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eve11Mary's It. I'm off to the beach for a week and just sent her the first part of what will be our tag-team story. Unbeta'd, etc., random mid season 4.
This was Tormented Space, so of course there were Wal-Marts. Well, commerce warehouses actually –- this particular one was a dark rectangle on the otherwise craggy horizon. John banked the transport pod and headed for the landing strip. The gray-green haze of atmosphere gave everything on Keth a murky, marine look, but even from a distance, he could tell the building was gigantic. Laser-carved out of mountain bedrock, it could probably swallow fifty Wal-marts and still have room for a Target and a football stadium.
“You’re sure they have it here?” he called over his shoulder. Now that they were within sight, he was getting nervous. Jittery, even, but he refused to think of it that way. It was just a little anxiety; he didn’t like the idea of having only Noranti at his back.
“Hm? Oh, yes, yes,” the old woman answered. “I spoke with Tenn, the apothecary. She said they have it.” She paused. “Somewhere.”
As they vectored in for a landing, the building grew ridiculously huge. Make that five football stadia, and throw in another ten Targets for free. You could probably buy a small army from these guys.
“Whoa. Rygel’s gonna kill us for ditching him if he ever learns about this.”
“Hm... Oh, Rygel! That reminds me, I need to get some cratta soap and extra yerantin oil, and do you think we should stock up on seltar root air freshener?”
Women and drug stores. He chanced a look behind him.
"Granny. In, out, razor and shaving cream. One bag and that's it.”
Noranti scowled, then came around the console and sat down next to him in a huff.
As huge as it was, they still had to land half a metra away from the building. Apparently parking was a universal hell. Crichton powered down the pod and checked the atmospheric readings. Methane, fluorine and ammonia. Fabulous. One-stop shopping on the planet whose air made you shrivel and die.
“You’re sure that place is regulated for off-worlders?” he asked.
“They’d do no business if it weren’t.” Noranti picked at her sleeve. “Kethen are the minority on a Sebacean trade route.”
"Right.” He stood, fingering the tiny lakka bulb in his pocket. One of two left, and half empty. And supposedly this ultra quickie mart had barrels of it. Not that he needed it; he was just being cautious. John Crichton, Tormented Space’s be-prepared boy scout, general head case and all-around jerk.
Harvey would’ve offered him the world’s smallest violin. But the clone was gone, joined the choir invisible, running with the mental beach babes in the sky. Aeryn was still there though, smirking at him from a corner of his mind.
He took a hit and quickly pocketed the bulb.
Beside him Noranti puttered and hummed. He gathered helmets and jumpsuits, then gave a quick whistle to grab Noranti's attention away from the ceiling and tossed her the smaller suit. "Get your coat on, we're parked in no-man's land."
She caught it and held it clumsily against her chest, like a kid with an armful of autumn leaves. She looked at him blankly.
“Put it on– aw, jeez . . .” he turned away as she unceremoniously dropped her skirt to the ground. “Warn me before you do that.”
“Well I can’t fit into that with my dress on, and I’m out of drixal powder which would let me hold my breath . . . oh! I wager Tenn has drixal powder, we could just call in an order . . .”
John stared pointedly at the wall as he donned his suit, listening to the rustling of cloth and stream of babble from the other side of the transport pod. As they crossed the parking lot, he wondered if it was worth it to scrub out Noranti’s suit afterward or just give up on it and get a new one.
The warehouse entrance consisted of about a hundred round airlocks punched through the smooth stone in a drunken line. Some large, some small, each pre-fabricated tube featured flat bedrock crumbling at its edges and Keth’s version of a Wal-mart greeter. Just like home, the greeters had white hair and wrinkles. Unlike home, they did not smile. Or, John couldn’t tell if they smiled or not, because their facial expressions were buried beneath the wrinkles. In fact, the native Kethen looked amazingly like giant Shar-pei dogs in clothes. Unlike home, they also had machine guns, another reason John was pretty sure they weren’t smiling.
They entered the nearest airlock under the scrutinous, drooping gaze of its patroller. John’s hand twitched at his side as they passed, but the greeter said nothing. It wouldn’t have mattered, John noticed belatedly, because Winona was holstered underneath his EVA suit. He glanced sidelong at Noranti, clothes bunched up under her arm, and silently blamed his oversight on having to suit up under duress.
Inside the airlock were more wrinklys, sporting nose cannulas and more machine guns. The lock cycled. John lifted his faceplate in relief and began shedding his suit. He thought about warning the wrinklys before Noranti disrobed, but hell, to them she might look pretty good.
A sharp tap at his thigh made him start. He looked up into the face of a wrinkly he was sure was frowning.
“No primed sidearms.” Its voice was high and pinched around the breather.
