Have Spacecat, Will Travel: And Other Tails John Hartness (reading cloud ebooks TXT) 📖

was the Gritloth ship blowing into the promised million pieces, courtesy of a missile no one ever saw coming. Bek’ah watched as the one large radar signature became dozens of tiny signatures, each winking out of existence one by one as the scanners detected no survivors. Within a matter of minutes, the apparently unarmed smuggler had turned a Gritloth warships into scrap, destroyed a slave trader and his entire business enterprise, and left a dozen slaver fighters adrift far from home or any friendly environment. Now they were rushing toward the nearest Gate out of the Gleekum system faster than any ship had the right to travel.

“Wow,” Bek’ah said, leaning against a bulkhead. “You did it. You actually did it.”

“Yep,” Captain Tinbrak said, that cocky grin stretching from ear to ear this time.

“Now what, Captain?” Timsif asked. “This detour all but guarantees we’ve lost our pickup, and besides, we don’t have any room in the hold, anyway. What are we going to do with all those beings? I know you’re not going to sell them.”

“Not a chance,” the captain replied. “I’ve heard stories about a new system out there. A place where a bunch of ragtag misfits from systems all over known space are working together to live better. Some of our passengers will have homes they can go back to, but talking to most of them, they were people that wouldn’t be missed. That’s what made them appealing to Vashindo in the first place. So I figure we’d check it out. And if we’re lucky, the folks that run the place will give us a little backup when Vashindo’s financial backers come looking for whoever blew him up.”

“Sounds good to me,” Harmbo said. He looked over his shoulder at Bek’ah. “What about you, Stowaway?”

“Sounds perfect,” she said. “Just as long as we find some way to get this damn chip out of my knee before we get there.”

“Doc’s got a table in the med bay all prepped up for you,” Tinbrak said. He turned to the Pikith pilot. “Timsif, set us a course for the Salvage System.”

Sunset Song

inspired by David Childers’ The Prettiest Thing

She sat on the hood of her big brother’s truck

drinking warm Miller Lite and laughing

while he strummed that beat up Martin guitar

his daddy left behind.

She leaned back on the windshield;

he sang off-key Dylan songs,

scuffed cowboy boots tapping time on the dents

as her beer and the daylight blazed out in crimson-purple glory.

He looked up at her,

a backlit angel with a sunset halo

and cutoff shorts

and knew this

was the sweetest thing he’d ever see.

3

Fair Play

There she goes, Herman Walker Jones thought as he watched the girl’s ass sway under her plaid miniskirt. He could almost see the curve of her cheeks as she walked, the skirt was so short. She’s the one.

Maybe not, Herman thought, then shook his head violently.

No, look at her. She’s the one. She’s a whore. Just look at her.

She looked like a parody of a good girl, with her uniform skirt cut shorter than decency allowed, all flap-flapping and flouncy-bouncing, giving just enough of a peek to make you want to see what was under there, then turning to smile at you when she caught you looking, looking like you were still a little boy that shouldn’t be seeing these things instead of a man—yes, a big, grown man who knew what to do with whores. She wasn’t a good girl, not with her white dress shirt tied at the belly like that and unbuttoned, flashing all that cleavage, showing the swells of her woman-pillows, and flashing the stone in her belly ring at him, winking like a little fairy. A little fairy to show him the way to her happiness. But Herman knew better than to touch the whores there. He knew what to do with whores.

He stood up from his spot on the concrete stoop and stepped onto the sidewalk after the girl. He didn’t blend in, no more than the girl in her black patent leather knee-high boots and the skirt so short you could almost see her business. No, Herman cut a wide swath through the men and women on the sidewalk. That’s right, he thought. Get out of the way, sheep. Let the lion pass. Baa-Baa, little sheep, but don’t mess with the lion.

She flounced and bounced and bobbed along, earbuds blaring some Justin GaGa song or some other whore music. Herman heard no music. Herman heard nothing, not the sounds of the city, not the slight gasp of the woman who caught a glimpse of his eyes, not the sniff of distaste of the businessman who caught a whiff of Herman’s scent, a roiling miasma of damp laundry, old sweat, and unwashed skin. Herman saw nothing. Not the disgust in the eyes of the teenage girl waiting at the bus stop, her nose wrinkled at his spotted tie, his muck-splattered raincoat, his unshaven face. Not the pity on the face of the old woman who offered him a dollar, only to pull her hand back quickly when he snarled his lion’s snarl at her. Herman saw only the whore and her little red plaid skirt, flouncing, bouncing, teasing, promising, and leading him along. Well, he would follow. He’d follow the whore, and he knew what to do with her.

He followed her for blocks, watching her bounce. He never got too close, for the lion could stalk its prey from afar. But he never hung back too much, either, for the lion feared no other predator. There was no other predator. But soon enough the hunt was over, and she stopped in front of a building. She fished a key out of a tiny purse, still bouncing on her toes to the music blaring into her ears. Herman closed on her, never hurrying, never slowing, always moving, like a shark. A lion shark, that’s what he was. King of the seas and the jungle. The most feared predator in the world. She unlocked the door to