Against A Dark Background (28 page)

‘Oh,’ they chanted together, ‘just the way it sounds.’

She kept her cap down over her eyes and her boots on the rickety seat opposite. Her uniform jacket hung over the back of her own chair.

‘Schlotch.’ She said, and took another drink of the trax spirit.

‘Schlotch?’ Miz asked.

‘Schlotch,’ she confirmed.

‘Mud scraped off a boot,’ Dloan said, tapping her boot with the toe of his own.

She shook her head slowly, looking down at her hands where they were clasped between her uniformed thighs. She belched. ‘Nup,’ she said.

Next round the table was Cenuij.

‘A turd dropping into a toilet bowl,’ he suggested, his gaze shining out from two black eyes he’d collected a couple of nights earlier. ‘From ten thousand metres.’

‘Close,’ she said, then giggled, waving one hand as the others started to heckle. ‘Na; na, not close at all. I lied. I lied. Ha ha ha.’

‘The noise a - hic! shit - sock full of pickled jelly-bird brains makes when swung vigorously against an Excise Clipper escape hatch by a dwarf wearing a jump-girdle on his head.’

Sharrow glanced up at Zefla and shook her head quickly. ‘Too prosaic.’

Zefla shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’

Cara cleared his throat carefully. ‘The noise a speckle bug makes-’ he began patiently.

They all pulled off their caps and started throwing them at him and shouting, ‘No!’ ‘Choose another track!’ ‘No, no, no!’ ‘Fuck this goddamn speckle bug!’ ‘Think of something else!’

Cara flinched, grinning under the barrage of caps, putting his arms out over the table so that his drink wasn’t spilled. ‘But,’ he said, sounding reasonable. ‘It’s got to be right eventually . . .

‘Na, wrong again,’ Sharrow said. She took some more trax. She felt drunker than she ought to feel. Could it be because it was on an empty stomach? They’d come to the Onomatopoeia for hangover cures and lunch, but somehow - it being their last day before another tour unless peace broke out - it had turned all too easily into another drinking bout.

Had she had breakfast? She accepted her cap back from somebody, and put it on over her crew-cut scalp. No, she couldn’t remember whether she’d had breakfast or not.

She drained the trax, said, ‘Next!’ quite loudly, and put her glass down and pointed at Miz at the same time. Somebody refilled her glass.

Miz looked thoughtful. Then his thin, bright face lit up. ‘A Tax cruiser hitting another asteroid at half the speed of-’

They all started shouting and throwing their caps at him.

‘This is getting too silly,’ Froterin said, as Miz started to retrieve the caps. Froterin looked massively round them all. ‘Everybody’s starting to repeat themselves.’

‘What was that?’ ‘Pardon?’ ‘Eh?’

Froterin stood shakily, his seat scraping back across the pavement, teetering and almost falling into the street. He put his hand onto his broad chest, over his heart. ‘But now,’ he rumbled, ‘I think it’s time for a little song . . .’ He started to sing: ‘Oh, Caltasp oh Caaaltasp . . .’

‘Oh, Fate. . . . My cap!’ ‘Give me my cap!’ ‘Mine first! I’m less drunk and I aim better anyway!’ ‘Throw something else!’ ‘I know!’ ‘Not my drink, you cretin; use his!’

‘Oh CAAALtasp, oh CAAALtasp-’

‘My ears! My ears!’ ‘It’s no good, sir; caps just bounce off it!’ ‘Oh no! His glass is empty!’

Vleit got out of her seat and tip-toed round to Sharrow while the rest tried to stop Froterin singing. Vleit had a wicked grin on her face, and when she got to Sharrow she crouched down and whispered in her ear.

Sharrow nodded vigorously and they both dissolved into fits of giggles and then throaty, coughing laughter. ‘Yes!’ Sharrow nodded, crying with laughter. ‘Yes!’

‘Oh CAAAALtasp, oh CAAAAAAALtasp, oh thank you very much,’ Froterin said, and sat down with the mug of mullbeer Miz had brought him. He sat supping happily.

‘She got it! Vleit - hic! shit - got it!’

‘What?’ ‘What was it?’ ‘Come on!’

Sharrow sat shaking her head and drying her eyes on her shirt sleeve while Vleit got up from the cafe pavement, holding her stomach and still laughing.

‘What?’ ‘That’s cheating!’ ‘What was the answer?’

‘Not telling,’ Sharrow laughed.

‘You got to tell,’ Miz protested. ‘Otherwise how do we know Vleit’s really won?’

Sharrow put her cap back on again and glanced at Vleit;they both started giggling again, then guffawing. ‘You want to tell them?’ Sharrow said.

