Intergalactic Language Mercenary Audiobook

I checked my balance again. Zero. It must be a computer error.

My EarthEx card was tied to my investment accounts so I would have full access to my funds at all times. Like when I wanted to purchase a spaceship, hire a crew, and buy lots of beer. I went downstairs to the 7-11 and used my card to purchase a barley pop and some deathsticks.

The clerk scanned my card and handed it back. I pointed insistently. He tried again. Same result. There were no funds available. I had to use spare change for a taxi to the Hilton. The driver grumbled about my lack of funds but accepted Earther conversation as additional payment.

At the holophones, my card failed again. Forced to call collect, I gave Angus's direct code. Angus finally appeared, bolo tie askew, with fems giggling off-screen. The loid nicknamed Green colored his pupils; I knew the look. I was surprised a Rushite did drugs. Obviously Space Cowboys did.

"Tempted not to accept your call, partner," he sneered. "But you are also a human from Earth — a rare commodity nowadays." He wiped green powder from his nostrils, then straightened his bolo tie.

"Need a loan? I charge an obscene amount of interest. Usury, it's called. That's an old Earther word for your vocabulary."

"Do you know who you're talking to?" I snapped.

"The zillionaire Earther teacher who dumped his portfolio into Earth-backed investments?"

"Safe Earth-based investments, remember?"

"Sure, I remember. I also said to diversify. More than once. You were a snot-nosed Earthling who wouldn't listen to the pro."

A look of realization crossed his face.

"WELL I'LL BE HOG-TIED! YOU DON'T KNOW, DO YOU?"

"Know what?"

"That's right! Peitou is still on a 24 hour news delay."

"So what?" I said.

"My subspace links get real-time Earth news. I get news a day before the average Brimmer. Really helps my investing decisions."

I arrived at the spaceport gasping. I was out of shape, but it was the Peitouian air that did me in. It had been a several-kilometer walk. No taxi money. I lit a deathstick to catch my breath.

I made my way through the public terminal to the private one. The walk to the private terminal took me past the main arrival and departure gates, where species separated for passport control. I passed the Zippon gate, the Mongcut gate, the Jungo gate, all with their respective species. I found a large crowd of humans milling about at the Earth gate. They looked depressed. I kept going. No reason to rehash the dead planet thing.

There was heavy security at the private spaceport. "Private" had a nice ring—wealth and privilege. I imagined myself sipping a "cocktail" with other spaceship owners, discussing investment yields, exotic ports, and expensive intox. I was guessing at the conversation. Despite having been richer than many of those pompous exploiters, I hadn’t changed my lifestyle. Good thing, too, or I’d be in for a massive readjustment. It took a while to prove I owned a ship, but I finally did. I suspected the delay was about my appearance. My ship was at gate thirteen, a short walk.

I might have a zero bank balance, but I did own a lot of beer. And a spaceship. Yachts, as pleasure cruisers were known. The thought hit me: if I survived Hadean, I could go anywhere, as long as I could afford fuel and a pilot. If I learned to fly, I’d only need fuel. Maybe I’d become a trader, ferrying cargo from planet to planet.

Be my own boss. An entrepreneur. No—a pirate. Ho ho ho and a barrel of deerpiss. I stopped myself. "After Hadean" was a big leap. Human brains—perhaps why they overtook the universe (for a while)—could imagine impossible happenings, and plan for things that were very unlikely. Like returning from Hadean.

There she was. I hadn’t named her; the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. She was beautiful, gleaming despite the lack of sunlight. No expense was wasted; I had assumed I wasn’t coming back, and if I did, I’d still be rich. Hyperdrive, autopilot, hot tub, holovid library—everything a man needed. Except a female companion. I thought of Montana. She would jump at the offer. I dismissed the idea. There was only so much room, and uncountable cases of barley pop took up a lot of space. Besides, I had an extensive collection of purple holovids. And it was a dangerous journey.

While I was admiring my ship, an Earthling rambled up next to me.

"Yours?" he asked.

"Yep." Despite my Earth prison outfit, he accepted me as an equal. The super-rich weren’t prejudiced, as long as you had money. Between my ship and my expensive cyberwatch, I qualified.

"What is her name?"

I had to think fast—a free association test. I looked at him and said, "Remnant."

He chuckled. "Fitting with the Earth thing."

"Yes," I replied. "I guess so. Hadn't thought of that."

It struck me: these were people without a planet, even before Earth went boom. Wealth had broken the chains; their home was wherever the rich decided to be this week. They were Earthlings, but considered the universe theirs, to come and go as they pleased.

"A shame about Earth," he said.

"I can't say it was a beautiful planet, but it was home. Went twice a year. Lost some friends, but you always do."

