.
"Viz itt
mann… five sol!" The manager's prehensile tongue curls around
his lip with an almost lascivious intent.
"Five jammin' sols," Broonzy recoils, "just to visit some dook?"
"Doo
Bee Die rulen!"
Turpin
intercedes. "Hey, you know, we're
really just lookin' for a place. Uh… you got
vacancies here? We're snakers, licensed, got Guild cards. Just a couple of days,
'til we find a ship out?"
"Va kunt
is! Eight sol. Four anna twenny week!" The manager waves one of the four large,
warty fingers on his right hand at the sailors.
Broonze leans towards Turpin,
whispering. "That's only four days,
here…"
"Sailor's
relief's forty nine…" Turp reminds him.
"For a four-day week," Broonze
presses, "...or seven?"
"Dunno. Think we'll find anyplace cheaper than this? Get jammin' real. Look, man…"
The
manager stabs his chest with one of the warty, sausagelike
dactyls, proud but friendly, now at the prospect of money. "Gargareeva,
I!"
"Yeah…
we'll try it for a week, Gargo," Turpin hurries,
before the manager can change his mind.
"Four days, right? Like… is there a security deposit?"
Gargareeva takes Turpin's solcard, swipes it and claps like a big, excited, mucousy child. "Four anna twenny.
Bake inna pie!"
He
slides the solcard back across the desk, reaches over
his head and removes two old fashioned keycards from the wall, slapping them on
the counter.
"Six anna thirteen you!"
Gargareeva mutters, pointing at Turpin. "Eight anna nozzin' one you!"
"Hey,
hey man," Turpin objects, "I didn't mean… didn't even think I had
forty eight sols left. I meant for one room, two of us. Look, it's ok if one of
us sleeps in a chair, even the floor. We
can't hack forty eight sols… gotta eat, you
know?"
Gargareeva glares at them with an
ineffable, impossible aged contempt. "Four anna twenny,
you two. No sphahare room, be gum-gum mon'! Twelf a eachen!.
Six anna thirteen, eight nozzin' one. Four anna twenny sols…"
"B-but…"
Turpin stutters, confused.
Beneath
the desk and below Gargareeva's line of vision, Broonze kicks Turpin on the knee. The toadlike
manager slides two grimy towels under the glass, a
welcome... of sorts... so Turpin picks up his keycard. It's greasy, almost repulsively liquid to the
touch.
"Be
tolls. Be fresh ment…"
The
manager points to an ancient, dirty vending machine covered with insects...
dead and alive. Turpin gulps, then follows Broonzy up the
stairs.
Al, here
again... Al, from down the hall. Did eight solyears in the Andromeda, like serving time, going on to
nine. Gargareeva was here years before me, like
maybe half the people there, Old Believers mostly. Doobydie
makes it hell on the old-timers but where are we gonna
go…terra, or one of 'em retirement colonies
underground on mars? Rawth! Lucky to afford a room
without a view on one of the jovian
moons. The younger one of them sailors comin'
up the stairs an' onto the hall now, shame about him. But it's the life
of the transients. At least he got a place of 'is own with a view, plenty of
provision an' the light… more'n me. Tell you a little
more about 'im, now, an' th'other...
fine piece o' rawth as happened to him! Here
they come, now...
go
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