‘Not me, commander.’ Vleit shook her head, still giggling. ‘You tell them. Rank Has Its Problems; remember?’

‘Yeah!’ ‘What was it?’ ‘Yeah; come on; tell us!’

‘All right, all right,’ Sharrow said, sitting up properly in her seat. Then, suddenly, she looked worried; her smooth brow furrowed. ‘Shit,’ she said. ‘I’ve forgotten what the fucking word was.’ She shook her head.

She put her head down on the table and pretended to cry. At least two caps bounced off her before Cenuij roared, ‘Schlotch!’

Sharrow looked up quickly. ‘You sure?’

‘Positive,’ Cenuij said precisely.

Sharrow sighed. ‘Yeah; schlotch.’

‘So?’ Miz said, arms wide. ‘What’s schlotch onomatopoeic for or with or whatever?’

‘It’s the sound,’ Sharrow said, leaning conspiratorially over the table, and glancing up and down the street. ‘Of . . .’ She shook her head. ‘It’s no good,’ she said with feigned regret. ‘I’m just not drunk enough yet to tell you.’

‘WHAT?’ ‘Sharrow!’ ‘Oh, come on.. .”Don’t be ridiculous.’ ‘Vleit; what the hell was it?’ ‘Sharrow; you said you’d tell; what is it?’

Sharrow grinned, fended off a flung cap then put her head back and laughed loudly while the others protested.

A timid-looking waiter approached from out of the bistro, holding a tray nervously to his chest as though it was a shield. He came up to Sharrow; she smiled at the young waiter and adjusted her cap.

The waiter coughed. ‘Um, Commander Sharrow?’ he said.

‘You read a good name-tag, kid,’ Miz said, winking at him.

‘Yeah,’ Cenuij said. ‘Stick with us, we’ll make you a waiter. Oh. You are a-’

Sharrow waved them both to be quiet. ‘Yes,’ she said, staring rather blearily at the youth.

‘Phone call for you, Commander. Military.’ The young waiter scurried back into the bistro.

Sharrow looked puzzled. She put her hand into the pocket of her uniform jacket, which was hanging over the back of her seat. She winced and grimaced, then brought her hand out covered in red goo. ‘What miserable scumbag put ghrettis sauce all over my fucking comm set?’ she roared, standing and letting the red sauce drip onto the pavement.

‘Shit,’ Miz said in a small voice. ‘I thought I did that to Dloan’s jacket, back at the inn.’

‘Dloan’s?’ Sharrow shouted at him. She pointed at Dloan’s uniform. ‘How many bars on his jacket? One! How many on mine? Two!’ she yelled, pointing at them with her other hand.

Miz shrugged, smiling. `I thought I was seeing double.’

‘Fucking double guard duties,’ Sharrow muttered as she strode past him towards the bistro interior. `Get that shit out of my pocket; now!’

‘Must be strong stuff, that ghrettis sauce,’ she heard Dloan musing. ‘Mil comm set’s supposed to be waterproof to a pressure of . . .’

Inside the bistro it was quiet and dark; only the staff were there. ‘Thanks, Vol,’ she said to the proprietor as she took the phone.

‘Commander Sharrow here,’ she said, nodding appreciatively to Vol when he handed her a cloth for her hand.

She closed her eyes as she listened. After a while she said, ‘Comm set broke down, sir. No idea why, sir.’ Her eyes screwed tighter. `Possibly enemy action, sir.’

She wiped her hand and nodded again to Vol, who went to sit at the far end of the bistro with the rest of the staff.

She glanced back through the bistro’s windows to the street at the group, who were trying to sort out whose cap was whose. She smiled, watching them, then returned her attention to the phone. ‘Yes, sir! On our way, sir,’ she said, and made to put the phone down.
I beg your pardon, sir?’ She frowned at her reflection on the other side of the bar, visible through the glasses and between the up-ended barrels.
The doc? I mean, surgeon-commander . . . of course, sir.’

She looked at her reflection again, shrugged at herself.

‘Yes,’ she said into the phone. ‘Hi, doc; what’s the problem?’ She leant on the bar, pushing her cap up and rubbing her face. `What-? Oh, the check-ups.’ She grinned at her reflection. ‘What is it; somebody taken a rad-blast, or are we talking exotic diseases?’

She listened for half a minute or so.

She watched the reflection of her face in the mirror go pale.

After a while she cleared her throat and said, `Yes, I’ll do that, doc. Of course.’ She started to put the phone down again, then stopped and said, ‘Thanks, doc,’ into it, and only then put it back behind the counter.

She stood there for a moment, staring at her image in the mirror. She glanced down at her shirt. ‘Shit,’ she whispered, looking back up to her reflection. `And you’re pickling the little fucker.’