"Lose much in Earth-based investments?" I asked. He smiled.

"Some. But I expect to more than recoup my losses through an aggressive Zipponian Earth fund that will bring astronomical returns. You know of it?"

I knew of it but didn’t have any credits to invest. "Yes," I said.

"You in?"

"No."

"Why not? It's a sure bet."

The real reason was all my wealth sat gleaming on the tarmac. But I acted offended. "I don't feel right about an investment that profits from the plunder of my own planet."

He was taken aback for a moment, then smiled.

"Ah, the nouveau riche. Refreshing. So full of morals. You'll learn. Or lose your money. Earth was destroyed, yes. So what? Planets die every day. This one just had humans on it. So what? Humans die every day, too."

"It doesn't seem right..."

"Did you destroy the planet?" he asked, then answered himself.

"No. It was out of your hands. So why not make some money? If you don't, somebody else will. Earth is gone. But there's a silver lining in every cloud."

"Perhaps gold," I replied.

He laughed. "Perhaps gold. Good one. Never thought of that. A gold lining. How funny."

He slapped me on the back. It was a chummy move and I smiled in return.

"You're quite the wit. I can always use a good chuckle."

He gave me his holocard. "DALE-O FAITHFUL. RICH EARTHLING," it read.

"Feel free to stop by any time. The phone number will give you my current whereabouts."

"Cocktails on you?" I asked.

"Of course, my boy. Of course. Always."

Sounded like a friend. "So what's the gold lining in Earth's destruction?" I asked. "Besides the profit potential."

"No taxes."

I hadn’t given it a thought. Intergalactic treaties said income tax was paid to the planet of your birth, no matter where you lived or how far from home you were. No home planet, no taxes. The rich got richer. The poor were gone. I remembered I had to get to Remnant before my crew saw the news of Earth's destruction.

"Nice meeting you. Dale-o Faithful, Rich Earthling," I said. "But I have to run." I looked at my cyberwatch. "Must be on Jungo by nightfall."

"And then?"

"Hadean."

"Hadean? Not familiar with the planet. Some secret Pluterday resort for the wealthy?"

"Pluterday?" I asked.

He laughed. "You really are the wit. Let me know how it goes. The wife could use a new solar system. Brim shopping has become dreadfully boring, I'm afraid. Have fun and stay in touch."

He slapped me on the back again. "I will," I replied.

I had a crew of three: a Peitouian pilot, a Mongcut deckhand, and one Earthling. Me.

Mongcuts were common crew members on spaceships. With four tentacles, they were ideal for labor-intensive work, and being from a poor planet, they worked for low pay. But I had chosen a Mongcut because their chemical makeup meant they could not consume alcohol. A Mongcut was the perfect swab for my ship.

I hadn't met the pilot or the Mongcut as I had hired them from an employment agency, but I knew the pilot would be fluent in Earther as it was now a requirement for the profession. I had requested the Mongcut speak enough Earther to understand basic sentences such as "Fetch me a barley pop."

I hadn't revealed our destination to the recruitment agency, implying I was smuggling illicit substances. The agency did not care about such information if it was paid up front. I had said our first destination was Jungo, but did not elaborate beyond that. If I told the truth, I’d never get to Hadean.

The planet was beyond the known universe. Not true, but it sounded dramatic. What it was beyond were charted wormholes. We could access a hole near Ju-ngo, but it would only take us 99.99 percent of the way. The last 0.01 percent would be flown by ramjet— about six months.

The pilot had his back turned to me. He chomped on marinated beaks of a birdlike creature.

I knew the snack food from 7-11. They were called pirmtongqieu. They were a popular treat. The beak wasn't actually eaten, but the tongue. It took strong jaws and skill to consume them. The noise generated sounded like the marrow was being sucked out of a live, crunchy rat.

The noise nauseated me. Slurp, phlegm, chomp, crack. The only Peitouians I’d eaten with were clients, and I knew excessive noise was a status symbol. I stepped into the doorway to introduce myself. The pilot turned. No wonder I recognized the slurp, phlegm, chomp, crack.

"Golden," I said. "I didn't know you were a spacepilot."

"I just received my license, dear friend. I passed my test because of your skills as an Earther teacher. Fluency in Earther was a requirement. Thank you very much. I am no longer monkey sperm, as you can see."

Golden held out the open bag of the treats he was eating.

"Please have a pirmtongqieu. You will love them. They taste a bit like Bing Floom brain."

Golden pulled a beak from his mouth and added it to the pile at his feet.

"I am very honored to work for my Earther teacher. What is your first request, Captain?"

Captain? Wow, just like on that old Earther 2D space show. "Have you heard today’s news?" I asked.

"No," Golden replied. "I was too busy checking out your ship. Very beautiful, Captain. And very, very, very expensive."