John stood up straight, trying to maintain bravado with one leg still in a flight suit. “Shoulda said so before now.”
“Did I forget to mention—?“ Noranti started, and John gave an inward curse. Could nothing go smoothly? Was it a rule?
The wrinkly just sighed. Bored, it said, “We can hold it here—“
“No way.”
“Or,” it scowled, “We lock it and give it back to you.”
Surprised, John gave a quick nod. Apparently Tormented space had its advantages. Nothing like a “customer is always right” business policy to make him feel better, especially when the majority of customers were paranoid space pirates and outlaws.
The wrinkly reached into a pocket in its vest and pulled out small fluorescent pink cube. “This is keyed to employee genetic codes,” it said, then spat on the cube and motioned for the pistol. Wary, John handed it over. The wrinkly jammed the cube into the space between the trigger and guard, where it softened and flowed, smoothly covering the trigger, chakan oil cartridge and grip. Thirty seconds later it handed the weapon back to John. The pink stuff was solid as a brick and twice as bright as before. Winona was now nothing more than a hot pink bludgeon.
“You know, this fashion went out with ripped sweatshirts and leg warmers,” John said.
The wrinkly ignored the comment. “A gate employee will release the lock for you when you leave,” it said. Then it handed a large bag to Noranti for their suits and helmets, and motioned to the entrance into the mountain with the tip of its machine gun. “Have a pleasant day.”
Inside, the warehouse was surprisingly bright for being under thousands of tons of solid rock. The ceiling was only about fifteen feet high – there must have been sixty stories to this place. It was also stuffed to the rafters with shelves and crawling with people, at least half of whom also had useless pink blobs of what used to be firearms at their sides. Employees hovered at the aisles, pointing patrons toward everything from auto parts to construction girders to beauty aids.
Out of the corner of his eye, John noted a few wrinklys who seemed to be staring just a bit too intently at them. He tensed, but at that moment Noranti took three steps forward, hacked and did her best imitation of a baseball dugout.
"Whoa, that just exceeded my daily tolerance of alien saliva.” When he looked back the wrinklys were gone. “What’s wrong?"
"Nothing. Necessary. Clears the palate, clears the palate. Can't taste the marketplace with Leviathan on my tongue."
"What?"
She spat again and started walking. Crichton followed, glad to be moving out of the scrutiny of the wrinklys.
"The apothecary,” Noranti said. “We need to find it, and the easiest way is to follow my nose."
A snort. "Yeah, it always knows."
"Exactly!" she said, stopping and emphasizing her point with a sharp poke to his shoulder. A large display caught her attention and she meandered toward, leaving John in the middle of the corridor.
"That is old wisdom, Crichton,” she said absently over her shoulder.
"No, it's Toucan wisdom!” he called after her, catching her arm and dragging her away. “Secret of the Saturday Morning Cartoon Cabal. Now stop stalling and sniff your way to what we need."
"Hmph," she answered, still studying the brightly colored display of . . . something. "I'm not the one who needs it."
With a none too gentle squeeze on her arm, Crichton answered through gritted teeth. "You're the supplier, you're the one who started me on this lakka kick, so when we run out I say it's your problem."
“Fine, fine,” she said, batting his arm away. “We are going there. Tenn should be on the ground floor.”
Still she looked a bit confused. Enough to give him rattlers.
“But . . .” John supplied, thinking big pink bludgeon, big pink bludgeon as his hands hovered at his thigh.
“There is something else, strong, I’m sure I recognize it. . .”
“Apothecary?” came a nasal voice. They both started and looked up to see a Kethen employee in a bright yellow apron, smiling diligently enough that it was even apparent underneath the wrinkles.
Noranti smiled back. “Yes, I am Utu Noranti Pralatong—“
“This way,” the employee pointed, smiling hard enough to burst a blood vessel.
Noranti absently thanked the employee as they ventured down the aisle. Fifty feet later, John noticed there were a hell of a lot less people around.
“Ah!” Noranti cried, stopping in her tracks.
“Granny . . .” Crichton warned.
“That’s what it is, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize it sooner.”
Two huge wrinklys stepped out from some crates as Noranti exclaimed, “Villany!”
Then something came down hard on John’s skull, his last coherent thought being that someone had beaten him to the punch with their hot pink bludgeon.
------------
Also, I got my copy of the Chicago Trib from Jmax in the mail! Thanks Jmax! Go here to see some pictures of the paper.
Have a nice week, all. I'm off to the beach.
This was Tormented Space, so of course there were Wal-Marts. Well, commerce warehouses actually –- this particular one was a dark rectangle on the otherwise craggy horizon. John banked the transport pod and headed for the landing strip. The gray-green haze of atmosphere gave everything on Keth a murky, marine look, but even from a distance, he could tell the building was gigantic. Laser-carved out of mountain bedrock, it could probably swallow fifty Wal-marts and still have room for a Target and a football stadium.
