A Podlife Christmas

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Pickles
Quiet One
Posts: 28
Joined: Thu May 02, 2002 1:52 am

A Podlife Christmas

Post by Pickles »

Pickles stared gloomily into his empty glass, a little well of misery in the bustling bar. The year was ending as it had begun, badly.

Thinking back he realised that he’d been pushing his luck for a while, and that last run of weapons had been just one dice roll too many. He’d been lucky, it was only thanks to the skill of his lawyer that he wasn’t going to see in the New Year from a jail cell. Now he wasn’t so sure the sentence he’d actually received was any better. The Venture was impounded because the two hundred thousand credit fine had left him without enough to cover docking fees, the ensign had run off with a West Quadrant girl called Big Bertha and, he shuddered at the memory, he’d been forced to do 20 hours community service.

Pickles had thought it was a sweet deal, they’d said all it involved was taking part in some kind of cultural event at the local orphanage, but it hadn’t gone well. Firstly the outfit supplied by the orphanage hadn’t fit over his encounter suit, moaning about it wasn’t going to help, and besides with two cans of paint and a coat of lacquer Pickles thought he’d looked the part anyhow.

Things hadn’t got any better once he reached the orphanage. Unsure as he was about human traditions he was fairly certain that they didn’t involve screaming and running away when someone brought gifts. After an hour or so of searching, the nuns at the orphanage finally managed to round them all back up, explained to them that he was someone called Santa Claws and that he was here to bring them presents. The orphans assessed the situation with the cynical logic of abandoned youths since time immemorial, basically figuring that it didn’t matter who or what Pickles was he was giving stuff away and that was worth sticking around for.

Events did not take a turn for the better. The first child was a little too excitable, resulting in a small electrical fire in his right knee. Another managed to impale itself on one of the many spikes adorning his encounter suit. At this point the nuns decided that in the interests of safety Pickles could just stand off to one side and hand over the presents whilst the children sat on one of his little helpers’ knees.

This didn’t improve matters. The Creonti hadn’t been at all happy about the jaunty caps and apparently the term “elf” is a mortal insult in their language. One of them pulled a plasma rifle on the nun who called them “little helpers”, at which point the abbess called a halt to proceedings. Pickles hoped they could replace the poor woman’s arm.

His reverie was broken when a large overweight Human sat next to him at the bar. The man was carrying a small briefcase and despite the warmth in the bar he wore an enormous overcoat. The human ordered a drink, Pickles didn’t catch the brand, but when the beverage arrived it was in a small glass with a little haze of alcohol evaporating from the surface, probably not Perrier he surmised. Obviously it wasn’t the man’s first, or even his first of the evening. The pattern of tiny, broken blood vessels on his face and nose pointed to someone who had fought the bottle, and lost consistently for a number of years. The man swivelled on his stool until he faced Pickles.

“Hi there, how are you doing?” The man slurred his way through the sentence.

Pickles was glad he didn’t smoke. Judging from the man’s breath a naked flame might result in an explosion comparable to that from a small thermo-nuclear device.

“Not so bad. Can’t grumble,” he answered noncommittally.

The man extended a sweaty hand.

“The name’s Holff, Ruud Holff. Just out here on business, how about yourself?”

“That was the idea, didn’t quite work out that way though,” answered Pickles, shaking Ruud’s hand.

“I know what you mean,” said Ruud unhappily, “business has been very slow. Like I said to the wife, you have to go out and find your clients, you can’t just expect them to come to you. It’s dog eat dog in the world of used sleigh sales, blink and you’re bankrupt.”

“Sleighs?” Pickles asked.

“Yeah.” Ruud set the briefcase on the bar, and removed a glossy brochure from it. “Take a look at this baby. Super deluxe stretched version, ten runners, genuine leather seats, an auto-bar and built-in Jacuzzi. Only four hundred miles on the clock, mind you the reindeer come separately.”

Pickels managed to catch a brief glimpse of an enormous red and white construction and the seven-figure price tag below it before Ruud put the brochure back in his briefcase.

“So what do they call you then?” The man asked.

At that moment the lights began to dim, and the noise in the bar dropped to a low murmur. Pickles remembered being handed a flyer at the door. This must be the entertainment it had advertised, “Miss Blitzen and the 3 Hoes”, an Ik’Thorne pole-dancing troupe. The crowd gave the females a warm reception. Ruud ignored whatever response Pickles’ might have given and turn to gaze at the women as though in some sort of trance. Pickles winced slightly at the sounds of tortured metal coming from the stage. The ladies were certainly in good form tonight, from the noises those poles were making it would take a week with a sledgehammer and arc welder to get them straight again, although the slightly built human female on the end was having difficulty making hers dance.

The show had only been going a few minutes before it was interrupted by the sound of chanting from outside the bar.

“Joe, it’s those feminist people again,” Miss Blitzen shouted at the barman. “I thought you said you’d dealt with this.”

“I did,” Joe shouted back before using the comm system to call station security.

Pickles wasn’t totally convinced, the chanting sounded vaguely familiar, like something he’d heard at the orphanage. Whatever reasons the people were chanting for became irrelevant once the shore patrol arrived. The shore patrol weren’t great at moral discussion, but they sure knew the weight of reasoning carried by a nice, big nightstick.

The bar filled with noise as the show started up again. Out of the corner of his eye Pickles saw a skinny Human waving at him from a crowded table across the room. He didn’t recognise the man until he noticed the equally skinny female sat next to him, then he recalled chatting to them the previous night. Frank and Mertle, a nice newlywed couple from the Human homeworld. They’d spent the evening telling him about themselves, and since they were buying him drinks he’d let them. They were on their honeymoon. A breathtaking two weeks of adventure across the galaxy that they’d spent their life savings on. Those were their words not his. Merchant captains try to avoid “adventure” as much as possible whilst travelling across the galaxy.

Pickles looked more closely at their table and sighed. They were playing Three May Ji with a group of Alskant traders. He didn’t know much about the game, but was pretty sure it didn’t involve a marked deck, flat camera and conveniently positioned mirror. Pickles hoped the couple had enough sense not to trade in their spaceline tickets.

Pickles looked at his empty glass. It could be worse he though, I could be them. Smiling he called out to Joe for a refill.

A few hours later the clock struck midnight, the crowd let off party poppers, Miss Blitzen got drunk and made out with Ruud. Four Horsemen burst into the bar, demanded the Alskants pay them for a consignment of sheep, stole the gold, shot Frank and took Mertle to sell to the Salvene ore mines.

Merry Christmas.
Pickles
And when his armies reached the coast; and he beheld the sea; and comprehended the breadth of his domain; Alexander wept, for there were no more worlds to conquer.
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