My luck was holding. Well, except for the Earth thing.

"Why? Did something happen?"

I casually sipped my beer. "What?"

"Why did you ask if I heard the news? Did something happen?"

"No, nothing." Then I said the wrong thing in an attempt to lie. "Just wondering how the market was doing." Playing the market was a Peitouian obsession. And if Golden hadn’t heard news since last night, my comment would inflame his curiosity.

Golden reached to the dash and turned on a radio, which blared in Peitouian. I caught a word here and there, but not enough to understand. Golden hung on every word.

I stepped into the cockpit, scattering the beaks, and turned off the radio. Golden gave me a questioning look, then reached to turn it back on. I grabbed his arm. "No radio," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I say. Because I am the Captain."

"But my investments are very important. I have switched my assets to Earth securities now that the intergalactic trading treaty was implemented."

Great, I thought.

"The news said the Peitou market had tripled since opening. Why did you turn it off, really?"

The market had tripled? Supreme Being, if I hadn’t invested in that fucked Earth planet, I’d have been in double-digit exponents on my EarthEx card. I, of course, knew why the market was soaring. Angus's analysis had been spot on.

"What are we doing, anyway? Are we smuggling loids to Jungo?"

"Something like that," I replied. "I am afraid internal security may be monitoring our radio reception. We must maintain radio silence." It was a lie. But then again, one man’s lie is another’s truth. And having said it, I almost believed it.

"That is impossible. You cannot monitor radio reception, only transmission."

"It is an Earth technology not yet introduced to Peitou," I said, sipping my barley pop. I was on a roll. "But my sources tell me the technology has been given to Peitou’s drug enforcement agencies." Lying wasn’t something I cultivated, but it came easy enough when I tried. Truth from another perspective.

Golden wasn't sure if I was lying. Rumors abounded about wondrous Earth technology waiting in the wings. Nowhere was this more true than in the military, where incredible technology actually had been waiting in the wings. Had been. There would be no innovations from Earth for a while.

I stepped forward, slipping on the slimy floor. "Is the radio necessary for our flight?"

"No." Golden pointed to another. "This is for flight communication. The other is just for news and entertainment."

"Is it sensitive to liquids?" I asked.

"Of course."

I shook my half-full bottle, thumb over the top. I waded through the slime—and released my thumb inches from the radio. As I’d hoped, the laws of dissolved carbon dioxide held true.

Liquid covered the radio. A nice shade of blue smoke rose up.

Golden sat silent, watching a tiny pastel mushroom cloud as sparks jumped to the floor. Most were quickly extinguished by the slime. A large one landed on my jumpsuit; it tried and failed to ignite the material. The suit was fireproof, a precaution against prisoner suicides. Good for deathstick smokers.

Golden was not wearing such flame-retardant material and slapped at his crotch.

There was a swig of beer left. I raised the bottle to my lips. Uggh. All foam. Golden broke into an admirable rage. Even at a distance, I was pelted by flying phlegm.

Golden calmed. He regained his ever-present politeness.

"You, dear teacher, are monkey sperm. This in fact would be a good place to use that slippery Earther term you teach often. You, dear teacher, are MOTHERFUCKING MONKEY SPERM. FUCK YOU, BUTT SLIME."

I felt proud of my contribution to the universe's slang.

This is my second novel, written in 1992. My two major literary influences, Kurt Vonnegut and Hunter S. Thompson, are obvious in my writing style. The manuscript was reviewed by several agents, with no success - except for encouragement and best wishes placing it elsewhere. My favorite response was: "This is quite provocative and we wish you luck. I don't know the world is waiting for this kind of drug novel..."

In many ways, this book is a true story about quitting a good career to pursue the unknown in the wild and crazy Far East, then witnessing the rapid transformation from undeveloped nations to industrialization. It was a crazy time. And an abusive one.

Plans for a writing career were put on hold because it couldn't provide enough income for anything more than barley pop (as beer is called on the planet Peitou). My wife Gia and I started a company, Walkabout Travel Gear, inspired by our backpacking adventures in the Far East and beyond. In 1995, we became one of the early companies to sell via a website on the internet, and when I looked up, it was 25 years later.

The Hunter S. Thompson lifestyle didn't vary much over the years, and in my 60th year, I had to use one of my harvestclones for a replacement liver. My novel accurately predicted that - except, of course, in reality it was another human's liver. Thanks to that anonymous donor, I am typing now. Thank you, sir.

The need to retire from gainful employment meant I could once again pursue ungainful employment, in the field of my choice. So here we are.

To my hero Kurt Vonnegut, to whom I dedicate this book:

Hi ho.

To my other hero, Hunter S. Thompson, who once wrote, "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

Thanks for the advice.