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Fast Food
Thanx to: Hunter S Thompson I watched them step cautiously down the ramp, onto the field. Because of the narrow hatch the mob was forced into rows of four, and they kept to these rows even when there was room to spread out, until they came to an obstacle like a signal-post or one of the ExPort ground crew. Then, the stream subdivided unevenly, rows of brown-grey heads bobbing off in different directions like water spraying off a rock. I saw her bemused expression and took the opportunity to remind her: "I'm not a racist. Really." She smiled and nodded. "No, really. I don't even hate the Bythians, and everyone hates them." She nodded again, watching them pass at their constant, monotonous rate. "It's just... they're very... uhh... wearing. That's it. Lacking in what we'd call social graces. It's like being trapped in an elevator with someone who continually violates your personal space, and doesn't know he's doing it, and doesn't see how much it upsets you." She put her shades back on, grimaced at the constant stream of Regni and muttered, "I don't care. How many times do I have to tell you? I'm only in this for the money." I frowned. "I know why YOU'RE doing this. I just want you to know why I'M doing it." She held her hands up in resignation. "Okay. Mister fucking philanthropist. As long as we get the money." We were getting five-by-ten-to-the-minus-twelfth CCI for each Regnen we moved off Copperla; it was only a short hop from there to Syndaine, and the only others living here were Railers, who didn't care who they shared a planet with as long as it wasn't Bythians. I guessed they might change their minds about that once they discovered how fast the Regni reproduced. On their home world, their breeding cycles were tied to phases of the moon... Syndaine was itself a moon of the gas giant Bythe; not only did Bythe swing by every fifteen hours or so, but you could count on seeing Copperla, Fer and Bythe Prime at least once a week. Either they would be too confused by all this to breed at all, or the Railers were going to have one fuck of a lot of neighbours soon. Despite what I'd told Jo - my partner - I really didn't like them. They like to think of themselves as fiercely individualistic, but they're the closest thing to a herd animal that goes on two legs in the Dominion. I watched them jog past; short, stubby legs, no necks, hair thick as rat's tails, and that persistent odour of sulphur dioxide. Two of them bumped into each other; the one on the outside got separated from the stream and somehow found its way over to me. I remembered how, when being shipped, they like to be greeted personally by the `captain', how they'd mill around until someone wearing a uniform spoke to them. We'd managed to talk around this -it had been a major bottle-neck in shipping them - but the idea only stuck with them for a brief period, and if there were any delays in the flight, they'd gather in a huge mob outside the ship, muttering in their monotonous, slow voices. Before this lost Regnen could ask to speak to the `captain', I turned it around and gently shoved it back into the stream. Jo turned to me, pinching her nose with thumb and forefinger as she did when she was lost in thought. "Hey, do you think the Bythians would find these things edible?" I paused, held up my index finger as if to reply, paused again and then chewed my thumbnail. She smiled her best evil smile, reached into the stream and diverted a Regnen from the rest. "Come over here... the captain would like a word with you." It looked up at us, beady eyes with nothing behind them. Nothing at all. "Would. Of meet, Captain. Here we are. Meeting, from Captain. Today, good and payment, to you too," it said slowly, painfully. It was worse not knowing what the hell it would say next; someone speaking that slowly would ordinarily inspire you to finish their sentences for them. Jo put a hand on its sloping shoulder and guided the squat creature over to the Bythian scout-ship parked on an adjacent pad. They went inside; I imagined the Bythian picking the Regnen up, stripping the flesh off it with those razor-sharp vanes that ran down the front of its head like a cheese-grater. After about thirty seconds, she came out and made a thumbs-up gesture. We were now in the fast food business. |
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