“You’re sure they have it here?” he called over his shoulder. Now that they were within sight, he was getting nervous. Jittery, even, but he refused to think of it that way. It was just a little anxiety; he didn’t like the idea of having only Noranti at his back.
“Hm? Oh, yes, yes,” the old woman answered. “I spoke with Tenn, the apothecary. She said they have it.” She paused. “Somewhere.”
As they vectored in for a landing, the building grew ridiculously huge. Make that five football stadia, and throw in another ten Targets for free. You could probably buy a small army from these guys.
“Whoa. Rygel’s gonna kill us for ditching him if he ever learns about this.”
“Hm... Oh, Rygel! That reminds me, I need to get some cratta soap and extra yerantin oil, and do you think we should stock up on seltar root air freshener?”
Women and drug stores. He chanced a look behind him.
"Granny. In, out, razor and shaving cream. One bag and that's it.”
Noranti scowled, then came around the console and sat down next to him in a huff.
As huge as it was, they still had to land half a metra away from the building. Apparently parking was a universal hell. Crichton powered down the pod and checked the atmospheric readings. Methane, fluorine and ammonia. Fabulous. One-stop shopping on the planet whose air made you shrivel and die.
“You’re sure that place is regulated for off-worlders?” he asked.
“They’d do no business if it weren’t.” Noranti picked at her sleeve. “Kethen are the minority on a Sebacean trade route.”
"Right.” He stood, fingering the tiny lakka bulb in his pocket. One of two left, and half empty. And supposedly this ultra quickie mart had barrels of it. Not that he needed it; he was just being cautious. John Crichton, Tormented Space’s be-prepared boy scout, general head case and all-around jerk.
Harvey would’ve offered him the world’s smallest violin. But the clone was gone, joined the choir invisible, running with the mental beach babes in the sky. Aeryn was still there though, smirking at him from a corner of his mind.
He took a hit and quickly pocketed the bulb.
Beside him Noranti puttered and hummed. He gathered helmets and jumpsuits, then gave a quick whistle to grab Noranti's attention away from the ceiling and tossed her the smaller suit. "Get your coat on, we're parked in no-man's land."
She caught it and held it clumsily against her chest, like a kid with an armful of autumn leaves. She looked at him blankly.
“Put it on– aw, jeez . . .” he turned away as she unceremoniously dropped her skirt to the ground. “Warn me before you do that.”
“Well I can’t fit into that with my dress on, and I’m out of drixal powder which would let me hold my breath . . . oh! I wager Tenn has drixal powder, we could just call in an order . . .”
John stared pointedly at the wall as he donned his suit, listening to the rustling of cloth and stream of babble from the other side of the transport pod. As they crossed the parking lot, he wondered if it was worth it to scrub out Noranti’s suit afterward or just give up on it and get a new one.
The warehouse entrance consisted of about a hundred round airlocks punched through the smooth stone in a drunken line. Some large, some small, each pre-fabricated tube featured flat bedrock crumbling at its edges and Keth’s version of a Wal-mart greeter. Just like home, the greeters had white hair and wrinkles. Unlike home, they did not smile. Or, John couldn’t tell if they smiled or not, because their facial expressions were buried beneath the wrinkles. In fact, the native Kethen looked amazingly like giant Shar-pei dogs in clothes. Unlike home, they also had machine guns, another reason John was pretty sure they weren’t smiling.
They entered the nearest airlock under the scrutinous, drooping gaze of its patroller. John’s hand twitched at his side as they passed, but the greeter said nothing. It wouldn’t have mattered, John noticed belatedly, because Winona was holstered underneath his EVA suit. He glanced sidelong at Noranti, clothes bunched up under her arm, and silently blamed his oversight on having to suit up under duress.
Inside the airlock were more wrinklys, sporting nose cannulas and more machine guns. The lock cycled. John lifted his faceplate in relief and began shedding his suit. He thought about warning the wrinklys before Noranti disrobed, but hell, to them she might look pretty good.
A sharp tap at his thigh made him start. He looked up into the face of a wrinkly he was sure was frowning.
“No primed sidearms.” Its voice was high and pinched around the breather.
John stood up straight, trying to maintain bravado with one leg still in a flight suit. “Shoulda said so before now.”
“Did I forget to mention—?“ Noranti started, and John gave an inward curse. Could nothing go smoothly? Was it a rule?
The wrinkly just sighed. Bored, it said, “We can hold it here—“
“No way.”
“Or,” it scowled, “We lock it and give it back to you.”
Surprised, John gave a quick nod. Apparently Tormented space had its advantages. Nothing like a “customer is always right” business policy to make him feel better, especially when the majority of customers were paranoid space pirates and outlaws.
