The space cruise-liner Antipoinnes: formerly the most luxurious, expensive and largest space-liner in the Three Systems. It was built at least seventy-five years ago with no expense spared, and though the years have been somewhat unkind, and have perhaps dulled its former sheen, the patina of history and experience has also given it a glamorous aura, if a slightly dangerous and murky one. It is here in inter-stellar space, neutral territory, that shady transactions occur, illicit goods are acquired, and deals both legal and non are brokered, all out of the prying view of the ever curious authorities. It is here the unseemly flee towards, along with the desperate and hunted, as long as they can afford the price of a ticket for the non-stop journey from the Sol system to the Orion Gateway Belt, or better yet, hide deep in the vessel's interior where a whole city of non-passenger class permanent residents or refugees dwell. Here they eek out a living scrounging and selling anything they can acquire, illicit substances or just hot meals. Flesh is also peddled in abundance, for sex or otherwise. However, the most profitable trade is, and always has been, information.
And thus it has become a neutral place for spies to meet, ransoms to be paid and prisoners exchanged, rather like the Vienna of old Earth history. Here one can find information for a price or just as easily end up dead for entering the wrong passage, over hearing the wrong sentence, witnessing that which is meant not to be witnessed.
And it was here Manuel and I had come, seeking a man named Crebe who Lucy said had booked passage, who Lucy claimed had stolen from her, and most importantly, whom Lucy said could lead us to one Cal-Ray Thrown and the fabled Jewelled Phallus of Arkon III the Credulous, said to be without equal in the galaxy and worth more than a being could squander in thirty-eight lifetimes.
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“Molloy!”
A stern pounding shook the fragile little servant-sized door to our tiny servant sized quarters, which Manuel had jury rigged to lock, firmly against company policy. Manuel had all ready left for his shift and I was supporting one major hangover. Actually, it was at least a Lieutenant-Colonel of a hangover, if not a Brigadier-General of one. I groaned aloud and hopped off my cot and this helped things not at all.
“Off-world booze is one hell of a thing,” I muttered to myself.
“What? Speak up man!” said someone loudly with machine augmented vocals from just outside the door who I was pretty sure was the Ship Steward. I was also pretty sure I was late for my shift and you didn’t have to be a card carrying private dick to detect that he was not happy with this.
“Yes sir. Coming right away sir,” I said.
Our flimsy rigged up door did little to mute the conversation, sadly.
“Molloy,” he said loudly, and the metallic tone was definitely indicative it was indeed the Ship Steward.
“Sir,” I said.
“Your tone,” he continued, “suggests laziness and turpitude and does not befit the general air of a waiter, has anyone ever told you that?”
“Only three times since Tuesday sir. I guess it's now a solid four times since Tuesday sir, including you, Ship Steward sir,” I croaked, before taking a sip of much required water at our tiny little sink.
“Molloy, don't get cute. You’re late. Get to work!” he said.
“Yes sir,” I replied.
I scrambled to adjust my bow tie and then spit shine the silver serving tray as the frail door shook once again with knocking. Then I reversed the process so as to use the tray to see my reflection in order to adjust the tie. I looked like hell. Check that, I looked like a penguin in hell who looked like hell.
“Molloy!” said the Ship Steward again through the door, this time more muted.
“I said I'm coming all ready. Keep your respirator on,” I replied.
“And how is this door secured? Cruise staff cabins are supposed to be non-locking cabins, for crew safety, of course,” he said. “It’s in the rules.”
“It must be jammed. One minute,” I said.
“Get to room 404-E, on the double!” he said, again raising his rasping metal voice. “I’ll wait here until you’re ready.”
I dry swallowed an anti-hangover pill and then finished putting on my mandatory uniform, which consisted of: white shorts, white button-up shirt, black jacket, white bow tie and, whitest of all, white shoes. I had to admit I did look pretty good in the shorts. And the anti-hangover pill was all ready starting to kick in. Then I unlocked the door.
The Ship Steward stood there irate, arms folded, foot tapping. He was as snobbish and prudish and arrogant as he'd been genetically engineered to be. He huffed and puffed and barked and passive aggressivized through a respirator/vocalizer, which covered his chin, mouth and nose. It gave his breathing and vocals that rather metallic clang and a sinister air and it was this that had first made me realize who it was at the door. I thought about smashing him over the head with my waiter's tray, but I let him finish berating me instead as I'd just gotten it spit-shine clean. That and the fact that room 404-E waited for no man.
“Now move it. And cut with the cuteness,” he hissed with a fizz-crackle of feedback.
“Why sir, I'd have to have my genetics re-designated and go through months of mental reconditioning to not be cute,” I said.
“Enough Molloy!” he replied.
“And what with my salary and waiter health care the way it is, how could I ever afford it?” I said meekly.
“Just go! I swear you'll be the end of me man!” said the Ship Steward.
“Yes sir. I know it sir,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile.
“And see to it your door is fixed,” he continued.
“I'll make a report to maintenance sir.”
“After your shift. On your own time. And Molloy, know this, I'm watching you!” hissed the Ship Steward.
“Of course sir,” I replied.
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