Vol came back round the other side of the bar with a tray full of dirty. glasses. She started when she saw him, then leaned over, beckoning.

‘Vol; Vol!’ she whispered

The aproned proprietor, burly-fit and placid as ever, leaned over to her and whispered back, Yes, Commander?’

‘Vol, you got anything’ll make me sick as a lubber?’

`Sick as a lubber?’ he said, looking puzzled.

Yes!’ she whispered, glancing out at the others.
Filthy gutgrenaded,throat-scouring, turned inside-out sick!’

Vol shrugged. ‘Too much drink usually does the trick,’ he said.

‘No!’ she hissed. `No, something else!’

‘Stick your fingers down your throat?’

She shook her head quickly. ‘Tried that as a kid; got it to work on my half-sister, but never on me. What else?’ She glanced at the others again. ‘Quickly!’

`Very salty water,’ Vol said, spreading his hands.

She slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Fix me enough for two.’

She turned and walked towards the door, hesitated, then bit her lip and put her hand into a trouser pocket. She pulled out a coin and clutched it in her hand as she went out to the others. They looked up at her. Miz was still scraping her jacket pocket clean of sauce; the comm set lay on the table covered in red, like something butchered.

She spread her arms. ‘Well, they still haven’t sorted out the situation, guys,’ she told them. There were various mutters, mostly of disapproval. ‘They’re still talking,’ she said. ‘But meanwhile the festivities continue; looks like another tour at least. We’re overdue at Embarkation Asshole now.’ She sighed. ‘I’ll go phone a truck.’ She hesitated, then went up to Miz and presented the coin in her hand to him. ‘Toss that,’ she told him.

Miz looked round the others. He shrugged, tossed the coin. She looked at how it landed on the table. She nodded and turned to go.

`Yes?’ Miz said pointedly.

`Tell you later,’ she told him, and went back into the bistro.

‘Thanks, Vol,’ she said, taking the glass of cloudy water from him and heading for the toilet. Phone us a military truck, will you?’ she called. She took a preparatory sip of the salted water. ‘Yech!’

‘Commander Sharrow!’ Vol called after her. ‘You said make enough for two; is that all for you?’

She shook her head. ‘Not exactly.’

‘Bleurghch! Aauullleurch! Hooowwerchresst-t-t!’ she shouted down the toilethole, and for a few moments, as her stomach clenched again (and she thought, Hell, maybe this’s doing the little bastard more harm than the booze would have), she listened to the noises she was making, and remembered the game they’d been playing, and actually found it all ridiculously funny.

Zefla watched Sharrow looking at the facade of what had been the Bistro Onomatopoeia, and which was now an antique bookshop.

Sharrow shook her head.

‘Oh well,’ she said. She looked down at a coin she held in her hand. ‘Guess that proves it.’ She put the coin back in her pocket. ‘You never can go back.’ She turned and walked away.

Zefla looked a moment longer at the bookshop sign, then hurried after Sharrow.

‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Look on the bright side; we’re looking for a book, and what do we find in one of our old drinking haunts? A bookshop!’ She slapped Sharrow across the shoulders. ‘It’s a good omen, really.’

Sharrow turned to Zefla as they walked. ‘Zef,’ she said, tiredly. ‘Shut up.’

She sat at the window of the gently rocking train, watching the Entraxrln roll past outside, the airily tangled, cable-curved vastness of it and the sheer size of the twisting, fluted nets of the composite trunks making her feel tinier than a doll; a model soldier in a train set laid out on the floor of a quiet, dark forest that went on forever.

Here the Entraxrln seemed much more mysterious and alien than it did in Malishu; it imposed itself, it seemed to exist in another plane of being from mere people, forever separated from them by the titanic, crushing slowness of its inexorably patient metabolism.

From this window she had watched hours of it pass slowly by; she had seen distant clouds and small rainstorms, she had watched herds of tramplers bound away across the floor-membrane, she had gazed at trawler-balloons and their attendant feaster birds cruising the high membranes, she had caught sight of the high, dark freckles on the lofted membranes that were glide-monkey troupes, peered dubiously at herds of wild jemers loping across open spaces with a strange, stiff-legged gait, knowing that they would be riding the tamed version of the awkward-looking animals, and she had seen a single great stom black, somehow ferocious even as little more than a speck, and with a wingspan great as a small plane-wheeling around far above, effortlessly weaving its way between the hanging strings and ropes of growing cables.

Zefla sat opposite Sharrow, one elbow on the opened window-ledge, a hand supporting her head. The warm breeze blew in, disturbing the blonde fall of her hair. Her other hand held a portable screen. Her head rocked slightly from side to side in time with the creaking, flexing carriage.

The compartment door opened squeakily and Cenuij looked in.