The wrinkly reached into a pocket in its vest and pulled out small fluorescent pink cube. “This is keyed to employee genetic codes,” it said, then spat on the cube and motioned for the pistol. Wary, John handed it over. The wrinkly jammed the cube into the space between the trigger and guard, where it softened and flowed, smoothly covering the trigger, chakan oil cartridge and grip. Thirty seconds later it handed the weapon back to John. The pink stuff was solid as a brick and twice as bright as before. Winona was now nothing more than a hot pink bludgeon.
“You know, this fashion went out with ripped sweatshirts and leg warmers,” John said.
The wrinkly ignored the comment. “A gate employee will release the lock for you when you leave,” it said. Then it handed a large bag to Noranti for their suits and helmets, and motioned to the entrance into the mountain with the tip of its machine gun. “Have a pleasant day.”
Inside, the warehouse was surprisingly bright for being under thousands of tons of solid rock. The ceiling was only about fifteen feet high – there must have been sixty stories to this place. It was also stuffed to the rafters with shelves and crawling with people, at least half of whom also had useless pink blobs of what used to be firearms at their sides. Employees hovered at the aisles, pointing patrons toward everything from auto parts to construction girders to beauty aids.
Out of the corner of his eye, John noted a few wrinklys who seemed to be staring just a bit too intently at them. He tensed, but at that moment Noranti took three steps forward, hacked and did her best imitation of a baseball dugout.
"Whoa, that just exceeded my daily tolerance of alien saliva.” When he looked back the wrinklys were gone. “What’s wrong?"
"Nothing. Necessary. Clears the palate, clears the palate. Can't taste the marketplace with Leviathan on my tongue."
"What?"
She spat again and started walking. Crichton followed, glad to be moving out of the scrutiny of the wrinklys.
"The apothecary,” Noranti said. “We need to find it, and the easiest way is to follow my nose."
A snort. "Yeah, it always knows."
"Exactly!" she said, stopping and emphasizing her point with a sharp poke to his shoulder. A large display caught her attention and she meandered toward, leaving John in the middle of the corridor.
"That is old wisdom, Crichton,” she said absently over her shoulder.
"No, it's Toucan wisdom!” he called after her, catching her arm and dragging her away. “Secret of the Saturday Morning Cartoon Cabal. Now stop stalling and sniff your way to what we need."
"Hmph," she answered, still studying the brightly colored display of . . . something. "I'm not the one who needs it."
With a none too gentle squeeze on her arm, Crichton answered through gritted teeth. "You're the supplier, you're the one who started me on this lakka kick, so when we run out I say it's your problem."
“Fine, fine,” she said, batting his arm away. “We are going there. Tenn should be on the ground floor.”
Still she looked a bit confused. Enough to give him rattlers.
“But . . .” John supplied, thinking big pink bludgeon, big pink bludgeon as his hands hovered at his thigh.
“There is something else, strong, I’m sure I recognize it. . .”
“Apothecary?” came a nasal voice. They both started and looked up to see a Kethen employee in a bright yellow apron, smiling diligently enough that it was even apparent underneath the wrinkles.
Noranti smiled back. “Yes, I am Utu Noranti Pralatong—“
“This way,” the employee pointed, smiling hard enough to burst a blood vessel.
Noranti absently thanked the employee as they ventured down the aisle. Fifty feet later, John noticed there were a hell of a lot less people around.
“Ah!” Noranti cried, stopping in her tracks.
“Granny . . .” Crichton warned.
“That’s what it is, I can’t believe I didn’t recognize it sooner.”
Two huge wrinklys stepped out from some crates as Noranti exclaimed, “Villany!”
Then something came down hard on John’s skull, his last coherent thought being that someone had beaten him to the punch with their hot pink bludgeon.
------------
Also, I got my copy of the Chicago Trib from Jmax in the mail! Thanks Jmax! Go here to see some pictures of the paper.
Have a nice week, all. I'm off to the beach.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 08:50 pm (UTC)I'm thinking that John and Noranti are going to make a great team. *g*
(I know it's unbeta'd but you might want to change pallet to palate. I wouldn't mention it but it's such a nice line...)
Looking forward to reading the rest of this. *g*
Cheers
Kx
no subject
Date: 2003-08-16 10:20 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-08-17 04:23 am (UTC)-anomia
no subject
Date: 2003-08-17 11:43 am (UTC)Hm...
Date: 2003-08-25 04:41 am (UTC)Hm...
Date: 2003-08-25 04:43 am (UTC)Mary has sent me part two. The ball is back in my court. I'll ask her if she doesn't mind me posting it here.
no subject
Date: 2003-08-30 08:47 pm (UTC)